by R. T. Donlon
“You are not wrong, Curala,” spoke Kyrah. She addressed Curala, but spoke to all of the Portizu people. “There is something different about me…something different inside of me and I have kept it hidden from all of you—all of these years—but it is not the kind of Darkness of which you speak. It is something much more powerful, something you should fear. I have trained my entire life to harness—”
She had not expected her words to be so fiery, but they shot from her lips like arrows aiming to kill.
“Fear?” Curala barked. The edge of the word curled against the offense pouring from his eyes. “I fear nothing, girl. I am Portizu and, today, you shall see the End of your days.”
Ultara placed a firm hand on his Right Arm’s shoulder.
“A Warrior Elite should carry out what is necessary for the Tribes,” the Chief spoke. All of the Portizu listened. “A traitor must be punished.”
Curala reached behind his shoulder and unsheathed his longsword. Its metal glistened against the breaking sun.
“Give me your blessing, Chief, and what must be done, shall be done.”
In the heart of the Portizu mob—somewhere deep in the mess of tribespeople, Kyrah could hear the cries of her father. She closed her eyes, shook them from her thoughts, and exhaled.
Fear not, Father, she thought. I will survive and, someday, I will return to find you. I promise. I will find you.
“Curala Shuth of the Highlands, Warrior Elite of the Portizu” Ultara began, “kill the traitor in our midst.”
The quietest smile lingered against Curala’s lips, then fell into a grimace of anger. His fingers clutched the hilt of his blade and Kyrah realized—above all else—that these next moments would define her forever. To kill would forever banish Kyrah from her home. To die a traitor meant to stain the Laethe bloodline forever.
“Today we dance on the Killing Floor,” Curala barked.
And as he stepped forward, Kyrah knew she had every advantage.
She had the monster on her side.
PAIN (BEFORE)
She skidded backward across the dirt in a crumbled mess of limbs.
Everything hurt—her wrists, her forehead, the point of her hip—yet she forced herself back to her feet, squaring back to her teacher at the other side of the plains.
“Again,” her Teacher said.
Velc Tahjir kept his open palms in front of his face, shielding the expression hidden there.
“I can’t!” Kyrah yelled.
The Teacher’s hands dropped, quietly disappointed.
“You cannot,” he began, “or will not?”
A bubbling rage flashed pink across Kyrah’s childish face. No longer could she temper the fury within. No longer could she maintain the levelheaded persona her Teacher expected of her. She wanted—needed—to unleash.
She forgot her training and ran hard at her Teacher in ambush, sliding to one knee and swiveling a leg counterclockwise at those of Velc. Without effort, Velc simply hopped, landing gently on the balls of his feet and avoided Kyrah’s trip altogether, but a fist collided heavily at his right kidney and stung like ripples through his core.
“Very good,” Velc said. “Very strong, but not too smart…not yet, at least.”
Kyrah had used every bit of energy she possessed to send that message and now, she slouched with her hands on her hips, gasping for breath.
Velc had anticipated her attack and had braced himself against the impact. He flexed his torso and absorbed the pain. The power behind her fist, for a girl her size, bordered the unseemly. He allowed its power to course through him like a rush of adrenaline.
“Too bad,” he whispered. “Such strength wasted.”
He swept underneath her and sent her over his leg. Her entire frame rose from the ground horizontally until he sent an open palm heavily into her jaw. She flailed against the grass, rolling and groaning against the pain, but this time, she did not get up. It took her several minutes to regain composure and, when she finally did, she remained furiously silent except to hack a wad of blood-riddled phlegm to the ground beside her.
“Sit up,” her Teacher began. “Join me.”
He sat adjacent to her with legs crossed under him. His arms sat against his thighs.
“Do you feel that?” he asked.
Kyrah turned to him, perplexed.
“Feel what?” she asked.
“The pain.”
She nodded. The pain seemed to be consuming her.
“I have been disappointed in you as of late. You have yet to show promise with your pain.”
She said nothing.
“How did I beat you?” he asked.
She focused the fuzzy haze of recollected moments just before she had lost the duel.
“With counterattack?” she asked.
She answered as if she were guessing. Velc neither scoffed at her response, nor sat in silence. He had found a tense medium that kept Kyrah hunched against his words.
“We have been working at this very thing for a year now and you still believe I have beaten you with my hands and feet?” her teacher asked. “For a girl so quick to learn, you sure are slow.”
A bit of angry sarcasm riddled his words. Kyrah lowered her head even further and bit the fat of her bottom lip.
“Listen to me, Kyrah,” he continued. “It has nothing to do with the speed and power of my punches. In fact, it is the opposite. You must focus your sights inward. Your strength and agility is only half of your training. What you draw from within is the other is your focal point.”
Velc relaxed at the sight of Kyrah’s frustrations and leaned in slightly against the weight of his legs.
“You have heard the myth of Turisic, yes?” he asked.
Kyrah nodded.
“Then you know how much courage it took for him to endure such turmoil in the Anestra.”
Another nod.
“This is how we train our Warriors. This is what we expect of you.”
“But Teacher,” Kyrah asked. “You expect us to do what Turusic has done? We are not gods…”
Velc turned his aging eyes apathetically toward her.
“We are as close to gods as anyone has ever been,” he whispered. “I must teach you how to control your pain, Kyrah. I must teach you how to become the Warrior Elite.”
She could say nothing, nor did she want to.
“Let me show you what I mean,” Velc continued. “Stand.”
His robes fluttered as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Hit me,” he said.
His position did not resemble wuru, nor did it resemble warouw, weri, or even wier, so Kyrah, once again, stepped backward, enough to show subtle retreat from Velc’s request.
“Hit me as hard as you possibly can,” he spoke.
“But—”
“Ball your fist, flex your arm, and strike as I have taught you.”
She swung hard with a white-knuckled fist and made contact. The muscle gave way in Velc’s abdomen and he grimaced terribly against the force of it.
Pain, she thought. How can he continue to take these blows?
“Well done,” he said, “but there is still fear in your eyes. This will not work until you rid yourself of all fear.”
She forced her eyes into slits.
“I fear nothing,” she said.
A golden hue pulsed where she had hit Velc a moment ago, it shifted its way up through his chest, down his arms, and into his fists. With a quick forward thrust, he sent Kyrah flailing backward into the rocky patches of dirt behind her.
“Do not tell me you lack fear when it pours from your eyes. Get up. There is work to be done.”
ONE OF OUR OWN (PRESENT)
Kyrah centered herself into a defensive squat opposite the others. Curala bent his knees and raised the longsword from his hip.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long, long time,” he grunted. “Finally the People see your true self.”
Curala lunged with sword overhead, striking the grou
nd with thunderous intensity where Kyrah had stood only an instant before. She had retreated backwards like a spider escaping a foot.
“I do not want to hurt you, Curala,” said Kyrah. “I have given you what you’ve always wanted. Warrior Elite is yours.”
“But it is not enough!” Curala barked, swinging the longsword across his body only to miss Kyrah for a second time.
He swung through the momentum and caught himself enough to stop mid-swing and send a chilling blow into Kyrah’s side with the sword’s hilt. She fell hard against the jab, releasing a pocket of air from her lungs. She rose to her feet, glanced around at the barking crowds and focused. The pain moved to her chest and hardened there into strength.
“Death to the girl!” they yelled.
“Curala the Elite!”
“Blood of the traitor!”
The violent chants hit her just as hard as Curala’s longsword hilt.
How quickly perceptions change, she thought. I was their beloved…
“The more you prolong this,” Curala grunted, “the harder this will be for you.”
They had not angered her, just filled her with an insatiable pity. Another swoosh of the longsword—this time, for her head—changed that. There would be no settling here—not with Curala, not with the Chieftain, nor anyone else in the crowd.
“Kill her, Shuth!”
“A traitor does not deserve to live!”
“Spill the Laeth blood!”
“If you do not kill me quickly,” Kyrah whispered, “you will lose the confidence of your people. They already seem to be growing bored.”
Curala groaned and, again, swung the sword with tremendous force. She shuffled backward, retreating into a crouching, spidery wuru.
“My people know I will do what is necessary,” he spat, “unlike the traitor they once believed in.”
She sprung forward with arms outstretched. Curala’s attack had been clumsy and left him vulnerable against her ambush. She struck him hard directly in the center of the chest. The force sent him tumbling onto his back in a splay of wasted energy. In a moment that spanned only the instant between breaths, Kyrah had deflected Curala’s longsword, ripped a dagger from her hip sheath, and raised it with tense fingers to the Elite’s throat. The crowd silenced, near gasp.
“I will not hurt you, Curala. These people need you more than you know. You must believe me. I am not who you think I am.”
The strength she used to pin him to the dirt outmatched any Warrior amongst them, even the new Elite himself.
“It will not just be you who suffers,” Curala spat, wriggling against the dagger’s blade. “The Laeth name will never be the same. You will forever be known as a betrayer. I will make sure of that.”
She touched the blade to his throat, close enough to draw a thin droplet of blood.
“There are bigger things at play here, Curala. Things you cannot comprehend. I must save our people from them,” she said. She turned to the crowd. “I will save all of you! I will return.”
“You are nothing but a monster.”
Curala’s eyes told her everything. No matter what she said, she would never convince him of the danger with which she had come face to face. Perhaps this was the fate of her story—Curala the Forgotten chasing her to the ends of the Range for one last elusive victory.
“Can you feel the blade against your throat?” she whispered. Curala swallowed into a deep grimace. “If I wished to end this, I would have done it already. You are beneath me—you always have been—but lucky for you, I understand the needs of our people. You are the best we have for the Elite now. You must lead our people into better times…and it will have to be without me.”
Curala squirmed from underneath the blade, but Kyrah pinned him divisively, once again, to the dirt.
“When my mother returns,” she continued, “ask her what I have chosen to undertake. Only then will you have any sort of glimpse into my struggles, into what I have been asked to do.”
“Your mother is dead! You are mad!” he barked.
“I have to do this,” Kyrah growled, “for her.”
She felt a distinct weight lifted from her. She released Curala only enough to taste the relief of telling the truth.
The crater warbled, dizzying through her vision. The silhouettes of two people—a boy and a girl—approached from a darkened path opened beyond the Portizu crowds. The uproar of thousands of Portizu Tribespeople dulled in her ears.
“What’s happening?” she asked, but no one could hear her.
The boy, a voice echoed through her skull. Find the boy.
She wished to speak to it, but knew her efforts would be futile, so instead, she lifted her eyes and concentrated her vision to the silhouettes at the distance. Blue eyes shimmered clearly even from this distance.
The boy, she thought. He is here.
“I am glad you have chosen to join us, Kyrah,” the boy spoke. “We must hurry. Time is growing short.”
She watched Curala angrily swinging the longsword, sinking the metal in her chest but it passed through her without leaving a wound.
“This is your moment, Kyrah,” the boy echoed in her ear. “Allow me to take you away from this.”
Kyrah breathed heavily. She scanned the wall of angry faces one last time.
“I have already accepted your call,” Kyrah confirmed. “Do what must be done.”
A door seemed to swing open in her mind and, before she could make sense of it, her body fell through. When she opened her eyes, she stood at the boy’s side, angling her head down into his glowing eyes.
“Come,” the boy said. “We have much to discuss in very little time. Come.”
The boy took her hand, but she turned one last time toward the Highlands behind her.
“I will miss this place,” she whispered.
Lider turned to her and smiled.
“Greater adventures are yet to come,” he said. “
With the blade no longer against his throat, Curala jolted upward, surprised by the sudden emptiness surrounding him. The crowd had gone eerily silent. Even Chieftain Ultara widened his eyes in shock.
No emotion, Curala repeated to himself as he entered taerji. No emotion.
He straightened himself, stood up and sheathed the sword at his back.
“My People!” Curala began. Taerji flooded his mind, erasing his angry mind. “What we have seen here today is a disgrace beyond all measure. Magic holds no bearing here! Only Darkness holds the power to do such things.”
The crowd jeered angrily.
“I know you voted for her, but I also know she has let you down. I promise you—I will not! I will never disappoint my People! I will gain your trust as Warrior Elite and I will work to end this evil that plagues our lands! Trust in me and I will bring you the head of Kyrah Laeth! I will end this once and for all!”
“Kill the girl!” someone screamed.
“The Darkness must be stopped!”
A flurry of cheers rose into the sky like smoke.
“I will take the best of our Tribes and we will find the girl and, only then will I show you what a true Warrior Elite looks like.”
Another jeer ran through the crowd. This was it. He had them.
“Return to your villages and know of my promises. You will hear word as soon as it is done.”
The mob dissipated and Curala moved closer to his Chieftain.
“What did I say to you when we first discussed your new role?” Ultara whispered.
“If I were to covet the role, I should never make promises I may not be able to keep,” Curala groaned, “but my Chief, I will keep this—”
“You do not know that. You have offered the people perfection when there is clearly no such thing, Curala, and when that promise is not fulfilled, do you know what they will do to you? Do you know?”
Curala crossed his bulking arms and exhaled loudly.
“My Chief,” he continued, “I have been at your arm for longer than most—since the beginn
ing, in fact—but now…now you must address me as a colleague. You must balance the emotional equation, my Chief. I am in taerji. I feel nothing. I know, with all of my being, what must be done. You will redirect me, show me what I am missing. You see? I know how this works.”
Ultara breathed a sigh of discontent.
“It is my job as Warrior Elite to maintain an objective purpose. The rallying of the Portizu People behind a force as strong as Kyrah Laeth’s betrayal is something irreversible. If anything, when this is finished, I will look back at my time as Warrior Elite and know definitively that I reunified our people, that there was nothing that could stand in our way.”
Ultara bent closer to the Elite. What he wanted to say must remain intimate, confidential.
“You must remain very cautious in your proceedings, Curala. Nothing of this magnitude has happened to the Portizu Tribes since…since Relu.”
The Chieftain whispered the last part of the phrase as if it were some sort of secret that would blow Curala from taerji.
“We live in a new age, my Chieftain. It requires us to do things that may seem unsavory, heartless even, but we must do them regardless. Why? Because the lives of our people depend on it. Taerji or no taerji, you know I am right.”
Ultara turned away. A cool rush of wind brushed the ridges of his face. Only after several minutes did he find it within himself to speak.
“I will allow you the Hunt under one condition,” he spoke. “You spare the others in the Laeth bloodline. They deserve nothing for what Kyrah has done. Her father—the look on his face—there is no hiding the pain of a parent watching his daughter die.”
Curala had not expected the Chieftain to take such precautions, but he understood his role, more than most.
“If that is what you wish, then I accept.”
Chief Ultara bowed at his newly appointed Elite, eyes never leaving those of Curala.
“If you find her, you must end this quickly and without hesitation. You must make certain that Kyrah is dead,” Ultara whispered.
Curala dimmed his eyes in confirmation.
“My Chief, I will never let you down.”
He sprinted to his quarters and packed light. The names of his chosen pack had crossed his mind before he had even been granted permission for the Hunt:
