by Katie Cross
Merrick’s hand balled into a fist at his side. He hadn’t shot in months. Getting a bow in his hands again would feel wonderful. The thwhack of an arrow hitting the wrong tree resonated behind him. As if he sensed Merrick’s weakening, the Captain extended an arm.
“I’m Damen,” he said. “A Captain in the elite contingent of Archers.”
The hair on the back of Merrick’s neck stood up. Elite contingent of Archers. He’d never heard of such a thing. Merrick accepted Damen’s arm, gripping it in his own.
“Merrick.”
Damen motioned behind them. “Give it an arrow. See what you can do. The Guardians have a way of bringing out potential, so don’t feel bad if you aren’t as handsome as the rest of us yet.”
Merrick wove through the crowd behind Damen and accepted a bow. So close, he thought as he studied the distance. Fifty paces at most. Damen passed him an old bow with waning tension and a grooved grip. The feathers on the arrow had seen better days, as had the mostly-blunt tip.
He nocked the arrow and adjusted his left hand, shifting the grip until it fell into a comfortable groove. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The outside world quieted. For several heartbeats, his own breath filled his ears. The middle of the target loomed large in his mind’s eye.
No wind. Short arrow. Soft cord.
With instinctual adjustments, he lined up his sights, pulled the bow until his hand pressed into his cheek, and let the arrow fly. The crowd cheered. He dropped his arms to his side. The arrow hit the exact middle of the target.
Damen rolled his lips. “As I thought,” he murmured. Merrick handed the bow to a waiting Guardian. “Forester?” Damen asked Merrick.
“Yes.”
Damen’s brow furrowed. “Don’t look like one.” He frowned. “Too clean.”
“More like a wanderer, I suppose.”
“You must hunt a lot.”
Merrick mind spun back to the North, where he had trapped for furs and meat but shot large game with his bow.
“Yes.”
Damen nodded. “Want it?”
“Want what?”
“A slot to join the Guardians.”
Merrick chuckled, turning away. “No, thanks.”
“No problem.” Damen shrugged. “Probably not for a witch like you anyway.” He turned away, pointing to a gangly witch with cut-off sleeves despite the cold weather. “Oy, you! Want to shoot an arrow? Prove you’re a better witch than your friend there. Archers are the most handsome witches in the Guardians, you know.”
Merrick stopped mid-step. He knew what mental manipulation game Damen was playing. Plucking at the strings of Merrick’s pride just to get him to do what he wanted. The knowledge didn’t stop it from bothering him.
Not for a witch like you.
Merrick’s fingers tightened like coiled springs. He ground his teeth. He shouldn’t do it. But he did. His legs moved. His mind honed in on Damen, who laughed with another forester attempting to nock an arrow.
“How long is the agreement?” Merrick asked Damen’s back. Damen spun around, a subtle smirk on his lips.
“Two years if you pass the Wringer.”
Merrick’s eyebrows lifted. “The Wringer?”
Damen grinned. “You didn’t think we’d just let you in, did you? You have to work for it.”
Wolfgang would never allow this. The Majesties would call him back—evict him from the Masters for breaking the rules. But wouldn’t he commit a greater service to his Network by garnering actual information?
Wolfgang isn’t here, a little voice in his head whispered. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands.
Damen lifted an eyebrow. “You in?” he asked.
Merrick blew out a fast breath.
“Yes.”
Damen grinned. “Good choice. Follow me. We’ll get your binding signed.” He clapped a hand on Merrick’s back and steered him toward the platform in the middle. “Don’t worry—if you don’t pass the Wringer, you’re free.”
“What’s the pass rate?”
“Two in ten. It’s gotten easier over the years.”
Two days passed in a blur of contract review followed by travel along lengthy highways. The journey ended at Chatham Castle, a bulwark of soaring turrets and stone hidden by freezing cold drizzle that smudged Letum Wood into dreary bruises of green and gray.
Eighty recruits turned out with Merrick in the lower bailey, shivering beneath their coats. Merrick stayed on the edges, arms folded across his chest. He’d received a letter from Wolfgang that he’d shoved in his pocket and attempted to forget. Merrick pushed the North from his mind. He’d think about that later.
A thickset witch with wide shoulders, a paunchy belly, and a scraggly auburn beard loomed on top of the Wall, a three-story structure ringing the lower bailey.
“Recruits!” he bellowed, stacking his hands on his hips. “You will now remain silent and will not speak without permission.”
The low simmer died into instant silence. Merrick squinted against the freezing rain and suppressed a shiver.
“I am Tiberius, Head of Guardians. You have been recruited into my house. Welcome. Now you will be tested. If you pass, you’ll start training. If you don’t, you’ll go home. Each of you will pass through the Wringer. If you fail, merry part. Come back when you’ve grown a pair of balls. If you pass—I’ll see you soon. Follow Daniel, the Captain of New Recruits.”
Two massive wooden doors groaned open, emptying the lower bailey onto Chatham Road. A witch with blond hair slicked out of his face waited with a line of Captains flanking him on both sides, hands clasped behind their backs. Their crimson ribbons sagged over their left shoulders in the rain. Daniel’s piercing gaze seemed to cut right through the mist.
“Come with me,” Daniel called, magnifying his voice with a spell. Tiberius disappeared from the top of the Wall, but not before Merrick caught his gaze. Merrick left the lower bailey with a chill, convinced that Tiberius’s beady eyes had been staring into his soul.
The Captains spread out along the group of recruits as they followed Daniel around the edge of the wall toward the back of Chatham Castle. Water dripped down Merrick’s neck as he stepped into the foliage behind another recruit, winding through the twisted forest path until they stopped at an open clearing.
Branches had been hacked off trees to create a long rectangular space. Guardians dotted the perimeter, busy with intermittent tasks. Merrick’s stomach dropped when the witch behind him let out a long, low whistle.
The Wringer.
An obstacle course lay on the muddy ground. A balance beam at least forty paces long led to a drop into a pond with chunks of ice floating across the top. A steep bank of mud slaked the other side, just before a bed of sharp boulders and rocks at least fifty paces across. Sandbags lined the rock field. Guardians were warming up to swing them back and forth as the recruits crossed. The course disappeared into the bushes. Given the shouts of Captains in the distance, Merrick felt a tinge of uneasiness regarding what lay unseen.
Daniel stepped forward, his striking gaze moving from face to face. A nearby recruit gulped.
“Get through this obstacle course, and you’ll be accepted into training,” Daniel called over the drop of rain on the dry leaf skins. “Fail and you’ll go home. First recruit, you’re up.”
A thin eighteen-year-old with knobby knees stepped forward. Two Captains ushered him to the balance beam, half as wide as Merrick’s palm.
Too fast, Merrick thought, watching the speedy swish of the boy’s legs. Halfway across, he tumbled to the spongy moss below. The recruits groaned. The witch straightened, lips pressed tight, and scrambled off to the side with his head hung.
The second recruit managed the balance beam with more ease and then paused, eyeing the icy pond. The autumn chill would intensify after a jump into water—especially a half-frozen pond. Frosted edges and floating chunks of ice awaited him. With a deep breath, the witch threw himself into the water and surfaced
with a flailing shout.
“Can’t … feel … bottom,” he gasped.
“Too far down.” Daniel yawned. “Gotta swim.”
“Can’t!”
His head drifted under and then back up with another gasp. A Captain tossed him a rope and towed the witch back to safety. His teeth chattered as he stumbled to the side of the clearing. A bluish tinge shadowed his lips.
Recruit after recruit attempted the Wringer. One fell off the rope climb and jarred his back. Another passed into the forest. Then a second disappeared, and a third. The remaining strained to see what happened through the bushes. The line winnowed down until Merrick moved into the next slot. He yanked his shoes off and set them off to the side, then peeled off his shirt and folded it on top. He rolled his pants up to his calves. Daniel’s all-seeing gaze flickered his way and then back to the course.
Just like walking the ridge. Jumping in the glacier pools. Climbing the rocks. Merrick shook his arms as he peered into the course. Nothing new here. Nothing but winning this challenge. I can do this.
When the Captain signaled him to start, Merrick climbed on top of the beam. He maintained a steady pace across the precariously thin ledge and threw himself as far across the icy pond as he could. The slushy water hit him like a slap. He gasped and started swimming. Four strokes later, he broke out of the water, scrambled through the mud, and stood at the field of boulders and rocks. His fingers and toes numbed with a frozen burn. A wave of cold fire prickled across his skin, and the chill pierced deep into his bones.
Eight Guardians lined either side of the rock field, swinging sandbags back and forth. Merrick’s muddy feet slid over the rocks as he scrambled across the first section. The nearby Guardian released a bag, and Merrick flattened on top of a boulder. Edges poked his ribs as the sandbag passed overhead. He leapt to his feet and stumbled forward. A sandbag angled from an unexpected direction slammed into his ribcage. He wrapped his arms around the bag in a tight clutch, letting it drag him a few paces until his ankle sliced open against a sharp rock. A collective ooh sounded behind him. Ignoring it, he scrambled forward, slithering through the uneven terrain without stopping. He dodged the remaining bags and jumped free of the rock field. Around the corner lurked a long tunnel of empty space. He sprinted through and skidded to a stop at a rope on the other side.
Blood buzzed through his veins now, warming his frozen fingers and toes. He wrapped the rope around his feet and climbed, hand over hand, until he stopped at a platform thirty paces up. Fifteen metal bars bridged a gap between trees. Merrick ignored the lofty drop and swung from bar to bar, moving with the focused determination he loved so much from his work with the Masters. Finish strong, he thought, sinking into the new challenge with relief.
The metal bars ended on another platform where a Captain waited. He handed Merrick a small piece of knotted rope.
“Glide down.”
A long rope stretched from above the platform all the way to the ground in a gentle slope. Merrick tossed the small rope on top of the other, grabbed each side, and jumped free of the platform. His weight sunk for two seconds in an almost free-fall. The rope caught him, jerking his shoulders before he reached the ground seconds later.
Once he released the smoking rope, he stood at the foot of a massive tree.
“Jikes,” he muttered.
The towering tree disappeared into the canopy of leaves, sprawling with branches so wide a house could perch among them. Recruits littered the front of the tree trunk, in various stages of climbing. Their feet slipped often; the trunk had been stripped smooth by thousands of attempts to climb it over the years. One witch fell, plummeting toward the earth. Within a second, the screaming recruit slowed, stopped, and landed on his feet in the bare dirt.
Tiberius and four other older Guardians—as grizzled and thick-bellied as Tiberius himself—ringed the bottom of the tree, no doubt using incantations to stop anyone who fell. Merrick stepped back to study the tree front and then moved around the tree in careful study. When no Guardian stopped him, he kept going.
Textured bark still littered the back. He’d have to climb in an upward angle, but the grooves should give him adequate handholds. He reached down, dug below the mud until he reached dry dirt, and covered his hands. He mapped out his initial moves and grabbed the first handhold. A flicker of movement in the bushes caught his eye. Tiberius, arms folded across his chest, stepped out of the trees with tapered eyes.
Merrick ignored him and climbed on.
With firm fingers and a fast mind, he maneuvered his way up the trunk. The rain made the pillows of moss slick. Fog obscured the light filtering through the dense canopy, and his fingers slipped often. By the time he reached the first branch, his forearms and thighs burned like hot coals. He shook them out but didn’t waste time on a reprieve. After mapping out his next moves, he pressed on, working a slow crawl to the left and up. The quiet of the backside of the tree gave him more room to think.
When he reached the platform, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving. The climb had been brutal: a worthy test of skill. Merrick hadn’t looked down, but he imagined a chasm separated him from the earth.
A Guardian with short-trimmed hair and buggy eyes leaned over him, lifting one eyebrow.
“Stand up, recruit,” he said. “You’re not done yet.”
Merrick’s eyes narrowed in silent question. The Guardian grinned, his rows of teeth gleaming, with the glaring exception of the missing tooth on the bottom left side. He motioned off the ramp with a jerk of his head.
“You gotta get down, right?”
Merrick pushed onto his hands and peered down. Even the hulking Tiberius appeared small from this distance. Fog curled in wisps along the ground. Off to his right, another recruit’s legs trembled as he peered down, eyes wide. Merrick sucked in a breath.
“Jump?” he asked.
“Test of trust,” the Guardian said, shrugging. “Hardest kind. You have to jump to complete the Wringer.”
Merrick stood up, brushing his hands against his grimy pants. The skin had torn off two of his finger pads, and the top half of one nail dangled free, leaving a thin streak of blood at the top.
“No way.”
The Guardian turned his back to him, pointing. “There’s a rope ladder. Merry part, quitter.”
Merrick ground his teeth, blowing a hot breath that turned crystalline. The advancing rain increased, sluicing down the sides of his face and bare chest.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine.”
The Guardian whipped back around. “It’s not as bad as it seems. You can’t join the Guardians if you don’t trust the leadership. Common sense. Jump.”
Merrick hesitated. The height didn’t bother him—he’d grown up on mountains this steep and infinitely more dangerous. But the landing made him nervous. He stepped forward, curling his almost-numb toes around the edge. If Tiberius didn’t see him, Merrick would die.
But at least it’d be fast.
“Ready?” the Guardian asked. Merrick nodded. The Guardian stepped to the side and whistled, high and clear.
“Recruit jumping,” he called. A low shout responded.
With a growl, Merrick stepped off the platform.
The wind whipped past his ears.
The gray of Letum Wood moved in a strange blur for several seconds. His stomach lurched. His mouth filled with blood from biting his tongue to keep from shouting. Instead of slamming into the earth, he slowed, like something held him from above, until he hovered just above the patch of dirt where he would have slammed into a root.
Tiberius stared at him from the swath of fog, condensation forming on his ragged beard. “Fastest time on the Wringer we have on record,” he said. “How’d you do it?”
Merrick swallowed and set himself on his feet. Now that his frantic motions had stopped, the chill set back in. He tried not to tremble.
“I’ve climbed trees since I was a kid.”
Tiberius’s eyes slitted. “And the rest of the Wrin
ger?” he asked.
Merrick’s heart pounded from an entirely different set of fears. Cripes, he thought with a flash of horror. In his haste to complete a challenge, he’d exposed his skills. Put himself at the center of attention. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He should have struggled. Been just mediocre enough to make it without drawing attention to himself.
Merrick cleared his throat. “I’m an active witch, sir.”
“That can shoot an arrow into the heart of a target.”
“I hunt for food.”
“You took your shoes off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Better grip and control.”
“And your shirt?”
“Less resistance in the water.”
Tiberius paused. “Why are you here?”
Merrick hesitated for half a breath. Did Tiberius know? Impossible. Merrick scrambled for the first answer that came to his frozen, frenzied mind. “To be useful, sir.”
Tiberius didn’t move, hardly seemed to breathe. After an impossible pause, his arms released. “No forester or wanderer comes to the Wringer that talented just because they shot a few squirrels for food. Go stand with the rest of them. If you’re lying to me, I’ll turn you in to the High Priestess. And trust me, I always find out who is lying.” Tiberius jerked his head to the side. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tiberius stalked away, fog swirling behind him. No further recruits raced toward the tree from the Wringer. A mournful horn from the Guardian at the front broke the air.
Behind him, a group of haggard, but exultant, witches stood near the base of another tree. The idea of a two-year contract binding him to the Central Network Guardian force loomed heavy in his gut. A wave of panic followed.
What have I done? he thought, blinking.
Wolfgang was going to kill him.
Merrick,
I received your letter regarding your idiotic idea to bypass our approval and make your own decisions. I sent it to the Majesties. Meet me tonight in Letum Wood near the Forgotten Gardens. Things don’t look good for you.
—Wolfgang