Fangs and Fists, page 2
“I have no doubt that I’ll win tomorrow,” Grit said. “I have no choice. It’s the only way I know for sure to keep Kiara and Jett safe, but I have a favor to ask you.”
Bolt raised an eyebrow.
“Even though we’re friends, this is a lot to ask,” Grit continued.
“Like you said. We’re friends. That time I suffered grave wounds in the arena, you didn’t leave my side. I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for you. Whatever you want, if I can do it, you can count on me.”
“If by chance I don’t survive tomorrow, will you watch over Kiara and Jett? Will you see that they’re still included in our escape plan?”
Bolt held his gaze and nodded. “You didn’t even have to ask. I’d die before leaving them behind.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Grit said truthfully.
He only hoped that if he died, Bolt’s lust for Kiara, and perhaps her lust for him, would turn to love. Yes, he’d always smelled Bolt’s desire when they were around each other, but Kiara also smelled of desire. Grit couldn’t be sure if that scent was from making love with him, or because… No. He couldn’t think about it. Kiara was his. One day they would be truly mated and live in freedom.
Grit placed a hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re the best man I know, Bolt.”
“Likewise, but you won’t need me for this favor. You’re going to kick Titus’s ass tomorrow night and then you, me, Kiara and Jett are going to get out of this hell tower and live like wolves are meant to.”
Grit felt the same.
Tomorrow, Kiara, my love. Tomorrow you will be mine forever and we’ll escape this place so Jett will hopefully never remember what it was like to live in captivity.
* * *
Bolt gritted his teeth and raised his sword to block an overhead blow from Grit. He kicked the other gladiator, pushing him back several paces. A gong echoed through the training chamber and the gladiators stopped their practice.
Bolt and Grit slapped each other’s palms.
“I’m glad we’re on the same side and never had to face each other,” Grit said.
“I can’t argue. I would have taken no pleasure in killing you.”
Grit laughed. “In your dreams, brother.”
They walked to the concrete wall surrounding the training ring and jumped onto it to sit and wipe sweat from their eyes.
Throughout the session, Bolt had tried to focus on training, but his thoughts kept returning to Kiara. Whenever he saw her, he felt restless and suffered an ache in his chest that hurt nearly as much as an enemy’s blow.
He’d first seen her nearly two years ago when she had been given to Grit. From that moment, he hadn’t succeeded in getting her out of his mind. He’d never thought about love at first sight. It was a woman’s fantasy -- or so he’d believed until it became his reality. He sensed Kiara felt the same way about him, that whenever they met, the scent of lust emanating from her wasn’t only because she’d bedded Grit.
The beautiful brown-eyed, black-haired wolf desired him -- at least he told himself that at times. It was comforting to believe that spark wasn’t one-sided. Yet if she loved him in return, how cruel was it that they would spend their lives apart? Even worse, Bolt couldn’t try to claim her for himself because Grit was his closest friend. Yes, he could challenge Grit -- tell the masters that he wanted a fight to the death for the chance to claim Kiara as his own, but he couldn’t live with that and he doubted Kiara could either.
Even if she was attracted to Bolt, she obviously cared for Grit as well, not to mention they had a cub together. How could Bolt one day explain to Jett that he had murdered his father?
Unless they escaped the tower he wouldn’t have to explain anything. Jett would be torn from Kiara and trained to follow in his father’s footsteps as a gladiator.
Because of such circumstances, Bolt had managed to avoid mating -- not because he lacked the desire. Lately passion had nearly consumed him. Still, he refused the women presented to him because he couldn’t abide the thought of producing a child within the confines of the tower. The masters wouldn’t allow him to rebel against mating forever, though. Eventually he would be required to accept a female. If he didn’t take her willingly, he would be forced to swallow a potion that rendered his sex drive unstoppable. Or they could harvest his seed and use it to impregnate some unknown female.
He was among the best gladiators in his house, so he was granted leniency and allowed to be choosy when selecting a mate. At least for the time being.
Bolt often dreamed of mating with Kiara, but short of Grit’s death, that would never happen. Soon Grit would win his final match and claim Kiara as his own forever.
Bolt needed to move on and forget her.
“Did you hear me?” Grit nudged Bolt’s arm.
“No. Sorry. I was thinking.”
“I said one day this will be just a memory for us and with any luck, Jett will remember nothing of this place at all.”
A whistle sounded and a guard in black body armor waved the gladiators out of the training hall.
Grit growled and glared at the guards. “One day there will be no more taking orders from these evil cowards with their armor and magic.”
“Save your temper for the arena,” Bolt warned.
“Right.” Grit clapped Bolt’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend. Always have been.”
“Don’t get soft on me or I’ll think you’re aiming to lose tonight.”
Grit growled again. “That is the last thing on my agenda. Tonight is my final fight and I intend to win. I didn’t win ninety-nine others to forfeit my chance to keep Kiara. After tonight, I won’t have to worry about her being given to another wolf. She’ll belong only to me.”
Bolt didn’t reply. He couldn’t. While he wanted Grit to get what he deserved, he couldn’t bear the thought of never having Kiara -- never tasting and holding her. Never hearing her say she loved and wanted him. Yet his desires weren’t worth Grit’s life. That’s what he told himself. He even believed it, but he couldn’t control how he felt.
* * *
Thoughts From the Master’s Gazing Room --
The best matches are when warriors fight for what’s most precious to them. That one -- Grit -- we’ve watched him love his mate and cub. He’ll do anything to keep them. Victor is different. Pride is his weakness.
He fancies himself leader of his slave house. Leader of the pack. I can smell their blood already -- see their shredded flesh and their wolf eyes.
It doesn’t matter which one kills the other. Either way, we’ll win.
Chapter Two
Punishment
Bolt growled and slammed his sword toward his opponent’s head. Knox -- a bearded wolf about Bolt’s height -- raised his shield to block the blow, but he was cornered and already weakened by Bolt’s relentless onslaught. Knox shifted to wolf form and drove the shield upward. Bolt staggered back, managing to keep his footing as well as his inner wolf under control.
He hated to shift in the arena because the masters preferred to watch gladiators in wolf form tear each other apart with fangs and claws to slicing each other with blades or pummeling each other senseless with a club or mace. Such weapons were only to whet the masters’ appetites for the savagery of true wolf combat.
In the wild, such battles were only to protect the pack, not for entertainment. This was not the wild. It was a chamber beneath a tower in what had once been, in the time of human rule -- Detroit.
Underground chambers extended miles beneath the earth’s surface. Hell on Earth -- or under it, like in the legends.
At the moment Bolt had no time to contemplate the state of the world. In wolf form, Knox had a strength advantage, but Bolt still had his weapon. Even in man form, he was faster than Knox. He was probably the fastest gladiator in the tower. Now using that skill, he systematically dodged Knox’s swiping claws and struck back, tormenting his opponent with small stabs and slices that soon turned the wolf’s silvery fur crimson.
Knox panted and growled, saliva dripping from his powerful jaws. Knox managed to grasp Bolt’s arm and shake the sword free. To onlookers, it seemed that Bolt had moved a bit too slow, but he knew better. He was more than ready to forfeit the weapon. Though he hated to give the masters what they wanted, the wolf in him needed release and it was time to end this game.
Knox’s vicious claws lashed at his throat, but he shifted and at the same moment thrust his knee into Knox’s gut, hurling him back. The gray wolf landed on his ass, stunned and furious but unable to react quickly enough to stop Bolt from pouncing on him. Seated on his chest, his knees on either wide of his head, Bolt stared down at Knox and growled, his teeth bared. One good bite and it would be over for Knox. The other wolf knew it and went still, panting hard, his gaze averted in surrender.
The masters seated in the hundreds of stone chairs circling the arena shouted for Bolt to end the match with a kill. If he failed to do what they asked, he might or might not be punished. The masters despised consistency. They preferred chaos in just about everything.
Bolt had no intention of killing an opponent who had submitted, regardless of the consequences.
Accompanied by a loud blast, Bolt’s name in smoky letters floated above the arena, proclaiming him as the winner.
Bolt turned to exit the arena, but Knox pounced on his back. If Bolt had reacted even a second slower, Knox’s claws would have torn his throat open, but Bolt’s natural speed saved him yet again. He reached behind him and flung Knox over his shoulder.
“Kill me,” Knox demanded, his voice a deep rumble in his beastly chest.
Bolt stared hard into Knox’s eyes.
“What’s wrong with you? Kill me. Now!”
“I don’t kill cowards.” Bolt stepped away, but this time kept Knox in sight.
Knox growled and jumped to his feet only to be knocked back by the electrical spear-like weapon called a shock prod wielded by one of four armor-clad guards. Like all guards, helmets covered their heads. Their eyes glowed red behind their dark face shields.
Bolt and Knox were escorted in separate directions out of the arena. Apparently the masters didn’t want to prolong their match tonight. It wasn’t the main event. That would be Grit’s final fight.
The guard left Bolt at the edge of the arena in the barred pit belonging to his house. From there, the gladiators could await their own fights as well as watch the matches.
Bolt walked toward the back of the pit where the doctor tended his injuries. A lean, ginger-haired man of human appearance, the doctor rarely spoke, except to gather information from a patient regarding his injuries. He efficiently cleaned Bolt’s healing scrapes and scratches.
Afterward, Bolt strode to the front of the pit so he could watch Grit’s fight. The sandy arena had been raked clean for the final match. The deep, resounding voice of the announcer echoed through the arena as he introduced Grit.
Bolt glanced behind him to watch his friend, clad in a leather loincloth and carrying a sword and shield, stride to the gate. Grit’s expression was stony and determined. He didn’t notice anyone, including Bolt, but stared past the bars to the arena.
Bolt understood Grit needed to focus on the match or else risk not only his chance for retirement, but his very life.
Still, Bolt was confident that Grit would triumph. While anyone could have an exceptionally good or bad fight, Grit should defeat his opponent, Titus, with relative ease. Titus was strong, but less experienced than Grit. It was as if the masters were prepared to allow Grit to depart from the arena with dignity.
Bolt should have known better than to think the best of demons.
“Attention!” said the announcer. “There has been a change to tonight’s fight. Titus will not be fighting. Victor will take his place.”
Bolt was stunned. Glancing at Grit, he saw tension and surprise on his friend’s face that reflected Bolt’s feelings about this sudden change.
Victor, undefeated in the arena, was one of the fiercest gladiators in the tower. No wolf had lasted longer than five minutes with the powerful warrior. He had nearly reached one hundred fights, despite his relative youth.
Though Bolt knew and respected Grit’s strength and skill, he had seen Victor fight many times and knew his friend -- great as he might be -- was outclassed.
Grit turned to Bolt, apprehension in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” Bolt told him with more confidence than he felt.
Grit nodded, his jaw set. The gate opened and Grit strode up the three stone steps to the arena.
At the very least, Victor had never killed an opponent. The young wolf was known for his integrity. Even if Grit lost this fight, he would still be alive, though without the benefits awarded to a one-hundred-match winner.
On the other side of the arena, Victor ascended to the battleground. He was several inches taller than Grit’s six feet. Both were well muscled, but Victor had a more powerful build with long limbs that provided a reach advantage in hand-to-hand combat.
Strangely, Bolt felt tenser now than during his own match. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.
The gates to the pits on both sides clanged shut and at the screech of a siren, the battle began.
Grit and Victor circled each other, Grit armed with a sword and shield and Victor wielding a hatchet only. Many gladiators chose to carry a shield for defense, but anyone who had seen Victor fight knew that he was a master at evading blows. The hatchet was a new weapon, though. Victor generally preferred twin swords.
Grit attacked first, stabbing and thrusting with his sword. Victor avoided the blows with subtle twists and turns, unexpectedly graceful for a man of his size. If not for the danger, the fight would have been beautiful to watch.
During a short lag between Grit’s blows, Victor swung at him with the axe so quickly that Grit almost missed blocking the blow with his shield.
Snarling, his eyes blazing, Victor attacked again. Grit’s shield split, but the gladiator reacted quickly and lashed out with his leg in an attempt to sweep Victor’s foot.
Victor leapt back and Grit lunged at him, sword thrusting.
The demonic crowd bellowed and cheered. Bolt gripped the bars on the pit so hard that his hands ached, but he hardly noticed. His stomach clenched.
The axe and sword clanged, steel meeting steel. The gladiators traded blows, matching each other in skill and speed. For several long moments, neither drew blood. Finally the tip of Grit’s sword slashed Victor’s shoulder, leaving a streak of dripping red.
The masters bellowed.
Grit howled and attacked with renewed vigor. The setback didn’t thwart Victor, who again evaded the blows with the grace of a dancer and attacked with the force of a galloping buffalo.
The gladiators’ muscles strained beneath skin gleaming with sweat. Their grunts and groans echoed through the now silent arena.
Victor spun, swinging his axe. When Grit blocked it, his sword broke. Victor threw his axe aside and almost simultaneously both gladiators shifted to their wolf form. They lunged at each other and their furred bodies clashed, claws and fangs ripping and tearing.
The masters roared and Bolt instinctively howled. His inner wolf rose and he longed to throw open the gates and help his friend, but win or lose, it was Grit’s fight. Bolt couldn’t assist him no matter how much he wanted to.
Grit’s and Victor’s gray coats were soon matted and red with blood. Their bodies locked, they rolled around the arena floor, raising clouds of dirt. Even above the noise of the frenzied crowd, Bolt heard Grit’s dying yelp. As the dust cleared, the gladiators came into view. Victor sat on top of Grit’s limp body, his powerful jaws clamped around his throat.
Strength fled from Bolt and he sagged against the bars, staring at his friend and the savage beast who’d taken his life. Victor released Grit almost gently and turned away. Despite his win and the cheering crowd, he walked to his pit and disappeared down the stone steps.
The crowd was still going wild when Grit’s body was dragged out of the arena. Dead gladiators weren’t brought back to their houses, but their bodies were sent away. No one knew where. Some said they were fed to lower forms of demons. Others said they were used in rituals.
All Bolt knew was that he would never see Grit again, nor would Kiara or Jett. His first thought was that Kiara was no longer Grit’s woman and he hated himself for desiring his dead friend’s wife. His thoughts quickly shifted to Jett. The boy would never know his father, except from stories told by those who had known him and only then if Jett and Kiara managed to escape the tower. They were now Bolt’s responsibility, not only because he had promised Grit he would care for them, but because he loved Kiara and cared about Jett, the son of his closest friend.
Bolt was still leaning against the bars when guards approached with their shock prods.
“Move, wolf,” said one of the guards. In their uniforms, they all sounded and looked alike. Even their height was the same. No one ever saw the faces beneath the helmets.
“What’s this about?” Bolt demanded.
“The masters have ordered that you be punished.”
Bolt didn’t bother to ask what he’d done. He knew.
There was no point in fighting against punishment, though he longed to attack the guards and flee to escape the pain to come.
Punishment wasn’t like the pain of a match. There you could fight back and end it with an incapacitating blow.
Punishment began and ended at the masters’ whims, for their pleasure. Bolt would be stripped of his dignity and left wondering how such pain could result from non-deadly means.
One might wonder why he hadn’t merely done what the masters wanted to begin with. At that moment, trudging between four armed guards, he wondered why as well.
It had been quite some time since he’d been punished in the chambers, but what he hated most of all was the isolation -- to be left alone in agony, wondering if the masters would leave him there to rot.
After walking down a long, dark corridor and an even longer, darker spiral staircase that led to more corridors, the guards prodded him into a chamber of blinding white. The cell was so bright that he felt the beginnings of a sick headache already.
