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Vernich seized the opportunity, lifting his opponent clean off the ground and hurling him bodily from the ring.
Torj crashed to the ground, sending a group of shocked shieldbearers scrambling.
The force of it should have broken his back, but the Bear Slayer was on his feet in an instant, grinning sheepishly as he dusted himself off.
‘If you’re worried about them getting bored,’ Vernich snarled at Hawthorne. ‘Let’s make it interesting.’ He went to Seb on the sideline, who was holding his scabbard.
Thea frowned. Since when were they so close? Though it made sense, the two most detestable people in Thezmarr uniting.
The Bloodletter unsheathed a wicked-looking blade.
‘If you insist,’ Hawthorne sounded bored as he drew his own sword. ‘To first blood.’
‘Fine.’ Vernich stalked to the middle of the arena.
Thea had never seen anything like it. Hawthorne struck first with a brutal swing of his great blade, the sheer strength of him radiating outward. Vernich blocked it and drew a dagger from his boot, palming it menacingly. Hawthorne’s expression remained unchanged, but his sword blurred as it carved through the air.
The impact of steel on steel echoed up the arena and Thea was frozen in place as she watched them parry, feint and lunge, each movement more savage than the last, their muscles quivering with the effort.
‘Haven’t you had enough, old man?’ Hawthorne growled.
Vernich spat blood in the dirt. ‘Fuck off, Hawthorne.’
Hawthorne fought with his dark hair tied back, his rolled-up sleeves revealing tanned, muscular forearms and the tattoo that extended from his hand. He moved with a brutal efficiency that made Thea both envious and flushed with desire. Sherecognised several manoeuvres from the morning training she had witnessed. There was great discipline there, so sharply honed that it was now instinct.
Watching him fight, Thea instantly regretted giving him her word that she’d nominate Torj as her mentor. What she’d seen in those mornings on the road, what she’d seen when he’d taught her how to shoot, was nothing compared to this. He was the power of the Furies incarnate, the most skilled Warsword Thezmarr had ever seen.
The Hand of Death.
His sword flashed through the air, drawing a hiss from Vernich.
A thin line of blood trailed from a minor cut on his bicep.
‘First blood drawn,’ Hawthorne said, lowering his sword.
‘Again!’ Vernich roared, lunging violently.
Hawthorne batted the blade away, drawing another curse of pain from Vernich.
A matching cut on the other bicep was now bleeding.
Hawthorne waited expectantly, red trickling down the steel of his sword.
For a split second it looked as though Vernich was ready to attack again, his face contorted in a frustrated snarl, but with a grunt, he wiped the blood from both his arms and nodded to Hawthorne, withdrawing from the centre of the arena.
‘Pair up,’ Hawthorne said. He didn’t need to raise his voice, and he didn’t need to say it twice. In the wake of his demonstration, the awed shieldbearers flung themselves into action.
Suddenly, Seb was blocking Thea’s view. ‘I’ll take the stray,’ he said, a nasty smile spreading across his face. ‘It’s about time I put her in her place.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Cal interjected, shoving Seb back.
‘Why not?’ Thea heard herself say. ‘That black eye’s looking a little lonely…’ Despite her words, fear had seized Thea’s heart. She was no fool. She’d got a lucky shot before, but she knew she was no match for Sebastos Barlowe. Not only was he bigger and stronger than her, but he’d been training for years.
‘Don’t fight foolishly,’ a familiar deep voice said in her ear, sending a current of charged energy through her.
Thea was pulled away from the gathering tension to find Hawthorne peering into her face, a flash of frustration in those silver eyes.
‘I’m not,’ Thea replied stubbornly.
