“Hold on to my tunic, here,” he instructed, placing her hand on his side. “Don’t let go for any reason, do you understand? No matter what is happening.”
She stared at him, the chaos around them disappearing. It was only him—with his gilded eyes, the splatter of blood on his cheek, his set jaw. Surely he was a harbinger of death or some messed up savior her brain had created out of shock.
He shook her. “Do you understand, witch?”
She nodded once, gripping his tunic so tightly that her knuckles turned white. They began moving, not away from the fighting, but toward it.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, letting go of him not a step later.
He turned on her with an impatient intensity. “Just fucking trust me. And don’t.” He wrapped his hand around hers. “Let.” He placed her hand on his tunic and closed his over it. “Go.” He paused, ensuring she understood before they started off again.
Trista had to take swift steps to keep up, stumbling with the effort. Glancing around, she took in the grisly vision. Corpses that didn’t resemble bodies anymore were everywhere—in piles, in pieces. Entrails and raw flesh. Bone and sinew. It was a tableau of horror.
This is what entertained the gods in their unending lives?
Blood soaked into the sand like it had poured from above, creating a thick mud that pulled at their boots. With every step, the squelch of their footwear made her nauseous.
“If I tell you to do something, you do it instantly without question,” he commanded from deep in his chest. He stopped, stooping to grab a discarded knife and wiped the blood off on his pant leg.
What little good that did.
He handed it back to her. “Hold onto this.”
Keep a hand on his tunic. Don’t look around or risk slipping further into shock. Hold onto the knife.
Her rescuer moved them in a path that kept the giant wolves in sight while ensuring no one came up on them unaware. The problem was the combatants came for him in droves as if the entire arena was against him. He pushed her away from him unexpectedly as a shout alerted the approach of yet another group of fighters. The two champions within it looked toward the crowd, then back to him.
“Zeus won’t save you. Not from me.”
“There are seven of us. We just have to fight well enough to earn his mercy,” said the lean champion in the front, his head slightly turned as if he was trying to convince the others to stand their ground. He paused, debating with himself as he looked at her rescuer again. “Fighting The God of War is a path to freedom. Fighting him can be the reckoning.” The look in his eyes was a mixture of awe and crazed determination.
The God of War swung his sword in a slow arc. “Dying is also a reckoning.” And then their blades were clashing.
Before she could fully comprehend that her rescuer was an Olympian, movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Blond hair with splotches of red and rounded cheeks that were undoubtedly much more suited for smiles—it was the boy from the cells. Mother, he couldn’t have seen more than seventeen summers.
Clutching his stomach with both hands, he staggered forward. His skin was so pale that, even at a distance, Trista could see the veins in his neck. He looked at her with a sort of recognition. One hand lifted from the slash across his midsection to reach for her. His lip trembled as blood leaked out of his mouth. It was an instant decision to move toward him as if she were solely responsible for ensuring he didn’t die alone.
He stopped, gaping at his outstretched hand that was covered in red. Shifting his gaze to his wound, he dropped to his knees. Trista crawled across the sand toward him, scrambling up just in time to catch his head before he fell over.
“I d-didn’t—” His eyes were wide but not quite seeing. “I didn’t do anything,” he groaned out in a whispered cry.
She found her voice. “I know,” she soothed, but her own panic lingered in the syllables.
“I’m scared, and my s-sister… she’ll never…”
“It’s going to be fine.” Lowering his head gently, she moved to his side to inspect his injury. “Just tell me your name.” She pushed his remaining hand from his midsection, exposing the wound. There was so much blood.Toomuch blood.
“My name is Gavril.” His teeth chattered with the words.
She tore off a piece of his tunic sleeve and pressed it into the wound. He cried out weakly, but his blood covered her hands in seconds. She stared at her palms in horror and then up at the boy. His eyes looked at something far away. The trembling of his lips stilled as he gurgled unintelligible words.
“Witch.” The word was said in a tone that implied he had said it more than once.
“I can’t let him die,” she found herself saying as she tried to rip more of his tunic off to stanch the wound.
“Stop.”
She was pulled away from him even as her fingers scrabbled to find purchase on his tunic.