Caged Warrior

“Decapitation,” she said, as if by rote. “But only by iron forged in the fiery Chasm where the Dragon was born and died.”

“That is an honorable death for a Cage warrior. Hellix was branded by an ordinary human knife—a shameful reminder that he should’ve died. The lowest of the low. I think he’d peel off his face just to get rid of the thing.” He cracked a knuckle. “He takes out his anger on the women he earns. Do you get my meaning?”

She shivered. Just because she’d survived degradation in the labs didn’t mean she wanted more. Somehow she knew that surviving against Hellix would be at least as difficult a Cage match. At least in a Cage, she would have Leto as her ally.

With a tight swallow, she firmed her spine. “I understand, sir.”

“Let’s get to work.”

¦   ¦   ¦

Leto had made a number of threats in order to secure Nynn’s active cooperation—threats he had no means of carrying out. Using Hellix as a living, frothing boogeyman had worked. But she was a perceptive creature. Soon she might realize that to be subjected to Hellix’s notorious sexual ferocity would destroy her. Leto would have no warrior left to partner with; he would have a broken shell of a woman.

The idea of beating her into unconsciousness during a match and taking on their opponent alone also had its appeal. Yet that would be a failure of another sort. He was tasked with keeping her alive through three matches, but the crowd wouldn’t appreciate an unconscious fighter.

He would need a fallback plan when threats no longer worked. In Nynn’s case, he believed the key was how much she secretly craved an outlet for her anger. Given the right tools, she wouldn’t need to be coerced or intimidated anymore.

One such tool sat in his palm. The nighnor was an old, brutal, effective weapon. A single crushing blow. To the spine, the nape, the forehead. It meant instant death for a human, while a serious blow to a Dragon King permitted enough time to sever the head with a Chasm-forged sword.

That method was the finale he’d enacted at the last Grievance.

“Here,” he said.

“You don’t fear my wild reprisal?”

“I would, if I thought you could wield it with one hand.”

Nynn cupped the heavy iron skull. Her shoulders slumped to keep it from dropping to the damp, slippery floor. Training cells were kept damp for just that purpose, to make finding purchase even harder. Once this woman fought on rougher ground, she would be even more sure-footed and skillful.

The chilly dampness would test her endurance, too, as would the cell’s complete austerity. Neophytes were denied every creature comfort. No pallet. No toilet. Just a slit trench that was washed clean where the crevice water flowed out a drainage pipe. The four-by-four-foot iron cage remained a lingering threat.

She would only have what he gave her. Until she won. The thrill of victory combined with basic rewards made reluctant fighters into eager ones.

The close-fitting training armor he’d provided was not a reward but a necessity. She needed to learn how to expose her limbs to harm. Protecting one’s body was instinct. Only patience and practice would override her urge to shrink from an attack, rather than surging forward and putting her trust in leather and metal.

One of her arms, bare of armor in order to permit more maneuverability with a shield, flexed with a gratifying degree of muscle tone. She was lithe, beautiful, and fit for combat. Now all she needed were techniques—not to mention her gift, which she couldn’t even remember after the fact.

He had three weeks.

Pell needed him. Never had he been promised a reward for so little work. Usually a favor so extraordinary required winning a Grievance. Although, in truth, watching Nynn struggle with the hefty nighnor promised work enough.

“Come at me.” His voice echoed off the domed ten-foot ceiling. “This is your chance to let loose the hatred I see.”

He didn’t think she would. Too much sense. Too much pride, when she already knew the futility. Yet the vigor of her sudden attack was impressive. Rather than charge, attempting to strike him, she spun and hurled the weighty weapon. Leto arched backward using the reflexes he’d honed for two decades—no matter his collar. The nighnor hit the wall just over his left shoulder. Shards of raw cave rock splintered out from a crater.

She breathed hard, hands propped on her knees. Without food, pushing that hard would continue to test her endurance. Her eyes shot sparks that were nearly literal. He didn’t like how he was drawn to her blue fire.

He braced his stance. “Learn anything, neophyte?”

“That nighnors are heavy?”

“They are.”

“That I can take you by surprise?”

Hiding his reaction took effort, because she certainly had. As Leto had seen in the Cage, she was a fighter. He would see her blossom into a vicious creature who wouldn’t recognize her own face. That would break her. And that would make her a worthy partner.

“No, you should’ve learned that I do everything with purpose. There are other weapons better suited to your frame. Now you’ve lost dinner, too. A day’s rations gone, with nothing gained.” He knelt to retrieve the dagger. “Take this instead.”

She studied the blade for several moments, as if she could read its purpose. He’d never seen a warrior—let alone an untested woman—assess a weapon with such immediate understanding. And where were the aftereffects of her hazing the day previous? She believed she possessed no gift, but Leto knew otherwise. She was a changed woman.

Now to keep changing her.

Nynn extended her hand and took the dagger. With a slight movement, she twisted the handle until it fit snugly in her palm, the balance just right. Leto felt the rightness like the stir of a distant dream.

“Now the shield.” Without warning, he threw a small round shield straight toward her face.

She deflected it using the dagger. A quick spin found her crouched on the ground. She’d moved so that the shield’s leather strap already hugged her left forearm. Ready to defend.

Slowly, Leto knelt to retrieve his shield and weapon of choice—the mace. His pulse was up, surging as it always did when anticipating a fight. More troubling was how his cock stirred beneath the hard plating of his armor. Sex and violence twined together. Had for generations. There was a practical reason why victors were awarded the prize of flesh. Potent aggression didn’t fade. It built and built, seeking release. Allied warriors were tempted down from that high by means even more satisfying than wringing each other’s necks—by slaking the primeval shock of life-and-death combat. It was glorious when done so between slick thighs.

He’d never reacted that way before a fight. Release came afterward.

Leto kicked the rest of the weapons down the corridor that led to the gate of her cell. Beneath the wan light of the bare lightbulbs, he and Nynn circled one another.

“I will be your first opponent in combat,” he rasped.

As if claiming her. Making her his, even in this violent way.

“Seems we’ve been evenly matched so far. You wear a bandage and new armor.” She grinned. Slinky. Sly. “Give me what you can, sir.”

With that, she attacked.

SEVEN

Audrey had only wanted to knock that smug expression off his scarred face. He was mortal. Fallible. The scar angling on his lip and the whip marks crisscrossing his back proved as much. He could be injured, bested, maybe even defeated.

Not that day. Not by her.