Page 49 of Gladiators of the Vagabond Boxset

The others on the bridge were talking, but I wasn’t paying attention now. I was too worried that Ziame had gotten badly hurt. The fight wasn’t supposed to be to the death, but those were real weapons. What if these three took their chances, and he got fatally injured?

Ziame roared when he took the hit, shook his head with those wicked horns, and then twisted his body just as that large sword came swinging for his head.

He ducked just in time, swung his head around to catch one of the red males in the midriff, and, with a flick of his head, flung the male several feet through the air until he landed hard in a heap in the sand.

The male with the still-functioning spear glanced at his fallen comrade but didn’t let it distract him further. He rushed in and batted away Ziame’s swinging tail with his shield, jabbing at him with his spear.

Ziame ducked and punched at it but couldn’t get in reach of the male himself, and he didn’t manage to repeat the success he’d had with the other spear. Now he’d lost the advantage of the sun too; they’d rotated on the sand so that the sun hit their flanks instead.

I had lost track of the male with the sword, but Ziame clearly hadn’t.

When that male suddenly charged him from behind, his tail was ready, catching the blade and spinning it away.

While the male was off balance, he ducked the other guy’s spear, spun around, and charged, hitting the now-swordless opponent in the belly with the top of his skull.

For a moment, I figured Ziame had impaled the guy on his head spikes, but when the guy was flung ass-over-teakettle, it became clear he’d flattened his spikes at the last moment.

The guy groaned but didn’t get up, and there was loud cheering from the stands, possibly trying to incite the guy to get back up again.

Meanwhile, both red-skinned males had rallied, and while one now had a spear without the sharp, pointy bit, the two still charged him from behind.

One deftly engaged Ziame’s tail, and the other ducked that still-functioning spear under his guard and jabbed him in the hip.

I saw blood this time, and whoever was in the editing room for this broadcast clearly did too, because they showed a close-up of the injury—the way red droplets dripped down his leg and fell into the sand.

The red males cheered as they backed off, not pressing their advantage but egging on the crowd instead.

“Why are they doing that?” I asked, and Sunder answered, pressing a reassuring palm to my shoulder.

“The idiots think they have the upper hand. Ziame looks dazed, but he’s just playing it up. That little nick in his scales? That’s nothing to him.” I hoped Sunder was right because it sure looked like something to me.

“That’s some of his thickest scales,” Kitan murmured.

“The outsides of his legs and back are the most heavily armored. He’s fine.

” But Ziame favored his other leg when he moved to face his opponents.

The black-skinned, horned male had stayed down so far, but the other two were cheering and yelling taunts, inciting the audience.

When they charged again, it looked as if Ziame was off-balance, braced on one leg, but when they got within range, his tail whipped out—not aiming for the shields, but swiping low and catching them in the ankles.

One went down, and the other managed a glancing blow to Ziame’s shoulder, but it lacked punch.

He was tripping and trying to regain his footing.

In the distraction, Ziame punched out and hit the tripping male’s shield, actually sending him sprawling.

Then, he was on the other male, batting aside the broken spear, ripping the shield away, and then punching the downed guy hard in the face.

They showed a close-up of that, too, showing the way the male’s nose broke and blood sprayed—how his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he passed out. It was honestly horrifying how they were so focused on any show of blood.

“Watch your back!” Sunder suddenly urged, and then I saw why—the male who’d seemed down had just been biding his time.

Now, he was up, running for Ziame as he was distracted by the other two.

He’d picked up his sword along the way and sent it swinging for Ziame’s exposed back.

Horrified, I watched. That was a deadly-looking blow; there seemed zero effort in making that non-lethal.

Ziame rolled just in time off the now-unconscious red male, and I saw his mouth open, arms coming up for a block with the blades on his forearms. Not fast enough, though. Not fast enough. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest.

Fire blew in a stream from Ziame’s mouth, engulfing the blade and both of the male’s hands where he held the weapon.

There was screaming and a lot of cheering from the stands, but the blade was already in motion.

It came down—by sheer luck, I imagined—on Ziame’s left horn.

Then the male was stumbling back, staring in horror at his still-sizzling hands.

I figured Ziame would go after him and knock him out, but I’d forgotten about the second red-skinned male—and he hadn’t.

He spun on that one instead. The male had just recovered and was moving in on him, but not fast enough.

Ziame moved so quickly his tail blurred.

He whipped it around again and wrapped it around the spear, yanking it away. Then he leaped at his opponent.

The two traded blows, but it was clear that the other male was no match in sheer brute force compared to Ziame, and soon he, too, bit the dust. When the male passed out after a fierce right hook, Ziame spun on the other male with the burned hands, but the guy was still on his knees, and the moment they shared a look, Ziame’s opponent bowed his head, signaling surrender.

In the arena, the crowd was going wild, cheering for the Beast, who’d just won his first match.

On the bridge of our stolen pirate ship, I was quaking in my seat—my legs jelly and my belly so tied up in knots I couldn’t even puke, though it felt like I was about to.

Ziame was hurt, and he had to do this all over again in five minutes, probably less.

He was raising his arms, accepting the adulation of the crowd like it was his due, roaring for effect.

Standing tall, he acted like he wasn’t hurt at all, but I saw it—saw how, when he left the arena, he limped, still favoring his leg.

Saw how, just as he entered the exit tunnel, he rubbed at his shoulder where he’d taken that glancing blow.

He was hurt, and he still had to do this again. I couldn’t stand it.

Kitan and Sunder were talking about placing the bet, but to me, it sounded like they were speaking underwater.

I couldn’t believe how quickly Ziame had come to mean the world to me, but he had.

It was rash and crazy, clearly partly because of our extreme circumstances, but I loved him—I did.

The revelation itself left me as dazed as my worry for him had a moment ago.

I loved him. I needed him to come back to me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do from here.

I was helpless to stop this second fight; they’d never let him out there.

All I could do was wait, pray that he’d survive, and have faith in his skills.

Clenching my fists, I tried to ignore the stats now displayed on the viewscreen, showing the next three fighters Ziame was about to face.

“He’s coming back,” I whispered to myself, then said it more firmly out loud.

A hand folded over my shoulder and squeezed hard.

Tori was suddenly at my side, her eyes filled with sympathy.

“Yes, he is. Ziame will do anything to come back to you,” she said gently.

I was incredibly grateful the girl was there.

So far, I’d felt like the big sister, trying to look out for her.

Right now, she was there for me, though, and that mattered far more to me than I thought it would.

I’d never had anyone look out for me like that before, and now I had Ziame, I had Tori, and a ship full of gladiators.

If they all made it back.