by Cayla Keenan
“Did I hurt you?” Om asked, snapping Jayin out of the swirling mess of her thoughts.
“No,” Jayin said quickly. Something flared in Om’s eyes and his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“You’re lying.”
Jayin shook her head. “We’re heading to port tomorrow,” she said. “We should get some sleep while we can.” She walked away from him without another word, the answer to his question echoing in her mind:
It always hurts.
Chapter Eleven:
Maddix
Maddix scrambled to his feet before charging back into the sparring ring. Metallic clangs shivered in the air as his blade met his opponent’s, his shoulder barely twinging as the force of the blow vibrated down his arm.
He’d put on weight since his arrival at the witchhunter stronghold. His wounds had healed up nicely, thanks to Paxton’s tireless work and constant insistence Maddix stay in bed. Which he never did, but his side hurt less and less as the days went on, offering only minor complaints. His shoulder was another matter entirely, but after a month, Maddix couldn’t stand to be trapped in the medic’s wing a moment longer. With Hale’s blessing, Maddix threw himself headfirst into training.
Paxton nearly had a fit when he heard, but Maddix was eager to begin. That eagerness soon resulted in bruises and sore muscles, but it didn’t deter him. These people were warriors, every one of them. Even those who hadn’t earned their marks bore scars from one skirmish or another. Many were refugees like him, hurt by witches in the past. They came to the compound looking for shelter and to learn how to defend themselves.
Everyone in this place had their own horror story to tell, and though Maddix’s infamy was well known in the capitol, with the witchhunters, he was just another recruit. Hale promised Maddix’s identity would be safe for as long as he was with them. Sometimes he thought he heard his name whispered in the halls, but the murmurs dissipated the moment he turned the corner. He ignored the prickling on the back of his neck, chalking it up to two years of paranoia.
He was part of something again, something bigger than himself. Something important. Maddix couldn’t remember the last time he had been given anything without something demanded in return, but at the compound he was fed, clothed, and given a warm bed to sleep in. He was protected.
So he worked hard. He trained until he could barely hold a sword before falling into bed each night, exhausted, and doing it all again the next day. Hale promised he would have their support when he went after the witch who ruined his life, and then it was up to him whether or not he would stay.
For his part, Maddix had already made up his mind. Once the witch was dead and burned, Maddix would stay with the hunters and join their ranks. He would help make a safer world, one cleansed of the sahir and their poisonous influence.
And he was learning more than just how to fight. The witchhunters had a language all their own, one they claimed was pure Aestosi. Kenna said when the witches came from their Oldlands, they brought their savage language with them. The original witchhunters were descendants of a race of native Aestosi who’d sworn themselves to the protection of the kingdom. They called themselves helwyr, the hunters. They had their own words for witches too: Valyach. It meant demons, bastards, invaders; every insult or slur ever used against the witches all rolled into one. They weren’t just lazy and pampered, gifted with luxury because of their magic; they were monsters in human skin, cursing the Three Kingdoms with every day they drew breath.
Valyach. Maddix committed the word to memory and vowed to use it.
Any time not spent sleeping or training was devoted to studying the hundreds upon hundreds of books the helwyr had collected over the decades. The volumes detailed a history that had been hidden from view for centuries: battles waged in secret to keep past Kingswitches out of power, uprising and insurgencies, and attempted coups, all of which eventually led to their retreat to the outskirts of the kingdom. But the hunters never gave up the mandate of their forefathers, pledging to keep protecting the people of Aestos from the valyach.
When Maddix asked why they hadn’t allied themselves with the rebel groups that sought to overthrow the Kingswitch, Hale only scoffed, his white-blue eyes flashing with contempt.
“The rebels only seek to topple a corrupt ruler pulling the King’s strings. They think the valyach should be allowed to remain in Aestos. We do not.”
In the ring, another clang rang out, and Maddix staggered backwards before readjusting his grip on his sword.
“Come on, keep your guard up,” said Maddix’s opponent, a woman named Misha. She was one of a continuous rotation of sparring partners, each with a different style or skill to teach. Misha favored twin blades, longer and more sharply curved than any Maddix had ever seen. What she lacked in brute strength she made up ten times over in speed, and the dual blades made it nearly impossible to get close enough to land a blow.
Maddix shook his head, swinging his sword in a heavy arc. He held his own for a few moments before Misha gained the upper hand again, her swords clashing against his. She spun, and Maddix’s head snapped back as her elbow connected with his jaw. Stars danced on the outskirts of his vision, and when they cleared, Misha was standing above him, and his sword lay discarded by his side.
“Well done,” Misha said, extending her hand. She pulled him to his feet and clapped him on the back.
“You’re coming along,” Kenna said, appearing outside of the ring. Je and Indra were nowhere to be found, but Maddix knew that the children trained in a different section of the stronghold. They’d come to visit him a few times in the infirmary, still braiding his hair and gifting him with polished stones. Maddix still had a hard time thinking of them as warriors, but for a war that had been waged for centuries, training started young.
“She still beat me,” Maddix said, spitting blood out of his mouth. His jaw ached.
“If you’d won after so little training, I would have accused you of being valyach,” Misha joked.
Maddix smiled wanly, biting the acidic comment on his tongue. He didn’t begrudge their paranoia, but he wouldn’t stand to be compared to the same creature who had doomed him.
“Kenna’s right, you’re coming along very well,” Misha said, oblivious to Maddix’s sudden anger. “Let’s go again.”
“Actually, Hale needs to see him,” Kenna interrupted smoothly. “If you don’t mind me borrowing your practice dummy?”
Misha smiled, inclining her head.
“Is everything okay?” Maddix asked, ducking out of the ring. Hale hadn’t asked to see him personally since the night Maddix slipped out of the infirmary.
“I’m sure it is,” Kenna said. “But I don’t ask questions. You must learn to do the same if you wish to remain with us.”
Maddix nodded, snapping his mouth shut. He knew pledging himself to the helwyr was dangerous. The only way that they could all stay safe was if the information was compartmentalized. Maddix understood that, but he couldn’t help wanting to know as much as possible in order to protect himself. He had earned that much.
Hale, it seemed, disagreed. He’d made it clear in the beginning that the answers to Maddix’s questions had to be earned, and Maddix chafed against the imposed ignorance. It was his one point of contention, the tiniest hint of rebellion, and the helwyr commander had made it clear if Maddix had no intention of following the rules, he was welcome to try and find shelter elsewhere.
That had shut him up, but the curiosity hadn’t gone away; Maddix had simply gotten smarter about it. He learned what would and wouldn’t be told to him outright, and anything he couldn’t learn from Hale or Kenna, Maddix searched out in the helwyr’s hundreds of books. It was time-consuming, but he wasn’t willing to be caught unaware. Not again.
“Maddix,” Hale said when they entered his study. It wasn’t large, and the space seemed smaller with the weapons that lined the walls. Ancient books were stacked on every available surface in precarious towers that threatened to topple at the sli
ghtest provocation.
Hale sat, ramrod straight and white-clad, in the middle of the chaos. There was something tense about the man, as if a collection of razor wires stretched beneath the surface of his skin. “Welcome. Please sit.”
Maddix slid into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, folding his hands neatly in his lap.
“What’s this about, sir—er, dryhten?” Maddix asked once the door was closed, stumbling over the witchhunter honorific.
“I’ve been tracking your progress,” Hale said. Thankfully, he ignored the slip. “You’re doing well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ve gotten a tip,” Hale went on, “that a ship sailing under a valyach captain will be arriving in Southport tomorrow. A witch onboard might be able to help you.”
“Help me?” Maddix repeated, balking at the idea. He was here to catch and kill witches, not bring them into the fold. “How?”
“From what we know, it can track people. I’m assembling a team to head down there, and I want you to go with them.”
Maddix blinked. He hadn’t expected to be sent on a mission, not so soon in his training. Two years in the dark hadn’t been enough to completely erase the skills he’d cultivated in the Kingsguard, but he was far from peak form.
“If our source is correct, this witch is trying to leave the kingdom. This might be our only chance to apprehend it, and your best chance to find the valyach who made you a murderer.”
Slowly, Maddix nodded, his fingers worrying the spot on his throat where his pendant used to lay. The magnitude of this mission wasn’t lost on him. This was his chance. This witch was his chance at vengeance, at redemption. Slowly, he forced his hands still and tipped his head up to look Hale in the eyes.
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
Chapter Twelve:
Jayin
Jayin slipped onto shore the minute they lowered the gangplank of the Stormwind, vanishing down the winding streets of the port town. It only took a few moments for a headache to form, pulsing behind her eyes as the town’s energy clamored for her attention. She didn’t fight the current of people as they milled around her, allowing herself to be swept away from the ship and the fiery figure that watched her disappear. She roamed mindlessly through the throngs of people, catching snippets of auras and emotions, but nothing stuck. Jayin let it all wash over her, absorbing nothing.
Until Zed disappeared. In the space of a breath his buzzing energy vanished, leaving a black hole in her second sight. Jayin staggered at the loss, abandoning caution for a moment to seek out the rest of the crew.
Four of them, including Zed, were missing. The signatures she did find were soaked in blood. Jayin didn’t take the time to do a head count; she was already moving, sprinting back to the docks.
It was a massacre. For a moment, she couldn’t see through the violence, unable to distinguish the attackers from the crew, but she did see the bodies. Zed and Massimo lay sprawled on the dock, reduced to empty husks.
Footsteps. Jayin spun to see two strangers charging at her, both brandishing weapons. Without taking time to arm herself, Jayin slid to her knees, slamming a gauntleted fist into the first man’s kneecap. He swore, nearly falling on top of her. Jayin freed one of her knives from its sheath and drove it through the man’s chin.
The assailant crumped, and his companion roared, swinging his sword so close it tore the thin fabric of her shirt. Jayin rolled backwards and spun onto one knee. She threw her arm out, hurling a straightblade with all of her strength. The man collapsed as the blade punched through his chest.
Freeing her blade from the man’s sternum, Jayin turned in time to see another attacker take Sinta by surprise. The man, enormous and tattooed, lodged a double-bladed axe into Sinta’s side. The captain pressed her hand to the wound as if she could hold herself together before her legs gave out, and she collapsed in a broken heap. Her insides spilled onto the dock with a slick sound. Sinta did not move again.
“No!” Jayin shouted, throwing herself back into the mob. She only made it three steps before she was blindsided. Something—energy, magic, something—ripped through her shields, and Jayin screamed, going to her knees. She clapped her hands against her ears, her voice going hoarse as her second sight dissolved into a landscape of pain. Black spots crowded in her periphery, and she could barely force herself to breathe, let alone fight back. Whatever this was, whatever Dark magic, it was going to kill her.
Somehow, through the barrage of pain, Jayin sensed someone advancing.
“Valyach scum,” snarled the figure above her. His rage gave her a lifeline, something to hold onto though the agony that tore at her with psychic claws.
Jayin had enough presence of mind to dodge the boot aimed at her midsection, scrambling to her feet and slashing wildly with one of her remaining knives. Her assailant laughed at her pathetic attempt to defend herself. Jayin spun back to the ground as a fist clipped her jaw. This time the boot caught her in the stomach, and she went flying. She struck something on the edge of the dock, the back of her head crashing into the sturdy wood, and for a moment the mental pain lessened as she hovered on the edge of unconsciousness.
“Jayin!”
She couldn’t tell if the voice was in her head or not, but she recognized the red aura in her second sight before the world exploded. Jayin pulled her knees into her chest, ducking her head to avoid the flames. After a moment the heat abated, and warm hands hauled her up with murmured words of apology.
Om.
Jayin forced her eyes open, finding some last reserve of strength to stand up under her own power as Om helped her hobble towards the safety of the ship. The tips of his hair were smoking, threatening to burst into flame.
“Om,” Jayin wheezed, sensing energy flare behind them. Om reacted before his name was fully out of her mouth, shoving her forward and turning towards their attackers. The air rippled around his hands before they ignited. Fire spiraled in two concentrated beams and somewhere, someone screamed as their skin blackened and peeled from their bones. Om turned back to her, and Jayin could sense more than see more men approaching from behind.
“Om!” she screamed, but it was too late.
Jayin saw the point of the sword before anything else. The blade erupted from his chest, slick with his blood before it was ripped away, leaving a crater in its wake. Om choked, blood dribbling from his lips, and his hands scrabbled uselessly at the hole in his chest. His eyes found hers as he fell, his aura flashing with relief. You’re okay.
Screaming wordlessly, Jayin threw her knife with the last of her remaining strength, stabbing Om’s killer clean through the throat. The man gasped, clutching at his neck as he died. Jayin didn’t wait to see his energy extricate itself from his body.
“Om,” she whispered, falling to his knees beside Om’s broken form. His limbs sprawled in a haphazard heap that reminded Jayin of the stick insects boys used to dismember in the Gull. “Om, please talk to me. Please.” His eyes were open, but he didn’t see her.
“You saved me,” Om said, blood tracking down his face “Now I saved you.” He inhaled, his breath rattling in his lungs. “You were right about me—about magic. You were—” His voice gave out, and Jayin felt hot tears spilling onto her cheeks.
Sucking in a deep, pained breath, Jayin pressed her fingers against his cheek. His aura was weak, but it was still there.
Please don’t leave, Jayin thought desperately. Om, please stay with me. There was no response, none by way of words at least, but Om moved his hand to cup hers. She winced, the pressure in her head almost unbearable, but didn’t pull away.
Jayin was so focused on keeping Om with her she didn’t notice the others approaching. One of them grabbed her, and she spun, her rage igniting in her bones as surely as any flame. The man’s aura was pulsing and dark in her mind’s eye, and Jayin threw her hands out instinctively.
The man flinched, expecting some kind of magical attack, and his face twisted into a sneer when he realized
she was defenseless.
Then something changed. In an instant, the man’s energy spanned the divide between her two sights, bursting into physical existence. Jayin could feel it under her fingers, whispering like silk. She didn’t waste time asking questions, her body moving of its own accord.
Distantly, she could hear the man howling as she tore him apart. When the last shreds of his aura were gone, the man dropped like a stringless puppet. Jayin whirled on the others, intending to destroy them, but the pain in her skull tripled.
Jayin swayed, and the world tilted, the ground rising up to meet her. As she lay on the bloodstained deck, the last rational part of her mind wondered if this wasn’t the way she’d always known it would go. That she would die bloody, surrounded by fallen friends.
At least, she thought hazily. At least he never found me.
Jayin choked as a heavy boot crushed her throat, unable to so much as flinch away. She was out of knives, out of strength, out of time.
Don’t. The word might have been in her head or spoken aloud, Jayin didn’t know. Whatever the case, it stopped them. We need this one. Jayin wished they would leave her to die with Om and the rest of the crew, but it didn’t seem to be up to her.
The world spun in a whirlwind of red, gold, and blue, and Jayin couldn’t force her eyes to focus before blessed darkness finally claimed her.
Chapter Thirteen:
Maddix
Wagon wheels rattled over the pockmarked road, the only sound from their broken company as they made their way back to the helwyr stronghold. The way to Southport had been marked by songs and raucous laughter, but now their procession was as solemn as a funeral march.
Your fault. Your fault. The words wore a track in his head, drumming in in time with his heartbeat. Several of their horses were without riders, trailing behind the remaining hunters, their footsteps heavy as if they too felt the loss. At the very back of the caravan was a prison wagon. A helwyr stationed in Southport had provided it, and within the bars, the witch lay in a hazy sleep. They took turns watching her, but Maddix knew she was his responsibility. He rode beside the cart, unable to stop looking at the creature in the cage. Whoever she was, the witch had seen battle. They’d found eight knives on her person, each sharp enough to kill, and her gloves were bewitched to become armored at her command. Pale scars distorted her dark skin, creating a map of old wounds. Privately, Maddix didn’t know why she bothered. She didn’t need mundane weapons to kill; he’d seen what she did to Helleck at the docks.