With the fire warming her back, she turned her eyes to the skeleton by the hole to the mountains. It provided a focus, and she dearly needed something to distract her.

Vicious teeth spread in the mouth of empty bone. The body had been posed with a paw raised to strike the air. Claws curved on the forepaw that looked able to rend through a ribcage with a single swipe.

The beast must have been a horror while it lived - by size alone it would have easily matched one of the manticores. Yet - for all its menace - the calculating, fanged giant from the arena more than dwarfed it.

A shudder threatened to pass through her, but she forced her body still: she could not afford to draw attention to herself.

“See something interesting, Zabyallan?”

Her heart nearly stopped.

Milos’ gaze was upon her: the lie that appeared a man.

“Would you grant me your name?”

It-no, his. She corrected herself. He appeared a man. He called himself a man. Think of him as a man lest you melt into a wreck.

Predators chased you when you ran. They followed your fear.

And if you were to let yourself collapse…

Tensing, she forcefully turned toward him. The cult leader sat easily, his arms settled and shoulders relaxed. His body spoke no threat. To most, he would appear no more than a wealthy patriarch in his own parlour. His eyes, though…

She could not face his eyes.

Her lips began to move. “Wurhi,” she forced the word out.

“Hrrrrm,” Milos leaned back in consideration. “Wuuurhiiii,” he slowly passed her name through his jaws. It was as though he were tasting it. “Small and unassuming. A suitable name for a thief. And you-”

He turned to Merrick. Relief washed through her.

“You must be Merrick of Laexondael. The Hawk, I have heard some call you.”

“I’ve, uh, got a bit of a reputation,” Merrick muttered.

“More than ‘a bit’ and from what I saw in the arena,” Milos gave him a sincere look. “It is well deserved. Now, to my earlier question.”

His gaze shifted back to Wurhi. “Did you spy something interesting, Wurhi of Zabyalla?”

All relief curdled in her.

“…yes…those bones.” She tried to keep her voice even, to keep his focus on her words and not her fear. “It must have been ferocious. Was it a hard hunt?”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Hrm?” Milos frowned. “Aaaaah, you mean her.” His countenance grew melancholy. “It was no hunt at all: I bred and trained her from a cub.”

“You breed beasts, Lord Milos?” Crixus looked impressed. “We breed a kind of hound in my homeland: they’re strong and can crush a man’s thigh bone with a snap of their jaws. We use them to hunt bear and boar.” He paused. “Did you breed the one in the arena too?”

“Oh yes.” Milos smiled broadly. For the first time it reached his eyes. “He is my triumph in animal husbandry. My greatest so far: three generations of choosing sires and mothers for size and intellect.” He gestured to the skeleton. “His mother was nearly what I wished for…but I had the thought of introducing sorcery into the bloodline. I found a warlock who had a sabre-toothed tiger as a familiar - letting his magics flow through the beast. That siring proved to be the culmination of the family.”

He chuckled fondly. “Now their son learns commands swifter than any of his kind and his hide can turn aside swords and spears. Not to mention his size, speed and strength. Unrivalled, I tell you.” He glanced fondly toward the fireplace. “By Lord Lycundar’s leave, I hope he continues to watch my blessed work.”

“Blessed?” Crixus asked.

“Indeed.” Milos leaned forward seriously. “Our lord teaches that there is great strength found in flesh. More than in bronze or iron.” He took up a table knife. “Look at this blade. It is good. Solid. Sharpened and maintained to perfection, but say I were to do this.”

With a simple twist, he bent it into a ring and held it up for all to see, turning it in his fingers. “For all its strength, it is now ruined. Useless. It cannot be whole again unless-”

Another twist straightened it.

“-it has the help of flesh. But, flesh-”

Shchp!

A swipe of the knife drew a line of red across his palm. Wurhi winced.

“-can change and strengthen unaided.” He presented his hand to the table.

The wound had closed before it could bleed.

“That is power. And I can give further example.” He looked to one of the tapestries upon the wall. Unlike the rest, it hung not in haphazard tangles, but rather stood in a place of distinction. The space about it lay clear, calling attention to the scene woven throughout the thread.

Bare-skinned warriors leapt across a scarlet background with spears lowered in challenge. Before them rose a depiction of a lion with teeth bared and claws spread. Spears and arrows broke on the beast’s hide. It quickly occurred to Wurhi that the tiger’s skeleton had been arranged in the same pose.

“That tapestry depicts a real beast.” Milos adjusted himself in his seat. “When I was a young man, I began to carry a calf up and down the hill of my parents’ farm. In the morning I would lift her to pasture and in the evening, I would carry her back to the yard.”

His eyes turned distant. “That is the beauty of flesh: were I hauling a stone, I would have outgrown it in weeks, but my calf grew as I did. She grew fat. And I grew strong.” He smiled in reminiscence. “After two years she weighed more than six men, but I could bear her on my back without shaking, and a man passing the pasture saw this on one fine summer morning.”

The cult leader chuckled. “He made a face similar to the three of you now! Just standing there, gawking in the fields! I thought he meant to steal my cow! When he rushed over, I prepared to drive him off with a few solid blows, but he said:” Milos’ voice raised an octave but took on a scratchy quality. “‘Boy, how would like your name to live forever?’”

He looked to the three of them, his eyes sparking with life. Wurhi could near believe he was human, after all. “I tell you, there are few more attractive words you can say to a bored, ambitious young man.”

One of the acolytes shifted. “It’s what you said to me, Sacred Alpha.”

“I as well.”

“And to me.”

Milos looked over the three of them with something akin to pride. “I remember, my acolytes. I remember. But as for me, I put down my cow, fetched a club and followed that man’s band of warriors for a hundred days until we reached the Olubrian wetlands.”

He paused and pointed to the tapestry. “And there we met him. He’d blocked-”

The sound of a quarrel burst from the hall.