A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series Book 2)

The narrow tunnel to the arena muffles the sound of the crowd. I haven’t worn proper armor in months, but my limbs remember the weight. Journ is broader than I am, but his breastplate fits well enough, his bracers snug against my forearms.

“Worwick likes to rile the fighters up,” Journ is saying. “He’ll tell them to draw blood. Sometimes it’s better to give the crowd a little.”

I eye his scarred arms and say nothing. We’re alone here in the tunnel, but no one knows I’m taking his place. Worwick will figure it out the instant I set foot in the arena, but by then it’ll be too late for him to question it.

Hopefully I’ll put on a good enough show that it won’t matter after that.

“He won’t like it if you draw blood, though,” Journ says. “No one wants to be made a fool. Let them think they can win for a while.”

I know this, but I let him keep talking anyway. My heart sends blood pulsing through my veins.

“Four matches,” Journ says. “Can you stay alive through four matches?”

“Ask me when I’m done.”

He starts to chuckle, but his breath catches and he presses an arm to his abdomen. “Most of these men don’t have much skill,” he says. “They’re all just out to have a good time and bring home bragging rights. But sometimes they’ll surprise you.”

I nod. Above us, the drums begin a familiar rhythm. The resulting cheer is near deafening, even from here.

I don’t need to be exceptional. I just need to put on a good show. I just need to stay alive.

I take a step toward the end of the tunnel, but Journ catches the shoulder of my armor.

“Hawk.” He swallows. “I will owe you for this.”

How I wish Kantor had taken a hoof to the chest instead of this man. “You owe me nothing.”

“I’ll have a chance to repay you one day.”

I smile. “Then let’s hope I survive the night.”

The drums beat again. Worwick’s voice calls out. “From the depths of the Valkins Valley, a man nearly forged in steel, rarely defeated, my champion, Journ of Everlea!”

I step into the arena, and the crowd screams so loud that I worry they’ll bring down the roof. After the quiet dimness of the tunnel, the light and sound are overwhelming. I draw my sword the way I’ve seen Journ do a hundred times, then lift it high.

Worwick stands high in the crowds, and my back is to him, so I have no idea whether he’s noticed me. I hold my breath and wait for his next words.

“We have a special event for you all tonight,” Worwick croons, his voice carrying to the crowd. “A very special event.”

He hasn’t noticed. Good.

“As usual, betting is closed once the second fighter enters the arena,” he calls. “I believe we’re in for a good match. A man of this skill doesn’t often visit Worwick’s Tourney. Place your bets now. I think we’ll see a lot of money change hands tonight. Who feels the kiss of luck on their cheek? Is it you? Is it you?”

He’s good at what he does, because there’s always a frantic last-minute scrambling to lay money down on the match.

“Now,” calls Worwick. “Our second fighter is ready to enter the ring. Champion Journ, to your—” His voice breaks off, and he clears his throat. “Ah, Champion Journ, to your position, please.”

Silver hell. He noticed.

Well, he can do nothing about it now. I sheathe my sword and move to the center of the arena.

“Our opponent hails all the way from Silvermoon Harbor,” Worwick calls. I spot the shadow of a man jogging through the opposite tunnel. My vision narrows down to the entrance. The crowd, the arena, this is all a show.

The sword at my side, the battle before me—those things are real.

My hand finds the hilt. I cannot draw until the other man does. If he’s from Silvermoon Harbor, he’s likely a fisherman or a dockworker. Someone dared into this challenge by friends drunk on ale.

The man’s hair becomes visible: sandy blond. Then his shoulders, the leather of his armor rich and gleaming. Not borrowed tourney armor, then. Each silver buckle sparks with light.

Gold and red stripes adorn his shoulder, bound together by a crest stamped in gold, a lion entwined with a rose.

I go still. I know that crest. I know those stripes.

“From Ironrose Castle,” calls Worwick, “we have the honor to host the Commander of the Royal Guard, Dustan of Silvermoon.” He winks at me from the stands, like we’re in on some joke. “Be sure to keep your head, Journ.”

The crowd screams with approval.

I take a few steps back before I can help myself. I know he’s riling the crowd. He has no idea what this means for me.

I know Dustan. I chose him myself. He was one of the first guards to swear to Rhen under my command. Does that mean the prince is here, watching this match? I want to search the crowd, but there are too many faces. Too much noise. I cannot tear my eyes from my approaching opponent.

My instincts are screaming at me to take action, but I see no path here.

Dustan has not drawn his sword. My hand has gone slick on the hilt of my own.

He slows as he approaches, and his eyes narrow slightly. As he stops in front of me, he frowns and takes his hand off the hilt. “You look anxious,” he says, his tone easy. “Journ, is it?”

The words take a moment to register in my mind.

He does not recognize me.

But of course he doesn’t. It’s been months. We only knew each other for a matter of weeks—and then, I was clean-shaven, with shorter hair and richly adorned armor and the manner of a leader.

Today, I am little more than a stable hand dressed up like a soldier. I’m Hawk. Or right now, I suppose I’m Journ.

Dustan leans in as if to share a secret. “The Royal Guard is not so vicious as rumor would have you believe.”

He believes I am nervous about the match.

“We’ve been on the road for weeks,” he continues. “My men dared me to enter.”

Then Rhen must not be with him. The prince would not leave Ironrose for weeks—and his guard commander certainly wouldn’t leave him unguarded for sport.

We’ve been quiet too long. The crowd is growing restless. Booted feet begin a relentless stomping. Any moment now, they’ll begin chanting.

“Do not withdraw,” Dustan says, misreading my silence for fear. “I’ll go easy.”

As predicted, the crowd begins its chant. Fight. Fight. Fight. It spurs my heartbeat and sharpens my focus.

Dustan puts his hand on his sword hilt and meets my eyes. There’s a question in his gaze.

I give him a quick nod.

He begins to draw. As the blade slides free, recognition flickers in his expression. “Journ—is there a chance we’ve met before?”

“No.” My sword pulls free like an old friend, and I swing hard and fast before he’s ready. He barely has time to block. Our blades collide, and the crash of metal sings through the arena. The crowd roars with approval.

Dustan loses ground quickly, backpedaling as he waits for an opening to retaliate. He expected me to fall back and be an easy mark. He underestimated me—a failing I’d reprimand him for if I were still his commander.

When the opening comes, Dustan strikes with a fierceness I don’t expect, and I’m forced to yield ground. My body remembers the movements, this dance of swordplay. When he swings for my midsection I slap his blade down, and we break apart, circling.

“I do know you,” he calls. His eyes are shadowed with anger. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one.” His swords lifts, and I advance.

He’s good. Better than I remember. When we break apart again, a strain builds in my forearms that he likely doesn’t feel at all. An hour in the dusty arena with Tycho is not equal to the amount of time the Royal Guard spends training.

He must sense this, because his next attack is brutal and swift and brings me to the ground. I taste blood and dirt on my tongue. I roll before he can pin me, then drive off the ground to put a shoulder into his midsection.

I thought I could get him off his feet, but he’s quick and grabs hold of my armor, using my momentum to his advantage. We crash to the ground together. He kneels on my sword arm before I can raise it.

It’s a good move, but I know it. I use my free hand to snatch the dagger from his belt, and I aim for his throat. He swears and jerks back, but it frees my arm and puts him off balance. I surge forward and flip our positions.

He’s quick enough to get his sword up to block mine, but I’ve got leverage. I bear down until he’s in danger of cutting his own neck. He’s breathing as hard as I am, but on his part, it’s more anger than anything else. “Tell me who you are.”

“That was a clever move,” I say. “With the armor. Who taught you that?”

Dustan speaks through gritted teeth. He’s straining hard, and a thin line of blood appears below his blade. “If you kill a guardsman, you’ll lose your head.”

He’s not the only one who thinks so. The sounds from the crowd have turned to a confused murmur.

Worwick’s voice calls out over the crowd, and he sounds a little strangled. “Journ! I will remind you this is not a death match.”

Motion flickers from the opposite side of the arena. Other guardsmen have sensed that their commander may be in danger.

I put the point of his dagger right against the vulnerable spot just below his jaw. “Tell your men to stand down.”

“That’s him!” a voice shouts from the sidelines. Familiar, but I can’t place it. “That’s him. I knew he wasn’t dead.”

A spike of fear drives through my heart. Dustan is glaring at me—but slowly his expression changes. The anger flickers to puzzlement. “Commander Grey?”

I need to make a decision. The blades between us tremble from our opposing efforts.

“Don’t you dare let him get away,” shouts a voice.

“I am not your commander,” I say to Dustan.

“But—”

I punch him in the side of the face with the hand holding his dagger. It barely buys me a second, but I sprint for my tunnel. An arrow whistles by my shoulder and lodges in the wall. Another quickly follows, striking my armor and skidding harmlessly away.

The tunnel opens into the storage yard, but I grab hold of the ladder mounted into the side wall and swing myself up, taking it two rungs at a time. I ease into the loft just as guardsmen pour into the yard. Dirt and cobwebs slide under my fingers, and I hold my breath. My heart sprints along, begging for air.

The crowd is going wild in the arena, voices echoing throughout the entire tourney. The men fan out, going in opposing directions. As soon as they’re a safe distance away, I crawl, keeping low against the loft flooring.

I’m on the opposite side of the tourney from where Tycho and I sleep above the stables. If I were a lucky man, I could crawl the full distance, drop into the stables, and be galloping away before anyone knew better.

I think of the silver ring hidden in my mattress. I could escape completely.

Either way, I’m not a lucky man. The loft on this side of the stadium only runs as far as the armory. I’ll need to climb back down and somehow make it through the packed crowds to find my way to the stables.

It takes less than ten minutes to crawl through the dusty shadows, and I find the armory empty. I drop from the loft silently, but the scraver startles and rattles against its bars, hissing at me.

I ignore it and pull knives from the wall to slide into my greaves, then add two more under my sword belt.

Worwick’s voice carries over the crowd, loud through the door. “Yes, Commander.” He sounds panicked. He also sounds very near. “I assure you, I will provide whatever assistance is necessary.”

I pull back into the shadows near the scraver’s cage. The ladder to the loft is beside the door into the tourney. I’m trapped here more effectively than I was in the arena. My heart beats in my throat.

The scraver screeches at me, fangs bared, clawed hands scrabbling against the floor of its cage. I remember how easily it sliced into Kantor’s arm when provoked. Maybe it can do the same to armored guardsmen.

I draw a dagger and begin sawing at the rope holding the cage closed.

It stops growling.

My breathing is rapid and loud and these damn ropes are so thick. A key rattles in the lock on the door. Silver hell.

The scraver hisses at me. Then it whispers, “Hurry.”

My hands go still. I look up, wondering if I really heard that. My eyes lock with its solid black ones.

A cold breeze sweeps through the room. The scraver cuts a stripe across the back of my hand with his claws, and it growls, “Hurry!”

I don’t have time to consider what this means. I swipe hard. The rope gives. The door opens.

The scraver launches forward with enough force to knock me back. Once clear of the cage, its wings unfurl and it screams with rage. Men shout and scramble as they try to escape its path—running into others who are trying to come through the door. Blood flies as its claws find bare skin.

I sprint through the melee, back to the ladder, and hoist myself up.

“Scraver!” I call, then whistle.

I don’t wait to see if it follows. I just run.

When I reach the storage yard again, I don’t drop gently from the loft. I land hard and roll. I come up running, sprinting into the dusty alleyway behind the tourney.

With a screech and a flapping of wings, the scraver sails out of the loft, gliding to the ground. I expect it to stop, like a chained dog who’s been liberated and found a new master, but it doesn’t. Its clawed hands and feet grip at the dusty ground, find traction, and it takes flight again, wings beating hard against the air. In seconds, it’s high above me.

A whoosh of air announces an arrow, and I duck sideways, my body responding before my thoughts do. I dodge the first, but not the second. Pain pierces my thigh, and my leg goes out. I stumble hard and fall, skidding several feet in the dust.

I force my legs to hold me again, and I’m on my feet, sword and dagger drawn, before the guardsmen get to me. There are only three. Dustan is one of them. His lip is swollen and bloodied from where I hit him. I don’t know the other two, but they both have arrows nocked and waiting. One has three deep scratches across his face and jaw.

Spectators have filled the doorway to the storage yard. Journ, his face a mask of confusion. Worwick, his face a mask of anger. Tycho, his face a mask of anguish.

Worwick grips Tycho’s arm, though, holding him back.

I don’t take my eyes off Dustan, because his action is what will matter here.

“You’ll go down fighting, won’t you?” he says.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe not this hard.” He studies me as though he can’t figure me out. “The prince has been seeking you for months. We’ve long suspected you were dead.”

That would probably be easier. “I’ve committed no crime,” I say to him. “Call off your men.”

“I might have believed that before you ran.” He pauses. “Why?”

He’s not just asking about today. He’s asking why about all of it.

“For the good of Emberfall,” I say.

He must hear a note of truth in my voice, because he goes still. “Explain.”

I tighten my grip on my sword. “No.”

He turns his head. “Shoot his other leg.”

“No!” screams Tycho. He jerks free of Worwick and runs. “No!”

Dustan turns. The bowman turns.

“Stop!” I yell. I imagine an arrow flying, piercing the boy’s chest. I imagine his blood soaking into the dust. “Tycho, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. I wait for an arrow to snap off the string.

One doesn’t. Dustan steps forward and catches hold of Tycho’s shirt before he can get to me. Tycho swings around and tries to punch him, but Dustan holds fast, tightening his grip until the collar pulls tight and Tycho makes a choking sound.

“Enough,” I say. “He has nothing to do with this. Let him go.”

Dustan tightens his grip and lifts his arm. Tycho makes a panicked keening sound.

This is why I forswore family. This moment exactly.

“Please,” I say, and the word costs me something to say.

Dustan’s gaze never leaves mine. “Do you yield?”

“You’ll let him go?” I say, then realize this could mean an infinite number of ends for Tycho. “You’ll leave him unharmed?”

“If I leave him unharmed, you’ll surrender peacefully?”

“I swear it.”

“Then so do I.”

I drop my sword and my dagger, then raise my hands in surrender. He lets go. The boy falls to his knees, gasping for air.

Dustan takes my wrists and binds them with a stretch of leather.

From the dirt, Tycho looks up at me. I can’t meet his eyes.

“Go back to Worwick,” I tell him.

“No,” says Dustan. “Brandyn. Take the boy. Bind him.”

I freeze, struggling against the binding. “Dustan. You swore.”

Dustan gives me a shove between the shoulder blades. “He won’t be harmed. Walk.”

Behind me, Tycho screams. I can’t see around Dustan, but I don’t need to. I know Tycho is afraid of soldiers.

I whirl and put my shoulder into Dustan’s chest. He grabs hold of my armor and keeps me upright.

I open my mouth to swear at him. To beg of him. To censure him. I’m not sure which, but I don’t get the chance to find out. A gauntleted hand strikes me in the jaw.

I go down without much of a fight at all.