Page 14 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter ten

Bravat stood silently beside him. Cyrus glanced at the fighter out of the corner of his eye as they waited at the gate for their match. There was no goading, no taunting, no roasting from the big fighter this time. No doubt the memory of Val’s bloody body was still on his mind.

Cyrus had looked into Bravat’s numbers. The fighter was close to gold. He needed only three more kills, and his sober countenance told Cyrus he was intent on getting one today.

The crowd roared as the match before them finished. Cyrus tightened his grip on his sword. “On my lead,” he told Bravat.

“Fuck your lead,” Bravat spat back. “You worry about your man, I’ll worry about mine.”

Cyrus’s lips tightened. This was how teams lost. “We need to drop the first man quickly.”

Bravat snorted. “I’ll drop mine, then I’ll take care of yours. How does that sound, eh?”

Cyrus clenched his teeth. Arrogant bastard. It was just the two of them, and they’d be lucky to get through this one.

The gates rose, and arena guards dragged the unfortunate souls who had fallen in the previous fight through, to be hauled out.

Another roar of the crowd told Cyrus their opponents had entered. The guard nodded to him, and he stepped through the gate.

“Two!” Cyrus called out.

Bravat didn’t repeat it. No one was required to, but it was a usual practice.

Cyrus wasn’t sure why—perhaps it was how it had always been—but it felt like more of a commitment that the number of lives they entered with would be the same as when they left.

The team number was a sacred number—a prayer. And everyone spoke it.

Except Bravat.

“Two!” the wall guard shouted to the scorekeepers.

Cyrus settled his sights on their opponents—a gold and silver fighter from House Rysil.

House Rysil was almost as famed as House Pyro, with excellent fighters pushing the bounds of their levels.

They wouldn’t be easy to take down. Fights would also get progressively harder as they neared the king’s celebration finale.

Cyrus was just thankful they were still fighting men.

The gods only knew what they’d be facing in the final days.

Something told him the cats wouldn’t be the worst of it.

Bravat took off at a run toward the man on the right. Cyrus swore—Bravat wasn’t one for research, and he’d gone after the gold-tier fighter.

Perhaps his problem with Bravat would take care of itself.

Cyrus focused on the second man.

Swords rang out as Bravat attacked, but Cyrus kept his eyes on his own opponent.

He struck. The man threw back a series of counters.

He was a silver-tier fighter, and good. His footwork was quick, and his sword work clean.

On a defensive return, the man spun with a fake strike and then a follow-through, grazing Cyrus’s shoulder.

Cyrus paused for a moment, glancing at the thin line of blood that now started to bead along the cut. That had been smooth. He’d be proud if his silver fighters fought this well.

But he didn’t have time to dally and admire.

With the second sequence, he launched a full assault.

On the closing move, his sword found home, between the man’s ribs and into his heart.

It was a merciful death. As the fighter fell from his sword, Cyrus turned his attention back to Bravat, who wasn’t faring so well.

By now, Bravat had discovered he’d picked the wrong opponent, and he was fighting for his life.

Leander was his opponent’s name. Cyrus trotted toward them—not fast—debating how much he really wanted to engage.

If Cyrus let Bravat be killed, there would be consequences.

But how severe would the consequences be if Cyrus won after?

A win with two kills, and with several other high-profile fights scheduled through the week—Pyro likely wouldn’t do anything.

Bravat was fading. His strikes were slower now, his breathing ragged.

Cyrus didn’t look to see if Pyro was watching from where he sat in the top viewing box with the king and royal family.

He never acknowledged the lord’s presence while he was in the arena—a dangerous thing, but his spite wouldn’t let him.

He was sure Pyro was watching, though. Watching Bravat struggle.

The most expensive purchase in the history of bloodsport.

Cyrus couldn’t have planned this better…

Leander delivered a sharp kick to Bravat’s chest that landed him on his back. It was all over now. The Rysil fighter drove forward with a downswing for the kill.

Cyrus didn’t know what made him do it; it certainly wasn’t an action of a rational mind, but before he could think, he barreled forward and met Leander’s blade with his own.

Leander was a strong man, and the clash jolted Cyrus, driving a pain up his arms to his shoulders.

But Cyrus pushed through and served a series of moves that drove Leander back, giving Bravat a chance to scramble to his feet.

He checked the gates from the corner of his eye. They had a little more time yet before the cats were released, although not much.

Leander launched a counter. It was a desperate one, made under pressure.

And he made mistakes.

Cyrus saw his opportunity. As they passed back-to-back on a spin, he flung out his blade low and wide.

Leander stopped midcounter and looked down.

All was still for a moment. Then blood rushed from Leander’s severed hamstrings. Cyrus didn’t finish him. Instead, he waited, a silent offering to Bravat to take the kill he so desperately needed.

Leander stumbled forward, and Bravat drove his sword through for the win. Cyrus’s eyes met Bravat’s, and the big fighter’s stare pierced him back.

The crowd roared.

Bravat’s eyes were still on him. His face was stone. He was probably livid, his ego not allowing him to appreciate an act of charity.

With the fight finally over, Cyrus turned and walked from the arena. He’d let the hot-headed fighter bask in the crowd’s approval by himself. Maybe soaking in some of the glory would stay a confrontation, at least until they got back to the villa.

“Two!” Cyrus called out as he passed through the gate.

“Two!” the gate guard echoed.

But as he stepped into the corridor, Bravat grabbed his arm from behind. “I didn’t ask you to set me up.”

And Cyrus shouldn’t have. He regretted doing it now. Bravat posed a danger to all the men in House Pyro. Cyrus should have let the arena take care of him. He cursed himself.

Bravat swallowed. “Thank you.”

Oh. That was new.

A silence sat between them for a moment. Bravat’s eyes shifted to the ground before meeting Cyrus’s again. “On your lead now,” he said, but with his fists clenched, as if the words tasted bitter.

The large fighter turned and continued down the hall, leaving Cyrus still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

“Clear the hall!” a guard called, snapping Cyrus back to the present.

He moved quickly to catch up to Bravat. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this man now. If he partnered him with—

Wait, was he seriously considering sparing Bravat? This man was arrogant and reckless. But he was also a strong fighter. He could be a strong member of the team, if he minded his place. Time would tell, and suddenly Cyrus found himself a little more willing to give him that time.

They headed toward the exit where they’d meet their wagon. As Cyrus passed the witch’s hall, he paused. Was she still there?

Bravat glanced down the dark and silent corridor. “What’s down there?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Nothing.” And he kept going.

The wagon ride back to the villa was quiet.

Bravat didn’t say anything more to Cyrus, but the air was different between them—an air of respect.

However, despite things settling, Cyrus had had enough of Bravat for the day, and he was looking forward to the quiet of his own chamber.

He also had things to tend to and wanted to check on Kieve.

He needed to make sure he got back on the schedule.

Cyrus slid off the wagon before it even reached the end of the wisteria entry into the courtyard, slipping between the columns and heading toward his chamber.

When he reached it, he exhaled a tired breath as he pulled off his leathers, letting them drop to the floor.

He washed the blood and dirt from his skin in the tepid water of the basin on the side table.

He needed a bath, but he’d do that later, when he could soak and fall asleep.

Now, relatively clean and dressed in fresh clothing, he stepped back outside. The corner of his mouth turned up when he saw his friend walking toward him.

“What did you do to Bravat?” Everan asked.

Cyrus dipped his brows. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s being tolerable.”

Cyrus snorted. He wondered how long that would last. Still, he hoped Bravat understood now. He was a strong fighter, and he’d make a good addition to the team if he could be a team mate .

“Where are you headed?” Everan said.

“To talk to Kieve.” Cyrus hadn’t seen his name show up on the schedule, but plenty of slots hadn’t yet been posted. Depending on when Kieve got the sign-off from the Sport Authority physician, he might not be listed until later in the week.

“I’ll go with you.”

Clouds covered the sky, giving a small reprieve from the heat. Maybe the fickle gods would favor the fighters and give them clouds for tomorrow’s match.

They neared Kieve’s chamber, and a guard shifted uneasily as they passed, refusing to meet his eye.

Cyrus slowed and glanced at Everan

His friend cut him a wary eye back.

When they reached Kieve’s door, he knocked.

There was no answer.

Cyrus knocked again.

Still, Kieve didn’t answer.

He looked back at the guard, whose gaze was focused away from him, in the opposite direction.

Cyrus swung the door open. The room was empty. He looked at Everan.

“I haven’t seen him out today,” Everan said.

Cyrus hadn’t either, but Everan had been at the villa all day—if Kieve was around, he would have seen him. A sinking weight pulled at his stomach.

Something wasn’t right.

Cyrus stepped back out into the hall and called to the guard, “Where’s Kieve?”

The guard ignored him.

The weight in his stomach grew heavier.

Cyrus stalked toward him. “Where’s Kieve?” he demanded.

The guard tightened his hold on his spear.

Everan grabbed Cyrus’s arm and pulled him back toward the courtyard. “We’ll find him. Come on.”

Cyrus ripped his arm from Everan’s hold, his daggered glare still on the guard, then he turned and strode toward the main hall, where he knew the lead guard, Hephain, would be. His pulse thrummed in his ears, quickening his step. He needed to find Kieve.

They passed Bash and Ram.

“Is something wrong?” Bash asked.

But Cyrus’s focus was on Hephain, who was exactly where Cyrus had expected—by the main hall, his spear in hand.

“Where’s Kieve?” Cyrus demanded before he even reached him.

Hephain’s head turned, and as his gaze fell on Cyrus, he shifted.

Cyrus lengthened his stride toward him. “Where is he?”

Hephain lowered his grip on his spear.

Cyrus’s voice dropped. Became colder. “Where is Kieve?” he demanded again as he reached him.

Kord was passing through the columns in the courtyard, and he started toward them upon hearing Cyrus. “What’s going on?” he called.

“Go back to your chambers,” Hephain told them all.

“Where is he?” Cyrus snarled. His blood ran cold, and his hands curled into fists.

“Cyrus,” Everan said, trying to calm him, but Cyrus was beyond calming.

His body was moving before he could stop it. He nearly collided with Hephain, grabbing the guard’s breastplate. “Where is he?!”

Laying hands on a guard earned a man a lashing, or worse. But Hephain made no move to defend himself, no move to call for help. He only gripped Cyrus back. “Cyrus,” he said firmly. “Go back to your chamber.”

“Did Pyro take him?”

Hephain gripped him tighter.

“Tell me!” Cyrus demanded. “Did Pyro take him again?”

“Cyrus—”

“Answer me!”

Everan grabbed him, but Cyrus pushed him off, not letting go of Hephain. “Answer me,” he pleaded, desperate now.

But Hephain didn’t have to respond for him to know. Anywhere else Kieve might have been, Hephain would have just told him. Hephain’s silence answered for him.

Fire rippled over his skin, and Cyrus spun toward Pyro’s residence.

“Don’t,” the guard warned, grabbing him, but Cyrus shoved him off.

Hephain moved after him. “Cyrus! Don’t do something stupid!”

Everan caught his arm again, and he tried to jerk away.

“Let me go!” Cyrus snapped.

“Kord!” Everan shouted.

Kord was already there, grabbing his left arm.

Cyrus struggled to rip free. “I’ll kill him!”

Everan swept Cyrus’s legs out from underneath him with a swift kick, dropping him, and pinned him to the ground with a firm hand over his mouth. “Shut your mouth. You’ll get us all killed.”

Cyrus still fought, but Hephain and Kord had hold of him now as well.

“Let me go!” he thundered from underneath Everan’s hand. He wrenched his head free. “Kieve!”

Everan clutched Cyrus just underneath his jaw, forcing him still. “You can’t do anything for him right now, except get him killed, get yourself killed, and all of us with you.”

The rage swelled so hard within Cyrus’s chest that his eyes watered. “You don’t know what Pyro’s doing to him!” he yelled hoarsely.

Everan still gripped him. “I know Kieve is strong. And we can’t help him right now. Not like this.”

“Let’s get him to his chamber,” Hephain said.

“Kieve!” Cyrus bellowed.

They pulled him up off the ground. He fought them the whole way, but he couldn’t overpower the three of them to get away.

When they reached his room, Everan and Kord muscled him inside. They held him tightly.

“Kieve!” Cyrus thundered again as Hephain closed the door behind them and locked it.