Heroic Abduction (14 page)

“I will get us out of this,” he promised.

Even now he thought only of her. “Don’t die.”

“And leave you alone to cause more trouble?” He managed to grin for a second before his mien turned sober again. “Might I request a kiss from my mate for luck?”

She would have given him more, but as it was, squishing her face against the bars to touch lips with his proved awkward enough. He did his best though, and his hands curled around hers as she clutched the metal rods separating them. “If you see a chance, take it,” he murmured softly against her lips.

An electrical zap fired through her cage. She yelped and sprang back.

Fury ignited Dyre’s eyes, and was it her imagination or did she hear him mutter, “For that, they all die.”

It was hard to tell with the commotion that flourished as guards herded him out a door toward the fighting arena. Dyre shot her a final glance, a fully composed one that he ruined with a wink.
Idiot.
Why couldn’t he act scared like a normal man?

Because Dyre wasn’t like other men. He was a warrior. A hero.
A walking dead man.

She wanted to yell something, encouragement, a plea to run,
I love you,
but the words stuck in her throat, which was clogged tight. Emotions rampaged through her, more than she’d felt in a long time, and it was all his fault. Despite the danger, and the fact he might be walking to his death, Dyre’s last thoughts were of her. The proof wasn’t in her tingling lips or his words or his confidence. No, she held it in her hand. Literally. Clutched so tight its pointed tip dug into her palm was a pin Dyre managed to slip her during their embrace, a pin made to pick locks.

But she didn’t use it right away. She couldn’t because it seemed she wasn’t going to stay in the dark and dank room set aside for fighters who prepped for their bouts. Four ogre-ish brutes hefted the four corners of her portable cell and carted her out the door. Instead of heading to the large portcullis leading to what appeared as a sand-filled clearing, they carted her up a set of steps and up another, a jolting journey of several stories, twists and turns that ended up with her atop a parapet ringing a coliseum-type building. Open to the alien sky, which much like Earth was black at night with twinkling stars, she peeked down into a space several football fields large, filled with screaming spectators all intent on the action already taking place on the sandy floor.

Lucky her, she got the bird’s eye view. Hooked to a heavy-duty chain, they shoved her cage off the edge and she screamed as it plunged. She hit the floor of her cell with a bruising thump as it came to an abrupt stop. Dangling over the arena, her prison swung with an ominous creak.

Not dead yet.
But the situation had definitely taken a turn for the worse. On the upside, she had the best seat in the house, if the most precarious one.

“Revenge should be accomplished no matter the cost.”
– A Mercenary’s Guide to Prosperity

“Forgive those who’ve wronged you.” –
The Unofficial Guide to Heroism

A part of Dyre had suspected Betty would try and escape the ship. Oh, who was he trying to fool? Despite his and Zista’s admonitions to stay on board, he knew she would. Given he expected it, he’d taken precautions, locking the doors with new codes, giving her a stern talk about remaining safe, Zista even threatened to use the intriguing oft-mention Zonian’s manacles to keep her in place.

Sullen and with her lower lip jutting, Betty promised to remain on the ship. “I’ll stay, but just so you know, it sucks. I don’t like it. And I don’t like either of you. Forgiveness is going to require chocolate or something from a bakery, a sweet treat, very sweet.” She’d even sealed her promise and request with a kiss, but he should have known his wily mate would ignore his attempt to protect her.

Did a part of him hope she would so he could come to her rescue?

The protector in him would never stoop so low as to place her in such danger, not here, in the armpit of the galaxy where evil flourished. But the mercenary parts of him? The not-so-nice Dyre who craved danger and wanted her to look upon him with adoration?
Yeah, that part of me definitely wouldn’t mind killing a few ruffians, basking in my mate’s thanks, and then ravishing her.

Of course, Betty couldn’t get kidnapped by regular run-of-the-mill thugs. No, of course not, she had to draw the attention of one of the biggest players around. Not that Dyre cared. The person who stole her would give her back. Unharmed. Untouched. And then he’d die.
No mercy for those who threaten what’s mine.
He didn’t even try to squash the less-than-charitable sentiment.

When Dyre heard about Betty’s abduction, and rather quickly too since the snickers and murmuring started not long after her capture; he immediately headed to rescue his danger-prone female.

Apparently, he wasn’t alone in hearing the news because, before he’d reached his destination, a certain Zonian halted him. “Where are you going with murder in your eyes?”

“To rescue my mate and it’s not murder you see, but retribution. It’s what warriors do when someone dares to kidnap their damsel.” It was also what mercenaries did when someone took what belonged to them. Funny how the rules sometimes overlapped.

“You can’t just rush in there and expect to save her.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got guards up and down the street watching anyone approaching his office.”

“They are there in case of an attack. My plan is to go and speak with him.”
With my fist.
Ahem, he meant his words. Surely, they could come to an amicable agreement once the trader learned of his error in taking Dyre’s female.

Apparently, Zista didn’t think it would be so easy. “Speak with him? And say what? Give me back my mate. You know he won’t.”

“I will offer to pay him. He’s a business man, which means he can be bought.”

“Rich or not, I doubt you have enough.”

“Then I’ll kill him.” In this instance, he would offer no second chance. He spoke the mercenary words aloud, yet for once, Zista didn’t agree.

“A good idea in theory, one I would usually endorse, but in this case, impossible to execute. The trader is well guarded and in possession of Betty. He could use her as a hostage.”

Threaten his mate? The very thought made him run molten hot with anger and at the same time possessed of a deep chill he’d not often felt—fear. “So I can’t buy her back or fight him? What do you suggest I do, then? I won’t let him have her.”

“Of course not. But we must be clever. We must outwit the trader. Word on the street is he’s got a lot of his fortune riding on a battle tonight.”

“How does this help us?”

A sly smile creased Zista’s features. “What if the trader had to forfeit because his fighter were suddenly incapacitated?”

It didn’t take long for her to outline her clever plan. Even less time to implement it, time Dyre cursed because it meant Betty was a prisoner being subjected to who knew what.

But he went along with it. Dyre would do anything to get his female back unharmed.

They put Zista’s scheme into motion, and in short order, one event led to another, a tumbling avalanche of boulders that went just as planned.

First, Zista told a certain Lxroakian about his wife’s infidelity and made sure he walked in on it. The husband got accidentally killed—with some help by a meddling Zonian and Kulin—and a certain wife, who stood to lose her standing and wealth, got revenge by killing her lover. All this meant when Dyre finally stormed his way into Elcoche’s office, he already had a fair idea of how things would unfold.

What he’d not expected was the depth of his rage when he saw his fragile mate held prisoner in a cage—but looking quite delectable in a pink gown that revealed too much of her skin. Skin that belonged to him. Curves that others gazed upon.

Unacceptable.
Noble champions might enjoy showing off their lovely brides, but mercenaries hoarded them. And given the level of rage coursing through his system, Dyre was at the moment more dark warrior than white knight.

That anger-induced adrenaline followed him into the fighting ring where he dispatched with ease the first round of six-legged felines with their saber-like teeth and barbed tails. He even managed a smile for the workers cleaning the ring and promised a bribe. “A chest of fire crystals for you if you have the animals skinned, the fur cured, and sent to my vessel before the final battle is over.”

He could so easily imagine Betty spread atop the soft fur, naked and her eyes half lidded with desire.

Speaking of whom … Her sharp scream from above almost saw him decapitated as his second opponent—an extremely rare eight-legged arachnid from the Aragneenum Galaxy—snapped its razor-sharp mandibles at him. He managed to duck in time, roll under the creature’s belly, and slide his sword along the bulbous flesh. He didn’t quite avoid the splatter of hot guts that spewed forth, though.

As the crowd went wild and the workers cleared away his second conquest, he took a moment to peer up.

And curse.

High overhead, definitely out of his reach, and an unexpected flaw to his and Zista’s plan, was his mate. Still in the damnable cage. Still wearing the gown he couldn’t wait to strip. And wearing nothing over her sex, which he clearly noted given his vantage point and the open-railed bottom of her prison.

He wasn’t the only one to notice. A video hover orb flitted around Betty’s hanging cell, pausing underneath to film. Instantly jealous, he didn’t pause to think, he acted. Dyre hefted a lopped-off tusk half buried in the sand and, with precise aim, knocked the voyeuristic bot out of the sky.

Seeing his attention on her, Betty dropped to her knees in the cage and peered down. “Are you okay?” she shouted.

“Never better,” was Dyre’s reply.

Forget further conversation. A siren went off, and the next round began. It ended much too quickly, which caused some in the crowd to grumble. While it had been some time since Dyre danced with his blade intent on meting death instead of his usual method of defense and mercy, the habit was still ingrained. With Betty’s well-being on the line, there was no time for noble second chances. He didn’t dare draw out the bouts lest he grow too tired when he’d need his energy most.

He turned into a killing machine. A mercenary. His father’s son at last.

At one with his sword, Dyre danced, each slice of his blade well timed and calculated to deliver the most efficient damage possible. If his opponent had a weak spot—like the one-eyed blob that couldn’t stand water, whom he spit on—he didn’t waste time. He exploited it. Jugulars were pierced, making his opponents bleed out in moments. Tendons were sliced, toppling giants. And with each round he won, the cage creaked lower. And lower.

It didn’t bode well. But Dyre had little time to wonder what Elcoche planned for his finale. When the cage finally hit the sandy floor, Dyre knew they’d both run out of time.

He took a moment to speak to Betty, ignoring the roar of the crowd, the rusty and acrid stench of blood and battle. He ignored everything around him as he reassured himself that Betty was safe.

“You are unharmed?” he asked.

“Yes. You?”

He laughed. “It’s like being a boy in the training fields again.”

“And I thought my childhood was messed up.”

Dyre rolled his shoulders. “Male Kulins are taught from an early age to fight. It is what we do.”

“Is this the last round?” she asked, her wide eyes peering around the ring, and despite her attempt at bravado, he could sense a layer of trepidation in her.

“Yes. But fear not. I won’t let you come to harm. You got my gift?”

She nodded.

“And?”

“I was waiting for the right moment to use it.”

“I’d say the moment is now. When you see your chance to escape, use it. Zista will be waiting nearby.” He hoped. In their original plan, she was supposed to grab Betty from the gladiator preparation chambers. He could only assume she’d adjusted their plan and waited nearby.

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Despite the avid watchers, he pressed his mouth to the bars and they managed a less-than-satisfying embrace.

When the crowd’s jeers turned to cheers, Dyre knew it was time to face the final enemy.
What does the trader have in store for me next?

Dyre turned and groaned.

Uh-oh.

“Leave no enemy alive or behind you.” –
A Mercenary’s Guide to Prosperity

“A foe should be given a second chance.” –
The Unofficial Guide to Heroism

Facing down a two-headed dragon with smoke curling from all of its orifices? Not good for anyone’s health, especially when wearing a flimsy gown—flammable she’d wager—while locked in a metal cage. Despite Dyre’s confidence, Betty figured it was best if she relocated—and fast.

Picking a lock while distracted by the tantalizing physical display of her alien husband and a fire-breathing monster, and with the pounding sound waves of a crowd gone wild, tested her ability to work under pressure.

Life or death.

Escape or barbecue.

Lick those luscious abs of Dyre’s or rub them?

By focusing on the important things, she managed to block out the outside distractions, and while she didn’t hear the satisfying click of a lock disengaging, she got to see and reap the results. The cage door popped free and immediately jammed in the rippled sand.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” she grumbled as she dropped to her knees. She used her hands as scoops and dug at the gritty particles preventing her from opening the cage wide enough to escape.

A blast of heat made her peek up even as she kept tunneling. The dragon had shot a stream of fire, the blazing trail of it, sizzling on the surface of the sand even though there was no fuel to keep it going.

Wouldn’t it figure alien dragons would have special flames! She burrowed faster, managing to wedge the door wide enough to push her head out, but forget her ample frame. “Damn my chubby genes,” she grumbled as she worked at the sand some more.