From the Mountain

The crowd disperses, and I kneel down to pack my bow and arrows into my bag, something I have done thousands of times. I tie each cord carefully, as I have been trained. The golden sword beats against my leg with each of my movements, and the weight of it is more than just physical.

  I stop then, reach for the sword, pull it hesitantly out of its sheath and hold it in my left hand. This time I am prepared for it. I run my fingers over its edge, by all appearances lovingly. But it is only something I have learned…emulated. I despise blades, especially swords. I check the edge of it, as we have been taught, and a small grin creeps over my lips. It is dull, useless…just an ornament. A stupid, useless trophy.

  I place it on the ground next to my bag and begin to untie the cords I just tied. My bag opens, and I peer into it. My bow and arrows, three short daggers with ivory handles, and a small sword with gleaming steel are all tucked in neatly with my red cloaks and jumpsuits. I reach for the golden sword and place it on top, aghast at how it looks out of place among the real weapons.

  I study the combination of weapons in my bag as I begin to tie it up again. I will give the sword to Entho…he can hang it above the fireplace. Angels know he has spent enough money on my training. But the thought of Entho turns my stomach sour. The last thing I want is to face him when I get home.

  As I tie the last cord, I catch sight of a small Light Skinned woman with radiant auburn hair charging toward me. It is Bello, my Weapons Instructor, and she is a ball of fury, as usual. She barks at me, “Teak…in my office. As soon as you are done packing up.”

  I shoot my head up, bracing myself. “What now?” I ask, my voice a weapon of its own. I glare at her with amber eyes that have learned to hate. She has taught me well.

  “Just meet me there,” she answers, her piercing blue eyes slicing through me like a freshly sharpened blade.

  “Okay.” I answer curtly as I sling my bag over my shoulder, watching her disappear, a tornado of red movement whirring off into the distance. For the first time ever, I don’t need to wonder why she is angry at me.

  I begin the long walk toward her office, my bag pulling against my shoulder with a new weight that I don’t like at all. The competition was at the City Arena and Weapons Training School is a long distance at best. Darkness is just falling, and the broken buildings, remnants of the Final War, shadow gloomily behind me.

  I choke on the smell of the city – greasy food, smoke, rancid garbage. Abandoned and burned vehicles, their colors long gone, block my way, and I must travel around them. There is an occasional shout, a dragon pulling someone in a cart, plodding through the streets with carriage wheels creaking over the dirty, cluttered streets. There are few people out after the sun goes down.

  Images of the Bay City of my early childhood flash into my mind – of when the streets were clean and the sun was bright – of playing in parks while Entho watched. Of looking up in the sky and seeing an occasional dragon – green or red or black scales glistening against the blue sky like multi-colored candies in a jar. Of houses of different colors nestled together – almost touching each other as if they were best friends. Of going to school and sitting in a desk learning to read and write and perform math equations. Of Reese. And Canto.

  I shake my head. That city is gone. And so are my friends. I pause at the end of the block, crumbled sidewalk beneath my feet, preparing to turn left. Two men, dressed in ragged brown cloaks lean against the wall of a building – passing a bottle between them and clumsily spilling amber liquid down their chins. They are dirty and unshaven, cheeks smudged with black and greasy hair matted down their backs. I am repulsed, not only by their appearance but by the fact that they are Brown Cloakers – the lowest level of the Alliance.

  One calls out to me, whistles. I ignore him and continue walking with my back stiff and erect, a stance that has been drilled into me through hours of grueling practice sessions.

  The man croaks, his voice rough and hoarse, like he has spoken or yelled too much. “Ghost thinks she’s too good for us, Dancy.”

  The other Brown Cloaker’s voice is an echo, softer than the other man’s. “Maybe we should teach her a lesson.” Both men laugh, throaty cackles, roaring like cornered animals. “I aint never had me no Ghost.”

  Behind me, the slightest crinkle of movement minces the air along with the unsteady tapping of their footsteps against the rugged ground. They are following me. Closely. The dusty wind blows against my skin, forming goose bumps up and down my arms.

  I speed up, taking faster and longer strides, but their footsteps are bearing down on mine. My mind spins, thinking of what to do. Should I stop, confront them, or keep going, hope that they will tire of their game and leave me alone?

  Just at that moment, my long hair is seized and yanked backward, my head violently slamming into the solid ground. Filthy hands grip my neck, squeezing the air out of me like a coiled snake. Pain, sharper than any I have ever felt, seizes my neck and throat. I gulp for air, clawing helplessly, desperately at anything. But all I can manage to grab hold of is air. The smell of rancid breath, stale urine, and remnants of alcohol wash over me, and my stomach churns in protest.

  Panic grips me, squeezing my chest like an iron press. My eyes are open wide, my only view the Brown Cloaker, with dark glazed eyes and rotten teeth gaping in his mouth like dirty beige pebbles. Spittle leaks onto his chin as he kneels on me, pinning me down while his grubby hands continue to choke me, tightening more with each second. I hear chortling laughter in the background as dizziness overtakes me, forcing me to almost hope for the blackness that I know will soon follow.

  Then, just when I am about to give up to that feeling, still flailing helplessly, the Brown Cloaker takes one hand off of my neck, still pressing down with his other, and rips at the buttons of my jumpsuit. He roughly mauls me, grabbing at my underclothes with his filthy hand. It is the break I need. I turn ever so slightly, pushing my hand into a fist, and land a blow to something – his head, shoulder, stomach – I can’t be sure. But it gives me the opportunity I need as his grip loosens ever so slightly.

  I strike quickly, without thought. A knee to the groin sends him reeling as the other man careens toward me. I pop up, whirl around and kick him in the knee, bones crunching as he screams. He falls to the ground, holding his leg, moaning like a wounded animal. It is enough to set them off guard – but just for a split second.

  My nerves are on overdrive as the sound of breaking glass shatters in front of me. I stare in absolute horror when the first man, the choker, throttles toward me with a broken bottle – waving and jabbing it at me, a sharp, cruel weapon. With each of his movements, I dart out of the way, barely missing contact. My mind buzzes, as if a million bees were flying around inside of it.

  I have been trained for just these types of situations, and I know what to do. I pull my fist in tight, wheel around quickly and land a solid punch to the Brown Cloaker’s nose. Blood flushes out, pouring down his face like a red leaking faucet. I advance, kicking him in the stomach with enough force to send him flying into the wall of the building…the wall I wish he would have just stayed against. The bottle drops to the ground with a resounding clank.

  I freeze, glaring at the Brown Cloaker. and my heart beats so loudly in my chest I am sure they can hear it across Bay City. I am panting, like a dog in summer, pondering my next move. Should I kill him? For what he has done to me? I know I can.

  It doesn’t take long to reach a decision. I charge forward, like an animal fighting for its life. I am ready to kill. For the second time in one day I know in my heart I can snuff out a human life…just as they taught me.

  The Brown Cloakers must sense it…know what is about to take place…understand on some level that more blood will be spilled, and it won’t be mine. Both men retreat quickly, backing away from me. They turn, slinking off, one of them dragging his leg behind him, the other leaving a trail of blood on the broken concrete like a red snake’s path in hot sand. Should I chase after them and finish this? Or just let the
m be?

  I stop, paralyzed. I am rooted in place on the sidewalk, unable to move as I breathe in and out, filling my chest with sweet, cool air. I reach up to my throbbing neck, rub it, as if a mere touch could ease the pain. I try to swallow, but there is no saliva in my mouth, and my throat constricts with the effort. I purse my dry lips together, thinking. I could still catch them.

  My mind is locked shut, though. Just like my body…this wasn’t practice…hand-to-hand combat with my team mates. This was real. Too real. The scene plays before my eyes time and again as my open jumpsuit flaps against the breeze.

  Finally, my thoughts clear, and I grip the sides of my jumpsuit, pulling them together. I find a solid button and attach it, my fingers raw with specks of blood spattered on them, already turning brown. Brown blood from the Brown Cloakers who attacked me. I shiver, recalling the entire incident. Then, with a sigh, I pick up my bag like it is an old friend, and I continue walking, my head folded down against the dirty wind that blows angrily against my face.

  I push forward, toward Bello’s office, knowing I will be late. Knowing I will be punished, and also knowing that there will be another attack…only this one I know will be quite different.

  Chapter 5