by Mason Thomas
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Dax disappeared into the corridor and was gone. Hunter never heard a single footstep on the floorboards.
18
HUNTER NEVER thought a time would come when he would miss the stalwart blue-white glow of his alarm clock. When he opened his eyes, the tiny cave bedroom was unchanged. The hazy memory of troubling dreams told him he’d slept—but he had no idea if it was for an hour or ten. It could have been noon up above for all he knew.
Not that it mattered. His docket had plenty of vacancies. Only two things were on his must-do list. Use the bath and find boots.
Two chimes rang out from the corridor. It was still predawn. Which told him practically nothing. He let his eyes close again, and he lingered in the twilight between sleep and consciousness for a time until he heard a single chime announcing daybreak.
He wasn’t sure why he’d waited. It was the arbitrary threshold, perhaps a way to force himself to maintain a conventional schedule down here. He had a new appreciation for those who spent time in a submarine. It was surprisingly easy to lose a connection to the outside world. He swung his bare feet onto the cold floor, arched his back, and stretched the stiff muscles of his shoulders and arms. The soreness felt good. Invigorating. A sign he’d accomplished something yesterday.
His conversation with Dax bounced about in his head like a bird trapped in a house. It felt more like a dream than something real, and the strange and inexplicable visit in the middle of the night spawned more questions than Dax had answered.
Specifically, why had he come? It wasn’t a wellness check. Easy enough to peek in and see he was still alive. And any of the information he gave him could have waited until morning. So what was it really about?
He grabbed the tunic and pants from the foot of the bed and held them to his nose before he pulled them on. Finding somewhere to clean them would have to be added to his tight schedule.
He followed his nose back to the small mess hall, the pathway from his bedroom familiar enough now to find it without much thought. Another day or two and it’d become routine. The notion of that tugged down on his soul like an anchor. He didn’t want to imagine a life down there. The idea of being stuck there for days was unnerving to even consider.
He could navigate around the basics now, take care of his immediate survival needs. But with Dax’s appearances being erratic at best, he was going to have to be more self-reliant. Certainly no one else was eager to offer any help. It fell on him.
He scooped up another bowl of the thick gruel and took a quiet table well away from some others who were eating, a hardened and somewhat seedy group who looked like they’d just arrived from the wilderness. Hunter hadn’t seen any of them before, which was evidently the norm down here. As Dax had implied, the hideout was a transient place. No one stayed down here for too long. Who would want to? But it was clear they knew who he was. Sidelong looks stabbed his way, and the talk among them quieted. One of them furtively, almost involuntarily, reached down to his boot and fingered the hilt of the dagger hidden there, tugging it upward a fraction to make sure it was readily accessible.
Carrying around a weapon of his own was starting to sound like a good idea. Not that he was proficient enough to defend himself yet. But it might act as a deterrent. It might also provoke some of these already jittery rebels into viewing him as a threat. He cringed inwardly, a part of him disgusted he would even consider it. He was a guy from Chicago. The idea of walking around with a sharp weapon at his hip seemed absurd.
Guttural talk ramped up among them slowly, though their voices remained low. They were uneasy about something. And angry. Hunter caught only fragments of it, and not enough to fully glean what had happened. They spoke of a raid. Someone dragged off during the night. And the deaths of comrades. Many, by the sound of it.
“They knew,” one of them said, drumming fingers on the table. “They weren’t just lucky this time, I tell ya. They knew.” And Hunter could feel their attention again shift toward him.
Hunter’s spine stiffened. His skin prickled in anticipation. He kept his eyes on the bowl on the table, but he was waiting for something to happen. Waiting for them to stand from the table. Their emotions were raw and itching for a direction. The slightest provocation would goad these men to violence. And Hunter was a convenient scapegoat.
Uri wandered in.
The shift in focus was immediate. For a moment Hunter was forgotten. They scrunched their noses as Uri made his way to the kettle. Uri kept his chin down and his shoulders hunched as if trying to will himself invisible. He chose a table nearer Hunter but sat on the bench with his back to him.
Hunter watched the rugged band in his peripheral vision, expecting one of them to now choose Uri as a target for their anger. It would only take one to start something. Only a trigger to set the violence into motion. But to his surprise, they let him be and left as a group shortly after.
Adrenaline still surging beneath his skin, Hunter took a few long breaths before he took his empty bowl and spoon to the wooden crate already heaped with dishes. More were stacked onto the floor around it.
He needed something to do, needed to focus this crazed energy somewhere, so he hoisted the crate with a grunt and carried it to the table where the same man from yesterday worked his way through a small mountain of potatoes.
He threw a hard glare at Hunter. “I’ll get to it,” he said with a scowl.
“Where do they get cleaned?” Hunter asked.
The man’s brows drew together, and he leered at him like one might at a puzzle. “Leave it.”
“I’ve got time and need something to do,” Hunter told him. “Just point me in the direction.”
The man eyed him with suspicion, as if trying to figure out Hunter’s angle. He clearly doubted the offer was a genuine one. But he tilted his head toward a table across the room. Hunter nodded and carried the crate over, feeling the man’s stare pressing into his back. A small cleaning station had been set up with an earthenware basin, a slop bucket, and a stiff brush. A barrel of clean water stood beside the table.
It took him perhaps an hour to scrub clean all the dishware, even the ones that had been placed on the floor. He stacked them neatly on a shelf. People came and went as he cleaned, but he paid no attention to them. It did his soul good to have a task that felt familiar and mundane. While everyone else left their dirty dishware on the tables or on the floor where the crate had been, Uri brought his empty bowl over to the table next to Hunter. He said nothing and quickly slunk away down a corridor. The cook came over once to inspect his work, and before he returned to his potatoes, told him where to dump the bucket and where to find the well to replace the water he used.
“Any idea where I can find a pair of boots?” he asked the cook once he was finished, wiping his pruned hands on his thighs.
The cook’s eyes shifted briefly down at Hunter’s bare feet. “Pernibran. She’s the only cordwainer involved here.”
“Pernibran,” Hunter repeated. “Any idea where I’d find her?”
“Her shop, likely. Merchant District. Some masters and journeymen have set up workshops in the south caverns. Can’t say if she’s one of them.”
Hunter pursed his lips. Well, her shop was out of the question. Finding which direction was south was another problem. The man seemed stiff and uneasy, as if nervous people would catch them talking, so he didn’t press him. Instead, Hunter thanked him and left the kitchen. He’d figure it out on his own later.
HUNTER STARTED down tunnels with the intent of exploring more of the underground complex but found himself retracing his steps back to the practice field. An unplanned destination, but he decided to roll with what his subconscious was telling him. A workout had always been a part of his day and maybe, to stave off any impending madness, routine was what he needed.
He climbed out into the open air of the yard and immediately filled his lungs. An unblemished indigo sky reigned overhead, and a morning wind spawned little vortexes of sand that raced
across the field. It was early still. Most of the yard was painted in shadow. Only the top half of the buildings on one side of the courtyard were lit with morning sun.
The yard was empty except for a crow perched on a post. Its black eyes followed Hunter as he moved into the yard, making annoyed little squawks. It was not thrilled with the interruption. It voiced one more complaint before it launched the air and came to rest on the railing of a balcony.
The sun hadn’t broken over the top of the buildings yet, so the sand was cool against the soles of his feet. Since no one was around, he pulled off his tunic and submerged it into the rain barrel and sloshed it about. The morning air was crisp against his skin. He massaged the tunic under the surface for a minute or so, then wrung it out fully and hung it on the post the crow had vacated.
He dug into the pine box for a practice sword, but beneath the cluster of wooden ones he used yesterday were ones of steel. Real swords. He slid one out and gripped it, swiping at the air in front of him. It was dented and tarnished, and the edges were dulled. Even the tip of it was rounded. But the weight distribution felt different than the wood swords. Substantial. Balanced. It felt the way he would expect a sword to feel.
Intrigued, he strolled out to the center and got to work.
He first ran through the drills Zinnuvial had taught yesterday, surprised at how much of it he remembered. He called off each guard position as he stepped into it. After a few minutes, his muscles warmed and loosened, the soreness from earlier melting away. Before long, as the sun line on the western wall almost reached the sand, his skin was covered in a film of sweat.
He took a break—ladled out a drink from the barrel and splashed chill water onto his torso and over his head. When he turned around to resume, swooping the wet strands of hair from his eyes, Zinnuvial stood by the horse corral, arms woven over her chest.
“In the future,” she said, “please let someone know of your whereabouts. I wasted too much of my morning trying to locate you.”
Hunter wondered how long she’d been there and if she’d been watching him practice. He marched back out to the center of the yard, feeling her scrutiny. “Perhaps next time let me know that we had an appointment.” And precisely who would he have told anyway?
She studied him a moment longer before she strode to the pine box, tossed back the lid, and pulled out a sword for herself. Hunter settled into the defense posture, shifting his weight to his right leg, as Zinnuvial glided out to meet him.
“A sword of steel today,” she noted with a single brow raised.
“Figured I’d try it,” he said. “See what it felt like.”
“Ah. One lesson and you feel you have conquered the basics and are ready to advance.”
“Not at all, Master Zinnuvial.” She was goading him, looking for a reaction. But he’d learned his lesson from yesterday. Proving himself was only part of what he needed to do. He had to wait for the door to be opened, not kick his way through it.
She considered him with narrow eyes. Hunter could see her mind trying to work out if was mocking her.
He bowed his head. “I didn’t know we would be sparring today.”
She regarded him coolly. “Training takes place every day. That is how skills are mastered.”
He would not argue with that. Even on days when there wasn’t a scheduled practice, he was training at the gym or running skill and reflex drills alone on the pitch. Or both. “Should I exchange this for a wood one, then?”
Her lips pursed as she continued to watch him. “No. Experience with the genuine weight can be beneficial.”
He shrugged. “I’m game if you are.”
Her expression changed. Slightly. Her eyes seemed to alight with something that could have been amusement. She reached into the pouch at her waist and withdrew a pair of leather gloves. As she tugged them on, she swept her gaze down to his naked feet. “You are still without boots.”
“I’m working on it.”
She accepted his response with a nod and drew back into her offensive position.
And without preamble or small talk, she launched into the training. It advanced much as it had the day before, marching through the guard positions first, then switching to combat—where she came at him and forced him to defend against the assault. She was quicker to change out the guards, and the timing between her offensives was shortened, giving Hunter less time to recover. Often, she followed up with an immediate second offensive.
He reveled in it. Thrived on the flow and the physicality. He was invigorated and his mood lightened. The training required a cognitive focus that surprised him, not unlike what he had to maintain on the pitch when he was trying to follow the movement of the ball. He had to sustain a conscious awareness of how every part of his body was answering her attacks—feet, hips, shoulders, arms—all pivoting and twisting as her blade came at him in a blur. The heavier blade affected his timing at first, but he adjusted, and, in a way, felt he had more specific control of the sword’s movement through the air and felt the contact with her blade more.
At the same time, he could feel his responses becoming programmed into his muscles. He started to act on instinct. Micro-movements she made tipped him off to what the next attack would be, and he found himself predicting the guard before she called it.
“You are quiet today,” she said after at time. “No barrage of questions?” There was something slightly mocking about her tone.
He was reluctant to admit that her attacks were keeping his mind too busy. “No point if you won’t answer them.”
She responded with a simple lift of her chin. “More follow-through with your cuts. The objective is to not simply block my attack but to guide it aside.” It was spoken directly, without emotion. But he glimpsed something, then, behind the stoic countenance. A shadow over her mood he hadn’t noticed before. Something was eating at her. “Boar’s tooth.”
They ran through drills for perhaps another hour before Zinnuvial stepped back, lowering her blade, and called an end for the day.
“It is customary,” she said, “to bow to your partner once the sparring has come to an end.”
She demonstrated it—sword angled to the side and a bend at the waist. Hunter imitated it back to her, feeling clumsy. Her eyes revealed nothing as she turned and strolled back to the storage box to return the sword. Hunter followed.
“Something’s happened today,” he said. “Hasn’t it.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow.
“I overhead some talk earlier,” he said.
She seemed to weigh her response before turning to him. “It is none of your concern.”
“Was Dax involved?” His heart lurched at the thought. It hadn’t occurred to him to that Dax would still be out working for the resistance, on missions. Putting himself in danger. It explained his absence.
“You needn’t worry yourself about Master Dax,” she replied. Her tone had a mordant edge that surprised him. He’d seen Dax in action enough to know she was probably right about that.
Still, if anything did happen to him, Hunter was as good as dead.
“You would rather be out there, too, wouldn’t you?” he said with a tilt of his head toward the large, barred door. “On missions. Fighting along with the others. Not spending your day here, babysitting me.”
She was quiet a moment. “I do as I am instructed.”
But that didn’t stop her from resenting it. He was sure she felt her talents could be put to better use.
She tossed her blade into the box. “Since you evidently can find your own way, I will expect to find you here again tomorrow morning.” She started toward the exit.
“I do have one question, actually,” Hunter called out to her. “What’s a skeg?”
She slowed and turned about. Lines above her brow line furrowed as her eyes narrowed at him. “A pejorative. It is the Mazentian word for gray.”
Referring to muted blue color of Uri’s skin.
Zinnuvial s
wung open the door to the underground and disappeared, leaving it open behind her.
So, his instincts were right. Uri was both Mazentian and human, and yet, apparently, belonged to neither. Hunter couldn’t help but wonder what circumstances would bring a boy like that here. And if he was treated this way all the time, why did he stick around? Hunter spotted him around every day. He was, it seemed, like himself, a permanent resident in this hole. As bad as it was down here for him, perhaps it was even worse topside in the city itself. At least here the boy had some allies. Dax, it seemed. Zinnuvial too. Maybe Quinnar.
Another trait that seemed to transcend universes. Pointless bigotry.
The afternoon sun pounded down over the courtyard, and the sand was getting hot on his bare feet. Today was hotter, and after Zinnuvial ran him hard through the paces, he would almost welcome the coolness below. Almost. Sweaty and stiff, he stumbled his way own back into the hole and steered himself toward the mess. His mind was running through the positions and their names when something broke the dense silence of the tunnel. It was the smallest of sounds—a stone crunching under the heel of a boot. Quick and sharp, but then nothing. Hunter wondered a moment if he’d imagined it. But no, it was too clear. Too distinct. Someone was behind him in the tunnel, shadowing his movements.
Against his better judgment, he turned on his heel and doubled back the way he had come, toward the sound he’d heard. Even barefooted, his footfalls crunched conspicuously. As Dax was quick to remind him, he had no skill to move with any stealth, so he didn’t bother trying. Again, he wondered if he should have a weapon on him. He rounded a corner, close to where he’d heard the sound. No one was there.
Whoever had been shadowing him had scampered off.
People were keeping an eye on him. Distrust of outsiders had trumped the orders to leave him alone.
When he was on the Dragons, the all-gay team, the squad was amateurish at best. The coach did what he could to get the players in line, but they were marginally trained and wildly undisciplined. Matches dissolved into chaos because the players didn’t adhere to established gameplay tactics that the coach tried, in vain, to impart to everyone.
