Bloodletting Part 1: The Affinities Cycle Book 1

by Mark Ryan

  “Again,” Reynolds called from the courtyard’s edge.

  Tetra stepped back into the training ring. He tried something new, taking up a neutral stance, shield forward but angled for him to strike from behind. The pair started circling, Mikkels testing his defense with a few middling blade taps. The corporal seemed intrigued with this new stance. Tetra hadn’t seen it used here at the Drayston garrison, but he had seen his father and Uncle Andros use it.

  “You’ve done a good job of moving,” Reynolds continued. “Standing still is a sure way to die, but don’t wear yourself out jumping around. Parry and keep moving, don’t just stop whenever you block. Even defense can be aggressive.”

  Reynolds kept speaking, not giving Tetra a moment to focus on the combat. “They attack, and you can disrupt them with a solid counter, or catch them off balance mid-strike. This isn’t a gentleman’s game, where you have to be polite. Just because they’re attacking doesn’t mean you have to let them finish. And use your whole body, not just the sword and shield. Punch. Kick. Knees, elbows, shoulders. Voids, boy, bite them if they get close enough.”

  Mikkels attacked, launching the attack from his shoulder, right at Tetra’s head. Understanding dawned about why his father and uncle used this stance. The incoming blade was so far away, it was easy to counter. Punching his fist forward, Tetra caught the practice sword with the corner of his shield. Tilting his arm slightly, he brought the bottom of the shield up, exposing a clear line of sight on Mikkels’ stomach.

  Without hesitation Tetra thrust, forcing the corporal to side-step and parry. He knocked the sword aside, but Tetra recovered, reversing the blade and coming up through the inside of his own guard. The sword went right for Mikkels head. The corporal leaned back and let the blade slice past. Tetra stumbled, not sure where to go next, and swung down, aiming for Mikkels’ shoulder. The corporal blocked this easily and rammed his shield into Tetra’s exposed chest.

  As Tetra flailed for balance, Mikkels caught his arm and steadied him. “That was well done boy. Where the Voids did you learn that?”

  Reynolds called a halt to the match, interrupting Tetra’s response. “Which if you wants to tell me what you both did wrong there?”

  Tetra and Mikkels exchanged confused looks.

  “It’s got something to do with your weapons, if that gives you any clue.”

  Tetra frowned. “Doesn’t all fighting?” he noticed Mikkels grinning while he backed away.

  The sergeant sighed. He turned and shouted across the practice court. “Bealdred!”

  A blacksmith’s hut sat tucked into the corner of the work yard on the far side of the eastern wall. The hammering of metal on metal stopped, leaving a sudden silence to thicken the air. A broad-shouldered man with lanky, graying hair stepped into sight, wiping soot-covered hands on a filthier apron. “You called, Sergeant Reynolds?”

  Reynolds went to a weapons rack and took up a pair of wooden clubs. “We could use your expertise, if you would? I’d like you to show Tetra here how to block your attack specialty.” He returned to the training circle and exchanged Tetra’s sword for a club. The other, he offered to Bealdred as the large man lumbered up.

  The hulking blacksmith eyed Tetra. “I’m no wet nurse.”

  Several nearby guardsmen laughed, but Reynolds just kept the club out for the man to take.

  “There are no babes here,” Tetra said.

  Bealdred chuckled and sauntered over to another rack, where he grabbed a massive wooden mace which he brought into the circle. He studied Tetra while probing his tongue between a gap in his upper teeth. Then, smacking his lips, he drew back the club and lazily swung it. Tetra stepped in and tried for an aggressive block, as Reynolds had spoken of.

  The crack of impact echoed through the yard. The force hit like a horse’s kick, knocking the club from his hands and flinging him to the ground a few feet back. His shoulders and back screamed at him in agony, but the brace grounded him enough to keep him in alignment. His hands buzzed, fingers throbbing.

  “There, he blocked it.” Bealdred dropped his club by Tetra’s head and started back towards his workshop. “Lesson over.”

  Reynolds scowled. “Bealdred …”

  The blacksmith growled low, but retrieved his club. “On yer feet, git.”

  Tetra struggled up. Not even Mikkels had ever jarred him that hard. Every bone in his body hurt like the hells. Yet he knew despite the blacksmith’s size, such a slow swing could’ve only hit that hard for one reason. And Tetra knew that trick, too.

  Bealdred drew back to swing again. Tetra shifted forward to meet him. At the same time, he embraced his affinity, even though it intensified the pain already thrumming through him. He increased the density of his club tenfold, which turned his swing sluggish just like Bealdred’s. Just as the weapons connected, he boosted his club’s density further, making it so heavy it would’ve been impossible to lift if it hadn’t been already moving.

  The clubs met with a deafening crack and shattered. Wooden shards flew everywhere, and a number of trainees ducked on instinct.

  Mikkels broke the silence first with a hushed, “Aspects take me …” He turned to the sergeant. “And you say I was going hard on him?”

  Among the soldiers standing around, gaping, only Reynolds held a knowing smile. “That, men, is how you shatter an affinity crafted oroc club.”

  Bealdred studied the wooden stump still in his hand, as did Tetra. Then the blacksmith’s jowls bunched up in a grin. “Alright, I’ll train ’im.”

  ***

  Chapter 38

  Halli Bicks

  Halli stood at the edge of the frozen river as she had almost every morning for the past few months. Cracks were starting to appear in the ice as winter ran out of energy. It was still brutally cold, but the razor edge of the freeze faded with each day.

  Her buckets, with their woven vine handles, sat beside her, waiting to be filled. She didn’t feel the cold much anymore, especially when compared to the fist of ice sitting in her chest. She didn’t feel warmth either. Hadn’t felt warm at all since Leesa’s death, a month back.

  The days became driven by routine. Wake. Check the other girls for any signs of illness or injury. Give Kat her morning mash. Come to down to the river. Draw water. Distribute it to the oroc cisterns and then return for the humans’ share. Feed Kat again in the evening. Then do it again the next day. And the next.

  To what end? Until she had to helplessly watch another of her charges die? Until she had to see one of the boys with a skull crushed by an oroc infuriated by some slight? Until their captors finally decided to just kill them all and bury them out in the middle of the forest? There were only about forty of Jaegaen’s children left alive out of the hundred and some that had been taken. The original six cages were reduced to two.

  And that’s what the orocs wanted, she knew. To get rid of them. To remove the waste of resources in their midst. The humans were an unnecessary distraction. They offered no challenge. No real amusement. What good were they?

  What good was she? The drain on her magic was back, stronger than before. More than anything, she had failed. All she was now was a healer who couldn’t heal. A breaker of promises.

  Halli toed the edge of the hole in the ice. She’d become quite adept at cracking it open with one of the oroc clubs, and she’d made it a little bigger than usual today. Large enough for, say, a skinny human to fall through. If that happened, the person would no doubt be swept away by the frigid currents beneath, never to be seen again. Never to be a bother or a burden on anyone.

  What would it feel like, to freeze to death? She knew from healing her own frostbitten fingers and toes how harshly the cold could scour the body. Yet it often numbed soon after, and the afflicted flesh sometimes even felt warmed. Would it be like that? A few long moments of wretched chills before numbing warmth seeped through and drew her down into darkness? Would she even have time to regret her decision before all thoughts fled?

  Right then, only tw
o things kept her from letting go and taking that last step. The rest of the girls remained back in the cave, waiting for her return. They too had fallen into their daily patterns, going through the motions just to survive. Despite her desires, she remained part of those patterns, and her sudden absence would unravel them. Who would feed Kat? Who would ensure Laney stayed to keep watch over the rest?

  Alongside that, Tetra’s presence in her mind provided the slightest anchor, one she held onto with all her ebbing strength. Her brother was alive. She couldn’t guess what went on wherever he was, but what if he felt her in return and relied on their bond to sustain him in some way? What if she cut herself off and, in doing so, took away the one thing keeping him alive?

  With a frosty sigh, Halli knelt on the snowy bank and filled each bucket in turn. Rising, she trudged back to the camp and made her way through the oroc masses. Their words slipped into her ears. She now understood the majority of the talk, but she paid it little heed. Insults, mostly, mingled with bored threats or grumbles about her not respecting the balance.

  One group of orocs chatted about the mild winter and how, in just another month or two, spring would begin anew. Halli paused, hearing them speak gleefully about how it’d soon be time for the ancients and saplings to merge. It would be time to forage the forest more thoroughly, how fresh flowerings would blossom all around, turning the white expanse into a kaleidoscope of life. The cycle began fresh, and soon snowmelt would gorge the river and they’d celebrate with constant feasts and festivities.

  She swayed in place, thinking of spring in Jaegen. Her eyes closed for a second as she recalled the village Heart pole decorated with painting and ribbons, Heart shard glowing atop it. Children darting around, laughing, wearing little more than cloth shifts in the sunlight. Men and women hard at work in their shops and fields, saving what coin they could to splurge on treats and prizes during the festival …

  Opening her eyes didn’t stop the sudden flash of carnage and terror. Only hazy glimpses of that night surfaced in her memory, but the stories from the other captives filled in the blanks well enough.

  Shaking free from the grip of terror, she started back to the cave, careful to avoid slipping on the packed snow and ice along the path. Halfway there, a hunting party tromped into view ahead of her, a large boar suspended from a pole between the shoulders of the younger harvesters. The smell of slow roasting hog would fill the area in a few hours, spitted above one of the heat vents, but she knew none of it would make its way to the prisoners. Snow crunched under her foot, mocking the warm phantom aromas.

  Every time she returned to their prison, she half-expected to find the others slaughtered in her absence. It’d take a single command from the oroc ancients, and the weak pests would be gone for good. She didn’t know why they’d been kept alive this long. After proving themselves so murderous, it seemed ridiculous that the orocs would want to avoid more blood on their hands. She’d heard talk of letting the humans loose in the forest, knowing most, if not all, would die from exposure.

  She slowed her pace so the hunting party stayed ahead of her. The older orocs teased the sapling harvesters, and it sounded like the hog was their first harvest, as they called them. Though the ancients noted they’d executed the harvest perfectly without needing any sort of help. She startled on realizing Gnarrl joked and jostled at the back of the group. One of the saplings must be his protégé … or even his child, though she’d never seen him with any of the females.

  They reached one clan cave, where the harvesters entered to the praise and exclamations of the rest of the clan. Halli studied the orocs, trying to figure out if these were newcomers or had been there since the beginning.

  So many came and went regularly, often being gone for weeks at a time, with little to distinguish them except a few crude skin paintings or the way they wove their vine-and-bark adornments. During the coldest winter months, she’d counted at least fifty glowing vents around the settlement, and there could be as many as two dozen orocs camped around the larger circles.

  She waited while the rest of the party mingled and told stories of the harvest. They took up the whole path, and to push past would show immense disrespect on her part. Her arms strained to hold the heavy buckets, and the vine cords cut into her palms, but she couldn’t put them down. That would likely get her berated for laziness. Instead, she stood there, head bowed submissively.

  One of the females peeled off from the group and stalked back down the path. Halli shifted to the side, but not fast enough. The oroc made no attempt to avoid her, ramming an elbow into her side as she passed. The buckets flew as she failed to keep her footing. Water splashed over another harvester who lounged nearby.

  “Watch where you’re going,” the female chirped, smirking as she continued on.

  The harvester lunged up with a roar. Easily seven feet tall, and as thick as an old oak tree, he towered over her. “Burn you, human! You think Surro needs a bath?”

  The other orocs stopped to watch the spectacle, many of them pointing at Surro and laughing. This just deepened his fury.

  “Surro thinks you need a bath, human.”

  He grabbed her neck in an unforgiving hand and dragged her over to a nearby cistern—one she helped keep full each day. He shoved her head under the surface, smashing the thin ice that had formed with her face. She almost sucked in a lungful of icy water from the shock. Her hands scrabbled at the stony rim as she struggled to push free. Surro kept her pinned, his fingers an iron band around her neck. Her whimpers burbled away as her vision went red and gray around the edges.

  Even as she continued her futile fight, the ice in her chest thawed, releasing a current of peace through her. The cold wasn’t a shock now. Warm flooded her body, and she felt like she was floating alongside her own body. This ended it, then? She’d turned away from this choice and now another made it for her. At least … at least she hadn’t given up on her own. If she went, let it be by their hands, not her own. Perhaps knowing this would give the other girls the determination to keep fighting in her memory.

  Something yanked her from the water and flung her to the ground. Sweet, yet painfully cold air swelled her chest, while orocs argued around her.

  “I’ll do as I wish with them,” Surro shouted.

  She swept dripping hair from her eyes with numb fingers. There was little she could but lay there and shiver. None of her limbs wanted to work. Two orocs faced down Surro, Gnarrl and one of those he’d spoken with outside their prison a while back. Kunat, she thought his name was. Gnarrl eyed her warily, standing so he subtly shielded her from her attacker.

  “You would want humans to treat our saplings the same way?” Kunat asked.

  Surro blustered. “We all know how humans treat saplings. Fire and death.” Several orocs nodded. “Is that it, Kunat? You want to save humans so they can kill our own kind?”

  Kunat’s eyes narrowed just before he lunged for Surro. The two hit the ground with a rumble, trading blows as they grappled. Halli had witnessed beatings and scuffles within the tribe before, but this show of brutality eclipsed all others. She still found it difficult to equate these displays she saw with the teachings of the orocs as a gentle and peaceful race.

  Blows fell like sledgehammers. Rock crushed under their feet. The earth cracked around them, and the closer trees swayed. Then Kunat wrapped his arms around Surro’s waist. While the larger oroc pounded on his back, Kunat lifted him into the air and then slammed him to the ground. Halli braced, worried they would begin using their affinity to churn the very earth beneath them, that they would use the stone spikes to hurt each other.

  Kunat pushed to his feet, chest heaving, hands still curled into fists. He stood over Surro, who lay groaning at his feet. Halli took a deep breath. Of course, they wouldn’t use their magic against each other, not for something as trivial as a brawl. The gathering of orocs parted as a taller figure appeared. The antlers strapped to his head made him look even more tree-like as he strode along with a regal bea
ring. Halli had never seen the clan shaman before, though she’d heard many say his name. Argant.

  Despite herself, she felt a rush of reverence. Many orocs bowed to the newcomer, while others knelt, hiding their faces. Instinctively, Halli fought her numb limbs, pushing herself up till she was kneeling respectfully, matching the pose of those around her. The ancient moved with remarkable grace, coming to a stop beside Kunat. As he surveyed the scene, his dark, recessed eyes rested on Halli for a moment before shifting to Kunat. The warrior met this gaze proudly, though he looked up to do so.

  The shaman’s voice rumbled like grinding stone. “It has been a long time since I have seen Bearoak clan battle Bearoak clan. Why do you attack your brother, Kunat?”

  Kunat looked down and backed away from Surro. “Forgive me, wise one. I acted out of anger.”

  As Surro sat up, Kunat offered his hand. Surro slapped it away.

  A low growl reverberated through the area, emanating from the shaman. He bent over, grabbed Surro’s right arm, and lifted him to his feet like a child. “Would you provoke Kunat to teach another lesson in manners, Surro?”

  “Kunat protects the stupid human sapling from punishment—”

  Another growl silenced Surro’s protest. “Argant sees harvesters behaving like saplings. Maybe they need to join ancients again and gather for several moons?”

  The orocs’ strange barking laughter rolled about, and even Gnarrl joined in.

  The shaman pointed a gnarled finger at Surro and Kunat. “No more battles for you for three moons, save for harvests. Not with each other, not with humans.”

  The hunters nodded and the shaman disappeared back into the depths of the main cave. As the crowd dispersed, Gnarrl took Halli’s arm and led her into the cave where the girls languished. His face had gone hard with anger, but his grip remained gentle. When they approached the side hollow, Halli stopped him with a slight tug.