Chosen (The Last Guardians Book 1)

by C. V. Gregorchuk

  He had to learn the limits of this form. Vander was strong, stronger than Orden but lacked control. Without control, he could not use his strength to its full potential. Too often his weapon left his hand, flying through the air as a result of an over-zealous swing. For each sparring session, he engaged in, at least one weapon was broken beyond repair, more often two.

  Orden had no reservations in making Vander aware of his perceived inadequacies. He maintained a slew of derisive names, chief among them: ‘hatchling.’ That single word ignited such fury within Vander. The implication being that he was young and weak, incapable of defending himself. A description he resented all the more because it reflected how he saw himself in his human form. Orden knew this of course and only used it on occasions when nothing else could motivate Vander to push harder. For his own sake, Vander hated that he was so predictable.

  As his coordination improved, Vander was finally able to gain the upper hand. His movements became more precise and deliberate. He could trust his body to do as he desired, leaving his mind free for strategy. His attacks were more powerful with timed delivery, and soon Orden was the one struggling to hold his ground while Vander rained blow after blow down on him.

  Vander launched himself across the short grass of the clearing, putting all his strength behind the slashing blades of sword and short ax in his hands. Orden met him with a short sword in each hand brought together in a sharp ‘x.’

  The clash and ring of metal on metal filled the air, the only sound in this battle between Keeper and Dragon. Their snarling faces were inches apart as they pushed against one another, vying for the upper hand. Vander found his footing first. He planted his feet firmly in the grass and threw Orden back. Before he could regain his balance, Vander pressed on, striking and jabbing at Orden, looking for some opening or weakness in his defense.

  Orden met him, blow for blow, parrying each of Vander’s thrusts so that his weapons glanced harmlessly off the flat of Orden’s blades. “Surely you can do better than that, hatchling?” Orden said, his words little more than a grunt as he caught Vander’s weapons upon his own and held them immobile.

  Vander growled in answer, a sound more beast than human. He swiped a foot at Orden’s legs only for the old man to drop his guard and dodge out of the way. Off balance, Vander ducked into a crouch, narrowly escaping the dull edge of the Olu’s short sword as it sailed through the air where his head had been not a second ago. Vander caught the next attack with the head of his ax. He wrenched the sword out of Orden’s hand and sent it flying out of reach. The next thrust of his weapon had Orden spiraling away, both hands on the hilt of his sword. Driven by the absolute need to prove himself the more dominant male Vander launched an attack purely animal in nature, the goal: establishing uncontested dominance.

  Orden seemed to recognize the challenge that altered the very energy rolling off Vander in waves. He bared blunt teeth at the Dragon. His eyes flashed the steely grey his scales might have been had he been born Oluan. A vicious snarl ripped out of Vander’s throat, the challenge had been accepted. Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with blood from the cut high on his brow. Vander could not spare the hand to wipe it away as he pressed his advantage. Orden was tiring, his movements growing sluggish with each passing minute. If he could feel empathy at this moment, Vander might have eased his attack some or called for respite. He might have shown mercy where Orden never did. Weeks of demeaning insults prevented that.

  Then it happened.

  They faced each other across the trampled grass, both of them breathing heavily, both of them trying to disguise it. Vander was down to a single blade having lost his short ax only moments before, a lucky maneuver on Orden’s part. The Keeper turned his head to the side and spat a globule of saliva and blood. He met Vander’s narrowed gaze and grinned, baring a ruined and bloody mouth. Vander’s head throbbed and burned where it had connected with those teeth. In the absence of the clang and ring of weapons and the fierce snarls of the men, a small few brave creatures dared to fill the silence with quiet rustlings and muted calls.

  Vander’s grip was slick on the hilt of his sword. Blood from a gash halfway up his forearm had trickled down over his wrist to seep between his fingers and into his palm. The cut had since closed, the skin knitted together without so much as a scar, but the muscles and tendons beneath the surface still twinged every time he adjusted his grip. Sweat and blood drenched his clothes and plastered the shirt to his chest. Orden looked to be in worse shape. His nose was broken and dripping blood, the skin below his eyes growing discolored. Blood caked the coarse hairs of his beard, dying the grey crimson and brown.

  “I am not beaten yet,” Orden grumbled in a thick voice and made a flourish with his weapon. The dull blade of the short sword sliced through the air with an audible rush. Orden took a ready stance. Silence fell over the clearing once more.

  Vander watched the old man’s body, assessing Orden’s every movement for some indication of where and how he would move first. A slight lean to the right: an obvious feint. Left foot, cross right, another step, Vander mirrored each step Orden took, he was there when the Keeper feinted to the right once more and then came barreling at him, sword poised to stab Vander through the heart.

  Vander struck the oncoming blade to the side with such force that the reinforced steel squealed in protest. He turned into Orden as the Olu turned into him and they rolled off one another; a brief pause then they engaged again. Vander was on the offensive. With each strike and thrust of his blade, he forced Orden back. The old man did not yield ground to him easily. He blocked and parried, pushed back where he could, but Vander left no opening for attack, showed no weakness. He was in complete control. Orden gave subtle hints and cues a split second before each movement. Vander was able to recognize these and use them to his advantage. When Orden dodged to the right, Vander was there to meet him. When he feinted and then lunged forward, Vander deftly stepped out of the way and swiped at Orden’s exposed arm.

  Had he thought Orden incapable of blocking his attack, Vander never would have put so much force behind it. The bone broke with an audible ‘snap’ no different from the sound a branch makes when broken over a knee. Vander felt the shock of it travel through the steel blade, into the hilt, and up his own arm. He dropped the weapon as a deafening roar of pain erupted from Orden. Vander could do nothing but watch, struck dumb by what he had done as Orden sank to the ground, the ruined arm cradled against his chest. His eyes were closed, mouth open, frozen in pain. Vander had broken skin; he smelled blood on the air, Orden’s blood. It turned the stained linen of his shirt red, blooming like the flowers of a dreamer plant.

  The air shifted around them. Vander felt it pulling him, drawing him toward the old man kneeling in the grass before him. And as he watched, the stream of blood making its way down the Keeper’s broad arm slowed and came to a stop. Bruises faded, cuts and scrapes sealed themselves until Orden’s flesh was as untouched as the day he was born into this world. The Olu took a deep, rattling breath and opened his eyes.

  The steel grey orbs delivered a harsh blow of guilt that struck Vander directly in the gut. He should apologize. He wanted to, desperately even, but he would not. It would be an insult to Orden’s skill as a warrior. No, he could not apologize.

  Orden made a sound in the back of his throat and diverted his gaze. Thick grey brows drew together as the old man shifted his legs out from under him and sat with them crossed. A deep breath smoothed some of the strain from Orden’s face. He shook his head, his lip curling, “I need ye to mend it.” He said.

  Vander kneeled in the grass beside his guardian, an iron fist clamped around his guts He shook strands of sweat-darkened hair from his eyes and put his hands on the arm, feeling with tentative fingers for the break. The arm itself was swollen with blood flowing freely from the point of impact. Orden grunted when Vander reached the spot midway between shoulder and elbow, and ground his teeth loud enough for the Dragon to hear. Vander avoided meeting Orden’s eye as
he prodded the break as gently as possible, investigating the extent of the damage. A short bark of pain escaped the old man as the edges of the bone grated against one another. A clean break.

  Vander flicked his eyes to Orden’s face and found him watching. “I can numb the pain if-”

  “No.”

  “It will be painful.”

  Orden’s gaze sharpened.

  Vander surrendered. Stubborn old man, he turned his attention to the arm he was responsible for breaking. It would be simple to find the tiny sparks of feeling and pinch them, temporarily robbing the arm of sensation while he mended the bone. Why the old man had refused, Vander did not know. If he had been in this position by Orden’s hand he would- No. Vander knew he too would decline the offer if only to prove he could take the pain. “Brace yourself.” He warned.

  He closed his eyes and went in search of the Power flowing through his body. In the darkness, he found it, the faint glimmer of golden light. Vander reached for it. The strand shimmered, evading him once before he mastered himself and captured it. Like wildfire burning through a dry forest, the flame spread, lighting up the pathways of his blood until a map of golden light burned against his eyelids.

  Vander took a deep breath, reveling in the hum of his Power. The raw strength of it. He could shape the elements to his will, he could move mountains. He could do anything as long as he could tolerate the cost. Vander felt the break with his fingers, ignoring the gruff sound Orden made, and ‘saw’ the edges of the bone as clearly as if he’d cut the flesh and muscle from it with a knife. He started the process of mending the bone, biting down on the inside of his cheek as the burning started. The pain was dull in comparison to the raging fire that had seared his senses the first time he’d attempted to use his Power. It still hurt. Only practice would raise his tolerance.

  Blood pooled around the break and surrounding area. His first task was to stop the bleeding from the source by quickening the natural healing process. The blood thickened at his behest, forming clots around the ruptured passages, repairing the severed ends. It coated the bone, filled the void between the edges of the break and hardened to the consistency of air-dried clay. Vander enveloped the site in a tight sleeve of his Power and applied a combination of heat and pressure that sealed the break in new bone. The entire process lasted only a minute.

  Vander sat back on his ankles and tried to keep the pleased look from his face as Orden tested the quality of his healing with a skeptical raise of his brows. After twisting the arm every which way, searching for some flaw and finding none, Orden finally let the arm fall to his side and said gruffly, “I suspect Kirstiel would be bitter she did not choose you as a Healer when she had the chance.”

  The compliment took Vander by surprise. Any response he might have made did not seem appropriate, and Vander made none. Instead, he got to his feet and offered his hand to the Olu. Orden squinted at the hand and then up into Vander’s face. Something passed in those grey eyes, something Vander could not read. Then Orden took his hand and by their combined effort joined Vander on his feet.

  “I think that is enough for today,” Vander said, retrieving his short ax from the edge of the clearing. He turned to Orden, wiping the blade on his shirt. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  There was a ‘snick’ as Orden sheathed his sword. “No.” Vander looked up, brows drawn together a question on his lips. “I can’t train you any longer.” A rueful smile tugged at the corner of Orden’s mouth. “I do not have the strength to challenge ye.”

  “But who?”

  “I rather think Nymal will take great pleasure in sparring with you.” The smile stretched into a wicked grin. “Don’t you?”

  Chapter 37

  Mia noticed it right away, or rather, the absence of it.

  The shiver down her spine. The prickling of her scalp. For weeks the uncomfortable feeling of being watched had plagued her, the weight of eyes like the brush of a hand across her skin. Now it was just gone. She wasn’t stupid. Mia didn’t need to ask questions she knew the answers to. It was him: Vander. The Dragon. Who else could it be? It had to be Vander who watched her run; when she trained and did her chores. And now he was gone, thirteen of the horses with him.

  Time stretched and blurred in the weeks that followed. Getting up at the crack of dawn sucked, there was no other way to put it. Mia would literally kill to sleep in just one day, to ignore the knock on the door and turn her face into the pillows and sleep until she woke up naturally. Mia didn’t like the idea of being dragged out of bed by either Hanna or Breahn, so she got up, preferring to do the dragging herself. A splash of cooling water to the face was usually enough to wake her all the way up- Hanna had replaced the washing basin Mia had shattered when she first arrived. Then there was the sunrise.

  Mia was of the opinion that no place on earth could compete with the beauty of Manhattan at seven thirty in the morning when the sun lit the sky from below and made the smog glow with a lazy orange light. A light that reflected off the glass of a million windows and made the buildings burn. It felt disloyal to admit, even if only to herself, that the sunrises of her city had nothing on the ones she saw every morning in Nethea.

  Here the air was clean and pure. There was no smell of truck exhaust, no rooftop vents to spew smoke into the sky. The colors were clearer, brighter. There was no smog to leach the life and vibrancy from the world. The forest was a thick line of ink on the horizon, breaking up along the top where a bright pink shone through the gaps in the foliage to pick out individual branches. A thin streak of soft, creamy light bled into a pallet of blue, which started so light she almost couldn’t tell what color it was, and then darkened gradually to a deep royal blue. Purple-black clouds blended in the foreground. Here there were no buildings to hide the slow rise of the red sun as it crept over the trees inch by inch. Not a bad scene for her morning runs.

  Mia felt herself getting stronger.

  It took longer for her to get tired, longer before her lungs started to burn with the strain. Before she had to stop. Mia was surprised to find that was starting to like it; the way the world seemed to fall away until all that was left was her. The muscles in her legs stretching and contracting. The impact of her feet on the ground and the way it traveled up through the bones of her body. When she’d first started running, Mia had struggled with the breathing. Part of it was the panic. Anxiety told her she couldn’t do it. It made her chest constrict and cut off her airflow. It choked her.

  “Concentrate on the way you breathe.” Orden had told Mia when was bent in half gasping for breath after one of her first runs. “In through the mouth, out through the nose.”

  “I can’t do it.” Mia had argued between pants. “It’s too hard.”

  “Your heart beats faster, and ye think something is wrong. That is why ye stop.”

  “No, I-”

  “Push past it, and you will get stronger.”

  He was right.

  Once Mia was able to get past those few seconds of, ‘This is too hard,’ and ‘I can’t do this,’ then she could settle into the rhythm. The bounce and swish of her hair, the smooth in and out of her breath and the sound of her feet hitting the ground again and again.

  Only music could have made it better.

  Its absence was like a void in her soul. And no she was not being overdramatic. To go from a life where every day was infused with music to a place where it was non-existent was a shock to her system. In Manhattan there was nowhere you could go and not hear it. Tunes poured out of open shop doors and the windows of cabs. Street artists played for cash on busy corners and in the park. Mia missed working with Tanya at Starbucks and doing goofy dance moves to whatever song was playing on the radio. She missed listening to music with Jake, singing at the top of their lungs, each doing their best to outdo the other.

  How often had Mia been yelled at for having her speakers on too loud or blasting one song on repeat? How many times had mom yanked an earphone out of her ear to get her attention? It didn
’t matter if it was pop or classic rock, funk or movie soundtrack, as long as it had a catchy melody or a grooving baseline Mia listened to it. She could do with some high paced stuff with a good beat to run to, something to drown out her thoughts or at least distract her.

  In the quiet, mindless tasks like mucking out Seinfeld’s stall or weeding the garden turned into a breeding ground for wandering thoughts. Mia was getting good at catching herself before she slipped too far within a memory or a string of questions. She had to be. There were still some mornings when she woke, face and pillow wet with tears and a vague impression of her parent’s and Jake’s faces.

  She had to be so careful not to chase after those dreams, to even think about the life that had been ripped away from her because if she did- if Mia allowed herself to go there, then she would lose focus. The goal was to get back home to them, and the only way to do that was- Crap, but Mia didn’t even know what she was supposed to do. It didn’t matter, she told herself daily. Right now she had to concentrate on getting better at fighting. And then she would take whatever step came next. She was going home.

  Mia wasn’t the only one getting stronger. Seinfeld, her confidante, the little horse only she’d been able to get to eat was getting bigger every day. So much so that Mia sometimes wondered if she was imaging it. She was feeding him, morning, noon, and night. Milk since he wasn’t able to digest anything else yet. Like her, he still had a long way to go. Their visits were a welcome break in her daily routine; a chance to relax and do something that didn’t hurt her body in some way. Except maybe the odd time he stepped on her foot or bumped her in the chin without warning, as baby horses do. He brought Mia the tiniest bit of happiness when he greeted her with little whinnies the moment he heard her come into the barn. How he knew it was her, Mia had no idea, but the way he stretched his velvety cream nose into the air above the stall door to get a look at her was about the only thing that actually made her smile. Not that there was much for her to smile about anyway.