Page 1 of Her Manticore Master
1
RONAN
The stench of rotting fish and unwashed bodies fills my nostrils as I push through Oshta's crowded streets. This port city is a cesspit, but it's my only chance to find passage to Northern Rach and reunite with my scattered brothers.
"Please, no! Let me go!" A girl's terrified voice cuts through the marketplace chaos.
I freeze. Across the narrow street, four slavers have cornered a young human against a crumbling wall. She can't be more than sixteen, tears streaming down her dirt-stained cheeks.
"Quiet, little dove," one slaver growls, his scarred face twisted in a leer. "You'll fetch fine coin in the pleasure houses."
"The younger, the better," another laughs. "More gold for fresh meat."
The girl whimpers as calloused hands reach for her. "My father will pay ransom!"
"Your father's dead, girl. Saw to that ourselves."
Red rage floods my vision. I don't think—never do when innocents suffer. My twin swords sing from their sheaths as I charge, shouldering aside merchants.
"Hey!" I roar.
The slavers turn, registering the threat I pose. Smart ones would run. These aren't smart.
"Mind your business, stranger," the leader snarls, drawing a curved blade. "Unless you want to join our merchandise."
I bare my teeth. "Try me."
They attack together—tavern brawlers, not warriors. My left blade opens the first one's throat while my right punches through the second's ribs. Blood sprays across cobblestones as they drop.
"Run!" I shout to the girl, not taking my eyes off the remaining two.
The third swings a club at my head. I duck, spinning to drive my elbow into his gut before opening his belly with a vicious slash. He screams, clutching spilling entrails.
The leader backs away, fear replacing bravado. "You're making a mistake, manticore. We have friends?—"
"Send them to hell."
But heavy boots thunder behind me. My blood chills—more slavers pour from the tavern, at least a dozen. I am so focused on saving her that I ignore my surroundings.
"Take him alive!" the leader shouts. "A manticore brings fortune in fighting pits!"
They swarm me. I fight like a demon, blades weaving death, but there are too many. A weighted net drops from above, dragging me down. Hands grab my limbs despite my struggles.
A club cracks across my skull. As darkness takes me, my last sight is the girl—already being dragged away by fresh slavers.
I fail her.
Pain hammers through my skull as consciousness returns. I'm chained inside a cramped, filthy cage on a jolting wagon, stripped of weapons and dignity. The iron shackles bite into my wrists, and the sun beats down mercilessly on my bare torso.
"Look at him snarl," one guard laughs from the driver's seat. "Like a caged beast."
"That's what he is now," his companion replies. "Berrik, you think he'll last long in the pits?"
"Manticores are tough bastards," Berrik spits. "He might survive a few fights before something tears his throat out."
My chains, stronger than steel, bind me as rage simmers. Hours pass. The landscape changes from coastal scrubland to rolling hills, then to Vhoig, the gladiatorial capital, marked by blood-red scorpion banners.
The wagon stops in a crowded marketplace. Guards drag me from the cage to a bloodstained auction block. Chained to my knees, an auctioneer begins his spiel. "Fresh meat from the eastern provinces! Behold—a manticore warrior in his prime!"
