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.
I sink deeper into my stance. I will not fall over. I will not collapse. I will not stand down. Hard things prove my strength. I will be as unbreakable as
my blade.
I repeat it over and over and over.
Just when I think I’ve reached the dregs of my strength, there is more.
The well within me is deeper than I ever knew. I learn that only after hours of trembling, of holding on. Of standing firm.
And maybe, just maybe, that is what Raker is trying to show me.
It’s still dark outside when his voice cuts through the silence of the cave.
“Enough. Go to bed, Aris.”
I nearly collapse onto the floor. Raker seems to know it, because I can hear his deep sigh.
My eyes are closed before my head even settles against the stone.
Raker doesn’t acknowledge me the next morning. Or during the hours we spend trekking through the sinking rot.
But when we arrive at our shelter for the night, he gives me a new position. Long guard. Extending my sword forward, in front of my body.
With both hands, since I still can’t lift it with one.
Then he leaves to hunt.
My arms are sore and aching from the night before, but my mind is stronger. My focus is unwavering. This time, I cycle through those ten memories. The ones I cherish. The ones where I was the happiest.
And that happiness … it is so much stronger than the pain. It is like Starside steel meeting lesser metal. Shattering everything in its path.
My mind narrows to them. To my purpose. To why I’m doing this.
I startle when I notice Raker leaning against a tree, watching me. The sun has dipped low. I’ve been in this position for over an hour. I raise a brow in question. Enough?
He dips his head in a nod, and I thank the stars as I stumble forward. I drop my sword against the dirt in front of my boots and lean on my knees,
panting. I only look up when he passes me, moving toward the mouth of yet another obsidian-blocked cave. “Nothing?”
He shakes his head. My berries are gone. The canteen he gave me is empty.
Inside the cave, Raker sighs as he drops his stuff onto the floor.
“Draw the map,” he says. It both relieves and scares me that he sounds tired. If Raker is fading … if he is beginning to feel the effects of thirst and hunger, what chance do I have?
Arms still shaking, I carve the map into the stone with my sword, making faint scratches.
More of the same. Which I now know is just endless nothing.
Raker curses.
“We should travel north,” I say. “Off the path. There are towns.”
I expect Raker to ignore me. To stay silent while he comes up with his own plan, or to admonish me for wanting to veer from the quest.
But all he does is nod, before disappearing into the shadows of the cave.
This is the last time Raker is ever going to fucking listen to me.
The village is abandoned.
The rot has infected it like a disease, mold spores eating through the sides of houses, thorned vines snaking through windows.
“The map, it—” Is clearly outdated. Raker doesn’t spare me a glance as he walks past me. My throat tightens. Is this the moment he realizes my memorization of the map isn’t as helpful as he thought?
Seventeen days into the Questral … and we aren’t even halfway to the Land of the Gods. If we plan on returning to the gates before the fifty days are up, we have to go faster. Or find a shortcut. We can’t afford to make these kinds of mistakes. I come to a stop, half expecting him to turn. To slice me to ribbons and take my sword. But all he does is stalk through the
town, to the other side.
I follow in silence.
He’s going north. He must see what I do—that although this village was overcome, there are the faintest signs that the rot is lessening the farther north we travel. There are a few blades of grass peeking through the dirt, and the occasional sparse tree.
The Land of the Gods is northeast, anyway. We aren’t going too far off the path. And we both know we won’t make it there without food or water.
We just need a lucky break.
After hours of walking, we finally reach a river that is only slightly clouded in color. Not clean enough to drink, though I’m almost desperate enough to try. I reach my hand inside, just to smell it—and Raker snarls at me. Begrudgingly, I remove my fingers.
There’s an old bridge made of crumbling gray stone that curves over the water. It isn’t wide. It isn’t long either.
We’re both exhausted, but still, he says, “Unsheathe your blade.”
I expect another position. But Raker just stares at me, and says, “Again.
Shoulders down, this time.”
I do it again.
He shakes his head, reaches back. Then, all at once, his silver is in front of him. He’s so fast, it becomes just a streak of metal. He sheaths it again.
“Like that.”
I grind my teeth. I didn’t even fucking see what he did, since it was so quick. I try again.
He exhales deeply. Then, far slower than before, he reaches back again.
This time, he uses both hands. It’s for my own benefit, I know, since he only unsheathes his with one.
I watch the angles of his arms. His posture. His stance. I try again.
“Better,” he admits, and I’m beaming.
“But you’re so slow, your head will hit the ground before you even get
your blade out.”
I scowl at him, and try again, faster.
He shakes his head. “Dead.”
Teeth gritted, I do it again, arms screaming.
“Still dead.”
Irritation flares through me, and this time I’m so fast, I surprise myself with my speed. My blade blurs.
I’m panting, but the bastard still says, “Dead.”
“You’re wrong,” I snarl, chest rising and falling.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” To prove it, I sheath my blade, then take it out again, and this time, I’m more than half a second faster than I was before, my metal arcing and— It’s still in the air, pointed toward the sky, not even in front of me at all.
And Raker’s sword is at my throat.
His metal skims my pulse. “Dead without question,” he says from the other end of it, his voice a rough whisper in the darkness. I swallow, his blade following the movement. All it would take is a millimeter less precision, and I would be bleeding out in seconds. My lips part.
Then, in a flash, his sword is gone, and I’m left burning in frustration.
But instead of stalking off, like I expect, he says, “Again.”
And this time, we do it together. He sheaths and unsheathes his weapon, so much faster than I am, but strangely, with him doing it at the same time, it pushes my limits. Makes me quicker than I ever thought possible.
“Good,” he finally says, and I think I might keel over in shock. He notices my surprise and happiness, and makes sure to snuff it out by adding,
“For you.”
I glare at him.
The bridge is where we sleep, the stone so narrow we’re forced to lie side by side, our blades between us. Raker’s body almost makes it all the way across.
I drew more of the map for him, but he hasn’t told me where we’re headed. I open my mouth to ask, and he turns, giving me his back.
Right.
I stay on my spine, tired and starving. All that practice drained my energy.
How long can we go without food? Without water? I know how long I’ve gone without both on Stormside, but here? Carrying a sword like this?
Traveling many miles every day? I try to do the math, to make the predictions, but my mind feels like ash in the wind.
This thirst, this hunger … it could kill me. I know that. It feels like it might. Like I could go to bed here, on this bridge, and never wake up.
Maybe that’s why I open my mouth. Why I speak to a cruel warrior who clearly wants nothing to do with me. “Are you afraid of anything, Raker?”
I feel him stiffen beside me. But he doesn’t answer.
That’s fine. I’ll answer my own question. “I’m afraid of the dark,” I say, and I don’t know why. He already thinks so low of me. Why add more to that list of weaknesses? Still, I don’t stop.
“I used to hate the night. For many reasons.” Like that guttering, ending, soul-shredding darkness when the fire that took everything from me finally extinguished. “Here, though … right now … looking up at these stars.” I stare at them in wonder. They shine so much brighter. Diamonds tossed
across the galaxy like skipping stones. “I think I could learn to love the night.”
He doesn’t say a word. But he doesn’t tell me to shut up either.
“I’m afraid of water … and fire. You know the first one, I guess. Because … because I can’t swim. Almost drowning helped that fear, a little. Because that death was almost quiet. Almost quick.” The second certainly is not. My mind pulses with memories, and I move on.
“I’m afraid of dying in a stupid way, like tripping into my sword, or eating a bad berry, or dehydrating on an old bridge, next to the most miserable knight in existence.” I turn my head toward him. “Are you afraid of anything?” I ask again.
“I’m afraid you won’t stop talking, Aris,” he says.
It doesn’t hold as much bite as it could. I almost keep going, just to irritate him. I open my mouth.
I only manage to say something half sensical before being dragged into sleep.
In the middle of the night, I’m awoken by sharp stabs over every inch of my
skin. I gasp and nearly choke— Rain.
No. We aren’t that lucky. But I swallow, and yes. Clean water. It washes away the grime on my face; it sinks through my fabrics, cleansing them of the blood and mud. The cold grips my bones, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind anything at all, because finally.
I rise to my knees, tip my head back, and drink. I run my hands through the messy braids, washing it of all the grime. Then I scramble to fill my canteen. My hands tremble around it, fearing the rain will stop, but it keeps coming. I wait until water is spilling down the sides. I drink the entire thing and then refill it, before I look up and see Raker doing the same with a new canteen. His back is to me. His hood is plastered to his head. If he turned, would I see his face, or his mask? I wait to see if the fabric slips … but it doesn’t.
And neither does mine. It clings to my body. I lift my collar, trying to wash my neck the best I can, without exposing my throat. Not that Raker is looking. No, he’s very pointedly still facing the opposite direction.
This is a gift. If I was most mortals on Stormside, I would be thanking the gods. I don’t know who to thank, but I slowly rise to my feet and drink
some more, feeling the cold water run through my dehydrated veins, until my shoulders finally melt, some of my tension releasing. We’re still hungry, and moving too slowly across Starside, but at least we aren’t thirsty anymore. This is a win.
I make to move, but suddenly my feet feel heavier. I look down. The riverbank is overflowing. The bridge is quickly becoming submerged.
I take a step forward—and slip. Only a hand locked around my wrist keeps me upright. Swirling black ink wraps down each finger, and I try to read the writing, the symbols, but I can’t.
Slowly, I look up, wondering what I’ll find, allowing myself hope that I might finally see him, but all I see is his mask.
And those gray eyes.
I blink, and I’m thrust back to that day, in a storm just like this one. Eyes hard and merciless as steel, staring me down. Hand gripped tightly around my wrist. Dragging me through dirt and mud as I thrashed and screamed.
I jerk back, and he drops my arm.
He turns wordlessly and stalks off the bridge. He doesn’t stop. I know what he’s thinking. If demons are so afraid of water, they won’t surface in the rain. It’s better for us to cover more ground.
Dirt slips beneath my boots as I follow Raker through the downpour, the scars on my lower back tightening—an ever-present reminder of why I can’t trust him.