by C. J. Aaron
Elias slowed as the mercenary turned to meet his advance. His arms hung slack at his sides as he came to a stop a few meters from Andr. For a moment, all was still in the chamber. Most, Cray included, were seemingly paralyzed with the abject fear that weighed them down. Blood dripped from the tip of Elias’s sword, beating a steady cadence on the hard-packed floor.
Andr stood at the ready, his body blocking Elias from the phrenics at his rear. His sword was drawn though he held the tip low. He waited, anticipating the corrupted tribute’s next move. He exuded a confidence that was palpable. To Cray, it was an awe-inspiring sight.
Elias paced slowly. His head cocked slightly side to side as his blackened eyes darted across the room; they were chilling, cold, calculating. Both men were locked in a duel of preparation.
Anticipation.
It was Elias who struck the first blow.
The attack came not with the sword, but with emotion. His feeling pulsed outward, suffocating the room with a raw, potent force that dwarfed his previous onslaughts. Around him, the chamber dimmed as a wave of blackness swelled from his core. The dull light of the flickering lanterns mounted to the walls faded as if the darkness was too thick for their rays to penetrate.
All through the room, those not incapacitated by injury shrank away. They cowered at the sensory attack that hammered into them all, driving them into the floor. Cray was hardly immune from the assault. His heart raced, thundering in his ears as it hammered against his chest. Panic surged through him.
His body cried out. The urge to flee was intense, yet his feet were rooted to the ground. The internal torment was agonizing. It was as if his body and mind were about to rend him in two.
He raised his hands instinctually, clamping down on the muscles in his core to protect himself as the wave of shadow that accompanied the emotion slammed into him.
It was cold.
Hateful.
Cray struggled to maintain his view of the two warriors on the opposite side of the room.
Of all in the room, Andr seemed entirely unfazed by the onslaught. His eyes were locked onto Elias.
Focused.
His right hand squeezed the hilt of a naked blade. He flexed his fingers, finding a comfortable hold on the wicked, curved sword they’d confiscated from the ill-fated Lei Guard. Andr’s knuckles whitened under the force before relaxing again into their natural lethal grip. The tip of the blade remained angled downward toward the earthen floor at his side, yet his body was coiled in preparation.
The quiet that blanketed the chamber was deafening.
Yet it wasn’t to last.
Elias’s blackened eyes glared at Andr. The malice in their intent was palpable. The corners of his lips curled into a snarl that was eerily feral. In the flickering light in the room, dimmed by the wave of blackness, his teeth glistened.
Andr met his agitated stare with a look of intensity that was chilling in its calmness. The mercenary rolled his shoulders as the hint of a smirk tugged up on the corner of his lips.
With a growl, guttural and wild, Elias charged forward.
Andr leapt forward a few steps, meeting the powered charge without faltering. Their blades met, sparking as they slammed into each other. The movements of Elias were dizzying in their sheer speed and ferocity. Andr, his back to Ryl and Kaep, struggled valiantly to maintain in the face of the onslaught. Across his garments, thin razor cuts began to blossom. The slashes leaked crimson, quickly staining the mercenary’s tattered clothing.
Andr moved with a shocking speed that closely matched the attacking demon. His effort, dauntless as it might have been, was destined to fail. His actions were solely on the defensive. The snarl grew across the face of the wicked, shadowed version of Elias as blow after blow began to strike home. His awe of the mercenary’s defense morphed into utter horror as the reality of the situation dawned on Cray.
His eyes roved the room. Most men and women capable of holding a blade, guard and tribute alike, were pinned to the floor, victims of the oppressive wave of hate, fear, and malice that crushed them down.
Still, Andr fought.
His defense was failing. Cray knew it was but moments before he watched the mercenary—revered by the tributes as Ryl’s savior, and one who had risked all to see to their freedom—was to be cut down before his eyes. Only days earlier, the man had thrown himself in front of the blade from atop his charging horse to save him.
The frustration that burned within his body raged at the sight. At the affront to his eyes. Cray felt as if his blood boiled as the anger took over.
He was on his feet before he realized his body had encouraged the action. There was a sudden flare, a momentary flash of searing pain as he leapt forward, breaking the bond of the hatred and fear that had kept his feet rooted to the ground. His body was propelled forward, as if drawn by a force not his own. Cray lunged forward in defense of the stranger who’d willingly sacrificed himself to exact their survival.
Heat lanced through him as he charged forward toward the fray. The distance, some twenty meters, seemed to vanish in an impossibly short time. With a scream of pure rage, unarmed and without training, he threw himself into the fight.
Cray had acted impulsively. He’d given no thought to what he could do. What he would do as he entered the vicious duel between trained swordsmen. Few would have dared enter a battle between the Lei Guard and the mercenary. A spark flashed as swords clashed with lethal intent to his front. He dropped his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he anticipated the impact with Elias.
For a moment, the attention of the attack turned from Andr. The precision focus altered as it accounted for its new attacker. The mercenary lunged forward as the distraction granted him a window of opportunity. The flat of his blade hammered against the exposed forearm of Elias. The Lei Guard roared in rage.
His blade fell to the floor, kicking up chunks of packed dirt as it bounced once before settling to the ground.
With agility that he could scarcely comprehend, Elias, though disarmed, pulled back from Andr. He twisted his body an instant before the charging tribute made contact. Cray’s satisfaction was short-lived.
His relief turned to panic.
He felt the iron grips of Elias’s hands clench down on his shoulders. Pain surged through his arms as they squeezed their hold. Elias spun his body, carrying Cray with his rotation. The tribute’s feet lost their contact with the ground. Elias used the momentum of his attack, accelerating as he spun round.
Cray wasn’t sure where in the rotation Elias released his hold. The whole world spun around him as he flailed uncontrollably through the air. He felt a jolt of pain, accompanied by a curse, as his unexpected flight collided with another body.
He recognized the voice.
Andr toppled over him as his body crashed into the mercenary’s lower legs.
Though the turn of events was jarring, Cray found himself back on his feet within a blink of an eye. Sticking out of the ground less than a pace away, the wicked, curved sword that Andr held, once the possession of the Lei Guard, wobbled gently side to side. Its tip was buried a hand’s width into the floor of the chamber.
Cray grabbed the blade with his right hand. His fingers closed around the grip, flexing as they squeezed the worn wrapping. The blade seemed to sing, a high-pitched note that sounded through the room as it slid free from the dirt. Though he’d held a blade only a few times in his life, he felt strangely comfortable with the weapon in his hand. As if he’d been training with it for cycles.
His feet shifted, widening their stance, his knees bent slightly. Coiled, ready to strike.
For that instant, he felt a sudden calm flow over him. It was wavering. His grasp on the unexpected serenity was tenuous, though it coated every fiber of his being.
The figure standing several paces to his front shattered his newfound determination with a single motion. Elias had not been idle as Cray had scrambled for the blade.
Andr stood, though not of his own volition. The merc
enary struggled, though his actions were futile, wrapped in the steely grips of the Lei Guard. Elias’s left arm was curled around the mercenary, locking him in place. The other slowly lifted a blade, the razor’s edge coming to a stop against Andr’s bare neck.
The horror must have been apparent, written across Cray’s face like writing in a book. Elias glared at him, his hateful stare stabbing through him like a knife. The wicked grin that spread across his face was haunting, more feral than human. The blackness, gone in the days prior, now pulsed out from around him, its inky tendrils reaching out like feelers.
His eyes quickly darted across the room before returning to rest on Cray.
“You’ll watch this one die,” Elias growled. His raspy voice was hushed, yet the words and intent were clear. He pointed the blade in his hand toward Cray as he continued.
“You will be next,” he hissed.
Cray watched in desperation as the blade inched closer to Andr’s neck. The mercenary’s struggle intensified, yet he was helpless in the arms of the Lei Guard. The attempt was hopeless, yet Cray refused—his body refused to remain idle watching. The scream built up in his throat as he sprang forward.
“Elias, no,” came the cry from behind Cray.
The voice was frantic, powered by raw emotions so strong They were palpable. He felt desperation, an infinite sadness, and compassion tear through him as the sound rang throughout the room. He stumbled as the voice from behind seemed to push him as he lunged at Elias.
Though he’d never known that force, he’d recognize that voice anywhere.
It was Sarial.
Cray staggered forward for a step, risking a momentary glance behind him. Sarial stood while the rest of the room still cowered beneath the weight of Elias’s assault. Her posture was rigid, her arms hung down at her sides, her hands clenched into tight fists.
The look painted across her face was chilling. Sarial’s eyes were wide. They spoke of unending pain and of loss. She was the eldest of the tributes by numerous cycles. Her curse was to remain for cycles beyond when most here were gone. How many had she seen Harvested in her time within The Stocks? Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Elias, please,” she whispered as Cray’s head whipped back to Andr and his captor.
Elias’s blade had been moving for a killing strike. A fatal slash to the neck that would have painted the surroundings in a spray of crimson. It now hovered a finger’s width from Andr’s skin. The snarl still remained as it tugged up on the corners of his lips, yet, it had softened, releasing ever so slightly. His head tilted a degree to the side as if out of curiosity. The emotions held in his eyes were the most telling.
Swirling in his blackened orbs was a look that was starkly incongruous to the sheer hatred still written across his face. The depth of his eyes spoke of sorrow, pain, and an innate fear that dwarfed any emotion he’d projected thus far.
The blade in his hands wavered. The hints of movement reflected flashes of light from the lanterns and fire spread throughout the room. Cray felt the sudden shift in the atmosphere as the paralyzing dread slowly withdrew. There were muffled sounds of motion from all sides of the chamber as guards and tributes alike struggled in their fight to rise as the crushing weight subsided.
Elias let his blade lower. His hand moved slightly to Andr’s side, though his grip remained firm. Cray, following suit, lowered the angle of his sword, the point falling toward the floor. He locked eyes with the man, the tribute he had known for cycles. For a fleeting moment, he registered the unmistakable look of familiarity. There was a flicker of understanding, the sparkle of life in Elias’s eyes.
With a jarring suddenness, much like fingers snuffing out a candle’s fragile flame, the flicker of humanity vanished. The deep, chilling orbs once more viewed him with disgust, disdain, and pure, unrelenting malice.
Elias growled, a roar that sounded like the shrieking of an injured beast. The surge of dread that exploded from his core was unrelenting. Any will that Cray possessed to stand, to fight, faltered as he was forced to the ground. A wave of blackness crashed outward, coating the room in its entirety.
Elias raised his sword. With one fluid motion, he slammed the pommel into the side of Andr’s head. The mercenary’s legs went limp as he was tossed forward. Cray had no time to move.
Andr slammed into him, toppling him to the ground as the darkened wave of hatred blotted out the light in the room.
Chapter 8
The dim, flickering torchlight momentarily wreaked havoc on Andr’s vision as he blinked his eyes open. His hand rose gingerly to his head. He winced aloud as the bump and wound protested his touch. He gently traced his fingers across the gash on his head, counting the fine lines of the sutures that held the wound closed. Around the area his hair was matted, still sticky in places.
With little effort, he raised himself to a seated position. The room spun halfheartedly before calming. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on stopping the errant swirling of his surroundings through steady, rhythmic breathing. The heavy scents of earth and smoke mingled with a potent, unmistakable stench of dried blood.
His ears caught the notes of a commotion in the distance. Voices were animated. There was shouting though the words were unintelligible.
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” a quiet voice intoned. It’s monotone timbre spoke matter-of-factly. Andr blinked again as he focused on the worried face of Mender Jeffers at his side. The diligent healer looked weary. Bags of darkened skin under his eyes showed his fatigue.
“Aye, that I am,” Andr grumbled in response. He quickly surveyed the room. A few guards tread quietly among the wounded and recovering. The muffled crunch of their cautious steps on the hard earthen floor and hushed voices whispered throughout the chamber.
Andr found little difficulty gaining his footing, though the steadying arms of the mender assisted him nonetheless. The throbbing of the wound on his head increased as he rose to his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he inhaled a deep breath as he gave his body a moment to adjust.
Images of the attack flashed to view. Andr snapped his eyes open, roving the room with his gaze. His inquisitive looks darted from body to body as he pivoted rapidly. He felt the instantaneous cold sweat of nervousness as his heart skipped. His breath caught in his throat.
“Where’s Cray?” he blurted out.
Andr scanned the room with renewed vigor. His voice was harsh. The mender regarded him with a strange look for a moment before replying.
“The boy is fine. He’s out with the others,” Jeffers intoned. “He was reckless, nearly finding himself impaled in the process. He stood his ground. Thankfully he never needed to use that sword. I doubt his training would have lived up to yours.”
Andr felt his body release the breath it had inadvertently been holding as his visual search had continued.
“What of the others?” the mercenary inquired. His gaze stopped on Ryl. His still form looked peaceful resting where it lay. The rise and fall of his chest were apparent from beneath the dark grey phrenic cloak that covered his body. Andr knelt, retrieving his sword belt that had been removed, and placed aside his makeshift cot on the floor.
Jeffers sighed as he continued, “Three guards are dead. And …”
Andr’s eyes widened. The expression on his face went slack.
“Kaep,” Andr interrupted.
Jeffers’s eyes fell to the floor. He exhaled deeply. The height of his shoulders seemed to settle deeper than they had been moments earlier.
“He was a man possessed,” Jeffers stated wearily. “I’m afraid I saw but little of what happened. The fear. It was paralyzing. Sarial called to him. It seemed for a moment it broke the spell.”
“That it did,” Andr acknowledged. “I owe her my life.”
From his helpless position in Elias’s arms, he had no way of viewing the response that had played out across the shell of a tribute’s face. The wave of emotion that had surged from her body and rolled through him was profo
und. It was powerful yet unrefined.
It was raw.
Andr was well aware of the strength of a phrenic’s natural ability. Training with Ryl and the others in Vim had conditioned him to the extrinsic feelings. Elias’s response to her emotion was powerful. The pressure of the blade against his neck had eased considerably. He’d felt the tension, the anticipatory excitement that had built in the would-be assassin’s muscles pause, releasing for a moment. Her words seemed to be a salve for the hatred that had overtaken him. The moment was brief. The sharp, stinging pain in his head was all he recalled from that moment on.
“It’s likely that she saved us all,” Jeffers breathed. His voice was hushed, though it dripped with reverence and adoration. His vision moved to the exit of the chamber, seeking the object of his attention.
The tension was still apparent from the garbled conversations from outside. There were several forms silhouetted against the backdrop of a roaring fire, yet the focus of the commotion was elsewhere. He squinted his eyes, peering out of the chamber, searching for details of the happenings without.
Jeffers noted the attention of the mercenary as he snapped from his momentary distraction.
“They’re likely still arguing over what to do with the Lei Guard, with Ryl incapacitated,” he announced. “Elias’s actions have formed quite the rift. There are those among both guard and tribute who are calling for their immediate deaths. More still can’t bear the thought of slaughtering those who only cycles ago were likely friends, or at worst case shared the same indentured fate.”
Andr let the statement settle over him for a moment as he pondered the options. Both sides could make a compelling argument. Still, butchering the unconscious was a task even he cringed to consider.
“Aye. I can see the argument for both.” Andr shook his head slowly. “What of the phrenics? Have they inserted their wisdom?”
“Your companions have said but little,” Jeffers noted. “One has remained on constant watch of the Lei Guard while the other has ventured out into the Erlyn. They seek Kaep. I believe they’re both there now.”