Forged In Fire (Witch World Series Book 2) Page 2

  Gem almost laughed, “And I thought you were pining for the unmovable.”

  “It doesn’t mean I’m blind, though,” Talia admitted, blushing, which was unusual. People who had seen and done so much as her shichra simply didn’t blush.

  “I think I’ll see for myself what kind of miracle of a man he is.” Not that she actually expected to find a miracle—one of the reasons she hadn’t visited the arena for a few centuries.

  “The battles start in five minutes, my lady,” Talia reminded her, waiting for permission to leave. Before she presented herself, Talia needed to change her gown.

  Right now, she had on a blue halter-top dress. Every girl of Gem’s wore a gown in similar fashion while in her domain; but when they went to fulfill their other duties, they had to replace it with a collar and a few leather straps that barely covered two inches of flesh.

  “Go,” Gem finally said, “and if I’m left satisfied, you won’t ever have to perform this task.”

  She didn’t have the power to liberate all of her girls, but she could spare a few of them. Choosing those few was the hardest thing though, since the law dictated that at least one girl from every demon present on the Island during the fights had to attend. Meaning, the fewer girls, the greater chance one of them would get chosen in the line.

  “Thank you, my lady.” She bowed, gratitude shining in her brown eyes. “You are too kind.”

  “Never, ever repeat what you just said.” Her reputation was that of a monster. And right now, it was all she had. All that kept her alive.

  She waited till the girls left, and after cloaking herself with shadows, silently flew to the fighting arena and perched on one of the columns surrounding the inner ring, above the shouts and threats of sin-drenched souls.

  The arena was huge: a stage in the center, a dozen ten-foot-high marbled columns around it, and space for thousands of spectators. It occupied the largest of the Floating Island’s craters. Still, no matter the size of the space, it was always packed, be it for fights or slave auctions. This place attracted demons like a magnet.

  Gem heard the announcement, and directed her gaze from the uproar of the crowd to the ring where the day’s first fighters had already begun.

  Disinterested, she watched the savagery taking place a few feet from her and all but counted seconds till someone delivered the fatal blow. But after the head finally rolled, she was forced to sit through four more fights, her patience growing thin.

  All the males she had witnessed so far were disgusting. Slimy, putrid souls she wouldn’t be interested in touching even if her existence depended upon it. Some might have had pleasing features, but when Gem looked at them, all she saw was black sticky tar.

  She was about to give up when another pair entered the ring, and two seconds later went at each other with swords raised. Before she even realized she had moved, Gem was leaning over the edge of her seat, her hands gripping it until her knuckles turned the same color as the marble she wasn’t aware she was holding.

  Her eyes landed on the one with his back to her, and Gem licked her lips. Her breath caught, simply from watching his muscles work as he both attacked and parried. The view was almost hypnotizing to her—the strength, so perfectly contained and released whenever he needed it, was something she definitely wanted to touch. Craved, even.

  The way that magnificent body moved called to everything female in her; but that wasn’t the reason her breaths began to grow shallow. Gem could have sworn she saw an aura radiating around him. Impossible. She blinked; yet the brightness, which no sinner here or in Zcuran possessed, surrounded him like a lover’s embrace.

  Probably a reflection cast by a torchlight, she finally decided. He couldn’t have had an aura this pure. Besides, it was apparent no other demon noticed, or paid any attention to, her discovery. An untainted aura would have definitely been noticed and exploited. Living among sin made demons crave innocence. It was like a drug. Like the sunlight they had been banned from eons ago.

  She could watch his graceful dance for hours, Gem decided. He moved like quicksilver, despite having a body that suggested, erroneously, he was built for brute force rather than fluid motion. Males capable of such movement were usually leaner; which of course made Gem realize he’d likely been leaner when he first learned sword fighting. The extra muscles on his frame had been added by hard work in mines, probably.

  Just how many years has he spent there? she wondered.

  She was fascinated by the way his hand wielded the sword—as if it was something more than just a piece of metal. Curious about the story behind what met the eye, and even frustrated at the way his dark nape-long hair kept preventing her from seeing his face clearly, Gem continued to follow his every movement.

  He feinted right, turning left so quickly the other one didn’t even realize his mistake of going in the wrong direction before it was too late. Shock registered on the hard, cold lines of his face just before his sword hand fell, severed from its body. The crowd went wild.

  Anger and pain contorted already unattractive features as he roared like a beast, delivering a brutal kick to the center of her warrior’s chest. Gem winced as she heard bones crack. Her fists clenched, and she barely managed to refrain from doing something stupid.

  From that point the fight got even more vicious.

  The beast of the man seized the split second her warrior needed to recover, grabbed the sword with his left hand, and charged, ignoring his own blood gushing like a fountain.

  One couldn’t bleed to death in the Underworld, but it diminished strength. Except the beast channeled all his pain and fury into a single goal—strikes so powerful that sparks flew every time their swords met. The metal clanged so loudly it rang in her ears.

  Despite his ribs being obviously broken, he deflected every vicious thrust and blow with the same efficiency as before. Except the rain of blows didn’t cease. And while he was tall and clearly strong, his opponent was even bigger, burlier—an enraged bear going after a wolf.

  She gasped as she witnessed the fighter’s sword break under the pressure, instinctively knowing it was the end. Two more seconds and…

  Her eyes widened when he sank onto one knee, and she realized she’d given him too little credit. With a sudden move he not only displaced his upper body from the trajectory of the weapon coming to decapitate him; he thrust the remaining length of the sword up, straight into the beast’s gut.

  The momentum his opponent used to deliver an aimless strike made it impossible to jump back, or defend in any way. All he could do was splutter curses and cough blood before going down as the broken blade was pushed up, slicing the beast’s chest cavity in two.

  The fight was over.

  Gem released a breath she was unaware she’d been holding, only to gasp again when the man’s dark chocolate eyes swept across the arena like a light saber; the edge of his gaze so sharp, it could cut. The possibilities fascinated her; pulled her in like sin itself. Yet she didn’t find malice. Saw no satisfaction in the kill. It was an enigma.

  Talia was wrong. He was not handsome. Gem had seen handsome males aplenty. Their features were too sweet for her tastes. This one would have been handsome if not for the hard planes and angles of his face, which told her enough about his life there. But there was also a dignity in him others lacked. And not a shadow of madness. No, he was not handsome; he was magnificent.

  Even looking at a frown that didn’t seem too inviting, Gem experienced an excitement she hadn’t felt for a long, long time. Talia had been right about one thing: she did need a distraction. And it had to be him.

  Chapter 2

  Ciaran glanced at his broken sword and sighed. A fighter without his weapon was a pile of meat tossed into the gutter. He needed to acquire materials and forge a new one. He wasn’t about to relinquish his privileges. Not after all the blood he’d spilled for it. He wasn’t about to go back to the miserable existence he’d had.

  Bull, his opponent, spat blood, along with a very rich
and almost eloquent flow of curses, for a second distracting Ciaran from his line of thought. He turned away from the overgrown boar, wishing he could ignore him for another decade. Another hour or two would’ve been a gift; a gift he would never receive.

  Mortal wounds tended to heal fast here. His own were already gone. And with pissed-off cutthroats around, he had to guard his back, front, and everything in between without fail. Anyone here would take a gleeful kind of joy out of his misfortune. Especially if they landed a helping hand in the process. One wrong step was all it would take.

  Gathering the pieces of his weapon, Ciaran stood up and walked out of the arena, entering a set of tunnels. It was all there was—the Island was made of craters, tunnels, and nothing more.

  He knew what awaited him around the corner: distrustful plotting glares, envy, anger, the promise of violence. It penetrated the air and coated him with a sticky dirty feeling he still couldn’t get used to. Not even after what seemed like an eternity of breathing it.

  It had taken him a long time to get out of the mines, but he had done it. He’d escaped wardens, the brainless skeletons who knew only one thing—how to land a whip so it would hurt. Navigated his way through seemingly endless shafts without so much as a stick to defend himself with. For many weeks, or maybe months, instead of a hidden exit he’d found only creatures hungry for flesh. He’d lost limbs, grown them back. And when he’d finally crawled as far as the large opening, he’d realized that even though he lay sprawled on the last few feet of solid ground, there was no Floating Island as he’d expected; only the river a few hundred feet below.

  Going over the edge hadn’t been his plan. The lava flow that awaited had terrified him no end. He’d almost resigned himself to going back and fighting his way through the monsters, but when the beasts began spilling out of the cave, he had proved to be too weak to withstand the onslaught. Except, instead of dragging him into some dark lair to be slowly consumed alive from inwards, they had flung him over the cliff.

  Maybe there was no such thing as the Floating Island; maybe it was just a metaphor for finding a true death by fire—that single thought had flashed through his mind on his journey down. At the time, he would have almost welcomed the oblivion. But instead of the peace, he found no reprieve. He’d burned, and he’d drowned. He’d lost all hope, his mind, and every inch of his skin before the current had caught him and thrown him onto the bank of the Floating Island.

  Ciaran mentally shook himself. The past had no place in his life. He’d survived the fire trial—or as demons liked to call it, was reborn in Faron River—and all to come here, to put the skills he had with a sword to use, to become a fighter. More importantly—the champion. He didn’t particularly care about the title, just about the privileges the winner gained. And the champion of the whole tournament could almost live like a human being.

  Fighting for a bath, a meal and a sleep on an actual bed was what his existence consisted of. Pathetic considering he’d never lacked money when he’d lived above ground. More than pathetic, considering he’d volunteered for this.

  Not the time, Ciaran reminded himself. Bath and meal first, then the sword. He needed to concentrate on what was important.

  He ignored the line of women waiting for his inspection or the slightest crook of his finger, and walked on.

  Most of them were beautiful, looked clean, and the way they dressed left little to the imagination; still, the mere thought of touching them left him cold inside.

  Ciaran didn’t know how many had chosen this life, how many had been forced into it—he’d seen dozens begging for a chance to become a demon’s whore, but he’d also heard pleas to spare them. In the end, it was either rape, since they couldn’t say no, or being one among thousands of others. Neither of those prospects did anything for him.

  He bathed, put on his pants and went to get the tasteless meal he was due.

  Ciaran sat down on the rock, his bare feet almost numb from cold, but as he was about to take the first bite, five guards appeared. Their leader, Arik, stepped forward and made a simple gesture indicating he wanted Ciaran to follow. Ciaran ignored the command. He was not about to put down his hard-earned meal. It might have been tasteless, but when starvation was the alternative, tasteless became an exotic flavor anyone was glad to experience. Himself included.

  “You were requested,” Arik then told him. Ciaran knew the male well enough to realize that if he opened his mouth, which he seldom did, it meant trouble. Still, Ciaran shook his head, and took his first bite of bread.

  The guard didn’t say a word; just unsheathed his blade and ground it into Ciaran’s bare chest, drawing blood. A few drops of it were not worth a thought, but by the look of those Arctic-blue eyes Ciaran knew it wouldn’t end there. Either way, he wasn’t going to enjoy another single bite.

  “Alright, alright, I’m coming.” He stood up, faced Arik, and for a second considered telling the guard to go and take a woman he had a right to. No one here would have passed on such a bargain. No one except the guards.

  Neither demons nor sinners, the guards were something entirely different. Rumor had it they simply couldn’t perform; that they were born, or maybe made, that way. Ciaran had a theory of his own. It didn’t affect their prowess on the battlefield, however. So unless he wanted to take on the five very skilled warriors and then all the rest of them with a broken sword, he had to comply.

  Damn rationality! Ciaran glanced one more time at his meal. He didn’t remember where he’d lost his impulsiveness, but sometimes he missed it. It did him no favors. On the contrary, mostly, it just brought trouble and—in the Underworld—pain; but at least he had the satisfaction of going down fighting, not bowing meekly.

  He was surviving, not bowing, Ciaran assured himself as he followed the guards through the tunnels.

  His eyes stayed on the five men, noting their every movement, but mostly he watched Arik for the finest shift in his attitude. Built slightly leaner than Ciaran, the blond-haired male was the most dangerous of them all—the tricks he hid under his long black sleeve went beyond his extensive skills as a fighter. A broken sword could hardly compete with an energy ball, but compete it would if the need arose.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked after they emerged from the tunnel and passed the training area. The direction of their journey was beginning to trouble him in earnest. There was only the forge left, and if they… They didn’t stop, but continued on, entering another set of tunnels.

  Ciaran cursed. He didn’t need answers anymore. He knew. No one used these tunnels unless they wanted to reach the domain of one of the most feared demons in the Underworld. Known simply as the Green-Eyed Monster, the demon was something everyone whispered about but dared not even mention, lest that would make it appear. This was so not good.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Arik glanced at him and raised his brow in a silent question.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t have to chase me,” Ciaran told him. Running was pointless. Either you faced what was coming with head held high, or you were dragged by your innards to face even worse. Ciaran knew the choice he would make every single time.

  Arik raised his hands, palms facing the wall, murmured something in his tongue, and the wall of rock separated. Inside lay a candle-lit hallway with marbled floor, murals, and luxurious furniture he walked past without once looking at it. He would have preferred blood and skulls; it would have been closer to his mood. But no, demons loved to live in style that disappeared the moment the first drop of blood threatened to sully their carpets.

  “Bow before your master!” One of the guards spat an order.

  “I bow before no one,” he muttered without turning. That was one thing he refused to do. Ever. No matter how many whips sliced his flesh.

  Instantly, he felt a fierce blow to his inner knee. His leg bent, and he went down. Ciaran gritted his teeth at the impact with the hard floor, and before the guard could deliver another blow, grabbed for the nearest weapon.

 
Suddenly fire flashed through the space. As one, the guards sank to the ground, bowing their heads.

  “Enough!” Huge eyes appeared in the air, above them.

  Ciaran frowned. Stood up.

  The eyes narrowed. Green flames consumed the irises, and for a second he thought the room would catch fire.

  “Out!” A sharp order rang out, and was followed before the echo subsided.

  The moment Ciaran was left alone, shadows began swirling, the eyes got smaller, until a figure stepped out of the darkness. He thought he was prepared for whatever was coming. A two-headed ogre wouldn’t have surprised him, but when the shadows dissipated, and his eyes locked with those of the creature he’d been summoned by, he forgot whatever it was he wanted to say.

  Her eyes were no longer round, but almond-shaped, slightly tilted downward toward her straight but narrow nose. Those eyes missed nothing—and right now, they were focused on him. Not burning, but the way her irises caught the glare of light, it appeared to glow with a cat-like luster.

  In vibrant copper-red, the strands that escaped her knee-length braid danced like flames against her flawless, porcelain skin, conjuring up an image of a fragile, ethereal beauty.

  One look at her, and Ciaran knew there was nothing fragile about her. She radiated power, and he had no trouble seeing why the guards bowed before her. Why everyone was afraid to even mention her name. The raw energy flowing around her was nothing he’d ever experienced. No demon he’d met possessed a smidgeon of it.

  He was screwed, he concluded, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “What do you want from me?” he demanded, finally coming to his senses.

  She approached, no hesitation in her lithe, tall body. It moved with hypnotizing grace, accentuated by her simple leather pants and top that hugged her like a second skin. If he thought she had power before, it was nothing compared with the sizzle of energy that shot through him when she stretched out her hand, and gently touched his cheek.