The Cadet of Tildor

CHAPTER 28





Awareness brushed Savoy like a puff of wind. His body ached with a deep, nagging pain that seeped into each muscle fiber. The burn on his hand had disappeared. He pushed himself up, panted from the exertion, and looked around.

He sat in a cage, two spans square—scarcely tall enough for Savoy’s height—that stood inside a larger room. He wore only white drawstring trousers and, around his wrists and neck, flat bands of leather interwoven with blue-tinted metal strips and rings. The leather chafed, but in light of a previously certain death, he lacked grounds to complain.

“I’ve neither time nor desire to break a new pup, Jasper.” A large, muscular man carrying a coiled hemp whip at his waist entered the room. He was in his mid-thirties and hard, the kind of hard that grows from experience. Crossing meaty arms, the man weighed Savoy with his eyes and scoffed when Savoy returned the look glare for glare.

“Make time,” said the man’s partner, a scrawny adolescent whose peach-fuzz cheeks had unlikely yet met a razor. “Mother said I could have him.” The boy adjusted his glasses and squatted to Savoy’s eye level. “Hi, Cat. I’m Jasper, your keeper. That’s your training master, Den. Don’t be frightened.”

Cat? Savoy studied the smiling youth who saved him the trouble of creating an identity and hoped he had found the weaker link.

“I named you for your green eyes,” Jasper continued.

Savoy glanced at Den to measure his reaction, but the man showed none. Instead, he and Jasper began to back away. Something was about to happen. Savoy tensed. Jasper smiled and raised his hand.

It glowed blue.

Savoy’s bracelets shimmered in reply and started to pull.

A wave of foreboding washed over him as the glowing bands dragged his wrists up and back, gluing his arms to the back of his collar. Savoy fought the restraints, but the invisible force sheared through the struggle, twisting joints and muscles into compliance, tearing the skin beneath the leather to blood.

Jasper’s hand flashed once more, the light reflecting off his glasses. The three bands dragged their prisoner backward, forcing him to move his feet or fall, and slammed him against the metal cage. Savoy glared at Jasper and gritted his teeth.

Den entered the cage and clipped a rope to the bands holding Savoy. Immediately, the glow coming from Jasper’s hand died, releasing the strain on Savoy’s wrists.

“You going to cause a problem?” Den growled into Savoy’s ear and, arching him backward, marched him out and down a corridor, similar to the one that once led to Diam’s cage.

They came to a large room where two rows of cots lined the walls. Six men, dressed in identical white pants, pinned him with hate-filled glares.

“You sleep there.” Den pointed to an empty cot next to a bald, mountain-sized man. Then he retrieved a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote “Cat, evaluation care” on the slate affixed to the footboard.

A man with a scar running down his face cleared his throat. “We already got six.”

“Don’t you worry, Pretty. We’ll return to six soon enough.” Den unclipped the rope and left without further word.

Savoy crossed his arms and regarded his cellmates. Predators. “It usually takes people longer to dislike me.”

“How long?” Mountain Man asked with surprising sincerity.

“Shut up, Boulder.” Pretty looked Savoy up and down. “You really this clueless?”

“No, I enjoy putting on shows of ignorance.”

“White Team has six slots and, now, seven pups,” said a third man, joining the conversation. The sign on his bed named him Farmer.

Pretty bared his teeth. “Which means, little blond boy, one of us awaits a death match.”

“My sympathies to you then, Pretty.” Savoy sat on the thin, blanket-covered mattress and tugged at his wristbands, careful of the raw flesh beneath.

“Don’t bother,” Farmer mumbled, motioning to Savoy’s wrists. “There’s only one way out of here.”

“Death?”

“Two ways out, then. The Predator who wins fourth tier finals gets his freedom. If you need a delusion of hope to cling to, use that.”

Looking up, Savoy found the man’s eyes and nodded his thanks, adding the new scrap of information to his pitifully small pile.

A few hours later, Savoy was herded into a training salle. Beautiful. That was the only word for it. Equipment shone with polish and begged for use. Clean, raked sand covered the floor evenly. Cords marked off sparring rings. Ropes, pull-up bars, free weights, punching bags, leather strike pads, all emanated maintenance and care. The Academy’s salle, one of the finest the Crown had, paled in comparison, like a starved pony next to Kye.

Boulder, the large, slow-witted man, paced beside a pile of rocks.

“Don’t touch Boulder’s stones.” Farmer caught Savoy’s arm. “He’ll wail all morning.”

The giant did look attached. Every few seconds, he stopped pacing and squatted down, stroking one rock or another as if they were puppies. Watching him mumble and brush stray grains of sand from one gray pet, Savoy thought of Diam, who used to play like that, turning twigs and pebbles into horses and warriors. The man looked up, eyes full of innocence and caution, and grimaced at Pretty, who swaggered in his direction.

“Don’t hurt ’em.” Boulder stood guard in front of his pile.

Pretty grinned. He reached down and gathered a handful of sand. “Sand’s just a bunch of dead rocks, did you know that?” he asked, while Boulder shuffled from foot to foot, wringing large hands together. Without waiting for a reply, Pretty cocked his arm for a throw.

Savoy caught it.

“Cat, don’t!” Farmer called out, but Savoy already twisted Pretty’s wrist and drove him to the ground. He straddled the man’s chest and cocked a fist, ready to reshape Pretty’s nose.

The blow never connected. Instead, the instant before his fist descended, the bands around Savoy’s wrists tightened, shimmering with blue glow.

“I see we have a problem.” Den’s voice said behind him.

Turning, Savoy saw the training master a few yards away, pointing an amulet in his direction. A line of light stretched like a leash, from the amulet to his bands. Den jerked the leash, ripping Savoy off Pretty.

Savoy landed face-first in the sand and sat up, spitting the grains from his mouth. The next moment, his wrists pulled up to the collar, and the leather pieces glued together. Savoy met Den’s gaze and threw a dirty look at the amulet. “Coward.”

“Idiot.”

“One doesn’t negate the other.”

“Don’t try me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m tied up at the moment.”

Den tapped his hand against his thigh and stared at Savoy, who braced himself for a blow. No strike came. Instead, the training master squeezed the amulet and the glow died, releasing the restraints. Den shook his head and pointed toward one of the sparring rings. “We’ll do this once, Cat. And only once.”

Savoy rubbed his wrists and rose, aware of the silence settling around them. His hand reached for a nonexistent sword and he covered the misstep by dusting sand off his trousers. Den’s invitation reminded him of how he himself handled rookies, which suggested that one of the two of them was in for a surprise. Meanwhile, Den unhooked the rope-whip from his waist and rested it on the ground. When he stepped into the ring, boredom played in his eyes.

“Begin.”

Savoy brought his right leg back and bladed his body into a fighting stance. His weight shifted, and his hands rose to protect his head. Den crouched and shot in, moving faster than Savoy had expected from a large man more than a decade older than him. Savoy sprawled back from the attack, shoved Den’s shoulders, and danced away. Den came at him again, an odd frontal assault that would have gotten him skewered had Savoy had so much as a toothpick. But a weapon he did not have, and Den cut him at the knees.

Savoy slapped the ground as he fell, landing without injury. Newfound respect formed in his mind. The man knew his sport. Fighting for top position, Savoy tried to rise, but Den twisted him onto his back and knelt atop him, driving his knee into Savoy’s stomach. The effect was immediate and miserable. Pressure on his midsection made each breath an effort. Savoy looked up, knowing that little stopped Den from punching his head. Den returned the gaze. But he didn’t strike. Instead, the knee cinched tighter and tighter each time Savoy exhaled. Fighting for air, he struggled to twist his body out from underneath his heavier opponent. He succeeded only in relocating the knee a hand-width higher. It now pressed on his floating ribs. Savoy could draw air now, but the agony of straining bone overwhelmed the joy of breathing.

Collecting his strength, Savoy braced his hands against Den’s knee. He twisted sideways and out, shoving himself free from under the other’s weight. Maintaining momentum, he rolled to his feet and kicked. Den rocked back, a trickle of blood tracing his chin. Savoy’s chest heaved as he circled, looking for his next opening. He saw it and kicked again, aiming a roundhouse at the man’s temple. Had the blow connected, its impact would have knocked Den unconscious. It didn’t happen that way.

Den blocked the strike with the point of his elbow and wrapped his arms around the leg. He twisted, jerked Savoy off balance, and forced him back to the ground. This time, when Savoy slapped the sand to disperse the force of the fall, Den attacked the outstretched arm. The pressure on Savoy’s shoulder came sudden and hard, like a door slam. Den torqued the joint again and fire raced through limb. Savoy had no escape but to tear his own rotator cuff. He drew a breath.

“Tap out, moron.”

The pressure increased, muscles and tendons straining from the pull.

“I said, tap. Unless you fight better with severed muscles.”

Swallowing his pride, Savoy raised his free hand and struck the ground. The pressure ceased, but the fire remained. Shaking out his shoulder, Savoy hopped to his feet, determined to improve his performance in the next round.

Den shook his head, the look of bored indifference never wavering from his eyes. “I said once.” He stepped out of the ring and took a leash from the wall. “Hands behind your head.”

Faced with the choice of a voluntary compliance or a mage-forced one, Savoy gathered his remaining shreds of dignity and obeyed. The metal clip clicked as Den hooked it into the rings on the wristbands. A hated sound already. He stared straight ahead as Den led him toward the wall where another metal loop protruded from the stone. There was nothing special about that loop, just a common metal circle like hundreds of others found in any city. Found wherever people needed to tie up a horse.

Den threaded the leash through the ring and tied it off at a height too low to allow Savoy to stand, yet high enough that it stretched his joints when he knelt. He looked up to see Pretty’s content gaze and Boulder’s frightened one and hoped that his own reflected an indifference he wished he felt.

It was hours before practice ended and the line of fighters trailed out of the salle. Left alone, Den strode to Savoy.

The promise of relief inflamed the deep ache in his arms and back. The overpowering stretch of his abused shoulder made Savoy count time in breaths. He had kept his face still, and now silently counted down from a hundred to maintain composure through the final moments of punishment.

Den hooked his finger under Savoy’s chin and tipped up his face. “Are you through being cocky?” There was no malice in his voice. Den had disciplined a green boy, no more, no less, and that routine chore evoked no more emotion in him than tiring out an unruly horse would have for Savoy.

Whatever Savoy’s eventual escape would entail, showing up Den in his own salle would not be part of the plan. “Yes.”

“Good.” A moment of silence hung in the air.

Savoy held his breath.

“See you tomorrow, Cat.” Meeting Savoy’s eyes, Den turned away and walked out of the salle.

* * *

Savoy’s labored breaths violated the silence of the night. In the darkness of the salle, his arms, back, and shoulders were aflame, his wrist rubbed bloody against the bands.

He struggled against the ropes. Not from hope of loosening the knots—he knew that was impossible—but because he couldn’t do otherwise. Not in the depth of night, when the remembered smell of blood and piss in a dank dungeon cell filled his memory. Not when fear of something long over visited once more. He struggled, throwing himself against his binds. The hours crept on.

Eventually, he took hold of himself and stopped. A faint blue light from an amulet in the stone cast his shadow onto the sand, keeping him company until morning. A sagging man tied to a wall.

The door to the salle opened, admitting two men. Den carried a lantern, Jasper a bowl.

“Gods, Den, it was his first day.” Jasper set the bowl down and patted Savoy’s shoulder. Behind his glasses, the boy’s large eyes danced. “Poor pup.”

“Unbroken pup. He’ll live.”

Jasper reached toward the wall and untied the rope holding his wristbands. Relief rushed through Savoy’s arms. He collapsed to the floor and cradled his shoulders. Smiling, Jasper pushed the bowl toward Savoy’s knees. Inside, a spoon drowned in a brown mush, stinking of fat and overcooked, saltless meat. A pool of gooey, half-coagulated egg crowned the breakfast’s center.

Food. Savoy grasped the spoon in his fist, ready to swallow without tasting. Cramped muscles trembled. The spoon shook, spilling its contents on the way to his mouth. Globs of warm fat, egg, and meat plopped off and streaked down his chest.

Jasper chuckled. Den did not.

“This won’t do.” Jasper squatted down in front of Savoy, as if addressing a child. “I can Heal. Would you like me to?” Blue glow ignited around his hand. His breath quickened. He was eager.

Den caught the boy’s arm before it extended.

“He can’t train like this,” Jasper said, his voice rising. He stood, fingers curling into a fist simmering in mage fire.

“Yes, he can.”

Savoy tensed. The choice he was about to make, however ignorant, would gain him an enemy. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped toward Den. “I can train fine, sir.”

Den’s eyes flashed, but his hands and voice remained calm. “Begin by shutting up.”

Jasper’s lower lip trembled. He swallowed and turned away. “I’m the keeper,” he whispered toward the floor. “I decide when a pup needs Healing.” When he turned back, his face was dark. The flame around his hand grew brighter and he gripped Savoy’s bicep.

A rush of energy invaded Savoy’s mind, smashing over his Keraldi Barrier. Savoy didn’t fight it. Experience with Healers had taught him not to.

Jasper’s magic lacked Grovener’s finesse. The young mage didn’t nip Savoy’s barrier as much as rip through it as if with a dull blade. A cry caught in Savoy’s throat, but he clenched his fists and remained silent.

The energy scorched down his nerves, mending the pulls and tears in his shoulders. Savoy relaxed and waited for Jasper to withdraw. Instead, he found a cruel smile tugging the corners of the boy’s lips. Savoy’s mind struggled to raise his Keraldi Barrier, but it was too late.

The boy closed his eyes, and instead of dissipating, the force inside Savoy’s body barreled on. It gripped his lungs; Savoy gasped for breath. It cramped on his diaphragm, and he convulsed, unable to exhale. He reached out to grab the damn mage, but Jasper only chuckled and stepped behind him without breaking contact. The next moment something squeezed Savoy’s stomach. Bile shot up his throat, filled his mouth, and poured out onto the sand.

“Feeling better?” Jasper asked when Savoy finished depositing the contents of his stomach on the salle floor. Thin scorch marks, like a spiderweb of black silk, streaked from the spot where Jasper’s hand had touched him and the mage’s energy had funneled into his body.

Savoy had chosen his enemies poorly.