The Borderlands (Book Two): War Page 5

  “Make it stop!” someone shouted and Dale looked up. Everyone was overcome, crying, doubled over or crippled with sadness.

  Then it stopped. The wolf got to all fours and loped out of the hall.

  Dale wiped her eyes and took a shuddering breath; relieved the desperate emotions had gone. Others also wiped their eyes.

  A few moments passed before Agathina returned wearing a pale blue cloak, her hair disheveled, but fire still in her eyes.

  The audience clapped a loud, long applause. Dale joined in. Such transformations were usually only performed by very experienced sorcerers, masters even. Agathina had been training for little more than a year and she had already mastered the ability to shift into the form of her hysbryd.

  “And now, for our final novice, the Princess Dalendra.”

  Dale’s heart stopped when Sa’r Aethyll called her. This was her moment. Her time to show them she could finally access her power. She held her head high as she stood and focussed on keeping her shoulders straight as she walked the few steps to the centre of the hall. But doubt gripped its cold claws through her core. How was her simple spell going to impress them after Agathina had done the seemingly impossible?

  Everyone was looking at her. She caught the eye of Jaral who nodded ever so slightly. They had done this spell dozens of times. She had to believe she could do it. She placed her feet slightly apart and concentrated on her breathing. Then she lifted her right hand, balled her fist and kept it held high above her head. She closed her eyes.

  It was time.

  She opened her second sight and imagined the power of the sun, its white rays shooting into her hand where she caught the light in her fist and stored it there. Particles of light flew to her and she could have sighed in relief. It was working! Now, for the aether. She called to the silvery fluid-like ocean above and streaks of aether rushed to her. She took a breath, readying for the final act and muttered “Insolo” over and over until she could feel the weight of power. Her shoulder and elbow ached and she gripped tight in an effort to stop her arm from shaking.

  Just another minute. It had to be brighter. The weight grew heavier, the ache almost unbearable. Dale opened her eyes, shifting her sight back from the true realm, and saw the expectant look of the audience. The hope in the eyes of her mother, and Jaral, and Rhys. The expectant look of Sa’r Aethyll and Sa’r Coneril. The doubtful frown of Sa’r Atapole beneath his philosopher's cap, and the power drained from her fist as though she tried to hold water. It ran out of her hand and down her arm, down, down to the ground. Seeping away like a stream from the mountains.

  No! I must do this! She tried to stem the flow and hold what little power remained. She had to release it, now! She shouted, “Stella!” A patchy light flickered, like a broken and dull fluorescent light. It flickered a few more times before it died, fizzling out, all the power gone.

  Dale bent her head. It was supposed to be a bright light, like the sun, like a star. With the power to blind the enemy and put them off guard while protecting those at her rear. She’d done it successfully before. But now, when it mattered most, her magic had failed her. Again.

  She lifted her head. Disappointment reigned on her mother’s face. Dale’s heart dropped. She turned and ran, past the hay bales, past the stalls and out of the hall.

  5

  Dale stroked Stella’s silver neck and the horse whinnied in response.

  “You like it don’t you, girl?”

  Stella nudged Dale's hand with her velvet nose. Dale had to laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring you an apple, there wasn’t time.” She sniffed, scratching behind Stella’s ears and feeling the shape of her strong neck, a nice distraction from her tears. Somehow, she knew exactly what Stella loved. A neck massage. It was nice being alone with the mare, she could forget the shame she’d caused her mother. “I’ll bring you an apple tomorrow, Stella, I promise.”

  Stella was her mother’s hysbryd, but the queen had little time these days to spend with the mare, so Dale visited the stables every day. Stella seemed to fill some small gap – maybe where Cat used to be. Dale didn’t yet have her own hysbryd, another thing that set her apart from the other novices, and somehow, Stella helped her to feel better about it.

  “And we’ll go for a ride soon. They won’t want me at the war front with them. I’m useless, no good to anyone. So I may as well look after you.”

  “What’s all this nonsense?”

  Dale turned with a start. Balak, the horse master, stood before her with a set of reins in hand. His dark hair was tied back to reveal his round ears, just like her own. There was something comforting in being around Balak sometimes. While he was a master, he’d never aspired to be an adviser on her mother’s council, as was his right. He was happy to tend to the horses and stay out of politics altogether.

  “Hello, Balak.” Dale smiled.

  Balak was no sorcerer, he had no talent or interest in magic. He was from Earth and liked to reminisce about ‘home’, and learn how things had changed there in his absence. Balak was a changeling who’d been taken from his family over two thousand Earth years ago. He’d been swapped with a great sorcerer child who had died on Earth and now Balak was stuck here in the Borderlands. He’d used that word once, ‘stuck’ like he was trapped. Dale got the distinct feeling that he wanted to return to Earth, and no matter how much she described the awful place it had become in the last two thousand years, it didn’t put Balak off, and he always wanted to hear more. “Tell me about those airplanes again,’’ he’d often say.

  “What’s happened? The sorcery trial didn't go well?” His look of concern threatened the tears again and Dale looked away, patting Stella to distract her.

  “No. I botched it. Totally screwed it up. I don’t think even my mother believes I’m the saviour now.” Dale bit hard on her bottom lip; it seemed to mask the pain inside.

  “You must be, you have to be the saviour.”

  Dale studied him. His brown eyes were stern, serious. He was probably trying to make her feel better, or maybe the stupid prophecy had fed him some lie about her too, but Dale was sick of trying to be something she clearly wasn't, and disappointing everyone in the process.

  She took a slow breath. “I was just saying to Stella here that I’d like to take her on a long ride. Maybe back to my little boat, and then I could go sailing for a while. Just a few days. It’d be nice to get away for a bit.”

  Balak’s eyes softened. “That sounds like a good idea.” He smiled. “But are you sure they won’t select you for the war front? What about your combat skills? That trial is on this afternoon isn’t it?”

  Dale sighed. Yes, after lunch the combat novices, nearly a thousand of them, were expected to undertake trials to showcase their battle skills. She’d do well enough, but what was the point? She had skill with a sword, but that was nothing against a horde of Unseelie.

  “I don’t think there’s any use in attending. It’d be a farce. I know I won’t be going to the war. The other novices will. I’ll be staying here in the hope that I develop some magic at some point.”

  “I never took you for a quitter.”

  A rush of heat spread up Dale's neck. “It’s not that, it’s just that there’s no point anymore.”

  Balak shrugged his broad shoulders and ran a hand through the stubble of his beard. “If you say so, but I thought all great achievements had obstacles to overcome. Nothing worthwhile should come easily, I remember someone telling me that once. And this seems to be the case for you, Princess. You have more than any of us to achieve, to conquer, so it seems to me you’d have the hardest time getting there. Makes sense your challenges would be bigger than anyone else’s.”

  Dale licked her lips. Balak’s words seemed to make some sense.

  “Why don’t you just go through with the combat trial today? Show them what you know you’re capable of. Impress them.” He gave her a wink. “Then if you’re going to stay here, because they deem you’re not quite ready for the war front, we�
�ll ask your mother about that long ride to see your boat. I’ll go with you if you like.”

  Dale grinned. “Thanks, Balak.” Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn’t so useless after all. Something deep within her stirred – a desire to show them what she was made of.

  Dale left the stables feeling lighter. She jogged to the palace and up to her room, and changed into her combat clothes – leather breeches and boots, and a linen shirt with leather vest. She’d don her armour in the armoury. By the time Dale got to the banquet hall everyone had left and Jenna and Ma’r Warmston were busy clearing up.

  “You'd better hurry, Princess. They’ve all gone to the Combat Hall,” Jenna told her.

  “Aye, and they’ve left us to clean up this troll's breakfast.” Ma’r Warmston tutted and shook her head as she gestured to the messy leftovers on the trestle tables.

  Dale’s eyes scanned the empty platters. “I missed lunch, is there bread?”

  Ma’r Warmston pursed her lips and grabbed a roll of bread that she handed to Dale. “Hardly enough nourishment for your afternoon, Princess.”

  Dale smiled. “Thanks Ma’r.” And she took a bite of the bread before running out to the stone path that would take her to the combat grounds.

  It was a sunny day, probably better suited to riding Stella in the forest than fighting, but the familiar excitement began to grip her. She smiled. Balak was right. She could show them she had excelled in one area at least. Would it be enough to make her mother proud and undo the shame of her failure that morning? Dale’s heart leaped in hope.

  She stepped inside the large open door of the combat hall and was relieved to see the others still warming up. The hall was crowded with all one thousand novices present. They'd come from all over the Borderlands. From the Stonwold Mountains and its villages in the far north where precious silver and gems were mined, and the smiths turned metal into fine art and swords. From Mehta and the green valleys of the south where vineyards and orchards grew in abundance. From the lakes and rivers in the east where the fishers caught fresh catches and river boats carried them to Arcadia every day. And from the western grasslands with their endless fields of wheat and barley. The cities, villages and hamlets of the Borderlands had sent their youth to Arcadia over the past year, to learn the knowledge expected of everyone – the art of war. And today, they were to demonstrate their skill in battle to the masters, who once again would sit in judgement.

  “Dale!”

  She turned to her right and saw Jaral jogging toward her.

  “Are you all right?” He embraced her and Dale closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying her friend’s warmth.

  “Yes. I’m sorry I failed you.” She stepped back.

  Jaral laughed. “You didn’t fail me, you frustrating woman. I know you'll show them one day. Your magic is taking longer to awaken, that’s all.”

  Dale tried to smile, but it felt fake. She wanted to believe Jaral’s words but they sounded fake too, even though he seemed to believe them.

  “Come here.” Jaral embraced her again and his hand caressed her hair. She remembered the way they'd kissed the previous night and a warmth stirred in her stomach. Jaral was a good friend, a good teacher, and a flirt. An attractive flirt. It would be all too easy to give in to his flirtations sometimes, but not now. She pulled away.

  “Excuse me.”

  Dale turned to see Agathina standing before them, a short sword in her hand. “Master Coneril wants to see us in the armoury. Spread the word.” A slight snarl curved her lips and Dale was sure she saw the glistening of tears forming in her eyes. But then her friend turned on her heel and stalked away.

  “Agathina!” Dale shouted. She needed to apologise, to tell her that she really had no romantic interest in Jaral. But Agathina kept walking, ignoring her calls.

  “What’s troubling her?” Jaral asked.

  Dale frowned at him and shook her head. “For someone who is supposed to be so versed in romance, you’ve really missed something major.”

  Jaral studied her with his head tilted. “Well, are you going to enlighten me?”

  Dale took a quick breath. “Agathina likes you, dimwit! And she saw you kiss me last night and you were all over me now. So she’s feeling … betrayed.”

  Jaral’s eyebrows shot up.

  Dale shook her head; did he really have no idea of Agathina’s feelings?

  “Oh,” he muttered. Then, as the thought seemed to nestle into his thick head, his expression changed again, something like the cat that just got the cream. “She likes me, does she?”

  Dale rolled her eyes and headed toward the armoury with everyone else. No doubt she just betrayed her friend again. Agathina would die if she knew she’d told Jaral about her feelings for him. She shook her head with a sigh. There was nothing she could do about it now so she simply followed the others into the large room where weapons and armoury were stored, and where Sa’r Coneril and the other combat instructors sometimes gave lessons on strategy.

  Soon enough the novices had gathered. They were all young, some still in the early stages of adolescence, others early adulthood. None of them had yet seen battle in a war. Dale glanced around for Agathina, but she must have been closer to the front. It was hot and stuffy in the armoury, and smelt of old leather and cold steel, she wished Sa’r Coneril would hurry up and get his pep talk over with so they could get on with the trials.

  Her wish was granted. In another moment the combat master had climbed the table at the front of the room and called for silence with a raised hand. “Novices.” His black hair was tied tight into a long tail at the back, in his usual combat style. His ears were pointed like most Seru people here in Arcadia. But his skin was darker. He was from Vispallya in the west and his dark skin and clipped accent served to remind them of that fact. His black eyes focused, just as they did in battle. “Today you must win. I’m not interested in technique, strength, or cunning. I’m interested only in how you pool your resources together to best an enemy.” His eyes had more than focus in them, they held quiet anger.

  Dale swallowed. She’d never seen the master talk so coldly. He was usually so calm and controlled when it came to combat. And he always cared about technique. It was strange for him to discard it as though it was some kind of weakness. It seemed the war had made him harsh, impatient.

  “Today, for the first time, you fight until first blood.”

  Gasps echoed and the novices looked at each other – some of them clearly afraid.

  Dale’s heart raced. So this was to be a contest that would mimic the real thing as close as possible without them actually killing each other.

  Sa’r Coneril held up a hand again and the novices fell silent. “Of course, there will be healers in attendance. But once you are cut and bled, you are out of the trial.”

  “Will we be engaging in one-on-one battles, Sa'r?” Nianthall asked.

  Sa'r Coneril looked at him, a scowl transforming his face into a foreign expression. Dale had never seen him look like that before. “Do the Unseelie fight in such battles, boy? No, they are a horde of savages. Today you will fight in a melee. Until the last person standing. And those sorcerers among you.” Sa’r Coneril’s eyes found Dale. “You are not to use your magic. Any use of sorcery will incur immediate disqualification.”

  Dale nodded at the combat master. She was only too glad not to use her magic. She’d be happy to never use it again.

  “But how’s that realistic?” Someone shouted. Dale couldn’t see but she recognised the voice. It was Troidan. Typical, he was never afraid to ask a question, even one that could be interpreted as defiance. Especially one that could be interpreted as defiance. “At the war front, any sorcerer engaged in battle would surely draw on their powers.”

  Sa’r Coneril’s eyes scanned the crowd, until they rested down where Troidan must have been standing. “And when your power has left you. When your energy has failed you. Or when the Unseelie sorcerers, who will be better sorcerers than the likes of you, Troidan Ap Bou
lder, when they have counteracted your magic – what do you do then, lad?”

  Silence fell over the crowd of novices.

  “As I said. No magic.”

  They all filed out into the vast combat hall. All ten of the large double doors had been opened, thankfully. The space would grow hot in the melee. The stalls were filled once again with the masters and council members who would sit in judgement. Sa’r Coneril took his seat next to the queen. Dale’s mother sat at the back, speaking with Sa’r Aethyll on her left. Dale wondered if they spoke about her. Her heart sank a little again at the thought of having disappointed her mother. But Balak was right. She had an opportunity now to prove she had some strength, some talent, some use.

  She tightened the last buckled on her cuirass. She always opted for the leather armour. It allowed her to stay light on her feet and take advantage of her agility. Many of the others chose plate mail. A wise choice, drawing their blood was going to be difficult, but not impossible. Dale then donned her leather helmet, which had a plate of metal around the forehead at least. She hoped nobody aimed for her face – her least protected part. She liked to use the broadsword best and she picked hers up, giving it a swing and the song of it made her smile. It was a gift from Storg the blacksmith, and the balance of it was perfect. On the hilt he had designed a dragon’s head.

  Dale studied the other novices. It was strange to view her friends as the enemy. Everyone focussed on his or her own private drills. The audience finished taking their seats. She spied Jaral, his eyes narrowed on something, and when she followed the line of his gaze she found Agathina. Her hair had been plaited in her combat style and she was practicing a series of swift graceful sweeps with her two short swords. Her technique picture perfect.