Warrior's Touch (Deadly Touch book 2)

It was time.

Llew pressed her cheek into the glass, looking as far as she could down the corridor, then she squashed her other cheek, seeing as far as she could in the other direction.

No guards. Not within her line of sight, anyway. There was usually one or two wandering the halls. But there hadn’t been. Not for an hour or more.

Today was the day. The time was now.

She’d gleaned a little more information as the days progressed. A fight was most definitely happening, and Jonas was to feature. A chance for Turhmos to once and for all defeat the Syakaran hero. If they believed him still fully powered, she didn’t know how they thought they could win. If Jonas had still had his powers, he would have won any fight, easily, unless they planned to overwhelm him with numbers. And if they did that, with him powerless as he now was, he wouldn’t last a minute.

Braph had said something about Aris coming to fight Jonas but finding Braph. That meant Braph wanted Jonas to live at least until Aris showed up. Or, at least, for Aris to believe Jonas was alive, right up until he turned up to find Braph in his place. Either way, Jonas’s time was short.

Satisfied that the hallway was empty, she wrapped her bed sheet around her right fist, focused her energies, and punched.

Her minimally cushioned fist met unrelenting glass.

“Ah!” Gripping her aching knuckles in her other hand, she stamped her foot. As tempting as it was to curse, she clamped her lips tight, in case someone capable of stopping her was within earshot. A random thump could be explained. A thump followed by loud cursing might give the game away. “Shit,” she muttered for her own benefit, feeling immeasurably better for it.

She looked at the window. Not so thick, but its small size meant its frame gave it a strength the glass lacked. A small pane of glass was all that stood between her and freedom. Well, a small pane of glass and two locked doors, but she had little patience to think about future challenges until the present one was addressed.

The window was too high to kick, but she had one other option.

She bound the sheet around her elbow and sidled up to the door. She needed less preparation this time. If she took any longer, her risk of being caught ran too high, and the chance that Jonas could be killed rose with it.

She struck.

The glass cracked with a spine-tingling grate. The collision jarred up her arm, but her shoulder accepted it more readily than her knuckles and wrist had.

She struck again.

Some glass flew out into the hallway, hitting the floor.

Llew held her breath. If anyone were around, they would have heard that.

The corridor remained silent.

She released a shaky breath and fought to subdue her own joy at being right.

Using the sheet to protect her hand, she gripped a piece of glass still wedged in the frame and wiggled it free. She placed the glass shard carefully on her floor, then rose to work the next piece free.

With the frame cleared of glass, she pressed her forehead and chin into the frame, double-checked no one was near, and twisted her head so she could locate the latch on the other side. Only able to fit her arm out up to her shoulder, her fingers fumbled over featureless wood, found the hollow line of the door’s edge, followed it down and found nothing, followed it up and brushed metal. The lock clunked through the door. She gave a final twist, and the door gave, swinging open with her hooked through the window.

She pulled herself free, collected up a shard of glass and trotted back the way she had come with Braph and Jonas.

A few faces appeared at windows, but it seemed most of her fellow captives hadn’t realized what she had done. Llew focused straight ahead, determined not to be sidetracked by her guilt. She couldn’t take them with her. She might make it out alone, but a crowd of Aenuks would never go unnoticed. She had to free herself and heal Jonas. From that base, she could help others.

The door at the bottom of the stair was locked. Of course, it was.

At least she could see what she was doing. She pulled her bunch of keys and spread them on the palm of her hand. They all looked the same. She picked one at random, stuck it in the lock. It slid in easily but refused to turn.

As she pulled the failed key free, someone inserted one from the other side.

In the almost non-existent time between Llew realizing what was happening and the handle turning, she dropped the keys, took a couple of steps back and raised her glass shard. She held it and her other arm so she could either stab whoever came through the door or slice herself, whichever plan of attack seemed most likely to succeed. Sharp edges dug against her skin. Whatever she did with the glass, her own blood would flow.

The door swung open, and two guards hesitated only momentarily before trying to rush through it at once.

Llew had the chilling thought that their presence meant Jonas’s event was over already before she started slashing wildly, aiming for eyes and faces, looking to do as much damage as she could. She didn’t feel any pain in her own hand, but the glass became slick in her grip.

The guards cursed and tried to grapple her. Llew ducked, only to be caught around the middle by two big arms. She reached down, found the guard’s head pressed against her thigh and pried him back. Her skin met his forehead and her hand wielding the shard healed around tiny fragments stuck under her skin. They stung, shifted, cut from within. Her free hand tingled, burned. The arms around her loosened, pulled back. The guard stumbled, grabbing at his burned face. The other guard grabbed Llew’s wrist in leather-gloved hands. She swung her other arm up, ran it across the glass tip and reached for the guard’s exposed face. He pulled back and she followed. Before she could touch him, the other guard knocked her aside. She spun, slashing with the glass, catching him somewhere she hoped hurt. He bellowed and failed to follow up his attack.

Llew pushed between the guards, shoving the one that came at her before he had a chance to find balance, easily toppling him. The other stayed down.

She pulled the door closed, locked it, and took the keys still in the lock with her.

She made her way to the top of the stairs and another door, took a moment to straighten her hair and clothes. Flecks of blood dotted shirt and trousers, but there was nothing she could do about that. Prepared for a fight, she stepped into an empty corridor inside the Turhmos Presidential Palace.

It seemed everyone had something else to do this day.

Jonas had expected the fight to be over in seconds but, while he wasn’t markedly superior, he still had his training and the work he’d done at Braph’s over the previous week. He wasn’t weaker than any of his opponents. He wasn’t stronger, or faster. But they thought he was.

It seemed the audience believed so, too.

They’d chained him in the middle of a sandy ring in the base of an amphitheater that must have been one of the oldest structures in Turhmos. The pit was perhaps one hundred fifty paces across, but Jonas was limited to a circle with a radius of only about seven paces.

Fighters came at him in pairs. Him weaponless, them typically with knives. He had no time to mourn his losses, only focus on those knives; where they were, and what they were doing.

Two men had stumbled away severely injured. Two more came. One was Aenuk and tried to turn every one of Jonas’s successful attacks into a draining burn. Both had brought knives to the fight.

Jonas aimed kicks and punches for legs and heads, knocking them off their feet, or knocking them out if possible. The non-Aenuk took a few hits before stumbling away, but the Aenuk kept coming.

Jonas was on display for the crowd, topless to show off his tattoo, prove his identity, and give his Aenuk opponents every chance. He bled, and he burned. The Aenuk slashed with his blade. Jonas jumped back. The Aenuk moved in again, swinging. Jonas risked the blade to punch him, sending him stumbling. The Aenuk ran in, groping for skin, and keeping the knife in play. Jonas ducked, shoulder-barged, threw the man to the ground. At every touch, he burned. He twisted, grabbed the stumbling Aenuk’s head in both hands, twisted, felt the crunch, the pop.

The Aenuk couldn’t drain him now.

He let the body drop, feeling the rush of taking a life. It wasn’t something he relished, but when it was your life or theirs you couldn’t help the elation of still living.

Two guards slunk in, watching him warily. He took three steps back, splaying his hands, and they dragged the body away.

Three came for him now.

He caught one knife-hand in his chain, swept the bearer’s feet out from under him, wrenched a shoulder from its socket. He ducked a sword, rolled, came up, pulling the chain tight and tripping the already unbalanced swordsman. Reversing his momentum, he swung back and brought his chained wrists down on the third attacker’s head, putting him down.

The swordsman was back on his feet.

The crowd hushed.

Movement caught Jonas’s eye, and he and the remaining swordsman turned, while the injured men moaned at their feet.

Aris stood a hundred yards away, like the hero in one of those little books Jonas loathed so much; his gray, nearing shoulder-length hair shifting in the light breeze.

Murmurs babbled through the crowd. Maybe some had heard of him, maybe even had a description. Very likely, rumors of what he was were spreading this minute.

Aris waited a few moments more. The crowd’s discussion swelled and hushed, swelled, and hushed, as excitement and expectation grew in equal measure.

Aris took a step forward and the crowd gave a collective sigh and silenced.

The Immortal stopped, peering around at the crowd, a smile showing his teeth. It was the smile a wolf gives a field of lambs.

He turned his attention to Jonas.

The last swordsman backed away, trying to go unnoticed at first, then running, hunched over, and covering his head, like that would save him. Lucky for him, he was of no interest to Aris.

“Release him!” Aris bellowed, sweeping the crowd again, seeking someone with the tools to follow his order. “I demand a fair fight! Release him!” He continued to turn on the spot.

No one left their positions, save Braph and his son making their way down the rows of seats from where they’d sat by the Turhmos president. Jonas watched Aris to see if he’d noticed the pair. If he had, he clearly had no inkling of their plan. His gaze swept the amphitheater twice before he stormed over to a guard, snatched his sword, and strode up to Jonas.

The sword arched high, came crashing down. It hit chain with a church-bell ringing, bounced off.

Aris roared, brought the sword round again with the same result. He threw the sword aside, gripped the chain in both hands and pulled, but it was a chain capable of holding a Syakaran; not easily broken.

Braph appeared beside Jonas in silence, unlocked his shackles and stepped back from the fray while Aris was still absorbed, cursing, and straining against the chain. Reaching the peak of his frustration, the Immortal hurled the chain at the ground and turned to Jonas, his eyes taking in his freed ankles and wrists and somehow showing no surprise. He spared the briefest of glances past Jonas to Braph, still believing Jonas his biggest threat.

Aris beckoned. “Fight me.”

“I can’t,” Jonas whispered, exhaustion rendering his voice hoarse.

A ripple of anger ran through Aris. He composed himself and repeated, “Fight me.”

The only thing keeping Jonas from flat out quaking in his boots was that he already expected to die that day. “I can’t.”

He looked Aris in the eye, but it was like his old captain wasn’t there, replaced instead by some unseeing, unfeeling monster.

“What do you mean you can’t? Fight me!”

“I can’t. I ain’t Syakaran no more.”

Aris’s eyes widened in an otherwise impassive face. Disbelief twitched his cheeks and brow. Some ghost of the old Aris flickered past. He felt something. Jonas didn’t know what. Sorrow? Pity?

“Who did this? Your Sy-leech wench?” Anger crept back into Aris’s voice, as if Llew being to blame was a personal insult. “Did she drain you? Where is she? I’ll fight her. At least she’ll give something back.”

“Llew didn’t do this.”

“Stop making excuses. Fight me,” Aris hissed.

Braph still stood nearby. Why wasn’t he acting? He had his Gaards. He had his Ajnai pellets.

Solitude settled on Jonas’s shoulders. Braph would do nothing until he and Aris fought. Nothing. Until Jonas was broken.

Jonas would die today. As much as he already knew it to be true, he’d hoped to be wrong.

He rushed at Aris, who stood, doing nothing but ensuring his balance.

Jonas hit him, full force. He bounced off, stumbling, hit the sand. In Aris’s eyes: disappointment and disgust. And rage.

He bent, gripped Jonas’s shoulder, and wrenched him up, as if Jonas weighed little more than a child.

Once Jonas regained his feet, Aris demanded, “Hit me.”

Jonas shook his head at the ground. Aris wasn’t going to go easy on him. But he was feeling so weak. Weaker still for knowing the man before him was close to invincible. Now he knew how soldiers used to feel when facing him.

“Wait for me to hit you and I will break you,” Aris murmured. “Fight me.”

Prepared for it to be the last thing he ever did, Jonas pushed off from the ground, twisted, kicked his leg out. His boot met Aris’s jaw, twisting the old man’s head back.

Two powerful hands grappled his shin and swung, adding momentum to the spin he’d begun, and Jonas flew.