We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Bloodguard, a new romantic fantasy novel by Cecy Robson, out from Red Tower Books on October 18th.
Everything in the Kingdom of Arrow is a lie.
Leith of Grey thought coming to this new land and volunteering to fight in the gladiator arena—vicious, bloodthirsty tournaments where only the strongest survive—would earn him enough gold to save his dying sister. He thought there was nothing left to lose.
He was wrong—and they took everything. His hope. His freedom. His very humanity.
All Leith has left is his battle-scarred body, fueled by rage and hardened from years of fighting for the right to live another day.
Then Leith meets Maeve, an elven royal who is everything he despises. Everything he should hate. Until the alluring princess offers him the one thing he needs most: a chance to win the coveted title of Bloodguard—and his freedom.
But in a kingdom built on secrets and lies, hope doesn’t come cheap.
Nor will his ultimate revenge…
Sudden drumbeats echo around the stadium, and my pulse quickens.
The time has come to announce the matches.
A few of the fighters ease their postures, feigning courage that’s long gone, and we all turn to head back to the wagon.
Typically, we’re routed to the stables to wait for our match. As though the games aren’t cruel enough, we never know who or what we’ve been matched to fight or the order until we are called. But today, before we can reach the wagon, the gate of the cage is swung closed.
The other gladiators murmur to one another at this change in protocol, but we don’t have long to wait.
From the top tier of the arena, four messenger hawks, their bodies twice the size of my head and their wingspan twice my height, swoop into the center with large sacks gripped in their talons. Their dull auburn plumage flutters as they drop their sacks, and their wings flap furiously as they take to the sky again.
Two large ogre guards lumber to the fallen sacks and work together to dump out their contents. Weapons and shields clatter to the gray sand. Just as they finish, more hawks soar toward them and dump even more sacks with dull thuds in the middle of the arena.
Sullivan and I exchange glances, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. The piles of weapons are larger than we’re used to…large enough for every gladiator here to choose their starting weapons.
And instead of being herded back to the pens, a row of gladiators is nudged forward by the guards, toward the center of the arena. Their heavy feet stomp in the sand, puffs of dust floating away on the wind like funeral ash.
“Next row,” the human guard calls, and my chest tightens.
“We’re not being paired off.” Sullivan ignores the command, his expression bleak. “It’s all of us. Everyone for themselves.”
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My breath leaves in pained bursts. We’re not just fighting a single opponent of their choosing—whether man or beast—we’re also fighting one another to the death.
The sun is high in the sky and burns along the deep axe wound on my back, but I barely feel it, my insides twisting.
“Next row!” the guard bellows again.
I take a step forward. Sullivan follows me, spitting into the sand. He’s very sick. I’m injured. But we won’t slow down for anyone.
In the arena, there is no slowing down. There is only victory or death.
The moon horses squeal as they are hurried toward the exit, the rickety wagon clattering behind them, making the wizard jump.
Death thickens the air, more tangible than the coat of sand settling onto our skin.
In the piles of weapons, I spot a sword and a dagger I can use. There’s a metal chest plate that would protect me more than the meager leather one I’m wearing now, but the seconds it takes to put the armor on could cost me my life.
Suddenly, the drums speed up, almost catching my racing heart and silencing the crowd, and then the percussion abruptly stops.
“Halt!” a guard shouts. “And turn!”
As one, we pivot to face the royal box, my mind racing with thoughts of which fighter I should kill first, who will be best to get out of the way quickly. Anyone but Sully, I argue. Anyone but my friend.
Just then, High Lord Vitor rises. “One hundred years,” he bellows, the magic within the royal box amplifying and reverberating his voice across the massive structure.
The crowd shrieks with excitement. “One hundred!” they echo.
“Thousands of gladiators,” he shouts.
The spectators cheer louder, enlivened by the thought of ten more.
“And today,” Vitor continues, “we have a special match.” He gestures to the bet makers rushing up and down the stands and then to the pile of weapons in the center. “There are two potential Bloodguards before us, and therefore there should be…two times the payouts!”
The crowd goes wild.
Holy hell. This son of a bitch is spinning it so this crowd can make a fortune—not lose one. And we’re the ones expected to make or break their status. “Well, shit,” Sullivan mutters. Neither of us saw this coming.
People are screaming with delight and still trying to catch the ear of the harried bet makers scribbling on pads and tossing out tickets as fast as they can. They’re not even waiting to see the drop of the banner that will reveal our final odds.
The High Lord lifts his hand and pauses for the arena to quiet again. “In these final moments of betting, take in what awaits, my friends, and choose wisely, for those who thirst for water today, tomorrow may demand wine!”
The crowd’s thrill escalates, their calls for action mounting.
Then something roars, the menacing sound extinguishing all others.
Even the vultures circling the skies flee.
We still.
The air around us shifts, growing thick with dread.
Sullivan and I exchange one final glance. We know what it is long before it lands.
Webbed wings the size of ship sails stretch out as talons the length of my arms slam against the arena floor. The brown dragon chuffs, the fire brewing in its belly hot enough to shoot steam from its nostrils. The elf rider on its back is covered with enchanted leather that protects his flesh from the heat. The dragon’s body is the length of three moon horses. Not as large as they come, but large enough to easily squash us.
My mouth goes dry. This dragon is a young male—I can see the pair of claspers under the base of his tail as he thrashes. The only thing more ravenous than an old dragon is a young male. They need more energy to fuel their rapid growth spurts.
“Only one will rise,” Vitor shouts over the gasps of the crowd. His smile takes on a malicious edge. “Will it be gladiator—or shall it be beast?”
The dragon roars once more, and the final betting bell is barely audible above the crowd’s screams and cheers.
We all shift around to face the pile of weapons as fast as we can.
Sully breaks away from me. He crouches and shakes out his hands.
We don’t exchange farewells. After three years of watching out for each other, it all comes down to this.
I lean forward and get ready to run, my focus on the pile of weapons and not on the man who was—dammit, is—my friend.
The moment the horn blasts, I charge.
Excerpted from Bloodguard by Cecy Robson. Reprinted with permission from Red Tower Books, an imprint of Entangled Publishing. All rights reserved.
