Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Only the elite Shadow Children were allowed entrance into the tournament, and Savarah’s heart was eager for next year’s contest, for it would be her first chance to enter.

  In six days, on her fourth birthday, she would have her initiation match into the Dragoon Class. The contest would be her first fight using weapons, a privilege only given to four- and five-year-olds who Master Isolaug felt were sufficiently worthy to be allowed to live to see their fourth birthday.

  As a Three, Savarah had been trained in hand-to-hand killing, a brutal but much more predictable style of fighting than contests with weapons. Watching Llani and Jakk with their knives was fascinating, and Savarah’s mind drifted forward to imagine her upcoming match on her birthday.

  Who among the Dragoon Class would Master Isolaug select as her opponent for her initiation contest? What weapons would be chosen?

  Her eyes roved over the line of children standing along the rock barrier beside her. There were several four- and five-year-olds from the Dragoon class that might make a formidable opponent, but almost against her will, her eyes stopped on one particular boy’s serene face.

  The boy’s name was Rilon, and he was a fellow Three, and therefore not a potential opponent for her initiation match, but seeing his face calmed her for reasons she tried to quickly bury.

  The memory of a smile from a month ago weaseled into her mind’s eye.

  She shook her head, dispelling her temporary lapse in control and returned her attention to the two fighters in the proving grounds.

  Jakk was closing in on Llani. The girl was backed up against the ring of rocks, hunkered low to the ground, legs balanced beneath her, ready to meet Jakk’s blade if it should fly for an opening.

  All it took were a few well placed slits in the flesh, and the blood loss would mount over time, weakening the opponent. Llani’s golden hair was a thick mat of ruby red blood on the left side of her head. It was a harsh first blow from Jakk.

  Llani had turned four-years-old a week prior to the match. As a Three, she had been one of the smartest contenders Savarah had ever faced. Savarah had killed Llani in hand-to-hand combat three months prior, but not before Llani had gouged out her right eye and broken five of Savarah’s ribs against the rocks.

  Savarah slid her right hand up to touch the once injured socket. She felt a pinch of the same relief she’d experienced months ago, when Master Isolaug fully restored the organ at the end of her and Llani’s fight.

  “Do you remember when you used to cry before matches?” sang a quiet, boyish voice in Savarah’s ear. “You were such a soft little thing. Remember when you pissed yourself right before your first match as a Three?”

  Savarah didn’t turn her head. It was the poisonous ring of Rintorack’s needling voice and it was not unfamiliar. He’d graduated eleven months ago into the Dragoon Class. The boy was a head taller than her, with long arms and a well balanced body. As a Three, he had given Savarah her only defeat, strangling her to death while crushing her spine against one of the hewn boulders in the center of the arena.

  Rintorack’s match was one of the contests she looked forward to watching in the tournament today.

  Savarah bit at a dead flake of skin on her bottom lip and tore a raw slit open. She hoped Rintorack’s opponent split his genetically advanced brain in two.

  “I remember how you lost to Danku,” said Savarah. “He knocked half your teeth out, then impaled you like a weak little girl on the center spike—right through your gut—you moaned and cried like one of the king’s wives in labor.”

  Rintorack giggled. “And you wouldn’t? You act like such a tough girl now, but you’re scared. Won’t even turn and look at me. Maybe one day, you’ll face a real opponent again.”

  Savarah felt his finger poke hard into her back. She spun, face burning hot in anger.

  “You know if it’s me and you next week, your ass is mine,” said Rintorack with a grin, then turned and swaggered over to a group of six other Dragoons who’d been watching the exchange from afar.

  She met their sneers without flinching and amused herself with the confidence of knowing that Rintorack’s bravado would be his undoing. She wondered if the master had failed in some way when altering Rintorack’s genes. He was supposed to have, at minimum, the mind of a sixteen-year-old by age four, and here he was, talking like a shit-brained Twelver.

  Savarah turned back to watch Llani and Jakk.

  Somehow, Llani had given Jakk a cut across his side, attested to by the boy’s dusty shirt slit open and running with blood down to his pants.

  Savarah respected Llani, for she had killed her way to the top rung of Master Isolaug’s proving grounds. Llani was fearless. She had what it took to become a Shadowman. So did Chaveerel and Rueik, both members of the Disciple Class of students who were all but guaranteed a position in Master Isolaug’s most elite class.

  Rintorack’s words came to her ears again like an echo unbidden, and they conjured up once-suppressed memories of those times she’d cried in fear before every fight during her first months as a Three.

  Fear, she had come to realize, could be built on sheer terror of one’s opponent, or of the pain of the fight, but that had not been the whole of the fear she experienced. Her fear was also driven by what she perceived as missing from her life. A hole—a negative space—that left her heart longing for the one thing that could fill it.

  And that something was the love of a mother or father, brother or sister or friend, for it seemed no amount of genetic manipulation could fully remove the need the Makers had ingrained in humans. Love, she’d been taught, drove one to do the stupidest things in order to protect the object of that love. So it was with all human relationships built on sacrifice.

  As Isolaug warned, sacrifice was the brilliant trap the Makers wove into the fabric of humans in the very beginning, causing their emotions to rule them and ensuring that they would forever be steerable; a submissive chattel to rule over the worlds they had seeded.

  She saw that same underlying need for love in many of the other young Threes, but all who passed into the Dragoon class were of the kind that had conquered it, or so it appeared to her.

  She thought she’d overcome those old emotions, digging a grave deep in her mind and violently shoving all that was weak and needy within her into that dark pit in her psyche where she hoped it would never resurface.

  It had worked perfectly for over half a year, up until a week ago, when the dreams had started.

  And now, Savarah found herself again feeling the bite of that deformity written into her heart… the impediment of her damn near insatiable need for the love of another person.

  During the daylight, it was so much easier to resist, but at night… the ugly temptation was becoming an uncontrollable urge.

  Jakk’s knife flashed savagely for Llani as he strode forward, daring his thin-framed opponent to outmatch his quick, efficient blows.

  Llani skirted deftly on her heels, backing herself toward a jagged boulder in the center of the arena. Savarah knew Llani well enough to guess exactly where she was going.

  Jakk seemed to sense the opportunity as Llani neared the boulder, for if she took a step back and tripped against the rock, he could slip past her guard in the moment of her surprise.

  Stilling his knife, he pressed forward, the boulder only a few steps behind Llani.

  Llani’s knifehand lifted high above her head like the stinger of a scorpion. Her foot came upon the boulder, and she seemed to stumble.

  Jakk lurched for her, his knife stabbing for her heart, but in the space of half-a breath Llani dropped down, and Jakk’s knife pierced just above his target, rending her flesh between heart and shoulder.

  In the same motion, Llani’s right foot had slid out and tripped Jakk, causing him to fall forward upon her.

  Her scorpion-like knife, poised above her head came down over Jakk, striking over his shoulder and piercing his heart through his back.

  With a twist, she tore his dying body o
ff of her, and then removed the knife from her own chest with a scream.

  Jakk fell to the ground and in a matter of moments lay still.

  A bell sounded, marking the end of the match. Llani marched out of the arena to where the Divine King sat with Master Isolaug, his reptilian body stretched like an epaulet on the king’s shoulder.

  Llani knelt at the seat of the king and he stretched out his hand and touched her head. Master Isolaug’s power flowed through the king’s fingers and Llani shook until her every wound was made whole and no trace of injury remained on her body.

  Jakk’s body was dragged to the king, and then hefted up by two Glory Watchmen. They lifted the dead boy so that the king would not have to stoop. The king’s hand froze above the boy’s head.

  Everyone knew it would descend, for this was the tournament of the elite Dragoon Class, and all who fought in it were certain to be found sufficiently worthy of life. It was only those who lost continually, and could not rise above their fears that, eventually, the hand would cease to descend upon.

  The Divine King touched Jakk’s head. The boy quaked, and after Savarah counted five of her own breaths, the boy was set on his feet, as whole a person as his opponent, Llani.

  Both would continue to fight another day.

  ***

  Savarah awoke to soft whimpers coming from her own lips.

  Panic set in at the realization of what she was doing, and she pinched her mouth shut in anger. If the other children overheard, she would be mocked, but it wasn’t any of the Threes that truly concerned her, it was her master’s Glory Watchmen, Asden and Tarquin, who stood sentry by the entrance.

  She pulled the blanket up over her body, so that its warmth sheltered her from head to toe. With a tender touch, she squeezed her Su-Zu doll in her arms and pressed the makeshift animal friend tight against her chest. Su-Zu was a carefully hidden secret, created from a rolled pelt of rabbit fur she’d stolen from one of the king’s many furnished rooms in the temple’s inner courts.

  Su-Zu’s soft fur against her skin calmed her. She rarely held the doll anymore, but she’d kept it hidden for moments like this, when she needed to feel comforted.

  It was a weakness, she knew. An embarrassing thing to still desire when she was the highest ranked member in the Class of Threes, and on the cusp of turning four and joining the Dragoons.

  All year, Master Isolaug and the Glory Watchmen had sung of the dangers to her and her classmates—neediness and love only led to pain, tears, and dependency. It meant sharing what you did not wish to share. Needing that which held you down and oppressed you. Binding yourself to that which could kill you. All the Threes in her class were the very brightest students in all of Praelothia. This her teachers pointed out to them again and again. They were far superior in mind and body than the citizens outside the temple walls.

  And yet, though she knew love was weakness, she’d begun waking in the night, longing for it after a fearful dream, and this was always followed by shame and frustration.

  The memory of her dream returned like a fresh whip lash across her back. In it she’d faced Rintorack. Crowds of other Shadow Children watched from behind the blackened rock that enclosed the proving circle. She’d tried to use her quick and nimble legs to escape his wild sword, but every time he swung at her, the sword came closer, and closer, until the shining metal blade came arching down at her face to cleave her right between the eyes, and she’d awoken to the sounds of her own whimpering.

  The memory alone filled her with the need to run somewhere safe, but where was this safety her heart whispered of in the night, when her emotions ran strong and the light of day couldn’t chase away her childish feelings?

  She turned in her bed to look over the large cavern she slept in. Hundreds of beds stretched across the Threes sleeping quarters. Here, she was well-protected. Where did she need to run to? Where could she go that was safer than the temple?

  Memories of sights she’d seen began to stir. City children walking hand in hand with their father, or babies held to drink at their mother’s breast.

  She always wondered what it would have been like. To be held and nourished by her mother, whoever she had been. She’d glimpsed the king’s children, cradled in the arms of their mothers, suckling long past infancy, even to the age of five or six.

  It was that kind of comfort that her heart longed for now.

  Strong, safe arms to enfold her. Another person’s warmth.

  Her logical brain reminded her of the truth: what she longed for was a place of false safety. It was only a feeling, but not real.

  The emotions inside her felt shameful. Dirty. They would cause her to form bonds of dependency and need, and she knew it to be so…felt it like a pair of hands around her neck. She was born of the strong, not of the feeble commoner. She was superior to the city dwellers outside the temple.

  She cursed under her breath and squeezed her Su-Zu doll in frustration, as if she might strangle it by its throat.

  She wasn’t supposed to need the warmth of a mother or any other person, but her body craved it, no matter how hard she fought the desire, it wanted weakness. It wanted to feel loved.

  All the killing of other children in the arena hadn’t driven the need fully away. It had remained, buried inside her, only to crawl out of the tomb she’d stuffed it in to wreak havoc upon her heart under the cover of darkness, haunting her in the midnight hours.

  It had been getting worse as her initiation match in the Dragoon Class neared.

  She was a Shadow Child, born to become a Shadowman. A fourth birthday elevated a Shadow Child beyond mere fist blows to the use of weapons, and she would soon be facing other four- and five-year-olds in the proving circle, taking part in unfamiliar fights with weapons.

  In her bed, she shivered, remembering her dreamfight with Rintorack. The horror of the dream returned, and the pathetic fear flooded hot through her veins—almost like anger, but its burning opposite.

  Terror.

  She poked her head up, her eyes scanning the room as her body involuntarily searched again for a safe place, but not just a place, a person. A face with a name came into her mind. A boy named Rilon who had broken the rules of conduct and smiled at her more than once—not a sneer or a mocking grin, but a kind smile—a smile he could have been whipped for.

  As she peered around the large cavern at the dimly lit rows of raised beds spread across the floor, a pair of torches beside the entrance cast dull illuminating light upon every sleeping form. The two Glory Watchmen talked quietly, standing guard by the large iron door.

  Slowly, Savarah slipped from her bed to the ground, the cold stone floor sending chills through her bare feet. On hands and knees, she crept along the rows of beds, moving as swiftly as she dared so as not to make noise. She counted each bed as she passed, knowing the number of beds between hers and Rilon’s.

  She’d counted them five nights before, when a night terror had awakened her, only this time, she felt she might actually go through with her plan, so desperate she felt now to rid herself of the need.

  Under the sway of night, denying it felt an impossible request.

  When she reached Rilon’s bed, she stilled herself. His hair protruded from the blanket pulled up over his face.

  Timidly, she moved up beside the wooden frame and poked her head up beside him. Though she was scared from her dreams, she was now confronted by new emotions.

  As she crouched there beside Rilon’s bed, she wondered if she had the courage to continue. She knew fear had driven her here, but now that she was here, fear was driving her back to where she’d come. Back to her own bed, where she would not face the possibility of punishment if she were caught.

  The crack of whip lashes echoed in her mind.

  “Fear can be your ally, or your greatest enemy,” she remembered a Glory Watchman quote from Isolaug’s teachings during a lesson. “To cause fear in another is to gain an advantage over them, but guard yourselves against becoming fearful, for fear
drives one to make foolish decisions. Let fear be your weapon and nothing else, for if fear overcomes you, it will be your blood and your guts spilt upon the loveless proving circle.”

  Her master was right about fear. Fear made it hard to think clearly. As much as the picture of warm arms had driven her from her bed, the thought of pain made her heart thrum with tension. And beyond the threat of being caught, Rilon might reject her need to be comforted.

  Yes, he had smiled at her occasionally, but the last time had been over a month ago. He might have overcome that weakness. He might be stronger now, as all the Threes were endeavoring to become, striving to have hardened hearts and minds.

  Maybe he would rat her out for her actions.

  An angry breath passed through her lips. She should go back. It was foolish of her to come here. She started to crawl back into the aisle when a whisper sounded behind her.

  “Savarah? What are you doing?”

  She froze for only a moment, then turned her head. Rilon’s darkened face peered at her from beneath his blankets. Then his hand came before his face and his fingers motioned for her to come closer.

  She scooted back to the side of his bed.

  A scowl hung on Rilon’s pale face. Then his voice came, soft and hushed. “What are you doing?” he repeated.

  “I need to ask you something,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Alright?”

  “Can I go under your blankets for a little while?”

  His scowl turned into disbelief. He glanced at the Glory Watchmen at the door.

  “What for?”

  The bitter taste of her own frailty locked her tongue briefly. She fought against the embarrassment of the words she held back in her mouth. “I had a dream,” she whispered, then shook her head and hissed softly, “a nightmare.”

  He stared at her blankly, as if having trouble deciding how he should react.

  “I overheard a boy out in the city say he ran to his mother and father’s room when he had a nightmare. He looked six or seven.”

  “They’re weak, that’s why,” said Rilon, then breathed deeply, and the hardness melted from his face. “But I know. I still want it too, sometimes. A mother or father. Or just a friend.”