Page 19 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter fourteen

Billows of smoke filled the sky, stinging the nose and needling the lungs. Cyrus stood, breathing it in. Embers and ash of a fallen Rael fueled him more than the air itself.

With fighters from over two hundred fighting houses, they amassed an army, and Cyrus rallied them like an army. The screams of the dying had mostly faded—not because the fighting had stopped, but because, as it progressed through the capital, they were now too far to hear.

The witch had left him without explanation, not that he cared where she went. She’d held her promise, and she could do what she pleased. And Cyrus’s mind was consumed with something else. He returned to the arena, where a few of his men held Pyro for him.

The merciless rays of the sun broke through the clouds of smoke and beat down on the ruined and condemned lord, as did Cyrus’s merciless gaze.

“Walk,” Cyrus commanded. His throat was dry and nearly hoarse from bellowing orders to the bloodsport fighters as they overtook the city, but he had no problem delivering one more order.

Pyro whimpered. His once-gilded robes hung in tatters, coated in blood and dust. Deep claw marks stretched across his chest and shoulder, already crusted with filth. One leg bent at a sickening angle beneath him, and his face was bruised and swollen.

His voice shook, clipping the ends of his words. “My leg is broken.”

Cyrus almost didn’t recognize this vile craven cowering before him. It said a lot about a man—the way he faced death. Pyro was no man.

Cyrus glanced up at Kord and Everan, who stood on either side of this shitpot coward. Of course they hadn’t left for safety before the chaos, like Cyrus had ordered, because they were insubordinate, loyal bastards. And he loved them for it.

His eyes found Pyro’s again. “If they have to carry you, they’ll cut your leg off to make the burden easier on themselves.”

Kord and Everan put their hands on the hilts of their blades.

Pyro’s eyes widened. He panted with sobbing breaths, then slowly hobbled up onto one leg.

Kord and Everan would take him back to the villa—the villa that Cyrus now claimed—and Pyro would be held there until Cyrus was able to deal with him, which he was very much looking forward to.

Brant, who’d suffered a spear to the side defending Cyrus from the initial rush of arena guards, had already been taken back. Cyrus hoped Teron could heal him.

Kord grabbed Pyro by his soiled tunic and shoved him toward the exit.

“Don’t let him die before I get back,” Cyrus told them.

“We’ll keep him alive enough,” Everan said. He tossed him a small linen wrap of dried meat. “Here—I know you’ve eaten next to nothing all day.”

Cyrus wasn’t hungry, but he accepted it. It was easier than arguing. He gave Everan a nod, and watched his friend follow after Kord. Then he tucked the meat away. There was still work to do.

He left the empty arena and strode down the inside corridor that led to the grandstand stairs and took them two at a time to the top, then followed the railed walkway to the royal viewing box.

King Orrid lay where Cyrus has speared him.

The princess was gone. Perhaps she’d escaped.

He turned his attention back to the king.

Orrid’s dead eyes were still open, his mouth still agape.

Blood and piss soaked the layers of his embroidered tunics, staining them the color of crimson and death.

It was an inglorious and wretched end for a king.

Yet it wasn’t enough.

Orrid had created this hell. He’d started the bloodsport shortly after he’d taken the crown twenty-five years ago.

Then he’d spent six long years building the arena.

Countless men had died in the effort, only for even more to die for its glory after.

For death to be his legacy, his own demise had been too quick, too merciful.

Cyrus trembled as rage rippled through him. How could fate not punish him?

If fate wouldn’t, Cyrus would.

He grasped Orrid’s body and dragged him to the railing, tossing him over, down to the sands of the arena below.

Then he swung over the railing himself, hanging as far as he could before letting go and dropping to the ground.

Pain splintered up his shins, but he ignored it.

Grasping Orrid again, he dragged the disgraced king’s body through the gates, over the dead that now littered the ground, down the center corridor, and through the columns to the grand main entrance outside.

Sweat drenched him, and exhaustion wrecked his body, but he wasn’t finished. He searched for binding. It wasn’t hard to find, as it had been cut from those held in some of the cells, but it was hard to find binding long enough to string a body to the entry gate. He managed.

With Orrid’s body now on display, Cyrus stepped back to admire his work.

But it wasn’t enough.

He pulled a dagger from a dead guard nearby and sliced open the king’s stomach, spilling his entrails to the ground.

It wasn’t enough.

He plunged the dagger in again. And again. His arms shook, as did his breaths.

It still wasn’t enough.

Cyrus bared his teeth as he stabbed him again. Why wasn’t it enough? Letting out a roar, he sank the dagger into Orrid’s eye. Then he released it and stepped back.

He stood—his chest heaving, his heart pounding. Panting. Staring.

At the dagger. At the body. At the blood.

Blood. He looked down at himself. It covered him. Its metallic tang coated his tongue, its iron mist still hung in the air. The scent was a common one of the arena, but it was different now. With it mingled the acrid scent of burning flesh, burning banners, a burning kingdom—the scent of freedom.

He was free.

They were all free.

But that notion felt hollow.

And suddenly, he was overwhelmed. He swayed and had to catch himself. His eyes stung, and his vision blurred. He sucked in a quaking breath as his chest tightened.

He was free.

Yet why didn’t he feel free? Why was the weight still there? It was supposed to be gone.

What else did he have to do?

Cyrus lifted his chin to the sky. Clouds of smoke still blocked the sun—the sun that beat down relentlessly day after day after day. The sun that heated the sands to burn their feet, and the blades to burn their skin as the life was sliced from them for Rael’s mere entertainment.

If only he could bring down the sun.

He straightened. He might not have been able to bring down the sun, but he had erased it from the sky and replaced its orange hues with the glowing embers of this wretched kingdom.

Cyrus closed his eyes and breathed deeply, filling his lungs again with the scent of destruction. This was victory. He should relish it, take heart in it. But as low growls came from behind him, he stilled.

Slowly, he turned.

Two arena guard dogs stalked toward him, their thick heads low, their hackles raised.

The whites of their teeth flashed in warning—teeth that loved ripping men apart.

A third stepped out from behind another column.

Blood matted their black brindle coats. Their short leather leashes hung from their collars, not quite reaching the ground.

The animals moved freely now, with their handlers most likely dead.

Cyrus took a slow step back.

While these weren’t cats, they were just as deadly, and Cyrus had nothing to defend himself with. He glanced at the dagger protruding from the dead king’s eye socket, but it was too far to reach. He took another step back.

The dog closest to him growled.

Cyrus fumbled and found the dried meat that Everan had given him. Slowly, he pulled it from the linen, ever so careful to not make a sudden move, and tossed it away from him. With luck, they’d go for the meat, and he’d make his escape.

But the dogs didn’t even look at the meat. Their eyes stayed locked on him as they spread to surround him.

His mind raced for what to do. Then his pulse quickened. The cats. He called them through the link in his mind, willing them to come, begging them to come.

But he felt nothing.

Were they still connected? Were they still alive?

As the dogs moved closer, he realized he didn’t even have time for the cats. He took another step back, his heart pounding.

The first dog lunged, teeth bared, snapping for his throat.

These animals were trained to kill. Cyrus flung up his arm.

His manacle stopped the animal’s crushing jaws, but past the edge of the metal, teeth still tore into his flesh.

Cyrus roared in pain. Hot breath hit his neck, those teeth just a hand’s width away.

A second dog caught his thigh, crunching down to the bone, and the third dog went for his calf.

That was it for his left leg. Still, he wrenched against them, struggling to stay up.

If he fell, he was dead. But the beasts were too powerful, and he bellowed as he was pulled to the ground.

Out of all the ways he thought he’d die today, this hadn’t been one of them.

But as he hit the cobbled mainway, a tremor rippled through him—the bond of the blood—tugging at the edges of his mind. He latched onto it, still struggling, clawing, fighting. He battled the animals’ want to kill with his own determination to live.

The dogs’ aggression started to crack beneath his will.

He fought harder, taking control. As the dogs’ attack ebbed, Cyrus raked his eyes around him and spotted a sword on a dead guard a few yards away—the same guard he’d lifted the dagger from.

But he stopped as the dogs shuffled off him. They only stood now, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Then he knew.

He no longer needed a sword.

Cyrus rolled to his side, panting, and held his torn forearm against his chest. Despite the mild protection of the manacle, the bone was likely broken. Pain coursed through his left leg, which seemed even worse. He pushed himself up to sit.

One of the dogs growled.

Calm , Cyrus pushed through the bond, if that was what one could call it. Everyone, calm. Even himself.

The dogs quieted.

Cyrus eyed them. Could he control them now? He willed them to lie down, and they did. Like the cats, he could feel them, although this connection was deeper somehow—maybe because his blood was in them, not just on them.

He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he reached out his hand to the closest one, his eyes locking with the animal’s.

The dog lowered its head, but as Cyrus put his hand on top of it, it didn’t just yield.

The dog rolled its head into his hand, seeking physical attention, and Cyrus couldn’t control the sudden need to scratch the animal just behind the nub of what was left of its ear. It pushed even closer to him.

The other two dogs crept forward, their ends wagging as though they still had tails.

Cyrus wasn’t fond of animals, but there was a connection with these beasts that was beyond the blood. They’d been dealt the cruel hand of fate, as he had. Now they’d be free too.

He wanted to explore this more—understand what was happening to him, what this all meant, but now wasn’t the time.

His injuries were significant, and the light was fading.

Cyrus looked to the sky. He needed to get himself back to the villa, where Teron could heal him.

But first, he had one last task. He needed to ensure no slave had been left behind, make sure no noble had been left alive.

He gritted his teeth through the pain and pushed himself to stand.

Still gripping his injured arm close to him, he started back into the arena.

The dogs trailed him as he limped through the corridors, checking that no one had been left locked in a cell, that no one had been left chained. If the other fighters were like him, they’d have no intention of returning.

It didn’t take him long. Cyrus was relieved to find everyone had been cleared, save for a few wounded guards—the dogs finished them off.

As he watched their pleas for mercy ripped from their throats, he wasn’t sure if it was his will or the animals’.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t dull the satisfaction.

After, he made his way to the back loading area outside, hoping to find a horse or a cart; he’d lost a lot of blood and was weakening, and he didn’t think he’d be able to walk back.

He found none, and leaned against a column for a moment, panting, before forcing himself to start back to the villa on foot. He hoped he’d make it.

The air was quiet. Where was everyone? Dead littered the ground.

In the distance, plumes of smoke billowed into the sky.

Were they still fighting? He still had fight within him, but his strength was waning.

Each step sent a jolt of pain through him.

His arm throbbed, dripping blood steadily down his front.

His legs couldn’t hold him much longer. He had to get to Teron.

Suddenly, everything seemed to spin around him, and he had to stop.

The villa was too far. He couldn’t make it.

Each breath dragged him closer to collapse.

Curling forward, he grasped a dog to keep from falling.

But his strength gave out, and he dropped to his knees.

A wave of disappointment washed over him.

He wasn’t sure why. He’d done more than anything he’d ever dreamed of doing.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t been able to kill Pyro himself.

More than anything, he’d wanted that satisfaction.

Maybe it was because Alexander was still out there—living, laughing, enjoying all the pleasures of a privileged life.

Would his brother feel him die?

Would he be happy?

The world tilted and dimmed, then blurred at the edges. He collapsed onto his side.

Not yet , he prayed. There was still so much more he wanted to do. So much more he needed to do.

But the gods weren’t listening.

They never had.

His breath slowed, and for the first time in this cursed hell of a kingdom, he felt cold.

So, this was it. This was the end.

He couldn’t fight the darkness as it swallowed him.