Chapter 20
Teeth clamping down hard,Týr leaned against the wall, pain shimmering through his right hand. He cradled his wrist. The stump was bleeding again. He ignored it since punching the rough, granite wall would do that.
The small, dark cavern-like cell he’d awakened in once again hours earlier swelled with heat as if he were strapped to a furnace. Except there were no flames. He ran his left hand over his sweaty belly. Nothing but dried gore on his skin. Just remembering all those hands on him, the invasion—the pain—his stomach pitched. Bile rushed up his gullet, and he heaved violently on the ground, so sure his empty stomach would hurtle through his throat.
No matter how many times I die, I can never escape this hellhole.
Death. A peace he longed for would never be his.
He had two choices, he could sit there and cry himself a flood, or he could fight. Ultimately, both led to horrific paths. It was which horror he chose. Death straight-up was his preference, never the other—
Týr inhaled harshly, thick, sulfuric air clogging his lungs. He pushed to his feet and stumbled to the entrance, the invisible bars at the mouth the only thing stopping his exit. As if he could ever leave this godsforsaken pit. The few torches in the catacombs barely cast any light, not that there was much to see from his underground cell.
He had no idea how long he’d been here. Decades…centuries? But to escape one fate, he had to win. The alternative didn’t bear thinking of. He dropped to the floor and started on his single-hand push-ups…
“One-thousand…and thirty-three,” he grunted, when a guttural voice ordered, “Come. The fight starts.” The bars hissed open.
Týr pushed to his feet. The guard grabbed his arm and flashed with him, taking form near huge wooden gates. The rampant coppery odor of gore, pain, and death saturated the place and burned his nose, his numbed detachment the only thing holding him upright.
A booted foot rammed Týr on the back, sending him stumbling into the dusty arena.
Screams of excitement reverberated from the hordes in the raisedamphitheater seats. Someone threw a wet, bloodied, leather-like tunic over his head. It was the old Otium demon who’d first brought the pathetic excuse for armor since the start of his incarceration centuries ago.
Týr tossed the thing aside, causing boos from the crowds to escalate.
“I do not know what offense you committed,” the demon chafed softly, finally speaking to him. “No one deserves what you endure. Ask your gods to grant mercy on your soul.”
His gods?Right. Odin had shunned him for thedisgracehe’d brought to the pantheon.
“Here.” The Otium put a sword into Týr’s left hand and stuck a metal shield over his stump. Pain flared up his arm again.
The crowds went wild as an enormous demon strutted into the arena, the shouts and hoots hurting his head.
No…not him!
Týr preferred a quick death, but it seemed the Fates had deserted him. Not by a twitch did he reveal his wariness, and he hated this weakness. More, he hated that he would die by this sadist’s hands.
A dong resounded, starting the fight. A yell echoed. In a furious, black cloud, the demon spun to Týr and slashed. He hastily countered, but the force of the blow sent his sword flying from his sweat-drenched hand, clattering to the ground some distance away.
Hoots of laughter vibrated through the arena. “Finish him, finish him!”
The demon lunged, sword hissing past Týr’s face and easily removing his shield.
With a sinister chuckle, the scourge threw his sword aside. “See, I fight without weapons, too,” he bellowed at the cheering crowd, then pivoted to Týr. “Come on—come on, what would the great deities think seeing one of their own so weak and pathetic?”
Týr swiped his brow, anger giving way to a dark fury. He didn’t care about the taunt, truly wishing he could kill this hellscum—and he’d killed plenty. Except for this one. He played the crowds and seemed to know more about Týr than any other. No one here cared that he had once been a part of the reigning gods of war in the Norse pantheon. Except for this asshole.
“Should I ask oh, lord and master, how would you likedeathtoday?” the demon mocked.
There was only one way to ensure the end he wanted came swiftly.
Týr leaped at his opponent, the stump he’d first thought a weakness smashing into the demon’s face. Bones cracked. Blood gushed.
“Get him!” the demon roared.
The guards grabbed Týr, pinning him against the arena wall.
At least he’d die having the last laugh. “Scared of a one-handed prisoner?”
