Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

can’t be manipulated.” I leave my arm around her shoulder and hold her close.

Iron Valour leads the charge. All four of the standing combatants are on the move. The Regenerator dashes straight to the Sleeper to heal him while Iron Valour and his two allies race toward the conflict. He snatches one of the arbor beasts while in a full sprint and manipulates it into something…something different. Something resembling a rather large mace with a green plume of grass at the head.

As he gets closer, Iron Valour whirls, swinging the club about him, and manipulates its length just enough to smash into the nearest Aggressor’s chest. The Aggressor attempts to deflect it, but the blow is too much, snapping both of his arms and sending him sailing through the air. He lands several paces back, unconscious—or worse.

The crowd erupts with excitement. Astor flinches at the act, which incites me to poke at her. “I don’t think he’s getting up from that one.” I pull her in tighter with a slap-worthy grin on my face.

“That is disgusting! I know I am the advocate of this evening out, but this sport is beyond brutal. I never imagined…” Astor slumps down in her seat.

Not knowing how to lift her spirits, I just leave it be and continue watching.

The Sleeper, now at full capacity, rises to his feet alongside the Regenerator. Although the biggest in the squad, the Sleeper is rather quick and retrieves the unprotected ironball lying so casually in the sand. The Iron Eagle’s timepiece is on the move. Again, the crowd bellows with approval.

The two Iron Eagles race back to their fortress of vines with one of the Carnivores right on their heels. Larger than any of the Iron Eagles, he barrels straight for them at an expedited pace. Aware of the pursuant, the Sleeper shifts the sphere to the Regenerator then leaps straight into the air, inverting himself above the trailing Aggressor in red. On his way down, he presses his hands firmly on the brute’s shoulders and wrenches with full strength. The man’s legs continue bounding forward, but the rest of his body is shoved to the ground with incredible force. When he hits, his entire upper body shatters into multiple pieces.

Another thundering boom echoes throughout the arena. Much of the crowd jumps in surprise, and the remainder jeer and hoot. And there are likely a handful like Astor who cover their eyes.

A formidable man in an iridescent, black cloak steps into the arena to address them. All of the able combatants line up shoulder to shoulder, the two teams across from one another, and the arbor beasts go limp and degenerate back into the sands. He has a discussion with the combatants, and the crowd silences with anticipation of the verdict.

“Who is that guy?” Astor whispers, trying not to disrupt the silent crowd.

“The Punisher,” I whisper back. “The enforcer of the few rules they have in this sport.”

The Punisher clears his throat to speak. “Iron Eagle’s penalized two clicks…” The crowd grumbles their disapproval. “…and the Sleeper has been ejected from the battle for improper use of talents.” The crowd rumbles louder, but in an accepting manner. The Punisher then proceeds to bind the wrists of the Sleeper and escorts him off the field of battle. Both teams follow, retreating through the tunnels from which they entered. As they leave, a cleanup crew comes hustling out to where the disassembled body lies.

“What’s happening?” Astor calls out, trying to raise her voice above all the distraught spectators around us.

“An intermission. He’s being ejected for foul play. Although there are few rules in this sport, the primary rule refrains any combatant from using his talent on an opponent in an irreversible manner. Which means no petrifying and smashing your opponent into a thousand pieces. He won’t return to the sport. Ever.”

“That’s it?” she replies with a jerk in her posture.

“Yeah.”

“Simply using your talent on a human is taboo. And he just murdered a man! In plain sight! And he is banished from the sport? That’s it?”

“Um, yeah.” I shrug. “It’s part of the sport. Talents are a permissible force to be used. Except when they’re irreversible.” I wave my hand to the arena floor where the body is being swept up.

“Disgusting.” She crosses her arms, shakes her head.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, Astor? I need to go use the piss…uh…the lavatory.”

“No, you mean the pisser.” She grimaces. “We’re at a distasteful Ironball match. I think you’re allowed to put your manners aside while we’re watching men beat the piss out of each other.” Then the slightest of smiles forms at the corners of her mouth.

A change in attitude. A satirical acceptance. I smile. “The pisser, then. I need to use the pisser. I’ll be back.”

The circular halls surrounding the battlefield are filled with merchants, consumers, passersby, and beggars. Anyone can get into the arena. Only the entrances to the stands are guarded and require paid admission, which leaves the halls of the arena a prime spot for ribs to be had, spent, or stolen. Pickers are abundant amongst the crowd as well. I keep my eyes alert and my hands guarding my belt after my incident at Madrone’s Mistress.

As I near the pisser, a young, blond man moving swiftly through the crowd steals my attention. It couldn’t be. He died long ago. I shrug it off as just a coincidence. He’s merely on my mind because Astor probed about him earlier today. That’s all. I comb my fingers through my hair. Who am I kidding? His death is always on my mind. I outstretch my hands, fingers out, palms up, and hold them away from my body as if they’re vile, deadly creatures. His death is on my hands.

After a ridiculous wait, I relieve myself and head back. The halls are clearing a