The Cadet of Tildor

by Alex Lidell

  Renee sidestepped, but the man’s arm blocked her and trailed across her stomach. When she screamed for help, a damp, calloused hand clamped over her mouth and nose. She gasped and twisted, fighting for air.

  “You’ll purr soon enough, wench,” the man slurred. He pushed forward until he sandwiched her to the wall. A pus-oozing pimple on his neck jiggled at her eye level.

  “Aw, Nino, we can’t see nothin’,” whined a deep, unsteady voice. Other shouts joined the complaint.

  Nino’s free hand grabbed Renee’s hair and jerked her toward the middle of the alley. She fell onto packed dirt, the impact jolting the air from her body. The original half dozen spectators had doubled. Still more trickled in. They encircled her and Nino. His hand groped forward, seizing the front of her tunic, and the fabric bit the back of her neck and tore. The sound of ripping cloth triggered hoots and whistles. Cold air brushed the exposed skin of her right shoulder and breast. Nino grinned, sniffed the cloth in his hand, and advanced again, eyes bloodshot and ravenous.

  Renee should have died in childhood. But she had not. Death happened to other people. It happened to enemies, like the guard she killed while rescuing Diam. It happened to good people, like her mother and Riley. But not to her. Yet here it was, staring her in the face. She would die not from an army or a bandit’s sword, but from a mob of cloudy-witted drunks in pursuit of momentary desire. It wasn’t glorious. It wasn’t meaningful. It wasn’t fair.

  The thick, sickening crowd swayed before her, crushing any hope she had of escape.

  “You are mine,” Nino confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. “And then theirs.” He grinned up at his friends and then back down at her. His eyes shone. “And then you are dead.”

  A memory swam before her eyes. You are dead. Her sword arm tightened in remembered agony and disgrace. That will be the last time anyone here lets go of a weapon, continued the voice in her head, and cold green eyes pinned her. Am I understood?

  She recoiled from the memory, suddenly more horrified at finding herself cowering on the ground than by the rotten-toothed men surrounding her. She met Nino’s eyes, accepted the impossibility of escape, and rose into a fighting stance, redefining victory. “As are you.”

  She spun. Her foot gained momentum as it cocked under her body and extended into Nino’s gut.

  He gasped before roaring obscenities, less imaginative ones than she had learned from the Seventh, and swung at her head.

  Ducking the blow, Renee rammed the heel of her hand into the man’s jaw. In her side vision, she saw Nino’s friends approaching the melee, teetering on the line between enjoying the spectacle and wishing for a piece of it. Her time was short. She struck her elbow against his ear just as hands grabbed her from behind. They forced her to the ground. She noticed blood trickling down Nino’s head, and smiled. Then a ham of a fist jammed itself into her nose, and despite the general shouting, she heard the crack of bone.

  Renee swallowed blood and continued kicking until the men secured all her limbs. It took four of them to pin her. Nino towered above.

  And then came the growl. A menacing, inhuman growl that spoke of blood and shredded flesh. The sea of drunks froze. The growl came again, and the mob parted before a large, white wolf whose teeth shimmered in the dusk. Renee gasped when she met the animal’s savage eyes. For the first time, she truly appreciated what Khavi was.

  The dog—no, mage-wolf—stepped toward her. One by one, her captors let go and moved away. Khavi turned and stood guard. Nino too retreated toward the safety of the masses, but the wolf snapped his jaw and Nino froze in place. Renee understood the lout’s fear. Grateful as Renee was for Khavi’s appearance, not even she could bring herself to reach toward his grizzled fur. Rising to her feet, she held closed the flapping tear in her tunic and eyed the crowd.

  The wolf licked his teeth and settled onto his haunches beside her. The gathered crowd shifted from foot to foot, but remained where it stood. Maybe they think I’ll get torn to pieces, Renee thought, examining her options. Khavi stretched his nose to the sky and howled.

  Time stretched on in impasse until, without warning, Khavi rose and trotted away. Renee swallowed and started after him, but someone grabbed the back of her shirt and by the time she twisted free, the wolf was spans ahead. The mob opened to let him through and closed behind him, all gazes trailing the animal. All except one. Nino’s eyes remained on Renee, his expression contemplative.

  The silence that had settled on the alley was short-lived. Within moments, grunts, hoots, and obscene exclamations reclaimed the air. The drunks returned to Renee and she raised her fists, ready for action.

  “Renee!” Diam’s high voice ripped through the crowd, sending fresh panic through her. The bloody bond! He had seen through the wolf’s eyes and was now rushing into a drunken mob. She shouted for him to leave, but his voice grew closer and louder.

  Her heart raced. The frustration and stupidity that had spurred her sprint through Catar’s alley now endangered the boy it was her duty to protect. The mob would wreck him for sport. And it would be her fault. “No! Go back!” she called. “Run, Diam! Please!”

  But the crowd shifted again.

  Khavi returned. With Diam.

  The boy panted and clung on to the scruff of his wolf’s neck. In his other hand, he clenched a sword much too large for him. Savoy’s sword. “Here. Brought. This.” He gasped the words one by one.

  Renee grasped the hilt. A coolness from the steel seeped into her nerves as she examined the alley from behind the weapon’s tip. The circle of unsteady slobs resumed meaningless motion. Nino melted into the crowd and now issued his threats while safely wedged between two well-chosen gorillas.

  “Diam,” Renee said, not taking her eyes off the crowd. “Hold on to Khavi and walk out of here just like you walked in.”

  “I wanna stay.”

  “Me too.” Alec’s voice carried over the dull roar. Elbowing men out of the way, he emerged at Renee’s left and stood by her. Blue flame hugged his hands and wrists, bright against the grim sky.

  The departing sun cast long shadows onto the alley ground. Silhouettes of beast, fighter, and mage extended in a triangle in front of Renee. A gust of wind swept her bare skin, but she made no move to cover herself. Her spine lengthened and shoulders settled square atop it, while the rhythmic beating of her heart filled her ears. Drawing a breath, Renee stepped forward and extended her sword to Nino’s throat.

  The man attempted to retreat, but the thick crowd left little wiggle room.

  “Nino,” she said, enunciating the syllables through the muffle of her broken nose. The sword tip nipped the tender skin over his trachea, and droplets of blood snaked down his neck.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “She’s a wench no better than she ’ot to be, you sod,” sneered a man beside him. The certainty in his voice faded when she turned to him. He reached toward his pocket, but Renee’s sword caught the underside of his wrist. She kept her touch gentle and precise, just as Savoy had taught her, the razor edge of her steel poised along the man’s veins. He froze in place. The wind blew, bringing a whiff of ammonia so potent that even Renee smelled it. Glancing down, she saw urine soak the man’s shoes and trickle into a puddle on the ground.

  Shaking her head, she withdrew and sheathed the blade. “Master Nino.” She turned to him. “If we may leave now.”

  He blinked twice, then wheeled around on his fellows. “ Out of the way, you sods!” The bodies partied and he turned to her, his knuckles touching his forehead. “Will that do, m’lady?”

  “It will do just fine.” She nodded to him, and walked past. Once out of earshot of the crowd, Renee looked down at Diam, her heart pounding once more. “You promised to stay at the inn.”

  The boy shrugged with no shred of remorse and Renee sucked in a long, slow breath, the image of what could have been turning her stomach.

  At the mouth of the alley, beyond reach of the recent fighting ground, Alec’s mage friends
, Jasper and Ivan, feigned invisibility. The latter had turned her practice blade into a torch. Renee eyed him suspiciously.

  Alec crossed his arms. “What happened to you two?” His large body dwarfed the two twig-like mages. “You claimed to stay behind me.”

  They both looked down, shuffling their feet.

  “Well?” Alec leaned against the wall.

  Ivan said nothing. Jasper pushed his glasses higher on his nose and pulled off his jacket, offering it to Renee. “Please take it,” he said when she made no move toward it. “It’s the one useful thing I would have done all day.”

  “Coward,” Alec confirmed, and Jasper shrank like a kicked puppy.

  Renee took the coat still dangling from his hand and slipped it on. “Why didn’t you two turn them all into charcoal?”

  “Control in the midst of that mess?” Jasper shook his head. “One knock on the nose like you got and Ivan’d be useless.”

  “Can’t you stay far away and . . . ” Renee made a vague motion with her hand.

  Jasper snorted. “He might if he were battle trained. But Ivan here’s studying mostly thermal work—can help forge any weapon you want, so long as he doesn’t have to be around when you use it.”

  “Didn’t see you rush in either, Jasper,” Ivan shot back.

  “I’m a Healer!”

  “So am I,” Alec countered. Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “What’s your point?”

  “The point”—Renee stepped between Alec and the boys—“is that they are not fighters, and I am not a mage. You’re the only one who wants to be both. Live with it, Alec.” She turned to Jasper. “Thank you for the coat. I just realized I’m freezing.”

  He smiled and stood straighter, spirit returning to his crimson face.

  “Archers keep their distance too,” she continued in a voice her broken nose muffled. “And my old roommate, she couldn’t fight off a mosquito, but I’m sure she’ll preside over half of Atham one day. And I really could use a Healer more now than ten minutes ago.”

  It was Alec’s turn to blush. “You want Jasper.” He cleared his throat. “When I called myself a Healer . . . I meant that’s what I decided to study. Right now, your nose is better off without my help.”

  She turned to the quiet boy. “Would you mind?”

  He nodded and stepped forward. Blue flame danced about his hand.

  “Don’t worry, blinder.” Ivan made the title sound affectionate. “Jasper’s good. And he wants to show off anyway.”

  Jasper put a hand on her shoulder, nipped nimbly through the Keraldi Barrier and poured his energy into her, urging the tissues to heal. It was nothing like Grovener’s magic, but the pain did lessen and air started to trickle through the passage. She thanked him sincerely and the boy seemed to grow from the praise.

  “I’m hungry,” Diam announced, his fingers brushing Khavi’s fur.

  Jasper sighed, adjusting his glasses. “It grows late. I need to get home before Mother gets furious, and I’ve got pups to feed besides.”

  They walked him home, or at least close enough to hear his mother shout for Jasper to get his useless ass into the house. The boy sagged.

  “Jasper . . . ” Renee let the words trail off. A pigeon or courier with a message from Sasha if not yet Seaborn might have arrived at Hunter’s Inn by now. Doubtful, but she couldn’t help longing to check. Pressing her lips together, she looked from her new friend to the mansion looming behind him. In the open doorway, a tall, slender woman with striking blond hair puffed a tobacco stick. The smoke snaked around her like a living shroud.

  “Mother is . . . Mother.” Jasper forced a smile. “I’ll fare all right.”

  Renee raised her hand in a guilty farewell. “Feels wrong to just leave him.”

  The odd stare Ivan gave her chilled her chest.

  CHAPTER 30

  Savoy braced his palms on his thighs and gasped for breath, staring at Jasper’s receding back until the closing door cut him off from view. It took the mage longer to tear through the barrier each time he tried. But Savoy’s attempts at defense carried their own consequences.

  Rubbing a new spidery black line on his chest, Savoy frowned at the barracks’ door. Around him, the men debated the lineup for an upcoming fight, the first since Savoy’s arrival and his first chance at contact with the outside world. Unfortunately, their discussion offered in obscenities what it lacked in information.

  The outside world. De Winter. The girl’s image invaded his mind again, vying for a place beside Diam and Connor. He saw her meeting him glare for glare in the snow-filled forest, then striding across the ballroom floor as if the Vipers crawling upon it were nothing of consequence. She was a good kid. No, not just a kid, a rising fighter and ally, a younger sister who had somehow snuck into his life. His fist clenched. Being a part of his life was not a safe place to be.

  “Dreaming of the Freedom Fight, Cat?” Farmer’s voice shook him from his thoughts.

  “There is no Freedom Fight, Farm. It’s an illusion to maintain order.” Savoy rose to his feet to check the door. “No one is letting anyone go.”

  “It exists. Den used to be one of us.”

  Den won his freedom? Savoy turned.

  Farmer chuckled bitterly. “Might as well not exist, right? Would need to train a dozen years to get as good as him.”

  Savoy offered a noncommittal grunt, but it was not the dozen training years that bothered him. It was the question as to why someone supposedly free would choose to stay. Frowning, he twisted the handle and felt his heart contract. “It’s open.”

  Instead of rustling excitement, he heard only Pretty’s chuckle. “Shall you escape for a bath?”

  Shrugging, Savoy stepped into the hallway and learned at once what the others already knew. Beyond the bathing room and the salle, all other doors in the small corridor had the blue glow of mage locks. He memorized the passageway regardless.

  The door to the salle hung partially ajar, and lantern light spilled out. Savoy halted by the doorframe and slowed his breath, his body falling into the trained rhythm of surveillance.

  At the far end of the room, Den stood with his back to the door. In his right hand, he clutched a sword as if it were a club, and stumbled around the floor. Every few steps he stopped to examine a book lying open on the ground. It took several minutes before Savoy recognized the crude movements as a torturous imitation of a beginner swordsmanship pattern. What kind of fighter doesn’t know one end of the sword from another?

  Den paused, perspiration soaking his shirt, and cursed under his breath. When he put down his blade and bent over the book, Savoy slid into the room. A glance at the text confirmed the pattern Den was butchering that evening. Savoy picked up the discarded blade.

  “Step north, block, lunge,” Savoy said, summoning the form drilled into him in childhood. His crisp words filled the salle. “Turn south, block, lunge.” The sword swooshed, slicing the air. “East. Same thing. Then west. If you don’t finish where you started, your stances are off.”

  Den turned. Stared. Tension stretched taut between them. Their breaths sounded loud in the empty room. Then the startled look on Den’s face morphed to cold rage. The temperature seemed to plummet. Shame and fury flashed in the large man’s face, and his hands trembled in clenched fists. “Drop. That. Blade.” The trainer repeated his demand, his voice growing louder with each retelling, as if the piece of wood in Savoy’s hand would explode if not released. A vein pulsated across Den’s temple and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. In moments, his treasured wall of calm and control had crumpled to dust. “Drop it! Drop it, now!”

  “Drop? No.” Savoy twisted the sword and held the hilt out toward the other man. He took care to give no sign of mockery or even acknowledge the gash he had opened in Den’s armor. He had stripped the man of his pride; adding salt to the injury would be indefensible.

  Their eyes met.

  Savoy shook his head. “Don’t.”

  With a jerk, Den ripped the blade free a
nd threw it across the room. The wood crashed into some padding and thumped onto the sand. The trainer’s hand fumbled in his pocket and extracted the amulet. It slipped in his fingers, but he caught it and aimed at Savoy.

  The leather bands obeyed, flashing to life and pulling together.

  Den gripped Savoy’s hair and forced him to face the wall. He pulled on the rope, securing Savoy high to the ring. “Who in the Seven Hells do you think you are?” he growled in his ear. “You think you’ve had it hard till now? You’re an idiotic, useless, unbroken pup.”

  Savoy’s forehead pressed against the cool wall. He held his breath. Behind him, heavy breathing and rustling filled the air and then a crack echoed through the salle. He tensed. The next moment the crack came again, and a stripe of fire ignited across his back.

  The blows rained with thunderstorm fury, growing harder and faster until, like a flash of lightning, they ceased to exist. Trails of blood trickled down Savoy’s back.

  Savoy breathed deeply, drawing comfort from the stone before him. Pain was a familiar companion in both fighting and training. He worried little for it. The inability to defend himself scorched worse.

  He took another breath to collect himself and turned his head, unsurprised to find Den staring at the ground. The hemp, red likely for the first time in its life, fell to the sand.

  Den’s shoulders slumped, shame filling the void of exhausted anger. In the minutes just passed, Savoy lost skin, but Den lost more. And they both knew it. Savoy remained silent, letting the trainer simmer in disgrace. From fighter to irate bully was a long way to fall.

  “Papa?”

  Bloody gods. Savoy’s head snapped toward the child’s voice at the door. He froze at the sight of a curly-haired little girl clutching a blanket in two grubby fists. Her wide eyes glistened in the lantern light, and darted between him and Den, growing more frightened with each trip.

  “Papa? Look. Someone hurt that man.” She stepped into the salle and hugged the blanket to her face. “Who did that?”