Page 52 of Chained to the Horned God
Beltran’s voice echoes in the tight chamber like a death knell, each word a brick laid down, building the path toward our escape. It’s madness, but madness has been my life for years now. The torchlight flickers, sending shadows skittering across the stone walls like jittery spiders, each shift making my skin crawl. I’m cramped, my muscles knotted from tension, from too many fights, from too many nights spent coiled and ready to snap at the first sign of danger.
“Lotor wants something spectacular,” Beltran repeats, pacing the narrow cell. His face is grim, drawn taut like bowstrings ready to loose their arrow. “A grand finale, something the bloodthirsty masses will remember. You’re going up against Old Scar.”
My blood chills, and my heartbeat thuds so loud I swear everyone else must hear it too. I flex my hands, knuckles cracking. That damn dragon’s teeth flash through my memory, white and sharp and dripping with drool that smells like rotten meat and sulfur. His claws scraped grooves in the stone last time they let him out. I’ve seen men torn apart by him, their screams hanging in the air long after they’d been ripped to ribbons.
“Are you mad?” Durk growls from the corner, glaring at Beltran with one narrowed eye. “That’s no spectacle. That’s just murder with extra steps.”
Beltran lifts a hand, the heavy ring on his finger glinting red in the dim light. “Exactly. And murder is what they expect. That’s why it’ll work.”
I glance over at Valoa. She stands close, arms crossed tight over her chest, chin lifted in defiance. She’s small beside us, delicate as a flame flickering in the dark, but her presence fills the space, fierce and determined. When her gaze meets mine, my chest clenches. Her eyes blaze, lit by a fire hotter than any I’ve seen, like she’s daring fate itself to step between us.
“Explain,” Valoa says, her voice clear and sharp as steel.
Beltran nods, stepping closer. “Lotor’s bloodlust blinds him. He wants Barsok dead, but he wants it theatrical. He’ll stage it as a public execution match—dragon versus minotaur. Barsok, you’ll fight. You’ll lose. And most importantly, you’ll die believably.”
“You mean fake dying,” Valoa interrupts sharply. She shifts, her body taut, like a bowstring about to snap. “Just to clarify.”
Beltran sighs, his expression one of forced patience. “Yes, fake dying. That’s the plan, at least. The dragon is the spectacle, the distraction. While the crowd roars, Latrona will have already bribed the gate guards. The doors to the lower tunnels will be left unlocked. Once Barsok is down, seemingly dead, chaos will erupt. Old Scar will be unpredictable, uncontrollable.”
Latrona leans forward from the shadows, the torchlight catching the red highlights in her dyed hair. Her eyes glitter with mischief as she speaks. “The dragon’s the diversion. Once the guards focus on him, I’ll make sure the armory is unlocked. Weapons at the ready. You’ll have your pick, Barsok.”
A thrill of anticipation sparks in my gut, tempered by caution. I look between them, weighing their words carefully. “And you’re sure the dragon won’t just tear me apart for real?”
Beltran’s lips twist into something bitter and wry. “That’s the beauty of the gamble. Dragons don’t kill for sport. Scar knows the arena. He knows the rules of survival better than we do. He’ll play his part, provided he isn’t provoked into rage.”
Durk spits at the ground, disgusted. “Or provided he isn’t hungry.”
Latrona chuckles softly, but it sounds dangerous rather than amused. “Beltran’s promised to see him fed beforehand. A few sheep to curb the edge.”
“Great,” I grunt, sarcasm dripping from the word. “So he won’t eat me immediately, just play with me first. Comforting.”
Valoa reaches out, fingers grazing my forearm lightly. Her touch is brief, but it scorches, drawing my gaze instantly back to hers. She shakes her head slightly, and I read the silent plea in her eyes clearly: Trust them. Trust me.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the stale, damp air that’s been my only companion for far too long. “And while all hell breaks loose, Valoa poisons Lotor?”
“Exactly,” Beltran says, nodding. “Just enough to make him groggy, confused. Not dead—at least not yet.”
Valoa steps forward, her chin high, voice steady, though I sense the slight tremble beneath it. “My father taught me doses. A pinch of nightshade, a splash of dreamroot. He’ll be disoriented, weak, but conscious. Helpless.”
Durk eyes her warily. “Sure you can get close enough to do it?”
She glances at him sharply, eyes narrowing, defiant. “I’ll manage.”
My chest tightens again, pride and fear mixing dangerously inside me. The image of Valoa alone, slipping poison into the cupof a monster makes my heart thud unevenly. I resist the urge to pull her closer, shield her from it. But Valoa is made of tougher stuff. I’ve seen it firsthand.
“Once Lotor falters,” Beltran continues, “we strike. Durk, you’ll rally the gladiators. They’ll fight like demons for a chance at freedom. Latrona’s men will handle any remaining loyalists. In the chaos, we make our escape through the tunnels beneath the arena. They lead straight to the jungle outside the city walls.”
“Mike Rizzo’s camp?” Valoa asks, glancing cautiously between us.
Beltran nods slowly. “Yes. He’s agreed to meet us there with reinforcements and weapons. His firepower will secure our exit.”
Valoa’s mouth tightens, her eyes darkening. I know she trusts Mike about as far as she can throw him, and frankly, so do I. But what choice do we have? We need allies, even dangerous ones. Especially dangerous ones.
The silence that follows feels like a held breath, each of us weighing the cost. I see Durk shift uneasily, the stump of his missing hand flexing like he’s grasping for a weapon that isn’t there. Latrona’s expression is unreadable, her gaze sliding between each of us, calculating. Beltran stands, patient, confident, as if he hasn’t just laid our lives on the sharp edge of a blade.
Valoa finally breaks the silence, voice soft but resolute. “Then that’s it. Barsok fights. The dragon distracts. I poison Lotor. We break the chains. Simple.”
“Simple,” I repeat grimly, my voice gravelly with the weight of our gamble. “Except for the part where a dragon pretends to kill me.”
