Savarah stood, poised to fling the javelin should Rintorak’s head peek out too far from its hiding place behind Rilon.
“Let us go,” said Savarah, “You won’t have to see my face anymore.”
“Let you go and have to tell the Master I failed? How much better will it be to bring both your bodies back and cast them at his feet? And don’t forget about my little request regarding the piss room. That will be a memorable story to tell for generations of Shadow Children. Your fate will be a legend of epic proportions. The mighty Three who became the weakest of all. Everyone will want to come and tinkle or shit on your carcass.”
Rintorack’s words were not merely banal threats, they were the kind that cut to the heart of power. For beyond one’s life, all a person had was the story of their life they left behind. If that story was one of strength and power, then in the End of Days, if the Beasts found a way to destroy the Makers, then a worthy soul might be resurrected and given power in the world to come.
But if one died in shame, the only thing that would live on forever is the story of their fall. The weakness that conquered them would swallow up anything worthy they had accomplished.
She found Rilon’s eyes on her. Residing in them she still saw hope.
“Join us then,” gasped Rilon, fighting the sting of the knife at his throat.
“I’d rather die with honor than join in your pathetic escape,” sneered Rintorack.
A face appeared at the gate and Savarah glanced to see Asden standing there. Closing in behind him were several Dragoons and a few Threes.
The chain to the gate began to rise. She looked again at Rilon and found a message etched on his face. Without words, he told her to go without him.
Strangely, there was still hope living in his eyes, but that hope was not for himself now, but only for her.
The words of her master echoed along with the rattling of the gate’s chains:
Survival of self is our primary objective as Shadowmen. One cannot accomplish any secondary goals if one is dead.
What Rilon held for her in his eyes was the ultimate weakness.
It was heroic and beautiful. Perhaps the highest order of beauty imaginable. But it was also the very thing that had placed him in the position he found himself. He had held up the gate for her, sacrificing himself to allow her the chance of making it beneath before the gate fell.
He could have left without her and survived.
And now the same dilemma stood before her, only she had another alternative. She would have to shove the emotions twisting inside her heart so deep within, that she would no longer feel them—no longer remember why she had made the choice at all—lest Isolaug spy her true motivations.
There was no other way. She would not leave her friend behind to die a slow and torturous death in the master’s dungeon.
The aim of the javelin in her hand never felt more certain. She fixed her eyes not on Rilon, but on Rintorack as she drove the weapon forward, and in his dark, calculating eyes, she saw the flash of surprise.
It was a look that countered the beauty in Rilon’s eyes… a look that if Master Isolaug declared her worthy, she would cherish for the rest of her life.
***
The number of Shadow Children filling the proving grounds was unprecedented when Savarah entered. Children from the Two’s to the Disciple Class all stood along the rocks in silent observation.
Asden led her by chain, her wrists shackled. At the end of a rope tied to her waist were Rilon and Rintorack. She’d dragged them the entirety of the return trip, their bodies joined together by the javelin she’d pinned them with.
Just as she’d felt, her aim had been perfect. Straight through their hearts.
She stopped in the middle of the circle and Asden stepped back beside her.
The Divine King rose from his elevated seat and came down into the circle.
Isolaug’s full reptilian form lay draped across the king’s right shoulder, his tail hanging down over the front of the royal robe.
The king stopped in silence before Savarah and stared at her, but Savarah did not look at him. She fixed her gaze on Isolaug’s cold-blooded eyes. They stared back at her, as dark and unreadable as the eyes of an insect.
The king extended his hand over her head, and she willed for it to drop with all the confidence welling in her chest.
“I killed my weakness and my enemy with one throw. If I am not worthy now, Master, then even your Shadowmen are cowards compared to me.”
The voice of the king spoke Isolaug’s words with a sweet richness: “To kill an enemy and feel no sorrow is of one power, to kill one’s friend and feel it not is of another. Do you not feel regret for what you’ve done to Rilon.”
Savarah looked deep into that heartless eye. “I did, and then that too I killed.”
A palpable silence screamed in her ears as time dragged. The primeval being before her, ancient and godlike, stared at her through its slitted eye. Isolaug was probing her mind, testing to see if her words were true.
“You left the arena thereby breaking the rules of the proving circle. You killed one of the king’s wives.”
To these accusations, Savarah remained silent.
The king’s eyes looked on her warmly. “You are pardoned on all accounts.”
The king’s hand fell upon her head, and only then did she know her words were true. She’d killed her regret, or tunneled it so far down into her soul that Isolaug’s probing could not find it.
Healing surged through her body at the king’s touch, erasing her wounds with delicious swiftness.
Moments later, she stood whole, trusting fully that the advantage Isolaug promised was now a part of her.
She believed with everything in her that she would become a Shadowman, for she felt the change in her chest.
The softness was gone. Her heart was as hard as diamond.
The End
* * *
Want to read more of Savarah and discover the surprising journey she takes as an adult? A galaxy full of unforgettable characters awaits in the Song of the Worlds Series.
Song of the Worlds Series
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Brandon Barr is a USA Today Bestselling Author who hails from Southern California. He writes in the genres of science fiction and fantasy and often combines the two, preferring stories where the science is soft, the fantastic is vivid, and the flesh and soul characters are front and center.
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Broken Honor
Megan Haskell
Prologue
Night comes quickly in the mountains. Everything must be prepared before the rim of the sun sets behind the peaks. With worried glances over narrow shoulders, frantic villagers run to their homes, sliding across the heavy white snow on feet that are nearly as long as the people are tall. The young and the very old are quickly shuffled through heavy wood doors that will be barred from the inside. The last of the frantic villagers hurry to finish their evening chores before finding their own nervous comforts.
A howl splits the frozen night air.
“Light the fires!” Stennar orders, striking his own knife against flint to set his pile of sticks and logs ablaze. “Fenrir is coming!”
Men take up positions next to the fires. Bows and arrows are held ready to protect the dwellings built into the cliff wall behind them. They peer nervously into the dancing shadows, watching for the first sign of the great wolf’s arrival.
A woman rushes to the line. “Snur and Val haven’t returned.”
“What are they doing out so late?” Stennar demands.
The woman shakes her head, storm-gray eyes wet and pleading beneath the white cap she wears. “Please,” she whispers, the single word shredding Stennar’s heart.
“We can’t send anyone out after them now,” Stennar replies with as much tendernes
s as his soldier’s voice can muster. It’s a hard truth, but the safety of the entire village rests in his hands. “We must pray they find shelter and stay hidden. Now get inside and bar the door.”
The woman sobs, face stricken, but retreats to her cave. Stennar raises his eyes to the heavens and whispers an entreaty to the gods. Protect the boys. Keep them safe. Let Fenrir be satisfied with a goat and be on his way.
The night watchmen stand at attention, peering into the darkness. This is their duty. They know their role. It doesn’t make it any less terrifying to place themselves between the shelter of the mountain and the wolf’s fangs.
Fenrir stalks the wilds, his hunger normally curbed by the larger game of snow bear and tundra moose. But the prey has fled, the commotion of the new arrivals and their builders scaring them away from the wolf’s lair. Now he terrorizes the barbegazi villagers and their goats, taking the easy game that had once been taboo.
Stennar grinds his teeth against the injustice. The barbegazi had lived for three generations in peace with the giant wolves until the elves’ arrival. Fenrir broke that fragile peace, but the elves were truly to blame. If it were up to him, they would bury the tall men and their village in snow: send an earthquake to shatter their fragile homes. But the elders had spoken. These creatures, they said, had great magic of their own. They must be dealt with carefully. Negotiations and treaties and bargains. That was what they demanded.
Meanwhile, Fenrir takes what he wants from the barbegazi.
A scream pierces the air. Silence. The men glance at each other, worried expressions wrinkling their white-bearded faces.
Val. Stennar is sure of it.
Rapid footsteps crunch through snow.
Stennar takes a step forward, peering into the darkness. Panting breaths can be heard above the light evening wind.
“Help!” a boy shouts. The firelight glances off pale skin and the thin tuft of white beard that sprouts from his young chin.
Stennar takes another step forward. A shadow ten times the size of the largest of the barbegazi villagers detaches from the hillside and races after the boy.
A flaming arrow sails in the shadow’s direction, but misses by a wide margin. The beast is still too far away, yet too close to the boy with wide eyes.
“You can make it, Snur!” a watchman shouts encouragement.
“Come on boy,” Stennar whispers under his breath. “Faster.”
The boy skates across the snow, his feet leaving a powdery wake behind him. Yet the shadow still gains ground, the silent attack more fearsome than any wild snarling creature.
“Avalanche!” Stennar shouts. If they can force a snow slide, perhaps they can separate the wolf from his prey.
“He’s too close. We’ll all be buried,” a guard replies, his voice quaking.
Stennar swears. The village wouldn’t survive a full burial. Not this early in the season, and not with the herds still grazing the southern slopes.
Stennar grimaces. “Loose the arrows!” It’s the only defense they have left.
Snur continues to race to the relative safety of the fire line as arrow after arrow shoots overhead. The wolf is slowed, but not by much, as he weaves between the flaming shafts.
Fenrir launches himself at the boy. A single arrow pierces his shoulder. The wolf snarls, but lands on Snur’s back, crushing the boy beneath paws bigger than Snur’s head. With a single snap of his jaws, the wolf tears out the boy’s throat, silencing the terrified screams forever.
“So much tastier than goat meat.” The words rumble from the chest of the great beast as he stares at the fire line. A trail of blood and saliva drips from the wolf’s jaw. He licks his lips clean. “My thanks.”
The men on guard watch horrified, frozen in shock and fear, as Fenrir drags the lifeless corpse of the village youth back into the darkness. The flaming arrow still burning in his shoulder marks his passage out of the valley.
Chapter 1
The wind howled through white drifts of snow. Garamaen trudged up the mountain, head down and braced against the gusts. Despite the thick wool-lined leather gloves he’d brought on this journey, the sled’s ropes tore into his freezing hands. With every tug, his shoulders ached. And with every icy blast of wind, he considered turning back. As it was, the path was all but invisible, the thin light of the single moon turning the landscape gray and deep with shadow. The only indicator he was headed the right direction was the distant sound of bleating animals. Without them, he would surely be lost.
Pausing for a breath, Garamaen dropped the rope. He pulled off a glove, clenching and unclenching his fist to try to force the blood back into his hand. When his fingers could move smoothly again, he removed a thin sliver of wood from his pocket and lit a fire in the palm of his hand. The warmth was minimal, but it helped him remember that there was, in fact, warmth in the world. He would never understand the elves that chose to settle here. Though they picked the low-places and warmer regions, the average temperature still barely rose above freezing.
Dousing the small flame, he slid his hand back into the glove and pulled the rope over his shoulder once more. He couldn’t afford to waste time or energy on fire in this desolate place. The wolf would attack again. And soon.
Pushing through the last few lengths to the pens, Garamaen sought shelter in the lean-to that housed the grain and water for the wooly goats. The native barbegazi race lived and died by these creatures. The wool became clothing, the milk became butter and cheese, and the meat was the basis of their diet. That, and the arctic lichen that managed to grow beneath the snow. Garamaen shuddered, remembering the bitter gamey taste of the goat and lichen soup they had been so proud to share with him. Definitely not his preferred flavor profile.
Garamaen huddled under the insubstantial grain barn, waiting for his target to appear. He suffered in silence without flame. A fire would scare Fenrir away, or so he’d been told. He knew little about the wolf, except what he could glean from the rather biased and likely embellished barbegazi tales. In fact, the true oddity of the wolf was that Garamaen couldn’t See him in any visions. He could use hindsight to view the aftermath of destruction Fenrir wrought, and he could forecast what would happen if he failed, but he couldn’t produce a single vision of the wolf in action, nor could he predict the predator’s behavior.
What he did know was that the great wolf was a sentient being and an enemy of the barbegazi. The half-sized men had come to the elves with an ultimatum. Destroy Fenrir, or every elven settlement would be destroyed by natural disaster: Unseasonal blizzards, avalanches that smothered entire buildings, earthquakes, and more. They’d demonstrated their ability by causing an avalanche in the high peaks that cascaded down around the meeting place, the last soft snowballs rolling to a stop at the elves feet. No one had been hurt, but the intent was clear.
The elves had not been pleased. There were many in their ranks who would simply wipe out the native species of every new realm they explored, modifying the world to mimic their former homes. Garamaen and his family were opposed, preferring to work with the natives to reach a common good. It was a trade of sorts, providing the natives with new technology or protection in exchange for land and the freedom to settle.
But this particular trade was tricky. There were two warring sentient species. The elves who wished to settle here had done the right thing, calling in support from the colonization organizers. Led by Garamaen’s father, the elders had appointed Garamaen to find a solution.
Garamaen pursed his lips, sinking deeper into the fur cloak. It was the worst possible situation: destroy a sentient being, or let his people start a war that could end an entire civilization.
Keeping every sense wide open, Garamaen searched the landscape for any sign of the great wolf. He was sure the creature would appear, but not exactly when. Reading the energy signatures around him, he could See the goats with their thin, dull brown auras milling around the pen. No other signs of life for miles in any direction.
He switched ov
er to foresight, hoping to gain some indication of the time at which Fenrir would appear. The vision was hazy at best, the goats agitated and the moon high overhead. Yet Fenrir’s position and arrival remained unclear.
Finally, when he was nearly certain his nose was developing frostbite, the goats began to shuffle and bleat, the urgency apparent in their voices. Even still, Garamaen couldn’t See the wolf’s energy signature. If he was present, his aura was well hidden. Peering into the shadows of the physical world, Garamaen caught a glimpse of the wolf loping around the pens.
He stood. Threw back his hood. Strode toward the fences.
“Fenrir!” Garamaen shouted over the screaming winds.
Fenrir spun to face the threat. He growled, hackles rising. His tongue flicked out between bared teeth, his head lowered between monstrous shoulders at least as tall as Garamaen’s own. The creature had to weigh more than the great warhorses of the Valarocco plain.
“What do you want,” he snarled. The wolf’s voice was deep, forced out of vocal cords that were meant for moonlit howls and aggressive confrontations, not common speech.
Yet still, Garamaen couldn’t See his aura, couldn’t tap into his energy. Given the possible futures he’d already parsed, Garamaen knew this was a possibility, but he’d hoped he was wrong. It would have been so much easier if he could just drain the wolf’s energy and chain him. Instead, he would have to take care of this the hard way.
“I have come to offer better fare for your nightly meal,” Garamaen replied. “Leave the goats alone tonight, and you’ll be well fed.”
The wolf growled. “What do you offer?”
“This is wooly mammoth. It is a species not of this realm.”
“What makes it so special?”
“Mammoths are great beasts, larger even than you. They travel the winter tundras of my home, carving wide paths through the northern plains. Their meat is sweet and succulent, a delicacy reserved for great feasts hosted by the high lords and ladies of the elves.”
Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection Page 25
