by Amanda Twigg
For all Preston’s urgency, he stalled by the door to make final preparations. “Mendog, did you bring the bag?”
The soldier dropped a strap from his shoulder and handed over a sack.
“Getting ideas, Hux?” Preston asked, his gaze boring into Landra.
“No.” Yes.
He scowled. “Don’t think our deal is over because I’m taking you outside. This is where our pact truly begins, and we have ways to keep you under control.” He pulled a short stick from the sack and snapped it against her leg.
“Agh!” Bastard. This new cruelty shocked her Soul more than it damaged her leg. A second whip crack ripped through the fragile trouser cloth, raising a welt on her skin. She clenched her lips tight, refusing to satisfy the Warrior with a second yelp. She’d survived worse during captivity. Did Preston think he could control her with pain now? I can bear this. I’m a soldier. I’m chief elect. Not powerless. Not humiliated. Gods.
Dissatisfaction wrinkled Preston’s thin face, puckering the scar on his cheek. “Remember, Hux, this is like our game of ralti. I hold all the strong pieces. One wrong step, and I’ll swipe your side from the board. I’m sure your brother will cause less trouble. He’s hasn’t your fire.”
Fire, me? Shelk off.
The Warrior passed her over into Mendog’s thuggish grip and nodded.
Was that permission? For what?
“Don’t be shy, Hux,” Mendog said, linking arms. “It’s you and me today.” He squeezed her elbow and dug his overgrown fingernails into her skin.
Landra flinched from his fetid breath and nauseating aura, but just when she thought he’d done his worst, he grabbed her neck and forced a tablet into her mouth. She jerked away, but the drug already fizzed against her gums.
“Will that sort her?” Preston asked.
“And some.”
She spat out the dissolving lozenge, but her head swam from its immediate effects. The drug deepened her raging headache and sensitized her to the world. Mendog’s grip felt like a vice, Preston’s words reverberated as shouts, and the stench of filth filled her nostrils.
The drug’s effects battered her subconscious aura boundaries to nothing, enhancing her Soul vision to intolerable levels. She covered her face to hide from the corridor’s brilliance, but the world refused to disappear. Oh no. Not now. This wasn’t the time for her to see through her hands.
She lurched against Mendog’s chest, her Soul sight spiralling out of control. His aura invaded her consciousness, and she didn’t have the strength to keep him out. Surface facets of his personality bombarded her with lecherous desires. He was broken, twisted, and without boundaries, but in the depths of his aura, Landra sensed an echo of the child he’d been—not evil—and the deepest parts of his Soul vibrated with Turgeth’s identity so closely the two men could have been one. But layered damage in his Soul contorted him out of shape. Not born wrong, then. Just battered out of true.
Landra’s jeopardy felt greater for the knowing, rather than less. Mendog was unlimited, dangerous, and she’d been placed under his control. Her tears nearly erupted when Preston handed him the stick. “Shelk no.”
She felt the stick’s bite at once. It was no shin rap from Mendog, but the whip cracked across her butt cheek. Her uncensored scream broke loose, and panic urged her to fight. She kicked Mendog’s shin, but his grip only tightened.
Thwack.
Another shock ran through Landra’s body, and her teeth clenched. The stoic control she’d cultivated in order to survive fragmented beneath drug-hazed confusion. She descended into a nightmare of pain and fog, and Mendog’s gleeful aura brought more vomit to her throat. Shelking mist-demon bastard. She would punch the idiot before letting him hit her again.
The thought frittered away when they traversed the winding corridor. She saw through the panel door at the corridor’s far end before Preston touched the lock. Stairs and a city shaft. Gods of the mist, home. “Let me go. Let me go.”
Thwack.
“Give that to me,” Preston said, reclaiming the stick. “Can’t you see it’s doing no good? The girl’s going hysterical.”
Landra didn’t feel hysterical, but maybe the drug had compromised her judgment. She wanted freedom. What was wrong with that? Familiar chills blasted her body as they entered the shaft, evoking memories of previous trips. The central tree hadn’t glowed then, but the stored clothes and ladder were the same. “Thisk?”
“You overdosed her, idiot,” Preston said. “We need to leave quick or this won’t get done.”
The midlevel door beckoned, like an answer to Landra’s dreams, but she struggled again. “We have to change clothes. Soldiers will arrest us dressed like this.”
“Easy,” Turgeth said. “There’s no dress code where we’re going—or discipline, either.”
“Stupid. Father’s code applies everywhere.”
“Not in this place.”
Landra stared up the ladder to where the overlevel trapdoor waited. With the midlevel so close, she couldn’t believe they would steal her away now. I know the overlevel. Just wait. Your time will come.
Instead of climbing the ladder, Turgeth opened the trapdoor leading down. He descended the shaft ladder one-handed, the torch glow fading as he disappeared.
Mendog pushed Landra forward. “Now you.”
“What? No.” She struggled again, fighting for control with all of her unfettered strength. Her slap met Mendog’s cheek, and he kicked her back.
“Stop,” Preston said.
“What’s going on?” Turgeth shouted up.
“Mud slugs,” Landra screamed. Thisk’s warnings of flesh-eating worms invaded her nightmare thoughts.
Mendog manuevered her onto the ladder and pushed on her shoulders to force her descent. “You were right, boss. Starting to think I dosed her too good.”
“She just lacks courage,” Preston said. “And this is who Chief Hux chose as our elect.”
Landra stared up the ladder, panic-stricken, disbelieving.
Mendog’s boot met her face, and she slipped.
Chapter 9
Several rungs down, Landra reclaimed a hold. The shuddering bar told her that Mendog’s clambering form barred her escape. She struggled down until her bare feet settled on a small island of tree roots. Ugh. Ice cold. Her first view of the underlevel vista stilled her to stiffness.
This wasn’t a place gossiped about over a jug of scute because visitors seldom returned. She clung to the ladder, her eyes locked on subtle undulations in the mud swamp. Were slugs out there now? Could they squirm onto the root? She curled her toes, examining a metal frame surrounding the ladder and tree trunk. At worst, she could clamber up out of reach.
There were no walls to block her view, and she caught images in the flickering torch light: shafts, trees, support columns, and mud. Weak aura glows made her heart sink. There were people down here, dotting the expanse for as far as she could see. Stronger magic shone from tree roots and branches that wound along the ceiling. It was too much.
Mendog set his boots on the roots and Preston followed, so she shuffled to the far side of the trunk, only to find worse waiting. She sensed the auras first. Two—maybe three—thready fragments, too thin for a certain count. Desperate emotions bombarded her Soul, filling her mind with thoughts of death. Attempts to seal her limits didn’t work. She was too hungover, too drugged, and too open.
Three disheveled soldiers huddled on the roots, their barely covered bones, scab-covered skin, and tattered rags creating a picture of misery worse than even Landra had endured. She despaired when puss dribbled from one of the wretch’s open face sores and trickled down his cheek. Dying. Let it be over.
Her chest tightened; she couldn’t breathe. The suicidal thoughts weren’t her own, but they gripped her and refused to let go. The invading emotions took her back to wallowing in infected agony on her cavern rock. She lived her desolation again like a fresh wound.
“Perfect,” Preston said, bringing his party to
her side.
Perfect?
Turgeth booted one of the decayed soldiers from the root, and Landra flinched as if he’d kicked her directly. The pathetic wretch flailed in the slime, yelping, but he managed to find his feet in the end. Mud licked around his ankles and crawled up against his calves during the swell.
Before Turgeth could evict another poor Soul, the decayed soldier slid into the swamp and settled facedown. Be over. Breathe mud.
The death wish bored into Landra’s Soul, and she couldn’t think why she’d ever battled to survive. She’d endured too much and would never see home. Easier to die. Sink into the mud and be done. Her foot left the root, and shin-high mud wrapped her skin.
Ah! The potential danger seeped into her consciousness in stages. Corrosive slime stung her body to awareness, and her mind raged against the invasion of another’s thoughts.
Wait. That’s not me. Landra recognized her own desires, buried beneath the dying man’s will, Father’s wish for her to become chief elect, and Gallanto’s orders to save his people. They didn’t include death. She wanted to reclaim her soldier life and make her captors pay, but her aura had accepted the final wish of these poor Souls as easily as her lungs took in air. She knew their crimes, desperation, and longings as if they were her own, and seeking death had seemed like the only freedom. Hopeless despair settled upon her again.
Shelking Gods, stop. Not me. Don’t want to die.
Shock returned Landra to full clarity, clearing the brain fog that had clouded her thoughts. She glared at the Warrior. “Where the shelk have you brought me?”
“We’re still on base. Just not the part Chief Hux wants seen. You’re supposed to be our next leader. Don’t you recognize your own underlevel?”
Landra knew where she was, but she hadn’t expected to face the multitude of flickering aura lights stretching out in the gloom—dying Souls. Like the temple pit, gone foul. Her eyes stung, but she couldn’t cry. Wouldn’t. What use were tears here?
She startled when an eddy pushed the lifeless soldier’s body against her leg. His limbs twitched in the current, awakening Landra to her greatest danger. Mud bubbled around the barely living wretch, and she wondered if that was how the end came down here. She stared, transfixed, until thick fingers yanked on her spiky hair.
Turgeth pulled her back onto the roots. “Got a death wish? Can’t you see the slugs have him?”
This was Thisk’s nightmare warnings come to life. She scrambled away as worms engulfed the mud-bound soldier, but she hadn’t the will to avert her gaze. The worms surged and roiled in their battle for flesh. Seconds later, stripped bones bobbed in the swamp.
Landra nipped her breath, hopelessness squeezing her heart to an uneven thud. She watched the man’s aura spread to nothing, too fragmented to fly free.
Just gone.
In that moment, Landra’s youth died. For all her suffering, she’d clung to her father’s ideals. Seeing soldiers left to die in this pit tattered her faith in the world she knew.
What a sham! Our world is dying and so is my Soul. Is this what you wanted me to see, Warrior traitor? Her hope spread thinner than the wretch’s aura.
Preston gave a satisfied smile. He hauled the final wretch up from where he languished on the root and latched an arm around his waist. “See this?” Anger deepened his voice. “This the world of your Chief Hux. Swampers are discarded and left to die.”
“Father doesn’t throw people away,” she said, but there was no strength to her protest. She wanted to believe her own words, but her Soul had shared a swamper’s final thoughts. Falling foul of the law had left him nowhere else to go. “If I tell Father, he’ll send help.” She wanted to find some good in this mess.
“Our great chief won’t even send help for you. He locks the traps and sets guards, abandoning these poor soldiers to gruesome deaths. Any who make it home finds their identities wiped and credits revoked. Your beloved Father decrees that these soldiers should suffer down here while evil Templers enjoy a protected life above.”
“No.” How dare he make sense? Please don’t be true. If anything could finally release her tears, it should be this, but she was more broken than Mendog and her eyes stayed dry. Anguish raged inside, poisoning her Soul.
Preston hitched his prisoner higher. To Landra’s horror, breasts showed beneath the tattered uniform fabric. She didn’t know why that made it worse. The swamper’s legs buckled, and the woman would have fallen into the mud if he hadn’t tightened his grip. Mud gas exposure tinged her uniform fabric orange, and the cloth hung from her emaciated frame in shreds. Her eyes dimmed with despair, void of reaction to external events.
Landra didn’t need to share auras to know the woman had given up. “We should help.”
“Of course,” Preston said. “I’m not as cruel as your father. This is why we’re here.”
She stared at the Warrior, considering the possibility that she’d misjudged the man. He pulled the Collector from his cloak and offered it to her.
Shelk. Seeing the blade reminded her of failed duty, Father’s anger, Thisk’s disappointment, Dannet’s resentment, and Baylem’s… Oh, Baylem. Her loss was too much to bear. She wanted to take the knife from Preston and toss it into the mud.
Mendog regripped her neck, letting her know this wasn’t an offer to fight.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“The only way we can help this woman now is to end her suffering,” Preston said. “You have to kill her now. This is your destiny, Landra Hux. As chief elect, you have to deliver this soldier in her hour of need. It’s the kind thing to do.”
Landra stared, sickened that Preston believed she could do such a thing.
Never a savior. Always a Warrior traitor. I didn’t misjudge you. You’re still a bastard, after all.
Chapter 10
Landra knew too many things. Her Soul sharing was more under control now and her aura edges firmer, but the intentions of those around her still fluttered at the edge of her thoughts. As Mendog held her neck, she knew he would fatally tighten his grip if she twitched wrong. She knew Turgeth hated the underlevel and wanted this done, and she sensed Preston’s longing for her to kill the swamper, but there was no understanding his reasons.
She soaked up the sight of her blade in the Warrior’s hand, shaking from more than the chill of the cavern. The nicks, representing executions, stood out now that the Warrior had pointed them out.
Shelk. Why didn’t I sense the knife was here? Gallanto? She spread her aura to summon her great-grandfather. If ever she’d needed help, it was now. Much as the mist swirled about the root system, the threads refused to congeal into anything of substance and her call went unanswered. Typical. Her gaze settled back on the Collector’s blade. It was grey again, like it refused Preston’s touch.
I could take the knife. Doesn’t mean I have to kill.
She reached out, hoping contact with the handle might strengthen her connection to Gramps. Even if Gallanto couldn’t defeat her captors, she needed his permission for what might come next. There were no good outcomes here, and who was she to assume responsibility for what she was about to do? Chief elect? Right! Shelking mud balls.
Preston shielded his body behind the swamper’s hunched form and passed the weapon across. A step back took him out of reach, and Mendog’s grip from behind gave Landra no chance to twist and stab. Frustration quivered through her aura. If I could just…
“Think of Dannet,” the Warrior said, as if she’d forgotten his threats. Someone would die today, she realized, but who?
Should’ve killed you while you were close. Could’ve come in at the side and struck your guts.
Warmth from the Collector spread into her bones, bathing her in vague memories of relatives long past. There were killers there, but not murderers. Heroic fighters and defenders of justice filled her blood line. No victims, though. No Marzen.
“It’s time,” the Warrior said. “Kill her now, and we can all go back to the cavern.�
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“No!” The word vomited out of Landra.
“Let’s not be foolish,” Preston said. “This swamper will die before next siren, whatever happens. Taking her life now will ease her suffering.”
“If it’s such a mercy, you do it.”
“That’s not my destiny. This is your duty, Chief Elect. It’s time to show you have at least a spark of what it takes to fulfil the role you were given.”
That stung more than she wanted to admit. Doubts over her worthiness never strayed far from her thoughts. Now she’d made such disaster of her life, she felt even less deserving.
“I won’t do it,” she said. “You can’t make me.”
Preston’s fury broke through his cajoling façade. “True, but defy me on this and everyone loses. I’ll make sure Dannet suffers for your weakness. After Mendog’s had his fun with this woman, I’ll turn him on you. The poor man’s not been right since that accident in the animal pens. I can’t think he’ll give the swamper a peaceful end. Tell me, Hux, who will you be helping with your honorable refusal?”
Bastard. Ice ran through Landra’s veins. She knew Preston’s twisted heart would sanction all of his threats, and Mendog’s glee rippled through his aura in disgusting waves. She squirmed in the thug’s grip and saw his tongue roll over his crooked teeth. Anticipation lit his usually dull eyes.
Do you care what I do, Preston, or is this to make me suffer? In a perverse way, his words made sense, and she hated that.
“Why?” The word stuck in her throat.
“To save at least one of your people.”
Been talking to Gramps?
Preston hunched his captive into a more comfortable position and bared her chest in readiness for death. “Send this woman to the mist and end her suffering. Work with me, Hux, and we can save Warrior-kind.”
Landra regripped her slender fingers around the handle and rolled her blade. Pink stripes shot through the metal.
“Only the swamper,” Preston reminded, as if he expected defiance.
