by Matthew Wolf
“It must have come to your defense, rising out of need when you thought she was going to attack you,” Gray said. “Just like mine…”
“No,” Darius shook his head, a sudden fire and fearful edge in his voice. “It’s nothing like yours.”
Gray was silent.
Faye snorted. “An Untamed. That’s all you are.”
“What’s an Untamed?” Darius asked, voice shaky.
“An untrained Reaver,” she stated, rising to her feet calmly. Ayva saw she had lost her dark grey dust-cloak somewhere in the chaos. Now her full-figure was revealed, and it nearly made Ayva blush.
She wore fitted red and black cloth mostly but at the arms, light chain mail glimmered. On her shoulders were thick leather pads. Yet the cloth and armor did nothing to hide an ample bosom and alluring hips. A heavy-belt cinched her thin waist, accentuating it. A long, curved blade sat on one hip and a small crossbow sat on the other. Ayva saw a throwing dagger in one boot and a few smaller ones attached to the inside of her arms.
Ayva had never seen so many weapons in one place. Well, maybe once or twice, but always by a fool sauntering into The Golden Horn—her father’s inn—acting as if more weapons somehow meant he was more dangerous, when the truth was the opposite. No one could wield that many weapons at the same time and hope to be effective. Ayva had no doubt Faye could handle every one of those weapons and more.
Darius stepped towards Faye, anger in his eyes. “You say the word like you just ate a bad lemon. What’s an Untamed and why do you despise them?”
Faye hesitated. Suddenly, she leapt with dagger in hand, attacking Gray. Taken aback, Gray raised Morrowil in the nick of time, parrying, but Faye didn’t slow. With her other hand, she unsheathed her long sword cutting and slicing in a whirling blur.
What is going on? Ayva thought frantically. “Stop it!” she shouted.
Gray barely had time to parry one before the next attack came. Ayva saw, however, he was starting to gain control as he rolled backwards and assumed a stance. “What are you doing?” he yelled at the woman angrily.
Faye only smirked. She attacked again, moving faster. Steel rang as Gray blocked the first two strikes, but they were distractions. A kick came through, smashing him in the chest. He flew back, but somehow, instead of toppling over, he righted himself. Wind, Ayva knew.
The vile woman faltered in confusion, but it didn’t slow her much. She leapt with a cry. Gray growled, flowing from form to form with brutal efficiency, but his attacks grew angry and wild. They were powerful, but even Ayva could see he was leaving himself wide open with each attack. He roared with a downward strike. Faye sidestepped it, just by a hair, but it could have been slow motion with all the ease and effortlessness she portrayed. The blade sliced past her face, missing. Faye cut with her dagger, slicing his wrist. Gray slowed, but didn’t stop. Yet Faye was still moving too. She hit his wrist hard with the flat of her long blade, and Morrowil fell from Gray’s weakened grip.
It had all happened so quickly that Ayva could barely comprehend it.
At her side, Darius moved.
Faye twisted, and the blade fell upon the rogue’s throat, nearly cutting it. “Ah, I wouldn’t, Untamed. I would like to keep you alive. It is the greater of the two rewards.”
Gray lunged for his blade. In one smooth movement Faye sheathed her dagger and unhooked her crossbow, holding it at Gray’s temple. He froze, gripping his wounded wrist.
“Now, before anyone decides to do something foolish and die, including you, girl,” she said, eyeing Ayva with a cool sneer, “I would highly advise against it. I truly don’t think all three of you could take me, but I know sure as sugar that I can take at least two of you before I go. And that’s a promise.”
Ayva cursed. She felt so worthless. Her palm sweated as she held her dagger, knowing if she moved the woman would kill all three of them. At her feet, her eyes caught something. The rope she had cut. It was blackened, as if burned, not cut.
Gray spoke, drawing her attention. “Why are you doing this?”
“Well, besides you being a very pleasant surprise? Mind telling me where you learned to move like a Devari? Like being the operative word, of course. Did you watch one by chance or…” She pursed her lips, eyeing him like an inferior puzzle. “No, perhaps you aided one somehow, and he taught you a few moves? Or could you be a failed Devari?”
Gray was silent, his eyes a bottled storm. Ayva had seen that look before—she hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid or rash.
Faye snorted indifferently. “Well, I do hope you’ll tell me, but either way, the real reason is that an Untamed will fetch a heavy gold purse from the Citadel’s coffers. Of course, I could kill him and drag his corpse back, but a dead Untamed isn’t much use to the Citadel. Granted, they’d prefer that over him wandering about and causing mayhem.” She paused and looked down at the sword at her feet. Morrowil. She slowly knelt, keeping her crossbow and sword outstretched. “Now this… I have never seen anything like it. Truly a blademaster’s sword. Whom did you steal it from?” She looked up. “Move a muscle and I will kill you both before you can say, ‘I’m a dead fool’.” With that, she sheathed her crossbow and reached for Morrowil.
She touched the blade and gasped, crying out in pain and falling to her knees. She dropped both weapons and clutched her stomach, vomiting violently. At last, she looked up through bleary-eyes. Still, she breathed thinly as if she’d been punched hard in the gut. “You… How? Such pain… How do you bear it?”
Silently, Gray reached out. The blade lifted into the air as if on its own, falling into his hand. “I am its true wielder. It doesn’t pain me.”
Faye looked confused and bewildered. “You… You’re no Reaver. That was wind…” If she looked fearful before, now she looked terrified as if she looked upon a monster, and yet… Ayva couldn’t read the woman’s features. Something about her looked almost excited.
Around them, the forest began to rumble as if waking from its slumber. The ground rattled beneath her feet as if an army marched beneath them. The music of the forest, calls of animals, and all else went silent in its wake.
The woods shimmered. “What’s going on?” Ayva asked, fearfully.
“This sanctuary is no longer safe…” Faye said slowly, rising.
The rumbling grew louder. Ayva’s whole body shuddered, terror rising inside her as reality seemed to rip in two.
“Dice!” Darius cried. “This is the end!”
Gray roared over the rumble. “No longer safe? What do you mean?”
Faye shouted as the world began to disappear. “They are coming.”
The Underbelly
ZANE TWIRLED HIS RUSTY DAGGER. ITS dulled point spun in a well-worn rut in the stone. His rut. It was the only place in the world where he felt safe to sit and think, where he didn’t feel a blade creeping closer to his back. His finger touched the dagger’s base, stopping it each time before it fell. He sat upon a stone ledge, watching the river flow in the corner of his eye.
He was in the sewers of Farbs, often called the Underbelly. Tan, earthen brick surrounded him, hanging above his head. The stone was cut at sharp angles as if sheered by magic. Meanwhile, the gurgle of water was ever-present, echoing faintly off the cavernous walls.
While it was relatively clean, it was still the Underbelly. Moss and mildew clung to the corners of the stone and near the water’s bank. A few paces away, his dark cot lay, his few belongings tucked in the corner. Hannah’s bed was not far from his, though she had made it more of a home. A green awning covered hers, and stacked boxes she’d gathered made a sort of makeshift fort. Bits of jewelry lay on a nearby box, and a thick nail held a few of her different cloaks.
Zane looked down. In his other hand was the strange statue—the squat, silver man with a sword resting across his lap. It was cold and smooth, save for the sharp point of the sword. As his thumb rubbed the figurine, his thoughts churned and guilt burned his insides, thinking about the Devari and the old man. What a
m I waiting for? “I must be going crazy,” he whispered, spinning the dagger harder.
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” a voice answered.
Zane looked up, clutching his dagger, as Hannah entered from the arched entry beyond, the only entrance in the cavernous room aside from the watery canal. “Sister…” She was a few years younger than him and pretty, with hazel eyes and flaxen hair. She had a round face, but when she smiled, it was perfectly shaped. He had worked hard to protect such beauty and innocence in this foul place.
Hannah’s gaze fell to his shoulder, gasping. “What in the seven hells did you do to yourself?”
“I was attacked,” he said simply with anger in his voice, but not towards her.
Cursing, Hannah dropped the bundle in her arms, rushing to his side.
“Those fools tried to sneak up behind me in an alley after I stole their gold, but they’re clumsy as a six-legged cerabul.” She tsked through her teeth, chiding him, her eyes full of concern and fire as she examined his wound. His insides twisted at the sight, her big, worried eyes sending him a pang of guilt, and he muttered, “It’s not as bad as it looks. Besides, I took a couple of those dark pills Father gave me in case of a moment like this. They’ve dulled the pain quite a bit.”
“Dulled your senses too,” she said and touched his arm, wincing. He followed her eyes. He’d taken his vest off, and now a tear in his shirt from Grom’s hammer exposed bloodied skin and a dent in his flesh. It’s true, the drugs fuzzed his mind a little, but the pain was mostly drowned by his burning anger. “It doesn’t hurt at all?”
He shook his head. “Only a little,” he lied.
Hannah sighed, grabbing a shirt from her nearby bed, ripping it into strips, and wiping the blood free. “How could you not get this healed?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Well, I suppose that was smart. But I’m not sure if I can heal this, Z. I’ve only healed scrapes and bruises with the spark. This is… ” she swallowed. “I’ll have to set the bone back in place. Using flesh is more difficult than most other elements. I could set it wrong and you’d be in pain for the rest of your life, or I might just grow you another arm.”
Zane spun his dagger. “Sounds useful.”
“I’m serious, Z.”
He stopped his spinning dagger. “I trust you.”
“Of course you do,” she sighed again. “You always trust me.”
“Have you ever given me reason not to?”
She grumbled something beneath her breath but moved closer to his side, sitting upon the stone ledge, and she closed her eyes, concentrating. Her cold hands touched his shoulder. Zane’s skin prickled. The hairs on his arm rose as her threads sunk beneath his flesh. “The bone is fractured,” she griped. “An Untamed should not be doing this. This is a Reaver’s work.”
“A Reaver would never help me,” he replied in a burning whisper. But as his other hand rubbed the statue, he remembered that man. Ezrah. He should have asked him to heal his shoulder. The man seemed powerful. Surely he was a Reaver of some rank. But at the time, more pressing things had commanded his attention.
“This is going to hurt,” Hannah declared.
Zane grunted in understanding.
Suddenly, he gasped as his heavy muscles twisted, being pulled aside. Despite the drugs and all the pain tolerance he’d developed over the years, it truly hurt. His dagger fell from his grip as pain lanced through his limbs. He cried out. The sound echoed off the cavernous walls, mixing with the babble of water. His eyes sprouted tears and blackness threatened, but he held on to consciousness. Muscles made way as bone shifted back into place, and then cracks were filled. At last, the muscle was laid back on top, and flesh was knit. He felt every bit of it, searing and sharp.
At last, Hannah stepped away, sweat upon her tan brow. She gave a rattled breath. “There, I think it is done.” She squinted at him, looking impressed. “I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but were it anyone else, they’d have passed out or worse from the pain of a healing of that severity.”
Or worse? Zane wondered, but didn’t want to ask. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling smooth flesh where broken skin had just been. “You’ve got it backwards. Anyone can take a beating, but you and your magic… That is truly special, Tovai.” The name meant ‘beloved’ in sand tongue, a term of affection between brothers and sisters. Realizing how he sounded and seeing the surprise on Hannah’s face, he cleared his throat gruffly. “Thanks,” he added at last, a little more under his breath.
Hannah merely smiled. “Of course.”
Zane returned to spinning his dagger, thoughts spinning as well. Ezrah… that Devari… burning magic from the air… the Citadel… a blue orb… that wretched man, Sithel… and even the shadowy enigma, Darkeye… Each flashed in his mind’s eye, one after the other.
“What is that?” Hannah asked, shattering his thoughts. He looked up to see she had pointed to the statue. “And where’d you get it?”
Zane’s thumb froze on the silvery surface. He eyed the squat little man with the sword that rested across his lap. A memory flashed before his eyes as if he was seeing again the strange old man shedding a hundred years of age from his face in a mere second.
“Well?” she asked.
He debated lying, but he would never lie to Hannah. Anyone but her. Reluctantly, he told her about Ezrah and Sithel and Darkeye. He recounted the events of the procession, softening the accounts of violence.
Nearby, a wide stream ten paces wide flowed slowly as she listened.
“What are you going to do?” she asked when he finished at last.
He rose, shaking his head as he watched the churning waters. His fist clenched around his dagger’s handle. “I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do for once. I can’t save the Devari because I don’t know where he is. That is, if he even is alive. And the same is true for the old man.” He felt weird calling the man old. Sure, he was older than Zane, but he appeared too wise to be simply called old. Father was old—this man was ancient. Father, of course, wasn’t Zane’s actual father, though he was as close as anything Zane had ever had to a dad. Father was a protector of the weak. He looked over all of them, Hannah and the other Lost Ones—if Darkeye was the scourge of the Underbelly, Father was the savior.
“And this man, Ezrah, he gave you that?” she asked, nodding at the statue. Zane nodded. “Can I see it?” He reluctantly handed it over, and she fondled it carefully as if it would break. “It’s beautiful, but strange.”
“Can you sense anything in it? Any magic?”
Her brows furrowed. “I’m not sure,” she said. Her eyes narrowed, and her round face pinched attentively. At last, she sighed, shaking her head in frustration and disappointment. But beneath that, she looked exhausted. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”
“You shouldn’t expend any more energy. Remember what Father told us. As an Untamed, you don’t know your limits. Without proper training, it would be easy for you to go beyond them. You could die.” An Untamed was a wielder of the spark who was not trained by the Citadel. Untamed were looked down upon, feared by most people as a danger to themselves and others. Zane knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely at least, but he did fear for her. Since they were little, Hannah had been sought by the Citadel. More than once, he had pushed her to become a Reaver for her safety, but she refused each time. He understood her hesitance. He felt his blood rise even thinking the word Reaver.
“Thanks for that reminder.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“It’s always the truth with you. And I’m fine. It’s just a little headache,” she said while standing, and staggered. Zane was there in a flash, grabbing her and lowering her to her bedroll beneath her awning.
“This is why I’m the one who lies for us. You’re a horrible liar.”
Hannah didn’t resist as he laid her down in her bed, pulling her blankets up. A small sweat had formed across her forehead. Spark fever, he knew, cursing his foolishness. He had
taken too much from her with the healing. She didn’t know her limits. He wet one of the cloth strips from the waterway, and knelt at her side, cooling her brow.
“You’ve used too much of the power. You’re having a spark fever. It will go away soon, but you need to rest, all right?”
Eyes closed, Hannah nodded weakly.
Zane rose. He felt fingers clench around his hand, stopping him. “Where are you going?” she whispered, eyelids fluttering open.
The old man’s silence and the debt for the Devari had turned Zane into a cauldron of anger and confusion. And he was tired of stewing in his own wrath. He had to do something.
Gently, he peeled her fingers free. Grabbing a dark pill from his pack, he sat back at her side, patting her warm skin. He wished he had some Silveroot, but remembered that it would do nothing for a malady of the spark. Silveroot healed the body, and the spark was the mind. “I’m not going anywhere,” he answered. “I’ll be right here. Now take this.” Hannah grabbed the dark pill and swallowed it.
She gave a sigh of relief then asked, “Brother?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she whispered and then was asleep.
Zane laid back, resting at her side, thoughts turning back to the Devari and Ezrah. He held the statue that now stood tall—the little man looking almost proud. The statue’s closed eyes looked calm, mocking Zane’s broiling thoughts. He looked to Hannah, watching as she muttered in a fever dream.
She was the symbol of all that he had lost, and all that this cursed city had taken from him. But she was also the symbol of all that was still good, and all that was worth fighting for. He rose, moving to the water’s edge. His hand tightened as he watched the water churn and flow, the statue pressing into his flesh. Unfurling his fist, he saw the small sword had punctured his skin and blood was beginning to well. He looked up.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
But only the quiet babble of water answered him.
Sanctuary