“Have you told them what happened to my last group of assistants?”
“They are all well aware of the potential dangers.”
“And they still agreed to the assignment?”
“They are eager to serve.”
Fanatics, obviously. Otherwise they would have already realized they were on a sinking ship. “As am I,” Malock answered with slightly bowed head. He wasn’t planning on the extra help, but they weren’t anything he and his apprentice couldn’t handle if need be.
“Very good,” Sartius said with a smile. “I see no reason to detain you any longer. Everything should be ready for your departure within the hour.” Malock stood to leave. “Would you care for a feed before you go?” Sartius offered.
“No,” Malock said, still tasting the tainted blood in his mouth. “I prefer my meals to be more of the free range variety.”
Sartius nodded, then added, “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
‘No’ was on his lips, but as he looked up at the library he had a thought – “Could you spare a few books?”
Chapter Sixteen
It was after that third day he finally realized his mistake. Although, he wasn’t sure why it had taken so long. True, it had been some time since he’d trained anyone, and he’d never had to do it while being hunted by the Council. There was also the issue of Elizabeth herself. She was, no doubt, different from the rest, and he’d stopped comparing her to them. What he just realized though, was that didn’t mean everything had to be different.
He had failed her. Instead of providing her with the guidance and instruction she needed, he allowed himself to become distracted. It was the first lesson he had learned, and the first he should have taught her. Her frustrations and failures were his fault. To try and see it any other way was just an excuse. Brother Xavian had no use for excuses.
A smile touched his lips. Brother Xavian. Braughton had not thought of him in a long time, but it was his strong, wrinkled hand that saved Braughton. That outstretched hand on that snowy mountainside was a moment of clarity and calm Braughton had never experienced before. His first true bond made.
He had no idea how old Brother Xavian was when they found one another, but ancient was his best guess. Brother Xavian had lived in the monastery his entire life, and for most of it he’d been alone. While the Brotherhood fought against the vampires, he had been but a boy. He was trained, and a skilled warrior, but still a boy. So, he had been left behind while his brothers marched to a battle from which none of them ever returned. He may very well have been the last warrior of the Brotherhood.
This man looked at Braughton, draped in the fur of some animal, covered in filth, blood, and who knew what else, and extended his hand and smiled. Braughton had smiled back and let the old man lead him inside.
His time with Brother Xavian had not been long, but most of it was spent training. The lessons Braughton learned he then taught every new human with which he bonded. He had learned a new lesson now: each one has a purpose, and to skip one is to invite failure.
Those things which had kept Braughton alive while he was more beast than man, his instincts, were too much for him after bonding. Too many things constantly bombarded his senses for him to be able to focus. So it was now with Elizabeth.
The fourth day dawned and Elizabeth met Braughton in the field. He noticed her eyes shifting from one side to the other, her hands fidgeted and flexed on her hilt, and she chewed nervously on her lip. How had he missed it? Distractions and focus was clearly a lesson he needed renewed as well. If he needed any further proof, he had merely to remind himself of how Garrett died.
“You won’t need your sword today,” he said. Her forehead crinkled in question, but she sheathed her sword without a word. Braughton sat on the ground, then motioned to Elizabeth. “Come and sit, please.”
“Am I being fired?” she asked with a small forced laugh.
Braughton returned the laugh as he shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be fair to fire you for my failure.”
Liz plopped down next to him with a genuine laugh this time. “You really have no idea how things work now, do you?”
Braughton let Elizabeth settle down, although he noticed her eyes continued to dart all around, and her fingers drummed against her legs. “What do you see?” he asked.
“Everything.” The answer was immediate, with almost no thought.
“And nothing,” Braughton added just as quickly.
She stopped, turned to him, and slowly nodded. She had not even realized just how right he was until that moment. She could see and feel so much of what was around her, it was impossible to see anything clearly.
“As you know, by bonding with me you have … enhanced abilities. Speed, strength, agility, your body can adjust quickly, but the additional sensory input can be crippling. What I’ve neglected to teach you is how to filter and focus it.” He took a breath, ready to apologize, to try and explain why he’d skipped it, but he didn’t get a chance.
“How do we begin?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
* * *
It took two days for her to learn how to quiet the noise, but that was only half of the lesson. Learning to actually use her enhanced senses would take longer, but that could be done while she also learned the sword. And Braughton was anxious to get back to the sword.
Without the constant distraction of external stimuli, Elizabeth was markedly better. He could see her focusing on him now, watching his sword, body, and feet as he attacked.
Braughton allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. She was progressing, and at what seemed to be a faster rate than the ones before her. Then again, he didn’t have the luxury of spending as much time training her as he had the others. He pushed harder. He had to push her. She must be ready.
“You know you’re killing her, don’t you?” Monk asked Braughton. It was late in the evening, and Elizabeth had just passed by, headed to her room after spending over eighteen hours with her sword.
Braughton looked down the hall at Elizabeth’s receding figure. He noted the slumped shoulders and dragging footsteps, but it was the same thing he’d seen for over four weeks now. She always seemed fine after a few hours of rest. “She can handle it,” he answered.
“It’s too much,” Monk insisted.
Braughton stared hard at Monk. He’d never known Monk to take such an interest before, and he found it irritating. Did Monk really think him so callous and uncaring? “If I don’t push her,” Braughton said through gritted teeth, “she will certainly be killed at the hands of something else.”
A sad smile formed on Monk’s lips, but didn’t touch his eyes. “I’ve no doubt you think you’re doing what’s best for her, but you’re not seeing everything.”
What was that supposed to mean? He and Elizabeth were bonded, joined in a way Monk could never even imagine. Not to mention, he’d spent nearly twenty-four hours a day with her, every day, for over a month. How could he miss something that Monk had seen? Braughton opened his mouth to protest, and possibly even suggest Elizabeth’s training wasn’t any of his business, but he didn’t get a chance.
Monk sighed and put a hand on Braughton’s shoulder. “Then again, maybe it’s just me.” His smile widened a bit. “Do a tired fool a favor and finish washing those dishes, please,” he said as he gave Braughton’s shoulder a squeeze, and then headed for his room. He added, without pausing to look at Braughton, “And don’t forget to check on Elizabeth when you’re done.”
Braughton’s open mouth didn’t snap shut until long after Monk disappeared down the hall. Fool indeed, Braughton thought as he turned to the sink. It was quite clear who the fool was now.
Braughton had no clue how these men could make such a large mess. It took him well over an hour to get through the pile of dirty pots, pans, bowls, plates, glasses, and silverware. As he scraped at some particularly stubborn scrambled eggs, he wondered if maybe Monk hadn’t been planning this for some time.
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The task completed, Braughton set off on Monk’s second request – check on Elizabeth. What Monk hoped Braughton would discover, he had no clue, but he expected to find nothing more than a soundly sleeping young woman.
He heard the noise before he even made it to the hall where her room was, and it definitely wasn’t snoring. He paused outside her door, listening. The sword sliced and sailed in such a fury that it sounded like a fan cutting through the air. Interspersed were her footsteps as she moved as best she could in the cramped quarters, practicing the forms he’d taught her.
He stood outside her door for over an hour before he heard it change. The sword slowed and the footsteps stumbled. A few moments later, the sword clanged to the ground, followed by the thud of her body.
Braughton pushed open the door without a knock or call, and nearly stepped on Elizabeth’s exhausted figure. In a little less than two hours it would be the time he normally met her outside to begin a new day’s training, and he had a sickening feeling this was how she spent most every night. Practicing and working until she literally collapsed into unconsciousness.
She didn’t move or complain in the slightest as he scooped her up and placed her in the bed. He removed her shoes and gunbelt, pulled up the covers, and stood over her a moment. Convinced she was settled, Braughton slipped from the room, closing the door silently behind him.
They were his own words, he and Elizabeth were joined in unimaginable ways. She obviously felt his sense of urgency, his fear she would not be ready, and the fate they would both suffer for it. This was her solution, they only thing she knew to do, and Monk was right. He was killing her.
Chapter Seventeen
What time was it?
The thought formed slowly, almost unwillingly, in her head. Once it fully formed though, her eyes popped open, and she sat straight up in bed.
Bed. How had she gotten in the bed? And where was her sword? A quick glance around revealed her sword and gunbelt in the corner, and her shoes on the floor at the foot of the bed. She had no memory of removing them. Not that she had time to worry about that just now.
She leapt from the bed, grabbing shoes, sword, and gun in one swoop, then flew out the door. The absence of heavy breathing around her told her the rest of the monastery was awake, and she was very late for training.
She burst into the kitchen and sat down in the chair where she normally ate breakfast. No time for that this morning, she thought, ignoring the gurgling complaint from her stomach as she frantically put on her shoes.
“I heard that.” She froze mid-lacing, then realized it was Monk’s voice. She had completely missed him. She looked up and saw him smiling at her, sipping a cup of coffee. No wonder she’d missed him, he wasn’t washing dishes. If he was finished, then she was even later than she thought. “Don’t even think about leaving without eating something,” he added.
She shook her head, “No time this morning, Monk.” She was already imagining the look of disappointment on Braughton’s face, as she strapped on the belt and sword while crossing the room.
“He’s not out there.”
She froze again, hand on the door handle. She turned back to him slowly. “What do you mean?”
Monk shrugged as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Said he had some things to take care of this morning.”
Her heart sank. He had left her, again. All of her hard work, the progress she thought she had made – it obviously wasn’t enough. Her hand slipped from the handle, her eyes downcast. “Did he say when he would be back?”
“Oh, he didn’t leave.”
“Where is he?” she said so quickly it came out almost as one word.
Monk eyed her a moment. “What happened to the girl that didn’t mind making Braughton wait on her?” Liz felt her cheeks flush, and even allowed herself a small laugh.
“She’s still here,” she assured him as much as herself. What had happened to that part of her? She crossed back to the table and sat down. “I think I’ll have something to eat after all.”
Monk nodded. “Last time I saw him, he was headed downstairs. Said you should head on to the field, and he would meet you there later this morning.”
“Thank you, Monk,” she said. “For everything.” He nodded again, smiled, then left her alone in the kitchen.
She took her time eating breakfast, savoring the tastes and textures as she stared at the kitchen wall. It felt good to take a break. She couldn’t remember the last time she had just sat and taken some time for herself. The drive and need to train and get better pushed out everything else. It made her feel nothing like herself.
She shifted slightly, and the gunbelt pressed against her side. She smiled as it reminded her of a similar experience during marksman training. She spent day after frustrating day of shooting and failing to hit her mark. She listened intently to the instructors’ tips and instructions, ignoring all else, but making little progress.
She began to think she had made a mistake, that maybe she wasn’t as good as she had thought. That was when she decided to take a break. It wasn’t long, just enough for a few deep breaths, and it was then she had heard her own voice. It was so quiet, she had nearly missed it. It insisted that she was better than this, that she had learned everything they could teach her, and all she needed to do now was shoot.
She grabbed on to that voice and pushed everything else aside, the instructors and even her own doubts becoming nothing more than a low murmur in the background. She took aim, held her breath, and fired. From that point on, she saw every target she aimed for disappear in a tiny puff of smoke. It made her feel almost like a magician.
She had promised herself she would never ignore that voice again, yet here she was, mired in self-doubt. Instead of trusting her instincts, she focused on Braughton’s words and techniques, trying to mold herself to them. That’s why she was getting frustrated, and why she was failing. She knew the forms and stances, now she needed to make them her own.
With renewed strength and spirit, she stood up, retrieved her sword from the floor, and headed towards the forest meadow. She thought back to that first day of training, of her nervousness and excitement. She’d lost that, along with a part of herself somewhere. She was ready to take it back.
The woods were alive with activity, and she saw it again as she had that first day. Lately she had passed through it without notice, but this time she reached out with her senses and touched as much as she could. There was not an ant that moved, a leaf that twitched, or a bird that flew within a hundred yards that she didn’t know about. By the time she reached the clearing, she felt more like herself than she had in ages.
She was alone, which was fine. She slid the sword from its sheath, and held it steady in front of her, admiring the way the sun glinted off the blade. Her intention was to simply practice forms, but instead her mind wandered again to that first day.
She had found him here practicing alone, and only now was she sure he had been remembering some past battle. She slowly began walking through his same movements, gaining speed as the memory returned. Mimicking his steps, she could almost see his opponent’s moves, and she could also see Braughton’s more clearly.
A small smile formed on her lips as she closed her eyes, and envisioned one of her own fights against Braughton. Her memories were so clear, so vibrant, she saw everything. The small shift in his weight as he prepared to attack, the quick glance at her feet as she advanced, the twitch in his jaw as he clenched his teeth just before a hard swing – all were laid bare for her.
Every sparring match they had fought over the last month, she scrolled through in her mind. She played back his offensive and defensive moves over and over, each time acting out a different counter, and with each new move her sword flew faster. After a few minutes it was nothing more than a blur, but with her eyes closed she saw only the phantom Braughton in front of her.
Then the actual visions started.
At first it was nothing, j
ust a tiny tingle in the back of her head, but it was quickly followed by a flash of Braughton exiting the monastery. She shrugged and continued her imaginary sparring. A few moments later the tingle became a small spike of pain, this time followed by an image of Braughton walking the trail towards the field. She slowed her swings, but didn’t stop. The third image was of her back, the sword slicing through the air in front of her. There was no sensation accompanying it, but she finally grasped what it meant. She stopped in mid-swing, pivoted around on her heel, and clanged her blade loudly against Braughton’s, nearly knocking it from his surprised hand.
“Finally decided to join me out here?” she asked, breathing heavily, though not out of breath. His reply was raised eyebrows and a simple nod. He moved to lower his weapon, but she was just getting started.
Her advance surprised him again, but he quickly recovered. The clang of metal and shuffle of feet progressed rapidly from the speed at which she was proficient to the faster speeds where she had faltered. She saw his tiny tells, signaling his next move, and countered each. That voice in her head was loud now, encouraging her. It wasn’t alone though.
A chorus of others joined in, too low to make out clearly, but she was still able to discern meaning. There was more than simple support in them, they provided advice and tactics, lifetimes of experience in the images flooding her mind. She had no doubt they were the ghosts of Braughton’s past servants, but where they came from or had been before now, she was unsure. She just hoped they weren’t permanent residents inside her head.
They traced back and forth across the field several times, attacking and defending, until both decided to hold their ground at the same time. Their swords clashed, the blades sliding against each other until they locked at the hilt. They both struggled to push the other back, grunting through gritted teeth as they stared at one another.
She saw it coming, and she not only anticipated, but planned on his next move. Braughton planted his back foot and shoved forward with all of his strength, easily pushing Elizabeth backwards. Too easily, he realized too late as he felt himself stumbling forward.
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