“Until the hotonii decide your fate, you will remain here.” Again, it was not a request.
Given no other option, Windrunner unbuckled his sword. After the slightest hesitation, he handed over his staff.
He went into the prison quietly.
DESPITE BEING EXHAUSTED from the climb, Windrunner got very little sleep that night. He tossed and turned, soreness and fear and rage keeping him uncomfortable and agitated. It was a relief when the sky began to lighten. At least then he could pace and hope someone might come to let them out.
Hope turned to desperation, then despair, as the sun tracked across the sky. By the time dusk reappeared, it turned to rage.
“A full day, Brinelle! A day lost here, doing nothing, while we get further behind on finding the Remnants and the Shahadán get closer to arriving.”
“I know, Windrunner.” She sat in a meditative pose, watching him storm around the enclosure.
“What are we supposed to do, wait here while the urn warriors let us rot for insulting them?”
“Patiently would be preferable.” She paused while Windrunner scoffed and picked up his pace. “Perhaps they would have been more amenable if you had not lost your temper.”
That cooled some of his anger.
“Then again,” Brinelle said, sighing, “it’s likely we would be here anyway. The urn warriors are not known for being generous to visitors.”
“Then what if they kill us? We’ll be done before we ever get started.”
“We will argue, we will fight. If we die, we die.”
He stopped pacing, staring at Brinelle. “That’s it? ‘At least we’ll die knowing we tried to do the right thing?’ The Shahadán are going to kill everyone, Brinelle. We can’t lay down and let the urn warriors kill us.”
She paused, seeming troubled by his words. Before she could reply, the heavy door was unlocked and an urn warrior stepped in. Windrunner recognized his vivid orange tattoos.
“Well?”
The urn warrior scowled. “Watch your tongue, funny little man, or I will cut it out.”
Windrunner scowled right back, but didn’t reply.
“Have the hotonii decided our fate?” Brinelle asked.
The urn warrior’s glare narrowed on Windrunner. “Despite your disrespect, the hotonii will offer you a chance to prove your worth. If you stand in battle tomorrow, and survive, you will have shown yourself to be in the favor of Vaharra. Do you accept?”
“Of course I do,” Windrunner said. He didn’t even have to think about it. A chance to get out of this mess? He’d take it.
He looked to Brinelle, expecting to see hope or happiness on her face. She was ash white, her eyes wide with fear. She looked horrified.
The urn warrior smiled. Windrunner restrained the urge to step back at the sight. “Rest well tonight, funny little man. Your death awaits you at sunrise.”
8
“Y ou should not have agreed to this,” Brinelle said. “You’re not prepared. The urn warriors are taught to fight from the moment they can walk. Your training is weeks old. It will be impossible for you to survive.”
“Come on, Brinelle, it’ll be fine.” He tried to sound reassuring, but he knew he sounded delusional instead. She was right. He couldn’t defeat an urn warrior. But what could he do about it now? He’d opened his big mouth and committed himself. The urn warriors would never let him back out.
It seems he was about to let the urn warriors kill him after all.
Despite the warrior’s advice, Brinelle kept Windrunner up half the night going over strategy and last minute instruction. At least that meant he was too tired to be afraid.
The urn warriors came to get him as soon as the stars disappeared. They refused to let Brinelle come along, no matter how much Windrunner argued. In the end he was forced to leave her behind, following the urn warrior to this hopeless battle alone. He gave her one last look as he left the cell, hoping to exude confidence and strength. It probably did the opposite.
Much of the city seemed to be already awake, urn warriors bustling about and babbling in a language Windrunner didn’t understand. It was clear they were preparing for a celebration.
The rock formations Windrunner had seen from the overlook were hollow in the center. The urn warriors used these for everything from housing to storage to containing animals or waste. Large fire pits were scattered everywhere, each one blazing and loaded with roasting meat and boiling stews.
“You should be honored, funny little man,” the urn warrior said. “Vaharra has chosen to bring you here at the time a young warrior is ready for the blood-ash ceremony. The Blood God has led you here to be today’s battle sacrifice.”
“I’m not going to let myself be sacrificed.”
“Nor would we want you to. Fight for your life. It’s better that way.”
The way he’d said it sent shivers up Windrunner’s spine. Like it’s better to pour some gravy on those potatoes before you eat them.
The urn warrior led him through the crowd, toward the Hotonii Tower. Windrunner felt like a child passing through a group of adults—even the women were a head or more taller than he was. They looked at him with eager, euphoric expressions. Several reached out to touch him as he passed. They think I’ve been brought by their god to die.
He wanted to believe they thought wrong, that he could show them he wasn’t a weakling to sacrifice. But as they approached the Hotonii Tower, Windrunner grew queasy. Every single person he passed had huge, rippling muscles. They all carried weapons and seemed more than familiar with them. No sickly or scrawny urn warriors anywhere. Seasoned warriors, each and every one. Windrunner was lucky he only got beat semi-badly by Brinelle during their sparring. He was pretty sure that was because she was taking it easy on him, too.
He was led onto a dais about thirty feet across at the base of the tower. The rocky spire rose more than three hundred feet straight above him. Urn warriors were perched on every outcropping he could see, their brilliant tattoos gleaming in the light.
The crowd roared as Windrunner reached the top of the dais. Several warriors flourished their weapons and gestured to him, shouting in their native language.
They hollered for a few minutes, until a boy no more than fifteen emerged from the crowd. His arrival spread waves of silence behind him.
Windrunner couldn’t help but stare at the boy. His face lacked the contrasting tattoos of the men, making him seem even younger than he would have otherwise. But despite that, his eyes were fierce and hard like a warrior’s. This would not be the boy’s first battle. It probably wouldn’t be in his first thousand.
Windrunner was outmatched, no doubt about it. He clenched his hands into fists to keep anyone from seeing how much they were shaking.
A huge, somber man dressed in every conceivable animal skin stepped up from behind Windrunner. He placed his hands on the boy’s head and raised his chin, roaring a warrior’s cry toward the sky.
“Brak duren lu tumak freen. To you we dedicate this offering of blood,” the shaman said.
“This blood is yours,” chanted the crowd.
“From birth we learn to stand and fight, and walk the path of warrior’s might.”
“From birth we learn, till death we train,” the crowd agreed.
“Strength is sought, and honor gained; upon the warrior praises are rained.”
“Strength and honor, glory and praise.”
“Thus the marks of the ancestors are earned; upon the skin forever they burn.”
“Tattoos from the past, rebirthed and alive.”
“Then from the body his blood is torn; in that moment the warrior is born.”
“The boy is dead; the man now lives.”
“A living vessel of ancestor’s skill, that one may learn to battle and kill.”
“To learn from the past, to fight and to win.”
“Brak duren lu tumak freen. To you we dedicate this offering of blood.”
“This blood is yours.”
&n
bsp; The shaman presented a sword to the boy. It was neither ceremonial nor special—it was a plain, utilitarian blade of exceptional quality. When it came to battle, the urn warriors clearly valued usefulness over beauty.
The shaman turned away, then approached Windrunner. He held out the blood-crusted staff in one hand and Windrunner’s sword in the other. “Die with honor,” he said.
Windrunner’s heart beat out of control, but he somehow managed to maintain a grave expression as he accepted the staff. The warmth of its magic—his magic—gave him a small measure of confidence. “You can keep that,” he said, pointing at the sword. “I don’t need it anymore.”
The urn warriors cleared the dais, until only Windrunner and the boy remained. Eager, tattooed faces watched them from all around. The anticipation in the air was palpable.
The boy swung his sword a few times, testing the weight. Windrunner did the same with the staff. He wished he felt as comfortable as the boy looked—the sword seemed like a natural extension of his arm, like he’d grown up using one as a play toy. Windrunner was still afraid he’d bonk himself on the head with his staff if he wasn’t careful.
The boy burst into motion without warning, staying low to the ground and swiping his sword at the level of Windrunner’s kneecaps. Windrunner brought the left side of his staff down to block and rotated it to force the energy up and away. Using that momentum he arced the staff toward his right, hoping for a shot at the boy’s left shoulder. By the time his staff arrived the sword was poised for a perfect defense.
A sudden thrust at his left hip forced Windrunner to sidestep. Before he could regain his footing, the boy was there to take advantage of his weakness. Windrunner couldn’t hope to parry every one of his attacks. He dodged and ducked, interposing his staff whenever he could, but he still collected several cuts for his efforts. One on his left arm was deep enough to limit his range of motion and strength. Against an opponent like this, it was a herald of doom.
What he wouldn’t have given for one of Brinelle’s shields right now.
Windrunner was no match for this boy. His all-too-brief training could never have prepared him for competition such as this. It would be a year at least before he would advance to a level where he could hold his own in this fight. He was going to lose.
He couldn’t let this happen. He had to win. He had to survive this so he could fight the Shahadán. There was no other option.
He bent his entire will to the battle, focusing on the motions and his opponent and drowning out everything else. He poured everything he had into the fight. His staff grew warmer in his hands, and the power flowing from it bolstered his resolve.
Windrunner flew through the battle, twisting away from strikes and parrying others while diving for holes in his opponent’s defenses. The motions felt natural, graceful, and a flash of fear showed in the boy’s face.
For a brief, impossible moment, Windrunner thought he might pull this off.
The warmth from the staff began to fade after a moment, and the power driving him ebbed away. Fatigue took its place, weariness so profound Windrunner felt as if someone had pulled a drain-plug on his energy. He staggered backward. The boy pressed his advantage. Windrunner’s staff was almost too heavy to raise, his reactions too slow to block every one of the boy’s skilled attacks.
Within seconds Windrunner was forced off balance, and he fell back. The staff clattered out of his reach. Pride gleamed in the boy’s eyes as he stood over Windrunner.
A shadow streaked over the boy’s shoulder. Then another. Screams erupted from the crowd. Windrunner tore his gaze from the sword raised above him in time to see rows of dagger-like teeth hurtling toward them.
The boy had turned aside at the screams. Windrunner tried to warn him, but before he could get a sound out of his mouth the boy grunted and jerked forward. The sword fell from his hand. He stood there, eyes glazed and expression shocked, for a heartbeat. Then he crumpled to the ground.
A mazahn was embedded in his back, blood seeping from around its jaws.
Windrunner’s magic, the rage and hatred, flared at the sight of the mazahn. He rose and reached for his staff. The wood was hot, and as soon as he touched it scarlet light erupted from it. Windrunner picked it up, searing heat and power flowing through him. He stepped toward the mazahn and swung the staff with all the strength he had.
The mazahn crumbled to ashes.
A thrill raced down Windrunner’s spine. Was that his Destruction magic at work? He hadn’t expected it to feel so good. The magic was dark and angry, but damn did Windrunner feel powerful. He inhaled, savoring the rush of magic surging through him. He could get used to this.
Windrunner moved without thinking, racing toward the nearest mazahnen and clubbing them with his staff. Each one disintegrated upon impact. He followed the screams, weaving through urn warriors and small battles and killing any mazahn he came across. The smell of blood and ash filled the air, screams and battle cries filled his ears. Windrunner lost track of how many mazahnen he killed or how many dead warriors he encountered. He just kept hunting, driven by the heat of his staff and the need to eliminate the servants of the Shahadán.
As quickly as it had started, the battle was over.
Windrunner stood near the dais, panting. His head swam and his body trembled. The staff was still hot, the power pulsing through him. He could feel the magic, the power of death and Destruction, surging through his blood. He wanted to find more mazahnen. He wanted to watch their stubby little bodies crumble to ash at the touch of his power.
A weak cough from behind drew his attention.
He climbed back onto the dais. The boy lay where he’d fallen, blood—not ash, since he hadn’t passed his test—still oozing from his back. His breath was labored and gurgled with each exhale. He might live for a few hours, but death would overtake him during the night.
Windrunner dropped his staff, and weariness overcame him. The heat of his magic died and he shivered, but clarity returned to his thoughts.
This boy would not live to become an adult or raise a family. The manhood and respect he sought were lost to him forever, and he knew it. Windrunner didn’t need to imagine the pain of that realization. He lived it every single day.
The depth of suffering in the boy’s eyes made Windrunner wince. He would die weak, helpless, without honor or dignity. For an urn warrior, it would be the ultimate humiliation.
He didn’t deserve this. No one did.
Windrunner picked up the boy’s sword, and another from a fallen warrior nearby. Destroying the mazahnen had been a rush he was already missing, but using that power on another human being felt wrong. Windrunner couldn’t Destroy him. He would make sure this boy fell to a weapon that would honor him.
The boy struggled to sit up, but he was too weak. Windrunner knelt and helped him to his feet. Somehow, the boy managed to stay balanced. He grasped his sword when Windrunner handed it to him.
“Die with honor,” Windrunner said. The boy managed a weak, grateful smile.
Windrunner struck, and the boy fell without a sound.
For long minutes he stood over the boy’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks. The bloody sword hung limp in his hand. Where was the rage now? Where was that driving heat to keep him going? He felt empty now, confused, mourning the boy who’d been about to kill him moments before.
A shadow fell over him. He whirled around, expecting to see another mazahn about to attack. He dropped the sword and picked up his staff again. Its warmth felt reassuring and gave him strength.
The urn warrior with the orange tattoos stood above him. His eyes moved from Windrunner to the dead boy and back several times. He looked like he’d eaten something sour—the knowledge Windrunner had done something honorable, perhaps.
“Well, funny man,” he said at last, “you must have some warrior blood in you after all.”
“I’m not completely useless.”
The urn warrior nodded. “I am Fi’ar of the urn warriors.”
<
br /> “Windrunner.”
“You did a great service for my son. This I shall not forget.”
Windrunner didn’t know how to respond, so he half-nodded, half-bowed in silence.
As he raised his eyes, he saw Brinelle approaching. Her clothes were spattered with blood, but she seemed all right. Windrunner breathed a sigh of relief.
Beside her was the shaman who had performed the ceremony. He nodded to Windrunner and Fi’ar as he joined them. “It is a great day for the children of Vaharra. Many of our number have been called to be with the ancestors and share their knowledge with our people. And yet, joy does not come without pain. What our people gain, we as individuals lose. Friends. Family.” His eyes traveled to the boy, then Fi’ar. “Sons.”
The shaman looked to Windrunner. “You fought well and were prepared to die well. You were indeed a worthy battle sacrifice.”
“Uh … thanks?”
“By rising to battle against the mazahnen, and giving our people honor in death, you have shown you are a man worth our respect.”
Windrunner couldn’t hide his grin. Those words were sweeter than any harvest he’d ever brought in.
“Your actions today show your character to be noble and powerful. A worthy ally to the urn warriors. As a member of the hotonii, I declare you free to pursue your goals. Should you find need, you may call upon the urn warriors. We will fight beside you against the Shahadán.” The shaman bent at the waist, fist pressed against his heart.
Windrunner did the same, hoping he didn’t mess up the salute. After all the trials to get here, a reward at last. He wanted to whoop with joy.
He looked to Brinelle, expecting her to share his excitement. But her brow was furrowed, her eyes narrowed. She watched him like she was trying to decide whether he was a dangerous predator or an innocent bystander.
Sick dread coiled in his gut. Had she sensed his Destruction magic during the fight? Had she figured out he was one of the Varyah she so despised?
He swallowed the bile churning in his throat and turned away from her glare, only to meet Fi’ar’s. The stoic urn warrior was staring at Windrunner, arms crossed, as if he did not approve of this scrawny boy being his ally. Windrunner’s smile faded.
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