Chapter Fifteen
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.
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.