Alpha Omega 02 - Hunting Ground

purpose for which it had been forged.
    Arthur spun to see what the noise was and, from his face, he could now see Charles—either the noise had broken the illusions, or Dana had let them drop.
    â€œArthur Madden,” Charles said formally. “For murder of innocents on the Marrok’s territory, you have been found guilty and condemned to death.”
    He didn’t have to say anything more because Arthur raised the sword and came for him.
    Arthur might have had years of martial arts behind him—but Charles had been trained by his father, a man who had actually used a sword like this to stay alive. Charles was stronger and faster, and Arthur was afraid of him.
    All that said, Charles had never actually used a sword in real combat before.
    Remember, the memory of his da’s voice echoed in his ears, wolves are not human. If you engage another wolf and hit his blade full strength, you’re going to destroy your sword. If you need to preserve your weapon, turn blows away and strike body, not metal.
    His brother’s voice chimed in helpfully, Avoidance is better than a block—less risky.
    So Charles slipped away from the first strike Arthur aimed at him. He kept both feet on the floor—ghosting over the hardwood. Rat-stepping allowed him to strike with better balance and to shift direction faster.
    The room was small. The swords were short. It meant there was little chance to disengage, and fighting was done close range.
    â€œYou’re dead,” Arthur said. “I killed you.”
    â€œYou stabbed me with steel and gloated overly much,” Charles murmured, keeping his mind on saving his sword. Sliding blocks, moving aside, turning, letting Arthur do the work for the moment. It visibly unnerved the British wolf when he didn’t hit anything, so Charles concentrated on not being there when Arthur’s sword snaked out.
    â€œI heal pretty damn fast from small wounds like that.” No need to mention pack magic—let Arthur eat fear.
    Charles was aware of Dana, who had moved back from the actual fight until she stood just outside the room. He’d made the command decision to ignore her. She was not an ally, not anymore—but it was to her advantage if he won this fight. He didn’t care if she took Excalibur. She might have broken her word, but he, and more important, his mate, had taken no direct harm from it. Brother Wolf was inclined to hold her somewhat responsible for Anna’s wound, but all Dana might have done to avert that was tell him about Arthur.
    Arthur was losing it. The smooth, practiced attacks became random and unfocused. Charles stepped up his pace. No longer just dodging interleaved with intermittent blocks, he also began to weave in attacks: two strikes from the left, and a turn and block; right, left, right, down and again—patterns practiced and refined for years—never forgetting that Arthur’s sword was probably less damage-prone. Arthur failed to completely block a strike and a long red line appeared across his chest.
    The pain of it, or perhaps the fear, lent sudden impulsion to Arthur’s return strike, and he hit the other blade squarely. Charles’s sword shattered. He let the energy from Arthur’s blow spin him around. He ducked around Arthur’s unarmed left side and rolled behind, drawing the fillet knife from the back of his pants. With all the force he could muster he stabbed Arthur in the spine, just where it connected with the skull. And the knife, being an expensive, well-crafted tool, slid between bone, through the softer disk, and severed the spinal cord.
    Arthur fell forward, his sword rolling away from his hands.
    â€œI—” Arthur said before he lost the ability to speak.
    Charles picked up the fae blade and severed the British wolf’s neck entirely. Then, blade in his hand, he looked at Dana.
    â€œDid you know he was going to kill his mate?” he asked.
    She smiled apologetically. “He held the sword hostage.”
    â€œNot an answer,” he told her. “But I suppose the life of a human does not matter, not to you. They are so short-lived anyway. What was her life worth? Or Chastel’s—he was a monster, right? What were their lives worth when measured against a sword such as this?”
    â€œSarcasm does not suit you,” Dana said with dignity.
    â€œNo,” Charles said. “I suppose not. He hired you to kill my father?”
    She