by Todd Herzman
Silence. Just… silence. Before, he’d heard sobs from the other cells. Now, he heard nothing. Were his friends alive? Was Taya? Perhaps the demon had done the same thing to them but had taken too much blood.
That or they could hear him, sitting in their cells. They could hear him but felt nothing when he called, as he’d felt nothing moments ago, or was it hours ago? His mind wasn’t right, his memories… fragmented.
A noise broke his thoughts. The door to the stairs creaked open. Footsteps thudded down each step. He felt the demon before seeing him. He sensed something coming from the man—something faint. It radiated from him in waves. The more Ruben focused, the more he felt each wave wash over him.
Something tugged at Ruben’s neck as the footsteps drew closer. His wound stung. More than before, the pain increasing the closer the demon came to his cell.
Ruben pushed away from the bars, putting his back to the far wall. He glanced around in the darkness for a weapon. All he saw was the bucket. The bowl. He could break the bowl over the demon’s head, but he didn’t pick it up. It wouldn’t do any good. He might be able to feel again—the fire inside him lit—but the night the raiders had attacked his village, Ruben had gone at the man with a hammer.
And been stopped. Like he was nothing. Ruben slid down the wall until he sat on the ground, clutching his knees to his chest.
Before Ruben could fight the man, he needed to fight the demon inside the man. The hidden power. The one he felt right now.
The footsteps stopped. The demon stood outside his cell, staring at him through the bars. ‘I can hear you from the deck. You’re making quite a ruckus breaking your bonds.’ The demon smiled, and Ruben could see his teeth were tinged red.
‘Bonds?’ Ruben said, his voice harsh, mouth dry.
The demon cocked his head. ‘You can feel me, can’t you?’ The demon was stock still in the darkness as a pulsing wave shot from him. It crashed into Ruben, shaking him—shaking him inside—making him flinch. The demon licked his lips and smiled. ‘Interesting. Very interesting. Rise.’
Ruben stayed still out of defiance. The demon might have power over him, but Ruben wouldn’t make it easy.
The demon raised his hands. ‘I said rise!’ An invisible force seized every muscle in Ruben’s body. He was dragged up—pulled into the air. The force thrust him against the wall. His feet no longer touched the ground.
The demon gritted his teeth, hands out in front of him. In the village, he’d made doing such a thing look effortless. Now, he appeared to struggle. He’s weaker, thought Ruben. Or… I’m stronger. Ruben searched for the spark inside of himself. The spark he’d turned into a flame. He still felt the pulses, the waves, coming from the demon—the invisible line tugging at his neck—the power forcing him up against the wall.
But he felt something else too. A ball of… energy, somewhere inside. Ruben thought it was the rage. What else could it be? He thought of Taya, of what the demon had done to her. He thought of the dead back in his village, his brother and sister he’d been forced to abandon. The ball grew. He nudged it, tapped its energy, let it spread through him to every inch of his body.
The waves from the demon weakened. The line between them thinner. Ruben let the rage consume him. He yelled—as loud as he could. He gained use of his muscles and pulled off from the wall. The demon’s brow knotted; his teeth gritted.
Then, just as Ruben almost regained control, the demon smiled. One hand pointing at Ruben, he thrust the other toward the cell next door. Someone gasped. A red mist came from the other cell. It enveloped the demon—entered his very pores, entered his mouth, his nose. He breathed it in—his eyes glowed. The brig brightened though there were no windows. No candles. The light came from the demon.
And with the glow, his power doubled. Tripled. He thrust Ruben against the wall with more force than ever before. The fire inside Ruben extinguished, whatever power to resist going with it.
The light dimmed. But, Ruben thought, consciousness escaping, perhaps it was his own eyes dimming.
Chapter 11
Ella
Ella gripped the coin. She’d tried to convince the guardhouse. The navy. Anyone inside Devien to help her track down the raiders. The second the words ‘blood mage’ had left her lips no one wanted to speak with her.
No one but Reena. She was the only one who wanted to find the raiders. The only one who understood Ella’s drive and took it seriously.
Swords clashed on the Serpentine’s deck. Ella sat, back to the ship’s wall, watching Reena—the captain—sparing Joel, a member of her crew. Boarding this vessel had been a risk, but leaving Billings had been a risk, too. No one in Devien would help, so Ella took her chance with the dark-haired ship’s captain.
Ella had been in awe of the woman since stepping aboard. Reena walked the length of the ship as if it were solid ground. She didn’t get seasick like Ella had the past two days—Reena said that would go away, though Ella wasn’t so sure. Reena often sparred with her crew, using the curved sword Ella had seen at her belt. A cutlass, she’d called it.
Joel slashed down at Reena. Reena sidestepped, slapping away his blade as she moved. She made rebutting his attacks look easy and effortless. Ella had never seen anything like it. Then again, she’d barely seen two swords since leaving her village. Joel came at Reena strong and fast, so much so that he overbalanced, and she tripped him up easily. The sailor hit the deck, his cutlass clattering to the ground.
Reena helped him up. Joel dusted off his clothes. He looked somewhat embarrassed but smiled at the captain before retrieving his cutlass and returning to his duties.
The match over, Ella stared at a world of blue. The waves lapped at the ship’s side. She’d grown used to the sound, if not how the ship swayed.
‘Would you care to have a go?’
Ella turned her gaze from the sea and blinked. Reena stood in front of her, offering a cutlass hilt first. Ella stared at the hilt and thought about what it would mean to spar Reena. ‘I—I’ve never swung a sword before.’
‘What about that short sword you wore into town?’
Ella shook her head. ‘Never used it before. It was something my brother made.’
Reena smiled. ‘Well, wouldn’t you like to learn how?’
‘You’ll beat me in seconds!’ Ella saw the appeal, though. She’d never seen anyone command power like Reena, not even Geral, the unofficial leader of Billings. If she could learn how to do that, maybe people—like her neighbours, like the navy—would listen to her.
Ella didn’t lack confidence. She wouldn’t have gotten this far without it. But she still wondered what she would do if she came upon the raiders. If they moved too fast for her to hit them with her bow, or got in too close…
Ella grabbed the hilt. ‘Okay.’
Reena smiled and nodded. ‘Come on then, let’s show you a thing or two.’
The sword wasn’t as heavy as Ella had expected. It still seemed a lot to swing around, but it was about the same as her short sword. Reena stood in the middle of the deck, her sword forward and her free hand behind her back. Ella mimicked her stance.
‘So… what do I do? Just swing at you?’
‘If you like. But I thought I’d teach you how to stand, first.
‘How—how to stand? I know how to stand. I’ve been standing since I could, well, stand!’
Reena lowered her blade. ‘Stay as you are.’ She came forward, looking Ella up and down. She used her foot to adjust where Ella placed hers, pushing it back several inches. ‘Face your lead foot forward—your toes pointing just right of the direction of the blade.’
Ella did as she was told. The stance felt strange. Unnatural. The longer she held it, the more her legs tired. Reena adjusted her sword, too.
‘Not so tight a grip. You want to be able to manoeuvre it with ease.’
The weight of the sword amplified. Ella’s arm shook with the simple effort of holding it up.
‘
When do I learn to stab people?’
‘When you can hold the blade without breathing heavily, and when standing like this feels natural.’
‘So, never, then?’
Reena smirked. ‘It’ll come to you.’
As Ella stood as still as she could, holding the blade how Reena had shown her, Reena went through a series of motions with her sword. She slashed the air, thrust at nothing, blocked no one, and did it all with poise. Not just poise, though. There was hidden strength in her relaxed movements.
‘What are you doing?’ Ella asked.
Reena talked as she moved. ‘It’s called a ketan.’
Ella scrunched up her face. Her sword hand dipped down. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her feet shook. ‘Okay. And what’s a ketan?’
Reena finished a series of slashing movements, then came back to stand as Ella was. Despite all she’d done, she wasn’t out of breath. ‘It’s a training pattern. My sword master taught me it when I was younger than you. Keeps the body limber, and the movements fresh in your mind.’
Ella’s arm fell. ‘You had a sword master?’
Reena looked at Ella’s sword, tip pointing at the ground. ‘Did I say you could drop your guard?’
‘My arm is sore, my legs are shak—’
‘Bring it back up. As I showed you.’
‘But—’
‘Now, Ella.’
One of the sailors fixing the rope on the mast glanced at them before getting back to work. The mood grew sombre and tense. Ella wondered what she’d done so wrong to make Reena angry. She held the sword back up. The muscles in her arm burned with pain—the weight of the sword too much to bear.
‘I’m sorry, Reena,’ Ella said, in barely a whisper.
‘Don’t be sorry, Ella.’ Reena’s expression relaxed. ‘But if I’m to teach you anything, it’s that you should never drop your guard—even when you’re so tired you can barely hold it up, even when you feel as if you’re about to drop dead from exhaustion. Never let your opponent know you’re tired. Never let them know you’re vulnerable. And please, Ella. Never be sorry to me. Apologising is a sign of weakness. Don’t be sorry. Be better.’
‘O—okay.’ The pain was intense. Her sword arm kept dipping down, but she brought it up as fast and as strong as she could. ‘How long do I have to stay like this?’
Reena raised her cutlass and closed her eyes. She inhaled, opening her eyes on the exhale. ‘Just until I’m finished my next ketan.’
Ella nodded. Feeling too weak to muster a response.
Reena’s next ketan was probably short, but each second felt like an hour. Ella struggled to keep her breath even like Ruben had taught her when chopping wood. But this wasn’t like chopping wood. This was torture.
Instead of focusing on herself, Ella focused on Reena. She gazed at the woman’s movements, putting names to what she did. Left slash. Right slash. Forward thrust. Duck, upward stab. The ketan looked more like dancing than fighting. Ella lost herself in the movements until Reena stopped and sheathed her sword.
Ella collapsed. She almost dropped the sword on her toe as it fell to the deck, sharp point sticking into the wood. She fell on her ass, panting. The muscles in her right arm throbbed and stung. She hugged herself. Holding one arm delicately with the other.
‘It’ll get easier.’ Reena held out a hand. Ella wasn’t ready to stand, but she took it all the same and felt Reena’s easy strength pull her up.
~
Ella knocked on the captain’s door.
‘Come in,’ Reena called.
Ella entered. She’d only been in the captain’s cabin once before, when she’d first come aboard. She hadn’t had a chance to look around. All she remembered was that there were a lot of books. More, Ella thought, than anyone could ever read.
Reena stood over a large, sturdy desk. Dying light peeked through the window. Four candles sat on the desk, the bases of their holders at each corner of a map. Reena peered at the map, flickering candlelight glinting off her eyes.
‘Ella.’ Reena didn’t glance up. ‘Come.’
Ella came forth. She had a question. Several, actually. She’d boarded this ship because she wanted to go after her brother. But they weren’t going anywhere at speed. They didn’t know where the blood mage’s ship was.
‘Reena—’
‘See this island?’ The captain pointed at the map.
Ella looked down, seeing a small island off the coast of what must have been Kharleon. There was a word beside it, written in the same language as on the coin Reena had given her. ‘What is it?’
‘Gailopas.’ Reena rapped her knuckle on the desk. ‘That’s where we’re going.’
‘That’s where the blood mage is?’
Reena sat on her chair. She slumped a little. ‘I don’t know where the blood mage is.’
Ella clenched her fists. ‘Then how—’
Reena raised a finger, then pointed at the island again. ‘There’s a woman on this island. A witch.’
‘A witch?’
Reena’s lips curled into a smile. ‘A good witch. Well, for the most part.’
A good witch? Ella thought. Since when were there good witches?
‘She can help us find the blood mage,’ Reena said.
Ella narrowed her eyes. ‘Why have you never used this witch to find the blood mage before? You’ve been searching for your husband for five years. Why now?’
‘Because things have changed. I have something I didn’t before.’
‘What’s that?’
Reena stared her full in the face and smiled wide. ‘You, my dear Ella. I have you.’
Chapter 12
Marius
No one had bothered to explain to Marius what a Tahali monk was. Billem and Redic had dropped their weapons and invited the man in for dinner. Marius didn’t understand. The villagers had barely any food left after the fires, yet they were feeding this stranger who’d just strolled into town, treating him with an odd respect.
The meal was basic fare. Bread made to last and broth that seemed thinner each day. One of the village’s food stores had been lost during the raid, and with it half the food. But, considering they’d lost a third of the villagers, it wasn’t enough of a loss to let them starve.
They gave the Tahali monk the biggest ration, despite the man’s protests.
The dinner was quiet. Not the solemn, quiet mourning of the past dinners, but a sort of expectant quiet. As if something were about to happen. Those around old Joslin’s table kept glancing at the monk as he nibbled his bread or took slow, careful spoonfuls of broth.
When the Tahali monk’s bowl was empty and his bread was gone, old Joslin cleared the table. Marius, not wanting a scolding, jumped up to help. No one spoke as the table was cleared, despite the questions on everyone’s faces. When the dishes were gone and old Joslin returned to the table, the Tahali monk turned to her.
‘Have you any sick or injured?’
Old Joslin glanced at the other adults in the room. Marius had never seen her so quiet. She didn’t look the monk in the eye. Her head was down, facing the dining table. ‘We do, my lord.’
‘Oh, please. Do not call me “my lord”. I am no such thing.’ He held his arms out. ‘I have nothing but the clothes on my back. Now, please, will you take me to those who suffer most?’
Old Joslin didn’t look up. She nodded once. ‘Yes, my l—sir.’
‘Peiter. Call me Peiter.’
Old Joslin nodded. She stood from the table and led the monk down the hall. Marius slipped off his chair and followed. No one stopped him—none of the adults paid him much mind. Not since the raid. Not since his siblings had gone.
Old Joslin’s house was one of the biggest in the village. When it’d been built, she’d had five daughters and three sons. She’d since outlived those of her children—and grandchildren—who hadn’t left the village to try their luck in bigger towns and cities. And her husband had passed long ag
o. Her house had stayed big, but her rooms lay empty until after the raid. Hulm, who’d been taken by the raiders, had been the last of her grandchildren left in the village.
The sick room had three people inside. Marius had avoided the room as much as possible. Now, he stood by the doorway, peering inside at Peiter.
‘Most o’ those with serious injuries—well, they’re no longer with us.’ Joslin sat by Hishem, who lay on a makeshift bed, his leg broken. It was twisted in such a way that Marius imagined it might never heal right. Peiter took his hands out of his sleeves and knelt by the bed. Old Joslin stared at the monk, worry written on her face. ‘You can heal him?’
Hishem looked pale. Marius realised he had more than a broken, twisted leg. His torso was bandaged tight. The bandage stained red.
The other wounded shifted in their beds. Karli, who’d suffered a head wound. Decius, who lay on his side. He’d taken an arrow to the back of his thigh. They’d been hurt, but the raiders had spared their lives. Marius wondered why they’d taken so many, killed so many, but not these three. Perhaps luck had spared them.
They were all old. Not old like old Joslin, but… older than Marius. Older than Ruben. Approaching or past their thirtieth summer. They watched the monk with suspicion and confusion as he examined Hishem’s leg.
‘I can heal him.’ Peiter looked at the other injured. ‘I can heal them all.’ He closed his eyes. Quiet returned to the room, the only noise bated breath.
Light formed on the man’s hands. Marius stepped back without thinking. He couldn’t help being afraid. The monk had magic. Like the blood mage.
Peiter placed his hands on Hishem’s leg. The light grew until Marius felt like he stared at the sun. He squinted but tried not to look away. The skin on Hishem’s leg shifted and moved. Hishem writhed, pain on his face. The monk’s grip tightened. Old Joslin stepped in, holding Hishem down. The monk was hurting him! Marius took two more steps back. Why was she helping the monk hurt him?