Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  “I didn’t mean...” Terror filled Aken’s features. “I didn’t mean to...”

  Everyone backed away, even Bakoa and Zartanian.

  “He’s a monster,” someone voiced. “Lock him up before he kills us!”

  Aken’s hands shook. He glanced back once, meeting Cyrus’s gaze. But she didn’t know what to do, her soul still in turmoil.

  Footsteps approached from across the field, a Master’s cape rippling behind.

  “Master Eletor!”

  Cyrus watched as the vempar man raised a hand to forestall the students’ flood of accusations. “That’s a nasty wound, there, Denim,” he said and inspected the red mark.

  Denim pointed, “He attacked me with his Scourgeblood power! It’s against Draev rules to attack the innocent.”

  Master Eletor pressed the wound, and Denim flinched. “Are you really that innocent?”

  Denim’s jaw worked.

  “Still, this is serious. Even I can’t Heal it.” With a pop, Eletor relocated the shoulder, ignoring Denim’s yelp. He rose and approached Aken. “You have to come with me.”

  Fear streaked Aken’s face.

  “Where are you taking him?” Cyrus forced her throat to speak. When the Master hesitated, she knew. “No, you can’t lock him away!”

  Master Eletor grabbed Aken’s wrist, and Aken didn’t fight back.

  “You can’t!”

  “If he’s a danger to the citizens, then there’s no choice but to keep him contained. And only special dungeon cells can hold someone like him.”

  “He’s not a danger—he was protecting me!”

  Master Eletor turned toward her, Aken’s wrist in his firm grip. “I don’t think you have much time to argue with me, half-human. You should leave before the other Masters and school staff come looking for you.”

  Sweat beaded Cyrus’s brow.

  “Since I’m busy with Aken-Shou, here, I’ll give you this chance to escape.”

  Escape? Was that all she could do?

  She moved to block Denim and the Master from leaving. Denim held his injured shoulder and raised his head in contempt.

  “Tell him the truth!” she demanded, “You were threatening me, and that’s why Aken hit you.”

  “So what if I was threatening you? You’re not a Draev student anymore.” Denim smirked.

  The Tathom boys fanned around her and Bakoa and Zartanian—Doughboy among them, looking grim despite how friendly he’d seemed yesterday. Humans were the enemy here; it was Argos who fought and slayed them. She wouldn’t doubt each one of these boys could name a relative who’d been killed by the Argos Corps.

  This was all her fault. If she’d been honest about what she was from the start, then maybe none of this would be happening. Just like Hercule had said.

  ‘Guide me, Lord God,’ she sent a silent prayer and gathered courage.

  “I’m half-human, but I’m also half-vempar,” she said, “born with Ability, same as each of you. Which means I have just as much right to be at this school. I will become a Draev Guardian and stand alongside Harlow, no matter what enemies we face.”

  “Cyrus...” Aken started, but she silenced him with a gesture.

  Denim leaned on one foot, raising his chin further. “You want to be one of us and leave your human side behind, is that it?” He paused, and his frown was replaced by a sly chuckle. “I know how to solve this. It’s simple.”

  Denim spread his good arm wide. “You say you’re a Draev student like us? Well then, let’s have you prove it.” He spun on a heel, arm sweeping to indicate the Tathom boys left and right of him. “You’ll prove it by accepting our challenge: to fight and win against one of our own. Only then can you truly be accepted here.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Aken shouted. “Just run, get somewhere safe!”

  Cyrus considered the challenge. Fight a Tathom boy, who would no doubt know how to use his Ability better than she did hers. Chances of winning were slim, if any. But...

  “The Swan Festival Duel takes place today, and since Aken won’t be taking part in it, how about you take his place and face off against our contestant, Doughboy?” Denim flourished his good hand for dramatic effect.

  Incredulous gasps and whispers circled the field, and Doughboy thudded his fists together, accepting the challenge.

  Cyrus had to shut her lips to halt a hiccup of fright. Billsbury Doughboy stood huge—the biggest boy in their grade, and maybe the whole school. The fat making up most of his body thick and tough, something that’d be difficult to land a damaging punch on, especially for a short, scrawny girl like her.

  “Liars and spies get punished,” said Doughboy. “You won’t escape me, sneaky human.” His height loomed, a shadow obscuring the sun.

  “Hold on, Doughboy,” Denim said before the boy came at her. “Wait for the Duel, where everybody can see the half-human lose.”

  Cyrus kept her trembling fists at her sides. “If I win, you will free Aken and explain this was all a misunderstanding. That way, he can stay and keep training,” she said.

  Denim regarded her. “I can’t make the Draev Guardian League free Aken, but I’ll do what I can to convince them, if you win. But then I’m raising the stakes for you, too: If you lose, not only will you never come back to this school, but you’ll become a slave to my family’s Noble House, and serve me.”

  Bakoa and Zartanian made sounds of shock. Aken froze, then released a heated stream of name-calling as he tried to launch himself at Denim. Eletor’s grip held him back.

  Cyrus’s throat was too dry to swallow, and Denim’s leer sent spiders crawling up her spine. She stiffened and didn’t give herself time to think, but said, “Deal.”

  Denim chortled, then winced as he clutched his shoulder. “Go hide, and meet us at Central Plaza for the Duel at one o’clock,” he told her.

  The school bells bong-gonged the end of lunch, and Master Eletor began leading Aken away. “You said it was a rumor,” Aken growled at Denim over his shoulder. “Who started it? Tell me!”

  Denim coolly glanced back. “We overheard some older students talking about it. No clue who it was that first tattled, though.” He waved his fingers, “Bye-bye. Hope you enjoy your new prison life. Maybe I’ll send you a letter now and then.”

  Aken snarled as he was pulled by the wrist. “Cy, don’t worry about me. Just get out of here while you can!”

  She stared after him, tears blurring her vision. “I’ll free you. I promise I won’t lose,” she whispered.

  Master Eletor led him away to a bolted door holed in the slope at the edge of the school grounds, a door that must lead to the depths beneath Draevensett. She pressed a hand to her aching chest.

  Denim swaggered back to school, lackeys following in his wake, though his path deviated towards the front courtyard and most likely the doctor’s office.

  Cyrus’s insides burned. A hand tugged on her elbow.

  “You shouldn’t be out in the open. A teacher might see you,” said Bakoa, coaxing her out of the field and under the cover of trees. Zartanian kept a watchful eye at their back. They were anxious, and she stared at her own shaking hands.

  How had things come to this?

  A RUSH OF COOL AIR rippled Aken’s shirt as Master Eletor yanked open the old door, revealing a stone spiral staircase leading down into the darkness. He followed rather than be dragged down the moldy steps.

  Reaching the base, Eletor raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. An electric current weaved through the air, touching and igniting the oilpowder sconces along either walls, bringing the underground dungeon beneath the school into gloomy light.

  Aken tensed his shoulders as they passed empty stone cells, the smell of mildew permeating the air. The cell bars and doors gleamed, unmarred despite the age of the place. Master Eletor stopped at one cell; the hinges made no sound as he pulled open the door.

  “Black silver, never dulls or ages. And it’s the one thing no vempar can break—to my knowledge, anyway,” Eletor
explained, and then he looked down at Aken pityingly. “This is a temporary holding place. If things don’t work out in your favor, you’ll be moved to the Morbid Dungeons, far from Draethvyle.”

  Aken didn’t meet his gaze, but clenched his fists instead. The cell awaited, and it took every ounce of courage to step inside. The door clanged shut behind him, his view of the world now crossed with bars.

  “Don’t let Cyrus get hurt. Please, help him escape.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I’m being nice enough not informing the principal of Denim’s scheme,” Eletor stated. “Cyrus has a chance at winning his life here—and maybe your freedom, too—if he wins the Duel and the prize of one request granted by the king. I’m curious to see if the little half-human can win.” Master Eletor moved to leave.

  “What are the Morbid Dungeons like?”

  Eletor paused. “You don’t want to know.”

  As he left, the sconces went out and the darkness flooded back in. Aken shivered against the damp slabs underneath him, and drew his knees up as he hugged his arms for warmth.

  A future locked away.

  A future locked in darkness.

  A future of being alone, forever.

  He shuddered. He couldn’t face that loneliness, even if it was what a monster like him deserved. He’d rather die.

  Aken raised his hand, thinking of the obsidian armor that had wrapped around it—wondering and fearing how he’d summoned the Scourgeblood power.

  “Please be safe, Cy.”

  The plip of water dripping was the only answer in the dungeon’s silence.

  Chapter 34

  Stay calm.

  Ba-thump.

  Stay alert.

  Ba-thump.

  She had to do this.

  No room for failure.

  No matter how her limbs trembled and her knees threatened to give out. She had to save Aken, and prove to everyone—and to herself—that she deserved to be in Draevensett. That she could become a Draev.

  Ba-thump.

  She would win this, or die trying.

  Cyrus’s heart pounded in her ears as she stood on the pavestones of Central Plaza, taking deep breaths. The wide city square was decorated for the Swan Festival with banners and white bows and roses, and an assortment of white feathers on every possible thing, including the hairdos of some ladies. Most everyone in the crowd wore some piece that was white, whether it be a hat, bowtie, or swaths of lace.

  In the center of the plaza, a ring had been set up for the Festival Duel, and the crowd was already taking seats in the mechanical bleachers that surrounded it. At the head of the battle ring, and elevated, stood a canvas pavilion, where beneath it, seated in elaborate chairs, were two royal figures.

  Cyrus gazed in awe, her first time seeing the king and queen of the Vemparic Kingdom. Their garments stately, trimmed in gold, their expressions immovable. To the right of the king stood an important-looking man trimmed in laces, his countenance ghostly pale gray, his hollow eyes and cheekbones deeply shadowed, hair a straight black curtain. Principal Han was present in the adjacent row, along with the numerous Draev Masters of the D.G. League. This Duel must be an even bigger deal than she’d thought.

  Ba-thump.

  “What are their names again?” she whispered.

  “King and Queen Magnovska, and Viceroy Deciet,” replied Mamoru.

  Cyrus waited at one end of the ring, Harlow among the first row of spectators behind her, Floor Tathom and Denim at the oppsite end behind their broad champion Doughboy, smug and confident as ever, though Denim was still nursing his shoulder. Cherish was present, too, in her wheelchair off to the side, her expression somber. Flocks of Draevensett students filled the bleachers alongside the wealthy citizens. The lower class had to sit on the ground at the ring’s edge to watch.

  The announcer, a rotund man with a bowler hat, made his way to the center of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he blared, “The Duel of the Swan Festival is ready to begin!”

  Applause resounded.

  “However, there has been a slight change to the match.”

  Murmurs rustled through the crowd.

  “The Scourgeblood was forced to cancel his part in the Duel, for as of yet undefined reasons. However, Draevensett’s first half-human student will be taking his place!”

  Murmurs turned into shock and incredulous sounds. The king’s dark eyebrows rose, and the pale Viceroy Deciet leaned forward. Masters and others of importance stirred in their seats, some standing to get a better look as the two contenders entered the ring—Cyrus thought she glimpsed Master Nephryte among them.

  “This is absurd! The next runner-up should take the Scourgeblood’s place, not some half-human,” spoke up one of the members of the D.G. League. Others agreed.

  “Humans don’t belong in Draevensett.”

  “He shouldn’t be allowed to compete—he should be executed!”

  Cyrus rubbed at her wrists nervously.

  “According to the documents, he is still a student. You’ve yet to change that fact, even if you were planning to,” spoke Master Nephryte. “And Principal Han has already signed off that Cyrus is allowed to take Aken-Shou’s place in the Duel.”

  All eyes turned to the principal, who shrugged without concern. “I thought it curious. Can you blame me for wanting to see how such a match would turn out? Besides, it was the prince’s cousin who made the proposal to me.”

  More protests rose, but the Viceroy lifted his hand and spoke, his voice like scratching sand. “His Majesty says the Duel is to commence. If Draevensett did not want a half-human among its students, then they should have done a better job in exercising their vigilance.”

  The Draev group unceremoniously shut up.

  “Come forward, contenders!” called the announcer.

  “Be careful, Cyrus,” said Bakoa. She turned to them. Zartanian was pinching the cuffs of his lacey sleeves. And Mamoru had his fist clenched in a hand behind his back, though he flashed her a reassuring smile and said, “Go show them what you’re made of.”

  Cyrus closed her eyes, gathering strength from God and from Harlow’s support, before she stepped forward to face Doughboy.

  The crowd cheered as Doughboy took slow, heavy steps toward Cyrus, the fat of his stomach and limbs wrippling. A grin split his chubby cheeks, eager for battle, a headband tight around his forehead.

  Taunts and shouts for the large boy to teach the human a lesson blared. Cyrus kept calm, trying to come up with a plan.

  Not everyone in the crowd was making noise. Scattered among the lower class were slaves—faeryn, humans, kitsune. Their silent faces focused on her, as if she were a miracle, a ray of hope in their chain-bound lives.

  “And...begin!” shouted the announcer, and he quickly scurried out of the way.

  Cyrus readied her stance, channeling essence through the metal feather bracelets, and wrapping the hard material around each hand up to the elbow, knitting it to her skin.

  As Doughboy drew near, his body and clothes changed color and consistency, his height rose and mass doubled in size. Bread-colored, bouncy, wobbly limbed and squishy... She stared, transfixed in horror. He literally became a boy made out of—

  “Dough?”

  “It’s my code name for a reason, baby human,” Doughboy boomed, now looming over her.

  She had time only to suck in a breath before his stretching dough arms lashed out, and she fast dodged to the side. Her knees skinned across the pavestones.

  Huge fists on trunk-thick limbs flattened the stones where she’d stood—baM!

  How flat would her body be if those fists pinned her to the ground?

  ‘Stay focused!’

  Back up on her feet, not far from Doughboy’s turned back, she leaped high. Both hands coated in metal, she gripped them together in a double-metal fist and swung it—striking the back of his head.

  “Wohg!” Doughboy roared.

  But her double-fist attack merely made a dent in his dough head—af
ter several wiggly shakes, it swelled back to normal—but her double-fist bounced back at her, knocking the breath out of her lungs as it struck her chest. “GwuH!”

  She fell back, rolling across the plaza ring.

  “Cyrus!” Bakoa started. But Mamoru’s arm held him back: “If you interfere, it’s all over. He has to win this on his own.”

  Back stinging, chest burning with each breath, Cyrus forced herself upright. She watched as Doughboy rolled himself into a giant ball, legs and arms wrapped behind him. Using his stomach, he bounced—pounding the ground like the world’s largest ball.

  “Stomach Pancake-Maker!” he roared.

  She scrambled out of the way. The last thing she wanted on the menu were “Cyrus pancakes.”

  ‘That could kill me, that could kill me!’

  “Run right! Right!” She could hear Bakoa call out amidst the jeering crowd.

  Doughboy bounced, like a dough moon rising and falling.

  “Above you—he’s above you! RUN!”

  Doughboy had been at the opposite end of the ring just seconds ago. Bouncing had brought him closer much faster than she’d anticipated. Now he was overhead, coming down. No time to dodge.

  Planting both feet, crossing her metal arms overhead, Cyrus braced for impact.

  Ww-BOSH!

  Dough stomach crushed down on her raised metal arms.

  Her knees buckled.

  Using the ground as a brace, she shoved with all her might: using the weight of her metal to bounce the huge body aside—making him skid away like a beachball. Her hands and knees hit the ground, exhausted from the massive effort, raw scrapes bleeding down her arms and legs.

  Ignoring the pain, she got back up.

  ‘I have to win! Please give me the strength, Lord God. Not for me, but for Aken, and these slaves.’

  Doughboy rebounded toward her. She raised her metal forearms once more, as his wide girth came down on her defense. She struggled and strained against the weight crushing down on her.

  A dough fist freed from behind his back—it curved a punch into her exposed gut.

  “GHah—!”

  The world moved and blurred.