Page 1 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter one

The thirsty sands of the arena drank up the blood before it could even pool, leaving nothing more than a trail of crimson stain—the only thing left of the life that once was. Another soul sacrificed. To nothing but the roar of the crowd. As if he’d existed only for that moment of entertainment.

This was the bloodsport.

Cyrus stared at the gate in front of him, through which another body had just been carried out from the arena. A drop of blood trailed down the iron end bar, and he caught it, brushing it between his fingertips. Cyrus would likely share the same end. They all would.

“Eternal rest, brother,” he prayed bitterly.

He glanced at his friend Everan beside him, whose eyes were dark under his helm. Everan tapped his fingertips against his chest and then his forehead—a sign of tribute for someone passed.

The arena guard dogs snarled along the hold line, and Cyrus jostled Everan back.

While the guards themselves weren’t to be trifled with, it was the dogs that one really needed to watch out for, if one could even call them dogs.

They were dark-haired beasts with their ears and tails removed, fanged abominations that stood the height of a man’s hip.

Their heads spanned the length from elbow to fingertip, and their growl was their only warning.

If fighters didn’t mind the line, the animals attacked without mercy.

If a man didn’t do as he was told, they made sure that he quickly ceased to be a man at all.

The dogs passed, and Everan’s gaze shifted out across the arena, to where a new group of fighters had just entered. Among them, an ox of a man threw his head back and bellowed a challenge into the air. The spectators roared.

Cyrus let his eyes sweep the stands—so many people packed together that he couldn’t tell where one tier ended and another began.

Sun canopies stretched over the center sections, offering protection from the sweltering heat for those wealthy enough to afford premium seating.

Red flags lined the top round of the arena above them.

The color of the kingdom of Rael.

The color of blood.

Cyrus would give them blood. Not for the glory of the arena. Not because the masses called for it—he’d serve them up their own blood if he could. But he had only one goal, and he waited for a single opportunity. Until then, he’d do what he needed to stay alive and to keep his men alive.

A horn sounded, and the top chains of the entry gates pulled taut, raising the iron bars in front of them. Cyrus called over his shoulder, “Four!”

“Four!” echoed Everan and the two fighters with them, Manus and Kieve.

“Four!” the wall guard bellowed up to the sport scribes.

Four. It was how many men were entering the arena. With luck, four would walk out.

Competing teams were always equally sized, generally teams of four, sometimes six, sometimes two.

Cyrus’s team had a method, and years together had perfected this method.

Their strategy was to focus on eliminating one man from the opposing team as quickly as possible, giving them a numbers advantage, then using their extra man to float where needed to finish the rest. It wasn’t a unique strategy; many teams took this approach.

The difference—speed. Cyrus’s team always used their top two fighters to focus on the first kill. Together, they brought a fast death.

Cyrus led this run. Not only was he the top fighter of this team, but he was the best out of all his men, arguably the best in all of Rael, and he was the fighting head of House Pyro. When he fought, he always led.

His team kicked out into a charge, and Cyrus set his sight on the man closest on his left.

Everan followed.

They thundered down on the man, their blades singing through the air.

This was the moment that Cyrus looked forward to in each fight—not the blood, not the kill, but the calm before the chaos of the clash.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as his senses sharpened.

It beat in harmony with his intent, like a ballad—the aria of the arena.

Then came the violence.

Cyrus cut high, and Everan went low. The man met Cyrus’s blade with a high counter, but the steel of Everan’s sword severed his leg. His scream was cut short as Cyrus swung again and took his head.

There was no time for celebration, and Cyrus’s attention cut to his team around him.

Kieve took the man on the far right. Everan went after a second, and Cyrus turned and joined Manus against the third ox of a man, who wielded both an axe and a sword.

As Cyrus and Manus attacked, the massive man swung his battle-axe with his right hand to counter.

The clash vibrated through Cyrus’s whole body.

Manus swung for a leg, but the brute blocked it with the short sword in his left hand.

Their opponent then launched his own attack, swinging out with both weapons. Cyrus and Manus jumped back. It was a narrow miss, reminding Cyrus just how near death always was.

From the corner of his eye, Cyrus kept watch on the side gates of the arena.

He tried to drown out the roar of the crowd to focus.

His heart beat faster. He and Manus were too close—too close to what was hidden behind those gates.

They had only blinks of time left. They needed to get to the center of the arena, but the brute blocked their way.

The large man was better than Cyrus had expected, with more stamina.

He drove Cyrus and Manus back with merciless swings.

Cyrus glanced at the gates again. They were too close. They had to get to the center.

The brute swung again, and Manus couldn’t clear it fast enough.

His shield took the brunt of the blow, but it knocked him backward to the ground.

The massive man swung his axe up and heaved it down in a strike for Manus’s head, but Cyrus leapt forward with his own upswing to block it.

The force of the blow radiated pain to his elbows and up into his shoulders.

Cyrus gritted his teeth and held with every ounce of strength he had as Manus rolled away.

Metal grated against metal, and the side gates started to rise.

Fuck. Cyrus wasn’t focused on their opponent anymore.

He jerked Manus back to his feet and pushed him toward the center of the arena.

“Go!” he snapped. They were out of time.

He needed to get to the center too, but the brute blocked his path.

The large man snarled and heaved another swing of his axe. Cyrus knocked it to the side.

Chains clinked together deep within the darkness behind the rising gates at Cyrus’s back—not loud, barely audible above the fighting and the crowd.

But he heard it.

And he knew what waited inside that darkness, with its claws and its teeth.

His opponent lunged toward him with another attack.

Cyrus threw his shield. Its thick edge hit the man in the chest, stunning the giant for a moment, but a moment was all Cyrus needed.

He darted forward, slipping past the man, and raced toward the center of the arena, not looking back at the vicious roar behind him—the roar of the animal that was no longer held back by the gates.

The brute screamed as claws found flesh. A snarl. A wet snap. Then silence.

It was good to be quicker.

Cyrus dared a glance back and saw their opponent was now a bloodied mess under the weight of a black lion. The massive cat sprang toward Cyrus, and he moved even faster. Safety was at the center of the arena.

He reached it just as the beast hit the end of its chain and was snapped to a roaring stop.

Cyrus’s eyes found Everan, who was pulling his sword from a downed man on the east side of the arena. One more kill achieved, but they were still one away from a finish, and the stakes had just been raised.

At the far end of the arena, a man with a horned helm pushed Kieve back toward a closed gate.

Behind it, a snarling, striped cat reached through the bars, trying to snag a victim in its claws.

Manus raced toward him to help but suddenly staggered and fell, a javelin protruding from his thigh.

Cyrus hissed and cut his gaze back to the cheering crowd in the stands.

For extra amusement, paying spectators could purchase short spears to throw at the fighters.

It wasn’t often that someone was hit. Fuck fortune —it wasn’t on their side today.

Cyrus raced to his side, but Manus shoved him off.

“Help Kieve!” Manus shouted.

Cyrus’s eyes darted to find his friend still at the far end of the arena. The gate behind Kieve started to open, and the striped cat clawed impatiently at the bottom as it slowly rose. Unaware, Kieve continued to battle his opponent.

“Kieve!” Cyrus bellowed.

But Kieve didn’t hear him over the clash of their weapons and the roar of the crowd. Cyrus and Everan both raced toward their teammate. Cyrus cursed as dread coursed through him—they wouldn’t make it in time. He pushed himself faster. He had to get to Kieve.

With a bladed staff, the horn-helmed man delivered a low strike, splintering the bone just below Kieve’s knee with a sickening crunch. Kieve dropped to the ground.

“Kieve!” Cyrus thundered.

From under the gate, the cat finally sprang free.

And it leapt at Kieve.

Cyrus barreled into the animal that was over twice his size, and in a tumult of man and beast, they crashed to the ground.

He tried to roll away, but the big cat twisted and clawed at him, catching him across the chest and tearing open his skin.

Pain ripped through him, but he ignored it and scrambled to his feet.

He’d lost his sword on the impact; he had nothing to fight with. Still, he put himself between the massive beast and Kieve. The cat gave a snarling threat of intent. Its lips peeled back, flashing its teeth.

“Leave me!” Kieve yelled from behind him. “Get to the center!”