War God for Hire- Gladiator David Burke (bookreader TXT) 📖

Kyle hobbled forward again. Neither his left leg nor his right arm worked, but his will was indomitable.

He had been played like a fool. He should have seen the trap. Darron had been too eager to have him return. He should have listened to Hilde. The chains, of all things, should have made it obvious, but he has been too confident in his newfound strength. He felt like an idiot, but maybe it wasn’t too late.

He stumbled forward and, when the remaining soldiers came running, he surged out with that same power again. It was child’s play. The power roiled within him; all it needed was a will to tap it, a channel to follow.

The soldiers were sent flying. Spears and bones alike snapped.

Then the second mage raised a robed arm and a frail-appearing hand jutted out from a voluminous sleeve. From the outheld palm, a flash of light streaked at Kyle.

A sudden explosion struck Kyle in the chest, and he felt as his eyebrows had been singed off. His cloth shirt caught on fire from the attack and he dropped the pick to rip his shirt off.

He squatted down on one leg, wondering why a second ball of fire hadn’t already consumed him. Maybe it was what Hilde had talked about, with their conversion rate not being fast enough, but he didn’t think that was the case.

As he looked back over his shoulder, he saw Darron and the other fat man yelling at the mage.

Again, for some odd reason, it seemed they were intent on capturing him. A second later, two soldiers dragged a struggling Lucas out from the crowd of workers. One had a short sword, something like a Roman gladius, held to his throat.

Kyle froze. He would willingly put his own life on the line, but Lucas didn’t deserve this. Freja and their three children didn’t deserve this. His thoughts raced back and forth. Could he surrender to save the life of a stranger? Should he? Would it make any difference at all?

The thing that kept coming back to his mind was that, despite the attacks on him, they clearly wanted him taken alive. Alive always meant he had a chance. Better to surrender now, he thought, and have a chance to fight another day.

He grunted and then dropped to his one good knee, tossing his pickaxe to the side. He was surprised when it poofed into nothingness as soon as he did, but that was small potatoes type magic, when compared to balls of fire and hands of stone.

They yelled orders and him and he finally figured they wanted him to lay on his stomach with his arms outstretched . At this point, he was committed to his plan. He needed to show compliance and put them at ease. The soldiers who came up to him to snap manacles on his right ankle and left wrist looked terrified, but managed to accomplish their tasks.

He felt himself being hauled up and placed on the back of a wagon. The sky overhead was blue; the breeze felt nice against his skin. It was the oddest sensation for him to notice. He couldn’t feel any of his limbs and focused on a breathing exercise one of his athletic trainers had worked so hard to teach him.

Eventually, the fat man who had been standing next to Darron came up. He leaned over the side of the wagon. Kyle could smell his breath. It stank of diabetic ketoacidosis. A sick and fruity, sweet smell he had first noticed on his grandfather, as a child.

The fat man’s teeth were yellowed from chew. He’d seen it before. Most ball players stuck to sunflower seeds, but some of his coaches still used chewing tobacco.

The man said a few gloating words to Kyle. His tone was infuriating. Even though Kyle had no clue what the words meant, he felt like he was being spoken like he was a small child or a dog. It was patronizing and singsong. Kyle knew he should have swallowed his pride and let it go, but he’d be damned before he’d let a fat slug who probably couldn’t even do a sit-up talk to him like that.

So, he did what any self-respecting reincarnated war god would do, and he used the few muscles he could control to slam his head forcefully into the fat face leering over him. A satisfying crunch, spurting blood, and cry of pain made it all worthwhile.

A moment later, the second mage leaned over him and shook his head. A loud, swiftly spoken word of power was all that was required to send the four manacles on his wrists and ankles into overdrive. Kyle pitched into the swelling black as his consciousness faded.

On his way down into darkness, the last thing he heard was Hilde’s voice saying, “I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but…”

Chapter 8 - Harsh Realizations

It seemed rather musty and dim when Kyle came to. The air around him reeked of sweat and human bodies, with a faint hint of the coppery smell of blood. Instead of moving to sit up right away, he felt around. Better that he got any sense of where he was, before letting his captors know that he was awake.

Then something dawned on him. “Hilde, are you there?”

There was no response.

“Look, I know I was stupid and should have paid more attention to what you said,” he thought as intensely as he could, hoping that somehow broadcast it more clearly.

When there was still no answer after waiting for what felt like ten minutes, even if it was only a fraction of that, Kyle prepared to start trying to feel around.

“Is that what passes for an apology from an almighty war god?” Hilde finally asked.

Relief surged through him. She might be a pain in the butt, but he was man enough to admit that she knew far more about the setting here than he did,