Page 28 of Bought by the Broken Beast
“This is not a battle of strength,” I say, my voice clear, steady, betraying none of the terror that is a cold, coiling serpent in my gut. “We already tried that. We failed. This is a battle of information. Malacc expects us to be broken, scattered. He doesnot expect us to be organized. He does not expect us to be smart.”
I point to the Grand Plaza on the map. “The trial will be a spectacle. The entire Zu Kus will be in attendance. Every Vakkak and Zotkak of note. This is our true target.”
“Target?” one of the hunters says, his voice rough. “You want us to attack the Senate? We are ten strong, girl. That is a suicide mission.”
“Our target is not their bodies,” I counter, my voice sharp. “It is their minds. The copies of the manifests, the map of the assassination plot—these are our weapons.” I look around the room, at the cynical, broken faces. “We will not be an army. We will be a plague of whispers. A flood of truth.”
I lay out the plan, my voice gaining strength, my mind finding its footing in the familiar territory of logic and strategy. “We will be scattered throughout the stands, dressed as commoners, as gamblers, as fans. We will be invisible. The street urchins who worship you gladiators will be our runners, passing messages, identifying key senators. The tavern patrons will be our lookouts, watching for Vorlag’s men.”
“And the evidence?” Kor asks, his one good eye fixed on me, weighing my words.
“We will make dozens of copies,” I explain. “Small, easily concealed. At the climax of the fight, when all eyes are on Votoi and Malacc, we will release them. Not all at once. A single parchment, dropped from the upper tiers, will land near the Zusvak’s box. Then another, near the head of the Zotkak guild. We will create confusion, intrigue. The senators themselves will spread the evidence for us, passing the damning pages to their neighbors out of sheer curiosity. Before the guards can react, the truth will be in a hundred hands.”
For the first time since the dockside massacre, I see a flicker of something other than despair in the very eyes ofthe Minotaurs around me. I see a spark of understanding. A glimmer of hope. They are warriors, lost without a battle to fight. I have just given them one.
Lyra is at my side the entire time, my second-in-command. She is a rock, her presence a steady, reassuring thing. She offers suggestions, her knowledge of the Fiepakak district and its people invaluable. She points out the best positions in the stands, the guards most likely to be bribed or distracted. Her support is so absolute, so unwavering, that the small, ugly shard of jealousy I felt in the crypt feels petty and shameful. She loves him. And because she loves him, she is willing to help me save him.
“You are a natural commander, little scribe,” she says in a low murmur as we watch the last of our new recruits disperse into the night. “He was right about you. You are different.”
The compliment should feel good. It feels like a fresh wound.
There is a moment, as I am giving orders to Kor, that my mind betrays me. I see Votoi’s face, his amber eyes soft in the firelight of the forge.I will take you to the sea.The memory is a sharp, sudden pain, a ghost of a promise for a future that will never be. I crush it down, ruthlessly. I have no right to that memory. To the feelings it evokes. My feelings are a liability, a burden he does not need to carry into the arena. My only purpose is to ensure he survives. I want him to see his home by the sea again, even if I am not there to see it with him. I want it for him. Fiercely. Desperately.
The preparations are complete. The copies of the evidence are bundled, our small network of rebels is in place. It is time.
Lyra and I are alone in the back room. The weight of the coming hours settles over us, a heavy, suffocating blanket.
“He will fight with the fury of a god,” Lyra says as a reverent whisper. “But Malacc is a serpent. He will not fight fair.”
“That is why we are not fighting fair either,” I reply, my voice a cold, hard thing.
She gives me a slow, approving smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I dismiss it as the strain of the moment. She steps closer, a heavy, dark cloak in her hands. It is made of a thick, rough-spun wool, the kind worn by the Fiepakak laborers.
“You will need this,” she says, her voice soft, concerned. “To hide your face in the crowd. You are the most wanted woman in Milthar. You must not be seen.”
She drapes the heavy cloak over my shoulders. It smells of her, of woodsmoke and something vaguely floral. Her hands linger on my shoulders for a moment, her grip surprisingly strong.
“The stands will be chaos,” she says, her dark eyes boring into mine. Her expression is one of perfect, fierce loyalty. “Vorlag’s men will be everywhere. They will be looking for you.” She gives my shoulders a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“Stay close to me during the fight. I will protect you.”
22
VOTOI
The roar of ten thousand voices is akin to a hammer against my ears, a wave of sound that crashes over me as I step onto the sand. The sun is a merciless, white-hot eye in the sky, baking the blood-soaked ground, raising a coppery stench that is the arena’s signature perfume. This is the heart of my shame, the tomb of my honor. And I have returned to it willingly.
Across the expanse of sand stands Malacc. He is a vision of Vakkak perfection, his black-and-gold armor polished to a mirror shine, his war axe a masterpiece of Zotkak craftsmanship. He is everything I once was, everything he stole from me. A triumphant, arrogant sneer twists his lips. He raises his axe to the roaring crowd, accepting their adulation, playing the part of the hero who will put down the rabid dog.
“Look at you, Saru,” his voice, magically amplified to fill the stadium, drips with condescending pity. “Reduced to a butcher’s tool and the rags of a slave. Is your human pet watching? I hope she has a strong stomach. This will not be a clean death.”
My hand tightens on the haft of the heavy, ill-balanced axe the guards gave me. His words are barbs, meant to draw my rage, to make me fight with my blood instead of my head. I willnot give him the satisfaction. I let the rage settle, cooling it into a shard of ice in my soul. I am not here for a clean death. I am here to win. For Grak. For Zorn. For Bella. For everything I’ve lost.
The Zusvak, seated in his royal box, gives a slow, weary nod. The signal is given. The trial begins.
Malacc charges. He does not rush like a mindless beast. He advances with the measured, ground-eating strides of a trained Vakkak warrior. He is a textbook of perfect form, his axe held ready, his shield angled to protect his core.
I do not meet his charge. I stand my ground, my legs planted wide, my own axe held low. I am a gladiator now. I do not fight with form. I fight with instinct and brutality.
