Black Fire Book 2: The Sword-maker
Author
Elena Ayre
Reads
17.7K
Chapters
39
After almost killing one of the most powerful warriors in the land, Murron has become his prisoner.
And now he must decide her punishment.
So what will Leon choose to ensure that her debt is repaid?
Take her as his sex slave? Breed with her to replenish their numbers after the last war? Or just never let her go?
Chapter 1: One Arrow She Could Not Miss
MURRON
Three tall, strong men stood on the stone balcony overlooking the crowd. Their wide, bare, bronzed torsos were tight lines of hard, carved muscles that rippled with furious strength, and their chiseled biceps bulged with power. But it was the man in the center of the three who was the largest and most virile of them all.
Taller and wider, his stance proud and dominating, he looked as though he controlled everything that lay under the burning heat of the summer sky.
He was standing with a sword at his hip, a broad chest that was strapped with a knife-filled sheath, wearing leather pants that hid nothing of his size and the power of his thighs, and I noticed that his left arm was sleeved with the strong, clear lines of a black-inked tattoo.
But it was not any tattoo. It was a distinct mark—a symbol of who he was and the power that he had been born with. Not only was he a warrior, but he was a Sword-maker with the strength of steel coursing through his veins.
The large man raised his arm high into the sky. Immediately, the chattering crowd held their breath and a hush descended. Then the sound of a loud horn blared through the scorching air, and the crowd cheered.
The auction had begun.
One by one, under the intense glare of the midday sun, a line of naked prisoners was led out into the arena by their slave masters.
Bound together by chains around their ankles, hands tied behind their backs, eyes downcast to the hot sand that stung their worn, grazed soles, they were paraded in front of the crowd and auctioned to the highest bidder.
A deep pain twisted in my gut as I watched them from the top of the circular stone wall of the ancient amphitheater.
I knew what it was like to be one of them—to be stripped naked and sold as a slave, to be humiliated and terrified while awaiting my fate. But if I had anything to do with it, the fate of these prisoners would be freedom.
With a deep breath, I stood up and set my feet apart. I was a silhouette in the distance, a lone figure standing on the top of the wall that surrounded the arena, poised in front of the burning orb of a golden sun.
Taking an arrow from the quiver on my back, I placed it on my bow, drew back the string, and took aim. The tallest man, the dominant one who was as fierce as he was beautiful, looked up. He saw me, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his chest expanded in a deep inhale of breath.
But it was too late. I had already fired my arrow, and it was flying so swiftly it hit its target in seconds. I took out another arrow, then another, and launched again.
Each time I fired I could not miss—every arrow had to go exactly where I intended, and every arrow had to play its part in a swiftly coordinated strike to free the prisoners.
And they did. First my arrows found the three strong men who stood on the balcony, then the slave masters, and finally, before the gasping crowd had even spotted me, I took aim at the large metal lock that held the chains of the prisoners in place.
This was the target that I could not miss. With only the narrowest gap between the man and the woman on either side of the lock, there was no room for error. A bead of perspiration slipped from my brow, and my left arm was on fire with burning pain so intense I did not know if I could hold on long enough for my aim to be true.
But I had to. No matter the cost to me, I had to do this. I felt my body begin to sway and my head to swim, but with determination, I adjusted my stance, drew back my elbow, and fired from my bow with an aim that hummed in my bones.
My energy was spent and I was on the verge of collapse. But I did not take my eyes off the flight of my arrow, and as I fell to my knees, I watched it shatter through the lock with a loud, brittle crack.
The prisoners were free.
My eyes fluttered, and my mind misted over into a hazy blur. Then my world went black and I tumbled helplessly to the ground.
***
Twilight stretched the shadows of two giant silhouettes that loomed over me. Two men, wide and strong, pulled my limp body from a thick layer of grassy bracken where it had lain, half buried.
I kept my eyes shut and pretended to still be unconscious.
As they spoke to each other in gruff whispers, I learned that the taller one was named Leon, and the smaller one was named Magilligan.
“Leon, I think it is a boy,” Magilligan said. He was crouched down beside me, his breath hot on my skin.
“Bring him to me!” Leon said. His voice was deeper, more commanding, and it simmered with anger. His silhouette was large and imposing, completely dominating the moon and stars. “He must be the one who tried to kill me!”
“Very well, sir,” Magilligan said, leaning down to pick me up.
“Wait!” Leon said. “There is something about this boy. Something about his smell is not…” He moved closer to me, putting his face on my neck, scenting me for whatever it was that disturbed him.
I tried to still my breath. Could he smell it? Could he sense even in the darkness that beneath my disguise, I was not a boy?
“Leon!” Magilligan retorted. “It is late! We have been in battle for four months and it is time to finally get home! I have a woman waiting for me, and I need to feel her in my arms and around my cock! Let’s just take this boy now and see to him tomorrow when we have daylight on our side and satisfaction in our bones!”
The man called Leon grumbled in reluctant acceptance. “Very well! I will lock him in the barn when we get back. And I will deal with him in the morning!”
Magilligan lifted me up over his shoulders like I weighed no more than a wild cat, threw me onto the back of his horse, strapped me down uncomfortably, and rode with me through the night.
But despite my discomfort, my pain, and my semi-conscious state, I knew these two men who had found me were warriors. And I knew that one of them, the larger one called Leon, was the man from the arena who bore the mark of a Sword-maker.
Everyone raised in these lands knew the stories that clung to the warriors—stories of strength, courage, desire, and the mythical power of their swords and their shields. But the story they closely guarded behind the walls of their castles and fortresses was the story of Black Fire.
A rare and magical flame that the warriors seemed to have claimed as their own, Black Fire was a living, breathing thing that could grant the answer to any problem too impossible to fix.
But the fire always took a price for its gift, and never one of the asker’s choosing.
I knew these tales were true. I had heard them uttered a thousand times, but whatever Leon planned to do with me, using magic or not, I refused to be his prisoner, his slave, or his servant—and he would not be my master. As soon as I was able, I intended to escape.
