The House of Daggers (#NaNoWriMo 18)

Chapter 6.1

"You get six-some-odd day's worth of dry crackers and mutton," said the dead-faced quartermaster, hobbling towards the back of the grainery and through a moldy door. He tossed a roughspun sack the size of a fist at Kara's feet when he returned, running his knobby fingers through his knotted beard. "I'd try to make it last longer than that if I were you."

Kara bent over to feel the sack with the tips of her fingers, stealing a look into the opening: stiff crackers, blackened strips of meat. Warmth filled places where pits of emptiness once resided. An entire week of food...

"Can I leave them here with you?" Kara asked, knowing her fellow zeroes would kill to get what she had. She'd heard tell from Brother Alyn of other victors killing to protect their prize. Barrack Seven had never received a victor before Kara. She was sure those walking skeletons would claw at her.

"Scurry off."

Lock stepped forward, torchlight reflecting off his bald head. "Come on. She bested Jora in a fight."

"That skinny runt? You're having a laugh." The quartermaster stripped Kara with his eyes.

Kara was anything but a runt. She stood taller than most boys, taller than the hefty quartermaster. True, she was nothing. She had no name. No claim. Still, she raised her chin as if she owned the two men; that was how she would survive in this world of men, bone, and stone.

"If it weren't for the magi," she said dryly. "He'd have choked to death on his own blood."

"Watch your tongue," the quartermaster snapped.

Lock's laughter bounced off the stone walls. "You believe it now, don't you?"

The quartermaster waved him off. "Does that mean she gets the Queen's treatment, then? Shove off."

"Grumpy as ever, eh Rork? We'll jump out of your hair."

"It's 'get out of your hair,' you Saradonian buffoon."

"I love you too, friend." Lock guided Kara out of the grainery with his middle and ring finger raised high.

They wound down halls darker than starless nights, halls lit with torchered sculptures that were always present, always leering the leers of gorgons and toothless hags, always reminding Kara that her fate was a hideous one--to suffer in the shadows, to die in the shadows.

They were nearing the barracks when Kara asked, "Why do you all fuss over the blade-man so much?"

"You mean Jora?"

Kara nodded.

"He might not look it, but he's a hero. Or at least he was."

"Did he murder someone's illness with his stare?" Kara muttered.

Lock flashed a grin. "He killed twenty men to save me."

Kara paused, but Lock kept moving, throwing her into darkness. She followed after him. "Why?"

Lock shrugged. "Still hasn't told me why. But we were fighting a war. A battle. It was a big one."

"Against the marauders?" she asked as she climbed down a steep staircase. A chill was setting in that set her bones rattling.

It was Lock's turn to pause. "Yes."

Kara no longer needed light to guide her to her barrack. Once she reached the bottom, she was greeted by a familiar square enclosure. Oak doors lined the four walls. Above each archway was a number. And guarding each door were pairs of blade-men standing erect, as still as the horrific statues that bled out of the ancient walls.

Both Merril and Lock had lied about the outside world to...what? Pacify her? Did they think her foolish? A cog in their wheel of torture? She only believed in the marauders to lighten her pain. The story had been the only mercy her captives had been willing to put forth, so she'd readily taken it. A world outside burnt to ashes? No more. Not after what she'd witnessed in the Pit. A boy was willing to take his life to give her freedom. It had to mean something. She wouldn't let his sacrifice go to waste. But, for now, she'd play dumb.

"I'm here to drop off a victor," Lock told one of the blade-men guarding her barrack.

The blade-man grunted his approval and unlocked the gate.

Kara tucked the small sack of rations in her leather trousers and shuffled through. A long room as wide as three arm spans stretched out in front of her. Several eyes targeted her as the gate grated to a close. Her own eyes darted frantically round the room. Zeroes were strewn about. Those who could stand were hunched over in the corners, dark pools dusting their eyelids. Many were laying on the floor, conserving energy. Others rested their backs against the walls while more huddled together to fend off the cold.

And then a boy with a frond of wildly curling hair running down the side of his face sprang up from one of the huddles. His dark eyes widened, glistening with the onset of tears. He sawed his face with his forearm and raised his clefted chin in defiance of his emotions.

Kara set her lips. Despite teaching him to be tough, to never cry in front of all these strangers, salt stung her eyes.

Wren tipped his head, allowing a close-mouthed grin to creep through. He raised his brows twice: their signal that all was okay.

She did the same, and smiled for the first time in years.