Page 56 of Ashes of Betrayal

“Not bad,lad,” he panted, swinging his blade at Cailean’s gut, only to meet his opponent’s blade yet again. “You’ve improved.”

Cailean merely grunted in response. Clearly, he wasn’t about to let his former master distract him.

“Your sister was inconsolable after you left, you know?” Eilig goaded, trying another tactic. “She was so sure you’d come back for her … but I told her you wouldn’t. And I was right.”

“I’m here now,” Cailean replied through gritted teeth as he deflected a vicious thrust.

“Aye.” Eilig’s mouth twisted. “Too late.”

Bree thought Cailean might have snapped up the bait, might have lunged at his former master, but instead, he kept his temper leashed. And as the fight continued, a deep groove etched between Eilig’s brows. His lameness was worsening too, and he was starting to lumber.

“Slowing down, eh?” Cailean taunted him.

“Fucking horse kicked me in the knee a moon ago,” he wheezed, bleeding now upon his right arm where Cailean’s blade had scored him. “Fighting me won’t change a thing, you know? Your parents are still dead. Your sister is my woman … and you’re still the brat who abandoned her.” His handsome face twisted into a sneer. “Face it, you and I aren’t so different. We put ourselves first … and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Snarling a curse, Cailean slashed at him, driving the older man back across the arena. They both dripped blood, from shallow gashes to their arms, but barely appeared to notice.

Eilig’s tattoos flared silver then, as he drew on earth magic to defend himself, but Cailean didn’t let up. His own tattoos started to glow, and the air became heavy with the resinous scent of pine and the acrid odor of campfire ash.

Bree’s breathing grew shallow, and it took all her will not to shift back, toward the archway. She dropped her hands to her sides then, flexing them. “Finish him, Cailean!” she shouted, unable to hold in her frustration any longer.

The two men fought on. And then, Cailean struck hard—hard enough to make Eilig stumble. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, and he swung again, his blade slicing deep into the fight master’s side.

Eilig roared and staggered sideways, his knee giving way as he slashed his blade once more.

But now that Cailean had the advantage, he pressed it.

Bree’s skin prickled as she observed him. Her husband’s skill was breathtaking to watch. Pride swelled in her breast. He was good.

Injured, Eilig was much slower, and although his tattoos still pulsed as if moonlight rippled through them, he couldn’t defend himself against the flurry of hammer blows that rained down on him. Each one drove him back, until, finally, he was on his knees.

His broadsword slipped from blood-slick fingers, thudding onto the sawdust. Clutching his injured side, Eilig glared defiantly up at Cailean. “Dog-humping turd,” he ground out. “You should have left well alone.”

“I think not,” Cailean replied coldly. “I’ve waited too long for this. Say a prayer to The Reaper, for you’re about to meet him.”

In response, Eilig spat on the ground between them.

A heartbeat followed, and then Cailean swung his sword, cleaving the fight master’s head cleanly from his shoulders.

The head rolled onto the ground, while blood pumped from his severed neck.

Eilig’s body stayed upright for a moment longer before his tattoos faded and he toppled sideways.

Bree’s pulse thumped in her ears as relief flooded through her. “Finally,” she gasped before releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You drew that out, didn’t you?”

Panting, Cailean tore his gaze from where his former master’s head sat in the sawdust—his features still contorted—and flashed her a grin. “Eilig isn’t the only one who knows how to please a crowd.”

“Does it feel as sweet as you expected?” she asked, deliberately challenging him. Gaining revenge wasn’t as straightforward as most people believed. She recalled then the way Mor’s eyes had shadowed when she’d brought her Grae’s severed head—but then, he’d been her brother, while Eilig had only ever been Cailean’s enemy.

“Sweeter,” he replied, his gaze glinting. “My only regret is that the shit-eater’s death was swift.”

Sheathing his sword, he turned then to face the enslaved warriors who looked on from the benches.

One of them, a heavily scarred man with piercing dark eyes, nodded at him. “Well fought.”

Cailean inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. “My sister, Enya … where is she?”

The scarred slave gestured left. “Next door … at the fight master’s lodgings.”

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