Ivar's Prize

by Amy Pennza

She squeezed her eyes shut. A single thought galloped through her mind. Need to get away. Get away. Get away.

  Searing heat circled her right wrist. She screamed and opened her eyes. Ivar was still shouting. The ledge loomed beside her. The heat slid to her palm. No longer pinned, her arm dropped to her side. Deep inside her brain, something shifted. She gasped. A probing intelligence touched her thoughts—a glancing, tentative connection—then darted away.

  The heat in her hand built. Something hard filled her palm and slid down her fingertips. A knife.

  She swung it up, aiming for his arm. The blade snagged something—she couldn’t see with her neck locked to the stone. He jerked his arm away and stared at it. Dark blood welled in a shallow cut and dripped to the ground. His gaze shot to the knife in her hand, then up to her face. Wrath blazed in his eyes. He lunged at her.

  She slashed.

  He danced back.

  “Stay away!” she screamed. She strained against the kaptum around her neck. It bit into her larynx. She wheezed.

  He came at her again. Wild with fear, she brought the knife up and plunged it into his ribs.

  He staggered. The hilt protruded from his side. It looked almost fake, like someone had glued it there. He stared at it. His brow furrowed. A dark stain bloomed around the hilt.

  The roaring in her ears stopped. Everything came into clear, sharp focus. Ivar. The knife. The blood. “I…I d-didn’t.”

  He looked at her, confusion clouding his features. He opened his mouth, but only a rattling sound emerged. He fell to his knees and then crashed to his side, one arm trapped beneath him. His eyes drifted shut.

  Metal clicked. The kaptum pinning her wrist and neck to the stone clattered to the ground. She sagged against the wall.

  Was he…? Had she…? She slid to the ground. His chest wasn’t moving. The knife stuck up from his body like a gruesome exclamation point. Blood spread under him. It looked black in the dim light. She put a hand over her mouth.

  Hysteria gathered at the edges of her mind. He’d just…snapped. She replayed their conversation in her head. He’d showed her the crops. She’d told him she was a botanist. Then he’d freaked out. He’d asked if she was a spy!

  She lifted a trembling hand to her neck. He could have killed her.

  But she hadn’t meant to kill him! She’d just wanted to get away.

  Get away.

  She had to escape. Fast. She didn’t know how many miners inhabited the mountain, but she’d just killed their leader. What would they do to her if they found her? She pictured the hard-eyed men of the pit. Talitha’s kaptum arm.

  She stood on shaky legs. Later, she could fall apart. Right now, she had to keep a clear head. She rushed to the doorway and peeked cautiously around the curtain. The main room was deserted.

  The spiral staircase was the only escape route she knew. She ran down it on trembling legs. She stumbled once, scraping her elbow against the rough stone. As she neared the bottom, voices drifted upward. She plastered herself to the wall, willing them to go away. Sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes, but she didn’t dare wipe it away. The torches blazed everywhere, and who knew how much shadow they reflected onto the walls below?

  Eventually, the voices died away. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She gathered her courage and slipped into the long hallway. She knew not to go left—that led to the pool she’d used with Annika and Eleni—so she turned right and hurried along the narrow corridor she and Ivar had used the day before, after he’d warned her not to venture too near the torches.

  They cast ominous shadows on the walls now, the flickering light making it seem like gray shapes swirled around her. She quickened her pace, expecting to hear a pursuit on her heels at any moment. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her heart race. She could only hope Ivar had instructed his minions to stay away while he worked his seduction. If that was the case, she might have at least a few hours to put as much distance as possible between her and the mountain—assuming she could find her way out of it without getting caught. Don’t think about that now.

  The massive archway loomed ahead. Her heart thudded as she neared it. Even without peeking around the corner, she could sense there were people in the expansive cavern she’d seen when Ivar and Porter had brought her inside the mountain. But as far as she knew it was the only way out, which meant she had to somehow make her way across it. She stopped at the edge. Sweat trickled between her breasts.

  With her back pressed firmly against the stone, she leaned carefully around the archway’s corner. Her heart sank. The cavern that had been deserted just the night before was now a bustle of activity. Everywhere she looked, people crisscrossed the large space. Many carried mining equipment. A convoy of vehicles entered from the far side, their wheels caked in brown dust. She leaned farther forward to get a better look.

  A hand covered her mouth and pressed hard against her face.

  Panic rose, wild and hot. She clawed at the hand. Her captor grunted. She kicked backward.

  “Will you stop it?” a male voice hissed in her ear. “It’s me, Rogan.”

  She stilled.

  “From the garbage pit.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to remove my hand, okay?”

  Another nod, and he released her. She spun around, ready to plead for mercy, but he put a finger to his lips.

  “If you’re caught, they’ll punish you,” he said in a voice so low she had to strain to hear him. On the unblemished side of his face, his eyebrow dipped in a frown. “Are you lost?”

  Confusion swamped her. Was this some kind of a game? She eyed him warily, prepared to knee him in the groin and take off if he tried to grab her.

  “I can help you find your cave.”

  Realization dawned. He doesn’t know. Relief flowed through her. She tried to speak, but her throat was so dry her voice croaked. She swallowed. “No, I’m not lost.”

  “Okay.” His gaze moved over her hair and face. “Hey, are you all right? Your neck is red.”

  She covered it with her hand. Her pulse beat a staccato rhythm against her palm. Can’t do this now. Fall apart later. But fear and anxiety battered against her mind, threatening to break through. “I—” Tears clogged her throat.

  “Hey, hey.” He extended a hand like he might touch her, then withdrew it. “Did someone hurt you?”

  She stared. If she said no, he’d take her back to her cave. She’d be trapped—like an animal awaiting slaughter.

  “Why don’t I walk you back?” He reached for her arm.

  “No.” Her muscles tensed. Every instinct urged her to go. Except where would she run? She glanced over her shoulder. Voices drifted from the cavern. Any second now, someone was going to step through the arch.

  “Nadia?” On his good side, Rogan’s bright blue eye was shadowed with concern. He’d been kind to her. Helpful. An idea clicked in her head. He could help her now.

  “I need to get away.”

  “What?”

  She spoke in a low rush. “Ivar’s forcing me to be a bed slave. They bathed me and sent me to him. I can’t stay here.” The most effective lies held a kernel of truth. It wasn’t hard to let terror leak into her voice.

  The blue eye widened. “But…you can’t just leave.”

  “I have to get away.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Will you help me?” Her insides were vibrating with the need to run.

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  They stared at each other, the only sounds the murmurs from the cavern and the sputtering of the torches.

  “Please, Rogan.”

  He glanced up and down the hallway, and his posture became more furtive. When he looked back at her, his face was tight and nervous. He used his chin to point toward the open archway. “We can’t go through there.”

  Her heart leaped “Is there another way?”

  “Yeah. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her righ
t past the opening. She caught a blur of people. Then Rogan was moving so quickly she had to jog to keep up.

  He gripped her hand tightly as he led her down the narrow corridor, slowing occasionally when they encountered a corner where it split into another branch. In no time, she developed a stitch in her side, and her throat burned from the effort of matching his pace.

  He pulled her through a maze of passages. The ground became rocky and uneven, and she had to concentrate just to maintain her footing. Each time she thought about asking him to slow down, she pictured Ivar’s body slumped on the ground.

  The farther they went, the fewer torches lined the walls. Stale air stung her nose.

  Another forked passageway loomed ahead. He veered right. They ran down a short hallway and into a small cavern. Blue light spilled across the floor.

  Rogan stopped. He put his hands on his knees.

  She leaned against the wall. The back of her throat burned. She’d kill for some water.

  Kill. She shoved away from the rock. “Rogan.”

  He held up a hand. “Just…gimme…second.”

  She didn’t have a second. She followed the light up the wall. A square-shaped hole had been cut out of the rock.

  “It’s a ventilation shaft,” he said, still doubled over. “Leads straight to the outside. If you climb on my shoulders, you should be able to reach it.”

  She eyed the narrow opening. It was hard to tell from the ground, but it looked tiny—barely wider than her shoulders. It didn’t cut through the entire mountainside. There was too much light for that. But she’d still have to crawl. “How long is it?”

  “About eight hundred meters.”

  “Okay. Boost me up.”

  He straightened. “Nadia, you don’t have to do this. You could stay and—”

  “I have to go.”

  “It might not be so bad. You don’t know what’s out there.”

  She shook her head. Impatience was like a current running through her. She paced a short path back and forth to keep from screaming. He was wrong. She knew what was outside the mountain—Axos, Raddoc, and others like them. Rogan knew too. He’d lost half his face in another warlord’s mine. The chances of her stumbling across a kind, generous master and living happily ever after were nonexistent.

  But at least she’d be alive.

  Rogan’s face was a mix of confusion and concern. Her gut twisted. She hated lying. And she might have put him in jeopardy by dragging him along on her escape.

  “Let me worry about that,” she said.

  “Nadia—”

  “Rogan, please.” Desperation made her voice break.

  He cupped his hands and held them below waist level.

  She rushed over and braced herself against his shoulders. On impulse she leaned forward and kissed his scarred cheek. “Thank you.”

  He colored. “Hurry before I change my mind,” he mumbled.

  It was an awkward scramble to stand on his shoulders, and she worried she was hurting him, but he didn’t complain.

  The worst part was letting go of his hands to reach the edge of the vent shaft. For a moment, she balanced precariously on his broad shoulders, her body swaying before she slapped her palms against the rock face and curled her hands over the edge of the shaft. Her boots scrabbled against the wall. As she struggled to pull herself up, she was grateful for the mandatory physical fitness tests all Council officers were forced to take every six months. Her arms burned, but years of pull-ups gave her the strength she needed to lift her body high enough to clear the lip.

  Blue light blinded her. When she felt the bottom edge of the opening against her hips, she tipped forward and collapsed. Her legs dangled against the wall. She lay half inside the shaft, panting as the muscles in her arms spasmed.

  “Are you okay?” Rogan called.

  The shaft was even smaller than she’d guessed. Her elbows scraped the sides of the rough-hewn rock, and she barely had enough room to lift her head. She focused on her breathing, forcing herself to take deep breaths to slow her heart rate. She couldn’t afford to panic right now. She took another deep breath. “Yes, I think so!”

  “Good. Just follow it straight out.”

  She scooted forward a few inches, digging her toes into the rock to propel her body forward. Fortunately, the entire shaft was bathed in blue light, so she wasn’t forced to endure the tiny space in total darkness. Rogan continued to call encouragement for a few minutes, but his voice got progressively fainter the farther she crawled.

  Through a combination of wiggling and grunting, she forced her body up the slight incline inch by painful inch. Before long, both elbows were scraped and stinging, and her ribs and knees weren’t faring much better. She put her head down and concentrated on moving forward.

  Eventually, she realized she couldn’t hear Rogan at all—just the sound of her own harsh breaths. Chilled air swirled around her, cooling the sweat on her face. The blue light was stronger now, the opening just ahead. A fresh surge of strength flooded her limbs, and she dug her toes deep into the rock and launched herself forward. Her fingers touched the edge.

  12

  Ivar came to with a gasp, his chest heaving as precious air filled his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how or why he’d ended up on the floor—he just reveled in being able to breathe without feeling like he was drowning. As he caught his breath, his gaze drifted over the floor, which was covered in…blood?

  His blood.

  He lurched to his feet. A streak of fire lanced his left flank. He hissed and looked down. The hilt of a knife stuck out of his side. His shirt was dark with blood. Everything came back in a rush. “Nadia,” he growled. She’d tried to kill him.

  And she’d used his kaptum against him. He coughed. The taste of copper burned the back of his throat. She must have hit his lung. He closed his eyes and pulled with his mind. Under his ribs, the knife jerked.

  A wave of nausea threatened to send him crashing right back to the floor. He glanced down. The knife was still halfway inside. Fuck. He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. He shuffled to the wall where he’d tried to hold her in place so he could question her.

  Bracing his shoulder against the rock, he wrapped both hands around the hilt. He took a deep breath and pulled. The blade slid from between his ribs. Razor-sharp pain shot from his side to his stomach. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He released the hilt and sagged against the wall. Sweat broke out across his forehead.

  He gripped the hilt again, gritted his teeth, and yanked the knife out. The razors multiplied, slicing him from the inside out. Blood trickled down his side. He rolled against the wall and pressed his forehead to the stone. “Fucking shit.”

  The hilt warmed in his hand. He lifted his head and peered at the knife. “Traitor,” he muttered.

  It dissolved to silvery raw kaptum. For a second, it puddled in his palm. A thought buzzed in his brain—nothing he could hear; more of an impression.

  Disapprove. The metal shivered, then slid up his arm and curled into position. It sank into his skin.

  Deep in his mind, he felt the telltale click of connection. The hair on his arms lifted. Every nerve stood at attention. Discomfort swept him—as if all his limbs had fallen asleep and now tingled awake. He gritted his teeth and rode it out.

  Then it was gone.

  He closed his eyes and pulled. The kaptum stirred and shot to his side. Heat bloomed under his ribs. His lungs filled with air. Nerve endings rejoined. Flesh knit back together. The pain faded to a dull throb.

  He stopping pulling. The kaptum snapped away from his side like a rubber band. It traced a sluggish path back to his arm.

  He lifted his shirt. The skin around the wound was pink and angry looking, but the wound was closed. Strength pumped through him with every breath. He pushed away from the wall. Something flashed on the ground. He stooped and picked up the kaptum bands he’d used to pin Nadia.

  She’d managed to turn his own kaptum against him. No newly landed pr
isoner had that level of skill. It took years to meld mind to metal.

  He strode to the curtain, bellowing for Porter.

  As it turned out, yelling was unnecessary. He nearly collided with his second-in-command halfway down the spiral staircase.

  Porter was white as a sheet, his usual friendly expression replaced by hard eyes and a clenched jaw. “Nadia escaped. Through a vent shaft in the— What happened to your side?”

  “She stabbed me.” Ivar pushed past him.

  Porter was hot on his heels. “Nadia did that? How did she get her hands on a weapon?”

  “Where is she?” He took the stairs two at a time.

  “Near the fields. A sentry just spotted her. I dispatched a patrol to bring her back in. We assumed she slipped away after dinner.”

  They reached the bottom. Ivar rounded on Porter. Voice pitched low, he said, “She took control of my kaptum and reformed it on her own. And she knew exactly how to angle it to hit my lung and collapse it.”

  Porter stared at Ivar’s bloodied shirt. “What happened at that dinner?”

  “I showed her the fields. She’s a botanist.”

  Understanding lit Porter’s eyes. “The Council sent her.”

  “A botanist assassin. Those assholes think of everything.”

  “You didn’t ask her about her job before?”

  Ivar grunted. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Maybe not with your head—”

  “Fuck you very much.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Ivar strode toward the cavern. “Call off the patrol,” he said over her shoulder. “I’ll get her myself.”

  13

  Nadia slumped against the base of the mountain. Rogan hadn’t told her the ventilation shaft opened directly into the pit. It stretched before her—a twisted, sprawling wreck of old shipping containers and oozing filth.

  Her elbows stung from scraping the walls of the narrow tunnel. When she’d finally reached the end, her muscles burning and her arms shaking uncontrollably, she’d sobbed tears of relief. It was not an experience she wanted to repeat ever again.