by Michael Karr
Placing his hand just above the top of the drawer, Karb activated a small release button. The face of the drawer popped out from the wall a few centimeters, exposing a lip for him to take hold of. This he did, then drew out the drawer gently. The smuggler inside scarcely woke and understood his plight before they had him immobilized, gagged, and hauled out of his bunk.
The next smuggler was captured just as easily. It looked as though their plan couldn’t fail.
“Skylar,” Endrick said, after they had locked up the second smuggler, “you and Wessin go guard the captain’s quarters. We’ll deal with that slimy Tanks at the end. But I don’t want him catching us by surprise.”
“He’s right,” said Grüny. “Five of us is more than enough to handle one of them smugglers.”
“If he so much as opens his portal,” added Endrick, “shoot the scoundrel.”
Skylar didn’t object. The only thing that worried him was the growing number of lethal men in that brig, and Kendyl left alone to guard them all.
They found the portal to Tanks’ quarters shut tight. A good sign that Tanks was still asleep. The pair posted themselves on either side of the door, like sentries guarding a castle gate. Wessin was one of the other captives. A tall, lanky fellow with pale skin and large eyes. It was clear why he’d been the other chosen for the easy job.
Skylar didn’t know anything about Wessin. Where he’d come from. How he’d been captured. If he had a family. He only knew the man’s name. To Skylar, Wessin didn’t seem like the type to get involved with smugglers. But then Skylar wasn’t the type either. Nor was Kendyl.
His thoughts readily returned to Kendyl, as did his concern for her safety. He tuned his ears in her direction, listening for the slightest sound that might indicate she was in trouble. He heard nothing.
Leaning his head against the bulwark, he groaned inside. Waiting felt like torture. He wanted to get back to Kendyl, to make sure she was safe. How did she even get on the ship?
Both he and Wessin kept quiet as they waited for the others. Talking might alert Tanks of their presence.
After what felt like an hour to Skylar, he heard a sound which made him straighten. Was it a cry?
Kendyl.
He couldn’t be sure. But he wasn’t about to risk waiting to find out.
Without so much as a word or signal to Wessin, he took off sprinting down the corridor. Within just a few seconds, he reached the stairwell leading to the lower deck. He descended the stairs without decreasing his speed, leaping down multiple steps at a time. He reached the bottom with both hands firmly on his blaster, his finger at the trigger.
When he arrived at the brig, he found Kendyl standing alone, the brig locked, the smugglers still detained. She looked at him in surprise.
“Are you alright?” he said, his heat pounding and his voice strained.
“Of course, I’m alright,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I heard—”
“Did you leave Wessin alone,” she broke in.
Skylar quickly looked back in the direction he’d come from, then again at her.
“I thought you were in trouble.”
“I’m fine. Now get back to guard Tanks.”
Reluctantly, Skylar turned and made his way back to his post. He was sure he’d heard something.
He rounded the corner that led to the captain’s corridor and immediately realized he made a terrible mistake. At the end of the corridor, Wessin lay on the floor, motionless. Skylar ran over to the body. He quickly inspected the body, but couldn’t be sure Wessin was alive or dead. There wasn’t time to find out. The portal to the captain’s quarters was open. Skylar stood.
Suddenly, a thin whistle pierced the air. A stab of pain shot through his left arm. His hand grabbed at the spot. A dart protruded from his arm. He jerked his head in the direction the dart had come from. The blurry form of a man was coming toward him. Attempting to lift his blaster, Skylar found that he couldn’t feel his arms.
Dizziness seized him. His vision grew dim.
Then blackness overcame him.
Fourteen
The princess fought back a cry as a searing pain lashed her upper back.
I hate the flaming tongue.
Despite the pain, her mind was already centering on the next leap. Her muscles meticulously tuned their position, flexed and aligned, readied to spring.
139 cm, 57⁰.
She recited her mental calculations for the next jump—the longest jump.
57⁰.
Her brain dispatched the instruction to her body. In response, her right foot, her master foot, made a rapid angle adjustment. A fraction of a degree. In her mind, she saw the platform. Her eyes saw nothing but darkness.
Time for the leap.
Scarcely a second had passed since she had landed on her current column.
Focusing her entire being on the takeoff, she leapt from the spot, her muscles responding in an exact coordinated movement. She felt that exactness, that absolute control over her body
Yet even as she sprung from her place of safety, she heard the hiss of a flaming tongue. It interrupted the controlled process of raw data in her brain, interfered with synaptic communications. Straining her willpower, she forced the interference out.
The tongue struck at that same. It struck her calve, hard and biting. The pain raced through her nerves, jolting her muscles. For a split second, it paralyzed her. The final thrust of her foot as it left contact with the column was lost. The full extension of her body to add momentum to the thrust, never fully reached.
She was airborne. No way to course correct, to add power to the leap. Would it be enough?
The airtime felt like an eternity.
She bent her thoughts towards the column, tried to calculate how short she would land. The leap was already just within the bounds of her capability. She required all her power to make a clean leap.
She prepared herself for a rough landing.
At the moment of impact, she knew she was in trouble. The balls of her feet came down atop the column, but her momentum was entirely depleted. There was no force to propel her center of mass over the column. Gravity was already taking full hold of her. It didn’t matter that her feet were on the column, her body was not, and it would bring her crashing to the chasm below.
Without hesitation, the princess collapsed her legs, and eked out just enough momentum from the maneuver to pitch her body forward in the air. Simultaneously, she threw out her arms. Even as she did, they slammed onto the top of the column. The force of her downward fall was too great.
Her arms began sliding off the column.
Knowing that as soon as she lost hold of that column, she would fall to her death, she dug her fingernails into the course stone.
Still she slid downward.
With her feet and legs, she struggled to slow her fall by scraping them against the column’s side.
She felt the lip of the column reach her palms. Only a few centimeters remained.
Then the top of her palm slipped over.
The first crease of her fingers.
Driving all her energy to her fingertips, she hooked them and held them as tight as iron claws.
Her toes, she drove like pickaxes into the rock.
She gritted her teeth and fought.
Suddenly she stopped slipping, arrested by the tips of her fingers and a single toe, jammed into a crevice.
For a moment, she hung there, her body shaking from exertion and fear. She drew in a long breath and exhaled. She was not yet safe. Even now, one of those accursed flaming tongues could strike her. A well-aimed lash to her hands and that would be the end of it. She couldn’t prevent that. All she could do was focus on climbing back onto the column—a task difficult enough without the tongues.
She could cling to the lip of that column for only so long before the weight of her body overcame the strength of her fingertips and her to
e.
Desperately, she sought a foothold with her other foot. Nothing. Undeterred, she gritted her teeth and thrust upward using the one toe jammed into the rock. The upward force only produced a few centimeters of movement. But it was enough for her right hand to slip forward so that the full length of her fingers could grip the rock. Repeating the motion, she moved her left hand forward.
Why don’t they strike?
Perhaps they were waiting for an easier target.
Cowards.
Perspiration coated her palms. Yet she clung fast, embolden by her increased handhold. Delicately, she began pulling herself up. Her head crested the top of the column. Her arms trembled. Her strength was failing. Only a few moments more—she couldn’t hold on any longer.
With a bite of adrenaline, she jerked her elbow and forearm onto the top of the column. Then the other arm. Slowly, entire body shaking, she pulled herself up and over the edge. As she finally reached the top, her animal desire was to collapse in a heap. But she refused to let her judges witness such a pathetic display of weakness. Besides, she was not yet safe. Her near-fatal fall had jarred her trajectory. No longer could she be sure of her correct orientation.
How many degrees off course was she? A handful, at least, she reasoned. Perhaps not sufficient to prove fatal on the next jump. But on the subsequent, and final? She couldn’t be certain.
Bowing her head, she reviewed all her motions, her muscle movements, since leaping from the previous column.
A familiar hiss sounded in her ears.
Now they strike.
Two tongues, she judged, were racing toward her. At least one of them she could dodge, if she chose. She did not. For that might only aggravate her current dilemma. Instead, she let them come. The first ripped across her back. A few milliseconds later, the other slashed her forearm.
Only a few seconds later, she lifted her head again, turned her body three degrees to the right, and leapt into the air.
A true warrior-leader acts with speed.
A single flaming tongue struck her leg as she alighted onto the penultimate column. It was an attempt to throw her off course yet again, to disorient her as she landed. The next tongue would wait to strike until that critical moment when she was springing back into the air.
Not this time!
Scarcely allowing her muscles time to absorb the shock from her landing, she exploded back into the air. No gauntlet master, no matter how experienced, could have caught her with his flaming tongue. She was free. Nothing could frustrate her trajectory now.
But was she on the right course? The question hung in her mind as she sailed through the air. Would she come down safely on top of the column, land on its edge, or miss it entirely? Muscles tightening, she prepared for the landing. Soon, she would know.
As her foot touched down, she knew the answer: the Hishram Gauntlet was defeated.
The final gauntlet masters made a meager attempt to dislodge her from her place. The first came at the back of her knees. This she easily jumped over. The other was aimed at the back of her head. A clear violation of the bylaws. A risky move. But the gauntlet master might escape conviction by claiming he had intended to strike at the base of her neck. It didn’t matter. She easily tucked out of the way.
All that remained was a short leap onto the finishing platform. Her orientation didn’t matter now. Provided she hadn’t miscalculated by ninety degrees or more, she would be safe. And that simply wasn’t possible. Otherwise, she would not have landed safely on her current column.
And so she jumped…and defeated the Hishram Gauntlet.
* * *
The princess stood within her mother’s bedchamber, the hour well past midnight. The princess had only just arrived back at the castle. As soon as the people had learned of her victory over the Hishram Gauntlet, they had gone mad with excitement. They had swept the princess away with their revelry. Not an army of foot soldiers could have stopped the people from having their princess.
Now the princess dragged with fatigue, her only desire to sleep. But her mother demanded her presence. For what purpose, she knew not.
The empress wore a white satin robe—one of the many smuggled goods from Ahlderon. Its brightness contrasted sharply with her dark skin and hair; just as its softness contrasted with her hardened exterior. Her hair which she always wore in a tight braid, hung loosely about her shoulders. She sat in a thick armchair, staring into the depths of a crackling hearth. The orange glow played lively games across her face. In the background, her bed lay untouched and brimming with delicate pillows and fine bedclothes. Yet for all these warm, comfortable things, nothing in her bearing showed a hint of warmth or comfort. She was the empress. No amount of soft things could soften her.
Despite the other armchair, which sat unoccupied by the hearth, the empress did no invite her daughter to sit.
“I commend you, daughter, on your victory today,” said her mother, without looking up from the fire. “No one may say that the gauntlet masters showed you favor.”
The princess remained silent.
“Do not, however, let yourself become distracted or overconfident. The Trials have only begun. The true poison arrow may lay concealed in the Trial you least fear.”
The empress looked up and fixed her daughter with a cold stare. The princess met her mother’s gaze, then nodded curtly in reply.
“Your betrothed arrives in two days’ time,” said her mother, returning her gaze to the fire. “A ceremony—and doubtless a few banquets—shall take place as precursors to the marital union. Which, I need not remind you, is in a fortnight. Then all our plans can begin in earnest.”
Something like a smile touched her mother’s lips—only colder, and malicious. With a snap of the head, her mother again fixed her with those same dark eyes. The cold smile was gone.
“Do not let any of these insufferable formalities of state blur your focus on the Trials. All will be for naught if you fail them.”
Again, the princess nodded, and her mother’s gaze drifted back to the fire.
She was dismissed, she knew. She could see it in the set of her mother’s jaw. But she was not yet ready to leave. A question burned within her. While her mother was alone, unfettered by the constant demands of duty, she might entertain an unsolicited question.
“Do you really intend to give me Ahlderon?” she asked, trying to make her voice authoritative, so that her mother could less easily brush her off.
Her mother looked up at her, and considered her for a moment.
“You shall remain accountable to me. But, yes, Ahlderon shall be yours to rule.”
“How shall we take control? We know our armies are not—”
“That,” replied the empress, “shall be taken care of. You need not concern yourself with the matter. When the time is right, you shall know. Now, go and rest, and prepare yourself for the next Trial.”
Fifteen
Skylar woke to a throbbing head that felt three times its normal size. He groaned and reached for his temples, expecting to feel a planet-sized globe where his head used to be. Instead, he found his head intact, without the slightest sign of swelling. Maybe his fingers were playing tricks on him.
He tried to sit up, only to discover that the world around him was swimming. He felt as if his head would float away. With another pathetic groan, he fell back onto his pillow. Only there was no pillow, just a thin blanket on a steel floor. The sound of his head impacting the hard metal resounded in his ears, and the pain inflated his head even more.
Breathing deeply, he tried to calm himself and make sense of his state. What had happened? Gradually, he became aware of a sharp pain in his arm. Not as intense as the pain in his head, but nagging, nonetheless. He turned his head and saw the bars of the cell. A sudden recollection came flooding back into his aching head. The memories heightened his awareness, and his pain.
Where were the others? Had they escaped? The thought gave him a trace of hop
e. It quickly dissolved, however, as he turned his head towards the inside of the cell.
Next to him lay Kendyl, eyes closed, still as a stone.
She was alive. He could see the faint rhythm of her breathing. On her angel face, he saw hints of the same pain that afflicted him. It was his fault she was in pain, that she was locked up in the brig. Why had he not stayed at his post? The remorse gnawed at him ten times more than any pain he felt is head or limbs.
And the others? He could see that Kendyl was not the only one captured with him.
Lifting his head again, this time slowly, and only high enough to see over Kendyl, he saw Endrick, Grüny, Wessin, and two others. No sign of Karb. Everyone but himself was still unconscious. Wessin looked to be on the verge of waking.
Within a quarter of an hour, all the remaining captives had recovered from the tranquilizer darts. Karb, Skylar learned from the others, was dead—as was another of the smugglers. The whole story of what happened was short, and all too wrenching for Skylar to hear.
After Tanks took out Wessin and Skylar with tranquilizer darts, he made his way to the brig, where he easily took out Kendyl, liberated his men, and armed them with tranquilizer guns and blasters. With little effort, the smuggler managed to take out the remaining five companions, who were ambushed from behind. Each side lost one man in the struggle, but no more. That was it, the end of their sad tale. Skylar wished he could undo every decision he’d ever made. How could he let this happen?
For some reason, the captives found themselves without any guard.
“Like as not, it’s because we were all unconscious until just a moment ago,” said Grüny.
“They’re probably planning how best to dispose of us,” said Endrick. “I’m sure they have a real humane method of killing unwanted captives.”
“They wouldn’t have bothered using tranquilizers if they wanted us dead,” said Skylar.