“What army did he lead?” I ask.
Dylan looks at
me. “The Spartans. For over a decade.”
“Total badass, then,” Damien says. Everyone nods.
“Next up, we have Roland.”
“That’s a wuss name,” Clinton snorts.
Hildi rolls her eyes. “He was one of the twelve peers of Charlemagne, who we all know was a ball-busting general.”
“So we have a Japanese sword-fighter, a Spartan, and an all-warrior,” Clinton says in a strained voice. “Perfect. What’s next?”
“Marshal, a famous knight known for sprees of murder and theft. On his deathbed, it was said that he bested over five hundred knights during his career, and took large swaths of land for his king,” Hildi replies. “That just leaves Armin, a German strongman that was basically unstoppable and destroyed everything in his path, and Rupert, the child prince who ran away and joined the army at age fourteen. He was so good, people believed he had supernatural abilities.”
“Did he?” I ask. I wouldn’t put it past any of these men to have demon blood.
She shakes her head. “Not until he died.”
“Great. How do we plan on defeating them?” I ask. “Because we have to defeat them. Not just for Morgan, but I don’t want to work for that bastard out there for another fifty years.”
Clinton stands just as the warning buzzer sounds from the ring. “We’ll beat them like we’ve beaten every other opponent tossed our way. One at a time.”
15
Hildi
The doors of the training room open and for a moment I’m struck still. The volume of the crowd hits me first, roaring like a freight train, so much that I almost recoil at the vibrations. But that’s not what startles me. It’s the arena that has replaced the old warehouse with metal bleachers soaked in beer and sweat. The stadium is wide and circular, the ground covered in sawdust and sand. The seats reach the ceiling, which is wide open, revealing a dark, starlit sky.
“Dear gods, what sort of witchery is this,” one of the men behind me mutters. I look over and take in the sight of Dylan wearing traditional warrior armor, the thick coil of his whip hung at his hip. A ripple through the crowd brings me back to myself and I note the weight in my hand and lift the sword—a Valkyrie blade—and the heft of a shield on my back.
A quick glance shows me the others are outfitted similarly. Helmets, shields, chainmail linked over their broad, strong shoulders.
We’re in a tunnel, the sort that leads to the center of the arena. The Shaman clearly saw fit to make a spectacle of our competition. Why not? The fight will become the stuff of legends. The sort Morgan and Dylan will write in their history books for future generations.
All the more reason to be the victors.
The doors behind us close with a loud slam, the bolt thrown to ensure no escape. I came to this fight to do what is required to bring down the Morrigan. To force her to pay for what she took from me. The image of Andi’s final breath is seared into my brain, my heart, and I felt the pain of the thousands of other deaths in the city before the cure made it into the right hands.
Morgan didn’t fail me. Neither did her guardians. The Queen of Darkness must be tamed once and for all, and if that means bringing a crew of ruthless murderers into her realm, so be it.
“It’s magic,” I say as a reminder. Surely they know. It’s not their first time in the ring nor experiencing the Shaman’s mysticism. “We fight to the death.”
“All six,” Clinton grunts from behind a silver facemask. His gray eyes hold mine.
“I feel the eye of Odin with me,” I tell them. “Thor’s power flows through my fists. And Freya’s lust for new souls in my blood.”
There’s no buzzer—not in this arena, but something louder—a gong--vibrates that the time has come. The Shaman appears in the middle of the stadium and he waves us forward, just as he waves his hand toward the opening on the other side of the field.
As though they appear from the ether, six magnificent males stride forward and the crowd falls into a hushed reverie.
Instinctively I grip my sword and I feel the others shift into a defensive position around me. I’ve seen the Legion before. Mentally, I understand their strength and immortality, but being on the ground with them, in their presence, even while surrounded by the strongest fighters created by the hands of gods, is humbling.
Miya’s long black hair trails behind him. His goatee is trimmed and highlights the sharp lines of his jaw. His outfit is solid black. His feet are bare. Leather straps around his chest and the hilt of his sword juts over his shoulder.
Next to him strides the God of Death, Agis, carrying a metal helmet adorned with a razor sharp spike across the top. He’s clad in a tight leather tunic and pants, thick-soled boots, and a silver-tipped spear gripped in his free hand.