“Unexpected business forced me to allow you more than the allotted month for your training,” he stated. “Lucky for you, though, the day is finally here.”
Today? She didn’t have time to panic. He was already grabbing onto the chains of her shackles, dragging her through the door of her cell.
Yasar was on her heels, pushing roughly at her back to keep her moving forward. In the end, she preferred the possibility of physical torture over what she feared Mikel had come to her for. Broken bones could be mended in time, but there were some things which could never be taken back. If the worst that happened to her were more scars to add to those already marring her body, then she was content to endure the pain.
They were leading her to the courtyard. Lines of people had gathered around the sandy arena, cheering their entrance. Her eyes searched the crowd, curious if Kael had come, or if he’d been allowed to. She already knew she would forgive him if he was unable to bring himself to watch the spectacle. Were the tables turned, she would find it impossible to see the things being done to him without feeling an uncontrollable need to help. Such actions would end poorly for them both.
The onlookers wore heavy cloaks to warm them from the autumn chill filling the air of the open courtyard. Through her racing thoughts, she was still able to recognize the familiar dull light of many of the eyes gazing back at her, heavily tainted by the dark magics of the Ven’shal. It was all a show to Mikel. He cared little about whether she could fire a bow or parry a sword. To him, it was another chance to show off his trophy to his friends. Public humiliation for a member of their rival race. She could feel the expectant eyes upon her, wanting to see her maimed, possibly killed, for the sake of their own entertainment.
Oksuva was like a vision of peace amongst the roaring crowd, sitting calmly on a high-backed chair at the side of the arena. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, the thick green fabric of her dress fluttering in the breeze around her slippered feet. She was solemn, her posture perfectly erect. And there at her side, opposite the matching throne-like seat on her left, sat an anguished Kael, his forehead creased with concern as Mikel led her onto the sandy ground. They both remained silent while the rest of the audience cheered her shackled state, shouting heckles and other derogatory statements toward her.
From behind, she felt Yasar’s meaty hands push her forward, knocking her down to her knees in the sand. The crowd went wild, whooping anxiously. “My friends,” Mikel announced. “I guarantee you a show this day!”
To the roaring crowd, he gestured down at Leyna’s kneeling form. The scrape of metal against leather could be heard from somewhere. With a dull thud, a sword was tossed to the ground in front of Leyna, sending a puff of dust into her eyes and mouth. She gagged, spitting in disgust to clear it from her tongue.
Metal. The blade was designed of well-constructed steel, sharpened to a fine point which glistened with the light of the sun overhead. It wasn’t the light, innocent wood of the practice swords with which she and Kael had trained for the last month. This weapon was capable of removing limbs if utilized properly. What have you gotten yourself into?
The question echoed in her mind, realizing that Mikel and Yasar were already exiting the arena ground, taking their positions next to Oksuva and Kael. No. They couldn’t be. Her wrists were still weighted down by the heavy chains of her shackles, binding her securely. How was she supposed to fight anything if she couldn’t have the full use of her arms?
Kael’s voice could be heard from his seat. Something about her bindings. He had noticed as well. But Mikel was unyielding. The protests fell on deaf ears, met only by the hearty laughter of Mikel and Yasar.
So much for her promises to Thade and Feolan that everything would be safe. She couldn’t bear to think of what Thade would say if he knew what was happening. Not that it mattered. If he knew what was happening, he would have found a way to prevent it – or stop it now before it could escalate any further. Her heart was pounding. Did Mikel truly expect her to wield this weapon in combat under her current circumstances? It was like a cruel joke that had gone on far too long. So long, in fact, that she was beginning to think it wasn’t in jest at all. The odds were stacked against her.
But that had been his plan all along. She’d been foolish to think he would have willingly allowed this fight to be fair when it risked him losing full control of his personal Vor’shai slave. It had sounded simple; the way Oksuva’s bell-like voice had described the bargain. In truth, she was stuck in the middle of a battle between a husband and wife whose intentions couldn’t be more drastically opposite. Oksuva desired to see her win out of spite for her husband; while Mikel arranged everything he could to see her fail.
Proudly, she rose to her feet, catching up the hilt of the sword in her right hand. The weight was impressive. It reminded her of the weapons used by the other soldiers during the war. On occasion she had found need to use them, though she’d opted most times for the lighter design of her own blade.
She stood on guard, her eyes shifting sharply from one side of the ring to the other. The attack could come from anywhere. Mikel wouldn’t have made it quite so easy as to grant her a fair start. Her opponent would have the advantage of surprise, setting her in a defensive stance in preparation for whatever might come.
When the man finally showed himself, she was ready for him, her muscles instantly twitching into motion, the movements instinctive to her well-trained mind. He was taller than she was, but not by much. His head was shaved on the sides, leaving only a thin line of close-cut brown hair curving around just above his ears from front to back. The whites of his eyes were almost nonexistent. A dull black film covered over where it should be, bleeding into the iris to conceal whatever color it once held. A trait of the Ven’shal. This man could be of any combination of Vor’shai or Ven’shal in heritage, but the magic which he studied was obvious. The taint of his darkening spirit sent shivers over Leyna’s skin.
Her restrained wrists forced her blocks to be more sluggish than preferred, her left arm flopping uselessly about from the short chain between the shackles, pulling her off balance. The only thing which eased her troubled thoughts was that the man she was fighting appeared sluggish himself, lacking the refined quality to his strikes that she had come to expect from Kael. It slowed him down. An unplanned disadvantage for Mikel’s fighter.
The blocks and counters came in a flurry of intense concentration, flowing reflexively from Leyna’s muscles. The techniques came back to her quickly through her training. All that mattered to her at this early stage of the fight was to disarm the man of his weapon. As long as they were both wielding blades, the danger of severe injury was too great a risk. She wanted to impress Oksuva with her abilities, but the last thing she wanted to do was kill some stranger for no reason.
This wasn’t war. Unnecessary deaths should be avoided at any cost, unless it became apparent that death was the only means of defending her own life. She wasn’t willing to die for the sake of sparing anyone who seemed to willingly serve the perverted rituals and magics of the Ven’shal.
It was hard to tell whether he was picking up speed, or if she was slowing down. His precision was improving rapidly, pushing her back, their swords clanging together loudly, echoing in her ears over the cheers of the crowd. They wanted blood. She didn’t. There would be no avoiding it, however. Aim for non vital-targets. She tried to keep focused on the match, finding it harder to accomplish with every swing of the man’s sword. Growing frustrated, her concentration began to fail.
She had to disarm him. Steeling her resolve, she gripped the hilt with both hands, steadying the awkward sway of her body caused by her restraints. This allowed her a stronger hold, lightening the load of the heavy blade. With a newfound strength, she pressed forward, bearing down on her opponent with a combination of strikes, forcing him to the defensive.
Openings were revealing themselves to her at every turn, his arms overextending on the blocks, rising up a little higher than they shoul
d, leaving his midsection vulnerable. She hesitated to strike at such a dangerous target. The sword was too sharp to think that she could properly judge the depth of any wound she thought to inflict. There had to be something else. His arms. On the overextension, the length of his arm would be exposed. A strike there would be easier to control.
He moved perfectly into her plans, his motions growing more frantic to block her strikes. No more effort was being made to attempt counter attacks, placing her in a dominating position to overwhelm his guard and relieve him of his weapon. Drawing his arms out for another parry, she directed the feint off to his left, shifting her stance to drag her blade painfully along his bicep.
The distraction of the wound was all she needed. His attention was diverted, his grip weakened. Twisting her own blade downward in a circular motion, she sent his weapon flying from his hands, safely out of reach to prevent him from retrieving it.
Leyna was surprised to hear scattered cheers throughout the crowd at her success. She wanted to see Kael, to know if he was on his feet, his own voice adding to her praise, but she couldn’t allow her focus to break. The wound inflicted on her opponent was superficial at best, leaving him fully capable of retaliation.
His counter came unexpectedly, his body dropping down, extending his right leg and gathering momentum in a hard spin to sweep her legs out from underneath her, slamming her back onto the ground. Air escaped her lungs, exhaled in a single sharp breath. The sensation left her stunned for only an instant, her body rolling out of the way to evade the stomping foot that followed.
As she rolled, the pressure of some resistance weighted down her sword, preventing her from pulling it back to her. If she let it go, she would be disarming herself and leaving her own weapon in the hands of her opponent. The man’s heavy boot pressed against her right wrist. It dug the edges of the shackles deep into her skin, crushing the bone with a grotesque crack while her left hand was powerless to fight back, her reach hindered by the short chain connecting her wrists.
The pain was too great for her overcome. Tendons strained in her wrist, the muscles failing in her hand, causing the hilt of the sword to release from her grasp. Desperately she tried to maneuver her left hand over his foot to it, hoping to snatch it back into her possession. He couldn’t be allowed to get it. Her position was too poor. If he gained back a blade, the fight would be over. Unless she was willing to sacrifice a few broken bones. Such an expense seemed an adequate price to save her life.
Leyna drew back her left fist as far as the chains would allow, striking the man hard in the shin, unable to reach a more effective target. His body doubled forward, painfully mashing his foot harder down onto her wrist. She repeated the motion. Over and over, hoping the area would grow tender enough to force him to a mild retreat. Stumbling back, his foot moved just enough to grant her freedom again, her hand retracting to her chest protectively.
It hurt. Every inch of her fingers to the tips tingled, lacking circulation, among whatever injuries might have been incurred. She could hardly move it. Gripping her weapon would be out of the question. At least until she’d regained some of the feeling in her hand.
Her body moved as if it functioned on its own. Like a marionette on a string, her left hand pushed the sword away, wasting no time in getting back to her feet. For a hand to hand brawl, her back was the last place she wanted to be. The only position she could think of to be any worse was her stomach. Neither one of those could be given to him.
There was no chance for an attack of conscience at the thought of assaulting this man with her bare hands. Not only was he already upon her, his fists pummeling her repeatedly, but she took comfort in knowing that the blows dealt by her hands would create wounds less lethal than a blade.
Each strike which connected with her face and head sent her vision into a blur of flashing white spots. Block. Lift your arms to block! Why were her arms not listening? They felt as though they were disconnected from her brain, hanging worthlessly at her sides.
A final blow knocked her back on the ground. His elbow struck across her left temple, her eyes darkening in a flash of unconsciousness. This was all a nightmare to her. She was a far more skilled fighter than this man and yet he was finding ways to defeat her mental focus and drop her guard. If she wasn’t careful, she would be beaten. This match had too much riding on it for defeat to be an option.
It was then that it hit her. This man was not the one defeating her. It was herself. Her own mind was distracted by the little details of her situation which meant absolutely nothing in the end. When she was at war, there was no concern for who was watching, or how much pain the incoming blows caused. Nothing mattered but the person in front of her, the openings he left, the weaknesses he showed. Why did she care what this crowd of Ven’shal thought? So what if they wanted to see her die, crushed under the foot of this sluggish fighter. He was stronger than her, without doubt, but physical strength wasn’t enough to defeat her. It never had been in the past, and she had no intention of letting it start now.
She was on her feet again. The noise from the onlookers fell to a dull tone in her head. Their voices no longer formed words, their chants and shouts meaningless murmurs. Her fists were clenched. Pain was trivial to her, the tingling in her right hand ignored with every punch she delivered to the man’s face and body. Something in her head told her she was injuring herself worse by continuing, but that wasn’t important. Not at this moment. She could worry about that when the fight was over.
The man’s hand slipped by her guard, his knuckles slamming against the bones in her face. It was excruciating. A cracking sound emitted from under it, encircling her right eye. She’d never noticed just how large his hands were, until that moment. Her vision swam under the force. But she kept moving. Her arms never ceased their determined strikes.
Her right eye was beginning to swell. It already was starting to interfere with her line of sight, closing off her ability to see her opponent from that angle if he moved in just the right way. Oh, if only she could rid herself of those blasted shackles! She would be able to utilize her body to its full potential, pressure points, joint locks, take downs – so much was limited with her restraints.
He was taking advantage of her visual impairment, moving just outside her available line of sight. If she was going to close in on him at all, she would need to stop him from moving, to hold him in place somehow. Then it came to her. The thing which hindered her the most could be used to her benefit. While her fingers were weakened from their injuries and easily pried away from him, the chains on the shackles would be stronger. More difficult for him to escape.
How to do it was the question. The man was in a constant state of movement, making him impossible to keep within her line of sight. But then again, why did she need her eyes? How many times had Blaise tested her combat prowess by wrapping that piece of cloth over her face to force her to use her other senses? That first scout in the mountains with Thade and Feolan – she’d utilized it then to defeat a far more skilled fighter in that Sanarik warrior – there was no reason for it not to work against this man.
Closing her eyes, she ceased to follow the man in his endeavors to keep her off balance. No more would she play into his hands. This fight would be under her conditions. And if it meant sinking to a more brutal method, she would have to do it. Mikel would never consider the fight over until one of them was unconscious… or dead.
Sand shuffled about under his feet, and she could sense his confusion at her sudden stillness. Yet he continued moving. Foolish on his part. She could tell exactly where he was, listening to the sound of his naïve attempts at forcing her to follow him. He lacked the experience of a real fight. If he knew anything, he would have stopped moving to leave the sand still and silent. He wasn’t even smart enough to try and distract her with a tossed handful of stones to divert her attention away from his actual position.
Patience. She had to wait for him to come back around. It was unlikely he would be expecting her to s
trike, which would offer her the upper hand. But only if he made his way back within her grasp. If she made any movement to turn toward him, he would start moving again, warned of her intentions by the signal given off from the gesture. No, he would have to come to her. And he would. She didn’t doubt that. He wasn’t intelligent enough to understand what she was planning.
When she heard his footsteps coming in closer, the muscles in her body tensed in preparation for the strike, waiting, listening, until he was within a close enough range that she felt able to wrap the chain around the back of his neck to pull him in to her. Sensing the opening she sought, she sprang into motion, maneuvering her arms over his head until the chain pressed firmly into the man’s throat with every ounce of strength she could conjure. His surprise was mingled with rage at having fallen into her hands. Pressing in close to his body, she pulled the chain down hard, keeping her arms in close to her chest. From his position, nothing he could throw at her would cause much harm. His face was buried into her shoulder. Her midsection was protected by his own body being too close to her own, his arms flailing wildly at her head.
Weak slaps. His pathetic strikes made her want to laugh. Sure, he could still deliver blows to her lower back, leaving a few targets open to him, if he had been clear-headed enough to think of them. He was in a panic. All his body was attempting to do was break free of her grasp, which would never happen under the circumstances. She had no intention of letting him go until he was no longer capable of movement.
Holding the position of her upper body, Leyna allowed her hips to shift backward, creating an opening between the two of them. It was enough to grant her a perfect target for her knee, winding it back, and slamming it hard into the stiff muscles of the man’s abdomen. Again and again, she struck. Slowly moving up from the stomach to the solar plexus, taking the wind away from her opponent.
The Myatheira Chronicles: The Vor'shai: From the Ashes (Volume 1) Page 35
