by Amanda Twigg
“Throw,” Thisk bellowed, but she sheathed the Collector and dropped her arm.
“It’s too far away.”
“Damn you to shelk, Hux. Do you ever follow orders?”
Landra turned to the Warrior. His gritted teeth shone through his thinned lips and wild beard. Blood oozed through the slash marks on his shirt.
“Are you going to be all right?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine. Rather I would have been fine if you’d killed the felland.”
“It couldn’t do us any more harm.”
“No, and now it can’t do us any good, either. Tell me, citizen, are you hungry?”
A raging demand churned Landra’s stomach. She’d thought it had come from the beast, but now she recalled how long it had been since she’d eaten. “Yes.”
“Well, you can stay that way because you just let our dinner wander off. And don’t think you did that animal a kindness. No felland should be this close to the city. Winter’s coming, and it should be migrating to its southern hunting grounds now. The incoming ice will kill it, even if it manages to survive its injuries.
She stared after the animal, but it had disappeared into the distance. Her stomach squelched with hunger. “Didn’t you bring food?”
“No. Did you?”
“I wasn’t expecting to stay up here.”
The Warrior leaned on his sword and eased to his feet. “Maybe there’s more than one lesson here, citizen. Don’t let your dinner escape, and prepare for the unexpected.”
“How can you prepare for the unexpected?”
“It comes with experience,” he said, easing his cloak from his shoulders. He pulled the slashed shirt fabric away from his chest and scowled at blood that welled through the material. “Seems like it’s time for your third lesson. How are you at setting bandages?”
None of Thisk’s lessons seemed useful for a chief elect, but she said nothing. She didn’t think there was enough experience in the world to deal with the unpredictable Warrior. He changed her rank from moment to moment, as if it reflected his satisfaction with her performance.
How do you prepare for someone like that?
“We need to retrieve our belongings first,” Thisk said, sheathing the sword on his hip.
Landra went to support his arm, but he shook her away. They staggered along the fence line to where their meager items nestled in the leaves. An uneasy silence settled as if the gulf between them was too huge for either of them to know what to say. Thisk found his sack and dug out a fresh shirt. He never winced, but flares of deeper blues spotted his aura. “I have some salve,” Landra said.
The Warrior eased off his slashed top and gritted his teeth against the cold. One shallow cut split the greying hairs on his chest, but two raking slashes and a bite mark cut deep into the muscle of his left arm.
He eased himself down, and Landra knelt beside him.
“Wouldn’t we be better tending to this in the midlevel?” she asked.
The Warrior glared. “What salve do you have?”
She rummaged the pot out of her cloak and handed it over. Thisk examined the label for several seconds before removing the lid.
“You saw a medic today?”
Landra sucked in a breath. She’d crossed the Warrior Fourth enough for one day, so this had to be the truth. “Yes. This morning.”
“It’s a strong treatment. Did Gren clear you for training?”
“No, but… I thought we were going to have a history lesson.”
“Oh, citizen, you really do have a problem with rules, don’t you?” He rubbed the clear ointment into his wounds. “Tear my shirt into strips.” He nodded at the tattered garment.
Landra slotted her knife into the slash marks and ripped down the fabric. Thisk took the strips from her and bound them around his arm and chest. There was no discussion about his method, so if this was a lesson, he was expecting her to pick up bandaging skills from watching. He groaned when he reached the fabric strip around his back but stopped Landra from helping with one glare. As he shrugged his cloak over his bandaged body, his aura finally settled.
“Why did you join the fight when I ordered you to stay away?” he asked.
I thought you might die.
“Because I didn’t fancy going back to the midlevel alone,” she said. “I hate paperwork.”
Thisk didn’t smile, but warm azure shades rippled through his aura. His colors had taken on a more even pattern now he was warm, making him seem likely to recover. She shivered, only now registering that she’d truly feared he might die.
“You’re not a very good chief elect.”
Landra’s imposter feelings returned. Thisk appeared unaware of her confidence dip and continued to glare.
“What should I have done?” she asked.
“You should have kept yourself safe.”
“I was worried you might—”
“Society would cope without me. Another Fourth can be appointed without disruption.”
“So I was supposed to leave you to deal with that alone?”
“Yes. A chief elect is another matter. Your death would damage the peace treaty your father is working hard to secure. Our existence is fragile, Chief Elect Hux. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“I couldn’t let that thing maul you.”
Thisk grunted. “Like I said, you’re not a very good chief elect. You’re too nice.”
Too nice. Nice! What does that mean?
Landra opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. She didn’t feel nice. She broke rules and was argumentative. How could that be nice?
Thisk laughed at the outrage widening her young features. “I could have said worse.”
“Well, you’re not a good tutor,” she said, and the Warrior’s bellow of laughter made circles in his aura. “I never claimed to be.”
“And I never claimed to be a good chief elect.”
“Do you still want to eat?” Thisk asked from nowhere.
Stupid question. Landra’s stomach ached with emptiness. “Of course.”
“Well, you’re in luck.”
The Warrior cocked his head to a distant fence, and she followed his gaze. More than a dozen black birds perched there, silhouetted against the lowering sun.
“How’s your shooting?” he asked, picking up his bow.
Landra’s scores were hopeless, and the Warrior nodded at her defeated expression.
“Just what I’d expect. I guess it’s time for your next lesson.”
Chapter 11
Landra considered the flock of birds.
“Keep still,” the Warrior said. “Gliders are jittery creatures. You’ll scare them away.”
They didn’t look jittery as they rested and spread their wings toward the sun. Occasional wind gusts set them to flight, but they settled quickly and preened their feathers back into position.
“Just one will give us a good meal.” He offered her the bow. “They’re surprisingly meaty.”
“Barthle’s pie is on the menu tonight,” she said.
The Warrior shook the weapon at her, jagged, inky lines animating his aura. “We’re not going back to Hux Hall and I’m injured, so this is down to you.”
However much he controlled his face and body, Landra saw emotions painting tracks in the colored shape surrounding his form.
Frustration? I know the feeling.
She shut off her protest and accepted the bow.
“If you’ve never been to Third City, I suppose you’ve never used the animal pens for target work.” It’s another thing that should have been covered in basic cadet training.”
At eighteen, she was shy of cadet age, but this training didn’t match Dannet’s tales from the academy anyway. Despite her pain, she’d started to enjoy her overlevel experience. She didn’t want it to end, so she assumed her position without a word.
“Steady,” Thisk said.
I’m trying.
Eyeing the gliders, she contemplated killing a live target
for the first time. She’d slashed the felland in battle but hadn’t taken the kill throw. Now, these gliders looked content, as if their bellies were full. It was more than could be said for her churning guts, so she accepted the arrow Thisk offered.
“Animals move and adjust to their environment,” he said.
She remembered Winton reciting the same line from a manual but was certain the trainer had never killed a bird. She pulled off her gloves with her teeth and stuffed them into a pocket. As she assumed a balanced stance, Thisk wandered to the fence and folded his arms.
Guess I’m on my own.
This felt like a test, so she nocked the arrow, focused, and drew the bow string until her fingers touched her cheek. Winton had taught her this, but tension locked her limbs and tightened her grip as never before. She recalled her breathing exercises, and after several gasps, her spirit calmed and her body relaxed. Awareness of her cold, aching limbs and the drastic turn her life had taken faded from her thoughts. There were no doors to see through here, and she started to relax. She concentrated on the bow’s polished wood and the birds.
Go for the nearest one.
Closing her eyes, she listened to the wind. As her breath stilled, she opened her eyes and aimed. The release felt smooth, and her fingers fell away as she watched the arrow speed to its target. The birds rose in a frenzy of clacking sounds, and her missile arced over the fence into clear air.
“Shelk!”
“Try again.” He handed her another arrow.
“I thought my aim was good.”
“Live birds are different from base targets, even if you’ve trained on moving marks. Creatures are unpredictable, and there’s wind.”
Landra considered his words before nocking the second arrow. She raised her bow and followed the same routine. This time, her arrow sprang toward its target, and she held her breath for longer, willing it to strike true. The gliders took flight to avoid the missile and then settled back closer to Landra’s position, as if in taunt. The one she’d targeted preened its feathers, unconcerned.
“This is harder than I thought.” She dropped her head.
“It takes some getting used to. Give it one last try. I’ll shoot one down if you miss this time. I didn’t bring many arrows, and I’m too old to go hungry.”
Landra ground her teeth. Despite her little time with the bow, she’d studied the techniques and couldn’t see why hitting a bird should be difficult. She began her routine again but held her set position as she planned her next move. An idea formed.
“Clack clack!” She mimicked the glider call. The birds rose in answer and flew towards her. She tracked the nearest one until it hung for a moment, silhouetted against the sky. Her release was smooth, but at the last moment, the bird dropped into a dive, allowing the missile to skim past its body.
Landra didn’t want to face Thisk’s disapproval.
Not good enough for a chief elect.
The bird circled her head and she couldn’t bear the taunt, so she reacted in the way she knew best. She pulled a knife from beneath her cloak and tracked the glider to judge its speed. Now that it was close, she saw a faint yellow aura ringing its form. That gave her something to target. Her arrows had deviated to left in the wind, but her knife was heavier. Still, she calculated a small compensation, waited for the bird to hover, and then drew her arm back, ready to throw.
“No!” Thisk shouted.
Landra’s arm was already in motion, and she hurled the knife skyward. She wondered at how time could slow. It seemed too long before her blade reached the bird, but it struck home and she knew the gilder’s death moment by the frittering of its aura. The lifeless carcass plummeted, leaving the yellow patch of aura light still in the sky. It held together for a moment then dissipated on the wind.
“Yeah!” she cheered, exhilarated by success and unable to keep the triumph from her face. “Did you see that? I hit the glider.”
Thisk stood tall, staring at the point where the bird had fallen. Without a word, he turned his attention to Landra, furious eyes glaring out of his bearded face.
Tense limbs, raging aura lines—fury. Oh shelk! What did I do now?
“I would have stopped, but I was already throwing when you called out. I need to eat as well, and I’m better with a knife than a bow.”
“I can see that.”
The Warrior’s clipped words came laced with anger. She’d downed the target, even if it wasn’t in the way he’d wanted. Pleasing him seemed impossible. He wanted her to make decisions when it suited him, but how was she supposed to know when that was?
“Do you think the Collector of Souls is a toy?” he demanded. “That weapon came from the homeworld and has been handed down through generations of leaders. Its significance to our people can’t be measured in credits.”
His anger suddenly made sense. “Warrior Thi—”
“You’ve thrown the knife at a bird in a fit of arrogance over perceived failure. I don’t expect you to have mastery over every skill, Hux. Each day’s ability is merely a new starting point in your development. I would have taken the shot. Now, the Collector is somewhere on the overlevel. What if the bird had managed to keep flying and carried it to the remote lands? It could have been lost to our people forever. It’s clear that you have no desire to carry the knife, but its importance to our world is far greater than the petty desires of one spoiled citizen.”
“Thisk.” She pulled her knife from the strap at her back and waved it. “That wasn’t the Collector of Souls. I brought another knife from the shaft stores. The Collector is here.” The weapon gleamed magenta in her grasp.
Whatever the Warrior had meant to add, the scolding died on his lips. He stared at her knife, visibly trying to calm himself.
“You wanted me to throw it at the felland. How is that different?”
“The felland was already injured and couldn’t have taken the knife away,” he said, regaining control of his tight fists. Fury still roiled through him as he gazed up to the point in the sky where the bird had been before it plummeted. He stared for a long time. “That glider was moving and a good distance away. How confident were you of making the strike?”
Landra shrugged. “I’ve made tougher targets but not moving and in this wind. Still, I was more certain to hit the thing with a knife than an arrow.”
He chewed his lip. “Clearly! Still, every resource on our world is valuable, and my rebuke over risking a knife stands. Luckily, whoever taught you to throw did a good job. You have a solid knife arm, and that was a good shot.”
Is that a compliment?
“Thank you.”
“You don’t get the credit, cadet. If Winton taught you to throw, then he deserves more respect.”
“Winton’s more of a sword man. My instruction came from the chief.”
“Of course,” he said, as if everything made sense now. “But Winton must have drilled you.”
Landra’s first instinct was to say no. The trainer had offered little encouragement, reported slight infringements that were overlooked in cadets, and drilled her relentlessly in tasks until they matched manual standards. Soul-destroying as it had been, she realized his regime had honed her skills. Distance gave her a new perspective.
“He worked me hard and gave me solid soldier training.”
“Really? I’ll look forward to you demonstrating solid soldiering skills,” he said, rich sarcasm oozing from every word.
And back to the insults.
Before she could object, he pointed to the fence where the bird had landed.
“Collector or no, that knife needs retrieving. Step to it, cadet, and bring the bird before it’s scavenged. I’m hungry.”
Chapter 12
Landra kicked the leaves, but a stained fence panel gave her a clue to the bird’s position. She followed the stain down and rummaged in the leaves below until her boot snagged on something solid. Nudging the glider’s limp, black shape from the leaves, its uninjured appearance made her wonder if it h
ad died from shock rather than any wound. So much for her knife skills. She preferred not to touch the bird and nudged it again with her boot until it rolled over with its head lolling to one side.
Seeing death up close froze her to stillness, but her mind raced and her aura swirled before her eyes. Dreams of her mother’s death intruded again. Moments ago, the bird had been sunning itself, and now it was gone. The speed of its passing made life seem fragile in a way she’d not considered before. The wind still blew and the sun shone, but the bird had stopped.
There are worse ways to die. Inevitably, the experience took her to the place that had troubled her for a long time. Did someone shoot you with an arrow, Mother, leaving your body limp like the glider’s? Or did you fall sick?
Ignorance left a hole in her life, and she didn’t have enough information to fathom its shape. Dannet refused to speak of the incident, and rumors only spun her imagination into darker places.
What were you like, and how did you die? Did you love me?
“Cadet!” Thisk’s voice carried to her on the wind.
She pinched the glider’s feet between her fingers, avoiding the sharp talons, and was surprised by the jointed firmness beneath her gloved grip. The bird swung in the wind, emitting an echo of life that quivered her aura. It swayed lifelessly as she kicked the leaves in search of her knife. Luck favored her, and one random leg sweep uncovered the weapon. After replacing the knife beneath her cloak, she set out at a quick march toward the Warrior.
Thisk had arranged his gathered twigs on a round tin from his pack and was adding thinner brown wisps of dry vegetation from his pocket.
“Put it there.” He cocked his head to a bare patch of roof. He took a small stone from his pocket and trapped a clump of wispy tendrils against it with his thumb.
Landra watched in silence, her mother’s memory hanging around like a ghost at her side. The Warrior struck a tool against the purple stone, and small light flashes shot from the contact. The glow died, so he struck again.
