Along the Razor's Edge (The War Eternal Book 1)

by Rob J. Hayes

  He reached into the bag and pulled out his own stone, glancing at it only for a moment before slapping it down onto the table. His face showed me nothing, a blank slate. I felt my stomach turn over and tasted bile in my throat. The last thing I needed was to throw up. I was there to win a second meal, not lose the only one I had.

  The next stone I pulled out of the bag was a nine and I placed it on the table next to the first. Eleven was a low number and only one stone in the bag could send me out of the game. The wise way to play the game would be to take another stone and reassess. But I wasn't playing the game. I was playing the fucker opposite me.

  I watched him pull a second stone out of the bag and steal a glance. A slight tug at his lip made it clear he had a high number. Then his face went blank again and he gestured back towards the bag. I tapped the table with a single finger and kept my eyes locked on his face.

  I had nerves of steel even back in those days and I'm thankful for it. How I managed to play that game without shaking the table to rubble I don't know.

  My opponent hesitated, his eyes narrowing. He looked down at the stones in front of him and I knew I had him. I could see in his eyes he wanted to check his numbers again. I couldn't blame him for that. I wanted to check mine as well, even though I knew exactly what I had. It's an odd compulsion, the need to make certain your mind isn't playing tricks on you. I will give you this advice for free, nothing gives away the bluff quite like checking your numbers.

  Reaching into the bag for a third time, the man pulled out another stone. "Seven sickly shits," he swore before turning his own stones over to reveal a combined score of twenty-two.

  Relief flooded me. I felt I could breathe again and eased my hands open, wincing at the pain my nails had left in my palms. I wanted nothing more than to run away with my meagre winnings and never play the game again. But I had sat down with the intention of winning the man's bread and I wasn't leaving until I had it. I felt the eyes of those watching us, heard them murmuring, but I couldn't make out the words over the noise of my blood rushing through my veins.

  I flipped over my stones to show the man my score and saw his face grow red, eyes hard. Eleven wasn't a winning a score, yet I had stuck with it while his own fear of losing had caused him to play himself out of the game.

  "Piss-drinking bitch! Again." He slammed a fist onto the table and then pushed a little clay bottle forward.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "It's fucking moonshine," he said, still scowling at me.

  At the time I had never been drunk, never even touched a drop of alcohol. It was strictly forbidden at the academy. The tutors didn't want it dulling the initiates' senses, and I hadn't even completed my training before they shipped me out to participate in Orran's last ditch defence. I won't lie, I was curious to try it, to see why so many people loved the stuff. It's fair to say my sobriety didn't last much longer. But I was at that table for bread, not booze.

  I reached for the little tin of snuff I had just won.

  "No!" my opponent shouted. "Same stake as before. I win, I get you."

  "Thought I was barely worth the snuff?" I asked and then smiled at him. "But if you get to choose my stake then I get to choose yours." The smile slipped from my face. "The bread."

  He didn't hesitate to pull back the moonshine and push forward the bread. I could feel my stomach clenching at the thought of more food. It's always been surprising to me the lengths a person will go to for a little extra food. I had been surviving on my rations for months, but from the moment the overseer had offered me more food... From that moment, I found I was always hungry, always wanting more than my meagre rations allowed. It was as though my body was rebelling at the idea of throwing away food and demanded I win some myself rather than being given it.

  This time he went first and we each pulled out our first two starting stones. I had a score of just seven, far too low to gamble a win, and now he was expecting me to bluff. My opponent glanced at his stones and then smiled, tapping the table.

  I reached into the bag and pulled out a third stone, bringing my new total to sixteen. It was a good score, maybe even a winning score. I looked up to find him staring at his own stones. After a few moments he tapped the table again and met my eyes.

  I didn't credit the man with a lot of intelligence. Perhaps I should have. I had just lost a war, and I suffered regular beatings at the hands of a man I truly believed would happily kill me if not for his orders not to. Despite it all, I still had the arrogance of youth. I still believed myself to be smarter than everyone else down in the Pit. After all, I was a Sourcerer, able to wield magics beyond their understanding. Most of those down in the Pit were common criminals, or so I thought. I was quite wrong on that matter. A lesson you should always take to heart is that while all Sourcerers are powerful, not all Sourcerers are wise. The bard tales might like to make us out as pointy-hat-wearing dispensers of knowledge, but bards are known for one thing above all else. They lie through their fucking teeth. It turns out we Sourcerers do the same.

  Reaching into the bag for a fourth time, I pulled out another stone and placed it next to my others without looking at it. I saw the man's jaw clench and this time he hit the table with his hand. I took a steadying breath and tapped the slab of stone.

  I noticed then how quiet the crowd around us had become. Those still gathered were silent, leaning in to watch the match between us.

  With a flare of nostrils, the man flipped over his stones to reveal a score of eighteen. A good winning score. I flipped over my own stones one at a time, not looking at them, but staring at the man in front of me. I watched his face go from intense scrutiny to seething anger as I flipped over the last stone. The one I hadn't even looked at. Only then did I look down to see I had a score of twenty in front of me. I let out a ragged breath and was a little glad it was drowned out by the chatter of the crowd.

  Perhaps if I had been a little more diplomatic I could have avoided the confrontation that followed. But diplomacy has never been one of my strengths. I always left that to Josef. I prefer to rely on raw power and trickery.

  I reached out and pulled the stakes to me. I still didn't care for the sniffing tobacco, but the bread was a real prize. Victorious, I stood up and turned to leave.

  "Sit down!" my opponent hissed. I turned to find him on his feet, fists planted on the table. It was entirely possible he was not pleased with losing to a young woman. Especially one who had so utterly outplayed him. I think I might have made it worse by not looking at my final stone until it turned. In the eyes of the other scabs it made me look courageous and bold, and him look foolish. In truth, I was the foolish one and my move had been more bravado than real courage. That first round, I played the player. The second round, I let the luck of the game carry me to victory.

  "I have my winnings," I said, backing up a step. "You should take your defeat like a man."

  "Sit down!" he hissed again. "You'll play another fucking round or I'll beat you senseless and take all the stakes I want."

  That didn't go down well with the crowd, not that any of the cowardly fucks moved to intervene. Gambling was one of the few pastimes we scabs had. One of the few that Deko allowed us to have. I didn't know it then, but there was an unspoken rule that fair games of chance were respected. Of course, not many were willing to enforce that.

  I glanced around at the crowd, still clutching my winnings to my chest. They were all watching the exchange, but none looked willing to get involved. There was no profit in it for them. All they had to do was watch and they'd at least get some entertainment, though likely at my expense.

  I knew I could shout for help. Isen was only a few tables away and both Josef and Hardt would come running if they knew I was in trouble. But I had gotten myself into this mess and I was determined I would get myself out of it. I've never been one to go screaming to the nearest men for help. That being said, I was an antagonistic bitch without a diplomatic bone in my body and had less chance of winning in a fight
than I did of learning to fly.

  "You," I said, pointing at a big man with a scarred lip and scarred knuckles. "I'll give you half the bread if you beat him unconscious."

  "What..." That was about all my opponent managed to say before a scarred knuckle hit him in the side of the head. He stumbled and the big man whose help I had just employed grabbed hold and slammed my opponent's head into the stone table twice, leaving a dark red smear and a broken tooth embedded in the stone. Another lesson to learn, if a job's worth doing, it's worth hiring someone to do it properly.

  My opponent slid down to the floor under the table. His eyes were open but unfocused and bloody spittle bubbled between broken lips. He was still conscious, but I counted the big man as having done his job well enough.

  "Fair pay for fair work." I tore the heel of bread and tossed one of the halves to the stranger with the scarred and bloody knuckles. It was the smaller half.

  Chapter 8

  My first meeting with the Iron Legion was both awe-inspiring and terrifying in equal measure, and I had no idea who he was at the time. Larissa marched me up to the front gate of the Orran Academy of Magic and kept a firm hand on my shoulder, whether to keep me from running or lend me support, I don't know. I remember thinking the gate was monstrous as it loomed high above us, the walls around the academy grounds blocked sight of anything beyond and all we could see were the barest hints of the tops of buildings and a bruised sky above. It was raining, I think. We were certainly damp. It was cold too, but Josef and I clung to one another, sharing warmth through our rags.

  Larissa seemed surprised by the man standing at the front gate. He looked old even then, a heavily lined face and dark hair just starting to grey. A man in his thirtieth year made ancient far before his time. He wore a kind smile as he stared off into the distance, heedless of the rain soaking him through.

  I was quite shocked when Larissa went down on one knee in the mud and the other recruiter did the same. Josef and I stood still for a moment. We were too young to know or care about the issue of royalty. Back then I'm not even sure if I knew what the word meant. I know Josef was the first to copy Larissa, sinking down onto a knee and pulling me with him. I hated kneeling in the mud that day, despite the fact that I would happily have rolled in it on most. Children can be so very illogical, and I was no exception.

  I remember the moment the man at the gate noticed us. He quit his staring into the distance and startled at our presence, just for a moment, before the smile returned. I thought he looked a lot like my grandfather, though I had lost the man a year earlier and the details of his face escaped me even then. Still, I could remember he had been kind and comforting and never failed to sneak me sweet treats before dinner.

  Larissa called the man Prince Loran. I soon came to know him as the Iron Legion, though only in stories about the way he was single-handedly keeping Orran's borders intact. He asked Larissa a few questions I couldn't hear over the rain, and then went down on one knee in front of Josef, heedless of how the mud stained his white robes. I don't think he said anything, just stared at Josef, who stared right back. Then he looked at me and for just a moment I felt— awe. Prince Loran Tow Orran blazed with power. I didn't understand it back then, but I felt it all the same. Meeting his eyes, I could feel the depths of that power ran deep as the bones of Orran itself.

  It was only when Josef squeezed my hand that I realised the prince had said something to me. I still to this day cannot remember what it was. I simply wasn't listening. I was lost. The sight of the Iron Legion, the feeling of power he gave off, had shocked me to my core. Then he stood and stepped aside, waving us through the gate.

  I looked up to Prince Loran. I'm not ashamed to say it was a touch of hero worship. His name was legend, his deeds were the things bards wrote stories about. I know, I read dozens of them in the academy library. I read accounts of his training with the Golemancers of Polasia, a school of magic all but alien to both the Orrans and the Terrelans. He had convinced them to teach him their arts by impressing the masters so much that it became a mutual exchange of knowledge and ideas rather than an apprenticeship.

  There was a tale of his trip to Do'shan, his battle of wits with the Djinn incarcerated there. Some people say no one ever gets the better end of a deal with a Djinn. They are masters of words and loopholes, twisting people's desires upon themselves. The tale was extravagant, I'll give it that, and it claimed the prince answered correctly one riddle for each year he had been alive. In the end, the Djinn relented and gave him a boon. Having since been to Do'shan, I believe very little of that story; only that prince Loran has indeed been there and matched wits with the trapped Djinn.

  Years later, I was devastated when word came in that the Iron Legion had fallen to the Terrelan army. Josef was the only one who knew of my infatuation with the prince and he did his best to console me. But I had no time to grieve for the man I idolised, we were too busy fighting a war. Well, we were too busy losing it. I think Prince Loran was my first experience with loss. The first in a long line.

  It must have been nearing my sixth month underground when I finally visited the arena. It was located deep within the bowels of the Pit, as far away from the Terrelan garrison as possible. A winding series of tunnels opened out into a large man-made cavern, and the roar of bloodlust filled the space along with the stench of sweat and blood.

  Deko created the arena and it was his pride and joy. I heard from the other scabs, those who had been down there for more years than I could imagine, that Deko had ordered teams to work side-by-side excavating the cavern to his exact specifications. It was huge, easily large enough to hold a few hundred inmates with space to spare. Concentric rings, each higher than the last, surrounded a pit carved straight from the rock around us. The pit in the centre was large enough for ten men to fight abreast and the walls surrounding it were high enough to stop any who might try to escape, or to stop any monsters thrown into the pit from getting loose amongst the audience. At the far end of the cavern, furthest from the main entrance, was an area reserved for Deko and his most trusted sycophants. They watched over everything with cudgels in hand to enforce the peace.

  Any inmate could sign up for a fight any day. Deko chose the match ups and there was no arguing once it was decided. Nor was there any pulling out of a match once Deko had chosen. That was probably the only reason Yorin still had opponents at all. All the other scabs said he was unbeatable, and he never failed to end with the kill. Some said Yorin fought every day and had since being thrown down there with us. I wondered how much blood his scarred hands were stained with. I still wonder how many men Yorin killed. I'll wager it's fewer than I have.

  The more often an inmate chose to fight, the less often they had to dig, especially if they killed their opponent. It was well-known that a scab's performance in the arena directly affected their foreman's standing with Deko, and Deko respected those with a taste for murder. That was why Prig hated Isen so much, because Isen refused to kill.

  I picked up the marker and moved towards the end of the tunnel. For months it had been my job. I still feared Prig missing the hammer swing one day, but I faced that fear and I faced the ugly fucker every swing. My arms no longer bruised from it, but I still wore the bandages, regardless. I'm fairly certain I was on my third set of bandages by that point. I wore them partly to hide my little weapon, and partly because it made Prig think that marker duty still hurt me. That way he was less likely to force the job on one of the others.

  "Not you, bitch," Prig hissed at me. He was agitated, that much was clear. His whip was out and the bastard kept trailing it along the ground like he was eager to use it.

  "I always hold the marker," I said. I might not relish the job, but it was my job. Besides, I knew Prig wasn't likely to kill me if he could help it, not while the overseer was still interested. I couldn't say the other members of my team would be so safe.

  "You." Prig gave his whip a lazy wave towards Isen.

  I tightened my grip around the
marker and took a step forward. "I always hold the fucking marker!" I said again. Squaring up to a bully is only advisable when you have a chance of fighting back. If they can beat you without reprisal, then that's all your defiance will earn you. It was an unfortunate fact that, while the majority of us scabs had to be content with wearing sandals cobbled together with strips of leather, the foremen were afforded more solid footwear. Prig's booted foot hit me in the stomach and my legs collapsed. I found myself kneeling on the ground, coughing and fighting for air.

  "Not today," the foreman hissed as he reached down and tore the marker from my hands. "Today it's your job." He tossed the marker towards Isen.

  Isen caught the marker and grimaced at some pain. He was already bruised and scabbed from his fight in the arena the night before, yet he didn't complain. But neither did he stand up to Prig. I thought him a coward for that. Isen took the marker to the wall and knelt, keeping his eyes on the ground as the foreman lined up the swing. It was the wiser course. Prig wanted to see fear, wanted Isen to know the power he held over him. Unlike me, Isen understood that, and he gave Prig exactly what the bastard wanted. It was the wiser course, but it grated on me to see Isen humble himself like that.

  I watched, barely remembering to breathe as I imagined what might happen if Prig missed the swing and killed Isen. I wondered what Hardt might do. What I might do. Try as I might to keep my distance, I had become attached to the two brothers. My attraction to Isen aside, I liked them both, respected them both. I was even starting to trust them. The thought of life in the Pit without one or both of them was something I wasn't even willing to entertain.