by M. L. Greye
He only nodded, stepped off the round, and tossed his blades toward the nearby table. Let someone else pick them up. Let Kearns see he’d won. She hadn’t utterly shattered him. She could make him regret any show of arrogance later, but for now Declan didn’t care. He’d won, and it felt good.
He didn’t look back at Rand to see how Simon had decided to punish him. He didn’t give Kearns a second glance. He didn’t meet the stares of the crowd that had gathered. No, he walked with his head high, gaze straight ahead, all the way to the infirmary.
Once he had the bundle of his new tent in his arms, Declan headed toward his bush at the edge of the camp. It was his spot. He’d been sleeping there since his first night. It was where he’d set up the tent he’d won for himself.
It was a basic enough tent to construct. Thirty minutes later, he had it up and secured in the ground with the use of a large rock in place of a mallet for the stakes. It was identical to all the other tents – about fifteen feet long by ten feet wide and about seven feet tall at its highest point, made from stiff canvas. He’d expected it to be open to the ground at the bottom but was pleasantly surprised to learn it had a canvas floor.
Declan sat in the middle of his new tent, flaps drawn down – giving himself the first bit of privacy he’d had in over a week. He crossed his legs in front of him and rubbed his hands over the grimy knees of his pants.
This was his. This tent was his. He’d won it. He’d chosen to fight Rand. No one had forced him to do it. And he’d won himself a place to live.
His gaze dropped to the canvas beneath him. He ran his hands over the fabric. He’d be sleeping on canvas tonight. Not frozen mud. Not beneath dark, gloomy clouds with bursts of thunderless lightning. Not out in the open to the mercy of the elements.
Hot tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He shut them, squeezing back a sob. He’d survived this far. He could keep going. He’d just need to take it one day at a time.
Emry’s face appeared along the back of his eyelids. The Emry he’d dreamt of the night before – the beautiful young woman with an easy smile and large, friendly eyes.
It’d been such a pleasant, soothing dream. So different than what his life had become.
Emry was different, nothing at all like this horrible place.
From what he remembered of her, she was kind. Smart. Brave. Full of life – a life he’d once saved. The only life he’d ever saved, and probably ever would.
Yet, Declan had saved Emry. He’d done something good. Something great even. He would hold onto that. He would have to, because he knew in order to keep this new tent, he was going to need to do things that would disgust himself. Things that could drive him mad with shame and regret and guilt.
He had a feeling after today Kearns would turn him into a pet – she had a thing for Teals. In order for Declan to survive, he would have to do what she required. And Declan was going to do whatever she asked. Because, one, he was not going to lose this tent, and, two, if he did what Kearns said, he had some control of the outcome.
The Backwards Rubys were, for some reason, the leaders of the camp. There were about thirty of them with five to ten slaves connected to each one of them by blood. The blood of the taken was how they all were controlled. Through their sick, twisted abilities, the Backwards Rubys caused pain to those they’d tasted the blood of. If they hadn’t partaken of their blood, the only way they’d be able to inflict pain would be through touch or close proximity. Declan had picked up a few things since he’d arrived.
The goal of every Backwards Ruby, though, was the same – push each of their prisoners in warfare and abilities until their breaking point, so that they would grow stronger and stronger. Push them until they were constantly fighting for their lives. Because in that horrible moment between dying and fighting for their last breath, the Backwards Rubys had discovered that a person could perform incredible acts of strength. It was exactly what they wanted, so they pushed their taken again and again – as if they were merely working the muscles of their slaves, and not toying with their lives.
Declan’s stomach growled. He’d grown accustomed to being hungry since coming here. It’d be nice to have a full stomach when he faced Kearns again. He doubted Rand would be the last of his duels today. Kearns liked watching him win today – she was going to push him so that he never lost. Declan knew her well enough now to assume as much. She wanted her Teal to succeed, which meant she was going to make him beg.
He would do it. Declan opened his eyes – staring ahead at the closed flaps of his tent. This was his tent. He’d survived this far. He’d beaten Rand. He could do this. Even though he’d been stolen in the dead of night from his actual life, he could endure this new one. He’d saved Emry. His life wasn’t worth wasting. He could keep living, even when death looked like it was easier.
:::::
“Where did you learn how to fight?”
Declan’s fork was halfway between his plate and his mouth when Rand dropped onto the bench at the opposite side of the table. He frowned at Rand, ignoring the question, and shoved his bite into his mouth. An angry red scar stretched across Rand’s bicep where Declan had sliced him – halfway healed over by whatever Ruby he’d been handed over to after their duel.
“I could ask the same of you.” Declan took a swig from his tin cup of water.
Rand snorted, leaning forward over the top of the table onto his forearms. “You give me a little scratch, and you feel like you’re worthy to ask questions of me?”
“Worthy,” Declan grunted. “What are you royalty now?”
“I was talking about abilities,” Rand shot back, eyes flashing.
Right. None of the prisoners had any sort of fondness for royals. No matter the country. Declan included. He’d learned he was here on command of the king of Quirl himself. It was disgusting how much power that man now had over his life. He frowned. “I worked border control in Anexia. I trained at my garrison.”
“It must had been some garrison,” Rand mused. He watched Declan take another bite. “I heard Kearns call you Sharpe. Is that your name or a title?”
“My last name,” he replied. “My name’s Declan.”
“Declan Sharpe of Anexia.” Rand nodded his head once. “I’m curious to see if you’ll last longer than the last Teal.”
He frowned. He had noticed he was the only Teal in the camp. It disturbed him. “What happened to the last Teal?”
Rand rubbed his left wrist with his right hand and studied Declan. “She was here a month. Belonged to Kearns, too. She thought she could outrun The Connecting, but she was wrong. Once a Back Rube tastes your blood, it doesn’t matter how far or fast you run – a Back Rube can still control you from the other side of the world. It’s the curse of The Connecting.” His gray eyes darkened. “The last Teal ran away as fast as she could one night. Kearns claims she dissolved the Teal’s skin as punishment – says the Teal bled out.”
Declan suppressed a cringe. He’d experienced a portion of his body losing his skin. He had no doubt in the truth of Kearns’s claim. “She didn’t think about why no one else had escaped from the camp?”
“She knew what would happen to her if she tried to run away.” Rand loosed a bitter laugh. “She chose her end and was given the luxury of dying.”
It’d been suicide. Some fractured part inside of Declan recoiled with a mix of horror and pity at the thought. The part of him that was steadily growing smaller the longer he stayed in this camp. The new darker side of him, could see why she’d done it. This camp destroyed souls. The last Teal saw no other way out. It was horrendous and tragic and sad. She’d reached her limit. Still…
Declan clenched his jaw. “I’d hardly call dying luxurious.”
“It is when even that option is taken from you,” Rand retorted bleakly.
They fell silent for a moment. Declan frowned. “Did you call Kearns a Back Rube?”
“Have you not heard that one yet?” Rand raised his scarred eyebrow. “Back Rube is just a
shortened name for a Backwards Ruby. Call it a term of endearment, if you will.”
“I’m sure Kearns would love to hear me using it,” he said dryly.
Rand nodded and rose to his feet. “Enjoy your breakfast. I look forward to facing you on a round again.”
“Hopefully you’ll improve a little more before then,” Declan replied. “Give me more of a challenge.”
“Careful what you wish for.” A wicked grin split open Rand’s mouth as he pointed a finger at Declan. “I can rile Simon up to make sure he sends me to play with you.”
Play. An ironic term the Back Rubes used for the forced duels between the slaves. As if saying they were merely playing covered up the anguish experienced. But Declan said, “I’d like that.”
He meant it. Fighting Rand hadn’t felt like all his other duels. It’d been his choice, and, for once, he’d fought an equal.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Rand’s grin faded into a more pensive look. He crossed one arm across his chest, thumping it twice. A farewell – from one warrior to another. It was a gesture used in both Quirl and Enlennd – between warriors of the same rank.
Before Declan could respond, Rand turned and headed out of the dim mess hall. Declan watched him go. As he went back to his soggy oatmeal, he couldn’t push away the thought that he’d just made an ally of sorts. A powerful one at that. In this muddy cesspool of broken dreams, an ally could possibly prove to be useful. Or subject him to further isolation and ridicule.
Most of the taken avoided Rand. The Backwards Rubys made sure that no one got to know each other too well, but in Rand’s case, the camp prisoners seemed to go out of their way to steer clear of him. Rand was the strongest in the camp – the favored tormentor. Little wonder everyone gave him a wide berth. If Declan grew close with the Gray, would he be shunned as well?
Declan couldn’t help but think Rand must be terribly lonely. The Back Rubes forced him to do their bidding, and his fellow prisoners hated him for it. As Declan shoveled in another bite, he decided he didn’t care if they all hated him too for befriending Rand. It was his choice. Another one. He didn’t have many of those here.
Just for that reason alone, Declan was glad to do it. His choice. He smiled slightly to himself. It was something the Back Rubes couldn’t take from him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Go ahead and activate them,” Yvonne encouraged.
Emry pushed a miniscule amount of her power into her new blades. Black shadows curled upward, solidifying into black steel a little more than two inches wide and thirteen inches long – serrated on both edges from top to bottom. They were beautiful and weighed nothing. Emry slid them through the air in front of her, adjusting her grip on the hilts – getting used to the feel of them in her palms.
They were off to one side in the Ranga Pit. Yvonne had been true to her word and had showed up with four new shadow blades for Emry. They were exquisite – better than any blade Emry had ever held before. Well worth the coin they’d cost to make.
“What do you think?” Yvonne asked.
“They’re remarkable,” Emry replied. “Like an extension of my arm.”
Yvonne nodded, assessing Emry’s movements with her unique eyes. “That’s how your blades should feel.”
Emry lowered her arms to stare down at the blades again. “I can’t wait to use them.”
The blacksmith blinked. “Will you not be staying to try them out?”
“I wish I could.” Emry bit the tip of her tongue. Oh, how she wished. “I have no one to spar with today.” She added the today as more of an afterthought. She didn’t really want Yvonne to know she had no one to spar with at all. That would lead to questions. Questions like, why would she commission a set of blades she couldn’t even use?
“Of course you do.” Yvonne pointed across the row of combined townhomes to a small group of people beside the water table. Four men and a tall woman.
Emry blinked. “Who are they?”
“My other clients,” she replied. “They come here a couple times a week, so I’ve been told. They prefer blades to the staff.”
“They come here to spar with blades?” Emry had only ever seen people do the Turanga on the Ranga Pit rounds.
“Yes.” Yvonne glanced back at Emry. “Would you like me to introduce you?”
Forty minutes later, Emry was on her way back home. Yvonne’s other clients had invited Emry to join them in the Ranga Pit. Twice a week. If Emry added in the blade sparring, as she fully intended on doing, to her Turanga practices, then she’d be keeping active four days a week. It was a lot less than back in Heerth, but it was still something.
Since Trez had left, she’d been hiring out a horse to meet her in the woods on merchant days – the two days a week when merchants came to the palace to deliver their wares. On those days, no one questioned a common stable boy out in the woods along the road. Thus far it had been fairly easy for Emry to sneak out to meet the boy before taking his horse to the Ranga Pit. As long as she’d slip away during lunch, no one seemed to notice she’d even gone.
To meet up with Yvonne’s clients, though, was going to be a little trickier. She’d have to go without the cover of merchants. Hopefully, if she continued to go during lunch, she still wouldn’t be missed. She’d just have to make sure she was never late coming back. The stable would charge her extra. That would be coming out of her wardrobe budget. She’d already accounted for two days. For four days … she’d just have to be more practical in which fabrics and accessories she chose to purchase.
It could work. It would have to work. Emry wasn’t about to give up what she’d learned in Heerth. It was just going to take a little more effort to maintain her subterfuge.
:::::
Declan had fallen into something like a routine. A grueling, painful, exhausting routine – if what he endured could even be called that. Kearns had him running everyday. What had started as laps around the camp had shifted into running to the base of the mountain, and then up the mountain. There and back, as many times as he could in a thirty-minute span. Pushing himself further and further every day until his legs felt as if they’d turned to liquid beneath him.
Every other day, Kearns had him swinging around a staff with either Semrez or some fresher inmate. For a while, Kearns had Declan facing off with Semrez everyday, saying she was appalled that Declan was only any good with swords. That she needed her Teal to be more well-rounded – an accomplished warrior in all aspects. But Declan had apparently improved during the weeks since he’d been stolen.
Stolen. That was what he was.
Semrez had told him during the one meal they’d once shared that The Stolen was what the people in his city called those taken. He was from Prythius – somewhere in Heerth. Declan hadn’t heard of it before. He only really knew of Zyntar. But now Declan had a title to go by. He was one of The Stolen. As was Rand.
Twice a week, Declan sparred with Rand. It was the only time on those rounds that Declan could actually call what he did sparring. Everyone else he faced was either better or worse than him. He was either on the receiving end, or the one causing bruises. Declan had learned from personal experience which parts of the body, when hit, looked worse than they felt. He tended to gravitate his blows toward those locations.
He still disgusted himself, but he’d also discovered how to push it down while he dueled – to wait to wallow in his emotions in the privacy of his own tent. To become an empty puppet, just as Kearns wished.
It wasn’t that way with Rand, though. No, with him and swords, they were equals. Or nearly there. Rand had improved. So much so that they’d begun a sort of game. A game of who could draw blood first.
When they fought, Rand removed the leather shirt protecting his torso and Declan took off his tunic – one of three he’d acquired as rewards from Kearns. He and Rand then swung and twisted around each other in complicated maneuvers until both their bodies were slick with sweat despite the cold. It was the only thing Declan had to look f
orward to. The fights with Rand, not the cold.
No, Declan had never been so cold in his life. It wasn’t that it was exceptionally cold yet here – it was that he was so ill-equipped for it. He had to earn literally everything, and Kearns seemed to know just what he needed. “Double the terrain you covered yesterday, and I’ll give you a candle.” “Make her bleed, and I’ll give you new boots.” “Get him to scream, and I’ll give you a fur to sleep beneath.”
Declan did it all. Thus far he’d gained three new outfits, two pairs of boots – even though he’d already destroyed one of them with all his running – two furs for his tent, a feather pillow, three candles, flint to start them with, and a second meal on an almost daily basis now. He was officially a mid-level inhabitant of the camp. He was slightly more comfortable, but he didn’t feel any better about his living conditions. The camp was still torture.
Today, he was dueling with a Pale. The same Pale who had tried to get out of fighting Rand all those weeks ago. It was a humbling day. A push Declan too close to death sort of day. Declan wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make it any easier.
Simon was leading the duel. He was the Pale’s Main, so Kearns had passed Declan off to him for the day. She was overseeing some of her other slaves on a different round. Declan was glad to be away from her for a few hours, but Simon wasn’t much better. The way he was urging his Pale to inflict more and more harm on Declan, he must not have forgotten Declan humiliating Rand. Well, Simon had to be feeling smug now – Declan was struggling.
He’d already avoided countless ice daggers flung at nearly every inch of his body. A few of them had gotten close enough to open skin. He now had cuts on both his arms, one of his legs, and his left shoulder. The vast majority of them, though, he’d dodged. It was a small victory.
“What are you waiting for?” Simon called out to the pale-eyed across from Declan. “Bring him down.”