by K. F. Breene
He glanced up as his brother entered the doorway. The man, younger by two years, leaned against the wall nonchalantly. It was impossible to tell if he came bearing news, or for social reasons. Sonson had never been one to stand on ceremony.
Portolmous looked back down at his report. “You should do something about that hair, brother,” he said. “The vibrant red is bad enough, but letting it run wild around your head disagrees with your face.”
Sonson cracked a smile and sauntered further in. “I’m the best swordsman on the island—the ladies don’t even notice the hair. They just wonder what else I’m the best at.”
“Then I do not envy them their inevitable disappointment.”
Sonson barked out laughter. He sat in a chair facing Portolmous. “Thought I might pop in and fill you in on the trials.”
Portolmous clasped his hands on the desk and looked up at his brother. “I would ask for good news, but in this situation, I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Why? Because someone might be making it through the trials and that will throw our world into upheaval? Or because someone is dead within the trials and the signs indicate we will be lost if we don’t find this foretold, powerful Chosen soon?”
“Both. Have you noticed all the Graygual and Inkna?”
The humor melted off Sonson’s face. Seriousness erased the twinkle in his bright, blue eyes. He crossed an ankle over his knee. “I’ve heard rumors that someone extremely powerful is crouching in the darkness. Anyone who gets close goes missing. So far that has not included our people, but then we haven’t really gone to investigate.”
“We have, actually. I sent someone this morning to look into the corpses displayed around the Trespasser Village. I expect him back any time to report on his findings.”
“And the talk of a hole in the thorn barrier around the trials?”
Portolmous nodded, indicating that was part of the scouting objective. They should’ve looked into it long before now, but the emergence of the woman, and then the man, had pushed back the need. A terrified hopeful-Chosen hiding in a spot where Therma was dimmed was not uncommon. Portolmous and Sonson often let them hide for a few days, staving off the inevitable. With everything else going on, though, and that rumor, they could no longer deny a possible escape. A hopeful-Chosen had gone missing, and signs pointed to a breach in the wall.
“What of the trials?” Portolmous asked.
“Well, first thing—I would’ve appreciated a note that you let in a man with power to shake the whole island. One that doesn’t care about the Chosen title and therefore doesn’t have the proper respect for our ban on killing. With his fighting prowess, he could bring down a great many of my force before we stopped him.”
A ghost of a smile graced Portolmous’ lips. Sonson’s fighting prowess often went to his head. He was the best in everything, had been since his teenage years, and rarely met a challenger without a yawn. It had stunted him in many ways.
It had taken Portolmous one glance to realize the skill in the foreign man would easily rival his brother. The difference between the two men, however, was that the foreign man’s outlook remained open. His mind was fast and agile, and if Portolmous had to guess, he’d say the man sought out opponents that challenged him, trying to better himself. The foreign man would continue to get better, whereas Sonson had plateaued.
If only Portolmous had been able to see his brother’s face when he realized he was no longer the best. What a wonderful expression that must’ve been.
“Ah, I see,” Sonson said with a sour face and contrasting twinkling eyes. “A joke. I didn’t know your personality allowed such things.”
“Only when you’re the punchline, brother.”
Sonson’s eyes ticked upwards in a facial shrug. “Anyway, he helped the woman take down the beast. I’m not sure she would’ve done it on her own. While she caused it serious injury, and almost had him, she was in a precarious situation when the man showed up with his sword…”
Portolmous winced. “The sword, yes. The meeting with him was… unusual. Taking the weapon completely slipped my mind.”
Sonson gave him a level stare. “Of all the men who could’ve made that detail slip your mind…” Sonson shook his head. “Anyway, he got in a hack or two, and she continued her assault, until the beast ran off.”
“And how is Bonzi now?”
Sonson’s face turned grim. “Lost a lot of blood. His mate won’t leave his side and his brood whine all day. He’s cut up pretty bad.”
A weight settled in the pit of Portolmous’ stomach. They imported that breed of animal from a distant land based on the suggestion of a Seer who had passed through looking for someone she called the Wanderer. The woman had been so persuasive Portolmous not only did as she said, but he brought in a mate for the beast as well.
At first it was a perilous venture, with the animal trying to kill everyone in its sight. Fires and spears had been needed constantly to keep it confined. Soon, though, the animal showed signs of domesticating. Now, after working with him and his mate, Yari, for a few years, he was almost as docile with his handlers as a big dog.
A very big dog.
Unleashed on strangers, though, the animal wreaked havoc. He was usually the last thing a hopeful-Chosen saw.
“She has completed another milestone, then, the only one to do so,” Portolmous surmised.
Sonson let his foot fall back down. “She had help, though.”
“We’ll discuss that later. What else? Anything?”
Sonson’s eyebrows fell, but he didn’t push. Instead, he said, “She and the man have Joined.”
Portolmous leaned forward in a rush. “How do you know?”
“An hour ago we wandered close to the tree in which she and the man are taking shelter. She’s letting her wounds knit together, and I am letting her. We’ve never pushed the hopeful-Chosen. I want her to take the trials at her own pace.”
Portolmous impatiently gestured his brother on. He knew their tactics.
Sonson continued, “She felt us coming, as you would expect. I felt her mind assessing ours. It was the man that came closer, though—probably to keep her from aggravating her wounds. He asked our intention in utter fearlessness, with an express warning that he and the woman would defend themselves mentally, but did not have a firm control of their power level. Their power. I could feel the rolling, surging, raw strength of this man’s Therma, and I could feel her essence below it. I’ve met enough people to know when two individuals are Joined—just never with so much power. He informed us that we would be in peril, and to proceed with caution. It sounded as though he was running the show…”
Portolmous couldn’t help a grin at his brother’s scowl. “He might have the same self-confidence as you.” He’d wanted to keep that statement a lighthearted joke, but his unease bled through.
From what Portolmous had heard, that man wasn’t from a great nation. He had some solid fighters, and was rumored to have a prosperous, well-run city, but it was fairly small. Yet, the man assumed control of those around him as a birthright. He had no fear, and no pompous ego—he conducted himself with unfailing confidence and an unfaltering leadership style. It would be easy to assume he was a great battle commander. The Inkna seemed to think he was, based on his previous exploits.
A man like that would have no problem assuming control of the Shadow Warriors. What’s more, Portolmous had every assumption he’d do the job well, managing not to ostracize the already-established leadership.
These were more indications that their peaceful life was coming to an end. War was upon them. They needed to know who to trust.
Sonson gave him a flat stare before saying, “We gave a truce. We were then told of a team of three Graygual and two Inkna that attacked them earlier today.”
Portolmous stood as a warning tingling began in the base of his spine. He crossed to the window and looked out over the wild lands, his mind racing. “They entered the trials and sought the woman?”
/>
“Yes. They were not killed—the woman didn’t know if that would violate our laws. They were rendered unconscious and tied with vine.”
Portolmous turned back to stare at his brother. “I hoped you righted that wrong…”
“Yes, they are now dead, of course. Xandre’s interest in the violet-eyed girl is real, and he must know she’s here. If he’s not the one hiding somewhere on this island, with his minions running interference, it’s one of his trusted few. If he captures her, only a fool would assume he’ll then leave the island. No, he’ll set his sights on us, next. Or maybe at the same time. Time has run out.”
“She has to make it through the trials, though. The scriptures are very clear on that point.”
Sonson stood and braced himself in the middle of the room. His eyes flashed and the fiery color of his hair seemed to glow with the light running through it. “I’ve never cared about those old records. Titles handed down by scriptures mean nothing, not when war is upon us. I am in charge of the warriors on this island, and I am telling you that the power that man and woman possess is myth incarnate. They now yield one of the mightiest mental weapons this land has ever seen. I will not kill them—not when they can assist us.”
“She or they must complete the trials,” Portolmous pushed.
Sonson opened his mouth to interject, but was stopped by a guard striding in with harried steps. “Sirs,” he said, offering a slight bow. “Startess went missing. We believe he was on the outskirts of the Trespasser Village before he disappeared. And we’ve found a hole in the barrier.”
Chapter Nine
Marc slinked into the common room at the entertainment hall after midday, right behind Sanders. They’d been on the island for barely four days, and in that time had killed about forty Graygual and a handful of Inkna. Whether it was from meeting the enemy randomly in the city and killing them before they could kill, or venturing outside the city walls and seeking them out, Sanders was determined to cut down as many as possible.
Unknowingly, he had also been determined to stir the pot and add some heat. Menace now boiled between the Graygual and Sanders’ men. Marc could see it in the enemy’s eyes and in their stance. Shadow people hung around each of the groups, ready with swords and glowing eyes that meant they were accessing their mental power. Things were getting dicey.
Most of Marc’s group sat in the far corner, sipping ale and chatting while scanning the crowd. Ruisa stood in the opposite far corner, removed from the others, wearing baggy clothes and a surly expression. Even as Marc noticed her, a man dressed in velvet approached her with a drunken swagger and a suggestive movement.
That was the problem with being a young and pretty woman in a place with horny, drunk men. She was always being bothered.
The first couple of times she was propositioned, Marc and the other guys had immediately come to her aid, shoving the stranger away forcefully. Soon, though, they learned that she could deal with the strangers as Shanti might’ve. She glared at them, waited a moment to see if they would go away then gave them a sound uppercut followed by a kick. She did this in front of Shadow people without batting an eye.
The Shadow people never even stepped in her direction, let alone tried to punish her for violence in their city. Apparently, as far as they were concerned, a young woman defending herself was only exercising her right. It was sound logic.
The man in velvet staggered toward Ruisa, hands out at breast level. When he was close enough, she brushed his arms to the side and punched him on the nose. Even from across the room, Marc heard the crack. The man hollered, covering his face as he fell against the wall, turning away from her. Blood dripped from under his hands and down his chin. She’d broken his nose.
“That’s my girl,” Sanders said in approval as he worked through the laughing, jeering men to his army. As he passed a card table, a woman turned and smiled in a sultry way. Her hand reached out to pet Sanders across the chest.
Marc reacted. He grabbed the woman’s wrist, wrenched it away, and shook until the palm lay flat. He stopped to analyze her fingers—no needles, no fake tips, and no other means of destruction. This woman had simply wanted to touch the man rumored to be vicious and utterly fearless.
Women liked the strangest things.
“Sorry,” Marc mumbled, releasing her hand.
“Ow.” The woman’s pouty mouth turned down into a scowl. Her large breasts heaved, nearly falling out of the bodice that barely confined them. Marc gulped as she shook out her hand and turned back to the table.
Ruisa gave Marc a nod from across the room.
“The girl beats up men, and you beat up women, huh?” Sanders asked with a flat voice.
“The women in here are more dangerous than the men,” Marc mumbled with a red face.
Marc had become just as paranoid as Ruisa, mostly because she badgered him into it. So far, it had been for nothing. They’d seen plenty of knives, had arrows shot at them a couple times, and been attacked with swords, but no poison.
Ruisa said it was coming, though. Marc wondered if she just wanted a reason to belong.
“Where’s Xavier and Etherlan?” Sanders asked as he and Marc reached the collection of worn, round tables gathered into a cluster in the corner.
Rohnan stood against the wall, his eyes scanning the room. His mind-power had saved them more than a few times, identifying those who wished them harm before they made a move. Burson sat close to him, looking at the ceiling.
“Etherlan was getting it on with a girl last night,” Rachie said with a grin. “She was really loud.”
“Yes, boy, but where is he now?” Sanders growled. He didn’t bother to sit down.
Rachie shrugged. “I left early because they started up again.”
Sanders’ face closed down into an unreadable mask, which wasn’t a relief from the flash of anger he’d shown a moment ago. It meant something worse than his temper might be happening. “You haven’t seen him since?”
Rachie’s smile melted off his face. “No, sir.”
“And Xavier?” Sanders asked in a gruff voice. His body flexed and his hand moved to his sword.
“In the back.” Tobias threw a thumb in the direction behind him.
The door opened at the far end of the room, and stayed open. Marc turned to look, and then gaped when five Shadow people dressed in light green walked in with measured, even strides. All were men except for a woman bringing up the rear, letting the door close in her wake. Two men went right, staying close to the wall, and two left. They spread out so they were spaced evenly within the room, one stopping only ten paces from where Marc stood. The woman wandered to the middle, walking slowly, scanning the crowd with focused eyes.
Rohnan sucked in a breath. At that moment, the woman’s gaze swung their way, hitting Rohnan with a flat stare.
Something happened. Marc couldn’t see anything, but he could feel it. Like a charge of electricity, Marc’s small hairs stood on end. Rohnan went rigid and his eyes widened. The woman didn’t move.
Burson smiled like a madman. “This bodes well.”
“What?” Marc asked as he noticed movement from Ruisa out of his peripheral vision.
She nearly sprinted across the floor, pushed between two huge men, knocked over a beer, and snatched a woman’s hand out of the air.
“Hey!” the woman screeched, a curvy thing with breasts completely exposed while leaning way over Xavier. The hand that wasn’t captured by Ruisa was inside Xavier’s breeches, slowly stroking the hard thing she’d found there. The movement didn’t stop as she stared up at Ruisa.
“Xavier!” Ruisa yelled into the hypnotized man’s face.
Xavier blinked slowly through hooded eyes. Ruisa’s voice didn’t disengage his stare from those perfect breasts. The woman’s hand picked up speed.
Marc shifted uncomfortably, his pants a bit tight in the groin, as Ruisa looked closer at the woman’s fingers. She snatched something out of the woman’s lap.
“What you think y
ou doing, feassa?” the woman spat as she yanked her hand out of Xavier’s pants.
Ruisa glanced at a small pouch as the woman started to struggle out of Ruisa’s grasp. Xavier finally looked up, anger written plainly across his face. “What the fuck, Ruisa?”
“She means him harm—take her,” Rohnan said, his gaze turning toward the scuffle.
Sanders was moving before anyone else. He walked to the back table in quick, even strides. One of the large men Ruisa had knocked into had stood up. His angry, red face turned at Sanders’ progress.
“Dat your girl, man?” the man barked in a gruff voice. He reached out to grab Sanders by the shirtfront.
Sanders grabbed the hand, ripped it around, and shoved it behind the man’s back. His other hand flew in, striking the man’s throat then glancing across his eyes. He released the man, gave two solid uppercuts to the midsection, and continued on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.
The man sputtered out wheezing coughs, falling against his table. Glasses fell over. Beer gushed across the wood surface and splattered to the floor.
A Shadow person intersected Sanders next.
“I got no beef with you, blondie, but that is my man over there, and I will be getting him.”
The Shadow glanced up at the woman in the center of the room. He received a nod before he said to Sanders, “Proceed.”
Sanders brushed by the Shadow. He reached Xavier and hauled him up by an upper arm. “Pull up your pants, son.”
Red-faced, Xavier still stared at Ruisa as he followed instructions.
“What’s going on here?” Sanders barked, grabbing the struggling, spitting woman by the hair and yanking her away from Ruisa.
Ruisa held out a small leather pouch. The woman snatched at it, but Ruisa pulled back before the grab could land.
“Looks like sugar,” Ruisa said, giving the bag a tiny shake. “She had Xavier suck her finger before dipping it into the pouch. She then returned the hand to put her finger into his mouth. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not good. Only a whore or a drunk woman would stroke a guy in public while exposing herself, and this sober woman wasn’t looking for money. She was distracting him so she could feed him whatever is in this pouch. He was too stupid to catch on.”
