The king turned to leave, then stopped and faced her.
“I know of only one way to purge this from you. If you can overcome your emotions after having fallen so far into the realm of the pathetic, you will be even stronger than those who never fell. That, Savarah, is the century old secret that few Shadow Children have ever known. I want you to keep that secret to the grave. Only a few ever accomplish what I am setting before you—if you can harden yourself again after debasing yourself at the foot of weakness, then your heart of flesh will become as diamond… sharper and harder than the children who have never fallen.
“But it will cost you dearly. You must break yourself in two then cast off the dirty and wretched part of you that desires to be loved and hate it so much that you stab it over and over again until it is a bloody, quivering heap of flesh groveling at your feet. Then you piss on it, set it on fire, and watch it transfigure into ash and smoke.”
A cold energy vibrated under Savarah’s skin at the picture her master painted. She longed to be dead to emotion—to finally eradicate the enslaving neediness that the Makers had placed in her soul—but she was left with a vague horror, imagining the journey required to achieve a state of numbness.
And yet… Isolaug had given her a powerful motivation. He’d told her that one such as herself, having given into weakness, could become stronger than one who had never had. To her ears, this spoke of an advantage over the other Shadow Children.
This vision of dominance called to her just as much as her desire to become a Shadowman. And in fact, she sensed they went hand in hand.
The Divine King’s eyes probed her, and she felt Isolaug’s presence seeded deep within them, possessing and enriching the human puppet that he steered.
“Do you wish to know of Rilon’s fate?” said the king in a low voice.
At the mention of the boy’s name, a wave of concern swept over Savarah. Swiftly she stamped down the foul throb of emotion. “It matters not to me,” she said coldly.
The king lifted his chin, his eyes cutting into her.
“It is well then, the boy is dead. I have found him unworthy of resurrection.”
The king turned with a flourish, his silken robe swishing in the stale dungeon air.
Savarah watched the king and his party leave, her jaw clenched, the new vision of her restoration and dominance battling the tears that threatened to push through at the news of Rilon.
***
Savarah dreamt of her Su-Zu doll.
Rats tore it apart as they fought over the hide. She was helpless to intervene, for Rintorack had her pinned on the ground, a knife inches from her face, her tenuous hold on his wrist the only thing holding him back.
The stir of children’s voices surrounded them in the arena, whispering and commenting on the action.
“You had a doll this entire time?” laughed Rintorack, his mouth open in an elaborate grin. “And we all thought you were going to be something special! You’re nothing but a faker with a squishy-wishy heart pumping with fear!”
He pressed his advantage, using his larger frame and superior strength to overcome her defensive grip on the knife.
It plunged down, slicing the side of her face.
The light in Rintorack’s eyes flared with a savage luminosity, and he began to drag the blade up across her cheek, then down over her lips.
Savarah grimaced, resisting with every muscle she had but it was not enough.
A foot came violently across Rintorack’s face and his body tumbled off of hers.
Savarah looked up in surprise to find Rilon staring down at her. On his face was that same smile she had seen months ago. Warm, caring, filled with the offer of friendship.
He held out his hand and she reached to take it when a loud crack stirred her mind awake.
Her eyes shot open and the dull stench of the dungeon rushed upon her.
Standing before her were Isolaug’s Glory Watchmen, Asden and Tarquin, the men who had caught her asleep in Rilon’s bed.
A whip hung down from Asden’s left hand.
“You have a fight coming up within the hour. Master Isolaug has entrusted me with a message for you: ‘Win the fight and become mightier than you ever dreamt possible. Lose, and his hand will not fall upon your head and your body will be fed to Astrum.’”
With almost complete certainty, she sensed who it was she would have to kill: The winner of the Tournament of Dragoons.
Rintorack.
The unparalleled fighter who had birthed the resurgence of her nightmares.
The unnerving memory of Rilon rescuing her in her dream threatened to rob the confidence she’d earlier felt at Isolaug’s words.
It was only a dream, she told herself, not reality.
“One more thing Isolaug wanted me to give you,” said Asden.
The whip rose in his hand.
Savarah’s eyes narrowed. Was she to enter the proving circle already injured?! Rage burned beneath her skin.
The whip twitched in Asden’s hands, and Savarah crouched down, twisting herself so that only her back was exposed. It was her only recourse. She had to ensure she went into the match with as little damage to vital points as possible.
The pop of the whip on her back forced an involuntary scream from her throat. She ground her teeth against the searing wound and saw from the periphery of her vision, the whip hand rise for another strike.
It appeared she would be going into her next match with her back a bloody mess.
She guessed at the cruel purpose behind the whipping. The wounds would hamper her ability, making it all the more difficult for her to emerge as victor, but at the same time, she would be entering the match with a desperate hunger for healing.
Crack came the whip again.
She would do anything to make the pain disappear.
***
Savarah felt the hum of energy the moment she was led by Asden through the Gate of the Warrior and marched into the middle of the proving grounds.
Her wrists were raw and bleeding from the shackles biting into her skin, partially because she’d been forced to stand against the dungeon wall for two nights, but also because Asden had not been gentle in leading her to the fighting arena.
Her back screamed from the five raw whip-marks that had torn through her tunic and split the skin on her back. The trickle of blood had soaked her pants and she felt the red rivulets running down the back of her sore legs.
She’d sustained worse wounds against a healthy fighter before and had managed to turn the tide of battle in her favor, but that was against fellow Threes.
She was in no condition to start a fight against a more worthy opponent who was of Dragoon age.
It would be an unfair advantage for her rival, unless Isolaug chose to heal her before the match.
Savarah turned to face the Gate of the Warrior, waiting for her opponent to step through. The wait wasn’t long.
A cheer rose up from the Shadow Children encircling the proving grounds as Rintorack sprinted through the opening. He ran swiftly up to where Savarah stood, his eyes passing over her, spying her wounds and the weariness etched into her features.
She only hoped he didn’t glimpse her quickened pulse or the slight flush of red that had escaped her control.
A look of annoyance filtered into Rintorack’s eyes, mocking her with its insinuation that he found her an offense to his fighting stature and an unworthy opponent.
She silently cursed her circumstances. The fear of her nightmares stood before her, and it mingled with the knowledge that if she did not kill him, she would receive no resurrection. And then there was the vain hope that Isolaug had placed in her heart of becoming stronger and deadlier. It now felt like an impossible mountain to climb.
She was in no condition to start the fight—and certainly not against a Dragoon of Rintorack’s prowess.
Asden’s atonal voice boomed out across the proving circle: “Shadows of the Three and Dragoon classes, today’s match is one of special conditions. As you
have all by now heard, Savarah, the highest ranked member of the Threes was found in the bed of another, just days before her initiation match into the Dragoon Class.
The Glory Watchman placed his hand over Savarah’s head, but did not touch her. “This favored warrior, feigning strength on the outside, proved to be only a frail bitch pup underneath her thin skin. She has a heart of need, a desire to be loved thumping in her ribcage.
“Master Isolaug has deemed her worthy enough for a special match. If she wins, her violation will be pardoned and her misstep erased. If she loses, her body will be fed to Isolaug’s pet, Astrum.”
Asden continued to drag her once revered reputation through a gauntlet of insults, but Savarah’s attention fell on Rintorack, searching his body for some form of weakness she hadn’t seen before. He wore no shirt and only a cloth around his loins. Lean muscles created dark creases of definition—muscles she’d witnessed time after time wield deadly weapons and deliver brutal strikes with fist, elbow, foot and knee.
Nothing but perhaps a surprise move could injure Rintorack, or the selection of an advantageous weapon that might be easily wielded by an injured fighter, thereby equalizing the match to a small degree.
A knife would be ideal, or a deer antler, or even a small mattock.
Asden’s insults ceased, as did a short lecture about emotions and the enslavement of one who does not maintain control over them.
The Glory Watchman looked down at her with a light in his eye that shone with some secret delight.
“The child whose bed Savarah slipped into was beaten to death, for he was not worthy enough to be given this opportunity. However,” Asden pointed to the Gate of the Warrior, “he was deemed necessary for this match.”
The Glory Watchman named Tarquin emerged from the shadows of the entrance, followed by Rilon his wrists in chains.
Confusion rushed over Savarah, her emotions twisting in chaotic tension. It was not a confusion of surprise so much as a scrambling of her emotions. A groping between her mind and her heart as to how she should feel about Rilon’s sudden presence in the match.
“This is a three-way match to the death,” continued Asden. “A free-for-all that can result in only one winner, but only Rintorack will be resurrected should he fall.”
Certainly this was the opportunity she needed. Rilon would help equalize her chances against Rintorack, for Rintorack couldn’t drive his full attention on her until Rilon was immobilized.
On the other hand, the thought of killing Rilon felt unlike all the others she’d killed in the past.
Stupid! She felt a closeness to him that left her frustrated and angry, and she sensed that if she could somehow turn that needling discomfort into anger at Rilon, then she could kill him viciously, as if he were the source of her misery.
But she had to believe it. Had to make him as the cause of her suffering.
His smile, so many months ago, had worked like a poison inside her.
“This match will be fought with javelin. Two will be given to each fighter.”
Asden unlocked the shackle binding Savarah’s wrists. Each contestant was told to stand on a specific mark creating a triangular formation at the center of the proving grounds, each fighter equidistant from the other two. Three sets of two javelins were placed against the rock wall at the edges. Savarah noted the polished wooden shafts were balanced by long obsidian tips.
They were heavy throwing spears, the kind that would impale even an adult if thrown with enough strength.
Savarah determined to keep her eyes off of Rilon. As Asden and Tarquin retreated from the arena, she hissed out to her fellow Three: “We kill Rintorack first!”
Rintorack’s head dipped casually at an angle, his thin lips drooping down at the end as his dark eyes bore the stare of hatred. A hatred that she knew she had no problem conjuring up in return.
“We kill him, then we escape,” whispered Rilon.
Savarah’s head jolted in surprise to stare at her fellow Three only to find an unnerving look of hope in his eyes.
What had he said? Escape?
The cymbals crashed and Savarah’s head swam as she jerked back toward Rintorack.
Damn him! She’d lost her focus!
Rintorack was coming full force at her, dismissing the spears behind him for a quick attack on his already injured prey.
Savarah feigned a move to her right, then planted her feet and spun a kick.
Her timing was perfect to catch Rintorack in the head, but the tournament champion had been prepared for her move, and his hand glanced her foot-strike, and then the full force of him drove her to the ground. His fist pulled back for a face-bludgeoning blow when a knee flew across his face, driving him off of her.
The memory of her dream in the dungeon passed fleetingly through her thoughts as Rilon fell beside her. On his face was a wild-eyed smile. “Reject the Master’s teachings” he whispered in an excited hiss. “Together we are stronger! And we can escape!”
Savarah spun to her feet, noticing that Rintorack was now rushing to gather his javelins. She stared at Rilon, confusion and anger painting her face ash gray. Abruptly she turned, tearing away from Rilon’s intense eyes and the strange emotions stirring on his face.
She rushed toward her own javelins on the boundary of the proving grounds which was made up of rocks piled to her waist.
With every footfall the fresh lashes on her back burned as if on fire. Her legs no longer felt the sting of weariness, but were fueled with energy and purpose. As she neared her weapons, Rilon’s offer of “escape” tugged discordantly against her determined fury.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She slid for the nearest javelin and snatched it as her feet dug into the rock, and she popped up, ready to hurl the object at her pursuer.
Rilon halted, palms up, “Savarah,” he whispered under his breath, “I know a way out. Through the tunnels of the Nightmares. We can flee to the kingdoms ruled by men.”
His words slashed with cruel violence the stone temple she was trying to erect around her heart. He was pushing her to defy the master and surrender her hope of somehow killing Rintorack and attaining the powerful advantage Isolaug had promised.
If you can overcome your emotions after having fallen so far into the realm of the pathetic, you will be even stronger than those who never fell.
Those alluring words spoke of a power she desperately wanted. Control over her emotions. Advantage over her opponents.
And there Rilon stood, opposing this hope.
“Have you gone crazy?!” snapped Savarah, her eyes probing beyond Rilon to where Rintorack stood, peering at them from the far side of the arena. She needed Rilon to help her kill the Dragoon champion, but here he was, his tongue flapping about with insane offers of escape.
Weakness had surely corrupted Rilon’s mind, turning him into a fool.
“There is no escaping our destiny,” she continued. “We are superior to the human kingdoms. We are born of the Beast. We are Shadow Children.”
He shook his head. “When you came into my bed, I felt something stronger than anything the Master has ever promised us. I’ll never get my heart of stone back. I want to feel that trust again. That warmth we exchanged when you slipped under my blankets. The peace. The friendship. I want to feel all of that again,” he said pleadingly, then moved towards her. “I don’t want to go back to being numb.” Tears fell from his eyes.
Savarah’s lungs froze, her very breath lodged in her throat. He continued forward, his intent to embrace her conveyed in his every movement. She gripped the javelin tight, battling the upheaval of emotions from all that he’d said.
Something told her if she did not skewer Rilon now, she never would.
Her throwing-arm held locked beside her head and then Rilon’s hand touched her arm and then slid around her, careful to avoid the wounds on her back.
A collective gasp sounded from behind her as the onlooking Threes and Dragoons watched the shocking exchange.
No
matter how hard she fought against it, a cocoon of warmth emanated from Rilon, pulling her into his touch.
Dirty words like friendship and love, peace and brotherhood, fell before her like enemy thoughts begging on their knees to be welcomed and allowed life in her.
She clenched her teeth, a silent groan wrought on her child-like face… within Rilon’s embrace, the master’s teachings seemed so far out of reach. A sob spilled out of her as she relented to the warmth, breathing it in like a forbidden drug.
Through her wet eyes she spied Rintorack closing in. The boy’s lips were curved in a half-sneer, but his dark pupils peered at them in stark contrast, full of wonderment and deeply disturbed.
“You just dug your own grave,” called out a voice from behind Savarah. It was the familiar flat tone of Asden.
Rilon whispered in Savarah’s ear. “Behind you is a fissure that leads to the long passageway of the outer temple court. A Nightmare tunnel opens at its base. That’s where we’re going to run.”
Savarah stepped back and eyed Rilon. His plan was desperate, but she had lost all her edge. The plan, as outrageous as it sounded, was all she had left.
Behind Rilon, Rintorack pivoted.
“Down!” shouted Savarah and sprang for Rilon.
Together they crashed to the ground and Rintorack’s spear exploded against the rock wall behind them. Four Shadow Children peeked back up over the wall, having ducked for cover. Behind them stood the two Glory Watchmen, Asden and Tarquin. Both looked on at her in disdain.
Savarah rose to her feet, turning to Rintorack. His second javelin was in his hand and he was swiftly approaching, crouched now like a tiger. Savarah gripped her own weapon, and readied it.
Rintorack’s eyes darted left, and then he hurled the javelin at something moving to Savarah’s right.
“Rilon!” she shouted, but didn’t have time to turn to look, for as soon as Rintorack threw it, he jolted for her.
She slashed out with the spear tip as she jumped back, trying to evade his long arms. The tip of her obsidian blade slashed the side of his head, just above his left ear. Blood filled the deep cut then overflowed it, spilling out down the side of his head.
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