CHAPTER 2 #3
My heart threatens to rupture within my chest as the world slows. The shadow master lunges forward, shifts to the right, and lands a crippling strike to the chest of a tall, broad male. The body crumples to the ground with a thud and all haliel breaks loose around me.
At once, they strike at him in a rage, all but one.
The large male leading them skirts the skirmish despite the shadow master’s attempts to stop him.
He’s taller than I am by more than a foot, broader, and stronger to be sure.
But Bront hadn’t spent years teaching me how to overcome an enemy by means of strength alone.
I learned early on that there will always be those I cannot match by force.
Shifting my feet beneath me, I prepare for his attack.
His eyes flick down, a puzzled look on his face as he studies the movement, but it’s hardly enough to dissuade him.
He levels me with a cocky smile. It’s one I’ve seen on every Drakai that Bront pit against me for years, each of them learning that their brawn is no match for well-refined skill.
Every lesson I learn in the ring is hard won, and maybe I should feel bad that this lesson will cost the male his life.
I don’t think about it when he strikes at me, and I deflect the blow.
Grappling his arm, I let my weight take me to the ground and hook his leg with my foot, striking at his knee with the full force of my leg.
I’m already on my way to my feet when the male goes down with a roar of pain, the hinge of his leg bent at an awkward angle beneath him.
His cry is enough to garner the attention of one of his allies.
A scarred male with a crimson mark banding his forearm.
In his moment of distraction, the shadow master unleashes a deadly series of strikes at another male.
His body tumbles to the ground, just as I deflect a blow from the scarred feyn whose attention is now firmly set on me.
His downed comrade issues a flurry of what I can only assume are curses as he points at me from the ground, unsheathing a blade at his hip.
I should have moved faster, I know I should have. Should have ended him before my focus was taken by the other. Another lesson I learned the hard way, the danger of a desperate and wounded opponent. A lesson I have apparently not learned well enough.
My years of training with Bront have sharpened my reflexes and turned each studied movement into unadulterated impulse, but if I think I am prepared for battle, my failing attempts to land a single blow on the feyn before me prove me dreadfully wrong.
It is a near impossible task to focus on the fists he throws my direction.
My attention divided, between the male before me and the male on the ground, hefting the end of a dagger between his fingers, waiting for an opening that will allow him to sink the blade into me from a distance.
I take a staggering blow to the face and my lip cracks open wide, a small trickle of blood running down my chin.
There is no question in my mind that in this moment, I have let myself become too vulnerable.
It takes everything I have ever learned to simply defend myself against the barrage of fists he throws at me while keeping his body between that of his friend and my own.
When I imagined what war must be like, this is not the picture of battle I conjured.
There is no blow for blow, no blood for blood.
Relief is the only thing I feel when the shadow master dodges an attack, rounds the male he’s facing, plucks the blade from the hand of the grounded feyn and sinks it into his chest. The feyn grunts as his body goes slack, and for a moment the attention of my attacker snaps to the now lifeless body, leaving him wide open.
It’s a grand mocking gesture that says everything without a single word being uttered. I am nothing for him to fear, not worth the effort it takes for him to keep his eyes trained on me.
I learned early on in my training with Bront that arrogance can be a death sentence, and I won’t waste his.
I take the moment to prove to him the mistake he’s made by turning his back on me.
Lunging, I thrust out my fist, aiming a blow at the center of his throat.
It is a simple strike, one that doesn’t require much strength to bring a larger opponent down.
My fist is halfway to meeting his flesh when my heart shoves itself firmly into my throat.
I see it, my error. It is my arrogance I should have been conscious of, not his, and he played me like a fool.
He smirks when he catches my arm, whipping me around to pull my back against his chest. He secures my arm behind my back, positioning it with a twist that threatens a break.
My eyes fall to the shadow master’s when the male behind me pulls a dagger from a leather sheath strapped to his thigh, raising it in a white knuckled fist, high above his head.
I’m aware in some distant part of my mind that all I am is a distraction right now, nothing but a liability.
The shadow master lands a blow on his last opponent, one that makes the male curse and stagger, a spurt of blood gushing from his nose, coating the lower half of his face in a thick sheet of crimson.
The shadow master takes the short reprieve to look back at me, and I feel the male behind me shift as his body tenses against mine, and he winds up to bury his blade deep into my chest. I have no doubt he will leave me with a fatal wound, and I do my best to offer an apology by way of my eyes to my teacher. I should have been a better student.
The injured feyn facing the shadow master collects himself, wiping a slick layer of blood from his chin, flicking droplets onto the forest floor.
He’s claimed one of the master’s obsidian daggers.
I’m not sure where the other went, no doubt it is buried in the body of one of the fallen.
The male moves to strike him, just as I feel my captor commit to the swing of his blade.
I can’t help the frown that falls upon my face as I watch the shadow master run toward me, leaving himself open to the male at his back.
The male’s eyes gleam at the opportunity he’s been given, and the shadow master takes the dagger to his shoulder as he lunges, quickly disarming the male that holds me.
I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when the shadow master turns the dagger aimed at my neck on him in one swift motion and he topples to the ground.
Whipping around to face the male charging his back, the shadow master slides the blade between the feyn’s ribs, puncturing his heart.
The world around me stills, and the silence is deafening. The weight of the moment fully sinks down upon me as I watch the last of them collapse onto the forest floor, the light leaving his eyes.
I can hardly believe I’m alive. My entire body trembles and I attempt to draw shallow breaths as I follow the shadow master back to his smoldering fire.
He sits cross legged, his wounded arm pinned to his side, the other pulling his pack toward him from where it rests against the base of a decaying tree.
He quickly produces a thick coil of gauze from within its depths, blood flowing down his shoulder when he removes the blade with nothing more than a grunt. There is no question he will survive the wound, as long as it doesn’t become infected. The blade landed far from any vital organs.
Tearing the gauze with his teeth, he clumsily packs it with a poultice of herbs and attempts to bind the wound.
My stomach twists with guilt as I watch him struggle, first with the herbs, then with the binding.
This is my fault. Falling to my knees beside him, I take the dressing from his hand and start the process over, binding the wound snugly, making sure to stanch the bleeding with as much pressure as I can apply.
I study the injury as I work the gauze into a binding that will hold.
Based on its position the feyn undoubtedly intended for the dagger to find its mark in a more deadly part of his body.
I can feel the scowl forming on my face as I wrap the gauze around his chest to fully secure it.
There was no way for him to know that the male would miss something vital.
He turned his back on a deadly threat, utterly accepting of his fate, on the chance he could save me. It doesn’t make any sense.
“You did well,” the shadow master says, raising himself to his feet, slinging his pack over his good shoulder the moment I’ve secured a knot to hold the bandage.
“He was going to kill me,” I say, pulling the pack from his shoulder and slinging it over my own. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
I may have been useless in the skirmish, but I can at least carry his pack when he is wounded.
“Shivaria,” he snaps, grabbing my arm and whipping me around to face him. “You. Did. Well. I have known grown men who were full Drakai for years who still fell to feyn warriors in seconds. Sometimes, doing well is simply surviving.”
I cross my arms over my chest and roll my eyes.
“That was no random group of wandering feyn. They were battle trained,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
“What were they doing here? And why would they attack us? I thought we were at peace.”
“There are plenty alive, both feyn and human, that were never in favor of the treaty,” he explains. “The La’tari may not like to talk about it, but even the humans are willing to turn a blind eye when a brutalized feyn body appears in the middle of a village without explanation.”
I should feel bad about it, an innocent life is an innocent life, but everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that most feyn are like the ones we encountered today.
I can’t help but feel that one less means the world is a safer place.
It is the only thought I allow to occupy my mind as I survey the bodies lying scattered about the small clearing.
“Thank you for saving me.” I roll my shoulders, adjusting the weight of the pack on my back when I say it.
He frowns down at me. “You didn’t expect me to intervene. I saw it on your face the moment you met my eyes.”
I shake my head and look away, wishing to vanish under the weight of his stare.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I choke back a whimper as I do as he says, biting my lip to still a rising quiver, my nerves catching up to me.
“You may feel otherwise, but your life is worth saving, and I would take that blade again a hundred times over to see you walk away unharmed.”
“Why would you?” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation.
“Because that is what friends do.” He sounds so sure of himself.
“We’re not friends,” I remind him.
“You’re right,” he sighs, and I nod as if that will be the end of it. “But I would like to be your friend,” he adds.
I roll my eyes again, along with my whole head, and begin back toward the keep. “Nobody wants to be my friend.”
“I do, and who cares about anybody else? Anyone who doesn’t want to be your friend is just afraid of what you are.”
I manage three more steps before reluctantly taking the bait. “And what am I?”
“Enviable,” he says with a grin, “No one wants to spend their life alongside the sun when their own light only appears like a dull flame beside it.”
I have no idea what he means but I am done arguing. He’s probably lost too much blood and has become delusional. Hopefully he won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
It takes two hours to walk back to the keep, and I spend half that time pondering what friendship is between Drakai.
It’s a foreign concept that I can’t fathom.
There is too much competition, the risk of betrayal far too high, and the cost of that betrayal even higher.
How then can I possibly imagine a friendship with the master of shadows, and why would he want such a thing, with me?
The thought nags at me long enough that I finally give in and ask the question, not that I will ever actually consider the friendship.
“What would it mean if we were friends?”
The shadow master tries and fails to look nonchalant as he answers. I can tell he is giddy about my inquiry, and the fact that I’ve pleased him in any way chafes at me.
“Friendship is different for everyone,” he shrugs, “but I suppose what friendship looks like for me is this. I trust you and you trust me and if you need me, I’ll be there no matter what, and if I need you, I know you’ll be there for me too.”
“So, you could just summon me any time you want?” I scowl.
He chuckles. “You don’t summon your friends, but you can depend on them.”
I hum thoughtfully, grateful he doesn’t press me as we continue on.
I glance over at him every now and again to check that the bleeding hasn’t resumed.
He saved my life, and I tended his wound—is that friendship?
It really doesn’t sound too bad the way he explains it, and I can always change my mind when he inevitably fails to live up to the title.
Once we arrive at the edge of the deadwood surrounding the keep, I plant my feet, ignoring the anxious palpitations in my chest as I turn to him.
“I think I’d like to try and be friends,” I say, and he smiles at that, “but I don’t trust you.”
The smile stays plastered on his face. The only sign that he’s heard the last of my declaration, a small shrug. “Then let’s be friends, and we can find our way through the rest as we go.”
I nod and offer him the thing I know he wants, the thing I know he values. A smile.
If I think I have ever seen the man smile before, I am wrong.
The smile he offers me in return is like coveted rays of sun on a dreary spring day, when winter left the land barren and you yearn desperately for the promise of summer.
I don’t know where we go from here, but I make it my personal mission to find out how to make him smile like that again, as often as I can.