Page 4

The qualifying bouts were about to begin, but Rhaego felt no excitement. He scanned the area, studying the opponents dotting the fighting ring, and tried to shake off the gloominess the morning visit with his mother had cast over him.

It had been a bad day.

He’d try again tomorrow. For now, he needed to focus his attention. He saw no great threat, but overconfidence could bring down the most skillful fighters if they weren’t careful.

With males outnumbering females so drastically, only the best of the best were granted permission to participate in the chase. Your husbandry school scores had to be impeccable across the board. Your finances and health had to be in top condition. And you had to prove all your husbandry skills were intact during elective biannual exams in order to earn a spot.

For all the males who had exceptional backgrounds but were not quite qualified enough for a pass straight through to the chase, there were the bouts.

Tiered seating curved around a large, flat training yard. Rhaego scanned the shaded rows, searching for the humans among the many onlookers who’d come to watch. Often, females who’d be participating in the chase attended the bouts. If they found a male they liked, they’d show him favor before the chase, hinting that if he were to pursue her, she might allow herself to be caught more easily.

There were no humans among the crowd. Rhaego couldn’t fathom how they were handling all of this. Had the traditions been explained to them? Had they chosen not to attend the bouts? Or had they not been allowed? Had the king woken the third yet?

From atop a platform on the edge of the ring, the moderator blew a twenty-foot-tall baldrate horn, and Rhaego’s attention sharpened toward the task at hand.

The ground shook as wide golden rings buried under the arena’s surface emerged to indicate the borders for each of the ten fighting fields.

“Competitors, please enter the borders of your assigned bout.”

The two hundred males mulling around the arena stepped within their rings. Rhaego eyed his opponents, taking in each of the sturdy Tuvastans he’d need to fight. A few looked at him warily. Most glared, determination brimming in their eager eyes.

Will it be twenty against one, then? He shook out his arms, backing toward the edge of his ring and spreading his legs until not even a hurricane could fell him.

“Last horns in the ring will win a pass to compete in the chase. No killing. No maiming. Compete with honor,” the moderator, Doftun, called from his high platform.

The Tuvastans in the crowd shook their heads softly, making the little applause chimes they’d capped their horns with jingle.

A large orange-tinged Tuvasta inched toward Rhaego’s right flank while they waited for the next blare of the baldrate to signal the start of the bout.

He’ll be first out of the ring.

The horn blared and roars rang through the arena.

As though plucked straight from his brain, the male to his right sprinted toward him.

Rhaego shifted his stance, pretending to ready himself to brawl with his fists. When the male was close enough, he leapt out of the way. His opponent tripped out of the ring before he could catch himself.

Cursing rang out behind him as Rhaego sprang forward to avoid being left out of bounds as the ring around their bout shrank by a foot. The gold metal would contract every time a fighter was knocked out, forcing the battle zone to get smaller and smaller until only two were left.

There was always a young buck like the orange-tinged male, too eager to tackle formidable opponents. They didn’t yet know how to harness their fever and use their brain. But Rhaego wouldn’t be likely to fool any others with a dodge. It was time to fight.

He stalked forward, deeper into the center of the arena where the most seasoned warriors remained. A male lowered his horns in Rhaego’s direction and flew toward him. He was well-trained and quick as lightning, but Rhaego had dealt with his fighting style before.

He let the male’s quick jabs land, flexing hard muscle so the punches hurt his opponent more than him. The male hesitated, deciding where to land a hit that would phase Rhaego. He struck him in the belly before Rhaego could block, wrenching a grunt from his throat.

Instincts flaring, Rhaego registered the pounding vibration of footfalls behind him just in time. He bent forward, kicking behind himself and knocking the charging male back before he could ram him with his horns.

“Not a very honorable move,” Rhaego grumbled, retraining his focus on the male in front of him. His fist shot out for another jab to his stomach, but Rhaego was prepared this time. He snagged his arm, twisted it behind the male’s back and shoved him so hard that the male flew out of the arena and skidded across the dusty ground.

The fight wore on for longer than Rhaego expected. He realized, as he hurled a male bodily out of the shrinking border, that it was because his fellow combatants had decided not to fight each other but to concentrate on eliminating him.

Grunts of pain and the loud cracks of clashing horns boomed around him from the other bouts as he battled. Most of his effort was focused on keeping himself within the ring and landing blows to weaken his opponents when he could.

A male stalking the outskirts of their ring caught his attention. Every so often, he’d drag someone Rhaego had knocked to the ground out of the boundary, but he doubted very much that the male was doing it to help him.

He was waiting, like a scavenger watching predators finish their meal. It was a dishonorable way to fight, but Rhaego couldn’t blame him. There was room for some civility to be lost when the chance to catch a bride was at stake.

Still, he kept the sly male in his sights as he slashed out with his claws at the burliest of his opponents and drew blood.

Four were on him now, and a well-placed kick had him dropping to a knee. They pounced.

Fists rained down from Tuvastans whose eyes had gone red. They’d let their fever take over.

Rhaego could feel the burn of his own threatening to rise, but if he let it consume him, all rationality would be muddled. In a frenzy, one male snarled and locked his bicep around Rhaego’s neck.

Rage burned beneath his skin, his fever bursting out of its cage. Stretching to reach behind himself, he sank his claws into the male’s fleshy thighs, then lunged forward, flinging him up and over his horns and hitting two of the three males attacking him as he did. The male pounced up, eyes wide, wild, and glowing red. Fever-stricken.

Sweat poured down Rhaego’s spine, and he charged at the male, baring his fangs. They crashed together in a whirl of teeth and claws. Blood poured from a ghastly bite mark on Rhaego’s arm, but he couldn’t feel any pain. Only fury.

Kill him, his mind buzzed.

He shook his head. No! Focus. Control yourself.

Though his instincts screamed for him to sink his teeth into his opponent’s neck, he pushed them down. Instead, he shoved the male away, dipped his head, and rammed his horns into the male’s face before he could block the attack.

His opponent stumbled back a step, dazed. Suddenly the ring shrunk by two more feet, leaving the male stuck outside the arena. Rhaego spun and found the sly Tuvastan from before grinning back at him, fangs exposed.

Rhaego took stock of the other three fighters now sprawled outside the boundary. One writhed in pain, clutching his leg.

So, the male wasn’t only conniving; he had some skill too. Rhaego took a calming breath, willing the embers of his fever to ebb. The grinning male’s eyes were clear of the telltale red that meant a fever was rising. There wasn’t even a trace of it.

Unease squirmed inside Rhaego’s belly. Only the most disciplined Tuvastans could keep a fever quelled to such a degree during a bout. Rhaego certainly wasn’t capable of it. The chemical reaction was instinctual, the fever rising whenever emotion was heightened, but especially during fights. Aggression was the most efficient kindling.

Either this male was exceptional, or he’d smoked deralja before the bouts began. The drug was used by Tuvastans to calm their nerves and keep their fever leashed, but it was strictly forbidden during both the bouts and the chase as it didn’t accurately represent a male’s discipline and the rein they had on their emotions.

The male grinned at Rhaego again. Had he always known it would come down to the two of them? Had the male conserved his strength, picking off the weak and letting Rhaego exert himself?

They circled each other slowly, assessing. The ring was so small now that both would need to watch their every step. One off-balance stumble backward and he’d be out.

The other male tracked the rivulets of dark blood pouring down Rhaego’s arm, and his smile widened.

Rhaego nearly chuckled. As if an injury like that even registered anymore. But fine. Let him think he was weak. Let him think he had an advantage.

“An honorable finish?” the male rasped, dipping his head slightly while keeping Rhaego in his sights.

Rhaego made a show of peering uncertainly at the blood draining into the dirt. He met the male’s eyes again, nodded, then bent his head, aligning his spine.

They charged, their horns ramming together after only a few quick strides.

Horns locked, they gripped each other’s forearms in the traditional Tuvastan fighting stance. The male squeezed Rhaego’s injured forearm, sparking a flare of fever to swell, but he kept it locked down. He couldn’t afford to lose his mind so close to the end, and he knew that was exactly what the male wanted.

“You don’t deserve a bride, blight .”

There’d been a time in his life when the familiar insult would have made his fever roar. The male was counting on it. But the name only cooled Rhaego’s blood. He was not a blight. The work he was doing to help the humans was more important than this simple-minded male could comprehend.

Rhaego grinned, baring fang and forcing a flash of uncertainty to dim the male’s smile.

“And what right do you have to a wife,” Rhaego all but purred, “when you cannot even best a blight like me?” His hand flashed out to lock around the back of the male’s neck.

A flare of red lit his eyes, and Rhaego advanced. He used the grip on his neck to keep their horns locked together as he took slow, measured steps forward, pressing the struggling male toward the edge of the ring with brute strength.

The furious Tuvastan bellowed as he was forced back, scrambling boots trying to find purchase in the dirt but only kicking up dust. He was strong…but Rhaego was stronger.

The fever took hold of the male even through the haze of deralja clear in his wide pupils. He thrashed, furiously swiping his claws over Rhaego’s chest, trying to find a vulnerable spot. But in his desperation, he lost his footing and stumbled.

Rhaego took advantage, gripping one of the male’s horns and thrusting his head, and horns, beyond the boundary.

Jingling from the stands echoed through his ears as the moderator announced he’d earned his spot in the chase.