Gold, page 19
“I’m tiring of your lies,” I tell him as he clutches the fence, struggling to straighten up. “Tell me where.”
He spits at my boots, spraying his blood all over them. I cock an unimpressed brow. “I stepped in shit on the way here, but your blood is still more disgusting.” I lift said boot and dig it into his own foot until he winces. “The horse, Quarter.”
When he doesn’t answer right away, I’ve run out of the last of my patience. Not that I really had any to begin with.
Ready to end it, I lift my arm, prepared to stab him right here and now, but he finally relents. “Okay, okay!” he shouts, holding up both hands in front of him to ward off the blow. “You doin’ all this over a fuckin’ horse?”
Yeah, I am. Because Auren let slip that her horse was taken by the Raids—Crisp, she said its name was. They were supposed to give me everything they took that night, but Quarter skimmed off the top. By stealing from me, he stole from her. And I won’t fucking tolerate that. She’s had enough taken from her.
I glare at him and move my spikes closer.
“Alright!” He swipes at the blood still leaking down to his mouth. “I kept a few. Knew the ice pickers needed some new horses, and they were good stock. Got a good price for ’em.”
“Where.” Not a question. A demand.
“Berg Sheets. Not far from here. They supply the ice blocks to the ships. They needed horse haulers.”
I lean in so he’s forced to look at my eyes, and fear flashes through his. “You’re going to go back to Berg Sheets. You’re going to get those horses you stole, and you’re going to deliver them to Fourth Kingdom in perfect condition, or I’m going to tell my king and have him rot your asshole and shrivel your dick. Do you understand?”
He swallows hard and gives a shaky nod. “Y-yeah.”
I press the spikes along my forearm into his chest. “You sure?”
“Yes, yes!” he cries with a wince. “Lemme make it up to you—this fight’s gonna have the biggest payout. I’ll tell you who’s gonna win.”
“I’m not interested in placing bets on a swung fight.”
“Not swung,” he insists before jabbing a finger at his temple. He lowers his voice to a mumbled whisper. “I just know. Any game, any bet. I can see the competitors and then know which way it’ll go.”
My attention flicks over him. “Minor magic?”
He nods but looks around to make sure no one else is paying attention. No wonder Captain Fane kept him around. This little trick must’ve paid out nicely for him.
“What does your magic tell you will happen if you try to cheat me again? Do you want to bet on the outcome of that?” I ask darkly.
Quarter swallows hard, his murky gaze filling with trepidation. I offer him a cold smile.
“All your horses will get to Fourth Kingdom. I’ll make sure of it,” he promises.
“You’d better.”
I step away and let go, removing the pressure on his foot while taking away the threat of my spikes.
As soon as he feels better about our proximity, he lets out a breath. “Didn’t have to break my nose over a fuckin’ horse,” he grumbles.
“You’re lucky that’s all I’m breaking.”
He’s not so lucky that I left some rot in his lung that will slowly spread over time and kill him.
“Get to it,” I say with a jerk of my head.
The pirate gives me a dark look, but he turns and walks away. Quickly.
Good riddance.
Suddenly, noise erupts around the pit, wrenching my attention. I look down, noticing that the spectators are riled up because the fighters are finally arriving. Below, there are barred enclosures at opposite ends of the fighting arena, and from within each cage, something comes up from the descending steps. Thick collars are around the necks of two large animals, and attached are stiff metal rods that handlers use to force them into the cages before the doors are slammed shut behind them.
The second I see what’s in there, what’s going to be fighting, anger flares in my chest, hot and consuming. A fire claw is at one end of the pit, and a timberwing at the other.
Both animals appear to be absolutely savage.
They’re also absolutely scarred.
The fire claw is a female, and she has long lines of marks through her thick white fur. The scars crisscross all over her body, even on her tail and whiskered face that make her snarling more pronounced.
The timberwing has signs of abuse too. There are dozens of missing feathers that appear as if someone yanked them out—or perhaps done by its own teeth from psychological trauma. Its maw is frothing, and at its ankle is a clamp of metal with an empty hook attached to it, probably to chain it up when it’s not in the pit.
When it turns its head to roar at the spectators next to me, I see the telltale streaks of white that curve down both sides of its bark-colored head. This one is female too.
Handlers just on the other side of the caged enclosures remove the leads from the beasts. As soon as the fire claw is free, she turns and tries to attack the handler through the bars, making the man fall back. The crowd erupts into hoots and laughter. The red-faced handler picks up a fire poker in retaliation, its end blunted and red-hot. He slams the end of the pole into the cage, making the animal roar as the brand sears into her side.
My spikes expand and shift, my skin stretching in anger.
Then the cage doors are raised, and the handlers shove the pokers at both animals, forcing them out. The timberwing roars, her mouth wide open, showcasing rows of razor-sharp teeth. The fire claw jumps out of her own enclosure, then immediately spins, going for her handler again. But the man is behind his own protective pen, and he manages to leap back before the beast’s teeth clamp around the bars.
When the feline realizes she won’t be able to get to the man, she turns to growl at the shouting crowd instead, baring long curved fangs that hang well below her bottom jaw. The timberwing too is pacing, snarling at the spectators above, feathers lifting, while dozens of people shout down at them.
For a moment, I wonder why the timberwing doesn’t just simply fly up and attack, but then the answer is obvious—her wings have been cruelly clipped.
My teeth grind.
The handlers jab at both animals with the fire pokers again, trying to urge them forward, to get them mad enough to take it out on the other beast. But surprisingly, even though they’re trapped in this enclosure together, they don’t go at each other.
This pisses the crowd off, which pisses the hall off, which pisses the handlers off.
A group of men come onto the other side of the fence, and together, they fling in a dead mountain goat, the carcass landing in the middle of the pit.
And the beasts go berserk.
Both animals launch at the carcass, and only then do they move toward each other with aggression. Which tells me they’re not just held captive and beaten—they’re also starved, forced to fight for their food.
They start to descend on the carcass viciously. The fire claw snarls, swiping a fiery paw at the timberwing. The bird beast roars in response, wings outstretched as they both try to fall onto the fresh meat. Saliva drips from their mouths as they clash together with talons and teeth, and the crowd cheers with sickening excitement.
The fire claw swipes furious, flaming claws, making the scent of burnt feathers and flesh fill the air. The timberwing growls in response, snapping wicked teeth, trying to take a bite out of her. Neither of them is willing to give up the food, but they aren’t going in for one another’s throats, either.
Apparently, the handlers don’t take too kindly to this, because one of them comes up and stabs the fire poker right into the timberwing’s side—and laughs.
I’ve seen enough.
With one hand on the top railing, I launch myself up and over the fence, landing fluidly inside the pit several feet below. The balls of my feet take the impact, and I look up as I straighten my legs, just as the fire claw whirls on its own handler again, snapping its huge teeth. The coward backs up, too far away for the beast to reach.
So I help her.
I’m at the cage in a second, and I yank the pins out of the hinges and tear the door clean away. The man inside doesn’t even have time to try to fight me off. I reach in and grab him by the scruff of his neck and then toss him into the pit, fire poker and all.
There’s no hesitation or need for encouragement. The fire claw attacks him. The man screams, the crowd shouts, and I turn my back, striding toward the timberwing next.
She’s fallen onto the goat’s carcass, tearing into it. When I get closer, she jerks her head up and starts to roar but abruptly cuts off when she sees me. I keep going until I reach the small pen where her own handler is cowering, and my body pulses with fae strength, fueled by pure anger as I tear the gate right off its hinges and toss it behind me. The man inside is now exposed, and he gapes at me, his back stuffed into the corner.
“What are you doing?” he screams.
I reach in and yank the fire poker from his grip and then stab the scalding metal into his stomach. He falls, howling in pain, steam rising off him like coal. I toss the poker down to the ground while he clutches his stomach. “Doesn’t feel good, does it?”
I turn away and re-enter the main pit, only to find that several men in protective leather vests have jumped in and are heading for me, a couple of them armed with spears. Must be guards that work for the hall. They probably only usually have to deal with crowd control and the occasional violent drunk who gets pissed off at a lost bet. They haven’t had to deal with someone like me before.
“You should turn around and leave,” I warn as they approach with thick fists and lumped scowls.
“You’re coming with us,” the one in the front says, and then he moves to tackle me.
But I move faster.
One hit against his temple is all it takes for him to go down. Then the two men with spears rush at me, but I reach out and snatch the weapons clear from their hands with laughable ease. Gripping both, I snap the spears in half over my knee before tossing them away. The men falter for a split second, but fueled by anger, they leap for me once more.
I ignore my stinging knuckles and knock the first one off his feet while ramming my shoulder into the other. He flips in the air like he weighs nothing and lands on his back, gasping for air. A third comes at me with punches already flying, and I grin when one actually manages to graze my cheek. The taste of blood invigorates me even more.
I start pummeling him, jabbing at his face, his ribs, his stomach, while shouts raise up around me, feeding into my furor, but he goes down entirely too fast for my liking.
The last three rush me all at once, jumping over their fallen comrades to get to me, and I meet them with wicked elation. I revel in the fight, in the fucking beauty of fist on fist, flesh against flesh. No swords, no magic, just good old-fashioned violence.
Every hit I give and every strike I take is a release. A need. I started it with the Raids, but now I’m truly able to let loose this messy, twisted turmoil I’ve felt every fucking day since Auren left. So all my pent-up emotion, all this churning guilt explodes out of me in a relief of unleashed violence.
I fight them, but I’m actually fighting myself. My failure.
I’m not even here, in this pit. What exists in me is the uncontrollable fury and fear that’s been grating down my ribs, leaving behind coiled shards. The helplessness beats out of me through my fists, pulsating up my spikes, seething down my veins as I throw myself completely into the brawl.
I purposely slow, just so they can land a hit. Again. Again. Again.
And I relish in the punishment.
I enjoy that more men jump into the fight. Laugh when a good dozen of them fling themselves at me. My shoulder is rammed, my ribs are pummeled, my jaw is cuffed. Someone kicks out at my kneecap, and I feel it slide sideways, pain ratcheting down my leg, but it’s nothing, nothing compared to the pain in my chest, so what does it matter? The thrill of this rampage is just a bandage over a gaping wound that can’t heal, and I’ve become nothing but the fight.
Nothing but violence.
Because I can’t get to her. My raw power that let me tear into the world is gone. The rip in Drollard is gone. All the villagers are gone. My mother is gone.
Auren is fucking gone.
And I can’t get to her.
Can’t get to her.
Can’t.
So I fight. I bleed and I lash out in insurmountable, savage grief, like I’m trying to fight my way to her, fight my way through this world, fight myself for failing her. All the silent, seething, suffocating panic comes crashing out through a raw clash of brutality.
I’m so caught up in my own head that I don’t notice the person with the blade aiming for my chest. But the pile of men fighting me move out of the way for him, and by the time I realize it, he’s already thrusting down.
The blade would have sunk in if it weren’t for the timberwing that suddenly appears behind him. The beast looms over him, a good five feet taller, her golden eyes flashing angrily, clipped wings spread. Then she opens her mouth, baring those sharp teeth, and clamps down on the man’s head, tearing it from his shoulders and tossing his body aside, spouting blood and gore before he can even finish his swing.
The other dozen men whirl around at the new threat, but they can’t even cry out before it’s too late. The fire claw is there, knocking into them from behind with a swipe of her paws. Blood pours from the scratch marks swiped through their flesh, and flames catch on to their clothes, burning them, melting the hair right off their heads as they run.
I heave, and my senses trickle back in. I realize really fucking quickly just how many hits I actually took, because the pain ripples over me like it’s catching up, marking every hurt spot. Awareness trickles back in too, expanding outside of my need to fight and bringing back the rest of the pit.
The spectators are shouting in a crazed frenzy. People are leaning over the fence, placing new bets, watching the slaughter with glee. The volume of the crowd bulges, and it feels like my eardrums might burst.
And all of it infuriates me.
They’re cheering for blood, relishing in the slaughter, supporting the exploitation of these animals all to get a rush from the gamble with a chance to line their pockets.
I want to make them pay.
Glaring up at them, I transform, spikes sinking back into my skin. Withered black veins crawl down my arms and ooze across my neck, and I fist my hands at my sides, shoving power out.
Within seconds, my magic slithers up from the ground, crawling up the pit’s walls and disintegrating the fence. I don’t care if anyone saw me transform from Rip to Rot. The call to kill and punish is too strong.
I hear the people above me shout in fear now instead of excitement. Three men fall screaming into the pit when the barrier collapses in front of them. They flail on their descent, arms flapping like wind-whipped banners until they hit the dirt with a thwack.
I watch in brutal satisfaction as the animals fall upon them with unrestrained viciousness. Yanked off limbs go flying into the air, and blood pours into the ground in brutal slashes. Within seconds, they’ve torn the men apart. Just like everyone else who entered the pit.
I look around for anyone else I can destroy, but the beasts have well and truly finished the job. There are piles of bodies twitching, gore seeping into the dirt. The ground is scorched with ash, pieces of flung limbs burning from the swipe of the fire claw’s feet.
It’s impressive.
I enter the now empty safety pen, crouching down into its short enclosure, my fingers wrapping around the iron bars. Rot spreads through it instantly, and I lean away before kicking in the whole door. Inside, there’s a dirt path stained with animal piss that leads down beneath the pit. I descend the tunnel to see what’s going on underneath this fucking gambling hall.
I find myself in a wide-open underground room clad with iron beams and stone walls. Inside are dozens of cages, with shredded cloths clustered into corners, empty bowls that held either water or food. They each have drains set into the floor to rinse away piss and blood.
The stench in here is fucking awful.
Some of the cages are empty, but several are occupied. The dogs that were fighting earlier are inside two of them, licking their wounds. There are small wild mountain cats in another, and hissing snow serpents in the next one over, their scales stark white and their eyes blood red. A wolf. Two foxes. A boar. Clumped together roosters. Some sort of monkey that must have come from First Kingdom. All of them looking feral and coiled, ready to strike with their frenzied need to get out.
Rot spreads through every cage, following my steps as I walk. The metal bars start to disintegrate, and the animals all sit up, snarling, watching, their senses on high alert.
When I get to the very end of the room and reach a set of double doors, I place my hands in the middle and shove them both open with a bang.
The wind of the outside blows in just as the bars to the cages disintegrate into nothing but rusted powder.
When the animals realize they’re no longer trapped, they start growling and baying, yelling and hissing. Every single one of them races toward the exit, rushing past me to escape, instantly taking off in all different directions once they’re through the doors.
The outside gives way to a copse of skinny pine trees on the blistered hills, their full tips glowing beneath the night sky. The animals race past, disappearing into the snowy landscape as fast as their bodies can take them.
I walk out, but at a noise behind me, I step aside just as the timberwing and the fire claw come prowling outside. The feline sniffs at the ground tentatively and then stalks into the puffy snow. Her feet steam from the contact, her fiery claws sparking and hissing as they sink beneath the plush white. She lets out a sigh like the snow soothes her burning paws, and I wonder just how long it’s been since she’s been outside. It’s clear that this beast, with her icy eyes and white hair, belongs in the snow and the cold. This is her dominion.
