Dragonstorm

by Mirren Hogan

  Samiel looked back up. "Oh yes, normally they do, but they teach them all at once, after intake. You've come in later in the year and they can't spare the other trainers. They're all doing more important . . . I mean other things." He looked mortified at his gaffe. "I'm sorry, I uh . . ."

  "It's fine. They should have other duties than just training me," Brish assured him. He hadn't realised until then that he was lucky he hadn't been told to wait until the next intake of apprentices and learn alongside them. It would be easier on the headquarters and the staff. The fact that they were training him now at all made his pride swell a little.

  "I'm sure you have a lot to teach me." Brish hoped Samiel wouldn't fall on his own knife and impale himself. Or worse, impale him. He hadn't come this far to be stabbed by a clumsy first-level.

  "Yes, come this way, please." Samiel led him over to a spare practice dummy. Made of straw and draped in cloth, it looked well-used. A target was painted in the centre of the fabric, and a crude face just above that. In the groin area, someone had painted male genitalia, and by the look of the faded paint and holes, it was a popular place to aim.

  "These are the knives we'll be practicing with." Samiel pointed a stand full of blades which had obviously been used often and over a long time.

  "So I see," Brish replied, maybe unkindly.

  "Uh, yes, well . . ." Samiel flushed again. "I'll give you a demonstration first, so you have some idea what's expected of you. Step back a little bit please." He pointed off to the side and chose one of the knives. They all looked the same to Brish, but Samiel's expression suggested careful thought.

  He turned to face the dummy and stood with his feet apart. Before Brish could blink, he'd flicked his wrist, sending the knife end over end into the centre of the target. It embedded up to its hilt without a wobble.

  His mouth open in surprise, Brish gave him a clap.

  "I know, I'm as surprised as you are that I can do that," Samiel admitted, "My trainer couldn't believe it either."

  "Andon didn't train you?"

  "Oh no, I'd have no stomach to—you know—creep up on people and kill them. I could defend myself, but not that. Of course, I wouldn't be here at all if not for my uncle. He insisted."

  "You don't like being a reasoner?" Brish picked up a knife and balanced it on his palm.

  "I like it, but I wanted to be a teacher. I'm hoping to be a trainer when I reach second-level."

  "You're full of surprises," Brish remarked, "Who is your uncle?"

  "General Zand."

  "Oh." That explained a lot.

  "Yes. Now, why don't you try? Stand with your feet apart, yes like that. Now look at the target and raise the knife. Look down your arm and relax. If you're too stiff you can't—yes like that. Now visualise the knife entering the target beside mine. And throw."

  Brish threw. He send the knife soaring end over end until it thudded to the ground at the dummy's feet.

  "That wasn't a bad first try." Samiel walked over to retrieve both knives. He handed one to Brish. "You need to stand a little more loosely. Uh, if you don't mind—" He moved to stand behind Brish and put his hands on his. "Lower these a little and spread your legs a bit more. Yes, like that. No, don't let go of the knife, but you need to flick your wrist like this."

  Feeling Samiel pressed against the back of him like that made Brish blush and feel awkward. He imagined Andon pushing against him like that and his mouth went dry. He forced himself to focus and do as Samiel suggested.

  "I think I understand," he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "Can I throw again?"

  "Yes." Samiel stepped back, much to his relief.

  Brish swallowed hard and aimed carefully. He gave a flick and the knife left his hand. This time his aim was better, the blade embedding in the dummy's head. It took him a moment to realise it was almost the same spot where the piece of wood had sliced into Waya's forehead, killing her.

  The satisfaction in knowing he might do to a magin what they'd done to her was overshadowed by the memory of her death. Of all the people he knew, she'd been by far the most innocent in all of this. She hadn't kept secrets or worked with dangerous people. She'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  "Nice work," Samiel said, beaming. "You learned that fast."

  "You're a good teacher," Brish admitted, "but I see it's going to take me a long time to get the knife where I aimed it."

  "I think you'll pick it up," Samiel said.

  "Did you?"

  "Did I what?" Samiel looked confused before gesturing for him to head over to retrieve the knife.

  "Pick it up quickly," Brish said tugging the knife free and walking back. "Or were you just good at it?"

  "Oh. Well you may not believe it, but I have good reflexes."

  Brish didn't, and the look he gave Samiel said as much.

  "It's true. I was trained along with everyone else in my intake. Everyone assumed my uncle would be forced to give up on me. Then one day I was about to throw a knife, and someone said they saw him coming. I panicked and threw perfectly. I learned that if I don't think too much, I can do it every time."

  Brish couldn't keep from grinning. "Was he there?"

  Samiel blushed. "No. But my trainers started saying it when they wanted me to do well. I suppose the skills stuck."

  Brish's smile faded. "That sounds like they bullied you to me."

  "I suppose so." Samiel's eyes dropped, "but it got me through my apprenticeship. They often have me doing guard duty because they know I can react when I have to." He sighed heavily. The responsibility of such a post was obviously not something he enjoyed.

  Brish tried to imagine him standing by the gate, trying to look intimidating. He suppressed a smile. He didn't want to be like the others and treat the young man unkindly. At least, any more than he already had. He'd make up for that, if he could. However, Samiel was the least threatening person he'd met. If he could do what he claimed, he'd certainly catch any perpetrators off guard. That made him much more dangerous than he'd first seemed.

  Still, he looked benign to Brish. "You can react to anything?" he asked. Without thinking further, he raised the knife and lunged at Samiel. The man moved like lighting, Brish found his arm wrenched forward. The world tipped over and he found himself flat on his back and disarmed, the wind knocked out of him for a few moments.

  "Oh haze!" Samiel swore, almost dropping the knife he taken from him. "I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?" His eyes were wide, face pale with horror at what he'd just done. "Oh reason, I didn't mean to . . . I just . . ." he stammered.

  Brish couldn't keep from laughing. He knew everyone in the training are was staring at him and laughing too, but for once he didn't mind. He'd deserved to end up on his rear. In fact, he was lucky he wasn't hurt at all.

  "Well you weren't wrong," he said, climbing to his feet and rubbing his backside before offering a bow to those still watching. "Remind me not to startle you." Creeping up behind Samiel could be dangerous, especially if you weren't prepared for his reaction.

  Despite Samiel's stammering apology, he was impressed with the man. He'd always been able to think on his feet, but he'd never pulled anyone off theirs, much less flipped them like that.

  "You really shouldn't do that with a knife," Samiel said after a while, "even though these are blunt, I might have been armed with a sharp one."

  "That's true," Brish admitted, "but you made me curious and I acted without thinking." Samiel was right though. Had he been armed and able to defend himself with a weapon, Brish might be dead right now, not nursing bruises.

  "I'm very sorry, but I'm going to have to report this to Andon," Samiel said, looking regretful and a little mortified. "He'll give you a month of latrine duty. If I didn't, someone else will." He indicated the crowd which was only now returning to their own training.

  "I understand. Don't feel bad, I did the stupid thing here," Brish assured him. "Can we keep practicing?" He was sure he could handle Andon if he got angry with h
im.

  "Of course." Samiel offered him the knife, although he eyed him carefully as he did so.

  "And Samiel, will you train me to flip people like that?"

  Samiel beamed. "If I'm allowed to, I will. I really prefer non-lethal defence to this sort of thing anyway. And it's good for us smaller guys to learn."

  He nodded to where two burly reasoners worked raising heavy logs above their heads. Their arms were thicker than Brish. He consoled himself with the thought that he had much more neck.

  "Can you flip them?"

  "I've never tried," Samiel admitted, "in theory it should be easier to do it to them than to have them toss us. It's all a matter of learning to use their weight against them. And well, they have a lot more of it than we do, even if they're all muscle. Do it the right way and they fall, and they'll land hard too."

  Brish was skeptical about that. "I don't think I want to try being thrown by them. It might end up with broken bones. And if I throw them, I think they might get angry." Neither man looked especially jovial. Being tossed around by a tiny man like him would be humiliating. The last thing he wanted was a wall of muscle haze-bent on revenge.

  Samiel gave a soft laugh. "They certainly could, but it'd all be for training. They'd understand. I think." He grimaced. "Now, lets get back to knife work. Remember to stand like this—"

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bakel's suggestion that the holding was designed to create melancholy in its inmates felt truer as the hours passed. Daven's cell was worse than the corridor, or Bakel's mother's room. There was barely space to stand and move around. The walls were a stark grey, stained darker by reason only knew what. Judging by the smell, the cell was scrubbed clean between residents, but the miasma remained. A bucket in the corner made him gag if he inhaled too deeply. He didn't want to think about what might be crawling around in the thin, lumpy mattress.

  He'd noticed the lack of a window the moment they brought him in at the point of a sword. He'd have liked to look out, if only to gauge the time, and maybe take a breath that didn't send the stench of urine to the back of his throat.

  He heard a click and a hatch at the base of the door slid open. The rush of cool air was welcome, but short lived. A tray slid through and the hatch was slammed shut before he even caught sight of a hand.

  He crouched down to lift the cover off a tray of food. It looked surprisingly good, but he had no appetite for it. He slid the tray aside and touched the door, trying to see if his magic would unlock the hatch. After a moment he snorted to himself. Even if he did unlock it, it was too small for him to fit through. He'd already tried the door and it refused to open, just as he'd expected.

  In frustration, he slammed his fist against the hatch. The door moved slightly on its hinges, but that was all. The only thing his frustration had succeeded in doing was hurting his hand. Even that was short-lived. A moment later the magic healed any damage he'd done.

  A chuckle from the other side told him whoever left the tray was still there, amused as his helplessness and anger. It might have fuelled the fire in some, but he sagged and slunk back to sit on the mattress.

  Although not hungry, he knew he had to eat.

  "Healer's orders," he muttered. He lifted the lid and again and leaned over so the food was all he could smell. The bread was fresh and fluffy, the soup hot and full of vegetables. They'd even given him some strong, hot tea, and a small cake of some kind. It was at odds with the cell.

  There would be some method behind all of this, he was sure of it. They put him in the worst place imaginable, then offered reminders that the outside world was sweet by comparison. Did they expect him to cooperate if he thought he'd get more food like this? They might be right.

  He picked up the bread, tore off a chunk, dunked it into the soup and bit into it. It was delicious. Only once he'd swallowed did it occur to him that it might be poisoned. That would be an easier way to kill a magin than fighting him, but his body might heal him before it could take hold. He almost smiled at the idea that they'd open the door, expecting to see him dead, only to find him alive and well. If he was armed, or had any skill in incapacitating people, he might escape before they could react. As it was, he might get two steps before finding a sword sticking out of his chest.

  He finished eating and tapped on the door. "I'm done." He sat back and waited to see what would happen.

  After a moment the hatch opened. Part of a face appeared, looking in before an arm snagged the tray and pulled it back out.

  "Thank you," Daven called out.

  He received a grunt in reply before the hatch closed. The lock clicked into place and the dank air settled again. With it, his dark mood returned. He scooted back to the mattress and slumped against the wall.

  He thought about Emmin, and the look on her face after he'd pushed her out the door. She'd looked surprised and scared. He didn't think she'd considered that they might actually get caught. She certainly hadn't anticipated that Daven would sacrifice himself so she and Bakel could get clear of the holding. In retrospect, it might be the most noble, and the most stupid thing he'd ever done. He might have a greater understanding of why they did the things they'd done, but they were killers. Saving them was illogical. He should have handed them to the reasoners the first chance he got. He might even be rewarded for turning in the people who had attacked Paryos and killed children. They should be in this cell, not him.

  Too anxious to remain seated, he rose and paced back and forth across the cell. It was four steps to either wall, but the movement helped him to gather his thoughts.

  He reflected on everything he'd done since he'd been pulled from the train. If he could do the last few months over again, he'd have walked away the first chance he got. No, he corrected himself, he wouldn't have been on that train. He'd have gone to his father and spoken to him. Even now it hurt to picture the look on his father's face upon seeing him do magic. He had been shocked and frightened, but he was still his father. He could have made him understand. He should have at least tried. Del was a smart man, he would have heard him out and attempted to comprehend it. Between them they could have worked out something. The people on the train might have lived.

  His mind skipped forward to the children in Bakel's compound. He admitted that he understood the magin's desire to keep the children safe, it was their methods which were reprehensible. Bakel claimed they'd tried for years to be heard, but the governors wouldn't listen. Desperation made people do terrible things. Haze, he'd been desperate from time to time, but he'd never resorted to murder.

  He paced again. If they hadn't found Daven, what would they have done? They certainly wouldn't have stopped the explosions in Paryos. They might even have extended them to other places in Dargyn. Bakel's mother might still be here, and the teacher would have died. Who else might have?

  Haze, he could speculate for days and get nowhere. All he could really do was hope he'd had some influence on Bakel and Emmin. Maybe now they'd stick to derailing empty trains and destroying deserted buildings in order to make their point. He shook his head. The reality was that they wouldn't stop until they freed every magin from this building. That would mean more killing. He glanced toward the door. The reasoners were far from innocent in all of this, but they were still people. They'd excuse their actions as following orders, but they'd made a choice, every one of them. They were all complicit.

  He paced again, then wondered what Bakel would consider freedom. There was more than one way to release people from their suffering. Their mission here may also have been assessing the vulnerability of the holding. To plan how best to give mercy to those inside. If that was the case, he was as good as dead, along with the reasoners here.

  The food soured in his stomach. All he'd ever wanted to do was save people.

  He recognised the irony now. He'd stayed with Bakel's group because he wanted to save them too. Bakel was a hard man, but Emmin wasn't a bad person, she was just caught up in terrible circumstances. She just wanted to live her li
fe, which wasn't an unreasonable request.

  He shook his head. He'd been blinded by fear and her pretty face. He felt as though the world had turned on him, so he'd turned his back on it. He'd been sucked into their world, dragged along by the current of their dogmatic hatred of the reasoners. Justified or not, it wasn't his world. He would no longer pretend to himself that staying with them would do any good. If they came back to get him out, rather than killing everyone here, he'd walk away from them. Let them have their war, he was done.

  He gave a short laugh. It was easy to come to a life-changing realisation when you were stuck in a cell, hours from death. Maybe he could make it last a day or two longer by telling the reasoners everything he knew. Could he bring himself to do that? The blood of innocent magin children would be all over his hands if he did.

  He was still wrestling with the matter an hour later when the door swung open, letting in a gush of clean air.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Daven froze.

  A woman stepped up to the door of his cell. She looked to be in her sixth decade at least. Her eyes were steely under hair which was entirely white. She had a long chin which she raised in a manner suggesting she was accustomed to being obeyed without question.

  "You will come with me," she stated. She stepped back, and four reasoners moved forward, two in the doorway, two behind. They all had swords. After a moment Daven noticed they all wore gloves. Not the soft kind to keep hands warm during cool weather, but ones which looked like they were made of steel, cold, hard and designed to protect against weapons. In this case, magic. They must have decided already that he wasn't a singer. A fair assumption since he hadn't used that kind of magic to evade capture.

  They didn't just wear gloves of steel, he realised after a moment. Metal chain fabric rattled under their uniforms. He saw a small section hanging down over their groins, tiny rings bound to each other. During the Dragonwar, soldiers had worn something similar, to ward off blows from weapons. It wouldn't protect their face if a toucher had a mind to attack them there, but it'd keep the rest of them relatively safe. Or so the history books said.