by Amanda Twigg
A soldier pushed the swampers apart with a stick. “Spread out. Toes on the line.”
Landra was already in place, and Jex fought to keep his position at her side. New terror radiated from his aura, catching her off guard, and the emotional ride she’d been surfing took another dive. She followed his wide-eyed gaze and saw the first band of Warriors take up position. Each soldier stood less than an arm’s length from the next, forming an unbroken line of muscle, armor, and steel.
A mature Warrior detached himself from the ranks and marched up the causeway. The abundance of ribbons adorning his ceremonial robe attested to his sword expertise, and intricate tracks cut into his hair denoted high Warrior office. He straightened his braided hair and planted his boots before the runners. Pock-marked, ruddy-faced, and with a clamoring aura, his countenance tickled Landra’s memory.
Do I know you?
“Soldiers,” he said, his gaze travelling the length of the runner rank. Silence greeted his address. “I am Warrior Hurgen, chief trainer in Warrior Hall.” He gripped his sword hilt and puffed out his chest, making him look even bigger beneath his battle spikes. “By order of Chief Hux, a full pardon and automatic entry to Warrior Hall will be awarded to any runner who lives through this day.”
Landra’s aura flared, as if her Soul recollected old desires. She’d forgotten that element of the ceremony. Could I survive? Has it ever been done? She tried to push down hope because it was unfounded and dangerous for her Soul.
Before the notion could really register with the runners, Hurgen drew his sword and pointed it at them. “You will not live. My Warriors are the finest trained soldiers on base and fully armed. You won’t see fiercer fighters in the six cities, and today their job is to end you with speed. Think carefully if you stand here, hoping to join their ranks. Only accept this challenge if you are prepared to die an honorable death.”
“Do we have a choice?” a croaky voice asked.
Hurgen approached the young man who’d spoken. “Swamper or soldier?”
“So—”
“Don’t lie. You’re wearing an old uniform, have no pin, and I can check the records.”
“Swamper,” the young man said in defeated tones.
“Then, no, you have no choice. Underdwellers are committed once they emerge through the shafts. We’ve invested too many credits in escorting you pit-dwellers here. However, listed soldiers can depart any time before the marking.”
A youth lurched from the group onto the concourse, his knees buckling. “Please let me leave. I don’t want to die.” He grabbed Hurgen’s leg in the most unheroic display Landra had ever seen. That was saying something because she’d watched more swampers than she could count give up.
A drillmaster from the crowd crossed the barrier, caught the boy by the collar, and lifted him to his toes. “See what happens when you neglect your duties, cadet? Best knuckle down or I’ll not let you off next time.” They disappeared into the crowd with the boy’s feet barely touching the ground.
Hurgen glowered, but Landra found a wayward smile. That was a training trick that Thisk might have pulled. Her heart stilled before kicking back into its raging rhythm.
“Anyone else?” Hurgen asked. Silence. He marched down the line, blade outstretched. The gem-encrusted sword shone bright pink, had metal thinned to a cruel edge, and it flared to brightness when it came near to Landra. If the trainer noted the change or recognized her as the chief’s daughter, it didn’t show on his face or in his aura.
She hadn’t touched an elite weapon in some time, but her connection to the blade tingled her skin beneath the elba band. Instinctively, she reached with her aura, only to brush Hurgen’s roiling colors instead. Comprehension of the trainer washed through her Soul. Tough. Honorable. A disciplinarian. An adventurous Soul with too much respect for duty to let runners live. That was fair enough.
“Jamon,” Hurgen bellowed.
An age-bowed soldier detached from the Warrior ranks and scuttled over. He gripped a bucket handle tight in both hands, dangling the attached pail out from his body. Sloshes of red liquid shot over the lip as he walked, and when he reached Hurgen, he set the bucket down and rested his hands on his hips.
“I’ve not seen this many runners in a good ten years,” he said to the trainer. He was too close to the start line for discretion, and Landra heard every word.
Hurgen scanned the group. “I know. They’re mostly pit-dwellers, but I think we’ve got more soldiers than usual.”
“I can understand Templers wanting to die for their crimes,” Jamon said with a sneer, “and pit-dwellers want a quick end, but why so many soldiers?”
Hurgen straightened. “Some veterans choose a final battle rather than dying in a wasted heap. It will be my choice when the time comes.”
“Not me,” Jamon said. “I’ve been on the Warrior end of enough Runs to see my share of death. It never gets better. Can we get this over with?”
Yes. Let’s do that. The longer Landra stood there, the more despondent she felt. It wasn’t imminent death that dragged her down but time to dwell on her failures.
Hurgen sheathed his sword. “Commence the marking,” he called, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Leaning out, Landra watched the old Warrior move to the end of the line and smear red paint over the first participant’s head. The runner was a seasoned female soldier who participated in the ceremony with Jethran dignity. Runner after runner took similar markings. Some trembled, others stood to attention, and one swamper sprawled on the floor in a puddle of urine for his turn to be plastered in red paint.
“What’s that stink?” the soldier to Landra’s left asked.
She sniffed. Her nose barely registered the underlevel stench anymore, but she knew that she reeked. “It’s shelk.”
“Ugh,” the soldier said. “How can I go to a glorious death if I’m holding my nose? Get down the line.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Landra said. The soldier looked a good deal more than thirty years old, but his tracks denoted a citizen’s rank. “Don’t take it out on me if you failed basic training. I’ve as much right as anyone to stand where I want.”
“No fighting in line,” Jamon said, moving to a position in front of Jex.
Determination froze the engineer’s face, but his aura fluttered and his ordered lines broke apart. She was glad he hadn’t shaved in the last day because shadow hid some of his sallow skin. He wasn’t a fighter, but he took his marking with dignity.
For her part, the truth settled heavy in her stomach, and it seemed likely that her skin looked equally pale. Jamon confronted her, and she immediately recognized the berry-shaped blemish on his forehead. He had spent time working in the Hux Hall guard.
The old man chewed his lip and stared. “Hurgen?” he shouted. “Over here.” After a whispered conversation with the trainer, Jamon dipped his sponge in the bucket. It came out dripping blood-red paint onto the white start line, but he hesitated before marking her head. “It’s best you confirm your name for official records, girl.”
He hadn’t demanded that of the others, so the order came as a surprise. Jex’s elbow nudged her ribs, and Jamon looked into her gold-flecked eyes, recognition burning in his scrutiny.
Landra swallowed sick from her throat. Why couldn’t she do the Run and be done? A rumor spreading about her presence was one thing. Officially declaring her identity in public was quite another. She feared what implications the revelation would have on Father’s rule. Jamon wasn’t going to move, so she worked her mouth to utter, “Landra Loni Hux.”
After a flashed glance at the ceremonial platform, the old man smeared his sponge over her head, and chilling dribbles ran down her back. Marked for death. Gods of the mist. How did it come to this? She shuddered, with more than just the cold from the running paint.
Instead of moving on, Jamon hesitated. He broke protocol and stood to attention. “Do you have any message for Chief Hux?”
Shelk. Not thought to send word t
o Father. She wondered what she should say. An apology might be expected, but uttering the words was beyond her. Despite all she’d done, there was a part of her that realized this wasn’t her fault. None of the awful events to befall her had been in her control. She straightened to her tallest and saluted. “Beware the temple. Rebels are plotting an uprising and plan to attack.”
Relief rushed the blood through Landra’s veins. She’d done it. There was no detail in her warning, but she’d delivered the message. Jamon wasn’t the type of soldier to keep a something like that to himself. This was why she’d sacrificed her life, and now she could relax.
His eyes wrinkled. “Is that all?”
What more do you want? “For Warrior-kind,” she added with all the grace of a graduating cadet.
The old man grimaced, saluted, and then moved on.
“What was that about?” the soldier to her left asked after his marking.
“Shelk off.”
“We’re going to run together. I should know.”
“Know this,” she said. “If you don’t leave me alone, forget about the Warriors. I’ll kill you before you cross the line.” She bundled her frustration and fear into balled fists, ready to take on a fight.
“Settle down,” Jamon ordered.
The intervention saved the annoying soldier from finding out just how outclassed he was. Winton had trained her well, Thisk had made her dangerous, and Preston had turned her into a killer.
The moment the markings were completed, Hurgen shouted loud enough to be heard at the concourse end. “Runners, ready.” A countdown clock that hung from the ceiling started clicking down.
Landra’s aura swirled. Gods of the mist. Goodbye.
Chapter 55
“Your target is Warrior Hall on Ring Three,” Hurgen said.
Seven rings away. Might as well be the homeworld.
“The Run starts when the siren blasts at full volume. Any route is permitted, though many are blocked and priority is given to killing runners who veer into populated areas. Survivors of the initial death battle should aim for the hall and enter the ceremonial chamber. The Run ends when you raise a displayed blade above your head or when you’re dead.” He clenched his fist in readiness.
Her heart fluttering faster than glider wings, aura cavorting, Landra stared down the concourse. A vision of swinging axes heightened her anxiety, so she squeezed her eyes tight and listened for the siren’s blare.
“Lan, LAN!” Jex said.
Her eyes popped wide, and her gaze tracked along his pointing finger. A Warrior came storming up the empty concourse. Battle-armored and with an evil-edged sword dangling from his fist, he looked like the worst rampaging assassin of any nightmare, but tied-back curls and a roaming aura told Landra more.
Thisk.
A swell of emotion caught in her chest. She’d given up on a response to her pleas, and the sight broke her tears. Shelk. Have to be strong. Don’t shatter me now. She held her breath as he homed in on her position. Why did he come now? Too late for rescue.
Hurgen approached the ranger near the start line. “Third? This is most unusual, sir. What’s going on?”
Third? Landra looked for Thisk’s insignia and didn’t need a mirror to know that she paled. You’re the Third now? The Third! Preston’s old rank?
She’d assumed rangers couldn’t rise above Fourth—huge mistake.
No wonder you didn’t answer my calls. They went to the wrong person. Why hadn’t she asked for him by name?
“Stand down, Hurgen,” Thisk said, stilling the trainer with a waving sword tip.
“Sir,” Hurgen said. He came to attention. “The siren’s due any second. If you’re here when the siren sounds, I can’t predict what the runners will do.”
“I know that, Warrior. Delay.”
“Delay the start?” Hurgen’s confusion built puffy clouds in his aura. “Don’t know if I can, sir. The mechanism’s set and—”
“Just do it,” Thisk ordered, relentless, commanding. “Can’t you see I have business here?” He turned away in dismissal, and Hurgen sprinted away.
The face that turned on Landra contorted into horror-stricken angles that were far from ranger-like. “What are you doing here, soldier?”
With a myriad of explanations to share, none found a way through her lips.
“We haven’t much time, so speak,” he said. “Are you so keen to follow your mother into suicide?”
“No, Thisk. Not at all. I had no choices left.”
“But you’re marked. Don’t you understand? Nothing can save you now. Not me. Not the chief. Why didn’t you go to the temple like I said? You’d have been safe there.” Unexpected heartbreak showed through his ranger impassivity, and the vision tore Landra’s emotional shield to shreds. She’d accepted her fate, so the words couldn’t hurt more, but his anguish intensified the ordeal. Bad enough to die. How much worse was it for caring people to watch? Time to steer the confrontation into official channels and save them both pain.
She lifted her shoulders back. “I tried the temple, sir. It didn’t work out, but you shouldn’t worry. I’m fine.”
“Fine?” Fury spread his aura wider. “Still nice, then. Marked for death, but you’re comforting me.”
Landra had never liked the weak-sounding description and was certain it didn’t apply now that she’d killed. She stared through the Warrior, not saying a word.
“You could have sent me a message,” he said.
“I did, but I addressed it to the Fourth.”
Thisk’s roaming aura shaded to lightness. “I was promoted.”
“I see that, sir. Congratulations.”
“Too late for plaudits. Your father will bust me to a one-bar for this. I was supposed to keep you safe.”
“Funny. It felt more like I was abandoned.”
“What?” He stared at the ground and then lifted his gaze to meet her challenge. “Damn you to shelk, girl. You have ways of dragging problems into public view that makes saving you impossible.”
She was still processing his words when a blaring siren rocked around the concourse.
Oh gods. It’s time.
Jex disappeared from her side, and the clamor rose as everyone ran. Thisk stood before her, armed with a gleaming sword and ready for Run duty. Cracked boot caps betrayed his ranger Soul, but she knew better than anyone how dangerous that made him. Will you kill me?
They were alone now. He lifted his sword to shoulder height, pointing the blade tip to the ceiling. “I’ll do this if you demand it of me, Chief Elect.” His dark eyes conveyed a different message—run from me now.
Landra stepped close and grabbed his arm before it could fall. “Listen to the Run marker’s report,” she said. “Templers are planning an attack. Chanda and somebody called Quillen. Vellion doesn’t know. The rebels have magic weapons, and…”
It was the worst report she’d ever given, but Thisk’s free arm pushed her away and his sword started to fall. The glint of the bevelled blade and certainty in the ranger’s aura let Landra knew he would strike true.
She ducked aside before the blade swept down, leaving it whistling though fresh air.
“For Warrior-kind,” she said, backing away.
Thisk raised his sword for a second strike. “Go right.”
She turned on her heels and sprinted toward severed limbs, raking swords, hewing axes, screaming swampers, spraying blood, and Jex.
Chapter 56
Nerves fled once Landra was in motion. Without time for choices, fears, or doubts, she pushed external distractions away and ran. Only the fight remained—not whining swords, crunching bones, or death screams—but her Soul vision took in the swarm of battling auras. Sundered Souls hovered over the scene like a death cloud, and the living ones cavorted in a dangerous routine that she was compelled to join.
Most fighting congregated around the concourse edges where runners had tried to sneak around the Warriors’ front line. She glimpsed Jex’s aura on the right, his
ordered patterns shredding into messy blue clouds, but at least his Soul still hugged his body.
It suited her to follow his path, away from Father and Dannet. The less her family saw, the better, and hadn’t Thisk told her to head this way? Slash—a soldier gushed blood. Hack—an axe cleaved a swamper’s back.
Shelking hell! Demon mist come to swallow us. It’s happening so fast.
One uniformed runner charged at speed, driving his chest onto a sword in ritual suicide. The decorated veteran made a greater pretence of joining the fight. Hands raised in defensive style, he lashed out a kick.
Good for you, old man.
A sword sweep severed his leg, and a dagger plunged into his side. For all his bravado, the veteran ended up dead, and quicker than some.
Jex was still on his feet, protected by front runners, who’d rushed into the fight. Entering the fray suddenly awoke all Landra’s senses to the battle, and they seeped into her Soul. The ka-ching of clashing metal, the roiling mass of blue Warrior auras, and visions of gore sank into her psyche. There were no chants or jeering from the crowd, only cries of support. The smell of her shelk-covered hair was swallowed amidst the shit and sweat stench.
Too much.
Submitting sounded easy. It was the entire purpose of the Run, but now she was here, there was no way she wouldn’t fight. A flame-haired Warrior with large arms and a gorilla stance stepped over a body to reach Jex. Engineering training hadn’t prepared her friend with any response, and his ducking body took the full force of a sweeping sword blow. He fell.
“No!” Landra screamed. She’d known he would die, but to watch his murder was too much to bear. The Warrior posed astride Jex’s body, sword raised in readiness to finish the kill.
Landra charged forward to ram the surprised Warrior at the waist. She took him from his feet, tumbling them both through the barriers and into the crowd. Shock loosened his grip, and they both watched his sword slide across the wooden floor.
It was easier for Landra to disentangle her limbs from the crowd than it was for a Warrior wearing cumbersome armor. She darted to retrieve the wayward weapon, but with spectators at risk, a second fighter headed her way.
