My eyes skim over the others, trying to take in their weapons, their stature and size. I’m looking for weak spots I know I won’t find. Anything to get the upper hand. Rupert walks forward in fighting leathers, brown leather gloves and boots. A quiver of arrows hangs from his back, a bow down by his side. He’s next to Armin, who has on form-fitting armor from the neck down. His eyes are so blue they shine like sapphires even from a distance. His beard is thick and blond, his hair shaggy around his ears, and he’s built like a godsdamned tank.
Rounding out the edges are Roland and Marshal. Roland is thin and lithe. I won’t underestimate him. His reputation is that of a sadist, although it seems impossible. He looks the youngest of them all with dark, curly hair and pink cheeks. The glint in his eye and the slight tug at his lips confirm that he’s eager for the bloodshed to begin.
And then Marshal. It’s impossible to get an estimate of his expression with a full helmet covering his face. He moves smoothly even though he’s carrying his body weight in armor, including chainmail around his neck, as well as a sword and shield in his hands.
There’s an energy that rolls off of them. I’ve felt it with the Ravens when they’ve fought in the ring. But this…this is different. For the first time, I really question our decision to make this bet.
I feel separated from my body as the Shaman announces the terms of the fight. My sword is weightless as the guardians secure their armor. The only signal that the battle has started is the vibration of the gong, the Shaman disappearing, and roar of Clinton racing past me, declaring his loyalty to Morgan.
Pulling the shield off my back I follow the men into battle, prepared to meet my destiny.
16
Morgan
After the walking the castle’s grounds I fall into a deep sleep, napping before dinner. I dream I have wings, with long black feathers that guide me from this world back to my own. The sensation of Earth fills my senses. The smells. The air. The warmth of humans and society. Spreading my wings, I soar over The Nead, my stomach lurching at being so close to home, at once both excited and homesick. The kind of sensation a dream gives you—when you know it’s not real. But you want it to be, so badly.
It only takes a moment to realize the house is empty. I circle, arcing over the park until I catch the faintest of scents. Then I race over the city, eyes scanning for my mates. I follow their trail to a familiar part of town. The warehouse trembles with excitement. They’re at the fights—no, in the fights. Landing on a ventilation ledge, I peer inside.
The ring is no longer a ring, but morphed into something larger. From the inside I’m not looking through slats in a window but sitting atop a massive arena. Below, gods below…I spot six enormous fighters clashing with five familiar bodies.
The crowd screams for bloodshed, swords crash against one another. Dylan squares against a dark-skinned man who wields his sword like a second hand. The whip unfurls in my guardian’s hand and the sound of it lashing out creates a rip in the night.
I scan the others, terrified to watch any one fight; Damien, Sam, and Clinton each grunt, defending. And then in the middle, as though she’s always been there…Hildi.
I have no doubt that her being here means one thing: Andi is dead. The way she goes
after a man twice her size is the only proof I have. Vengeance is in her every move. I feel her pain all the way up here.
Movement catches my eye. The warriors below continue to circle one another, taking the occasional shot. I duck my head when a massive opponent brings down his weapon on Damien, a large mallet that looks as if made of stone. Damien is fast. Agile. I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to see this.
Why? Why are they here?
“For you,” a voice says next to me. I look over and see another bird, a large falcon, perched on the thin ledge. The voice is familiar: the Shaman. I open my mouth to speak but words do not come out. I’m a bird, for Christsake.
But even though I have no voice I do hear him, and the words formulated in my head are communicated back.
“They’re here for you,” he tells me, nodding his beak below where the battle rages on. “They made a bet looking for soldiers for your army. If they win, they get to keep the Legion.”
“If they don’t?”
“They’ll be in my debt.”
I look down to see if I can get a sense of who is winning. It’s impossible with so much metal and steel. “And Hildi?”
“She asked for a spot on the team. I always knew she was a champion.”
“Do you think they’ll win?”
The instant I ask this I hear the sound of a body dropping hard. One of the warriors has fallen. Blood drips from Clinton’s sword. He never hesitates, jumping into the next battle. Now the numbers are even.
“I never underestimate your Ravens,” he says. “Neither should you.”
“Why do you think I underestimate them? I have complete faith.”
“Do you?” His beady brown and yellow eyes stare at me. “All of them?”
I look down once again. Dylan yanks his whip, disarming the soldier he’s fighting. In a blink he has the man bound and a knife pointed at his throat. Damien lunges nearby, sliding across the sandy floor, getting the upper hand on his opponent, while Sam has one constrained in the crook of his elbow, one hand on his head. The sound of his neck snapping is clear over the roar of the crowd.