Colibrí quietly swallowed the knot of emotions in her chest. “Forgive me, but speaking of that, is there a reason why you didn’t stop this Peacemaker yourself?” Colibrí asked as politely as she could.
“Because I could not, obviously. I know very little about who, or what, he is; Peacemaker is cautious, clever, and respectful of my power.”
Colibrí mulled over this information. So maybe it was a halja with human intellect after all. But why could Peacemaker use the Flows? She frowned.
“You do not need to unravel every mystery at once, Colibrí,” the Guardian said gently. “I cannot say why or how the Stillness is spreading so far from the Primordial Wound, but I do not think it a coincidence that Peacemaker hunted you specifically, and then, only after you began finding the Stillness. Whatever his schemes, and whether he is responsible for the vile gardens or is merely protecting them, Peacemaker now sees the Halfborn as a threat. He will not stop hunting you.”
Colibrí nodded, seeing the truth in those words. Claiming Peacemaker’s life would be worthwhile simply to safeguard her own. That would also leave her free to deal with the Stillness she kept finding, and, well, if this Peacemaker was the cause behind them, then all the better.
With Sanemoro’s help, she might even be able to guide others to the corruption, lessening the burden a little.
“May I ask why you are doing this?”
Colibrí was torn from her thoughts. “Eh? What do you mean?”
“The Halfborn are now feared or hated, usually both. You have been exiled. Even I agree that you should not exist, for it was because of my desperate attempt to salvage the war after the betrayal of your kind that I was struck down.
“Colibrí, you are a living reminder of the darkest storm we have ever endured. If the former cacica had held my memories, she would not have merely demanded that you be given back to the forest—she would have thrown you into the sea herself, fresh from the womb.”
Colibrí said nothing for a very long time. She felt cold; dead as the Guardian claimed to be, but without the warmth of even illusionary life. Worse was the guilt, the creeping, anxious fear that the Guardian—and everyone else—were right to believe what they did about the Halfborn.
Because whenever she stoked her anger instead, she remembered the day she had turned and recalled just how deeply she had frightened not only Yabisi, but also herself.
Colibrí let out a slow breath and simply said, “No one trusts us, so there’s no one for us to betray.”
“That is exactly what puzzles me. You know the story of your blood and the beliefs of your kin, yet you still serve them. Why?”
Because other than Narune, my warrior oaths are the only things that haven’t been taken from me. Colibrí hugged herself. “I don’t know.”
The Guardian eyed her. “I see.”
There was something left unsaid in that, but Colibrí didn’t question the trailing silence. “How about you? Will you help me, Guardian?” she asked.
“Yes, despite my misgivings. Though I can do little more than inform you of any whispers that might be of use.”
Colibrí bowed in gratitude, then straightened and raised a hand. “May I have the honor of touching you before I go?”
The Guardian lowered herself down to the detritus of the forest floor, her large beautiful eye as radiant and depthless as the sun. Colibrí pressed a hand against one of the colorful scales on her snout. It felt like warmed obsidian.
“Thank you for giving me Narune, in spite of what I am,” she whispered.
“Oh, Colibrí, do not waste your gratitude on me; Narune was never mine to gift.”
Colibrí frowned, abashed a little, but nodded. “Would it be alright if I brought him next time? Perhaps Sanemoro as well?”
“If you must,” the Guardian said with obvious reservation. “But measure those you bring. I am not a spectacle.”
Colibrí bowed in acknowledgment.
“Then, with that, allow me to wish you a good hunt. Beware Peacemaker. He is an abomination unlike anything we have ever faced.”
A moment passed, the slightest disorientation in her senses, like a ripple in all the world. Colibrí blinked and in that time the Guardian vanished and was replaced with a mirror of Colibrí herself. Her twin, however, had serpent eyes and was completely naked. Her reflection moved forward and reached for Colibrí’s arm.
“The forest will no longer need to guide you here,” said the Guardian, but in Colibrí’s own voice.
Then she raised Colibrí’s arm, opened her mouth to reveal dripping fangs, and then sank them into Colibrí’s flesh. Intense pain flashed through her, and it felt as if molten earth and fire were being pushed through every artery and vein by the rhythm beating within her chest, but Colibrí stood unmoving, teeth clenched, her tail frozen in place until the Guardian let go.
The Guardian’s fangs and lips trailed saliva and blood, and the sight made the smile that followed eerie. Then, the world spun and jerked.
“Colibrí!”
She raised a hand to her head, fighting back nausea and the intense headache that passed, struggling to distance herself from the storm of screams now pressing close, then turned to face Sanemoro. He was covered in sweat, his face lined with alarm, and the three warriors with him seemed no better.
“Oh, stormless days, you are alive!” he said, and went to embrace her, which went against all propriety and warrior discipline. The three young warriors turned away, their faces flushing.
She gently pushed him back. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” He asked. “I thought for a moment… Well, I am not sure what I thought, actually. But I was scared, I can tell you that.”
“We can tell you that, too,” one of the warriors said, and the other two laughed. “He was shouting your name without end, no matter how much we cautioned him against it, Mother Colibrí.”
“Eh,” she said, smiling. “The truth is that sages are as dull as they are sharp.”
“Oi! I was worried!” Sanemoro placed his hand on his hips. “We tried to look for you, but after a fourth of a notch without answers, you bet your rump I started—”
“A fourth of a notch?”
“Eh? Yes? Why?”
Well. Colibrí let out a long breath. “Let’s go back and drink. I have quite the story to tell, and you need to hear it.”
Chapter 12
Ixchel rushed forward in spite of having just fought her own battle a short while ago. The nearest youths had been focused on Narune, so when they turned toward her they were far too slow. Her spear thudded against flesh and she didn’t hold back.
Her blows drew out bruises and blood.
The other youths rushed to surround her. Kisari moved out toward the left, curving more slowly after Ixchel, blunted spear held in front of her in a surprisingly good stance. Kisari was trembling, and probably didn’t notice the mask of fear on her face, but Narune only found himself respecting her all the more for fighting anyway. Acting in spite of fear was always more honorable than turning because of it.
“Claw rake!” he shouted to Ixchel before her anger took her too far away. He was pleased to see her nod, then step back. Kisari knew the formation from him, and took the left side. He waved her a little closer and they moved back to the edge of the Proving Grounds as one.
The rake was a simple formation. It spaced them so that they could fight freely, but kept them close enough to overlap their coverage. They would then fight while retreating to a more condensed point where they could hold out together and maybe push for another rake.
“We should rush and break them,” a youth shouted to Ikenna. Somehow, the two main duelists—Narune and Ikenna—had become the warleaders through unspoken agreement. “There’s enough of us. Their rake will be too weak.”
Ikenna nodded. “Forward!”
It was the right answer, Narune knew. Their opponents rushed. He breathed out, placed his trust in Ixchel who knew his warrior craft as well as he did, and inste
ad focused on supporting Kisari. The opposing youths began to separate, four for Ixchel, four toward him, and three charged toward Kisari, their reckless approach revealing just how much they underestimated her.
Narune braced and tried to threaten as much space as he could, but their opponents had an advantage in numbers and the training to make use of it. The rake didn't hold for long; the three of them weren’t enough to keep the space between them threatened, and the open terrain of the Proving Grounds was useless for controlling the flow of battle.
Ikenna and most of his warriors watched while stepping along semicircles, patient for an opening to force one of them out of position. A few lunged forwards, hoping to apply pressure.
Narune parried a slow strike, then spun away from another. His opponents followed, jabbing, ensuring the pressure never ended, hoping he’d make a mistake.
It was Kisari that made that mistake, overreacting in panic and losing her footing. She stumbled and formed a hole in their already feeble defense. Ikenna and his fellow youths rushed forward.
Narune sprang ahead to meet them and cover Kisari just as he heard Ixchel laugh. He batted a spear away and rushed past the opposing girl’s guard as if trying to break through their charge, but then whirled. The girl noticed and turned, her spear managing to clack against his just in time, then again, and again as their weapons whirled and sought exposed heads and feet.
Narune slipped a jab past a slow defense, smashing his blunted spear into her jaw, then swept her off her feet while she recoiled. His heart was thudding maddeningly, but he didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—and turned to face two other youths.
They pushed Narune back by alternating their attacks, and more than a few slipped by his guard.
Goosebumps flared across Narune’s skin as he retreated. The Flows of Creation surged around him, deep and heavy enough to feel like there was a boulder on his chest when he gulped air. He couldn’t tell if the slickness on his skin was from sweat, blood, or just his sense of the Flows.
Narune struggled to keep the two youths from mauling him, and was wary of a third that was trying to get behind him. He tried to think of a plan. Anything, because at this point the match was becoming as pointless as it had first seemed.
Narune, Ixchel, and Kisari’s formation was utterly broken. There was a lot of noise and dust from sliding feet and missed blows crashing against the ground. Narune couldn’t see Kisari or Ixchel, but Ikenna and the other youths were fighting with an almost frantic intensity.
A spear caught him against the head. The pain lingered for a moment, deep and echoing, and his eyes watered, but Narune fought through it. He parried the next strike, but a third slammed a spearhead into his stomach. The second spearhead returned and sent blood coursing down his thigh.
Narune staggered back, but lashed out blindly and broke a boy’s nose; the youth dropped his weapon and clamped his hands over his face to stop the gush of blood. Almost immediately another spear chopped down on Narune’s forearm and sent a deep flare of pain up to his shoulder. Narune almost dropped his own spear.
He didn’t, and instead turned, swinging the length of wood. It hit someone else, but their flesh caught a strike Narune had meant to be a parry, so the incoming thrust continued unhindered and crashed into Narune’s side, drawing a yelp from him.
A little fear escaped from the cage inside Narune’s heart. How far was he willing to go to prove himself? He already hurt so much, and his lips were bleeding from biting back waves of pain.
Stop being such a sproutling. Seas aflame, you’re a warrior. He gasped for air as he stepped back, then, when no one followed, he paused to wipe the blood dripping into his eyes and across his chin. The youths around him used the same moment to reposition themselves, all of them panting, their breaths hoarse. The red splotches that would eventually become bruises were framed by sweat, dirt, and blood.
No one was cheering or speaking. The spectators were silent, as were the sages and spiritseers. He heard Ixchel a little way behind him, near the edge of the Proving Grounds, shouting taunts. He could hear the pain in her voice. Behind his own opponents, on the far edge of the circle, Kisari had been pinned against the boundary. She was also covered in wounds, but she looked as if she didn’t feel them, her gaze fierce. Her hands were still shaking, but she continued to swing at her opponents wildly.
There were three youths facing her, but they seemed hesitant, their faces indecisive. It was dishonorable to fight a would-be warden, but Narune saw that she’d given them a few new scars and none of them would have boastful stories.
They had probably hoped she would surrender right away. They obviously didn’t know Kisari.
In the end, none of this would probably matter; neither Kisari or Ixchel would earn the glory they deserved, all because Kisari was Halfborn too and because Ixchel had dared to stand with them. That bothered Narune the most.
Then, there was the absurdity of the match. No matter how hard Narune thought, he couldn’t think of anything else to do but endure and fight as long as he could. There was no way out without proving himself a coward. The other youths were skilled fighters. They hoped to be spiritseers and had already crawled their way toward this moment. Even if he was arrogant enough to believe himself the better warrior, there were still more of them.
Ikenna was one of the youths that had been fighting Narune, and his gaze was free of mockery. The youth’s lips were pressed together and there were hard creases along his face. He was doing what must be done. Narune had landed a few good blows on him, but it hadn’t slowed Ikenna down much.
The moment passed. They all took deep breaths before hearts ramped up and muscles bundled to launch them into motion. They met in a flurry of clacking wood.
“Surrender,” Ikenna croaked to him. “Or you’re going to end up broken.”
Narune snarled as he was forced back yet again. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Ikenna said nothing as he gave chase. Their spears saluted each other with sharp clacks, then they windmilled their weapons, alternating circles left to right and back again. The technique was closer to the way one fought with staffs, but the style was commonly learned for use with a crippled spear.
The sound of their spears slamming together continued to fill the air, but Narune was tiring. His arms burned, his wounds hurt, and his muscles spasmed. The other youths waited like predators for him to tire or stumble, for gaps in his defense. They refused to give him a single moment of relief and punished him whenever Narune broke through Ikenna’s defenses or Ikenna’s own wounds and fatigue made him slip into a mistake.
Then Narune stumbled as he made a sloppy parry, missed, and felt Ikenna’s spearhead crack against his head. A burst of nausea and dizziness threw him off balance for a moment. Ikenna swept him from his feet. Narune’s back flattened against ground that had been muddied by blood and sweat, then Ikenna’s spear crashed down against his side, near his belly. Air rushed from his lungs and fresh agony bit through him.
But Narune still had his spear and his will; he could still fight. Had to fight. The world blurred as he tried to drag himself onto his feet. The air felt thick as the sea, fighting against him just as surely, and Narune couldn’t tell if he was actually moving as slow as he thought, or if it just seemed that way.
Someone was screaming. Who was screaming?
Narune frowned as he spat blood from his mouth and clawed the dirt, still trying to get onto his knees. Oi. Stop that. I’m fine.
After a moment he realized the screaming was coming from a hundred thousand voices—no, more than that. More than he could count. The chorus was unfocused and indistinct, if far away. It still hurt his ears somehow, so he flattened them against his skull.
Narune was on his knees now, and struggled to rise to his feet. He had lost his spear. When had he lost his spear? It was in his hand a moment ago. Shame filled him.
Someone’s spear slammed into him again and undid all his work. Narune crashed back onto the ground and the pain l
ancing through him forced him into a curl. He could feel blood pouring free, or maybe it was just his bruises forming.
The air was incredibly hot. He felt restless suddenly, overwhelmed by the need to move, so he curled and uncurled his fingers and toes, again and again.
“Surrender!” Ikenna demanded.
All Narune had to do was agree. Or stop moving. Then they would declare his loss and this would all end. It was the wise thing to do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, through the noise of all that infuriating screaming, he was scared for Ixchel and Kisari, but to Narune’s own shock he rose back onto his trembling hands and knees.
The screams bludgeoning his mind grew louder. They swirled and swirled, like one of the great storms that sometimes appeared during the last few moons of a Cycle.
Narune stood within the calmer center of the voices, again, just like the heart of a true storm, but tendrils reached for him—no, for his spirit. The screams were strangely vivid, white-hot like the stars, and Narune felt as if he could almost reach out and touch them.
Narune exhaled slowly and rose, surprised at how easy it was for his body to respond now. He glanced at his limbs in awe, then frowned over at Ikenna, who had taken a step back in shock. The boy’s mouth moved.
“I… I can’t hear you over all the screaming,” Narune said, frowning. They were so loud. He could barely hear his own thoughts.
Ikenna and the other youths exchanged confused glances.
Then, the tendrils pierced into his spirit and he became part of the storm. Everything stirred toward movement—every one of his senses and thoughts. They spun dizzyingly, faster and furious, the phantom winds whipping across his sense of self, and then raw power thundered through his veins. His heartbeat thudded so quickly that it seemed like a single note; the impossibility of that terrified him and Narune wondered if he had lost his mind.
Cradle of Sea and Soil Page 12
