Air Awakens Book One

by Elise Kova

  Aldrik’s breathing had become heavy. Vhalla was confused about the mention of a dagger.

  “Then again, we also hoped that if the poison failed to kill you, the shame of one of your dear sweet brother’s men stabbing you in the back would be enough.”

  Aldrik stood, and she swayed without his support. Yes, Vhalla thought weakly, go. She propped herself up with her uninjured arm and turned to sit on rubble so she could face her attackers. Unfortunately, Aldrik hadn’t run. He stood, fire surrounding his fists again.

  One of the women laughed. “He’s still injured. Look, that pathetic little spark is likely all he can muster.” This woman was holding a bow, and Vhalla hoped she could keep her eyes open long enough to watch the woman’s face be burnt off. “Come, let us end this now.” She notched an arrow on her bowstring.

  The man held his sword with both hands and the other woman followed suit. Aldrik took a few steps toward them, and Vhalla’s stomach twisted in agony. He wasn’t going to run. The three advanced slowly.

  “Careful, he may be a beast with clipped claws, but he’s still a beast,” the man warned.

  “If he’s still a beast, can we shave him when we’re done and wear his skin as a pelt?” Nasal voice asked.

  “I’d rather hang it off my bow and wave it like a flag,” the archer chimed, glancing at her comrades.

  That was all it took, and Aldrik seized his opportunity. He charged and grabbed at her bow, immediately setting flame to both the hand and the weapon. The man was upon him quickly, however, and Aldrik was forced to relinquish his hold in order to dodge. He moved his fingers through the air, creating a curtain of flame; the man’s momentum caused him to step into it. The swordswoman dashed around and lunged from the side. Aldrik twisted his body and brought his elbow down hard on the back of her neck, sending her reeling. In a horrible way, he was like a song of death and flame.

  “You bastard,” the man groaned as he found his footing again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Aldrik stepped back, but into the archer’s blow as she snapped the remains of her weapon across the back of his head. Aldrik gave a cry, falling to his knees. Vhalla felt her heart stop.

  The man advanced on him with a satisfied grin, prepared to deal his fatal blow. Aldrik stuck out his hand and grabbed the man’s ankle; flames burned up the side of the man’s body and not even the paint could protect his skin. Aldrik rolled out of the way of the crash of the swordswoman’s attack and gained his footing again. Vhalla could see he was already winded, his posture hunched slightly.

  The archer charged. Aldrik dodged easily and responded with a punch to her gut, but there was no more flame. The swordswoman spun, Aldrik dropped to a knee and held out his hand before crying out in anguish, his hand on his hip where she had seen a dark spot on his magic months ago.

  The man chuckled darkly. Vhalla looked upon the Northerner in horror. Half of his clothes had been burnt off, large chunks of flesh with it. He looked like a corpse returned to life.

  “See...” he heaved roughly. “His magic fails him.”

  Aldrik glared up at the Northerners. His hair had fallen out of place wildly and it clung to his sweat-drenched face. His features were twisted in pain, but he was still proud and defiant. The crown prince’s hands clutched his hip as he looked up the sword at his throat.

  “This is how a prince dies,” the man snickered and drew back his sword.

  Vhalla opened her mouth to cry out.

  “Wait!” The bow woman said, throwing off her mask. “I have a better idea.” She wore a wicked grin.

  “Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” the nasal woman breathed, still catching her breath.

  “Death is no fun without pain,” the archer said darkly.

  “I will not scream.” Aldrik chuckled. “Whatever you do, I will not scream or beg, so it will be very boring.”

  Vhalla studied the prince. His posture was relaxed and his voice calm, there was something almost inviting in its deep tones. As much as she wanted to believe he was bluffing, the tiny smirk told her otherwise. She hurt, and not from the arrow protruding from her. He had come to terms with his own death, and Aldrik was prepared to meet it at this moment. Her breath hitched in her throat.

  “I didn’t say I was going to make you scream.” The bow woman turned and looked at Vhalla.

  Vhalla straightened as best she could, instinctively scooting away from her assailant, ignoring the stabbing pains in her wounded shoulder.

  “I don’t doubt you, prince. I’m sure your pain threshold is very high. But there are many different kinds of pain, aren’t there?” The sadistic woman almost cooed, her emerald eyes gleaming. “I wonder if hers is as high.” With a cold smile the woman walked over to Vhalla.

  Vhalla looked at Aldrik helplessly before staring up at the Northerner who was about to decide her fate.

  Grabbing the shaft of the arrow sticking out of Vhalla’s shoulder, the woman pulled upward, dragging Vhalla to her feet. She shook with the pain and the effort of keeping in her screams. Vhalla didn’t want to die like this, and she didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction of her anguish. Still gripping the arrow, the woman pulled Vhalla along over to where Aldrik knelt. His eyes wore a tormented mix of fury and sorrow.

  Vhalla’s foot caught on a piece of rubble and she tripped. The fall ripped the arrow, fletching and all, clean through her shoulder. Vhalla cried out as she rolled in pain among the debris and human flesh littering the ground. Aldrik attempted to jump to his feet, but the man pressed the sword against his throat.

  “Down,” he grunted, like Aldrik was a dog.

  “Come girl, we’re not done yet.” The woman grabbed her by the hair and pulled Vhalla over the rest of the way. She was dumped an arm’s length from Aldrik but it seemed like half the world as Vhalla stared at him blankly, shattering at the sorrow of his beautifully dark eyes.

  Pulling Vhalla up into a seated position, the woman plucked an arrow from her quiver.

  “Tell me, prince, what is it you like about her?” The archer’s voice was rough.

  “I like nothing, really; she is little more than a cheap whore I found,” Aldrik forced out with a flat voice.

  “Is that so? Very fine clothes for a cheap whore. Do you like her face?” The woman ran the point of the arrow down Vhalla’s cheek, leaving a dripping red line in its wake.

  Vhalla winced softly, her lower lip trembling.

  “Why soil your weapon with her blood?” Aldrik tried, attempting to glance away casually.

  “She has a nice figure. What about her breasts?” Two more cuts were upon her body and Vhalla felt tears on her cheeks.

  “Enough,” Aldrik said softly, his eyes were back on her.

  “Enough? She’s not just a whore?” the woman sneered. “What about her legs? Want to see them?” The woman lifted the hem of his jacket and Vhalla’s tattered skirts with the arrow, making a deep incision along the way.

  “Enough!” Aldrik cried.

  Vhalla looked at him and saw the panic in his eyes. The woman had won. The Northerner knew it too as she let out a laugh and released Vhalla, the broken library girl falling to the ground.

  Vhalla stared at the world lifelessly. She would be torture for Aldrik to watch her die. They would kill him next. His, Sareem’s, and Roan’s deaths would all be on her hands.

  “Don’t kill him,” she whispered.

  The woman’s laugh quieted and she leaned over Vhalla. “What was that, you little shit? I didn’t hear it,” she snarled.

  “Don’t kill him,” Vhalla repeated. She never took her eyes of Aldrik. “Do what you will to me, but don’t kill him, please.” Vhalla struggled to sit.

  The woman laughed again. “You are nothing,” she snarled. “You are less than nothing. You were only something because it was amusing to hurt you.”

  “And now it is no longer amusing,” the man said, raising his sword.

  “No,” Vhalla whispered.

  Aldrik stared at her unmoving.
He didn’t try to run or flee—he simply stared.

  “This ends now!” The man brought his sword down over Aldrik’s head.

  “No!” Vhalla screamed. In less than a second, the only sound that filled her ears was the wind of the man’s sword cutting the air.

  VHALLA SHIFTED ON the cracked and uneven stone floor and cried out in pain. Her shoulder felt swollen and hot; simple movements were agonizing. She tried to prop herself up but she fell back to the floor with a dull thud. Dried blood and smoke were crusted around her eyes; trying to rub it off was pointless as her hands were coated as well.

  The room was a simple square, and the air was heavy with the stench of excrement and bodies. One wall had a large portal with a great iron door made of interlocking bars fastened with a padlock larger than her fists. She saw the shoulder armor of two palace guards on either side.

  “Hello?” Little more than a dry rasp escaped her throat.

  The guards turned and looked through the bars. One had a large mole on his left cheek. The other had two front teeth that caused him to look like a rat.

  “Oh, she’s awake,” mole man said. “Better go ring the bells.” Rat man scampered off.

  “Where? Where am I?” Vhalla asked, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

  “What does it look like? A prison cell.” The man picked his nose and flicked it at her.

  “Why?” Vhalla’s head hurt and the warm pulsing of her shoulder didn’t help either.

  “Oh, clever. I see you’re trying to play the innocent right away.” Mole man shook his head. “The Senate’ll see right through that.”

  She sighed and placed her head back on the floor, closing her eyes. This man was frustrating, and not in the charming way that Aldrik managed. Aldrik, Vhalla opened her eyes as the night began to replay in her mind: Roan, Sareem, the woman, the arrow, Aldrik on his knees with a sword to his throat, the man raising his blade for the final blow. Then—nothing, she had no further memories.

  “Sir, sir!” Mole man looked back at her with mild annoyance. “The crown prince.” She struggled to sit, Vhalla wanted to stand but she ended up mostly crawling to the bars, gripping them for support. Her whole body felt so exhausted it could barely move. “Prince Aldrik, he, where is he?”

  “Why do you want to know? Going to make another attempt on his life?” The man looked at her queerly.

  “What?” she exclaimed in shock. “No! I want to know if he is all right!”

  “To my knowledge the prince is alive and well.”

  Vhalla let out a large sigh and rested her forehead against a bar. It was cool on her flushed skin. Aldrik was alive and safe. She must have passed out, and he overpowered them somehow.

  “Thank the Mother,” Vhalla breathed before a choked strangle escaped at the memory of her friends who had not made it. Her moment was interrupted by the clip of two pairs of boots down the hallway.

  “Yes, she just woke.” It was rat man from earlier. She tried to listen carefully to hear the other set of footsteps. They fell heavy. It wasn’t her prince. Aldrik would come soon. He’d sort this out and she’d be on her way. Vhalla looked up as the men stopped before her cell. Anyone, she would take anyone over the man who stood before her.

  Egmun grinned gleefully down at her, and her blood curdled. He wore his golden senatorial chain over a blue robe.

  “Well, I can’t say I am entirely surprised to meet you here.” He picked lint off his sleeve nonchalantly. Vhalla stared at him blankly. “It was only a matter of time.” Losing interest in his clothing, he approached the door of her cage, his words as slow and deliberate as his movements.

  “You common folk are attracted to the glamor of noble life like—like a moth to a flame,” he said with a wicked smile. “So sad you often fly too close and simply burn away.”

  Vhalla couldn’t keep her face from dropping into a frown as he spoke. She was growing to detest everything about this man, and every time he opened his mouth, he succeeded in reminding her why. He was smart, and she quickly realized that it made him dangerous.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked, attempting to force her voice to stay as level as possible, to not betray any fear or panic.

  “Oh, it’s nothing I want with you. I honestly just want you to crawl back under the rock you came from and never come out again. But, well, you made that difficult for yourself when you attacked the crown prince.” He put his hands in the air before dropping them. “Now, we will need to see you properly punished for your transgressions.”

  “What?” Vhalla’s voice rose sharply. “I didn’t—”

  “Denials?” the senator hissed. “You must sing a different song before the trial.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.” Vhalla repeated.

  “Guards,” Egmun sighed. “I think our prisoner may need her memory jarred.”

  Rat and Mole exchanged a look Vhalla had a difficult time reading before they started for the cell door. The moment the door opened and the two armored men entered Vhalla knew it hadn’t been a good look. Vhalla put as much distance between her and the men as the cell would allow, ignoring the screaming pain in her shoulder.

  These men were there to protect her. But they stared down at her with the same look of contempt the Northerners had.

  “Don’t...” Vhalla whimpered out of instinct.

  “Denials still?” the senator hummed, leaning against the wall beyond.

  Mole heard a command that Vhalla hadn’t in Egmun’s voice and his fist was in her hair. She cried out in agony, grabbing at his tense wrists as he practically lifted her off the floor. The man threw her against the wall and the back of her head cracked loudly.

  She slumped, blinking away stars in a blurry daze. Mole was on her again before she had time to decide which of the four of him was real. His boot connected with her stomach, again and again. She tried to lift her hand to blow them away with magic, but no sorcery crackled beneath her fingertips. There wasn’t even time to panic as Mole stomped upon the appendage, the bones crunching. Vhalla didn’t feel the next strike to her ribs; she could only feel the dirt and gravel covering the floor pressed against her cheek.

  “Do you remember now?” Egmun called.

  “Why?” she wheezed. Why were they doing this?

  Rat picked her up by the front of her dress. The sound of the seams exploding as he pommeled a fist into her face were louder than her screams or cries for help. The garment could only endure two strikes before tearing and Vhalla fell onto the floor in an undignified heap wearing nothing but her underclothes.

  Her consciousness was smaller than a pin by the time their beating ended. She existed in such a tiny portion of her mind that the outside world was only tangible through echoes. Yet, somehow, their cruel words still made it to her fracturing psyche.

  “That’s sufficient, I should think. Unfortunately we cannot take the Empire’s justice.” Egmun walked to the entrance of the cell. “Remember this. For I will. This is how I will always see you, worthless trash.”

  She blinked up at him, unmoving, unflinching. Hatred had always been described in her books like fire, a hot and uncontrollable inferno. This hatred felt like ice. It numbed her empathy and sharpened her resolve to survive at any and all costs if for no other reason than to spite him.

  Egmun took a slow breath; as though he could feel the daggers she was mentally flaying him with. “Now get dressed.” He tossed a burlap sack atop her and left the cell.

  Vhalla’s limbs barely heeded her demands for movement and sitting was agony. Phantom pains from her fall seeped from fractured bones and torn tissues. The sack she had been bestowed had some slits cut into it for her arms and head and Vhalla crawled into it with as much dignity as she could muster.

  She had endured worse. The once library apprentice struggled to her feet. She had survived a fall from the palace spires and warriors from the North. Her limbs trembled with pain and fear as Vhalla reminded herself of those facts and faced the three men.

&nb
sp; Mole grabbed her and yanked her forward. Vhalla stumbled and cried, instantly hating herself for it. She hated them and she hated her treacherous body for feeling the pain caused by them. His hand dug into her shoulder, and she felt a drip trail down her back. Rat retrieved shackles and bound her hands and feet together. The last fastenings to her sanity were snapping, and they sounded like a raspy laugh.

  “As if I can run.” She smiled madly at Egmun.

  This sudden emotional contrast almost seemed to shake his perfect poise. He adjusted his robes and said nothing before starting down the hall. Rat and Mole practically carried her as they held her up with each arm.

  It was after a short flight of stairs upward when Egmun left them. They walked the rest of the way in silence. A numbing chill crept from her extremities inward. Sareem was dead. The blood dripping from her skull reminded Vhalla of his shattered face. Roan likely was too. The prince had somehow lived, but Vhalla expected him to blame her—rightfully—for everything he shouldn’t have had to endure. The pendulum of her emotions swung far into guilt. It was her fault. All of this was her fault. She was suddenly laughing again.

  Why was losing her whole life so funny?

  “Shut up,” Rat hissed, slapping her across the face.

  Her craze left her, and she hung limply. Blood dripped down her chin, adding to the trail she left on the stairs they were ascending. They opened a door, and threw her into a brightly lit room. She hit the floor with an ungraceful clank of chains, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light.

  She had been thrown into a square cage welded into the wall behind her on all sides. Rat and Mole assumed guard duty to the left and right of the door. There was no other visible entrance into this section of the room, her temporary prison.

  To her far left was a different door and empty seating. To the right stared thirteen people, Egmun at their center. The senators had been lined up neatly in two rows. Before them on the floor in the center of the room was a dais made of a golden sun. Across was a raised area with three seats—no, not seats: thrones.