Chapter 19
Harlan Raker is such an ass. I could have been killed. And then what? Would he have just shrugged, cut down whoever killed me, and continued the journey with two swords on his back?
Would he have jumped in and saved me, just to save the map in my mind?
I guess I’ll never know, since I managed to save myself.
The grime all over me has hardened, weighing me down. The smell is awful, especially under the baking sun.
“His sword had magic,” I finally say, the words rough from thirst.
“How perceptive of you.”
I can’t even find the strength to glare at him. It controlled my movements. It glowed. “How is that possible?”
Raker goes so long without answering that I’ve barely remembered what I said when he finally replies. “Godswords have unmatched magic. They’re the only ones that glow with power.”
Godswords? I’ve never heard the term. The immortal threw the sword into the hole. Was he throwing it to the God of Death?
He’s the reason for the demons rising in the night. It would make sense that he’s behind the rot too.
So why hasn’t anyone done anything to stop him?
The sun sets, and we reach a cave with a sheet of onyx water covering it. Fantastic. I hold my arms over my head as I rush through it, wishing, more than anything, that I had a change of clothing.
I wouldn’t be covered in blood and mud if he had helped me.
Raker is a cruel and merciless wretch. But I already knew that.
It almost makes me want to turn away the new pouch of water he offers. One he clearly stole off one of the corpses by the looks of the dirt on it. But I drink greedily. When my throat is smooth, I pour some on my face, washing off the dirt there.
Raker drops his pack on the cave floor and turns to me. “Your swordplay—”
“It’s impressive. I know.” No thanks to him.
“—could use some work.”
I glare at him. “Did you miss the part where I killed all those immortals, or do you think they all ran into my blade?”
His voice is biting. “They were poisoned, undernourished fools.”
My hands make fists by my sides. “Is there a purpose for your insults?”
A second of silence passes. “Will you draw the rest of the map for me?” I give him a withering look. With a slow shake of his head, he unsheathes his blade. “Then it’s in my best interests that you don’t get yourself killed.”
I blink. “You’re … you’re going to train me?”
I remember his words in the woods, just a few days prior. How I wasn’t worth even a moment of his time.
“I’m going to show you the very basics,” he says, like he already regrets it.
I unsheathe my sword immediately. As insufferable as he is, I can’t stop the excited thrill that runs through my veins.
He sighs, already vastly disappointed. “You’re used to lesser swords. You can tell by the way you hold yours.” He extends his own weapon, slowly demonstrating. “Like this.”
I do exactly what he does, arms trembling with effort.
“No. Like this.”
I slightly move my foot.
He sighs in a long-suffering way. He digs his blade into the ground, then takes a step toward me.
Gently, like he’s trying to touch me as little as possible, his hand curls around my elbow. “Like this,” he says, his voice a rumble just behind my ear.
He drops his hold like I’ve scalded him.
“Now shift your stance to advance.”
I do. He makes a low sound of disapproval behind me. Before I can ask him what the hell is wrong with my form, both of his arms are around me.
I go very still.
His fingertips barely brush the fabric at my wrist as he gently twists my hold, then his long fingers uncurl, smoothing down mine, callused from battle, scraping my skin like a rough whisper, and a chill ripples up my spine.
I swallow.
His other hand shifts my hip, at the same time as his knee presses into the back of my thigh, using it to push my leg forward to where he wants it, leaving us—for just a moment—almost completely flush.
“Better,” he whispers right into my ear.
My lips part. My every sense is narrowed on the places where he’s still touching me. Against my hip. Against my thigh. Against my hand.
That hand … seeing it, the sheer difference in size … the way it so expertly holds a blade … it makes me think about what else his hands might know how to do.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He’s a monster. I could have died, and he would have just watched on, unimpressed.
I hate him.
But that doesn’t mean something in me doesn’t ignite, having his body curled around me like this.
I think back to how he looked in that grove, without his armor on. I wonder if he would put just as much focus and precision and stamina and skill into other acts …
My breath stutters at the thought. I swear I hear him swallow above me.
His hand flexes, right over mine.
Then he’s on the other side of the cave. He’s wrenching his sword from the rock and falling into his own fighting stance.
And now … now that he’s pointed it out, I see the difference. The shift in weight. The easier grip on my metal.
Before I can blink, he’s on me. All I see is a streak of silver and then I’m falling back with the force of his blade against mine.
He catches me by the front of my shirt, just like he did at the inn, but this time, his fingers curl even more, knuckles brushing my chest through the fabric. My skin feels like it’s on too tight. My heart is racing. My eyes meet where his should be, and I can almost feel his irritation.
“Focus.”
He drops his fist, and I stumble back.
Defiance lights up in my chest, smothering all those previous thoughts. I lunge, grip my sword with both hands, and strike with all my strength.
He moves out of the way quicker than someone his size should be able to, and I nearly hit the wall. I barely stop myself before tearing back around.
He isn’t holding his sword anymore. No, it’s dug right into the stone by his feet. He steps away from it.
I bare my teeth at him. “You’re not going to use a blade?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It looks like I don’t need one.”
Cocky bastard. I swing, wanting to slice the inevitable smirk right off his hidden face, but he just moves to the side. He dodges as if he knows exactly what I’ll do before I do it.
He clicks his tongue. “You’re too predictable. Fool.”
“Stop calling me that,” I growl.
“Stop being one,” he says, just as irritated as me.
I try again. Again. Every single time, he anticipates my moves, like he’s a damned oracle. I exhale roughly in annoyance.
I move to dig my sword into the stone, just like he has a dozen times, but it doesn’t pierce the ground at all.
I try, and try, only managing to make my blood boil.
My back teeth grind together, and I try one more time, before I growl in frustration.
Raker just watches on, leaning forward against his own sword, his huge hands gripping the hilt.
I can practically feel the arrogance coming off him in waves.
My head snaps up. “You’re better than me. Happy? Is that what you wanted? For me to say it?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It goes without saying.”
I glare at him. I hate him. But I need to survive the Questral. He has more training than I’ll ever know. Even though I feel like flinging my sword to the ground and walking out of this cave, maybe all the way to the fucking gates, I swallow my pride and bitterness, and say, “Help me be better.”
He just looks at me for a long time. Then he wrenches his sword from the ground. He falls into another stance and motions for me to follow. “Start with this.”
Raker teaches me the proper way to hold my new sword over my shoulder, in a position ready to strike.
And nothing else.
After several minutes of insisting I’m not doing it right, then relenting that my feet are, in fact, in the right place, Raker gives a sharp nod, then walks away. He starts removing things from his pack, and I just stand there, still as a statue.
“Now what?” I finally ask. I know this position already. Of course I do. The heavier metal means more energy is needed. A slightly different stance—fine. I’ve learned it. Now I want to get to how to actually wield this sword.
“Nothing,” Raker says flatly.
My eye twitches. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Stay there, until I say otherwise.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. Still, I open my mouth. Close it. His back toward me, he digs his sword into the stone. He removes some of his armor. He sinks to the ground.
And the bastard goes to sleep.
“Fuck,” I breathe, halfway torn between flinging my sword at him in anger and staying here all night out of stubbornness.
This is clearly a test. He wants to see if I’m even worth training. If I can listen. If I can learn. If I have willpower.
Or maybe the demon has no intention of training me and just wants to make me suffer.
It doesn’t take long for this simple position to become excruciating. My arms begin to tremble. My sword shakes with them, just inches from my neck. Damn it. If I cut my throat with my own blade, I don’t know whether the blood loss or embarrassment will kill me first.
I breathe. I steady my core. I bend my knees slightly, using the rest of my muscles to offset the weight. To help.
Soon, my entire body is quivering.
This sword is a gift, I remind myself. It’s an honor to have been chosen by such a blade.
I need to stop thinking of it as a burden. As something too heavy to hold. I need to start thinking of it as something to be worthy of.
My sword doesn’t need to be lighter. I just need to be strong enough to carry it.
You believed in me, I think, apparently having reached a point of pain that I am speaking to my sword in my head.
If you didn’t believe in me, you wouldn’t have claimed me.
I must really be losing my mind.
Because through all the shaking, I swear I feel another jolt. A tiny spark, like a glimmer of encouragement.
You must have seen a shred of your strength in me, I continue. I will find that shred and make it grow.