J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [727]
Over time, his fighting had grown even more proficient . . . and his horror at himself had lessened. For truth, there was no other path upon which to tread: The seed of his true father and his father’s father and his grandfather’s sire had determined his skin and bone and muscles, the pure warrior bloodline transforming him into a powerful force.
And a vicious, deadly opponent.
Indeed, he found it highly disturbing to have this other identity. It was as if he cast two shadows upon the ground o’er which he tread, as if wherever he stood there were two separate light sources that illuminated his body. And yet, although conducting oneself in such a loathsome, violent manner offended the sensibilities he’d been taught, he knew it was part of the higher purpose he was destined to serve. And it had saved him time and time again . . . from those who sought to harm him inside the camp, and from the one who seemed to wish them all dead. Indeed, the Bloodletter was supposedly their whard, but he acted more like an enemy, even as he instructed them in the ways of war.
Or perhaps that was the point. War was ugly no matter the facet shown, whether it was preparation or participation.
The Bloodletter’s teaching was brutal and his sadistic dictates demanded actions of which Darius would have no part. Verily, Darius was always the winner in conflict contests between trainees . . . but he did not partake of the raping that was punishment inflicted upon those bested. He was the only one whose refusal was honored. His denial had been challenged once by the Bloodletter, and when Darius had nearly beaten him, the male had never approached again.
Darius’s losers, among which all in the camp were numbered, were punished by others, and it was during these times, when the rest of the camp was occupied by spectacle, that he most frequently took solace in his diary. Verily, at the now, he could not countenance even a glance in the direction of the main fire pit, for one of the sessions was taking place.
He hated that he had caused the events to transpire yet again . . . but he had no choice. He had to train, he had to fight, and he had to win. And the sum resulting from that equation was determined by the Bloodletter’s law.
From over at the fire pit, grunting and cheers of lusty derision rose.
His heart ached so at the sounds and he closed his eyes. The one currently exacting the punishment in Darius’s place was a vicious male, out of the mold of the Bloodletter. He frequently stepped up to fill the void as he enjoyed the dispensation of pain and humiliation as much as he did his mead.
But mayhap it would be no longer thus. At least for Darius.
This night would be his test in the field. After having been trained for a year, he was going out not just with warriors, but Brothers. It was a rare honor—and a sign that the war with the Lessening Society was, as always, dire. Darius’s innate expertise had gained notice, and Wrath, the Fair King, had decreed that he was to be taken out of the camp and developed further by the best fighters the vampire race had.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood.
All could be for naught, however. If this night he proved to be capable solely of training and the sparring with others of his ilk, then he would be cast back unto this cave for more of the Bloodletter’s brand of “teaching.”
Never to be tried by the Brothers again, relegated to serve as a soldier.
One had a single chance with the Brotherhood, and the test this moonlit eve was not about fighting styles or weaponry. It was a test of heart. Could he look into the pale eyes of the enemy and smell their sweet odor and keep his head calm whilst his body did act upon those slayers—
Darius’s eyes lifted up from the words he had put upon parchment a lifetime ago. In the cave’s innermost entryway, a band of four stood tall and thick shouldered and heavily weaponed.
Members of the Brotherhood.
He knew this quartet by name: Ahgony, Throe,