Time of Shadows (The Saga of the Seven Stars Book 2)

by Dayne Edmondson

  Before descending from the ridge, Bridgette considered reaching out to Jason, in case anything went wrong. But no, she would not distract him and she could afford no further distraction, or delay. I’ll deal with him, and sort out my thoughts and feelings, when I return to Tar Ebon, she thought.

  Standing up, Bridgette strode without fear or stealth toward the cave entrance. No traps lay in wait for her, for she would have known of their existence, yet she kept her ability, the power to shift into a world that was a replica of the existing world, only devoid of people and of a dark gray color, a mere thought away from being activated. The power to shift into another dimension - a shadow world she called it - came at a price. Remaining in the shadow world too long, or using her ability too frequently, drained her. After prolonged battles, such as the fight between her and Dawyn, she was forced to rest for a long period of time. Her endurance had grown over the years from frequent use, but she knew her limits. If she fell unconscious in the shadow world, she would die, for she knew of no others who could enter the place, let alone find her if they could enter.

  After a brief journey through the cold, damp tunnels, she arrived at a large open chamber. It was furnished only with two sleeping bags and a pair of wooden benches, while a lonely cooking pot filled only with a metal spoon sat next to the fire pit. A chest containing crude medical supplies, such as bandages, lay against one wall, next to a pile of wood which she had chopped. As Bridgette looked around, she saw Lord Garik lying atop one of the sleeping bags. The fire had almost burned down completely, but still emitted the wisps of smoke that had alerted her to his presence in the cave. Bridgette cleared her throat.

  Lord Garik’s eyes snapped open and he sat up from his cot. His good hand clutched his dagger and he held the blade out in front of him as he sat. At last his eyes focused on Bridgette and he lowered the blade, relaxing. “Oh, Bridgette, you’ve returned. Good. Did you have any trouble killing the king?”

  “Yes, I did have trouble,” Bridgette replied as she began walking forward. “I failed to kill the king.” She stopped only a few paces from Lord Garik. She did not draw her blades yet - there would be time for that soon enough.

  Lord Garik frowned. “You failed? Then why did you return? You were to kill him - you would not return unless he were dead. Did someone else kill him?”

  “The king is alive and well,” Bridgette said. “I no longer serve you, Garik,” Bridgette felt liberated calling him by his name alone, and not his self-bestowed title. “I have been freed from my bonds of servitude by the king, and am here to deliver justice to you.”

  “Justice?” Garik asked. “You mean murder.” He raised his dagger again, pointing it toward her.

  “I mean justice, for all of your crimes against humanity. For the thousands you killed or sentenced to death, for what you did to me, and others. There will be no trial, no magistrate will hear your lies. I am your judge, jury and executioner, and I find you guilty.”

  Garik laughed, a big belly laugh which echoed through the cavern. “Oh my, how you have grown. Why, I remember when I first saw you, a scared young woman knowing next to nothing about the world. I took you under my wing, showed you the way of the world. I showed you mercy, and made you a woman. Does our past mean nothing to you?”

  “Mercy?” Bridgette asked incredulously. “Was it mercy that left me hanging upside down to bleed out on the floor of your cellar? Was it mercy when you had your way with me over and over again, night after night? Was it mercy when you had me whipped and cut every day for countless days?”

  “Yes,” Garik said. “It was a mercy because I did not kill you. You are alive today solely because of my mercy.”

  Bridgette glared. “You have no idea how many nights I stood there, begging for death. Every day, I hoped you would kill me, end my torture. No, what you did was not mercy - killing me would have been mercy. But I have grown since then, Garik, and I defy you now. Your time is at an end.” Without further words, Bridgette undid her cloak, letting it fall to the ground. She drew her daggers from her sheathes and began moving toward Garik.

  Garik stood unsteadily, his own dagger still held in his hand. He was weak from inactivity during the past several months, his face gaunt and his body frail. He held his severed arm up, as if ready to punch with it. Bridgette, in contrast, trained every day, as she had been taught during her instruction by Garik.

  As Bridgette came within striking distance of Garik, the man struck out first. He darted forward with his dagger, slashing, aiming to spill first blood.

  Bridgette parried the blow with her own dagger, while blocking his unhanded arm with her own bracer-clad forearm. Taking a step back, she lifted her leg and kicked, knocking the dagger from Garik’s good hand. Without waiting for him to move, she stepped forward and grappled with him. Wrapping her arm around his through, she held a dagger to it, causing him to cease struggling.

  “Tell me why,” Bridgette asked through gritted teeth. “In the last moments of your life, just tell me why.”

  “Why what?” Garik gasped.

  “Why did you take me? Why couldn’t you just leave me there? Why did you torture me how you did? I was just an innocent girl. You could have left me there, or had your men rape me and left me if you wanted, but you took me - why?”

  “You reminded me of my…daughter,” Garik rasped. “She died when she was young. I thought to replace her with you.”

  “I pity the girl,” Bridgette said. “To have you as a father, it was a mercy that she died. May God damn you to eternity in Hell.”

  While one hand held him in place, she stabbed in the flesh beneath his ribcage, aiming up and piercing his heart. His eyes grew wide and breath left him. Pulling back the dagger, Bridgette released Garik and watched him fall to the ground, feeling no pity. The former Lord Garik, scourge of the kingdom, king of assassins, tormentor of Bridgette, was dying.

  After the light faded from Garik’s eyes and they became glassy, Bridgette rummaged through his belongings. She took all of his gold, daggers and throwing knives. She took the golden key that belonged to his lock box hidden in Henry’s Crossing, his garrote and lock picks. Lastly, she took his canteen.

  Exiting the cave, Bridgette let out a heavy sigh. As the sunlight streamed through the trees and warmed her, she felt her heart warming. For the first time in over two decades, she felt able to breathe freely, as if a large weight had been lifted from her chest. The whole world lay before her - and the slave master who had kept her down would never again bother her. Walking up the ridge, she located her horse and rode northeast, back toward Tar Ebon. She had two men to see.

  Chapter 26 - Glory of Death

  The clanking of the gates echoed down the hall as Boris and his team of gladiators waited. The tunnel stank of urine, blood, sweat and tears. It was a smell he had come to associate with the arena - with the fight for life and death that he had fought so often in the past couple months. He had succeeded in every fight thus far, much to Darin’s chagrin. It seemed to Boris that every time he walked down the tunnel victorious, Darin glared all the more at him. Boris kept expecting a blade in the dark, and to never wake, but was constantly surprised when he woke each day.

  Clarence cleared his throat. “So, do you think we’ll win?”

  “I always think I’ll win,” Boris said. “To do otherwise is to undermine my confidence and hasten my demise. You would do well to adopt the same mindset, Clarence.”

  Andrey grunted. “You are an optimistic fool, Boris. Thinking you will win will not stop an axe from splitting your skull if you slip up.”

  “You have your beliefs, Andrey,” Boris replied, “and I will have mine. We will see soon enough whose philosophy is best.”

  “Silence,” Valentin barked. “I grow weary of your bickering. Get ready for the fight. Charge them and we can overwhelm them before they are prepared.”

  A dozen other gladiators stood behind Boris, stepping from foot to foot impatiently. This was the first time the group of gladiator
s had fought together as one. This group represented the better half of the gladiators under Victor’s ownership. Rumor had it that a great deal of money was riding on this match, perhaps even the continuing existence of House Helgstad’s gladiatorial operations.

  Boris checked his gear once more, ensuring the short sword at his side came cleanly from his scabbard, that the strap holding the shield to his arm was secure and that the two javelins attached to his back were not stuck. Each gladiator had been given the same standard issue equipment, supposedly to keep things even and fair, though how a slave sport could be considered fair was beyond Boris’ understanding.

  His thoughts drifted to the dagger hidden in his boot. The blade was his ace in the hole, and he dared not attempt to draw it, lest it draw attention. The blade had gone unnoticed in its hiding place beneath Boris’ cot. The day after the failed assassination attempt by Sansa, Darin had been furious. He had ordered all of the gladiators out into the yard and worked them harder than any time previously. Perhaps he had hoped Boris, still recovering from the wounds he had sustained, would succumb to his wounds. Boris, however, had persevered and made it through that day and every day since.

  At last the gates stood open. Across the arena, Boris could make out the distant figures of the opposing team. He assumed they would be of equal numbers.

  Rather than the two teams meeting in the middle, the rules of this match dictated the two groups would wait for the blowing of a horn to leave the tunnels and begin their fight. Boris tensed, his muscles ready to propel his feet forward headlong into his enemies. Though he did not appreciate the tactic - his way was to strike from any direction but the front where possible - he knew of no better way for such a mass encounter to be conducted.

  The horn blew three times, but Boris was charging before the first blast had ended. Behind him, he heard the others running, their gear clanking.

  Across the arena, the opposing team was charging as well, roaring in defiance, attempting to intimidate Boris’ team. If the tactic worked, his fellow gladiators did not show it.

  As Boris neared the enemy ranks, he withdrew one of the javelins on his back, not slowing his run. Taking aim as best he could while moving at a full spring, he reared back and launched the javelin into the air. The forward momentum of his body, coupled with the strength of his arm, propelled the javelin in a slightly arcing line straight toward the enemy group.

  The javelin struck one of the men in the chest, flinging him backward, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground. Other javelins, thrown by his companions, flew toward the enemy, though not all with the same accuracy as Boris, for only another two men fell that Boris could see.

  The enemy had not idly been running forward either - they had drawn their own javelins and even now released their volley like a swarm of angry steel-tipped hornets. Boris raised his shield in front of his body and felt the thump of a javelin striking it. The weapon weighed down his shield, but he did not discard it. He spared no glance behind him to his companions, his eyes focused on the enemy, though he heard the scream of one man and a grunt of pain from another.

  Before Boris could draw his second javelin, the two groups were upon one another. He drew his short swords from the scabbard at his waist and raised his shield in a defensive position, the enemy javelin acting like a very large, cumbersome shield spike. The first opponent swung his blade in a frenzied strike. Boris brought his shield around, blocking the blade. The haft of the javelin lodged in Boris’ shield slammed into the side of the assailant, but with little effect. The man leaned against the haft, attempting to turn the shield aside to clear a path to strike. Boris’ muscles strained against the weight of the man, holding the shield in place with effort.

  As the man leaned into the haft with a concerted effort, working at it, Boris moved his shield rapidly to the left, spinning and assuming a crouching position. His opponent, overcompensating, stumbled to his right. Boris continued the spinning movement, bringing the haft of the javelin around and sweeping the legs out from under the man. The man toppled onto his back, but brought his shield up, expecting a strike that did not come. Boris took the valuable moment to sheath his sword and remove the javelin from his shield.

  The man struggled to his feet and glared at Boris. Boris began to charge, javelin held high as if he were going to launch it at any moment. The man raised his shield, again expecting an attack. But instead of striking with the javelin, Boris raised his own shield and slammed it into the other man’s shield. As they clashed, Boris leapt, somersaulting over the man. Coming down behind him, he jabbed the javelin into the man’s back, straight through where he knew his heart to be. The man fell to his knees and crumpled forward, blood gushing from the wound in his back.

  Withdrawing the javelin from the back of the man, Boris spun and lifted his shield to protect against a potential attack from behind. When no attack came - in fact, there were no combatants near him - he took stock of the situation.

  Boris and his opponent had been fighting off to one side of the arena. The others had not been so lucky. In the center of the arena, bodies mingled as men slashed and blocked and stabbed. As he watched, one of the men on his side, Demyan, was stabbed from behind by a javelin while fighting another man. Following the assault on Demyan, however, both men were set upon by Andrey, whose roar was lost among the cacophony of battle. With a sweep of his shield, he knocked one of the men in the chin, sweeping him off his feet and causing his neck to snap back violently, breaking it. Without losing any momentum, Andrey pulled the javelin from Demyan’s back, hoisted it and threw it toward the second opponent. That man, too surprised to react, took the javelin through the face, the steel point causing brain matter to eject from the back of his head.

  Boris’ eyes fell upon Clarence, who faced off against a man much larger than he. A man lay on the ground nearby, wearing the colors of Boris’ team, though Boris could not tell who. Without further thought, Boris charged toward the hulking man, just as he raised a heavy mace - how had he gotten a mace? - to smash it down toward Clarence. Clarence raised his shield, but Boris knew what the results would be. The heavy mace would slam into the shield and the vibration would shatter bones, driving Clarence backward. The big man would then follow up with a final crushing blow while Clarence fell back in pain.

  Withdrawing the last javelin from his back, Boris stopped. Aim was more critical than power in this moment. Cocking his arm, he let the javelin fly with all his power. The javelin slammed into the large man’s side, causing him to jerk the mace around and slam it into the dirt beside Clarence.

  The man lifted the mace and turned, thoughts of crushing Clarence forgotten. He roared in fury and charged toward Boris, two-handed mace poised to strike.

  Boris lowered his shield and drew his blade as he charged, expecting the man to repeat the attack he had intended for Clarence. He did not disappoint. As the mace came down, right where he expected Boris’ shield to be, Boris released his shield, letting it fall to the ground directly in the path of the mace. Without slowing, Boris darted around the side of the man and slashed at both legs at once, hamstringing him.

  The mace came down with a mighty clang, and the strike on the man’s hamstrings caused him to stumbled forward. Wheeling around, Boris capitalized on the disabled man and slammed his blade into the nape of his neck, severing his spine and almost taking his head off. The man did not rise, but rather fell, soaking the sand with blood.

  Boris picked up his shield, which, although dented, was functional, re-attached it to his arm and turned once again toward the symphony of battle playing out in the center of the arena. The tides, though at first on the side of Boris and his companions, seemed to be turning again. More of his own men lay on the ground than did enemies. Andrey stood in the center, facing now three men. The enemy had identified the major threat among Victor’s gladiators and sought to eliminate him.

  Before Boris could react and move to help, a javelin streaked and struck Andrey’s ankle, causing him to s
tumble forward in the motion of striking one of the three assailants. Another man sliced and stabbed him in the gut. The last man, seeing Andrey limping and holding his guts in, ran forward and kicked him in the head, causing him to flip onto his back, wincing in agony.

  The man who had kicked Andrey fell to his knees beside Andrey. Grabbing him by his long hair, the man lifted his head. Andrey was dazed, his feeble attempts at grabbing his attacker failing. The assailant drew his swords across Andrey’s neck, spilling his blood down the front of Andrey’s bare chest. The brutal man continued his sawing motion until the head was severed. Lifting Andrey’s head up by the hair, he shouted in triumph and tossed the head up into the air.

  Boris motioned for Clarence to join him.

  “What, what are we going to do?” Clarence asked.

  Boris did not look at Clarence. “We have to work as a team.” He pointed toward the group of three who had succeeded in bringing down Andrey. “We will be slaughtered one-by-one if we do not unite.” Stepping forward, Boris shouted, “Gladiators of House Helgstad! To me!” He shouted several more times before anyone began to notice. Those who noticed glanced in his direction, not daring to take their eyes off their opponent for more than a moment, and began to move toward Boris.

  “Follow me,” Boris commanded. Together, the two men rushed toward a cluster of their own brethren who fought near each other. Boris rushed between two of his allies and capitalized on the element of surprise. Up came his shield, slamming to the left into the body of one assailant, throwing him off balance. Without stopping, Boris spun and pressed his attack with blade on another assailant, who, assailed on two fronts, faltered and fell to a blow from Makar. Boris looked back to the man he had shield slammed, but he was now lying on the ground, slain.

  “We have to fight together,” Boris announced to Makar and the other man. “Form a circle. Clarence! Get over here!”