by Marian Gray
“When you’re ready, men.” Athulf backed away with quick steps.
Before I could even take a second breath, Mathias came barreling toward me like a mad bull, his face reddened from the charge and weapon raised for the attack. I dashed to the side as his blade slashed downward. The tip swiped across the muddy ground, coloring the end.
But he didn’t stop there.
Mathias reeled around and lunged at me once again. His agility and lightness of foot was beyond surprising considering his bulk. He whipped his sword around with a maddening pace, trying to catch me at every angle. I hadn’t believed he had this sort of speed in him. He kept me on my toes, making me practically dance around the ring in order to keep him at bay.
The man was a storm to be reckoned with. His blade rained down overhead. I caught one good strike on my shield, intending to launch an assault of my own, but the force was too much. The wood snapped in half. The metal of his sword scraped down my knuckles, flaying the skin.
I darted to the side. His blade ended where my chest had been moments before.
The crowd cheered as the first blood was drawn. Mine.
Mathias turned to his people to celebrate, giving them a large grin as they applauded his success. He lingered in the glory, high on this small taste of success.
I tossed my broken shield away and wrapped my bloodied hand around the hilt of my sword, readying a two-handed grip. I wasn’t going to come out of this fight alive by constantly defending and waiting for my open. He would split my belly open wide before that happened. I needed to create my opportunities and force those chances.
Just as I expected, Mathias rushed me. But it was more taxing blocking and dodging his blows. Without a shield in hand, all of my movements had to be precise and perfect. The smallest of accidents and he would have me at the end of his sword.
Instead of simply catching his blows, I began to push back on my blocks, rocking his rhythm offbeat. He struggled to slide seamlessly from one move to the other, having to readjust himself after each encounter. Second by second, I could see his confidence unraveling as he struggled to rectify the jarring flow.
And then it was there. My opening.
His sword ricocheted against mine, splaying his arms wide. I dropped low, sweeping the steel edge across his knee. The metal parted his flesh. Blood seeped into the brown fibers of his trousers, dying the cloth a dark russet. He staggered back but didn’t fall.
I came after him. I wasn’t done.
My sword hammered at his sides with a deft pace. I had him on the run. My muscles burned as I spurred my body to go faster and harder.
His shield snapped under the weight of my third blow. Splinters rained on his hair as pieces of wood scattered into the crowd. His footwork became sloppy, aggravated further by his injury. It was apparent from his inability to regain composure that Mathias wasn’t accustomed to being on the defensive.
I took that weakness and hit it hard. I didn’t ease my assault, despite the cry that built in my arms. My entire being was on fire. Hot blood rushed through my system as the drum in my chest hammered me onward.
With one swift stroke, I caught him on his bicep. The muscle gave out.
His sword tumbled from his grip, hitting the ground. He stared down at it with his brow knit in confusion. His shoulder twitched as he attempted to force his arm to move once more. But nothing happened. Mathias glanced up at me. The bottom of his eyelids began to well with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
I stepped in, thrusting my sword at the base of his neck. His boot lifted to step back, but he was too slow. Blood cascaded from the wound. The stream painted a bright red root system down his chest.
Mathias stumbled back before falling onto his knees before his beloved Lars. His mouth bobbed open as he attempted to speak to his lover, but nothing came out.
“Mathias,” Lars mumbled as tears streamed down his cheeks.
His champion fought to stay upright but lowered himself onto his rear. I walked over and gripped the leather hilt of my sword before driving it further into his throat. He gurgled as blood sputtered from his mouth, spraying a number of people within range.
His body crumbled to the ground, laying at odd angles. While his frame still twitched from the last pulses of life, I reeled around and faced Lars and Ristof. “I will take my tribute and the boy.”
XIX
Black Bars
A round edge punched into my stomach. The pressure forced all of the water out in one great rush. It tasted like river with a hint of tangy stomach bile. Tiny flecks of food caught as my vomit slipped between the cracks of my teeth.
It wasn’t until the violent revolt was over did I open my eyes. The dark ground and back end of a pair of boots met my eyes. I had been thrown over someone’s shoulder—that’s what had forced the water out of me.
A hand sank into my hair and yanked my head up. The familiar sky-blue crest whipped into view seconds before the face of the leader stood before me. His skin was a deep tan color, accented by russet red and dark curls framing his features. His head leaned in close, examining me with a severe look before letting my head flop back down.
He muttered a command and I was thrown onto my back. My body slammed into the mud with a sloppy splat. The blow sent my mind swirling in the shell of my skull.
Two men pinned me against the ground. But I didn’t fight. I was too weak and felt as though I were miles away, observing what they did to my flesh and bone from afar.
A wet sponge clamped over my nose and mouth. It smelled of mulberries, hemlock, and mandrake. The air burned as it was pulled through my nostrils and into my exhausted lungs. I coughed and choked on the fumes, whipping my head around to escape the toxic aroma.
But seconds later, the world fell away from me once more.
My head leaned against something hard and warm. It rattled against my skull, strengthening the pulsating hammer in my head. I sat up and opened my eyes with a struggle. A blinding orb floated high in the sky. There was no shadow nor shade to hide me from its intense glare.
The air was dry and smelled of dirt. My first deep breath was met with a hard sneeze. I was covered in a light sheet of pale orange dust. It dusted the land as well as thousands of stones and tiny rocks. The ground cracked from the arid heat, creating scars that rippled across the terrain in all directions.
I sat up and my hands wrapped around two black bars. I was in a metal cage that teetered to and fro as two oxen carried me forward atop a cart. The animals’ sheer white hair sparkled under the sun’s rays where the peach dirt failed to reach.
Had we been trampling through this barren wasteland for long? And how was it day, when my last memory was of the setting sun?
The oxen and I weren’t the only ones here though. There was a long line of people that stretched behind us and a few groups walked in front of us. Men on horseback with spears and swords trotted alongside the line, not mixing with the caravan but never veering far either.
The chatter I heard was unrecognizable. The sounds were so foreign to my ears. They all spoke with a lisp that was characterized by Ps, Fs, and long vowels. Their hair was a dark shade of brown, and their skin a reddish tan. Their noses had a steep downward slope that stopped just short of a pair of wide, slender lips. They paid me no attention as I tussled about my cage.
“Hello? Where am I?” I asked as a droplet of sweat dripped from my brow down to my chin. “Hello?”
A few pairs of eyes glanced to me but didn’t linger. They returned to their conversations, uttering their unintelligible babble.
I shuffled forward. My arms reached out through the bars in an attempt to touch the wagon’s driver, but he was too far. “Water, please!” I said in Sairan.
He didn’t move. It were as though he couldn’t even hear me.
“Water,” I tried again in Varundian. “Water,” I repeated in Norrender.
He glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Please,” I begged. My mouth was
dry, and my skin cracked and ashy.
He mumbled something to a boy that strode nearby. He must’ve been no older than ten and covered from head to toe in pale linen. In his hand, he gripped a lead that was attached to a slender, short horse. The boy reached into the horse’s saddlebags and retrieved a small animal skin bota bag. In one fell swoop, he tossed it to the cart driver, who proceeded to chuck it over his shoulder.
The flimsy bag landed atop the barred ceiling over my head. My fingers picked at the stitched-hem, and the leather sack slipped through. Despite the desperate shake in my hand, I popped off the cap and drained the contents into my mouth. A handful or two spilled down my throat before the bota bag emptied. It appeased my desperation but didn’t quench my thirst.
The urge to beg for more swelled inside me, but I beat it down. I would be wasting my breath. If my encasing was any hint of my situation, then it was obvious I was a prisoner.
I had prepared myself for being stuck in this procession for days, but only a few hours later, what appeared to be a lone mountain materialized in the distance. It was a pale, peachy white with glittering gold peaks against a sky-blue background.
But it wasn’t a mountain. At least, I didn’t think it was by the way the people in the caravan behaved. Several fingers lifted, pointing at the sight. There were whoops of excitement and joy throughout the crowd. The mood shifted. Everyone seemed uplifted and excited, compared to the mopey exhaustion displayed by most only a few moments ago.
This was our destination.
As we rode closer, massive walls emerged around the base. They were guarding a city—a tiered city to be precise. Ornate white buildings, tall windows, and green tiled roofs spiraled up the standalone mountain. At the peak of the architectural masterpiece were two grand structures. One was slender and tall, reaching high into the sky; while the other was squat and fat, claiming the majority of the land. They were both topped with golden onion domes that fought for the eye’s attention.
I hugged my knees to my chest and sighed. What sort of mess had I gotten myself in?
XX
Fake Tears
My back rested against the pale stone. It was dark, arid, and uncomfortable. It made me long for the damp warmth and blinding light of Rekkesov.
To occupy myself, I did my best to keep track of the days, but sometimes it was difficult to know for sure when night had become day and day had turned into night. My current count was sixteen, but I assumed I was off by four days in either direction.
On days two, four, seven, and fifteen, I had attempted to use my magic to escape. But it never came. Something about this place and this land silenced the burn in my arms. It was the same sensation I felt in Varund, but whatever extinguished my powers was much stronger here.
I knew the answer lay within the Varundian spade’s words, within the trinity of my elements. There was one I controlled, one that heightened my powers, and one that diminished them. But how could I figure it out without even knowing the nine elements themselves?
Whatever was here weakened me. Dirt, air, sun, stone, metals, gems, people, animals—something in that mix destroyed me. And maybe cloth too? Was cloth an element? What about paints or ink?
My head slumped in my hands. I needed to go to the Temple for both answers and my life. I needed to “surrender to the will of the gods”—whatever that meant. The way she sang the phrase, it sounded like another obstacle, another thing I needed to overcome to progress. Once I figured out what she meant by “surrender”, would I even be allowed to do so given that I was a slave? I wouldn’t be recognized as a spade if I was still a slave. Iver had said as much to me. So, then it wouldn’t make sense for the Temple to accept me while my shackles remained. And I couldn’t use my powers to pull myself out of slavery. I had been warned that such a thing would sooner lead to someone attempting to abuse my powers rather than releasing me to the Temple.
I threw my hands down in frustration. It was such a ridiculous and confusing cycle. It was a curse disguised as a blessing, because if I didn’t figure it out, my powers would consume me as Kona had warned. This burning light inside of me would be my death, searing me from the inside out.
Why did the spirits do this to me? I didn’t want greatness or power or wealth. I just wanted a normal, happy life with a husband that I loved and children that made me laugh. I wanted simple and healthy days.
But maybe I was lying to myself. How could I expect to have those things while fantasizing about being attached to Iver or Torram? They were both ambitious and driven and desiring of greatness. Those things didn’t exactly fit into a simple, easy, humble life. Neither did the life of a spade.
I shook my head. I felt like such a fool.
I huffed my exasperation. It was pointless getting myself wound into knots over this. It’s not as though I could do anything about it while I remained here, imprisoned. Wherever here was.
As soon as the caravan had entered the city, I was carted all the way to the top of the mountain and then thrown into a dungeon cell like some common criminal.
What was I even thinking taking on this ridiculous assassination quest?
I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t a fighter. I had never been taught to face aversion head on as the Norrender were want to do. I was a rogue, a hunter—a life that scampered around the earth trying to survive, hiding within shadows.
I knew Svotheim still waited for me in Rekkesov, and across the sea, Ark Ulfur expected swift results. My fingers stretched out from my palm, trembling with stress and anxiety. These hands were expected to murder a king, wherever he might be. What kind of mad men put so much hope in a slave’s palms?
It wasn’t my fault that I was going to fail though. It couldn’t be. It was Svotheim who had hatched this entire plan. It was his words that drove me here. The cruel speech flooded my mind. I should have never climbed atop that horse and rode south like some triumphant fool.
My fingertips pressed against my eyelids in an attempt to silence the building of tears. I had never been more ashamed and disappointed of myself in my life, and that was quite a statement, considering I had forsaken my own kin for a violent and vicious people.
My sleeve drew across my nose, wiping away a sniffle. I felt grit against my skin from the peach dirt that dusted my clothes.
The groan of metal hinges squeaked into the dim dungeon. Male voices sounded in the silence. I sat up, hoping to see a face appear on the other side of my cell door.
A tumbling patter of shoes beat against the stone as a group progressed through the dungeon.
“Spirits, please don’t let them pass me,” I whispered.
My prayer was answered.
My cell door opened with a quick burst and in marched ten men. Each of them dressed in that brown leather uniform with a white horse crest upon their breast. But one stood out from the rest. His lean body was draped in a pristine white robe that flowed with his airy stride. The fabric was thin, meant for stark heat. Atop his bald head, he wore a simple white cap that lacked any decorations or details.
He stood with his fists on his hips, and a scowl marked his lips. Dark eyes roamed over me, each gaze more severe than the last.
“May I see your wrist?” The man in white spoke the Rekke tongue with an adept precision. It shocked me, and for a brief moment, I sat there stunned. Had I somehow never left Rekkesov, and made it to the land of an Ark that was beneath King Erlend?
I rolled up my sleeve. The bracelet rested around my wrist, aged and darkened from wear.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as his lips pressed into a cold, thin line.
“Here?” I mumbled. My voice was scratchy in my throat. After weeks of silence, speaking felt so foreign to me.
“Yes.” His eyebrow raised. “Here. In Essony.”
My breath shuddered as a jolt of excitement split through me. I wanted to collapse on the floor and fill the dusty world with tears of joy. I had made it. I was actually here in Essony. “I-I seek
refuge. I am a slave.” I repeated the words I had practiced in my head for weeks now. “I escaped, and I need help.”
He squinted at me. “A slave? From where did you escape?”
“Rekkesov.”
His lips upturned, and his chin raised. “And what is your name?”
“Derethe,” I sputtered. “Please, don’t send me back! I’m not one of them. Look at me.” I held out my arms. The Norrender were all varying shades of milk. This man couldn’t possibly believe I was one of them, pretending to be an escaped slave.
His face remained stolid, and his stance was unperturbed by my pleas and evidence. “And if you are not one of them, then where might you be from?”
“Sairasee.”
Two hard knobs for fingers rose to his chin and rubbed the hairless bone. “Sairasee. Huh.” An idea was turning over in his mind. His eyes had glazed over, looking at me but not seeing me. “Very curious.” He sighed. “And where is this Sairasee located exactly?”
“Across the sea to the west. The Rekke came, killed my family, and took me.” My voice heightened to a panic. “I’ve been with them for nearly a year now, waiting for a single chance to escape.”
“Hmm… How can that be since the Rekke don’t raid west? That’s Varund’s claim. The Rekke raid the eastern coasts with the Aska.” His hands drew behind his back and pulled his body’s posture straight.
My stomach wound itself into knots. “The Varundians took my family across the sea, but there was squabble.”
He eyed me, watching for any cracks in my composure before he nodded. “Yes, my sources did tell me that the Norrender were fighting amongst themselves, but I hadn’t heard Rekkesov was involved.” He glanced to the soldiers around him. “How is it you escaped?”
Fake tears bubbled in my eyes. “While my master slept, I snuck out, stole a horse, and road south.”
“And nobody noticed you? Nobody saw you flee?” A salt and pepper eyebrow cocked, climbing up his long forehead.