Page 43 of Shackled to the Orc

26

MAYA

The day of the matches came in a blur. Time seemed to move fast, like the final grains slipping down an hourglass.

Shug has me to his right, in one of the seats of honor with an unobstructed view of the carnage. To his left is Alf, and guards press us in, dressed in Lord Corwin’s charcoal greys, all heavily armed. Some of them have rifles slung over their shoulders, the technology controlled by the king and those in his favor.

The little Lord Lucian is three rows in front of us, leaning forward with glee as bodies are dragged away on stretchers. Of the twelve men in the group battle, nine survived, and Shug made a comment to Alf about what a good deal he was getting on the men.

My stomach roiled with each man felled. If I was in the hospital, I could have saved some of those lives–but Shug wants me by my side, and I know why.

He wants Montarok to see what he’s dying for.

“You’re a genius, Alf. This is a beautiful show you’re putting on,” says Shug in a sickly-sweet tone.

“The young lord seems to be enjoying it,” says Alf, beaming, as if he did nothing more than put on a play. They exchange smiles, two men doing business, but Shug tenses up and casts a quick glance at me.

The announcer takes center stage of the sand-covered arena, jumping comically over a severed hand to laughs of the audience, before putting his wrist to his mouth. He has a black band around his wrist, and somehow it enhances his voice, making him echo and boom throughout the coliseum.

“He refused to pay his taxes to an overlord he accused of defiance to the king–a true patriot, a fighter of honor, Lorenzo Dusk!” The gate opens, and a tall, dark, hard man strides in. Lorenzo wears a purple cloak, swirling it like a bullfighter, and his blade is blueish steel, honed. He throws his blade in the air, and it twirls before he catches it, to roars from the crowd. Lucian is leaning forward nearly over the barrier, and one of his guards pulls him back, so he doesn’t fall into the ring in his excitement.

“The undefeated champion of Corwinhold, Khan, the orc of the north mountains!”

As Montarok limps in, the crowd hushes, and Shug relaxes, ever so slightly, seeing how badly his leg is paining him. His left arm hangs loosely, and he looks up at me, his emerald-green eyes picking me out from the crowd instantly, and we relish in this moment, knowing the stakes.

Unless this goes perfectly, unless he can time everything to the exact moment…

Our future ends in the thirsting sands.

The announcer rushes out, going through a side door, leaving the two combatants to face each other down. Lorenzo is quick, and he wastes no time, darting forward and twirling, diving to Montarok’s weak side and lashing out with his rapier. It cuts into his side, drawing red blood, and Montarok sweeps his blade wildly as the disgraced lord jumps back, out of reach, and raises his bloody sword to the crowd. The crowd goes wild, half in favor of the reigning champ, half cheering on the patriotic newcomer who has become a folk hero, a handsome lord who risked his life for his convictions.

I grip the armrests white knuckled as Montarok steps forward, swinging, but his blow is too slow, and Lorenzo ducks under him, slicing out and raking his blade against his injured leg. That’s when the first wave of panic hits me, seeing how deeply the cut went, blood pouring down my man’s thigh. Back and forth they battle, Lorenzo keeping out of Montarok’s reach, diving in to cut him and escaping before he can react, cut after cut, blood dripping from a dozen different places. Montarok roars, his mouth wide open, fangs gleaming, a roar of pain and anger at the quicker, younger man who torments him.

Montarok is slowing. His breath is heaving, his leg barely keeping him up as he tries to track down his opponent. Then Lorenzo darts forward for the killing blow.

Now!

With viper-like speed, Montarok’s blade rises, and the handsome lord’s head twirls in the air, flipping and landing in the sands.

But his blade went true.

Montarok looks down at the rapier embedded in his chest. He grabs it and pulls it out, then stumbles. He looks up at me, his green eyes burning for me and me alone…

And then he falls.

With a heavy thud, the champion hits the ground, the sand drinking up his blood as he is felled.

“No, no, no!” yells Lucian, smacking his hands against the stone barrier, enraged that his champion was killed. The crowd is dead silent. Shug’s fleshy face goes white. He snarls and grabs me by the wrist, marching me out, his guards pushing their way through the crowd as he marches me to the wagon. I’m thrown into the cage roughly, and the journey is done without a word.

With his guards threatening me with swords, he forces me downstairs, into the dark recesses of his manor and into a cell.

“Your man has damned you. You won’t see the sun again,” he snarls, and I see true hatred, and something else in Shug’s eyes…

Fear.

He just lost his fortune, and his favor with Lord Corwin after the disaster of the fight.

I pace the cell, back and forth, the tension building, replaying the fight in my mind over and over, seeing each cut in my man’s stony green skin, then that final, devastating blow into his chest, and tears form in my eyes.

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