by S McPherson
A blast of heat and the brilliant blaze of fire bring her back to the present as she slips through the iron gates of the Court and into its garden. There, Sakiya stands with her own recruits, having paired each with an Ochi from the Court. Jude is practically giddy as he hurls fierce bolts of flame at a wall of ice his opponent, Tay, has set up in front of him. But Lexovia doesn’t miss Tay’s smirk. As she expects, when the bolts near, Tay flicks his wrists and his frozen barrier transforms into a wall of water that both douses Jude’s flames and pours towards him. But quick on the draw, Jude summons power Lexovia wouldn’t otherwise have believed he had and instantly freezes the cascade.
‘Exlarvus,’ he bellows, and the ice shatters. Not waiting for Tay’s rebuttal, Jude flings another bolt of fire from his gleaming hand. It hits Tay in the chest, sizzling away the fabric of his shirt and landing him on his backside. A repairee scuttles forward from the top of the steps, tending to Tay with an Extroosal-soaked rag.
‘Nicely done, Edwards,’ Sakiya calls from where she hurtles frozen daggers at Trig. He avoids them with the same finesse he used against Lexovia, but he’s still not managed to conjure any blades of his own from either the ice or the flame.
Jude dips his head, then noticing Lexovia, jogs over to join her.
‘I see you’ve put on a shirt,’ she muses.
He casually shrugs, ‘The other lads were getting jealous.’
‘Jealous, you say?’ Trig cackles as he hurls an impressive orb of snow at Jude’s head. Lexovia ducks, grinning as Jude splutters and wipes the sodden ice from his face. ‘Jealous of what, exactly?’ and he pulls his shirt up over his head to reveal a rack of solid muscles that glisten with sweat, reflecting the rays of the sun. He drops his shirt to the ground whilst Sakiya rakes her eyes over him, using her hand to fan herself.
‘Snow? That’s interesting,’ she purrs.
‘Can’t all Ochis do that?’ Trig says, arching his brow.
Sakiya looks at Lexovia. ‘Only one that I know of.’
Lexovia frowns. ‘Perhaps the abilities work slightly differently in Corporeal?’
‘Yeah, well, lot of good it does me when I can’t conjure anything else,’ Trig grumbles, scooping up his shirt and tucking it into his waistband.
‘You’re not giving up so soon are you?’ Sakiya pouts.
Trig is quick to stand tall, jutting out his chin. ‘Not a chance.’
She purses her lips flirtatiously. ‘Good. Now everyone switch partners. Ibrahim, you’re with me.’
Ibrahim shakes out his fingers, his tattoos seeming to wriggle across his skin as the power inside surges. Lexovia watches as he collects a handful of pebbles from the ground and turns them into smouldering rocks in his palm.
‘What’s the consensus on that one?’ she murmurs to Jude who’s left one of the court members waiting impatiently by the steps.
‘Not bad,’ Jude considers. ‘But he’s only mastered temperature control as yet. He can melt and freeze anything but he is unable to conjure ice or fire from the air.’
Lexovia watches. Ibrahim flings the rocks at Sakiya, shooting from his hand like bullets. She throws up a wall of pink flames and the rocks simply merge with it, leaving behind puffs of black smoke.
‘And the others?’
‘Still too early to say, except for me, of course,’ and Jude cracks a devilish grin. ‘I’m brilliant.’
‘Sure.’ Lexovia’s gaze follows Trig for a while as he now battles Tay. Once again he manages to evade each attack but is unable to conjure anything but snow in return. ‘Is Howard in the arena?’ she asks.
Jude nods. ‘I should get going before Baldy has a fit,’ he chuckles. ‘See you at dinner,’ and he races off to join his instructor.
Lexovia heads to the steps and makes her way inside the building, halting when she realises that the great hall has changed, now appearing as it was years ago. The columns are polished, neither blemish nor crack. The skylight still boasts the symbol of the Elentri on its crest, though it’s unclear seen through the rays of sun, and numerous golden sand sacks are stacked on the ground. Court members perch and sprawl across them, looking to the large stone table where a man speaks about their move to Melaxous and what it means for their future. He’s tall and broad shouldered, his brown hair braided down his back, and he has the same russet eyes as Vladimir; as his father, and Lexovia jolts. The last Senior of the Court. Dunt is using his skill to show the recruits what once was.
Derek notices Lexovia and briefly waves with two fingers. He seems a little dazed by the scene unfolding around him. Lexovia smiles encouragingly then continues on down the corridor to the stairway that leads to the training arena.
When she reaches the bottom, Lexovia pushes open the great doors and is met by a battlefield. The Fuerté recruits roar, pant and growl at one another, like wild beasts, each eager to dominate the training ground. The arena is ripe with the stench of fresh blood and stale sweat. Those who are not sparring with an opponent are lunging over podiums that rise and fall like cresting waves or are yanking on ropes that drip from the ceiling like water snakes. Others bound up the walls, wielding their weapons. Repairees are stationed by every pair of recruit and Coltis, constantly leaping in with aids and remedies. Lexovia leans against the wall nearest the door, her arms folded, absorbed in the scene.
It’s spectacular. A real glimpse of what’s to come: Corporeal and Coltis united. A flash of red hair, like tangled flames, catches her eye. Lexovia follows the movement, watching as the girl lunges over a plinth that shoots from the ground, almost as if she knew it were coming. She grips a rope that coils from the ceiling in both hands and swings, her legs hurtling forwards and backwards. When one of the higher plinths rises, the girl leaps onto it, then lunges from it at the wall, ripping down a trident. She roars as she jabs it at thin air, then wields it in a blur of arcs and spirals around her. Howard watches the girl’s movements with a look of admiration and envy. He says something to her and she snarls. Curious to hear the exchange, Lexovia ambles closer.
Howard is saying, ‘No need to pout, Vicky—’
‘It’s Victoria. And there’s nothing wrong with my form,’ she seethes. ‘I am a dancer.’
‘Yeah,’ and Howard wearily rubs his brow, ‘you’ve told me that, already.’
Victoria gnashes her teeth. ‘Where exactly did I go wrong…in your opinion?’
Lexovia waits for Howard’s reply, unable to fault Victoria’s performance herself. But Howard’s proud, not the type to admit someone’s flawless on their first day of training, especially not a girl, and a Corporeal girl at that. Lexovia clamps her lips down on a smile as Howard scratches the back of his head, clearly trying to think of something specific to criticise.
‘Your jump off the platform wasn’t graceful,’ he says at last.
‘I wasn’t trying to be graceful,’ she barks. Her knuckles turn white as her grip tightens on the trident. ‘Are we training for war or a performance of Swan Lake?’
Howard’s cheeks flush. Lexovia considers rescuing him but decides to stand back and let him suffer just a little while longer.
‘Look, Vicky—’
‘Victoria,’ she again snaps but he clearly doesn’t listen.
‘I’m the instructor and you’re the student. If I say your form is off, then your form is off.’
‘Oh, then please, instructor,’ she cries with an exaggerated curtsy, ‘show me your ways.’ She folds her arms across her chest and stares straight at him, challenge written all over her.
Howard chuckles, as though about to refuse, then thrusts his xyen at her.
‘Hold this,’ he growls and struts further onto the arena floor. Victoria glares at him.
‘You know your form was flawless, don’t you?’ Lexovia asks knowingly as she steps up beside the girl.
Victoria smirks. ‘If he thinks he can do better, let him try.’
Howard puffs out his chest, rocking on his toes as he waits for the platforms to emerge. The smaller one burs
ts through the tiles and he bounds over it, effortlessly. Then, snatching a rope, he wraps it around his arm and swings circles around a larger plinth before kicking off its side and somersaulting onto the largest plinth of all, right as it shoots up out of the ground. He lands at its centre, balanced on one hand, and stays poised on the slab of concrete as it sinks back into the ground. He looks up at Victoria, still upside down and perched easily on one hand.
‘That’s form,’ he grins.
Victoria rolls her eyes before tossing his xyen onto the ground and stalking off.
Dusting himself off, Howard sniggers and retrieves his weapon.
‘Smooth,’ Lexovia snorts.
‘She needed it. Cockiness like that will get her killed.’
Wondering if it’s worth getting into a battle of egos with Howard, Lexovia is distracted by the sounds of cheering. A small crowd of trainers and trainees have formed around two brawling recruits, and Lexovia hurries over to get a better look, Howard at her back. As she nears, she sees both Tanks and Mutt in their full Fuerté forms, and based on the whoops of the crowd, they’re the first ones to pull it off.
Mutt elbows Tanks in the jaw, slamming her teeth into her upper lip. Blood drizzles down her chin but she barely seems to notice. Repairees rush forward but she lunges past them, skids to the ground and whacks Mutt at his ankles. He crashes down, face first, and rolls onto his back in time for Tanks to straddle him, crushing his windpipe under her forearm.
He claws at her face and struggles beneath her but Tanks grins and shifts her legs, trapping his arms at his sides. Their audience is loving it but Lexovia notices a flicker of fear now shading Mutt’s face and she sees Tanks notices it too. As if he were poisonous, Tanks leaps to her feet and stumbles away, though she quickly recovers her cool. Smoothing back her hair, she thrusts a hand in the air and takes a bow.
‘What was that?’ Lexovia murmurs, just loud enough for Howard to hear.
He shrugs, ‘Couldn’t say.’
Tanks reverts back to her original form and helps Mutt to his feet. He too adopts his usual form, offering her a wry grin, and Tanks kisses the point of his neck which is now bruised. Her busted lip leaves behind a smear of blood. When the Repairees rush forward this time, Tanks lets them tend to both her and Mutt.
As the others slowly return to their drills, eager to enhance their form, Lexovia slips beside Tanks who has now perched herself on a stool whilst a Repairee dabs at her purpling elbow. ‘You didn’t need to stop when you did. The Repairees were standing by.’
Tanks clears her throat, running her tongue over her now healed but still slightly swollen lip, but says nothing.
‘He’ll face much worse when we’re out there, fighting Exlathars,’ Lexovia goes on to say.
Tanks chuckles, low and without humour. ‘With all due respect, Mi Elentri,’ she says, the title given a derisive inflexion, ‘you don’t know him or what he’s been through. Mutt was a wounded pup when I found him. He knows fear and pain better than most.’
‘Well, he’s about to know it again.’
Tanks clenches her fist, seeming to toy with the idea of punching Lexovia in the jaw. ‘I won’t be the one to put that expression on his face.’
Lexovia is silent for a while, watching Mutt stretch out his muscles and laugh with a few of the other recruits. He scans the crowd, searching for Tanks, and when he finds her, his eyes light up and he shares a smile just for her. Lexovia swallows any reply she might have, and without a word, Tanks races over to join him.
Must be nice, Lexovia thinks and blinks away irrational tears that brim in her eyes.
IS THIS HOW IT ENDS?
I land in an ungracious heap, arse up for the world to see, legs sprawled at odd angles and hands wedged beneath me; a gethadrox in one and a velvet box clutched in the other. My face is caked in a moss-coloured muck that’s pocked with sharp bits of stone and flecks of something rough and brown. It crumbles to dust when I use my shoulder to wipe it away.
When I try to push myself to my feet, I slip in grime; a thick, black, congealed substance that practically burns when touched for too long. The air quickly bakes my skin, glazing me in sweat that drips from my nose and eyelids. I taste salt on my tongue and smell it in the air. That and a hint of something left open for too long like stale biscuits or mouldy bread. There’s an occasional rush of bitter wind that whisks by as sudden as a shooting star but not nearly often enough.
Clambering to my knees, I bury my hands in the slime to keep from falling, ignoring its sting, then slowly and carefully get to my feet, one unsteady foot at a time. I wobble but don’t fall, disgruntled to discover that the entire ground is made up of this peculiar substance.
Where am I? This realm is a stark contrast to Vedark. Where Vedark was still, dull, a vast wasteland with the occasional spire of rock, this place is alive with light and colour. The sky is a vibrant blue, as royal as Buckingham Palace. It couldn’t be more stunning if someone had tipped an eternity of paint over it, lit by a near blinding sun that has grey lines waving across it, like a ball of fluorescent yellow yarn. It hangs so low in the sky, I do not doubt that I could stand on my tiptoes and unravel it.
The sound of drums pounding in the distance startles me, its beat deep and steady. I turn my head, seeking it out, and spy a spread of great trees with trunks of twisted stone, their leaves black and drooping, glistening like onyx. Far beyond the trees, I make out what could be buildings. They’re low roofed, boxy and made of what looks like black stone.
Focusing solely on keeping my balance, I push the velvet box into my bag and draw the xyen from its satchel.
‘Ku-ta,’ I breathe, and as the weapon lengthens, I drive its golden leaves into the ground, leaning on it for support as I take my first step in this unusual realm. I think I feel something vibrate in my bag but ignore it, taking another laboured step, and then another. My feet stick in the sludge, as if it were tar, but I use the xyen to pull me along. With every step, the vibration in my bag grows more vigorous, to a low and insistent hum.
Panting, I pause to rummage through my sack and frown when I find the velvet box holding Milo’s tooth is now quivering like a frightened animal. I flick it open and make a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a shriek. The tooth glows an eerie shade of pink, and though it no longer trembles, the light pulses within it like a vein.
Tentatively, I take another step and once again the tooth shudders, bouncing about on the silk lining. Diez said he would lead me to where Milo is now. Maybe that meant going beyond just the realm.
Gripping the xyen, I turn back the way I came. The tooth does not move, the box now stilled in my grasp. I take another step, watching as the pink glow throbs at a steady pace. Just to be sure, I turn the other way and once again the tooth quakes. Wrong way. I decidedly turn back, away from what I’ve assumed are poky buildings and towards an expanse of the rock trees and wilting yellow plants, their leaves folding and unfurling as if breathing. I can’t see where this path will lead but am certain that at its end will be Milo.
I don’t know how long I trek, but eventually the slop on the ground becomes no more than a few clotting patches amidst black sand and I do my best to avoid them. The xyen slips in my slick palms and my clothes cling to me, becoming almost see-through. Every time the wind rages past, I gasp, my sweat-drenched clothing only enhancing the bite of the frozen air.
The sun still shines though it looks to be fading, shrinking as the sky bleeds into it. I welcome the drop in temperature, but my stomach knots at the idea of night approaching. I peer at the tooth in my hand. The pink glow continues to throb, but I note how it’s grown paler and more infrequent. Please let this mean I’m getting close.
The drums start up again, startling me—they’ve been quiet for a while, but now their pounding is like thunder, louder and closer than before. A low hill looms ahead, and I hasten towards it, convinced that the drums and Milo must be on the other side. I trudge as fast as my aching legs and swollen feet will
allow, squinting as the sun diminishes, hoping it will remain just a little longer.
I gain the hill sooner than I expect and I drag myself up its slopes, pleased the patches of pea-green gunk are rarer up here. I’m crawling by the time I collapse on its peak and catch my breath. Don’t stop now, I tell myself. You’re almost there. I pull my flask from my bag and guzzle its ice cool water that then dribbles down my chin, but once I’ve pushed it back in my bag, I remain flat on my back, panting.
The beat of the drums washes over me, drenching me in its rumbling waves, its pace reaching an intense roaring crescendo as the sun fades fast, the once vibrant sky now drowned in black. Night has set.
For a split second I’m blind, then, rolling over, I see a series of torches flare into flame, flames whose light cuts through the night’s shadows and presents a crushing scene before and below me. Beasts I cannot fully make out but am sure are barely human prance around a gaping ditch of fire. They grunt and chant in a language I don’t understand. Mud-coloured hair clings to their tanned skin, like a second layer, and slithers from their heads and down their spines like wet string, tail-like ropes whipping behind them. Each face has one eye in its centre, where a nose should be, and their mouths are so wide open, they look as though they could swallow their own heads. Their legs are those of a horse, with bulging thighs and undoubted strength. Every so often, the creatures buck like wild bulls on hands that favour stumps, as though they’d been wedged into a vice when young and so forbidden to grow with the rest of them.
I crush my hands beneath my chest to keep them from trembling, and force myself to breathe deep and even breaths. As unsightly as these beasts are, it isn’t they who horrify me but what lies beyond the flames. The torches, proud like sentries, form a half circle around tilted stone cages that lean on each other like injured soldiers, struggling against the day’s heat and whatever horrors these beasts might unleash.
Bodies lie in the cages, some of creatures even more hideous than those prancing around them. They are hunched, trembling figures, tufts of fur speckling their raw-pink flesh. Their limbs are twists of bone that jut out at unnatural angles and they lie in a pool of their own waste, snarling with every weighted breath, the night about them soaked in a stench that could chase away rats.
