Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Savarah struck out at him again, but he darted back, now weaponless. This was her chance—if she ever had one—to kill Rintorack.

  She glanced back at Rilon. He had attempted to grab her second weapon, but was kneeling on the ground beside it; the javelin Rintorack had hurled had torn open his left arm at the bicep. Rilon looked at her as he picked up one of the two weapons. “Now!” he shouted hoarsely, and motioned with his head toward the small doorway on the other side of the rock wall.

  Words from Isolaug drifted through her, enticing her to turn away from Rilon.

  “Dependency on another for any reason beyond self-interest is the way of fools and leads to death.”

  Savarah spat at Rintorack.

  “Come get me, you weakling,” he sneered.

  She laughed. “Look whose head’s all bloody. You’re the Dragoon champion?” She cackled out a girlish laugh. “What an embarrassment!”

  Rintorack made to lurch at her again, but she swung her javelin, forcing him to retreat as she spun and sprinted toward the barrier of the proving grounds.

  “Come on!” she shouted at Rilon.

  Timing her steps, she leapt up and placed her foot on the top of the wall, her momentum carrying her over. The Shadow Children who’d been watching from that position scattered and Savarah landed within striking distance of the two Glory Watchmen.

  Tarquin’s face was pale, and he reached for the sword at his belt, but Savarah was upon him and slammed her javelin through his stomach, then ripped it back out tearing out a splatter of flesh and blood.

  With a mangled cry, Tarquin dropped to the ground and Savarah spun on Asden. The lone Watchman had only his whip and he snapped it in hasty defense catching Savarah in the shin and splitting her skin to the bone.

  She sucked in a breath through her teeth to dull the intense pain and saw Rilon land on her side of the wall.

  Behind him, still within the proving circle, Rintorack sprinted in pursuit. Savarah clenched her javelin tight in one hand and caught Rilon’s fingers with the other, then turned on her heels. Hand in hand they rushed through the gaping opening in the rock, leaving the sounds of confusion and chaos behind them.

  ***

  The passageway was the kind that would have frightened a normal child, dark as the abyss for long stretches, illumined only by the occasional wall torch that allowed the barest trace of ghostly light to issue into the in-between spaces.

  Savarah had never entered this hall before, but Rilon had. He was of the lower class of Threes, and his sessions met in the outer temple. She, on the other hand, received special instruction with four other top students amongst the Threes and met near Astrum’s lair. Often times, she could smell Master Isolaug’s fire-breathing creation. Its sulfuric lungs exhaling a sooty stench amongst the inner temple passages.

  “How far is the lower temple court?” demanded Savarah, tightening the grip on her javelin. Her legs were beginning to ache fiercely, the initial jolt of energy she’d felt in the arena now beginning to wear away. The wound that Tarquin had opened on her shin felt as if a scuttlehound were gnawing on it, and the searing lashes on her back still burned with fire.

  And yet, she felt she could press harder, move faster than Rilon was going.

  Rilon squeezed her hand. “Not too far,” he called back. “A chamber of the Divine King lies ahead; it is where his children play. And then, not much further, there is a iron gate to go through. It is the passageway into the Nightmare’s tunnel.”

  A torch ahead eked out a frail light, and when they neared it, Savarah glanced over her shoulder. A swarm of shadowy movement danced in the dim grey light behind them.

  Doubt resurfaced in her mind. As fit as she and Rilon were, they were limited in their speed by their injuries… that and the fact that they still had the little legs of children. Physically, it mattered not that their minds were in early adulthood, the matured bodies of the Glory Watchmen would catch them soon if they were among the incoming fray at their backs.

  “Are you going slower on my account?” asked Savarah.

  “No,” said Rilon with a slight rasp. “Are you going slow for me?”

  She swallowed down her natural response to assert her dominance. “No,” she replied, but the lie tasted bittersweet in her mouth.

  Survival of self is our primary objective as Shadowmen. One cannot accomplish any secondary goals if one is dead.

  The humorous truth had been part of her scripture memorization. As a Two, before the days of fighting began, she had memorized thousands of lines from the Compilation of the Words of the Beasts. They now flooded her mind like the shrill voice of a prophetess breathing out dire warnings to the stupid and the reckless.

  “…my kind rejects the weakness the Makers have made inherent in all things. Dependency, need, submission, obedience… if power is not your ultimate goal, then you’ve embraced the divine Makers’ delight in weakness. With power, comes control and self-fulfillment. Anything that forces you to reject your desires, this is slavery.

  Truly, she had set her feet on a new path. An untrodden road that she barely understood. It certainly did not hold power as its ultimate goal. Yet Rilon’s loyalty and love felt worthy and fulfilling in a different way—not the way of power, but in that it satisfied her deepest emotional needs.

  As she ran alongside Rilon, that same emotional bond passed through his fingers into hers, and she guessed this to be the enslaving term the Glory Watchmen had taught against called friendship. It was a shackle made of a certain type of love that they had warned was even deadlier than the love of sexual intimacy, for once one was bound to it, all one’s self-preserving instincts would be cast by the wayside in order to save the object of that love.

  Was this now Rilon? Was she bound to him in such a way?

  A bright light glowed ahead, setting the cavern walls ablaze. Savarah again glanced back.

  The swarm of bodies was no longer indistinct. Leading the pursuit were a number of older children from the Dragoons, and at the front was Rintorack, the wound she’d given him painting the left side of his face crimson.

  A pulse of delight warmed her heart at the sight of the injury. She was strong, even in the weakness of friendship.

  The fighter that had plagued her nightmares for the last few weeks was now beaten and bloodied behind her.

  With a little good fortune, she might find a way to kill Rintorack before she and Rilon escaped, turning her dark dream into a cherished memory.

  At Rintorack’s speed, he was going to press this into a reality sooner than they wanted.

  They couldn’t go on, not at Rilon’s speed. Once Rintorack caught up to them, they would be forced to confront him, and then the entire throng of Dragoons and Threes would descend on them.

  “We have to hide,” said Savarah. “Before they come too close and we lose the chance.”

  “We’re over halfway there,” said Rilon. His breaths were winded, and she noted how his injured arm drooped.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Savarah, “We hide or we die.”

  The word we felt awkward on her tongue.

  The light beamed bright as they entered a large chamber. It was filled with torches hanging from wall mounts and propped on stands about the middle of the room.

  The enormous space was filled with children. Perhaps a hundred of them. They looked to be between the ages of two and six and all were playing noisily with toys, or running about chasing one another in some kind of cooperative game. And there was a gathering of a dozen or more mothers seated on cushioned steps. They were all conversing noisily, their voices having to rise above the chaotic sounds off the children. All wore flowing silk dresses or skirts and each had a child suckling on both breasts.

  The sight nearly took Savarah’s breath away. She tugged on Rilon, rushing over to where the mothers were congregated where a line of six children waited for a turn to drink.

  “Get in line,” she whispered, and together they fell in behind a tall boy who lo
oked about five.

  A glance back at the way they had entered revealed Rintorack darting into the spacious room. His head whipped about as he left the shadowy passageway, his eyes roved over the playing children as he made toward the tunnel on the other side of the chamber. Following his lead came more Dragoons, and then the swiftest of the Threes entered the chamber. The Divine King’s children stopped their play, and the prattling of the mothers died to a whisper.

  “They look so mean,” said an anxious mother near where Savarah stood in line. “I’ve never cared for the way those fighting children appear. So savage.”

  “It’s because those born of royal stalk have more noble features. The warrior class are little better than the babes of citizens. Our children have the refined genetics of the king.”

  In the back of her mind, Savarah scoffed at the stupidity of the mother’s words, but her focus remained on her sideways glance out into the chamber where the Threes and Dragoons continued to flow into the room then disappear into the tunnel on the opposite wall. She was careful to keep her back from showing to them, lest they notice the bloody marks on it.

  Rilon did the same, obscuring his wounded left arm by standing beside Savarah so that her body blocked the injury.

  Savarah looked on at the children drinking at the mothers’ breasts and the deep-seated curiosity that had plagued her thoughts as a Three throbbed inside her.

  She’d tasted of the bond of friendship with Rilon, what would it be like to share the intimate bond of feeding with a mother? The thought of such an extravagant need being fulfilled turned the thought into a craving.

  Never had she considered such an experience possible, and yet here she was in line to share the bond of the breast with a mother.

  A boy feeding near her gripped on to the mother’s silks as he drank, his eyes locked on the woman nourishing him. A gentle smile framed the mother’s lips.

  Eagerly she watched as children departed, tummies full, and others in line took their place until only one child stood between her and the mothers.

  “Oh!” exclaimed a girl’s voice behind Savarah. “What happened?”

  Savarah turned, and the girl’s eyes narrowed. “Gracious! You’re not a sister of mine!”

  The room quieted again at the declaration and Savarah looked back at the mothers. They were staring at her and Rilon.

  “Please…” said Savarah, but further words failed her. What could she tell them? What could she say?

  Rilon intervened in the silence “Would you hide us?” he asked quickly. “We’re playing hide and seek!”

  The mothers’ eyes seemed to frown as they took in their strange faces and dirty appearance.

  “You’re in trouble, that’s what’s going on,” said the calm voice of a large woman in a green silk dress. She shot a knowing glance at another mother. “Those other children that came through here, they must have been looking for those two.”

  “Please, hide us,” said Savarah. “We’re playing a game.”

  The mother in the green dress opened her mouth to respond, then her eyes darted between the two javelins Savarah and Rilon held.

  Fear entered the woman’s eyes as she stood slowly. “Weapons are not allowed in this chamber, nor children not born of the king.”

  “If you’ll show us somewhere to go, we’ll gladly leave,” said Rilon.

  A dark twisting disappointment clenched Savarah’s stomach. She’d come so close to experiencing a mother’s breast, or at least she’d fooled herself into believing it was possible. Damn that childish desire! Damn her sudden neediness!

  “Wait here,” said the mother in green, “I know where you can hide.”

  “Wait,” said Savarah desperately, grasping for hope that she might not lose out on what she’d come so close to having. “I am in line. Can I share in the bond you and your children have?”

  A slight look of disgust crossed into the eyes of the mother in green. “Our milk is only for the children of the king. Now be a good girl and wait here.”

  The woman made to head down the steps to the passageway where they had entered the chamber. A trickle of Threes were still passing through, following those in front of them. But there was also Asden. His head turned as the mother shouted to him, waving her arms in the air.

  Hot tears suddenly poured down Savarah’s face, nearly blinding her eyes as she drew back the spear and flung it.

  The mother jerked forward, her green dress billowing on impact, then she tumbled down, the shaft having skewered her like an animal on a spit.

  A deafening cry filled the room as a hundred children and mothers scattered in terror. Asden’s eyes locked on Savarah for only a moment, but then the chaos in the room blocked him from her sight.

  “Come on!” shouted Rilon, pulling her towards the far passageway.

  Many of the king’s children were fleeing into the darkened tunnel where they were headed. If they could run with them in their panic, they might succeed in making it to the iron gate Rilon spoke of, hidden by the panicked children of the king.

  Quickly they fell amongst the king’s children, and she snatched Rilon’s spear from him and began poking the children with the spear point, heightening the fear of those before them, driving them forward in a frenzy.

  Unbidden inside her, ached the wound of betrayal. The mother in green had rejected her plea for bonding. Tears still stung Savarah’s eyes from the denial of that need she had sought—a longing cradled deep in her soul to be cherished by the one who bore her.

  The killing of the woman had not satisfied Savarah’s pain, for the rejection would be a lasting wound, deep and searing.

  This was the cost of weakness she began to realize. To give another human the power to reject you, to open up one’s heart to that possibility, it was a horrible and devastating feeling.

  The stampede of the king’s children charged in front of her and Rilon. Ahead was a brightly lit juncture in the passageway and standing there, pressing against the chaos was Rintorack.

  “To the right is the gate!” shouted Rilon over the noise. “We’re almost there!”

  Savarah gripped her javelin tight. Rintorack’s head wound looked uglier than it had in the arena. She knew he must have lost an unhealthy amount of blood. He would be greatly weakened.

  The opportunity to kill him and prove herself superior tickled her mind, but escaping into the Nightmare’s tunnels had to remain her ultimate goal if she and Rilon were both to survive.

  The king’s children flowed to the left, away from the side tunnel that led to the Nightmares. Perhaps they had seen the modified creatures and their contorted bodies and thus fled going down the opposite passageway. Truly, the title of Nightmare was fitting, for they conformed perfectly with the misshapen monsters of a child’s darkest dreams.

  “Will the gate be open?” shouted Savarah.

  “No, but a few cranks of the wheel and we can slide beneath it!”

  “You move for the gate and turn the wheel, I’ll go for Rintorack. Shout for me when the gate is high enough.”

  “We’re going to make it, Savarah!” encouraged Rilon.

  She breathed in that strange word again. We. We are going to make it. It was both exciting and terrifying.

  Rintorack’s glowering stare met hers through the horde of scared little children, their heads bobbing in panicked flight. She timed her steps now, stabbing lightly at the children directly before her, piercing their buttocks deep enough to cause pain, but not enough to make them do anything else but surge forward at Rintorack.

  And then she was upon him, and a knife flashed in his hand at the last moment, slashing out and deflecting her javelin and gouging a chunk from the shaft. Her back was to the new passageway protecting it and Rilon from Rintorack, or anyone else who dared try and stop them.

  Slowly she maneuvered backward, her eyes on the glinting steel in Rintorack’s hand.

  “Your ass is mine, little Three,” sang Rintorack, his playful tone visually discordant with
the bloodied mess of flesh above his left ear. “When I bring back your severed head to the Master, I’m going to request your body be placed in the Dragoon’s piss room for a day. That way we can all take turns defecating on the newest forever kill.”

  Savarah giggled and tossed her short hair as if he’d just said some trivial humor. “I feel bad for you, really,” sang back Savarah. “You’ve already lost so much of your pride in cups of blood. Look at what this little Three has done to the Dragoon champion. Whether I kill you here or not, the story of the Three who bested the Dragoon champion will stick with you for the rest of your life. Isolaug may heal scars, but he doesn’t erase our memories.”

  Savarah smiled sweetly, and Rintorack’s pompous facade fell away like dead skin from a snake. Suddenly, he lunged at her. She sidestepped, thrusting out her javelin, but he smacked it away again, and then he surprised her by charging past.

  She spun in pursuit and sprinted after Rintorack. Rilon had the gate up to his chest and looked to be just turning to call for her when he caught sight of Rintorack charging for him.

  “Savarah!” shouted Rilon, and darted beneath the gate, propping it up with his body.

  What was he doing?! The crazy fool was going to sacrifice himself for her.

  She lifted the javelin beside her head to throw, but just before she could release, Rintorack dove down, slamming himself into Rilon and sent them bolth tumbling onto the ground on the other side. The gate, free of obstruction, began to drop, the heavy chain clanking noisily. Savarah dove, sliding on the dirty ground beneath the descending spikes that lined the bottom wrung of the gate.

  A crash sounded as the gate slammed down behind her, catching both of her legs half way through. To her amazement, her legs lay perfectly in-between the spikes, allowing her to pull them all the way through with only a little effort.

  She sprang to her feet, javelin raised, and spun to where Rintorack had slammed into Rilon.

  Rintorack stood with Rilon, holding him as a shield between him and Savarah, the knife in his hand pressed against her friend’s throat.

  “Looks like I win,” said Rintorack.