Rise of Renegades, page 34
The trail continued through a forest and up a winding cliff to a mountain ledge. A pair of waterfalls called the Twin Tears fell onto a large island in the center of the lake. The water flowed through dozens of channels to a ring of water on the outside of the island. The lake had been natural, but the island had been built. Devoid of plants or structures, the island resembled a dakorian shield, a circle of metal that clan Hammerdin only used on Rebor.
Reklin came to a halt on the edge of the lake while the rest of the family spread out on both sides, the groups coming to a halt to stand in silent vigil. None looked to Reklin except his immediate brothers and sisters, all of whom appeared confident. He wasn’t sure if it was their real belief, but appreciated their hope nevertheless.
“You were always the best of us,” Davin said.
“You’ll beat him for sure,” Inis agreed.
But in every expression he saw the seeping dread, until finally his mother, Kevent, and Inary brought up the back of the line. The trio gave solemn nods, and Inary stepped forward to embrace Reklin. He’d always been close to his sister, even though she lacked his talent with a weapon. She’d been formidable in her own way, and he would miss her unwavering courage.
“Kill the brute,” she said fiercely.
“I’ll try,” Reklin said.
“Seena wake up?” Mora looked up with tear-filled eyes.
She still had Siena on her shoulders, even though the climb had obviously been taxing for her little body. But she’d inherited Inary’s stubbornness, and she’d refused to be parted from Siena. Reklin noticed Siena looked better, and her skin was not so gray.
“She’ll be fine,” Reklin assured her.
“Will you stop clamoring about a human?” Inary growled. “She doesn’t matter.”
“Friend matters,” Mora growled so fiercely that Inary didn’t say any more.
Kevent removed the shield he’d been carrying from his back and offered it to Reklin. He accepted the weight, pleased at the memories it brought. Dakorians had not used shields in battle for many ages, but his family still trained with them, as well as sunderblades. It was probably the only advantage he would have over Olgor, who came from a family that had forsaken old combat in favor of new. But by tradition, a Crucible of Sovereignty required a sunderblade and a shield.
“A ship!” someone cried.
The starship dropped through the darkening clouds and slowed to a hover on a ledge adjacent to the lake. Landing gear extended and it settled onto the rock. The side hatch opened and out came several dakorians, all dressed in ceremonial white. Reklin counted nine, a majority of the clan council, before Olgor appeared. His gigantic size forced him to duck to exit the ship, which rocked slightly when he hopped down and joined the group. The krey pilot exited but stayed on the ramp to the ship. He was not permitted to set foot on the planet.
The clan elders appeared solemn as they approached Reklin, but he noticed a hint of triumph in their eyes, and many looked over the luscious valley spreading out below. Olgor only had eyes for Reklin, sniffing in disdain when their gazes met.
“Elder Lavana,” the clan leader greeted.
“Elder Hockle,” she replied evenly. “I hope you’re not here to gloat.”
“The scattering of a family is always a solemn event,” Hockle said, his voice heavy, with just a hint of amusement. “Even if the family possesses the richest islands on the planet.”
“They don’t belong to you yet,” Reklin said.
“A formality,” Olgor said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Your champion is a hornless?” Hockle didn’t even try to contain his scorn. “You really are weak.”
“He would cut you in half,” Inary growled.
“Perhaps you should have been the champion,” Hockle said to Inary, and then turned to face the village. Several hundred were arrayed around the island, and Reklin wished it were more. His family really had dwindled in the last few generations.
“Family members of Duveq,” he called, “you stand accused of weakness. Your family has sent the fewest members into the military of any family, and the resources you have brought into the clan have shrunk with each passing decade. Perhaps if you had spent more time fighting and less time farming, we would not be here today.”
His words caused the dakorians to bristle, and Lavana narrowed her gaze. “I don’t care if you’re a clan elder. Speak like that again and I’ll rip your ribs out of your chest.”
“So much fight,” Hockle said. “If only that fight had carried into your children. But sadly none have been selected as Bloodwall. At least a scattering will help to prevent Sheklin’s failure from passing on to new generations.”
Reklin’s sunderblade came to a quivering halt at Hockle’s throat. The speed of the draw was enough to narrow Olgor’s eyes and evoke a scowl from Hockle. The other clan elders were equally as shocked.
“Insult my father again and I will kill you myself.” Reklin’s voice was so dark that Hockle flinched.
“You dare draw a weapon on a clan elder?” another elder growled.
“He’s on my island,” Reklin said. “That makes him subject to my family laws.”
“Not for long,” Olgor said.
Reklin lowered his sunderblade. “Speak your piece and let us be done with this.”
“Are you so eager to die?” Hockle straightened his cloak, but it was clear Reklin had unnerved him. “Then by all means, let us get started . . .”
The clan elder spotted Siena, who had woken up and was rising to her feet. The presence of a human at a testing, let alone one where a family’s scattering hung in the balance, was unheard of, and Hockle began to laugh. The scornful sound rippled through the other clan elders.
“You have humans in your midst?” he called. “It is no wonder you are so weak.”
Reklin.
Siena spoke into his mind, the voice so faint it was as if it were a whisper. He tried to shake her off, but then noticed the hardness to her gaze. He realized that she’d followed him for a reason, and was now attempting to explain.
What do you want? he demanded.
You need to stall, she said. Just for a few minutes. Don’t start the fight until the storm hits.
Why?
Please. I need you to trust me.
She held his gaze as the clan elders—the most powerful dakorians on the planet—laughed at her sickly body and tiny form. She didn’t care what they thought. She didn’t care who they were. She didn’t care about their power or position. She only cared about Reklin’s family. Reklin sensed a pivotal moment in his life as he made the conscious choice to turn away from the leaders of his clan and trust a slave.
He turned back to Hockle. “I believe it’s customary for the challenger to speak to the family?”
“Is that really necessary?” Hockle asked. “I have four starships waiting to bring a new family to these islands tonight. I’m sure we can dispense with formalities.”
“Tonight?” Lavana demanded. “Even if there is a scattering, we have time to gather our things.”
“There’s nothing to gather,” one of the clan elders scoffed. “Your village is paltry compared to the other family cities. By week’s end it will be demolished to make room for a new settlement.”
Lavana drew a curving shortblade and stepped in before anyone could stop her. The blade swung for Hockle’s throat, stopping just short of killing the dakorian elder. He flinched back, but Reklin held his mother’s wrist in an iron grip.
“Reklin,” Lavana snarled, “let go.”
“You kill him, and the scattering is sealed.”
Hockle recovered and stood firm. “Get a hold of your mother, soldier. Or I’ll have her executed.”
An arc of lightning split the sky, followed quickly by rolling thunder. Reklin pulled his mother back and stepped between her and Hockle, who’d drawn his hammer. He turned to his family and surveyed their expressions.
“My father once said that true victory is not over others. It is gained through a mastery of self. While the rest of the clan has gone forth in search of glory and victory, the Duveq family has chosen a life of honor and family. We have more fathers that return home, and more children of integrity than any family in the Hammerdin Clan. The results of this testing will not change what you are. You are soldiers that fight for others, soldiers that protect the weak, that live a life worth remembering. Our clan elders have forgotten what it means to be a dakorian. Make certain you always remember.”
His challenging words faded as another thunderclap echoed on the mountain. The dakorians of his family had lifted their gaze to him, and many were nodding in agreement. Women with their sons, and fathers with their daughters. They stood together, bound in a legacy of honor given by their forebears. Reklin noticed Siena and a faint smile pulled at his lips. He drew his blade and spoke in a ringing shout.
“We train for life. To fight to the death.”
His savage words washed over his family, and then Kevent drew his hammer. He raised it high, as did Inary and Lavana. One by one the other clan members raised their weapons and echoed Reklin’s battle cry.
Hockle rolled his eyes. “You’ve spoken to your clan. Now let us begin the testing.”
Overcome with emotion, Reklin held the gaze of his family. Then he glanced to Siena, who bore a strange smile on her face. It is time.
Turning away from the group, Reklin advanced to the bridge leading to the island. After a moment’s pause, he heard a pair of heavy footfalls fall into step behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know they belonged to Olgor.
Reklin crossed the bridge and ascended the small slope to the top of the hill. The island was not flat, and contained hundreds of small overlooks, cracks, and shallow ravines, with bridges crisscrossing above. The arena was designed to be chaotic, with no pattern to the shape. But Reklin had grown up studying every corner, crevasse, and place of advantage. Like the other whelps, he knew enough to give him hope. It was knowledge Olgor lacked.
He ascended a short flight of stairs and crossed a curving arch to reach a small platform near the center. Olgor took the obvious route to reach a second platform within striking distance. A shallow cavity lay between them, the space wide enough for a single dakorian to fit. Reklin activated the rune in the hilt of his sunderblade. Energy spilled down the length, spitting onto the ground. He activated the shield as well, and the outer edge turned white, the edge hot enough to burn through seracrete. Or a dakorian exoskeleton.
“I admire your courage,” Olgor said, activating his own burning sunderblade. “You face your death with honor.”
“I don’t plan on dying tonight.”
“They never do.”
The pain from earlier had returned, sharper and deeper. But it was no longer in his bones. Now it seemed to radiate from his neck, rising into his skull. Everywhere it went, it felt like Reklin was being undone and remade. The pain continued to mount as the storm drew closer, the first drops of rain falling on his shoulders.
Reklin’s family spread out around the exterior of the lake, silent as the dead. The clan elders stood together, smiles on their faces as they surveyed the island, their assumed victory making Reklin’s blood boil. His two hearts shuddered against his chest and thumped faster, driving him to action.
Siena was on her feet but still looked weak. Mora was clinging to her side as if she were her mother. Inary stood nearby, her features tight with fear and worry. And still the pain mounted, turning into a burning heat that seared through Reklin’s body. Unwilling to give voice to the pain, he held his jaw clenched by force of will. Was he dying? Had he failed before the first blow? The prospect of such shame brought a surge of anger.
The rain picked up as Hockle waved a dismissive hand and raised his voice to be heard over the crackle of thunder. “It is with grave authority that I initiate this Crucible of Sovereignty. Your family stands to be scattered unless your chosen champion defeats the clan champion. As is tradition, neither champion can be of the rank of Bloodwall. Are the champions ready?”
“I am,” Olgor said.
Reklin looked to the sky and felt the rain splatter across his face. This was to be the fight of his life, and he could only hope his family would tell tales of his valiant effort. But even as he readied himself for defeat, he could not ignore the heat swelling through his body, spilling into every cell of his body. He’d thought it was just aches from his combat trance, but now he sensed a deeper change, an alteration to his very flesh. As if his genetic code had been altered. His eyes widened in understanding and he snapped a look to Siena, his features twisted in horror.
I’m sorry, the girl said through her mind augment. It’s the only way you have a chance of winning.
YOU TURNED ME INTO AN AUGMENT? His mental roar made her flinch.
It’s just a chance, she said. It’s all I could give you.
Burning in fury and confusion, Reklin wanted to rip Siena in half. The girl had no right to turn him into an augment—something that shouldn’t have been possible for a dakorian. But he could feel it in his chest and organs, sense it deep in his tissues and muscles. He was different. And as his body finished changing, he poured his anger and indignation into three words.
“I am ready.”
Hockle smiled. “Then you may begin.”
In that moment, the burning inside Reklin’s flesh coalesced in his skull, a searing pain like a blade puncturing his brain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the storm in brilliant fury. And as Olgor began to move, Reklin’s augment activated . . .
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Olgor spun his shimmering sunderblade, the heated edge burning a circle through the air. Raindrops burst to steam on the weapon and left a sizzling contrail of mist that further obscured the attack. Reklin did not move, his augment bursting across his consciousness like an ocean wave.
The memories hit hard. His father kissing his mother. His sister stealing food for a pet. Kevent breaking his foot during training. Sheklin, Lavana, Inary, Kevent, elders, whelps, soldiers, krey. Memories of his youth, learning to fight, and memories of his time as a soldier. There were big memories of momentous victories, and small memories such as scraping his knee getting out of bed one morning—and rising from bed the next day.
Every synapse in his brain that recorded memory seemed to fire at once, so sharp and sudden he sucked in his breath. The dim moments, the forgotten duels, the trivial details of everyday life, they all came rushing back, as bright as the moment they had occurred. Every single breath he’d taken, every single wound he’d suffered—and wound he’d inflicted. He could see it all. A perfect memory.
A memory augment.
In a fraction of a second, Reklin’s mind unlocked, the sheer volume of information daunting to hold. He grappled with the change as he forced his body to move. Olgor was leaping for the gap, and he only needed a single blow to be lethal. But the activated augment was a massive distraction, and Reklin was too slow.
Olgor’s glowing sunderblade swung down at an angle, a testing attack the dakorian did not expect to land. Reklin fought the memories as anger surged. He didn’t have time to block. The first blow would land and cut through his neck and into his chest, slicing through both hearts—
A memory appeared—Sheklin’s blade coming down in the exact same angle. Reklin, just three years old, struggled to hold the training blade upward, and failed. Sheklin brought the blade to a halt.
“You cannot always block,” Sheklin said, “so movement is your friend. It takes more energy to miss than to hit, and if you lean back and twist, my sunderblade will fail to land.”
“That’s not the proper block,” Lavana called.
“Exactly,” Sheklin said. “Sometimes you have to be creative to throw a superior opponent off balance . . .”
Reklin jerked backwards, twisting under the swinging blade. Olgor clearly expected the swing to be blocked, because his blade swung low and skipped off the stone, slicing into the rock. Olgor gave a tiny stumble. Reklin punished the lapse by driving his weapon at Olgor’s side. The giant dakorian managed to bring his shield up in time, the contact spilling sparks across the earth, but Reklin continued the motion, sliding his blade across the edge of the shield to carve a shallow line across Olgor’s shoulder. The flesh split, and blood welled from the small wound.
Reklin spun away and jumped to a different ledge, where he braced for a retaliating blow. Olgor stood in place as an audible gasp came from the onlookers. The giant soldier examined the wound and his lips curled, his eyes narrowing.
“Few have drawn first blood upon me.”
“Then I am honored,” Reklin said.
“You are a roak that got lucky,” Olgor spat. “Your family is weak, and I will prove your insignificance.”
“Not if Reklin kills you first!” Lavana shouted, drawing a laugh from the family.
Olgor snarled and leapt over a lower path. Many large dakorians had thicker bones, the heavy armor allowing them to absorb more punishment at the price of speed. Olgor had the heavier bones, but his size negated the disadvantage. He jumped the gap and swung his blade so quickly that Reklin barely had time to raise his shield.
Olgor unleashed a blistering assault, the blade hacking at Reklin from every side. The soldier’s precious was flawless, his balance perfect. The blade cut so fine and so fast it sliced through rain drops to slam into Reklin’s shield. The impact reverberated up the bones of his arm and into his jaw, rattling his teeth.
Reklin had no choice but to retreat. Leaping backward, he put a foot on a ridge just inches wide and then jumped to another. He did not have to look. The memory of each placement was exact, and his body knew the perfect position without needing confirmation from his eyes. Almost sprinting backwards, it took every ounce of focus to block and parry Olgor’s flashing blade. His newfound memory saved his life, and drew calls of surprise and approval from his family.
