Except that’s not what’s happened at all. Fourth army is no longer just a faceless enemy that I can blanket with hate.
So where do I stand, if not securely on the opposing side?
My troubled thoughts get yanked away when I hear a sudden shouting in the distance.
With a frown, I change direction and head toward the noise, my steps quickening. A collective cheer rises up just as I reach a short slope. I dig in my heels and scale the thick snow, footsteps sliding to a stop on the top of the embankment.
Below, there’s maybe two hundred soldiers gathered, lit up by a blazing fire on the flat terrain. There’s a large, crude circle drawn into the snow, and inside of it are a group of soldiers fighting.
Four-on-four, the bare chested men go at each other with a brutality that makes my breath catch. Some of them are riddled with bruises, blood splattering the snow at their feet. They circle each other, attacking with practiced moves, getting a hit in wherever and whenever they can.
Some fight with swords, some with fists, but with every strike, missed or struck, the spectators’ voices rise up in cheers or curses, faces alight with eager fervor. Every time a hit lands, they stomp their feet in the snow, a bloodthirsty drum that reverberates through the ground and travels up my spine.
When one of the fighters manages to slash a red line across the belly of another, the spray of blood makes me flinch.
A second later, someone else gets tossed on their back, snow flying up around his body. His opponent straddles him, fists pummeling his face, one after another. Even from up here, I swear I canhearbones crack. I can smell the sharp iron of blood as it bursts from his split cheek and splatters onto the snow.
Up until now, the soldiers have seemed relatively docile. Marching day after day in perfect formation and setting up camp every night.
But this is like peeking behind the curtain to witness their viciousness, as if I’m seeing what lurks behind the glass. These men are trained fighters, and the excitement of the crowd shows how strong their bloodlust and penchant for violence really is.
A sharp whistle cuts through the din, immediately ceasing the fighting. My gaze finds the source for the noise, zeroing in on Osrik.
He’s standing at the front of the crowd, just outside of the fighting circle. Legs spread wide, massive arms crossed in front of him, his face is stony and authoritative. I know instantly that he’s running this show.
He says something to the fighters, making all eight of them walk out of the circle, some limping, others bleeding. Their bare chests are riddled with the marks they’ve sustained, cheeks pink from the cold, lips swollen from punches. But they grin. Actuallygrin,like tearing each other apart is fun for them.
I think this army needs a new hobby.
Hojat is down there, flitting around with his satchel, eyeing the injuries. He starts applying ointments and bandages to the wounds while the men clap each other on the backs and trade insults, the crowd tossing over taunts and applause.
I’m about to turn away, since I have no desire to watch people get hurt for entertainment, but right as my foot lifts, I see Osrik point to the crowd, picking new fighters.
My mouth drops open when the young serving boy, Twig, gets picked. Floppy brown hair, brown leathers that don’t quite fit him, he looks lanky and small, a stick amidst all the rough and gruff men. That’s probably how he earned his moniker.
Twig walks into the fighting circle and strips off his leather coat and shirt, tossing them in the snow. His bare, skinny chest makes him stand out even more than before. My hands curl into fists as the crowd cheers, while Twig shifts nervously on his feet.
Osrik seems to debate for a moment, and then chooses another fighter from the crowd. The man has blond hair that’s as yellow as a mustard plant and sticks out like a sore thumb. Nothing that bright and colorful belongs in this barbaric display.
His body is lithe and tall, but his slim build doesn’t matter. He’s still a grown ass man with muscles, age, and experience. He has no business fighting a child.
Before I know it, my legs are carrying me down the slope of the snowy bank. Then I’m slipping past tightly packed bodies, shoving, ducking, using my smaller stature to my advantage in order to squeeze through the crowd.
I reach the front just in time to see the yellow-haired man toss an elbow into the boy’s belly. The force of it takes the breath out of Twig, making him bend in half like...well, like a snapped twig.
Anger floods my vision until I’m submerged in a sea of red.
Twig brings his arms up to protect his head, trying to block a set of sharp, quick jabs. The mustard-haired man grins, like this amuses him. The air is tight with thrill from the crowd as they shout, their voices indistinguishable.
My ears burn with every violent encouragement.
Before Mustard can land another hit, I stalk forward and enter the fighting circle. Without hesitation, I implant myself in front of Twig, facing down the soldier with a furious glare.
Chapter 23
AUREN
The mustard-haired man joltsto a stop right before he would’ve struck me. His eyes widen as he drops his fists and looks around, like he’s searching for a reason for my sudden appearance.
