There were supposed to be men who were part elf, but Barst had never seen one, and he had doubted their existence. If Orane was a quarter elf, he should have no problem dispatching all his opponents.
The trumpets blared and the two teams charged at each other yelling war cries. Barst focused on Orane who sprinted ahead of his team with speed that had to be inhuman. His right arm, which carried his strange weapon, was stretched out behind him so that the end of the bottom blade scratched the dirt's surface. Right before colliding with the other team, he gracefully leapt into the air over the first ranks of the green tide and landed in front of the startled second row. The men started, which was their undoing as Orane sliced through them with his weapon at incredible speeds. The crowd roared their approval as they shot to their feet.
As soon as Orane had dispatched everyone within his staff ’s range, he moved quickly to another group that he eliminated with equal swiftness. Orane's movement seemed rather feline, and Barst got the impression he glided rather than walked.
Barst turned his attention to Throun. He was being attacked by three fighters, and had isolated himself from the rest of his team. His desperation could be seen even from the window, as he tried to hold his foes at bay with his spear. One of his antagonists slipped, and the big man lunged forward, skewering him with his spear. The other two men struck simultaneously and slashed at Throun’s chest. The man fell with a yell, and would have surely been finished if not for Orane, who seemed to come from nowhere. Orane swooped in and slashed the two men both in the back, and then took off before Throun had time to get up. Barst hit his hand against the windowsill in frustration; his team needed Eronde's team to die.
Now the fight was almost over. A few of Moren's team banded together into what would become a last stand. Orane stood to the side and let the rest of his team rush in and overwhelm the small group with sheer numbers. Before any of Eronde's team started gloating, Barst turned away and went back the table where Frank was sitting.
"Fight over that quickly?"
Barst nodded, "Orane is going to be trouble."
"Aye, I've seen him fight before." Frank ran a hand through his hair, obviously not focused on the conversation. "He has more talent than any fighter I've ever seen. In fact, now that I think of it, I believe he is owned by Lord Barkley."
Barst nodded again, and then leaned his head forward on the table. It was going to be harder than he had previously thought. Orane would make sure of that. I wonder what he fights for. The thought kept him distracted for a few minutes.
A low grumble in his stomach awakened Barst from his contemplations, and he pushed his chair away from the table. Frank was staring at his feet in thought, so Barst began to walk to the food counter alone.
When he passed the board the workers had nailed up earlier, Barst stopped with surprise to see his name mounted at the top. Below it were other names of people from his team. After a moment he realized what it was. It was a scoreboard. Barst eyes flew to his name and, half cringing in fear at what he might see, he looked at the column marked “kills.”
Fifteen.
Barst felt like he had taken a blow. He stepped back and tried to get air into his lungs. His mind was reeling. He had slaughtered fifteen men. Men who may have had families. Men who may have been forced into the arena. Men who had hope and a purpose.
He felt filthy with guilt. All he had said to Frank now left him. He had stolen fifteen men's right to live. He had never killed anywhere close to that number in the past. How much more of this could he take? Surely he would die of guilt and pain. What he had done would always be ingrained into his conscious.
Barst forced himself into the lunch line, but it all seemed a haze. The thought of fifteen dead bodies haunted his thoughts. Food was handed to him, yet he didn’t even notice. He moved back to the table and started eating when the realization came to him. He was going to cry. He stood up and briskly walked to the lavatory, head hung low.
C H A P T E R 17
Meeting Her at Last
Despite the well-done interior, the suiting room had begun to develop a stench. The fighters’ armor had lain in there for the day and had begun to release terrible fumes that filled the whole team's nostrils. Barst, ignoring the fetid stench, tightened his belt and began to tuck a few knifes in various places.
He had regained his calm after losing it earlier. He had pounded on the walls of the small lavatory and wailed with pain and guilt. His tears had made a river down his cheek, taking shortcuts across his scars. His body throbbed from being thrown against the walls in shame.
Barst had only wept once like that before, and that was after his parents’ death. He could still see the blood from his self-inflicted wounds seep through the snow. His body had ached for days.
Barst shook those memories out of his mind and focused on the task ahead. He remembered his purpose and fixed it in his mind. He could feel determination fill him from the far corners of his body, and he began to steel himself for the last fight. His focus seemed to narrow his vision, and he ignored all others around him.
A bugle went off, and Barst headed out toward the arena, a good five paces ahead of Rudy. When they stepped out into the arena, Barst resisted the urge to shield his eyes from the sudden sun, and instead searched for Orane.
He was easy to spot. Standing away from the rest of the team, his weapon lodged in the dirt, he smiled smugly at Barst with an air of superiority. Barst's already boiling blood came to a steam, and he positioned himself directly facing Orane. The crowd roared their approval, but Barst flushed it out, focusing only on his enemy.
Stealthily as he could, Barst unfastened the knife around his belt and held it concealed against his arm. With his other hand, Barst adjusted his sword on his back and readied for a sprint. He had already planned out the coming fight and knew exactly what had to be done.
The trumpet went off, and Barst sprinted with all his might. Across from him, Orane had dislodged his weapon from the ground and was running at him with amazing speed and grace; the smug smile still on his lips. The similarity between Orane and Force struck Barst's thoughts suddenly, and served to steel his resolve all the more.
Right before impact, Barst flipped his wrist and sent the deadly knife right towards Orane's chest. Time seemed to stop as the shimmering weapon flew through the air. Orane's expression transformed from brimming with confidence, to terror and surprise. He tried to dodge to the side but his momentum was driving him toward the knife. In a last act of desperation, Orane shoved his weapon at the knife, as his body fell to the ground. The knife ricocheted off the staff and logged itself in Orane's unguarded shoulder.
A scream of pain escaped Orane’s lips, but Barst was already on top of him. Barst kicked at Orane's weapon while driving his now unstrapped sword toward the man's chest. Orane managed to deflect his deathblow only to have it drive into his uninjured shoulder. He screamed louder and Barst yanked his weapon out and prepared a finishing blow. It never came though. Right before Barst drove the sword down, a body smashed into him, sending him reeling to the ground.
The world spun around him, and Barst tried to gain his feet. The yells of the victors and the screams of the dying were mingled with the clashing of steel and bodies. Barst finally shook out the cobwebs in his head, to see a bloody Orane racing toward him with none of his former grace. Barst pulled out his last two knives and prepared to throw them. As he raised his arms to release the deadly barrage, a body flew in and Barst saw a glint of steel as Orane's legs were cut out from under him.
Barst stood stunned as Frank, stood over the elven man, and, after a brief pause, thrust both his rapiers into Orane's twitching body. Frank turned towards the frozen Barst, gave him a solid nod of the head, and then sprinted to find another opponent.
Barst awoke from his stupor and scanned the ground for his weapon. He spot-ted it a few feet away, laying in the dust next to a body clad in blue. Barst stumbled at the unexpected resilience from his muscles as he began to force h
is battered body toward the sword.
After retrieving the sword, Barst took in the battlefield. Bodies were everywhere. Only a small number of fighters were still alive, and they were hacking at each other at the center of the arena. Barst spotted Throun in the midst of them, and began to head his way as fast as his bruised legs would allow. Thourn was fighting a sword man who had managed to get in close, and was hacking away at the bigger man. Throun was stepping back, when he quickly extended his leg, tripping the sword man as he stepped forward. Stabbing his spear into the man's chest, Throun quickly ended the man's life and scanned the battle field, his face flushed with a perverse pride.
Barst saw Throun's eyes lock onto his own, and Barst added another limp to his step. A malicious smile spread across Throun's face as he saw easy prey, and he began to swagger up to Barst, taking occasional glances to the sides. Barst tried to suppress his smile as Throun drew closer, and he tightened his grip on his sword.
"AAAAAA!"
A blur collided with Throun and knocked him to the ground. It took Barst a little time to register that it was Frank again, kneeling on top of the big man, and Barst tried to quicken his pace, the fake limp now gone. Throun growled, and his over-sized hand locked around Frank's throat. Frank slashed into Throun's chest with his sword, but it only seemed to anger the monster. Throun threw a punch into Frank's stomach, and Frank yelled in pain.
Barst watched helplessly as Frank crumpled, and Throun stood up and threw the smaller man into the dirt. Frank tried to roll to the side, but even he wasn't fast enough to avoid the spear that pinned his chest to the ground. Barst roared with anger and his vision began to fog as Throun twisted his spear around in Frank's dying body, fury turning the giant's complexion to purple. Thourn glanced up at Barst and proceeded to place his foot on Frank's chest to yank out the spear.
Throun twisted the spear out of the corpse, and turned toward Barst, causing gore to fling off his spear. He gave a cocky smile, and then powerfully threw the spear at Barst. Barst tried to dodge, but his legs failed him and his body was seared with pain as the spear penetrated his midsection.
Pain lanced through his body, yet Barst refused to fall. Blood poured out of his open wound and turned the dirt beneath him into mud. Through his blurred vision, he saw a confident Throun swaggering towards him. With a last effort, Barst removed a hand from the spear sticking out of him and gripped a knife in his belt. His body screamed as he stood up to his fullest, drew his knife, and flung it into Throun's throat. He had the satisfaction of seeing his foe collapse before the pain drew him to the ground as well.
His eyes fastened to the sky, Barst realized for the first time that day, how beau`tiful the heavens were. A few white clouds slowly drifted through a light blue sea that didn't seemed bothered by the events below. A cool tranquility overtook Barst, and he heard nothing but silence. He felt his breathing slow, and the pain leave him. He closed his eyes and thought of Her.
She was laughing, and not any laugh, but the laugh that filled her eyes and seemed to warm the very air. He whispered her name.
“Serene.”
Her beautiful name rolled of his tongue like the sweetest of wines, and caused his heart to leap. A smile formed on Barst's face, and he reached out to touch her. She grinned back at him and reached out with her delicate hand. Right before their hands met, blackness overtook his vision and his breathing stopped forever.
C H A P T E R 18
A Market
The dusty market square was unusually empty. It was a few days after Haddix, and some decorations still littered the ground. A few merchants were desperately trying to sell their last festive items that they had been unable to sell during the holiday, for bargain prices. For the most part though, the square was bare of everything.
A lone rider rode into the square and hammered a single parchment onto the bulletin board in the center of the square. He rode off without addressing anyone, and a few people threw disdainful glances at the large, purple "L" stitched in the center of his uniform.
As the day progressed, the trickle of humanity became a brook and finally, a river. People would occasionally stop at the bulletin board, some with mild interest, others with energy. Of the later, most would leave without their excitement and with a new frown upon their faces.
As the light began to dim, a thin, pale woman with a slight limp entered the square and began to make her way to the bulletin board. After reaching her destination, she began to run her finger over the parchment wildly, her eyes tearing through the words with desperation. Then suddenly, she froze. Her finger pointing at one line and her mouth half-agape. A quite sob escaped her lips, and a lone tear made its way down her face. She withdrew her pointing finger and curled her hands into balls. She turned, and began to make her way to the other side of the crowd, her limp now more pronounced.
While she was leaving, a man on the opposite side of the square was looking at some goods with mild interest. He looked up and lazily scanned the crowd. His eyes lit up with recognition as they locked upon the woman.
"Serene!" He yelled, waving his hands to get her attention.
Serene seemed to cringe away from the voice and kept walking. The man began to jog toward her, but the crowd was too thick. He went only a few feet before her slight frame was swallowed up by the mass of humanity.
A look of puzzlement on his face, he walked out of the crowd and took a seat against the bulletin board, his face wrinkled with bafflement. After a few minutes had passed, he visibly shrugged it off and stood to his feet. He brushed himself off, and his wandering eyes caught on to the piece of parchment on the bulletin board. His eyes become slits of concentration and he read quietly to himself.
"Lord Barkley’s Haddix Tournament’s Dead," he muttered.
He casually scanned the list beneath the title and, after not recognizing anyone, turned and began to stroll away, a slight whistle coming from his lips.
E P I L O G U E
A Light
The white crack of light never wavered. It remained still, completely motionless against the oppressive darkness that loomed around it. Even so, the light failed to illuminate even a single inch of the black room.
His eyes never left that light. Its image would float before him every time he closed his eyes. Upon first awaking, he had tried to glance around the room. When he did though, the bleakness of the domineering shadows pierced his heart, and his eyes once again searched violently for the sliver of light—heart pounding at the very thought of its demise.
Then it changed. He wrenched with all his strength against the chains that held him to the wall as the light halved in length. A bellow sounded from deep inside his chest, and panic began to worm its way to the surface of his countenance.
Then the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed happened. The light, which had before been so diminutive, suddenly exploded in size, and cascaded into the room. He closed his eyes against this onslaught, and his heart beat faster with happiness and anticipation.
Then it stopped. The door closed, and he was left with the same sliver of light. But something was different this time. Someone else was in the room.
“Who’s there?” His own voice sounded foreign to him, more gravely.
“Do you remember?” A silky voice answered back.
“Remember what?”
“If you remembered you would know.”
He thought hard, trying to recall even the slightest thing, “I don’t remember anything. Just here.”
“And where is here?” The voice asked.
He shrugged, “I haven’t the slightest.”
“Good,” The voice purred.
The rustling of clothing and he quickly realized the voice was going to leave.
“Wait!” He shouted hoarsely, “Who am I?”
The rustling stopped and the voice answered, “Good question. Lets just call you Barst.”
With that, the door briefly opened flooding Barst with light. The door slammed shut, and Barst was left
to himself, starring at the thin sliver of light that penetrated the gloom, his mind already forgetting the conversation that had just happened.
The End
Will be continued in the sequel The Smith
The Warrior (The Rebellion) Page 7
