Page 29 of Bought by the Broken Beast
He is on me in a heartbeat, his axe a blur of gold and black. The first blow is a feint, a test of my reflexes. I don't fall for it. The second is a vicious, horizontal swing aimed to cleave me in two at the waist. I pivot, letting the axe head whistle past, the wind of its passage stirring the fur on my chest. I bring my own axe up in a brutal, upward swing, not at him, but at the haft of his weapon.
The clang of steel on steel is a deafening shriek that echoes through the arena. The impact sends a shockwave up my arms, but it does the same to him, his perfect form faltering for a fraction of a second. It is the only opening I need. I slam my shoulder into his shield, a move of pure, brute force. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with surprise. A Vakkak does not fight like this. A Vakkak does not fight like an animal.
“You’ve spent too much time in the dirt,” he snarls, recovering his footing. “You’ve forgotten the art of the duel.”
“There is no art in this,” I growl back, circling him, my axe held ready. “Only a reckoning.”
We exchange a flurry of blows, our axes a whirlwind of screaming steel. He is faster, his movements more precise. My axe is heavier, my blows slower but more powerful. It is a battleof the serpent against the bull. He scores the first blood, the tip of his axe slicing a shallow, burning line across my ribs. I ignore the pain. I answer with a blow that shatters his shield, sending splinters of wood and bronze flying across the sand.
The crowd roars, a bloodthirsty beast that feeds on our pain.
“Your men died screaming my name at the docks,” Malacc taunts, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “They died for a traitor and his human whore. Was she worth it, Saru? Was the taste of her worth their lives?”
A red mist threatens to descend, the beast within me roaring at the insult. I see Grak’s face, his eyes wide with a final, silent apology. I see Zorn, a sad, knowing smile on his lips as he falls. I channel the rage, the grief, into my arms, into my axe. I see the rest dying.
I let out a roar of pure, animalistic fury and charge, abandoning all defense. I am no longer trying to win. I am trying to annihilate him. We become a storm of violence, our axes rising and falling, the sound of our battle a frantic, brutal symphony of death. He is forced back, his perfect form breaking under the sheer, relentless pressure of my assault.
But he is a serpent. He is a creature of cunning.
He feints a low swing, and I, in my rage, fall for it. As I bring my axe down to block, he pivots, his own axe coming around in a blindingly fast arc. I try to turn, to bring my shoulder up to block, but I am too slow.
The pain is a white-hot, blinding agony. The axe blade bites deep into my left thigh, shearing through leather, fur, and flesh, grating against the bone. A scream, raw and wounded, is torn from my throat. My leg gives way, and I collapse to one knee, the world dissolving into a grey haze of pain.
The crowd gasps, then erupts into a frenzy. They smell the kill.
Malacc stands over me, his chest heaving, a triumphant, bloody smile on his face. “It is over, Saru. Your rebellion ends here. Your name dies with you.”
He raises his axe for the final, killing blow. I look up at him, my vision swimming. I see the faces of my fallen comrades. I see my father’s stony expression at my trial. I see my mother, a prisoner in her own home. I see Bella, her eyes blazing with a fire that reignited my own. I cannot fail. I will not fail.
As his axe begins its descent, I do the only thing I can. I roar, and I throw my own axe, not at him, but at his feet. It is a desperate, dishonorable move, the act of a cornered animal. It strikes the sand in front of him, the handle bouncing up and striking his shin.
It is not enough to wound him, but it is enough to make him flinch, to break his perfect, killing arc. His axe blow, meant for my neck, goes wide, burying itself in the sand beside my head.
I surge up from the ground, my wounded leg screaming in protest. I am inside his guard. I slam my forehead into his face, the crunch of his nose a satisfying, brutal sound. He stumbles back, howling in pain and surprise, blood pouring from his shattered nose.
I am on him in an instant. I’m not only a warrior. I am a beast. I tackle him, our armored bodies crashing to the sand with the force of a landslide. I am on top of him, my fists a blur of motion, raining down blows on his helmet, his face, his throat. He struggles beneath me, his superior armor protecting him from the worst of the assault, but I am relentless.
I am fighting not just Malacc now. I am fighting the ghosts of my own failure. I am fighting for the honor I thought I had lost forever.
He manages to get a hand free and his fingers find the gash in my thigh, digging into the raw flesh. The pain is an explosion ofpure agony, and I roar, my body arching back. It is the opening he needs. He shoves me off him and scrambles for his axe.
I crawl toward my own, my leg a useless, dragging weight. We get to our feet at the same time, two battered, bloody beasts, our chests heaving, our eyes locked in a promise of mutual destruction.
We are about to charge, to end this one way or another, when something catches my eye.
A flicker of white, fluttering down from the upper tiers of the arena.
A single piece of parchment, dancing on the hot air currents, lands on the sand near the Zusvak’s royal box.
Malacc sees it too. He falters, his triumphant sneer replaced by a flicker of confusion.
Another piece of parchment falls. And another. And another. A gentle, impossible snowstorm of truth, raining down on the silent, watching senate.
The plan is working. Bella did not fail.
23
BELLA
