by Narro, B. T.
Basen cursed loudly as he drew his wand. He ran forward while the two women seemed frozen by fear.
Jackrie had again fallen behind, so Cleve drew another arrow. He aimed at the beast’s head this time and landed a shot in its cheek. It slowed the dajrik for a moment, the giant uttering a deep cry as it ripped the arrow out along with a thin stream of blood.
A fireball flew over Cleve’s head and struck the dajrik; it would’ve struck the beast in the chest, but the dajrik had lifted its arm to protect itself. It stumbled backward, then dropped its arms, lowered its head, and let out a furious roar. Cleve aimed for its mouth, but the dajrik ducked as Cleve shot, avoiding both the arrow and another fireball, this one from Jackrie’s wand.
It tried to stomp on Jackrie, and she dove out of the way. But the dajrik’s foot shook the ground enough for her and Cleve to lose purchase. The beast scooped up Jackrie as if she were a squirming caterpillar. Cleve jumped up and dropped his bow to grab his sword instead, for another arrow would not be enough to make the dajrik let go of Jackrie. Just as the giant began to close its fingers around her, clearly intending to squeeze her to death, Cleve buried his weapon deep in the giant’s thumb.
It cried out as it dropped Jackrie, then tried to swat Cleve with its other hand. But Cleve fell flat to the ground to avoid it. He saw a flash of light as he jumped back up. Knowing it was Basen’s fireball striking the giant, Cleve accurately assumed the beast would be taken back by the force. He ran to catch up with the stumbling monster and hacked at its shin.
Cleve strained his neck to watch the dajrik’s arms, waiting for the inevitable attack. It came as a fist punching the ground. Cleve hopped to the side to avoid it, then ran his weapon along the side of its hand as he dashed between its legs.
Another fireball hit—light, heat, and then smoke. Cleve chopped at the dajrik’s ankle, but he only got two good swings in before the beast stepped away to go after Basen and Jackrie.
Winded from their spells and slowed by their injuries from the previous battle, Jackrie and Basen ran away at the speed of a jog. Fortunately, the beast was slowed as well from the damage Cleve and them had done, blood pouring from its limbs and hands. Cleve quickly caught up and leapt to drive his sword deep into the dajrik’s leg. It fell to its knees, its chest and palms crashing down soon after and shaking the stone ground.
Cleve yanked out his weapon and climbed onto the creature’s back as it started to rise. He ran up its sloping spine, then jumped onto its shoulder just as the dajrik got all the way back upright. It tried to grab Cleve, but he batted away its hand with his sword, then drove his blade through its neck.
The creature’s cries finally ceased, interrupted by wheezing as it came down to its knees again. It still grabbed at Cleve, but he jumped from its shoulder to its legs extended behind it, then hopped off to the ground. He watched as the last moments of life faded from the collapsing giant. Then he retrieved his sword.
“Impressive, Cleve.” Basen slid his wand back into its holder on the side of his belt. “So this must be a dajrik. It looks like you’ve slain one before.”
Cleve had, though he blocked his mind from recalling the battle.
“How are you, Annah?” he asked. The psychic had cowered away from battle.
“Somewhat better. I think I can walk now.”
“What took so long?” Basen asked Cleve and Jackrie. “We slept for a while waiting for the both of you.”
Cleve let Jackrie explain the portal in the alcove and what they'd seen after.
“Wherever we are,” Basen said, “it seems big. It could be days before we get out.” He lifted his chin at the dead giant. “And we might run into more of them.”
Alabell took a step toward it cautiously, as if the beast might rise again at any moment. “I thought all the dajriks were dead except for the one with the Slugari.” She sounded worried, like they might’ve killed an ally.
“This one had no necklace,” Cleve informed her. “It’s not the same dajrik.”
Basen asked Alabell, “What do you make of the portal?”
She let out a long breath. “I don’t really know. It seemed to work for Cleve and Jackrie when they passed through it, with no spell required. Maybe you did something when you opened that portal in the Fjallejon Mountains, and these other portals are temporary. It sounds like they don’t lead very far.”
Cleve agreed with a nod. “It did seem as if we were still within the same mountain.”
Jackrie approached the dead dajrik. “That’s enough speculation for now. Cleve, cut off one of those massive legs up at the thigh.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wasted food if we don’t eat it.”
Cleve felt a pang of disgust at the thought.
Alabell groaned loudly, then looked surprised as everyone stared at her. “Sorry. Jackrie, how do you know we can even eat it?”
Jackrie jabbed the sinewy flesh of the dajrik’s leg. “Every animal can be eaten so long as it’s not poisonous, and I doubt this giant is. I’m not saying we’re going to like it, but Cleve and I found no other signs of food and we could be stuck in this place for a while.”
“How are we going to cook it?” Basen didn’t seem to like the idea much either by the look of his face. “We have nothing to burn for a fire. It’s all rock around us.”
“Right there.” Jackrie gestured at the undulating, orange sea. “We’ll set the leg over the lava and hold one half down while the other cooks. Go on, Cleve. Start cutting.”
He tested the meat with a firm squeeze. The stone-like appearance of the dajrik’s skin made it appear harder than it really was, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the thought of biting into it.
“Basen, lend me your sword.”
He drew it and took a step, but then hesitated. “Why mine?”
“Because I don’t want to risk ruining mine.”
Basen looked as if he was about to object but then nodded reluctantly. “I suppose there’s only one other weapon as valuable as yours, isn’t there?” He lent Cleve his sword. “Abith Max was already dangerous before he got his hands on bastial steel. Do you think you can beat him if we face him again, Cleve?”
“I can.” He started hacking at the leg. Blood splattered out with every slash, drenching his clothes immediately. He tried to ignore it as he continued.
“Someone else has a bastial steel sword,” Alabell called out over the sickening sound. Cleve stopped and gawked at her.
“Who?”
“Tauwin himself. He killed my great-uncle with one. So others in his army might have more.”
Cleve cursed inwardly. One of the Takarys in Greenedge must be supporting Tauwin. Could it be Raymess? Cleve thought of everything he’d done for the young king, then used his anger as he slashed wildly at the leg.
There must be other Takarys with bastial steel weapons. Someone else must be supporting Tauwin besides Raymess, but who else could be greedy and cruel enough? And more importantly, who could be rich enough? I’ll have to speak with Steffen.
Cleve went on and on, sweat dripping from his skin where he wasn’t already wet with dajrik blood. He realized everyone was watching him with confused and concerned looks. Still enraged, he tossed Basen’s bloody sword to the ground.
“I can’t cut through its bone. It’s like trying to hack down a damn tree.”
“It’s all right, Cleve,” Jackrie soothed. “We’ll find a way to cook the meat without severing the leg.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Sanya had created her other identity, she had to be strategic. “Tauwin’s woman” was different in many aspects, for the real Sanya couldn’t have stolen his heart even with psyche. But there was one identical attribute to both versions of herself: She couldn’t stand to stay inside for more than a day. Even within Kyrro’s enormous castle with fifty things happening at once, none of them interested her enough to compensate for the stifling walls and vigilant guards who often followed her.
Sh
e’d been a fool to believe Tauwin when he’d claimed he could take over Kyrro in one day. Now he’d started a war. It could be weeks before Trentyre and the Academy were taken, neither of which Sanya wanted to help him with because she couldn’t imagine killing anyone else undeserving of death. So she had to busy herself with other tasks as she waited to be queen, something that would take her out of the castle. Luckily, she knew just the thing. But the chance had not come yet.
The morning after her arrival, Tauwin had snuck into her room before she’d awoken and invited himself beneath her sheets. She’d awakened to him stroking her hair.
“I’ve missed you.”
She was thankful for her training. Without it, she would’ve made a face of horror. It wasn’t the nineteen-year-old king’s looks that turned her stomach, for he wasn’t unattractive, and there were no scars on his arm from Alabell’s fireball. It was what she found in his heart. Malice, greed, and little else.
Sanya knew herself well enough to realize that she was closer to the abhorrent end of the line of morality than the good end, but that was because she couldn’t feel things others did. Love and guilt were just words to her—her father’s doing, with all his experiments and forced exercises. At least she had an excuse, unlike Tauwin.
Nothing had made him become an impatient man who believed the world existed for his own pleasure. That was just his nature, and she doubted he’d ever cared to change it.
If he wanted Kyrro, it would be his no matter the cost, no matter how many died. At least Sanya knew only to kill those she must.
Tauwin had more power and wealth than any single man should have. Even worse, he was receiving help from a Takary overseas. As if he needed any more men in this lopsided war.
She’d forced herself to kiss him and smile. “I’ve missed you, too.”
He hurried to take off his shirt. “Good.”
She laughed as he climbed on top of her. “You know I must wait until we’re married.” She gently pushed him off as he frowned, kissing his cheek.
“Then let’s marry today.”
Sanya had become sick of this same conversation. She could sense his desire for her overwhelming him. She used psyche to suppress it, careful to leave some of his fire still burning. If he grew bored with her, all of her work could be for nothing. It wouldn’t matter that they were engaged. It wouldn’t even matter if they were married. Contracts meant nothing to Tauwin if they kept him from what he wanted.
“We and our parents agreed it’s best to wait until Kyrro is under your control.”
“But it is.”
She touched his cheek. “Not yet.”
Someone knocked on the door. “Is Tauwin in there?” It was Kithala’s voice.
“Go away, Mother. I’m with Sanya.”
“But did she invite you into her room?” Kithala tried the door. It was locked.
“She is to be my wife! She doesn’t need to invite me. And I’m the king of Kyrro. I can enter any room I please.”
Sanya heard a key entering the lock. Tauwin jumped from the bed as his mother stepped in and put her hands on her hips.
“Yes, you are the king. And you are at war! It’s late morning, so you should be where you can receive messages and issue orders. You have the rest of your life to spend with Sanya. Right now you’re needed by others.” Although Kithala’s face was firm, Sanya could detect a hint of fear. Tauwin would never know, though.
She was more grateful for Kithala than she’d ever been for her father. This rather small woman seemed to be the only one who could get Tauwin to do something he didn’t want to do. And Kithala was kind to Sanya, more so than she deserved. It had become common for Kithala to save her from Tauwin’s overbearing personality, but partly because Kithala believed Sanya to be a true woman of faith as she claimed to be. Kithala had studied religion and had a great respect for spiritual people, though Sanya had yet to determine if Kithala was one herself. The woman never revealed anything about herself.
“Your mother’s right,” Sanya agreed and smiled at her. “She always is. We’ll have plenty of time together, and I fear you might grow bored of me if we spend too much time in each other’s company.”
“I could never grow bored of you.”
It was a lie. At least the young king knew himself well enough to realize anything could bore him eventually.
In the two days since that morning, Sanya hadn’t seen her father. She also hadn’t managed to come up with an excuse to escape the castle. Everything an ordinary woman could want, and more, already had been provided to her. But she was no ordinary woman.
“I haven’t seen my father,” she commented to Tauwin later during breakfast. “Do you know where he is?”
Tauwin didn’t look up from his plate. “He’s a little odd, isn’t he?” The question was rhetorical. “I don’t like him, so he hasn’t been invited to live in the castle.”
Sanya held in a laugh. Spiro was an odd man, yes, but what a weak reason to deny him residence here. She could imagine her father furious at this news. He’d been expecting to move into the castle, desiring it more than anything else that was still obtainable to him. He’d hated the months they’d spent in the Takary Palace since the end of the war, being treated like a common guest rather than a beloved chemist. Instead of a laboratory, he was given a simple bedroom. Instead of herbs, flowers, and books, he was given blankets, pillows, and pretty flowers that were useless to him.
Sanya suppressed a grin as she imagined him there, bored to the state of anger. “I see,” she answered. This, thankfully, gave her the excuse she’d been waiting for. “I haven’t seen him since I left for the Academy and I would like to visit him today. Would you mind?”
“You can, but I want you to see something first. I know how you like watching the discovery of traitors, as I do. I have an event planned after we eat.”
She tapped into her wicked side as she smiled. “Wonderful.”
When the time came for this event, she was summoned to the throne room on the first floor. Tauwin had decorated it with tokens of Takary history: a painting of every Takary king to rule Kyrro in order of his lineage on one wall and depictions of battles on the other. Most of the detailed paintings must’ve been of Greenedge, for Sanya couldn’t locate Kyrro’s mountains, forests, or lakes in the background of any of them.
Tauwin had ordered a table to be constructed from ironbark so that it was indestructible, probably what he thought himself to be. The sigil of the Takary family was engraved into it and colored: a pair of blue wings like a bird about to take flight. The table was rectangular and far too long for just him and his three councilmen. But they were seated there anyway when Sanya entered, though they quickly stood for her.
No one yet bowed for her, but they would eventually.
She’d seen all of these men before, many at Tauwin’s side, trying to get him to listen to their advice. From what Sanya had overheard, most of them believed Tauwin should take all of his forces around the Academy and bring them to Trentyre for one quick battle. Slowly, Tauwin had begun to see that these troops were necessary to take the city, but he still didn’t like the idea of letting the Academy’s army march on any of his other cities. He wanted, instead, for his army to attack the Academy and Trentyre at the same time and be done with this war.
That’s the problem with greed—it feeds on risk. A less greedy king would choose the safer and more certain option, sparing the lives of his men.
Sanya had used some of her monotonous time in the castle to learn what she could about the councilmen. If she was going to be the kind of queen she wanted to be, she needed their support. There were three of them, but she had a feeling there would be less when this meeting was over.
Tauwin’s ornate chair at the head of the table awaited his royal rear end as he entered. The ostentatious seat had been encrusted with gems and now rivaled the gold-painted throne at the back of the room. He wore a devilish grin as he sat and let out a soft “ahh.”
The thr
ee councilmen waited patiently, each man with his own servant standing at the wall behind his seat. There was Amos the Old, his wild gray hair becoming wilder each day. Beside him was Wischard the Bald, his round belly growing rounder each day. And across the table, on a side to himself, was Cheot. His face was neither pleasant nor ugly. His body was neither tall nor short, thin nor stout. If it weren’t for his cloak, with its edges lined by silver thread to mark his importance, he could’ve blended into any room as a guard would. There was nothing remarkable about him, as should be with all good traitors.
Cheot was Tauwin’s favorite and most trusted adviser. While all three of the men had served Kerr before Tauwin, it was Cheot who’d coordinated Tauwin’s murderous plot to overthrow Kerr from within. The other councilmen had no idea it was going to happen, though now everyone knew exactly who was responsible. Tauwin had questioned the other councilmen with psychics soon after Kerr was slain and determined they were just loyal enough to keep around. Perhaps now one had turned.
“Before we discuss Trentyre and the Academy,” Tauwin began, “there’s something that first must be done.” He looked to Cheot, who gave a quick nod and then promptly walked out of the room.
Amos the Old stood with his palms on the table, looking as if he expected death to come walking through the door. Wischard leaned forward in his chair in alarm.
Tauwin laughed snidely at his pets. “He’s just going to fetch someone. Sit, Amos. Relax, Wischard.”
Behind Tauwin stood his most trusted guard, a man with a barrel of a chest who preferred an ax over a sword. Rumor had spread around the castle that he’d executed every man, woman, boy, or girl Tauwin had deemed disloyal. His chiseled face could’ve appeared handsome if he didn’t look at everyone as if they might be next.
Kithala appeared in the doorway. “You wished to see me?” she asked Tauwin.
“Just in time, Mother. Take a seat beside my beautiful wife-to-be.”