Chapter 8 In The Dirt #2
Between violence and the people he swore to protect.
“So it will be,” says the voice, but I almost don’t hear it because another sound rends the air.
A ripping. A snapping.
A wet, splintering crack that sends a shiver of revulsion through my body.
The walls move.
At first I think it’s a trick of the light. That the strange brightness is playing with my eyes, but the packed earth of the walls surrounding Sorren bulge outward as something beneath them pushes free.
The thick roots threaded through the dirt twitch.
They tear loose.
Soil explodes outward in clumps as the roots wrench themselves free from the walls with a sound like bones being ripped from a socket.
They twist and writhe in midair, lengthening, knotting together, braiding themselves into limbs.
Bark splits open along their length, exposing pale inner wood that glows faintly with green light.
They’re growing.
Changing.
Forming.
One mass slams into the pit floor with enough force to send up a cloud of dust. Another follows.
And another. Roots knot into torsos, branches fuse into jagged shoulders, claws splinter from sharpened twigs and thorns the length of knives.
Their heads are nothing but tangled crowns of vine.
I catch sight of a splintered antler. Of horns.
I clutch my chest, my hand over my heart, unable to believe what I see.
Three monstrosities stand before Sorren.
One lean. One squat. One that hangs back and waits.
The earth itself has risen against him.
Sorren bares his teeth.
And smiles.
As if he’s been waiting for this.
The first root creature moves forward. The thin one. It’s faceless. Featureless. Except for the hollow split that opens where a mouth should be. As if it screams silently.
It lunges fast enough that I don’t have time to call out a warning.
Sorren drops low instead of stepping back. His weight shifts forward. Knees bending deeper than they should. His spine compresses as if something inside him has suddenly remembered a different shape.
The creature’s limb whips toward his throat, but Sorren isn’t there.
He moves in a blur. One second upright. The next he’s launched himself sideways in a straight-line burst of speed that eats the distance between them. He slams into its side shoulder-first, and they go down in a spray of dirt.
Sorren’s fingers claw into the ground and change. The nails darken. Thicken. Bite into the packed earth as the muscles in his thighs bunch hard enough that the fabric of his trousers strains.
That’s when I realize there’s magic here.
In this arena. Because this isn’t just a prison. It’s a proving ground. Sorren is being tested, and here he can shift, at least partly, without biting me first. The bond isn’t needed when he can pull magic from the air around him.
His spine shortens by a fraction. His center of gravity lowers. The line of his legs changes as something stronger and faster moves beneath his skin. Sorren’s stance drops lower. Hands hovering near the dirt as if balance has shifted from two points to four. His breath comes faster. Shorter.
Rabbits are built to flee.
Or so I thought.
But this is the opposite.
It’s an animal preparing to launch. To fight.
Sorren moves before the creature can recover. A violent twist of his hips as both his feet drive out at once. His heel connects with the creature’s chest with a crack that echoes through the pit. Not the brittle snap of a twig. Something deeper splinters. Structural.
The thing folds around the impact.
The monster collapses into a heap of unraveling vines.
I stare down in shock because that was not human strength. Not even rabbit. More like a combination of the two.
There is no break in momentum. No chance for Sorren to rest or catch his breath.
The big one moves in next. It’s massive.
A mountain of tangled roots and thick bark plated across its chest and shoulders like armor.
Branches bristle down its back in jagged ridges, forming and reforming with every movement.
A jagged white antler rises from the center of its forehead.
Where its face should be is a smooth knot of wood split by two dark hollows that might be eyes.
It does not rush.
It simply steps into Sorren’s space and swings.
The blow lands across his ribs with a sickening crack that I feel in my own body through the bond. Sorren staggers sideways, boots gouging trenches in the dirt, as he fights to keep upright.
The creature follows, relentless, its fists like wrecking balls.
A second strike comes down, heavy enough to crater the ground where Sorren stood a heartbeat before. Sorren twists away, but there’s no room to gain distance. No space to run. The pit is too small for speed to help him.
The monster hits Sorren with its next swing. A thick tangle of roots slams into his chest and drives him backward into the dirt. He falls down hard, the breath punched from his lungs so sharply I can hear the whoosh of his exhale from even up here.
The thing drops its weight on top of him, branches wrapping around Sorren’s arms, pinning them to the ground.
I scream.
Sorren snarls into the creature’s face. He’s no longer the composed prince. He’s becoming something more animalistic. Something that does not care about grace or composure.
Sorren bucks beneath the creature, thighs bunching as he tries to throw it off, but the monster is too heavy. Its roots tighten around his biceps, forcing his arms wide. Bark grinds against his skin. I feel the pressure of it through the bond. The suffocating crush.
The monster leans down.
Those hollow eye sockets stare into his face.
Sorren’s arms flex and twist until they finally break free. His fingers, now tipped with claws, drive forward, punching into the dark hollows where the monster’s eyes should be.
Roots give with a wet tearing sound.
The creature jerks back, spasming as Sorren’s hands sink deep into the soft, pulpy core hidden beneath the bark. He digs in, his knuckles disappearing into the thing’s skull as it thrashes above him.
With a roar, Sorren rips. Tears the creature’s head right down the middle into two separate pieces. The single antler falls to the ground. The monster convulses in Sorren’s grip and then collapses on itself, transforming into a heap of dirt and twigs.
Sorren shoves the remains aside and surges back to his feet, his chest heaving. He shakes soil and splinters from his hands as he turns to face the final opponent, the one with twin horns like the devil.
This one is different. I can tell by how it doesn’t blindly charge forward. Instead, it circles Sorren slowly, like it’s assessing. Watching. Searching for weakness.
My heart leaps into my throat when the branch monster lifts one arm high into the air.
Ice races along the length of its vines, frost blooming outward in jagged veins until it gathers at its fist and hardens into a long, thin dagger.
Double-bladed, with needle-sharp tips on each end.
The monster grips it at the center, the only surface that will not cut.
“That’s not fair,” I cry out, rattling the bars of my cage even though the motion strips skin from my palms.
The voice of the Egg answers at once. “I do not deal in fairness.” There is no malice in it.
No pity either. “Ask the bud destroyed by the first frost before it has a chance to bloom if that was fair. Ask the robin’s eggs devoured in the nest if that was fair.
Ask the stag brought low by winter’s hunger if that was fair. ”
A pause.
“Fairness is a myth. A dream forgotten upon waking. This is judgment.”
The monster has stalked closer to Sorren while the Egg spoke. Now they are separated by mere feet. Sorren balances on the balls of his feet, the picture of coiled energy. Of practiced restraint. Every line of his body is drawn tight, held in check, like something built to spring.
He’s not prey. He’s waiting.
A predator deciding when to strike.
The monster moves first.
Not a wild lunge. A measured step. The ice blade flashes, a low thrust aimed for Sorren’s ribs.
Sorren pivots, but not fast enough. The tip of the ice dagger slices through his shirt, scoring a thin red line across his side.
Blood flows immediately, staining his shirt red.
I press as close to the bars as I dare, my eyes fixed on that crimson stain.
It grows slowly. Not a killing strike, but still too close. Much too close.
The monster does not press the advantage. It pulls back. Resets. Circles again.
Testing Sorren.
The next strike comes higher. A feint toward Sorren’s shoulder that turns midway into a slash for his throat.
Sorren moves beneath it, dirt kicking up around his boots as he twists away. The blade hisses past his ear.
My cage jolts. It rattles violently as it begins to swing, like a pendulum set loose.
I fall to the side. A shriek tears from my throat when my shoulder slams against the bars and the thin fabric of my sleeve disintegrates in a wisp of smoke.
Ice sears through my skin. I roll onto hands and knees, my eyes never leaving Sorren.
He looks up when I scream.
The creature takes advantage.
It spins and lashes out with the blade.
I scream again, louder this time, as I watch the dagger plunge into Sorren’s side.
The cage swings the other way, and I lose sight of him as I slide across the floor in the opposite direction.
“What’s happening?” Sorren grits out below.
“Your mate and you are bound,” the Egg replies. “If you fail, she falls. She will meet your same fate seconds after you leave this life.” A pause. “Perhaps you will be reunited in the afterlife. Perhaps not. There are things even I do not know.”
The cage spins in a dizzying rush, chains screaming overhead. For one horrible second, I realize what the Egg means. If Sorren dies, I won’t just fall.
I’ll fall onto the arena floor.
I get a glimpse of Sorren, one hand clutching his wounded side as he lifts his head to me.