Otis leans close. “Tread lightly, Kyla,” he whispers. “There are no friendly faces here.”
I glance over his shoulder at the enthusiastic face approaching. “I disagree . . .”
Otis follows my gaze.
Axle leans heavily against the counter-top, sucking air between his teeth in loud hisses. “Y-you . . .” He points uselessly at me and doubles over.
“Y-you are . . .” he tries again and fails.
Otis rolls his eyes. “Exiting immediately. He’s all yours.” He returns to a group of men chatting across the room. All of them tip their chins at me in acknowledgment, raising their mugs slightly in a show of “gratitude.” I mimic the gesture and their attention focuses on their conversation once more.
Axle thrusts his mug at Alistair. “Another overflow, my good man! That’s right. No. More. More. There you go.”
Alistair plunks the mug back down and thick foam dribbles over the rippling brim.
Axle takes a long, slow sip before turning and elbowing my bandaged arm lightly. “Hev’s e lavras, aventra?”
I blink, feigning confusion.
His lips form into a thin line, but he shrugs and repeats in familiar Kelban, “How’s the wound?”
“Oh.” I nod. “Fine. Mama Opal used some ‘gavran weed’ on it and the pain is gone.” I twist my arm back and forth a couple of times. “There is no damage to movement or loss of feeling. She says they should be healed in a few days.”
“Lucky. The last person to encounter a razor was in bed for five days. Tough luck. He couldn’t even hold a mug of brew to celebrate his victory. Wasn’t much of a kill, though. He got lucky when the creature was distracted by an approaching warrior.” Axle’s eyes roll towards a corner of the room, and I follow his obvious signal.
Keegan leans against the wall, chewing casually on a black weed. His pupils are larger than normal and his skin has darkened. I don’t have to ask what he’s grinding between his teeth. Everyone in Kelba knows what frassas root is; a drug that relaxes your body, mind, and senses.
“He went after a razor?” I ask. Somehow I couldn’t imagine Keegan having the courage.
“Decided to be a damned fool and take only a bow and arrow with him. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a damn good shot. But an arrow is not going to pierce a razor’s hide. They are too fast. Their tale is like a personal sword. The razor took its time making him bleed and then went for the killing strike when he was too weak to stand.” Axle sighs heavily and swirls the contents of his cup. “Luckily, Shade saw the whole thing and started towards the fray. The razor looked in his direction and Keegan took that opportunity to shove the tip of his arrow through the soft skin underneath its chin. Straight through its brain to the top of its head. Quite a beautiful kill. Too bad his reputation was ruined. No one would let him forget how Shade had killed twelve razors with a simple strike.”
“Twelve!” I gasp.
“That we know of. I daresay he’s killed more.”
“Where is he?” I ask looking around. I know the answer before Axle even opens his mouth.
“Shade celebrates moments like these in his own way.”
“Alone,” I add with a sorrowful nod.
Axle cocks his head to the side and stares at me through narrowed eyes.
“What?”
“When he told me about your training – about your forest meetings – I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe he, of all people, would go out of his way to help – to protect – you, a Kelban.”
“Protect?” I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut.
“Well, what the hell did you think he was doing?”
“Taking an opportunity to bully me.”
Axle nods. “Well, I won’t let that idea fly completely out the window. Everyone knows Shade is a pain-in-the-ass and on the far side of darkened humanity. Perhaps he gets satisfaction in ruffling your feathers. I know I do.” He brushes a thumb over my wrist – over the scar situated there.
I pull my hand away and glare at him. “Are you drunk?”
Axle grins and drains his mug. “Not yet.” He winks.
I drain mine as well, the contents burning my throat. It clears the confused buzzing in my ears. The brew is five times stronger than a mug of “ale” in Kelba.
Axle stares at me. “You’ve done this before?”
“No. I only attended tea with high-class nobility and embroidered table linen.” When my sarcasm doesn’t wipe the confusion from his gaze, I add with a wink, “You’d be surprised by the things I have done.”
Axle has Alistair refill our mugs. “I’ll drink to that one.”
Axle becomes a pink-faced idiot less than two hours later. Alistair refuses to refill his mug, which results in a sarcasm match, which ensues into a full-out argument, which draws attention, etc. etc. I slip away from the counter-top towards the back door of the building, my own mug still half-full.
Behind the tavern is a fenced area with three small buildings. One smells of piss and vomit. The other two of hay and dirt. I spot a trough-full of water in the corner of the paddock-like area and head in its direction.
I plunge my hand into the water and it spills over the wooden sides.
“What the hell . . .!”
I bite back a scream as the shadowy figure rises from the ground behind the trough and toss the contents of my mug at it. A groan – completely human – erupts from the figure as he wipes at his eyes. I recognize the glowing objects strapped to his back.
“Oh, gods, I’m sorry. Shade . . .” I lurch around the trough and pull his hands away from his eyes. They are tightly shut and even in the dim moonlight I can see the foaming ale sticking to his eyelashes. “Shit, I didn’t mean . . .”
“What the hell . . .” he sputters again.
I try to wipe the foam off his eyelashes. He stills beneath my touch. I lean closer, gently scraping the remaining foam from beneath his eyes with my fingertips.
“Alright, open your eyes. Slowly,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open and meet mine. “What the hell . . .” he starts to say and then trails off. He shifts his head to the side and the tip of his nose brushes mine.
I flinch, startled, and suddenly realize my hands are still palming his face, fingers brushing just beneath his eyes. The rough patches of his shaved cheeks scratch my skin. Warmth tingles down my arms. We are way too close. I start to pull back and stop. His hand is on my hip like a vise, holding me in place. The other gently closes around my wrist and slides up my arm. His fingertips brush the bandage. He blinks.
And lets go of me like one would drop a hot coal. The feel of his skin is fresh on my fingertips. Warm. Human. A knot ties in my throat.
Shade brushes past me, quickly, and heads towards the tavern, his pace unusually fast.
“Shade . . .” I say, but he disappears inside.
I kneel down and pick up my mug. Damn it! Why wasn’t I more careful? Why did I startle so badly? Why did I want to continue brushing his face? I douse my face in the cool water, hoping to chase away the dizzying warmth in my stomach. It doesn’t work.
“What the hell did you do now?” Axle’s sarcastic voice lulls. He turns the corner and leans against it, trying to appear like he’s got all his wits. He doesn’t fool me. He’s drunk.
“I threw brew on him.”
His eyes widen, and he starts laughing. “You . . . you threw brew on him? Really? I’ve been wanting to do that for years!”
“It was an accident,” I protest. “I tried to wipe all of it away. To help get it off his face and . . .”
“Wait!” A sober light enters Axle’s eyes as he holds up a hand. He teeters forward clumsily and stops a few feet in front of me, eye-to-eye. “You touched him?”
I nod.
“And he let you?”
I nod again, slower this time. Confused.
Axle stares at me, mouth half-open.
“What?”
“Shade doesn’t let anyone touch him. Ever.”
> I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me. It all sounds like drunken gibberish in my opinion.
“There you are.”
Shade’s voice startles us both. He ignores me and loops an arm beneath Axle’s shoulders. “Time to go. Keegan and his pups found another stash of frassas root.”
I follow him to a corner of the paddock where he tosses Axle carelessly over the top rail. The drunken boy flops onto his back like a wet rag, groaning.
“You could have lifted him over the edge carefully,” I chastise and squeeze between two of the rungs.
Shade easily jumps over the five foot fence and mud splashes Axle’s face when he lands. Axle laughs uncontrollably and unsuccessfully tries to wipe it off. His fingers fumble uselessly.
Shade pulls him to his feet. “Wanna help me?” he asks, gesturing at Axle’s remaining arm.
I wrap Axle’s arm around my shoulders, stealing half the weight. “Sure.”
I arrive at the ruins, expecting another day of lonely training. Instead, I nearly take Shade’s nose off when he steps out from behind some trees. He observes the dagger in the tree bark near his head and nods approvingly before pulling it free and tossing it back in my direction. I catch it easily – with my left hand. He nods again.
“Major improvement. How about your skill with the sword?” he asks.
I stare at the weapon, cursing its heavy, difficult structure.
“That’s what I thought.” Shade smirks.
Shade removes the moon blades from his back and sets them gently on the ground beside our training circle. In daylight, their blades don’t glow, but the intricate designs on their curved hilts are still evident.
“What are your swords called?”
He looks at me in confusion.
“They must have a name,” I continue. “They aren’t made from the usual substances.”
“Illathonian blades,” he says.
Illathonian. “Moonlight” in ancient Kelban.
I nod approvingly. “How did you get them?”
“I earned them,” he says. “Illathonian blades are rare. The metal used to make them is precious and limited. They are ten times lighter than a normal sword and twice that much faster. Fifteen years ago a few scientists also discovered that they were a shadow’s weakness – the only natural phenomenon capable of destroying the nightly predators on impact. Illathonian blades were high in demand considering how many daily shadow attacks occurred. The king would reward the fiercest warriors an Illathonian blade when they did something for the benefit of the land.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
He picks up a common sword. “Strike your poise.”
“Shade . . .”
He lunges at me, and I block his strike. “Answer me.”
He twists around and tries to strike at my back. I whip my own blade behind me and block the cut again, dodging out of his way.
We face one another. The usual calm that he exhibits is gone. Instead, he’s breathing heavily, a red rash plastered to the side of his neck. I recognize the marks of aggression.
“Is this how you release it?” I ask as he bludgeons my blade with three quick, in-step strikes. When he comes for the fourth, I strike at his heels and he retreats. “All that pent up anger? All the . . .”
“So what if it is?” he asks and dodges to my right. His left foot lags behind. I recognize the trick just in time and swerve away instead of towards him.
We circle each other, muscles tensed but hesitant to strike.
“You told me I should turn my fears – my memories – into rage and it would make me a better fighter.” Celectate Wood. Aspen. Craig. Selena. Father. Love. Loss. Hate. Betrayal. So many things to fuel that one emotion. To flood my mind with painful, empty anger.
How many memories did this silent warrior have? How many wounds did he hide? How many people had he loved, lost, and hated?
“What about you?” I ask.
Our blades lock as they collide mid-strike, forcing us to stare eye-to-eye. I watch that mask behind his eyes peel back slightly at my verbal assault. He flinches, and the wall is back. But I saw behind it.
Pain.
“What did you lose?”
Shade’s lips curl up into a sneer. “I would quit pondering if I were you, Kelban, and pay attention to . . .” His leg snaps out towards mine and his swords slices through the air towards my neck.
I grip my sword with both hands and slam it into his. The clash of the blades ring in my ears, and I swivel my feet around. His foot misses my ankles by inches. I spin away and recollect my balance at the edge of our training circle.
“Your focus has improved.”
“Disappointed?”
He doesn’t answer and strikes at me again – this time in the direction of my waist. I turn the sword downwards and block the strike, forcing the blade away from my abdomen with a quick twist of my wrist.
I strike at him this time, forcing power from my legs, and smile in victory when he stumbles back to regain his balance. When he squares his shoulders and looks at me, I know that won’t happen again. We furiously battle in the circle. Surprisingly, I don’t feel any sweat on my brow. My muscles don’t ache.
My heart races. My pulse pounds. My head palpitates.
Our blades connect.
Leaves jump from the forest floor like a soft breath has stirred the ground beneath them. My feet numb at the reaction.
There is no wind.
Shade doesn’t seem to notice the unnatural phenomenon and tries to attack my back. I quickly recover my focus and disrupt his plans. The leaves at our feet swivel up in a cone formation when I twist his sword away from mine.
My hand is burning. Heavy. Pulsing.
I feel its drumming rhythm Its connection with everything around me. The stones. The trees. The leaves! Anything my focus latches onto.
I strike at Shade’s sword, focusing on the leaves beneath his feet with my hand instead of my eyes. They rush up around his legs, and he flinches at their interference.
My mind races.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
The leaves flutter back into place. The dark space in my mind widens. Weights me down. Forces my heart to beat faster.
Shade raises his sword high in an aggressive strike. I force mine upwards to cut off the intended assault. His confident sneer disappears, and his eyes widen when his sword twists sideways for no apparent reason. The hilts of our swords smash together and tangle.
“Shit . . .” Shade mutters and tries to pull free.
The burning sensation in my body dissipates. Terror – cold as ice – clings to my insides. Chills climb up my spine. The pulse in my hand is still there. Low. Quiet. But ever-present. I try to force it away, but it clings beneath my skin like a disease. No – like a home. Like it belongs there, and I didn’t know it.
A cramp. Just a simple cramp.
“Lesson’s over for the day,” Shade says, disconnecting our weapons after several muscled efforts. He sheathes it at his side. “Let’s wash up and return to Agron. I think your lessons in swordsmanship are complete.”
What he won’t say is that I “beat” him.
I flex my fingers again. The pulse is gone.
Just a cramp.
I wash up first in the tiny pool situated behind one of the ruins. It is only two feet deep and barely ten feet around. Normally I clean my weapons in it but, for good measure, I wash my face and hands, hoping the cold water will ice the burn from my flesh. It doesn’t. The nauseous pit in my stomach claws angrily, and I want to vomit.
Not now. Not near here.
I walk back around the corner. Shade leans casually against the wall, patiently waiting his turn. He looks up as I brush past his shoulder.
“I’ll head back first,” I say.
What I don’t say is “I want to be alone.”
He nods.
I am halfway down the ancient stairwell when I recognize the naked feeling on my leg. My dagger! I left it at the pool.
Shade is bent down over the pool, washing his face, his back towards me. He’s taken off the vest and shirt he habitually wears and tossed them aside. The muscles ascend around the bones of his spine, but for once it is not his muscles that draw my attention. All along his back, stretching from his sides to his neck and clean into the waistband of his pants are white zigzagging scars. Long streaks run jaggedly across the zigzags. The marks of a whip. The same that I carry on my own back. But the zigzagged scars are of a different origin. They are too detailed, too organized to be made by a skittish lash. No. They look like the work of a carving knife!
“How’d you get those?” I ask, stepping closer to get a better look. The sight chills my blood.
He turns quickly, his face dark. The zigzagged scar marring his chest glares at me, and I can fully see it’s length now. It turns my blood to ice when I think about how painful it must have been.
Shade doesn’t say a word. He grabs his vest and slips it back on, pulling the strings to closed. The zigzagged white line remains etched in my brain; a horrible, purposeful scar. He turns away.
“Shade, how . . .?”
He grabs a knife from the pool’s edge. The muscles of his arm tighten. “Don’t!” He swings around and fixates me with a dreadful glare. I back away. “Don’t you ever ask me again, Kelban!”
He storms off.
I can’t get them out of my mind. Whenever I close my eyes I see his back. His chest. His scars. Horrible, white, ridged scars. I twist onto my side, trying to get comfortable – to wipe the image from my mind – and River elbows me sleepily.
Someone tortured him. The realization burns that blistering weight into my palm once more. Someone took a knife and carved those marks into his back. Not for information. Not for punishment. For enjoyment. For sport. Who the hell could be so cruel?
I am so close to finding out why he is the way he is. Why he hates everything.
He’s hurt. He’s scarred. He’s like you.
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 35
