Bastial Energy (The Rhythm of Rivalry: Book 1)

by Narro, B. T.

  “If you wish,” she conceded, knowing full well she didn’t have a chance against him.

  The fence marking the edge of the encampment was five steps away. He banged his sword on it and raised a claw to a guard standing watch. Without waiting another second for the guard to acknowledge him, Paramar hopped over the fence. Zeti waited for the guard, though. He nodded to her, and she followed Paramar.

  He pointed his sword, so she followed suit, readying herself.

  “Half speed,” he said calmly. He tapped his sword against hers, stepped back, and then rushed forward with a strong overhead swing that surprised her.

  Paramar was a large Krepp, both tall and wide. Lacking the strength to block his blow, she needed to retreat a step. He followed with a lunge, which she guided clear with her sword. His half speed statement seemed to be a trick, for his attacks came at her fast. “Talk,” he said as he continued to search for a way in. “Talk or attack.”

  “I want to hear what you know about Vithos.” She nearly took his blade into her shin as he swiped at her while she spoke.

  “You’re quick on your feet, especially for a young woman.” He swiped at her again, this time at her sword. She moved it below his advance, but then he kicked it hard. The dull blade flew from her grip, bouncing off her knee.

  Her new skin was its own double-edged sword, extremely sensitive. A hot bath or scratching out an itch felt wonderful, but it cut too easily. The coarseness of her bed had never bothered her before, but now she was waking often, her skin hot with irritation and even new wounds sometimes. The sword left a red gash that felt like the sting of a scorpion. Blood trickled down.

  Paramar frowned at her. “But you treat your sword as if it’s just a weapon when it’s so much more.”

  She picked it up and aimed it at him. “I need more practice. The bow is my primary.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why the bow?”

  “Because I can kill things from afar.”

  “Scared of getting close,” he said with a knowing smile.

  “I didn’t say that,” she replied defensively, not giving herself the time to figure out whether or not it was true.

  He grunted, holding his grin. “I have a game for you. Each time you draw blood, I’ll answer one question. We’ll play until I touch you three times with my claw.” He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “I won’t attack with my sword.”

  She felt her eyes go wide with excitement. “I like it.” This was her chance to find out more about Vithos and, in turn, her brother.

  They touched swords again and she attacked, swinging wildly side to side, up to down, down to up, trying desperately to remove a slice of flesh. But he was too fast, not so much with his feet but with his sword. It always intercepted her steel. Even when she thrust it at his stomach, he swatted her sword away with his. It flipped through the air, and he grabbed her to pull her close, her shoulder into his chest.

  “Does it make you nervous to be this close?” She could feel his breath across the hair atop her head.

  She wiggled free. “No,” she lied.

  “That’s one touch.” Paramar playfully twitched his claws.

  She retrieved her sword and ran at him. She motioned for an overhead attack, but slid on her bottom when close, swiping at his thighs. It must have surprised him because he didn’t block her sword. She slipped through his legs, but he managed to spin and claw her shoulder before she was out of range.

  “Good move,” he said. “But that’s two touches.”

  “Check your leg,” she replied smugly while she checked her own stinging wound on her shoulder, finding red when she drew back her hand.

  There was a small cut in his leather shorts, but when Paramar lifted them there was no blood, not even a scratch. She looked at the sword in her hands. It looked sharp enough. She slid a finger over it and it bit back, opening her up.

  “How did that not cut you?” She felt a gust of wind and then her blood dripping down her back.

  He showed her a coy smile. “You’ll have to swing harder than that.”

  She ran toward him again, this time determined to injure or at least cut him once. Behind each swing she put more and more force, grunting and letting the spit fly from her mouth. But just as before, he blocked each one with his sword.

  Eventually, she noticed a pattern in the way he moved his sword from one side to the other when she changed directions. She finally tricked him by motioning to use her backhand but then switching back to her right side as he held his sword up for protection. While he couldn’t intercept the attack fast enough with his sword, he did manage to get his other arm up, and her blade slammed into his forearm.

  As a reflex she stopped, fearful she may have cut his arm deeply. In that moment he swung his hand down to grab hers, which still hung on tightly to her sword. “That’s three.” He said, changing his grip to a slow pat. Then he checked his arm for wounds, letting her see as well. There was a scratch, but blood did not come.

  Zeti was baffled. “How is your skin so tough?”

  “Since you got your sword on me, I’ll answer that, but no others.” He motioned with his claw for her to come closer. She hesitantly took a step toward him, upset with herself she hadn’t done better. “If you weren’t scared of getting close, you’d notice something about my skin. Look.” He held out his arm. She took hold of it and peered closely. It was rough to the touch, nearly hard as wood. She noticed faint lines crossing up and down the arm.

  “What are these? They look like scars, but there are too many.” She traced her claw along his arm to prove she wasn’t afraid of the proximity.

  “Scars are correct.”

  “That can’t be. There must be hundreds.”

  “Yes, on that arm. Thousands if you count my whole body.” She looked up at his face. His eyes were a darker yellow than most others. All around his face were more scars but so faded she never would’ve noticed.

  “I’ve heard of wounds healing stronger, but not like this.”

  “Jekra juice on open cuts,” he replied, “an old family secret.”

  She openly gawked at him. “But that’s poison!”

  “Yes, which is why no one can know. If you use the wrong amount, you could die.”

  Zeti waited to see if he was joking or maybe wanted to correct himself, but no. He stood with arms folded, waiting for her to reply.

  She never would have believed that the poisonous, red juice of the jekra vine could make the skin tougher if she hadn’t seen Paramar’s arm for herself. It was the first time she’d been in awe since seeing the gektar on the beach so many years ago. Paramar was clearly full of secrets. She’d come to the right Krepp.

  “I wish to join your Slugari search group.” It was the original reason she’d come to his hut. Joining the group would allow her to find out how they were hunting for the underground Slugari without Vithos. Any information about the Elf could help her find out what happened to her brother, and she also didn’t hate the idea of spending more time with Paramar now that she knew him better.

  As he stared in silence, she felt like he was looking through her, searching for secrets. “I hate first impressions,” he said. “You’re likely to see a side of someone that you’ll never see again. That’s why I’d rather fight them.” His voice was heavy with pride. “You can’t fake who you are during a bout.”

  Paramar was silent again as he scratched his forehead. “I see the real determination you have and also your real weaknesses.” Then he nodded once and smiled. “You would be a good fit. Tell the coordinator you’re switching tasks.”

  Later she would wonder what weaknesses he’d found, but at the time joy overcame her.

  The coordinator was old but still tough. Zoke and Grayol had told Zeti of having difficulties with her, but Zeti’s experiences didn’t fit their stories. She always got along well with Suba.

  The coordinator’s hut was near the center of the encampment, within earshot of the market that was always loud with activ
ity. Whenever Zeti crossed through the market, she felt as if her identity had been sucked out of her, joining the mass chaos. No longer an individual, she felt liberated and frightened at the same time. If something happened while she was there, she was part of it, no matter what it was. She’d heard of brawls starting in the market involving hundreds of Krepps. Luckily, she was never there when it happened.

  Most of the wares being sold were crafted by the sellers behind their booths or by a family member to them. If a bowl or spoon broke, its owner had better have something to trade for a new one because unless he could make his own, the only chance of getting another was from the market.

  Years ago, Zeti’s father had left with hers and Zoke’s last bowl one night. It was during a drunken rage induced by a lack of luck. The next morning, Zoke had traded food for leather and spent the day creating a pouch. He’d then traded it for two bowls that he and Zeti hid when not in use. Zoke was always resourceful and good with crafting. If their situations were reversed, Zeti was certain Zoke would find out what happened to her. He’d figure out a way.

  Shedding her skin without his support was difficult, especially because she was forced to suffer through the worst part while walking to the new encampment. By far, it was the hardest thing she’d ever had to endure. The skin under her feet began to tear while crossing the hot desert of Kilmar. She’d never imagined such pain existed. Luckily, Grayol didn’t have much to transport, so he’d carried her sheepskin bed, which she’d shared with him each night they’d traveled. Many Krepps were sharing beds during the four-day trek, so it was easy to ignore the implications of it. Her feet became so sensitive, she was forced to trade water for a pair of shedding shoes. Even they didn’t completely protect her feet from cuts and blisters. She was thankful that was all behind her now and she was on to bigger plans.

  The coordinator shot a friendly grin at Zeti when she entered. “Zeti, finally some decent company, and now a woman I see.” Suba walked around Zeti to get a full look at her new skin. “You’re all cut up. Did a man do this to you?” Suba spat.

  “It’s nothing.” Zeti smiled. “I’m changing tasks, joining a search group.”

  “No more picking plants. I’ll put that on the record. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “More than anything else right now.”

  “Good, certainty is important, remember that. When you’re put in a confusing spot, find something you’re sure about.” Suba was always eager to give advice.

  “I’ll remember.”

  “How is Zoke? Last time he was in here I was hard on him.”

  He’s said to be a traitor and could be dead for all I know. “He’s missing.”

  “Missing? Zoke has always been too smart for his own good. What has he gotten into now?” Suba sounded more annoyed than anything else.

  “I don’t know yet. If anyone asks you, don’t tell them I spoke of him.”

  At that, Suba’s annoyance quickly changed to worry. “Of course, my jerrendi, I understand.”

  I’m not going to be so sweet or innocent much longer, Zeti thought. The nickname Suba used was often a compliment for female Krepps who were friendly, never wishing to induce harm. If anyone else called her that, she would claw them across the face. But Suba actually had known her when the nickname would’ve applied, so Zeti figured she was still the same girl in Suba’s mind.

  She forced a smile and turned toward the exit.

  “Come see me again soon and let me know how you’re doing.”

  Zeti looked back reassuringly. “Endure.”

  “Endure.”

  Before Zeti could think of the next step in her plan, a crowd caught her eye, usually the sign of a fight. Crowds quickly pulled in hundreds of Krepps, and the obligation to watch was not lost on her. But this was no fight. She saw right away that it was a much greater spectacle.

  Being nearly a foot shorter than most of the Krepps there, she had to push her way to the front, where she just about collided with a creature she’d only seen on paper.

  “Stay back!” a Krepp yelled, tugging her back into the crowd.

  In front of her was a Human holding some banner that Zoke surely would’ve recognized because he read everything he could get his claws on. The Human had two other Human escorts and five Krepps acting as guards within the entourage. The Krepps were shouting for the crowd to make way, that these were allies who needed to speak to Doe and Haemon.

  Zeti felt her mouth drop open in shock.

  Each of the three Humans varied so greatly that it was hard to believe they were all the same race. Their heights and weights were similar, taller than Zeti but shorter than any full-grown male Krepp, except for maybe Zoke. But one had golden hair that hung down to his shoulders, another was as bald as a baby Krepp, and the man with the banner in the front had brown hair full of curls. Their skins were of different colors as well—tan, brown, and almost black—and each was so clean and smooth it screamed to be cut. Then she wondered what they tasted like, although they didn’t look particularly appetizing, and there was no smell she could pick up over the musk of the surrounding Krepps. It was more just a curiosity.

  She heard members of the crowd wondering her thoughts aloud. Where are they from? We have allies?

  Someone recognized the banner and was proud to prove it. “Ten red stars on a black flag, that’s Tenred’s seal.”

  Zeti waited for answers about why they were there, but only more questions were murmured within the crowd.

  Chapter 35: Manipulate

  CLEVE

  Each step closer to Kyrro City felt like walking toward the edge of a cliff. Even with the most powerful psychic at his side, Cleve felt he had to prepare for their blood to be spilled. Yet, somehow his hands were steady, his heartbeat regular. He couldn’t imagine a scenario that didn’t involve him dead or imprisoned, so why was he calm?

  “Are you using psyche to relax me?” he asked.

  Rek’s hood was pulled so far forward his face was completely hidden from the side. “I’ll need all my energy to get us into the castle, so I wouldn’t waste any on you.”

  Before leaving, Rek had prepared them a small feast, figuring they wouldn’t have another chance to rest or eat. His cabin was loaded with various meats. “It’s unlikely I’ll return. Eat as much as you can,” he’d told Cleve, explaining after how hunting as a psychic was easy. With the ability to sense the minds of animals and entice them, finding food was the least of his troubles. But none of that distracted Cleve enough to ignore that Rek had admitted it was unlikely he would return.

  Nearly halfway through the Fjallejon pathway, Rek whispered, “Don’t look up. We’re being watched with curious eyes. Surely we’re to be questioned by the Fjallejons soon, and if they recognize me, they’ll send a pigeon to notify King Welson. That would change our chance of success from unlikely to impossible.”

  More like from impossible to absolutely impossible. The thought made his nerves jumpy. Cleve put his hands on top of his head and forced himself to take a few long breaths.

  After another mile, a Fjallejon stood in their path. It looked like the same man who’d questioned Cleve yesterday. Rek squeezed Cleve’s shoulder. “Walk in front of me until we’re closer,” Rek whispered. “I’ll talk.”

  “Who walks behind you?” the Fjallejon called out when Cleve stepped in front of Rek.

  Cleve whispered, “How much farther do you need?”

  “Ten, twenty steps,” Rek replied, pushing Cleve gently to let him know they needed to hasten their pace.

  “A friend,” Cleve answered the Fjallejon with a shout and sped his steps.

  “Move, so I can see friend.” The Fjallejon gestured with his spear.

  Cleve felt his stomach tighten. “We can’t arouse too much suspicion,” he whispered, “or they’ll call the guards without needing to see you.”

  The Fjallejon jabbed his spear at the air. “Move now!”

  “Do it,” Rek whispered.

  Cleve stepped as
ide and the Fjallejon squinted his beady eyes. “What is your name?” he called out.

  “Cleve. I crossed this road yesterday.”

  “No, the other. Remove hood.”

  Rek slowly extended his hand and pivoted his elbow to wave. His hood remained. “I’m merely a visitor from Tenred wishing to see Kyrro. I wouldn’t harm anyone. You can tell by my friendly face.”

  The Fjallejon lowered his spear. “Yes, I see that. You may pass.”

  Rek put his hand back on Cleve’s shoulder as they walked by, and Cleve felt relief slowly move through him.

  When their path twisted and the Fjallejon was no longer in view behind them, Rek took his hand from Cleve’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “He still may alert the King if other Fjallejons convince him I was too suspicious. No matter how powerful my psyche, the spell won’t last on intelligent minds.”

  He felt his muscles clench. “Can you stop the pigeon, then?”

  “If it flies low enough, I suppose.”

  Only a sliver of the sky was in their line of sight. Finding a bird would take more than a little luck. “How long until your spell wears off?” Cleve asked.

  “I changed the way he observed me. That’s done. It’s over like any other first impression, and nothing can change how he felt during it. But I have no more control now that we’re out of range. He could’ve been persuaded to send a pigeon already. There’s no way to know.” It was the first time since they’d met that Rek didn’t sound confident.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Cleve muttered. “Although it may be an extra few miles, we should go around the Academy instead of through it. I think they may have lookouts watching for me.”

  Rek’s hand found a comfortable spot on his chin. He doesn’t like the idea, Cleve thought. He’s thinking of a better option, but there is none.

  “Do you have friends or family within the Academy’s walls?” Rek asked.

  Oh, that’s right. He doesn’t know Terren is my uncle. Nor will he. No one else needs to get involved in this mess.

  “Absolutely not.” Cleve was firm in his answer. But the grin he got from Rek made his words feel inadequate. “If you use psyche on me to change my mind, I’ll hurt you first chance that comes.” He spoke sternly.