Shattered Exile

ELEVEN Trials-2

‘Engage!’

Tightening her grip on her falchions, she immediately sprinted headlong towards Lothnar, arcing towards his left flank with the intention of wrong-footing the Paladin. From the corner of her right eye, she could see the crowd on their feet, cheering and screaming at her impetuous assault. It was clear from Lothnar’s reaction that the Paladin had not anticipated the extent of her alacrity, although the astonishing speed with which he drew from the sheath attached to the underside of his left arm, mitigated her own reckless abandon. Instinctively she dived into a shoulder roll, moments prior to Lothnar’s first throw. Despite failing to witness the projectile’s trajectory, a collective gasp from the crowd, and the absence of any pain, implied that her acrobatics had borne fruit. After exiting the hastily executed roll, she used her forward momentum to quickly regain her feet, thus allowing her to resume her assault – or at least, that was the theory. With impossible speed, Lothnar drew another of the stock throwing knives from the sheath strapped to his arm. Little more than ten paces now separated them, which – combined with Lothnar’s unprecedented skill – meant there was very little she could do to avert the Paladin’s second throw. Instinctively she tried to block the fresh projectile’s path with her falchions, however, countering the pace with which the knife found its mark proved to be beyond her skill, prompting another gasp from the audience. Her left leg quickly buckled and gave way, sending her crashing to the floor of the dusty arena. Despite her familiarity with the arena’s hard surface, having endured countless undignified lessons first-hand from The Teacher, she was unprepared for the painful sensations caused by the knife’s sudden impact. Immediately after the blade punctured her limb, she felt a strange tingling sensation, followed by the rapid onset of heat rising in her left leg, and finally, lots of pain – excruciating pain! She cried out in agony, raising her hand with fingers splayed; swallowing her pride, she signalled her request for the aid of a renewalist.

‘Hold!’ cried Marcus immediately, announcing a temporary reprieve from their duel.

One of the renewalists stationed on the arena floor, over by the east gate, immediately ran towards her. The young healer passed Lothnar, who turned and offered a confident smirk to the crowd. The diligent renewalist ignored the Paladin’s obvious gloating and rushed to her side, eager to repair the damage to her leg.

‘Please, keep still whilst I remove the blade.’ said the renewalist, clearly out of breath after his short sprint. ‘This will hurt!’

‘It already bloody hurts!’

The renewalist grinned at her retort and pulled the throwing knife from her leg in one fluid motion. Thick blood gushed from the wound, lapping around the side of her left leg, before dropping to the floor, staining the arena’s dusty surface. Stemming the flow of blood, the renewalist placed his hands over the wound and immediately began to knit the cut flesh together using his ability. Amidst the pain, she cast her mind back to the times when Nathaniel had tended her wounds, recalling specifically how the recovery process had been a much slicker and calming experience. The sensation now felt different to Nathaniel’s previous ministrations, as though laboured or perhaps carried out with a blunt instrument.

‘May I ask what level you are?’ she said, whilst wincing in pain.

‘Regrettably, Guardian, I am still an Adept. We only permit Adepts, Masters or Mistresses of our ability to administer those who fall during the Trials. Where possible, those of my rank are expected to provide aid so that we can practice our skills under pressure.’ the renewalist replied self-consciously. ‘Would you like me to request a Master or Mistress instead?’

‘I meant no offence.’ she said, trying hard to block out the throbbing pain. ‘A Freylarkin of your ability would be deeply respected amongst the Knights Thranis – perhaps you should enlist.’

The renewalist smiled politely, accepting her unconventional praise.

‘I know little about knights, but I do know that you will be back on your feet shortly. Also, there will be no scarring once the wound is fully healed.’ the renewalist replied, whilst diligently finishing his work. ‘However, I do sincerely hope that you have a strategy which does not involve getting stabbed again.’

‘What’s your name?’ she said, catching her benefactor off guard.

‘Galadrick.’

‘That’s a mouthful – may I call you Gal?’

Galadrick briefly looked up from his work and nodded to her with a welcoming smile.

‘In answer to your question, Gal – absolutely not!’

Galadrick glanced at her once more, this time with a look of confusion.

‘Do you mean to say that you have no strategy, or that you do indeed plan to get stabbed once again?’

‘Both. Lothnar won’t expect me to take another hit like this; he’ll assume that I will favour a more defensive stance. As for a plan, surely if I have no plan, he cannot therefore counter it?’

Galadrick stared at her with a puzzled look, clearly bewildered by her unconventional analysis. The confused renewalist was obviously lost for words, and offered no comment regarding her alternative approach.

‘See what I mean?’ she continued, offering the bemused renewalist a playful grin.

‘I am not sure that I follow you, Guardian.’

‘And that’s the point.’

‘Well then, I hope for your sake that he sees it that way – or rather, that he does not see it.’ replied Galadrick, finishing up his handiwork. ‘You should be able to stand again now.’

‘Thanks Gal, I appreciate it.’

‘You are most welcome, Guardian.’ replied Galadrick earnestly. ‘Please ensure that you await Marcus’ command to engage, before commencing your impromptu offence.’

‘I will.’

‘Oh, and there is one more thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kick his arse!’

‘Cora, we have to leave.’ she said to her daughter, in an unconvincing voice.

There was no response from Cora, just the continued sound of whimpering, muffled beneath the thick hair hanging down across her daughter’s face. She tried to lift her head to displace some of her hair, pulling it away from her daughter’s own, but the added weight of Cora’s body made the task extremely difficult.

‘Please, my love, we have to get help.’

Still there was no response. Though she could not see her daughter’s face, Cora was clearly distraught and in pain. She wished dearly that she could embrace her own daughter, offering her the reassurance that a child so desperately needed when coping with trauma. However, their vile tormentor had cruelly taken that basic right away from them. She vowed to release the heinous shaper if ever their paths once again crossed. Though for now, such ugly thoughts were fanciful – they desperately needed help, and in order to seek that help she first required her daughter’s own.

‘Cora, please! You must help me.’ she pressed, raising her voice, so that her daughter might hear beneath the combined matted mass of hair. ‘I cannot do this alone – I am not strong enough! I need you Cora.’

‘Mother, I am scared!’

‘My love, I know that you are. I am too. However, we need to work together. We must get away from here before that vile monster returns.’

‘But what if he catches us?’ replied Cora hysterically.

‘Cora, calm down.’

‘Mother, if he catches us, it will be far worse!’

‘You cannot think like that, and we cannot survive like this. We must get help. Please, Cora, you have to be strong, for both of us.’

Her daughter began to sob once again; Cora was clearly struggling to come to terms with their abhorrent reality.

‘Please, Cora!’ she implored sincerely.

Relenting momentarily, she gave her daughter time to register her words. Eventually Cora ceased her sobbing; she was about to try to coerce the cooperation of her daughter once more, when unexpectedly she felt upwards pressure. Her daughter suddenly propelled them forwards; despite the vicious pain that wracked her torso, she began to move her own arms and legs, doing her best to guide Cora towards the gap in the door opposite. Working in unison, they crawled awkwardly towards the store’s main entrance, which had been carelessly left ajar – an oversight on their tormentor’s part, she mused, anxiously. Reaching out with her right arm, she grabbed the side of the door and pulled it open. Cora cried out in pain; the act of wrestling the door open tugged at their fused skin, stretching it mercilessly – her daughter clearly suffered as she did, and it was the distress caused by that thought that brought tears to her eyes, rather than their actual physical pain.

‘Good girl, be brave.’

Together they crossed the threshold of the store clumsily, into the alley outside. The weak light penetrating the clouds above stung her eyes, as she craned her neck back to better survey their surroundings. In light of their recent ghastly ordeal, she had completely lost track of the cycles.

‘Cora, wait here for a moment.’

Shaking her head to clear her matted hair away from her ears, she listened carefully to the ambient sounds of Freylar, hoping to locate one of their kin for assistance. In the distance, she could hear the roar of the crowd in the arena, suggesting that the Trials were already underway. She cursed their poor timing; with so many of the Freylarkai engrossed in the Trials, their task would be even more arduous. Refusing to let despair consume her, she continued to listen carefully, desperate for a thread of hope to cling to. In the background, she fancied hearing the incessant bickering of several Freylarkai. Although she could not discern the nature of their discontent, it mattered not, for she had found their hope.

‘Cora, turn to the right.’

‘Mother, what is it?’

‘Our salvation – I hope.’

Her daughter whimpered again in pain as they adjusted their heading. After the painful manoeuvre, they began crawling towards the direction of the sound she had previously identified. Their progress was slow due to their laboured movement, but desperation drove them onwards. Eventually, they reached the junction at the end of the alley. They were both exhausted; her arms and calves ached incessantly, due to their imposed configuration. She imagined that her daughter suffered similarly – in all likelihood, Cora’s knees were bloodied and bruised due to scraping across the hard ground.

‘Rest here for a moment.’

The sound she had previously heard was much louder now; she could hear the distinct voices of three Freylarkai, each of whom seemed to be bickering about the Trials, specifically their inability to secure access to the venue in order to witness the spectacle. In light of their own hardships, she cared little for the group’s insignificant troubles. Moreover, their pathetic words angered her, given the heinous mutilation both she and her daughter had been forcibly subjected to.

‘We need one last push – now, Cora.’

Riding the agonising pain, they moved once again in horrific unison, around the corner of a building into direct line of sight of the squabbling Freylarkai. She craned her neck back once again and stared imploringly at their horrified onlookers, each of whom appeared frozen in terror.

‘Help us!’