To overthrow the cruel King who brutally slaughtered her foremothers, the last surviving water witch Elara Consuli must team up with novice warrior Juda Vikaris from the Serpent Order and realise an ancient prophecy, before the blood-thirsty ruler d...
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By the blade. By Ban-Keren. By the... fuck this.
Juda Vikaris swept the scimitar low, his eyeline in perfect symmetry with the edge of the smooth obsidian blade as it sliced through the air. His opponent, a fifth-born runt from the Bo-Dreven line – the upper echelon family who owned the prison ships transporting the condemned to the dead fields - was really starting to piss him off.
He'd worked hard to study the strengths and weaknesses of each of his fellow novices, but even Juda had to admit he'd underestimated this one and it could cost him dearly. Terrick Bo-Dreven was shorter and slighter than the other Highguards, but he was not the soft-in-the-belly dutzal that Juda had thought him to be. In fact, as Bo-Dreven dodged sharply out of the reach of the deadly scimitar, Juda knew he had to change tact if he was going to beat Terrick's incisive moves.
The crushing silence from the audience on the three levels of tiered balconies lining each side of the square yard, only made every sound from the battle harder and more abrasive on the ears. When Juda had first joined the Order, and he could still feel the venomous sting of the batak oil on his flesh, the deathly silent battles in the training arena had felt eerie and disconcerting, but he'd soon realised the unnatural hush served a dual purpose.
For the novices in combat, it was a reminder that there was no glory to be found in their duty. Forget pride. Forget playing to the crowd. Let not your heart beat with the thrill of the fight. Think only of the task in hand. The endgame. Your opponent's final breath. There was no room for rage. For hatred. For emotion. Move. Attack. Countermove. Blood.
That was all.
For the spectators, it was the relentless suppression of feeling. Watch with dead eyes. Relish not in any injury. Care nothing for the demise of either novice. Watch. Learn.
And wait until it is your turn to honour the blade and the King with your opponent's death, because the throne required nothing less.
Juda had mastered the arena on many occasions already and each time it was easy to imagine that corpses overlooked the yard as he fought, their rot fouling the air, clogging his mouth and nose, infecting his lungs with their putrefying stillness. Here, he was surrounded by shadow and by those who would plunge their scimitars into his heart with as little emotion as he was expected to show as he destroyed theirs. The Serpent Order was no brotherhood. It was nothing but the cold grip of the grave. The soulless army of the eternal King Aldolus Ban-Keren.
And Juda fucking loathed it.
As he circled the yard, ashen dust billowing up around his feet, he thought of his mother. The soft turn of her brow. The way she would chide him for not binding his hair tight enough but never really meaning it, because she secretly enjoyed fussing over him and tucking loose strands out of sight. The warmth in her eyes. The fresh laundry that scented her skin from her time as a washerwoman in the King's household.
