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Mara took a step back. Slow down, slow down.
Eliot ran forwards and jumped into a kick. Mara side-stepped into a tree, powder filling the air. The punching boy was on his feet, moving toward them. Mara ran, coughing on the powder. He could see more black shapes ahead. Are they Shadows or more boys?
The black shapes grew in number, the taller Shadows standing out from the boys around them. The boys sat in the chair position, without the chair—a leg burner he’d had to hold nearly every day since he got here.
Eliot tackled him from behind, and Mara’s face hit the floor. He choked on yet more powder as the taste of blood filled his mouth, tongue stinging from biting it.
“Quick, get off him,” the punching boy said. “They’re coming.”
Mara looked ahead to see three shadows moving quickly toward them.
“Knees,” one of them shouted.
Mara got to his knees and looked to see Eliot and the other boy knelt behind him. When he turned back to face the Shadows, one punched him in the forehead. Dizzy, he fell back. The Shadow pinned him by the neck and held the sour stuff over his nose and mouth. No. Mara saw Eliot get the same, then his vision blurred.
The first thing Mara noticed when he woke up was that it wasn’t misty anymore, the black clouds swirling above as normal. He could smell horses. He turned to look at them. His neck hurt, so did his head. Back in the castle.
He watched the horses as they snorted, scraped their feet in the sand, and flicked their tails. He thought about Vala. She was a nice horse. I want a horse like her. Those horses don’t look very nice. All big and angry looking. He slowly turned his head to look the other way. Eliot lay next to him, mouth open, breathing loudly. I hate you. The bigger boy lay on the other side of Eliot.
Mara went to move his hand to his face. They were tied, so had to move them up together to scratch his nose. He wriggled his feet, tied too. Eliot was tied the same. This is his fault.
Mara looked down past his feet as a gate squealed open. Four Shadows walked in, three of them carrying buckets. The freezing cold water took Mara’s breath away, and the other two boys gasped awake.
“Stand them up,” the Shadow said.
Him again. Mara was pulled to his feet. It was difficult to balance to start with. His head hurt even more. He could see the big doors they’d gone outside through, a big wooden log across the middle of them.
The Shadow stood close to Eliot. “Your rule-breaking has reached its climax, young man. Tomorrow you will display to the rest of us how much your rule-breaking has enhanced your training.” The Shadow stepped to Mara. “As for you, your consistency in finding trouble has me doubt your position here.” It stepped backwards. “You will face each other in open combat.”
Open combat? What does that mean? We have combat all the time.
“Untie these two and take them away. Separate rooms.” The Shadow walked over to the bigger boy and stood in silence while Mara and Eliot were led away.
As they passed through the door into the castle, Mara heard a loud snap, followed by the loudest scream he’d ever heard.
As soon as Silas opened his eyes, he regretted spending the previous day drinking ale. The same feeling of regret he’d felt the day before, the day before that, and the day before that. His head pounded, he felt sick, and his mouth tasted like someone had taken a shit in it.
He lay still, the slightest movement causing a searing pain deep inside his skull. You idiot, why are you doing it to yourself? He was hot and thirsty but didn’t want to drink. Just the idea of eating or drinking anything made him want to puke.
He stared at the pile of his vomit-encrusted clothes on the floor. For fuck’s sake. What the hell was I doing last night? Another attempt at Jennifer? He remembered talking to her but couldn’t remember if she’d come back to his room with him. He still hadn’t managed to fuck her, only a string of failures, each time too drunk to perform. Why can’t she just wait until morning? Not that I’d be any good now. God, I need to piss.
He spun his legs off the bed. The pain in his head was quickly outshone by the pain in the back of his leg. “Fuck.” He twisted around to look at the wound – brown-white pus leaked from between the red swollen skin. If not for the stitches, it looked like it would explode. He looked around the room for the bottle of cleaning alcohol. There must be some left. It lay empty in the corner of the room. He’d used it once to clean the wound, then drunk the rest, pissed off one night after a failed romantic encounter with Jennifer. He’d known all along it was all gone. Idiot.
That afternoon Silas lay on the doctor’s table. He winced as the doctor poked around at the wound with a piece of metal.
The doctor walked away, then brought over a tray of various implements. “Care to take a drink before I begin?”
The thought of any more alcohol made Silas feel sick. “No.”
“Very well, smells like you’ve had plenty as it is. Have you been cleaning the wound?”
You know I haven’t, you old bastard. “A couple of times, but I dropped the bottle.”
“Of course.” The doctor cut away the stitches and began scraping at the wound.
Silas flinched away. “Fuck. Thanks for the warning.”
The doctor pushed his glasses to his eyes. “Shall we proceed?”
