Andras taps her unhurt arm, whispering low in her ear, “It’s almost over now. The prisoner’s getting tired. He’ll make a careless mistake, and Grimshaw will take him down.”
“No, no, please no,” Helena mumbles under her breath, turning her head just in time to see the prisoner’s protective fist droop down from beside his chin. Grimshaw wastes no time, plowing his fist into the prisoner’s face. Blood spews from the prisoner’s mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head as he drops to the floor.
“One more, my lovely,” Grimshaw taunts, making vulgar gestures at Helena as he dances triumphantly around the ring. “One more, and then you’re mine!”
Helena’s shoulders quake as if she’s sitting outside wearing a thin dress in the dead of winter. She clenches her eyes tight, fighting in vain to keep her breathing steady. Her frayed nerves cause every noise to be magnified; even the slightest scratch of a fork on a plate sets her teeth on edge and causes her to flinch.
“Helena, you have one final chance,” Alaric whispers in her ear, the warmth of his breath making Helena’s skin crawl. “Ask me to send Ithel in the ring. Tell me you are willing to let him die, and I will ensure that Grimshaw doesn’t get his reward.”
Helena hesitates long enough to keep herself from screaming an agreement to the king’s request. Think, she demands, keeping her eyes focused on the wood grain of the table. There’s got to be a way out of this. She traces the patterns under her fingertips while she crafts her reply. I can’t put Ithel in the ring, not after everything he’s done to help me. His training made me strong, though; I can take the risk myself. “I fought once to win my freedom, and I’m willing to do it again,” Helena declares, offering Alaric a forced smile. “Put me in the ring against Grimshaw.”
“We’ve been over this, Helena. I will not allow you to fight. How could you expect me to risk losing my only daughter?” Alaric mocks, placing a hand over his heart as if her words pierced his chest like knives. “I couldn’t bear to face such a future, my dear. Besides, you’re the prize, remember? If you died in the fight, what would Grimshaw win?”
“Then let me fight for her,” Andras pipes up, rising from his seat at the table. “I’ll take my chances against the guard.”
“You’re already facing many months with Helena. Why would you strive to earn one night more with her?” Alaric wonders, tapping his chin as he immediately grows suspicious. “Unless you’ve already formed some romantic attachment to her? Oh, darling daughter, has your heart already turned to another one of my guards?”
“Hardly,” Andras snorts, leaning his arms against the back of his chair. “However, if I save your daughter from facing Grimshaw now, I’ll have a bargaining chip I can use later on in our travels. Starting out ahead against such a formidable woman is surely a good idea, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm, it remains to be seen,” Alaric mumbles, not quite convinced. “Very well, Andras. You may fight in the final battle.”
The guard dips his head in the king’s direction, immediately striding down the platform toward the fighting circle. There is no announcement or splendor in this final battle. Alaric stays silent behind his throne, stoically watching the scene. The rest of the crowds hush their tense mumblings, all eyes turning to Andras in curious wonder.
All expression fades from his features as he moves, stalking toward his prey with predatory grace. He assesses Grimshaw coldly, his hands steady by his side.
“Make a move,” Alaric whispers, his voice betraying no signs of fear or panic.
Grimshaw stands still, his face turning pale, all thoughts of the king’s contest fleeting from his mind as he pleads, “I have no quarrel with you, Andras.”
“Yet I have one with you, Grimshaw,” Andras sneers, taking a step closer to his quarry.
Grimshaw holds his hands up, immediately taking a step back. “Hey, I didn’t realize the bit—Uh, the lady—was yours.”
“She’s not,” Andras responds, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet as if he’s expecting to run. “But I don’t like men who torment women the way you do, Grimshaw. You give us all a bad name when you instill fear in their hearts. She was prepared to fight you herself. I don’t know if she’d have won.” Andras pauses, his voice dropping low in timbre as he growls, “But I know I will.”
Grimshaw whines softly and retreats until his back makes contact with one of the guards surrounding the fighting ring. “Please, Andras. You have my word; I won’t bother the lady again.”
“I know. And you’ll apologize to her right before I cut out your tongue,” Andras explains, unsheathing a small blade from the sheath at his waist. “And as your mouth fills with blood and you writhe in pain, I think I’ll drop you over into the viper pit while you’re still able to experience their attack. I’m sure the snakes enjoy living prey.”
Grimshaw grabs for one of the other guards’ swords, determined to face Andras with a weapon of his own. He charges Andras, screaming and yowling like a wild beast as he strikes.
Andras keeps himself still until the last possible moment. Then, right before Grimshaw can plunge his blade into Andras’s chest, he lunges out of reach. The forward momentum upsets Grimshaw’s balance, sending him down onto the stone floor. At an unnaturally fast speed, Andras appears behind Grimshaw and grips his head by his hair. “Now then, I believe you owe Helena an apology.”
Grimshaw sneers, defiance roaring to life in his blood as he faces down his own demise. “I’ll never say I’m sorry to that bitch. I enjoyed every minute I had with her in those cells. So, you might as well drag that knife across my throat.”
Andras smacks Grimshaw hard across his
