A Girl From Nowhere

by James Maxwell

  Selena made no reply. Instead she was thinking about the multitude of steps down to the door at the bottom of the tower. The Protector’s previous mystic had been exploited and was now dead. Despite her spinning thoughts, Selena had to focus. There was no way she planned to suffer the same fate.

  The Protector indicated the two men in white. “Arren and Merin here are mystics like yourself,” he said. “They may not have your power, but they know how to channel through someone like you. You will only cast when and how they let you. They know how to hurt you, mind and body. I suggest you obey them in all things.”

  Selena felt the eyes of the two mystics boring into her, but, worse, she experienced another, stronger touch on her mind. She tried to find her symbol. Something was preventing her from reaching it. Her nostrils flared. Even the freedom she had discovered with Rei-kika’s help was gone.

  “It will not all be bad,” the Protector said. “You will have some comforts. You will be allowed to sleep, although when you do our city will be exposed, so we cannot let you sleep for long.”

  Selena wanted nothing more than to get away from the two mystics and the tall man standing far too close to her. She lifted her chin. “I need to sleep now,” she said.

  The Protector frowned and then he looked at Arren, who nodded. Selena heard a sound and saw that Galen had returned to the room at the tower’s summit.

  “You can cast for us when you wake,” the Protector said. He turned. “Galen, take her to Tika-rin’s bedchamber. I’ll have Ruth clean it up.”

  Galen indicated for Selena to start walking. The Protector returned to his desk, while Galen led her from the room and back down the stairs.

  He took her two floors down, guiding her away from the stairway and crossing the floor to open a heavy door. After following a long passage, Selena came to another door, which was ajar.

  Selena entered a tiny windowless room, where the only furniture was a rumpled bed pallet and a chest in the corner.

  “While you are in your quarters the door will be locked,” Galen said from the doorway. “But if you serve the Protector well, you will earn more liberties. I suggest you do your best to please him.”

  Selena stared into the commander’s eyes. “I came to you for help.”

  “You will be safe here. You are with humans, and you are alive.” His face remained cold. “It could be much worse.”

  Galen turned away and Selena heard a new voice, this time belonging to a woman.

  “Excuse me, Commander.”

  With a grunt, Galen stepped aside to allow the newcomer into the room. A woman a few years older than Selena carried a bundle of coarse linen in her arms and a rag over her shoulder. She was pretty, with brown eyes, a wide mouth, and short wavy hair that was a mixture of red and brown. Tight leather trousers and a matching vest were snug on her curvy figure. Selena guessed she must be Ruth, the servant the Protector had mentioned.

  Selena waited for the woman to say something, but she barely gave her a glance. The young woman set the clean linen down on the floor, then swept the old away from the bed pallet. It took her no time at all to set the bed back up again. A few swipes with the rag cleaned up some grubby patches on the floor and walls. When she was done, the woman picked up the dirty linen. She still didn’t say anything as she left.

  Galen checked that the short-haired woman was gone and then turned back to Selena. “As I said, do what we ask and you will be well-treated. There’s no reason you can’t have a decent life. Get some rest, mystic. You’re going to need it.”

  The door closed, and Selena heard the sound of a bolt being thrown.

  25

  Taimin opened his eyes and winced at the throbbing pain in his head.

  “Looks like you’ve rejoined the land of the living,” a voice said.

  He tried to lift his head but it was a heavy, great weight. He heard a scuffle and then a face came into his vision. The man was perhaps a couple of years older than him, with light-brown hair and a neatly trimmed moustache and beard covering his sharp chin. He had twinkling eyes, as if prone to mischief.

  “Careful now,” the man said. “You’ve taken quite a beating. Here, drink this.”

  Taimin drank as a wooden cup was brought to his lips, tasting water and the metallic note of blood from his own loose teeth.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the arena, the blood temple of the city of Zorn. Here people come to worship the god of death and revel in their place among the living. In case you hadn’t already guessed, like me, you’re a prisoner.”

  Taimin closed his eyes and it all came back: Selena traveling with the bax toward the city; following them and then being caught out in the open; his capture by Galen and march through the city streets. Remembering Lars’s sacrifice, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Lars’s death had been in vain. The big, bearded skinner, who cared for no one, had sacrificed himself so that Taimin could be free. All for nothing.

  With a supreme effort Taimin sat up. He put a hand to his forehead as his vision swam. He fought down a bout of nausea and tried to distract himself from his churning stomach by examining his surroundings.

  He lay on a hard pallet bed, one of many lined up against the perimeter of a huge stone-walled chamber. It was a dim space, without windows, and barred gates stood at both ends of the room. Rows of tables filled the center, along with wooden stools. Taimin started when he saw the other prisoners sitting in small groups and talking amongst themselves. There were skinny humans, twenty or more, but there was also a skalen, the faded patterns on his skin showing his age. A handful of grunting bax sat apart from the humans, and there were even two trulls toward the back, given a wide berth by everyone else.

  He turned his attention to the trulls. They were taller and broader than humans, with snubbed noses flattened against their faces and long upper incisors that protruded from their mouths. Most of all, they looked strong, with muscles defined on their bare arms. Almost everyone, trulls included, wore trousers of coarse cloth and sleeveless vests.

  Two of the bax glanced over at Taimin. A middle-aged man with thinning hair also looked his way.

  “They’re curious about you,” the man with the beard and moustache said. “We heard the commander brought you to the arena himself.” He grinned. “Quite an honor. Whatever you did to him, all I can say is: well done.”

  “I killed his brother,” Taimin said flatly.

  The man’s eyes widened. “Kurt? Oh,” he said. “I see.” He let out a breath. “There you have it then. You won’t be living long now. No one leaves the arena in one piece.”

  “What should I call you?” Taimin asked. “Or is there no point finding out . . .”

  “It’s always good to know a man’s name, even if it’s just for a short while. I’m Vance.”

  “Taimin.”

  Vance nodded at the other occupants. “The skalen over there is Rathis. He’s some kind of leader, so the Protector considers him quite a prize. He’s also the only skalen so he gets along with everyone. Stay clear of the trulls, especially Sarg—the one missing half an ear. There are a few thieves among the humans, but most are all right.”

  “And the bax?” Taimin’s eyes were on the stocky bax, who watched him back.

  “The different groups pretty much keep to themselves. You’re safe for the moment. If we don’t get along in here, they stop giving us food.” He gave Taimin a meaningful look. “No one wants to fight on an empty stomach.”

  “They make us fight each other?”

  “Sometimes,” Vance said. “As a rule, humans never fight humans. Most often we fight creatures from the waste.”

  “How does it work?” Taimin asked, still watching the bax. “Knowing that you might have to kill someone you’re in here with?”

  “The odds aren’t high I’ll fight any particular prisoner. And one thing about the bax over there: they hate the Protector even more than we do. It’s not their fault they’re here. In a strange way, we’re all
on the same side.”

  “They plan to attack Zorn,” Taimin said.

  Vance raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But if you think they started the fighting, you’re wrong.”

  Taimin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone in Zorn who isn’t a fool knows the truth, they’re just too afraid to say it out loud. Bax . . . skalen . . . they all just want to be left alone. It’s the Protector who started stirring things up—raiding, burning settlements. It’s almost like he’s provoking all-out war. He says that anyone who isn’t human doesn’t deserve to live.”

  Taimin stared into the distance. The skalen, Syrus, had told him war was coming. Vance now said it was the Protector who was to blame. Of course the bax who lived in the Rift Valley would fight back. He glanced at the bax in the prisoners’ quarters. If the Protector was the aggressor, then perhaps they were victims as much as the refugees on the plain.

  “Why are you here?” Taimin asked.

  Vance shrugged. “I stole something from the Protector. Here, have some bread.”

  Taimin’s stomach heaved, but he forced down the hunk of pink razorgrass bread, following it with more water. “Is that what you did, before you came here?”

  “Steal things?” Vance gave a short laugh. “No, not me. Although I can’t say the same for some of the others. I was a weapons trader.” He held up a hand. “Before you ask, it’s a long story. They’re going to make you fight soon, you know. They might give you a day or two but not much more than that. Are you up to it?”

  “Why doesn’t Galen just kill me?”

  “Where’s the sport in that? By now the whole city will know you killed the commander’s brother. Seeing you publicly carved up satisfies his reputation in some strange way. No doubt he will enjoy your struggles.”

  “So he’s going to bring me out and his soldiers will overwhelm me, but in front of everyone?”

  Vance snorted. “No, you don’t have it right at all. They’ll certainly give you a fight you can’t win, but the odds can’t be too skewed or the crowd will feel cheated.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A lot longer than you. So far I’ve won my fights. Still, they’ve taken my measure now and I won’t last much longer. A word of advice: when the assessors come, highlight your weaknesses and hide your strengths.”

  Taimin reflected for a moment. His situation was dire, but he had to find a way to survive. “Thank you, Vance. For the food, and for the information.”

  “The guards called you a wastelander. I know my way around a sword but I can’t say the same for the others. I don’t plan to die in here, so it makes sense for those of us who can fight to band together.” Vance gave a wry smile. “It also increases the chance that it’s worth getting to know you at all.”

  As Vance had predicted, the assessors came the next day. Taimin did the only thing he could. He removed his boot and sat on his pallet as they approached, neither looking up nor standing. He tried to tell himself that he was feigning weakness, but the fact was, while his strength had improved, he was far from his fighting best.

  The trio of older men moved throughout the prisoners’ quarters and gave each and every fighter a short examination. They spoke to each other in low tones, clearly knowing that ears would be pricked as everyone tried to hear what judgments were made.

  Taimin glanced down at his crippled right foot. It twisted slightly outwards and the shape was wrong, nothing like the other. The toes were squashed together and one bone overlapped its companion.

  Soon the assessors were standing over him as they conferred. When Taimin stayed seated, shoulders slumped and head down, a skinny arm reached out and he felt a hand grip his chin and tilt his head back so they could look into his eyes. He heard them discuss the state of his body and take note of the bruises of his face. His foot interested them the most, and the same skinny man crouched and lifted it up while they talked about it. Without warning, the assessor squeezed hard. Taimin drew in a sharp breath. It wasn’t an act. The assessors spoke some more and then left.

  Vance came over and whistled when he saw Taimin’s foot. “I hope you believe in the afterlife. It’s Earth for you. You’re not going to last two minutes in the arena.”

  Taimin wondered if Vance was right as he struggled to squeeze his foot back into his boot. “I was taught by the toughest woman I ever knew.”

  “A woman?” Vance spluttered, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “You’d better hope she was Abigail.”

  Taimin froze.

  He looked up to meet Vance’s eyes. Vance’s laugh faded when he saw Taimin’s expression.

  Taimin spoke slowly. “What did you just say?”

  “Abigail. You really do know nothing about Zorn. She was an arena fighter, the best of them all. The story is she led the city guard. Something happened out in the waste and she snapped, refused to serve. The Protector—the current one’s father—sent her to the arena, but she survived battle after battle. Eventually the crowd cheered her on and the Protector risked a riot if he let her die. He gave Abigail her freedom and she vanished, never to return.”

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “Not personally, no. Before my time. But they say she had wild red hair.”

  A vision came to Taimin of his aunt, returning from the firewall after carrying the bodies of his parents into the heat. He again saw her burned skin, matching the color of her hair.

  Wild red hair.

  “Did she have a scar?” Taimin asked Vance. “On her face?”

  He frowned. “Not that I know of . . . I don’t think so.”

  Taimin remembered his aunt’s story about the origin of her scar. Your father did this. She had held off the firehounds alone while Taimin’s mother gave birth.

  In Taimin’s memory, she had never called Gareth her brother.

  Wild red hair.

  Taimin’s mother, Tess, had dark brown hair. Gareth’s was a mixture of black and gray. In fact, there was no resemblance between Gareth and Abigail at all.

  An image came to Taimin. He was holding up the drawing he had found in Abi’s clothing chest. The sour stench of char wrinkled his nose. In his mind’s eye he saw the image of the city of Zorn. Taimin’s parents had always held Abi’s abilities as a fighter in awe.

  The pieces fit together.

  When she was younger, Abigail had spent time in the city. Perhaps she had even grown up in Zorn. She must have been a skilled fighter, even then, for she had risen in the ranks of the city guard. Something had happened that caused her to turn against the Protector. She had been imprisoned in the arena and fought her way to freedom. She had met Gareth and Tess, two people in need of her protection. Calling her Taimin’s aunt had been a convenient fiction.

  It didn’t mean Taimin cared for her any less.

  There is no city, boy, Aunt Abi had said.

  Yet here he was.

  Taimin drew in a breath. “It was her,” he said, meeting Vance’s eyes.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was her. The woman who raised me and taught me how to fight. Her name was Abigail and she said she was my aunt. I realize now that wasn’t true. She was from Zorn.”

  Vance was incredulous. “Abigail? You were taught by Abigail?”

  Taimin gave a slow nod.

  Vance tilted his head back and laughed. “What a story! I can’t wait to tell the others. A cripple who was taught to fight by Abigail herself. Whatever you do, don’t tell the guards. With Galen eager for your blood, survival is going to be hard enough. Whatever skills she taught you, you’re going to need.”

  As Vance left, Taimin pondered all the things he had learned.

  He remembered his journey with Selena and Lars: encountering bax who were heading to join the struggle in the Rift Valley, and trading with mantoreans who gave him arrows while asking for nothing in return. Skalen had captured them, but Syrus, another skalen, had given Taimin and Lars food and shelter.

  His thoughts
then moved onto the confrontation between the refugees, who had been driven from their homes, and Zorn’s city guard, under the command of Galen, who was responsible for the death of Taimin’s parents as well as his current plight.

  Along with Selena and Lars, Taimin’s initial instinct had been to warn the city and help the Protector. They were wrong.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He had seen Selena for the briefest moment, but she was alive. Her talent made her valuable to whoever kept her captive. But more lives would be lost, and Selena’s might be among them, as long as the fighting continued.

  His goal steadily took focus.

  Men like Galen, who were responsible for death and suffering, only had as much power as the people gave them. Abigail had won over the crowd. She had done it by surviving against the odds.

  So would he.

  26

  Taimin tried to ignore the heavy thumping from above. As the people in the crowd stamped their feet, each beat echoed his pounding heart. Even their shouts penetrated through to the prisoners’ quarters.

  He was about to fight for his life.

  He stretched his muscles, conscious of his fellow prisoners’ eyes on him as he leaned into one position and then the next. Like them, he wore a leather vest and coarse trousers, along with the boots he had made himself what felt like an age ago. As he worked each limb in turn, he made sure to flex all of the places where he needed to be limber. He took deep breaths to flood his lungs with air in preparation for the battle to come.

  It was a struggle to keep his mind clear as he prepared himself. The knowledge that he was likely to meet his end bubbled up again and again. Vance hadn’t been able to find out who or what he would be fighting, and Taimin hated not being able to form any kind of plan.

  Galen wanted to make him suffer, he knew that much. He stared down at the ground. His chest heaved. He did everything he could to focus on his body, his hands, his breathing.