Page 19 of Chained to the Horned God
“So do I,” he says.
But neither of us moves.
The manticore is beautiful,in the way a wildfire is beautiful right before it burns everything down. He arrives three days ago, dragged in chains through the outer corridor, his wings bound in iron hooks and his tail coiled like a loaded spring. His mane is thick and black, his face a strange elegance of lion and man, and his eyes—those impossible burnished gold eyes—shine like candlelight over fresh blood. The guards whisper his name like a threat: Malkareth.
The crowd reacts like he’s prophecy made flesh. They scream for him before he even fights, baying like wolves. The blood hasn’t hit the sand, but they’ve already decided he’s their new favorite. It twists my gut, watching Barsok watch him.
That night, Barsok doesn't say much. Just stares off at nothing while I stitch a half-orc’s shoulder back together. I can feel it in his silence, the low hum of something knotted tight and ugly.
By the time Barsok is called to the arena the next morning, the stands are already at capacity, throats already raw from chanting. I stand at the side entrance, hidden behind a curtain of woven chains, close enough to see the moment Barsok steps into the light. He towers above the others—arms rippling with tension, horns gleaming beneath the sunlight, the crowd roaring at the sight of him like he’s a living god.
They brought out Malkareth to face him. Of course they did. They want a show. They want blood.
The sand is fresh. A clean slate. That won’t last long.
The horn sounds.
Malkareth moves first, tail lashing through the air with a crack like thunder. The sound shakes my bones. Barsok shifts to the side, narrowly avoiding the poisoned spike as it slams into the ground where he stood a second ago. Sand explodes upward in a gritty spray. The beast pivots, jaws opening wide enough to fit a man’s head clean between its fangs.
Barsok doesn’t retreat. He steps forward into the jaws, shoving the blunt head of his trident sideways into the manticore’s mouth. The weapon splinters instantly, but it buys him a second. Just one. Enough.
The two clash in a tangle of claws and fists. Malkareth rears up, wings thrashing against their chains, his tail coiling and uncoiling like a serpent. Barsok ducks a swipe of razor-sharp talons and punches upward, driving his fist into the beast’s lower jaw with a crunch that echoes through the amphitheater.
The crowd gasps.
The tail comes again, this time aiming for Barsok’s throat. He catches it. Gods, hecatches it. His muscles strain, veins bulging like cords as the poisoned barb trembles inches from his neck. Sweat beads along his brow. The whole crowd rises, breath held in a single suspended moment.
With a roar that shakes the stands, Barsok plants his hooves and lifts.
He lifts the manticore. Over his head.
Malkareth thrashes in the air, wings beating uselessly against his restraints, claws scrabbling at empty sky. Barsok turns in place like a mountain rotating, and slams the beast down hard into the sand. Dust explodes from the impact. Bones crunch. Malkareth goes still, dazed, his chest heaving.
The crowd loses its mind. They chant so loudly the stone trembles. “BAR-SOK! BAR-SOK! BAR-SOK!”
I forget to breathe. I forget where I am.
Barsok stands over the creature, panting, a cracked bit of metal still clutched in one hand. His chest heaves. He could end it. The arenawantshim to. They thirst for it.
He doesn’t.
He steps back.
The entire stadium holds still. It’s more shocking than any death. Mercy. Barsok lowers his arms. He looks up—at the topmost stand, where Lotor sits swathed in silks, surrounded by wine and slaves and sycophants.
Lotor stands.
No applause. No sneer. Just a single motion. He turns on his heel and vanishes from view. That’s the closest thing to fury I’ve ever seen on a dark elf’s face.
Barsok walks back into the darkness of the tunnel without a word, leaving the crowd chanting his name like a war hymn behind him.
Later, I find him in the infirmary, sitting on the edge of the table, knuckles still crusted in dried blood. I bring the salve and bandages as always. He doesn’t look up when I step in. But his eyes find mine once I set to work.
“You fought different,” I say.
“He was a killer,” Barsok replies. “But he didn’tdeserveto die.”
“Neither do you.”
