Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

8. Little Wordwitch

10th of Eylestre

If there was one lesson I had learned the hard way with both Orrelian and Arramy, it was that I wouldn't get anywhere if I didn't face my failures head-on. Fall off the high bar? Tough. Get back on the high bar. Take a punch that knocked the air right out of you? Tough. Square up again. Failure was an obstacle to overcome, not an acceptable place to stop.

So when my sleepeasy wore off, I got up, got dressed, ate a hasty breakfast of leftover beef stew from the coolbox, and then slipped out through the tunnel. The rescued slaves were all sleeping in the hangar, but I wasn't going for a run. I padded down the hallway and around the corner to the smaller exercise room, where Orrelian had installed a sort of indoor shooting cage, with thick horsehair-and-clay padding on the walls and ceiling to catch bullets and muffle the pop of gunshots, and targets strung from tracks overhead.

Intending to get some target practice in before anyone else woke up, I opened the swinging door, only to come to an abrupt halt.

The mirrored lights were on over the sparring ring.

There were two people facing off, obviously in the middle of what had already been a strenuous session. They were both breathing hard and sweating, probably because they were fairly evenly matched. Neither was wearing any body armor other than a layer of linen wrapped around their hands to protect their fingers, and both moved with the smooth, predatory sort of grace that spoke of training.

I swallowed. Marin made it look so easy. She could give as good as she got. Arramy wasn't teaching her anything, and he wasn't holding anything back, either. They were beautiful together. One black and umber, one silver and bronze, both of them long and lithe, their bodies chiseled by war and the determination to be strong for the fight. They moved fast, hit hard, their entire focus on their opponent as they prowled around each other. It was impossible not to watch, and I took an involuntary step forward, unaware of the door swinging shut behind me.

They were talking. Or rather, Marin was talking, her teeth flashing in a sneer.

They hadn't seen me yet. I took another step, then another, approaching the edge of the shadows in the entryway.

"I think you should go back where you came from," Marin was saying. "We don't need you. We're better off without you."

Arramy lashed out, then, landing a quick jab to her hip before she swatted his hand wide and caught him in the ribs with two savage hits of her fist, making him grunt as she shoved him away.

"Come on!" Marin panted, "Is that all you've got, Roghuari?"

Arramy came at her again. This time she brought her foot around and chopped a vicious kick to his middle, sending him staggering backwards. He doubled over with a cough, but she didn't let him come around. She was right there, fingers knotting in his hair and dragging his head up. She whipped her fist across his face, sending a splatter of blood flying before she grabbed him by the shoulder, flipped him over backwards and slammed him down onto the sparring mat. Then she planted one bare foot on his chest and leaned in, pinning him down. She shook her head, that sneer pulling at one side of her mouth. "There is something wrong with you, Captain. Something broken in your soul. I can see it even if Orrelian can't. Your loyalties have split once, they can split again." Then she spat on the ground next to his head. "Pushda."

I stared, wide-eyed, unsure what I was seeing. I knew Arramy well enough to know when he was giving someone the upper hand. I also knew what it looked like when he wasn't. He had let her take him down. In fact, in the instant before she spat, I caught the ghost of a smile on his face.

Marin stepped away and stalked over to the chairs in the corner, snatching up a loose tunic and a towel, shrugging the shirt on over the tight leather pants and sleeveless shortvest she had been fighting in. Mopping at her neck with the towel, she turned and caught sight of me. Her amber eyes were snapping with irritation and something else, some source of fury that went far deeper than ancient racial conflict. She brushed past me as she strode for the door, her jaw tight.