by Amanda Twigg
Landra knew Preston’s game hadn’t just been on the board. He’d used the strategy to assess her weakness, and now he would use it against her without mercy. She had no doubts he would follow through. Sick pooled in her throat at the thought of Dannet experiencing this demon-mist torment.
“This is a game you can’t win, Hux. All the pieces are mine. Well, the good ones.”
Landra wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come. Her eyes were as dried up as her Soul. She hadn’t cried since waking up in this mist-forsaken cavern. Too awful for tears. She clenched her teeth and prepared to renew her sacrifice for Dannet. Whatever the price of giving that power to Preston was, she had to pay. No point both of us suffering. Not the time for doubts.
“Mendog,” Preston commanded, “you’re not allowed to touch the girl unless she gives trouble. Any problems, and you can have your fun. Then finish her quickly and do the job you were given. Dannet will be harder to take now, but that’s your problem.”
“Sir,” Mendog answered, his sulkiness returned.
“And, you”—Preston turned to Landra—“have a good night’s sleep. Training starts in the morning.
You think I’m going to call you “sir?” Never going to happen. Shelk off.
Chapter 5
Initial training took a traditional form, making Landra wonder about Preston’s intentions. She faced Turgeth for the second time in a day, wearing a pink outfit from her clothes chest. She was certain the Warrior chose the Templer color as a visual reminder of her weak position. Wouldn’t he laugh if he knew the dread it settled in her heart?
“Ready?” Turgeth dropped into a fighting crouch.
Go on, Tur, help me regain strength. See if I don’t use it on you. She copied his pose, ready to fight hard. Unwittingly, Preston had given her purpose. She would play his games like a Templer hand of ralti. Winning wasn’t possible, but she could be a stone in his boot.
Color increased in the thug’s mid-blue aura, warning Landra to dodge. There seemed little point in shying from aura sight now, so she used the information to avoid his flying fist.
Brutish, Turgeth. No finesse. You’re going down.
She grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm into a hold. Swinging her Templer robe aside, she stomped her boot on the back of his knee to bring him under control. The Landra from Thisk’s training would have backed off to grieve her magical advantage and accepted Turgeth’s next attack like a martyr.
Not Thisk’s apprentice now. She bent Turgeth’s arm to a more unnatural angle, going for the submission. The stupid man was just too big with an aura too nauseating, and he never appeared to feel pain. He maneuvered free and surged to his feet like an angry bear. Power built in his legs, travelled up through his rotating torso, and erupted into a swing of his branch-thick arm. The blow caught Landra’s head with enough force to fling her away. Turgeth closed in on where she lay, targeting her weak left leg with a stamp of his boot.
“Shelk.” Shelk, shelk, shelk. Can you show me that no-pain trick now? Agony shuddered through her frame.
Turgeth’s coiled body set behind his hammer-head fist, and his fierce snarl promised destruction.
“Stand down,” Preston bellowed from two platforms away. “Can’t have my rebel army out of action.”
The big soldier drew back like a kicked dog, but he shot her a merciless glance. “Next time.” Then, he retreated to the platform corner and wiped his sweaty head on a towel.
Could run at you now. Push you through the guardrail. Nice meal for mud slugs.
She eased up to her feet and set her left toe to the floor. Shooting pains turned her walk into an awkward dance. Not today, Turgeth, but soon. Her next glance took in Preston, and she knew that she wouldn’t dare.
“The fight’s over. Come across for dinner,” the Warrior called.
She found him seated at the fully laden dining table, squirming on his chair like he’d perched on an ant’s nest. What now? All of his moods disturbed her, but this glee was new. Slumping into a chair at the far end from his position, she eyed him with cautious hatred.
“Here.” Preston pushed a paper between the dishes.
She ignored the upturned sheet. What d’you want, traitor?
“No? I thought you might appreciate a catch-up with home. That’s the most recent newsletter.”
Landra’s breath stilled. Home? She reached out, as if to turn the sheet over, but slid her hand past at the last moment to retrieve the water jug. The small defiance was both satisfying and heart-rending. She wanted news from home so bad her guts hurt. Instead of giving in to Preston’s control, she put the jug to her lips and gulped. “Ugh! Not water. Scute.” She shot an accusatory glance at the foul liquid and took another swig.
“Gods of the mist, girl, do you have to make everything hard?” Preston stretched across the table, flipped the sheet over, and slapped it back down.
Don’t look. Don’t give in.
It was torture, and her betraying need forced her glance down. The newsletter wasn’t anything unusual. This one listed current promotions, demotions, and events, but a larger portion of the copy came under the heading “Civil Unrest.” That’s new.
She scanned the document with rising desperation. Soldier and Templer crimes were listed in chronological order. The punishment for breaking treaty rule six, malicious damage to property of an opposing faction, was increased to imprisonment with an option for exile.
“Let me read between the lines for you,” Preston said. “Neither faction abides by treaty rules, and civil war is upon us, even if it’s not yet officially declared. Your father won’t hold onto power for long. Dannet tries to support him, but the boy has none of your grit. He’s struggling with accelerated promotion to Warrior Hall.”
Lies. Landra refused to accept Preston’s assessment, but she couldn’t deny the words on the paper. A list of deserter names at the bottom suggested the world she knew was crumbling. Worse, her name topped the list, standing out because of its bold script.
Deserter? Surely, the newsletter had to be fake, too, but a deep part of her knew Father would treat her disappearance like that of any other soldier. If anything, he would use her punishment as an example. And that’s why her name headed the list. Shelk. Home had never felt so irretrievable or far away. She wanted to throw the scute jug at Preston’s smug face. Instead, she drank the entire contents in one go. Getting drunk seemed like the best idea she’d had in a long time.
“You should eat,” Preston said, his face glowing. “We start a different kind of training this afternoon, and you’re going to need a sharp eye.”
Chapter 6
Both Turgeth and Mendog loitered at the far end of the rope bridge, untying knots. Their end of the slatted structure fell, stranding Landra on the cavern’s largest training platform—alone. What is this? She leaned over the edge and looked down at the supporting stilts. A buzzing nose, roiling belly, and bleary eyes made her wobble against the barrier.
“Pick up the knife,” Preston shouted.
Knife?
The platform was empty, apart from a mannequin in Templer robes and a circular target on a stand. She squinted to bring them into view and spotted a knife buried in the round target’s bullseye. The Collector?
She limped closer. The dull grey blade and cloth-wrapped handle made it look like a cadet knife, but Landra knew her weapon by magic rippling through her aura.
Misting shelk. I really should’ve kept a clear head. This new game—the one where Preston taunted her and she offered up petty acts of rebellion—it was dangerous. One day she’d push him too far, and what then?
She pulled the Collector free and unwrapped the handle, not caring about Preston, and not caring… Wait! She had to care about something, but her drunken thinking couldn’t figure out what. She pressed the weapon flat to her chest, and her Soul recognized it as a piece of home. Echoes of long-dead ancestors bombarded her awareness, providing both comfort and torment.
“Train with the knife
on the targets,” Preston shouted.
Intruder. She peered over the chasm and snarled. The dropped bridges made sense now. If she could clear the gap between platforms or run closer to Preston, she could use the Collector to make a kill throw. But would I? Landra’s scute-addled brain worried about Turgeth’s revenge if she did that.
Pink dots danced through her aura now, as if invading ancestors were partying in her Soul. She didn’t fight them, not even when the rash on her arm pulsed. Magic runs through me. Why shouldn’t I be marked? This was a different kind of submission.
As if given permission to flourish, magical energy erupted throughout the cavern. The roof brightened in snapping flashes, like the overlevel sky during a lightning storm. Oblivious, her captors didn’t react, but roosting gliders scattered and escaped through the roof hole.
Landra knew the magic meant something, but she couldn’t remember what, even when pink threads traversed the high cavern roof. Misty strands writhed, congealed, and then arrowed toward the Collector in a spectacular light show.
She shot a glance toward Preston—Do you see? Do you know?—and then she looked back at her knife. Roiling strands thickened around the blade, and the handle warmed in her grip. She remembered little from her abduction, but the Soul touch fired snatched images of Gallanto through her thoughts. Gods, was that real? As the mist roiled, threads came together and thickened. Gallanto’s wraithlike image reformed in wavering shades of pink, and she remembered everything.
“Oh.”
The Warrior chief grinned. “Is that all you have to say, great-granddaughter?”
She gaped at his wraith form, taking in his luxurious long hair, Hux features, and pressed training uniform. The only thing stopping her from running to hug him was the chance she might fall through his shape and over the platform’s edge. After several beats of silence, she found the right words.
“Where in holy misting shelk have you been?”
Gallanto frowned, his gold-flecked gaze roving the cavern to assess the situation. “Good day to you too.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand. “Shush.”
“Shush? No, I won’t shush.”
“If you talk loud, those men may consider you mad.” He cocked his head toward Preston and his brother.
“Oh, I am mad. No, I’m not just mad,” she said, waving her arms, “I’m shelking furious.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what else I am. I’m hurt, alone, and scared. Where did you go? I needed help and you left me. Do you know what I’ve been through? These idiots stole me, groped me, beat me senseless, robbed me of the chance to go home, threatened me, and…” It was all too much, speaking of her ordeal aloud. Her throat closed, her words failed, and her body shuddered. The ghost chief stepped forward.
Landra edged away and flung her hands in the air, gathering her anguish to aim at Gallanto in another tirade. “No. You don’t get to come back like you’ve done nothing wrong. Look at me. Just look what I’ve become.”
The Warrior chief did look and grimaced at her filthy appearance, battered face, and infection-racked body. “When it all became too much, my daughter, Sonlas, used to cry.”
The immensity of Landra’s ordeal went beyond tears.
“Well, I’m going to stamp and shout. I’m going to scream and fight. I’m going to—”
“Landra,” Gallanto warned.
She was consumed, oblivious.
“Landra…”
Turgeth’s stamping boots on the platform came too late for her to react. She was too angry, too lost, and far too shelking drunk. She watched the brutish soldier brush through Gallanto’s wavering form as if he didn’t know Gramps was there. He strode up to her, his thick fist flying. Landra had been here before but could change nothing, and Turgeth rendered her senseless with one blow.
Chapter 7
Intoxication kept Landra asleep more than her injuries. She awoke clutching her blankets, tormented by heaving guts. Is the cavern moving? She tipped from the bunk and darted for the guardrail. Uh-oh. Vomit spewed onto the platform, and raking pains shot through her head. She hunched over her partly digested meal and forced her thoughts into alignment. Mendog?
The close positioning of the thug’s sleeping area felt like a calculated move to keep her on edge. It worked. There wasn’t a night she rested without constant checking. He wasn’t there now, but a plate of pie and vegetables by her bed showed that he’d visited while she’d slept. A finger touch on the pastry found it colder than overlevel rocks, so she flung the entire meal over the barrier.
“You’ll regret that,” a voice said from the bridge.
Gallanto? Bah. Only Turgeth. Guess you deserted me again, Gramps. “What will I regret?”
“Dumping your food. The boss wants you for a special job.”
She flicked the soldier a glance and then fixed her attention on him. Frayed calf-length pants, a woollen cap with more holes than threads, a dirt-streaked face, and a flapping grey jacket. Is this a joke?
Turgeth dropped a pile of rags onto her bed. “New orders. You’re to dress in these. Oh, and Preston says you’re forbidden to drink.”
“My only escape denied?”
“Escape? You were off your head and hallucinating. Boss didn’t like the way it disrupted training, so you’re cut off. For me, you can knock yourself out. Best laugh I’ve had all year.”
She recalled the event and rubbed her tender cheek. “You hit me.”
“It was either that or throw you over the barrier.” He nodded toward the rags. “Change quickly. The boss is in a mist-demon mood.”
The pungent rags made Landra’s stomach churn again. Garbage chute leftovers? What’s going on? The tattered clothes looked like they were fifty-year-old cadet issue. She had no choice. Off went the Templer robe and training skins. On went trouser rags with jagged points near her ankles. She slipped a torn shirt over her head and picked at a loose stitch where a sleeve dangled. The clothes were worse than the party outfit she’d dumped into the bog. “Ready.”
Turgeth looked up. “Slippers off.”
“You’re wearing boots.”
The soldier’s impatient glare silenced her, and she kicked off her shoes.
“You’ll do.”
“For what?” She looked like a hobo on hard times, and with her hair sprouting tufts in every direction, she wouldn’t pass Thisk’s inspection for a remote land trip.
The soldier ignored her question, nipped her arm, and dragged her across the bridge. He retraced his route through the cavern: bridge, platform, walkway, kitchen, another bridge, a ladder down, stone stairs…
Landra snatched a breath. This was Preston’s route for leaving the cavern. Ransom? Nah, you’d have tidied me up. Release? Her lungs wouldn’t work. Are you coming, Father?
Turgeth gripped her arm for the clamber up the staircase and then pushed her over the last step. She stumbled onto cold stone, scraping her knees. As she hunched there, Preston’s boots came into view. A grey, threadbare cloak swished about his calves, with mud slicks shooting up from the hem to his waist. His trousers were torn at the knees.
“Stand,” Preston said. Sharp. Angry.
Strong arms hauled Landra up. She flinched before the Warrior’s furious gaze and would have retreated if the ledge rim wasn’t close. Preston had steel in his jaw today, and his aura declared the world owed him an apology. She’d faced the temper of powerful men before—Father, Thisk—but her pitiful existence hinged on this man’s whims. Gods of the mist.
“No hat?” Preston demanded.
Landra’s mouth worked as her world skewed another notch. Gone were the mindless games, uneasy surviving, and constant dread—something had changed. Turgeth’s juddering aura put everything into context. Scared, too, Tur? What the shelk’s going on?
The soldier scrambled to where the rock met the ledge and groped along the join. He returned with a handful of dirt and smeared it over Landra’s scalp. She
shuddered from its chilling touch but didn’t struggle. There was a time for rebellion, and this wasn’t it. Just when she needed clarity, her head thudded and swam.
Mendog arrived on the ledge, gasping like a beached fish. He looked as battered as Turgeth, but his slack shape lent credibility to his tattered visage.
“We’re ready,” Preston said, tucking his long hair beneath a frayed cap.
Ready for what?
However the Warrior might want to disguise his identity, Landra only saw the traitorous scars on his Soul: streaks of harsh white cutting through his blue aura. He strode to the far end of the ledge where a rocky outcrop overshadowed the wall. No, not the wall. Hidden in the gloom, Landra spotted a browner area…and woodgrain. A door?
She gasped. After months of imprisonment, her first glimpse of the cavern exit surged her emotions, almost to sickness. Thick wood, strong hinges, complicated lock. Not easy to force. Is home through there?
She wanted to believe, had to believe, that rescue would come one day. Are your soldiers here, Father? Are they coming to save me? Her heart drummed and tears threatened, but she held them tight. Releasing the longing in her heart felt like it could tear her to shreds.
The door swung away, revealing blackness beyond, but Landra saw pink veins shoot through the walls, shimmering with magic to light her way. More threads rolled across the ceiling, momentarily clumping into almost recognizable forms. She reached a hand toward the frittering strands and stared. Gods, I’m so lost.
Chapter 8
Turgeth claimed a flaming torch and led the way. Landra followed, her soaring hope tempered with caution. She’d tolerated imprisonment, not believing she would survive to its conclusion. She still wasn’t sure she would, but right now… A chance.