The Destroyer (12 page)

“AGAIN!” the voice shouted from the side. I rushed toward my opponent. He was a stocky man, nearly as wide as he was tall, with a shaved head and a mean, jagged scar over his forehead and down to his nose. I had a wooden club in my left hand, and a padded shield in my right. I swung the club so fast that the wind howled like a thunderclap had exploded next to me. My enemy suddenly stood a few inches farther away from me than I had thought, and my strike missed his ugly head. I braced myself as I felt the pommel of his wooden sword slide underneath my chin, and his right knee crash into the back of mine. The sky spun and the ground smacked into my back. My body was used to punishment, and the screams of pain coming from my spine quickly silenced.

“AGAIN!” the voice screamed. I jackknifed to my feet as my opponent stepped back, allowing me some room before I began my assault again. His face was full of cocky self-confidence. I wanted to wipe the smirk off of it. I repeated my earlier tactic and obtained the same result. This time he put considerable strength behind his takedown and I flipped a full circle, with my face breaking the fall. I pushed myself up and spit out a cup's worth of blood. The scarred-faced man cleared his throat and a wad of spit landed on my shoulder.

I was sure everyone heard my teeth grind together.

“AGAIN!”

I ran at the stocky man, swinging out the club in my left hand. I was aiming to take off his head, like I had the previous time, the time before that, and the three times before that.

Perhaps I was stubborn.

He stepped back. But instead of my earlier tactic, I let go of my mace about the time my arm approached center mass. It flew the required extra inches. The unpadded haft smashed into the man’s face and produced a shower of blood, teeth, and outraged shrieks. Then the side of my shield smacked straight into his neck, below his chin, but above the lump. I expected him to go down after that, but he didn’t. He swung his sword horizontally at my head so fast I saw only the motion of his arm and not the speed of the blade screaming through the air. Somehow I ducked underneath it and rushed him.

My shoulder met with his hip, and I grabbed the heel of his right leg with my free left hand at the same time that I lifted. He now had one leg to balance on, and I had produced enough momentum to tip him off kilter. He went down with a loud crash as my weight pushed his store of air out of his stomach.

I got a few elbows into his face before strong hands yanked me off of him. Struggling at this point would just make matters worse. I hoped I had killed him, or I’d have to watch my back during training. I groaned inwardly at myself. My temper had taken control of me and I would probably be punished now.

There were six of them holding me when I stopped struggling. They were all dressed in the same drab gray loose fitting pants and tunic. Our heads were shaved, exposing bruises, scars, and wounds that hadn’t healed yet today.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Elven approach. I didn’t remember his name, but he was the one in charge of our training. His voice was ingrained in my mind from the hundreds of times he screamed orders at us throughout the day. He stopped within grasping distance and looked me up and down, his cold gray eyes an odd complement to his silvery hair. If I wasn’t being held right now by my training mates, I would have reached out and snapped his neck. I wanted to slowly break every bone in his body and listen to him scream with each one. He turned to regard the man on the ground who was struggling to breathe through a broken face and collapsed windpipe. The Elven let out a long sigh.

“You almost killed my best slave.” He paused and inspected the ground. Then he bent down and tore off a single blade of grass that seemed to be growing higher than the rest. Our training grounds were perfectly manicured by dozens of human slaves each morning, and I suspected that my Elven trainer would complain to his counterpart that managed the gardeners.

“Idiot. You belong to me. I will decide whom you kill, whom you don’t kill, when you eat, what you eat, when you shit, and what you wipe your ass with. Do you understand, human?” He looked at me. I managed to hold my temper. I wanted to tell him that I would shit on his face and wipe my ass with his hair if my companions would let me go, but I did not want to die today.

Instead I just glared at him, which probably wasn’t much better than voicing my feelings.

In a slow, jerky motion his sword came out of his scabbard. He meant to make the thrust quick, but I could see it happening in agonizing slow motion. The tip of the blade separated the thin threads on my tunic and penetrated my belly, cutting through the muscle and stomach, and digging into my spine. If I wasn’t being held up, I might have dodged, taken the sword, and rammed it down his throat. As soon as the sword connected with the nerves my legs stopped working and I slumped in my companion’s grasp. I didn’t make a sound as I continued to glare at him.

“Take him and his training partner back to the bunk, then report back here. You will all train without food and sleep until they both join us again.” They groaned and two of them hoisted me up off the ground. We were all strong, and could lift almost ten times our bodyweight with ease. Only one of them needed to carry me, but they all accompanied me to the barracks.

Out of the prying eyes of our masters.

Where the real punishment would start.

The sensation of their fists pummeling my face awoke me abruptly and I sat up in my bed. I felt a pang of disappointment that I was not dreaming of the floating islands, but I supposed that even a violent memory was better than nothing. Still, if I closed my eyes, sometimes I heard the sounds of the water falling off the islands and the distant cries of the white birds. Of course, the travels with Paug and his friends were reality. I had to accept it. But hadn’t the islands been my reality for so long? Which was more real?

The bed was too soft and smelled of week old hay. I looked over at Iarin and Paug. Bright light from the two moons came through the windows and illuminated the room more than a torch would have. It was their first night in a real bed since their journey had started, so I was not surprised to see them in a deep slumber. We were in a small village on the south end of Brilla that seemed to specialize in cows, milk, and cheese. This was the only inn in the village, and we occupied two of their three rooms. From what Paug told me earlier, we still had a few days’ ride to Brilla's capital and about two weeks to Nia.

After the small encounter in the jungle at the height of the cliffs, our passage into Brilla had been relatively easy. After we progressed around the mountains and across a few small game trails, we ended up about a mile north of the guard post. Not wishing to draw more attention, we continued north on those small trails until we passed into this village and decided to stay the night. Nadea assured us that Vanlourn soldiers wouldn't pursue us up here at this unnamed village, but my companions still seemed worried.

I didn’t feel tired, but hunger pangs ripped through my stomach like angry glass. My appetite had returned with abundance in the last two days. It was angry enough to keep me from sleeping anymore, so I tossed aside the thin bedsheet and tugged on one of the tunics I had taken from the soldiers’ camp. It had a long front, so I tucked it into my pants. I then made my way carefully across the worn wood floor barefoot. I didn’t make a sound until I unlatched the door and sneaked out into the short hallway that led to the common area.

A large cauldron simmered over the glowing embers of the hearth, filling the room with the savory smell of beef stew. I secured a clay bowl and spoon, filled it with the warm stew, sat down at one of the tables in the corner, and sucked down a spoonful. It was spicier than I expected, so I dashed back into the kitchen and poured myself a tall mug of water from a pewter pitcher.

After my fourth bite I heard a door unlatch down the hallway and soft feet pattered toward me. It had to be Paug, Nadea, or Jessmei. The two men would have made more noise. A split second before she turned the corner I guessed that it was Jessmei.

“I didn’t think anyone else would be awake,” she whispered as she walked toward me. Her hair lay off to one side, too perfectly for someone that had been sleeping. Her pale blue nightgown clung to her body across her small breasts and flowed downward in a drape that concealed the rest of her body. The dress complemented her eyes.

“I am hungry,” I said while I pointed toward my bowl with the spoon. She nodded and I took another bite.

“Why are you awake?” I asked her after I finished chewing. It surprised me that Greykin hadn’t gotten up with her. He shared the room with the women and should have noticed her leave. Then again, he did snore worse than a bear. Especially after beer, which he had consumed in heroic fashion during our dinner.

“I couldn’t sleep at all!” She dropped her voice into an even softer whisper. “Can I sit with you?”

“Yes,” I said and pointed to the chair across the table from me. “Hungry?”

“No thank you. I am just happy and nervous about going home.” She smiled. I noticed she had charming dimples on each cheek. They framed her full lips and her perfect teeth.

“Ahh.” I wasn’t much for conversation at the moment, but one should always take advantage of a good situation. I glanced down from her lips to her chest and inhaled the scent of her body from across the table. She smelled delicious, and a different kind of hunger grew in my stomach.

“Tell me about your home. Do you remember it?” she asked. I glanced back up into her blue eyes as she fluttered her blonde lashes. Her cheeks darkened to a shade of pink, so I broke my appraisal of her body and looked down at the table.

“I don’t remember much. I recall horses and a stable.” Paug and I had gone over vocabulary almost every waking second while we traveled. I didn’t understand enough of his language to write a manual on running a stable, but I could get around a conversation. “A dream woke me. I was training for combat.” I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it to her.

“Fighting? In an army or . . .” she trailed off. She seemed interested, so I continued.

“In the dream I fought a large man with a shaved head and an ugly scar that ran down his face. He was better than me, but I got creative and beat him. Our trainer got angry because I cheated.” I took the last bite of stew and then filled up the bowl again.

“How did you cheat?”

“Maybe it was not cheating. I let go of my weapon and it hit him. Then I was punished.”

“Punished?” she asked with worry on her face, the lines on her forehead made tiny creases into her creamy skin.

“The trainer put his sword through my stomach and cut my spinal cord. The other men I trained with dragged me back to the barracks and beat me into unconsciousness.”

I drained the water in my cup. “Can you get me the water jug from the kitchen?” I asked her as I took another bite.

"Ahh . . . sure. Okay.” She looked confused and got up from the table and walked into the kitchen. The nightgown was tighter in the back, and I easily imagined the shape of her hips and the delicate curve of her back.

“How did he stab you in the stomach and in the spine?” she asked as she came back, still whispering. “Wouldn’t that kill you?”

“I thought it was a memory, but perhaps it was just a dream. I am alive now, right? I wasn’t that worried about the injury at the time. It just made me mad. Thank you for the water.”

She hadn't seen the man shoot me with the crossbow bolt a week ago, when we camped above the cliff face. At the time I had barely felt it, and when I pulled it out, the pain had been minor. Paug didn't understand why I wasn't dead, and I couldn't explain it to him either. For some reason it just didn't seem unusual for me to heal.

"Do you remember how you hurt your hand?" she asked with concern. My left hand grasped the pitcher of water she brought me. The skin down to a few inches past my wrist was covered in a white, swirling pattern of scar tissue. It looked like I may have shoved my hand in fire or a boiling pot of oil, the heat branding my skin in raised whorls and spirals. Since the scar had faded to white, I guessed that it must have happened a long time ago.

“Want any?” I took the pitcher from her and poured it into my glass and ignored her question. I didn't remember how I got the injury, but I began to feel uneasy when I thought about it. Like when Nadea and I climbed down the face of the cliff and the rope severed above us. Vertigo and nausea mixed together with a sense of falling.

“Oh yes, I’ll go get a—“ I cut her off as I passed my cup to her. She stared at it for a few seconds after she took it from me. “This is your cup.” She seemed confused and forgot about the injury to my hand.

“Yes." I had two bites left of the stew and the sensation of a full belly made the rest of my body relax.

“I can’t drink from your cup. Can I?” she whispered to me across the table.

“Why can’t you? I just used it. It isn’t really mine; I believe the inn owns it.” I must have misunderstood something. She seemed very concerned over what to me was just a matter of convenience, saving her a trip to the kitchen.