Tainted

Chapter One

Binks groans to remind me she's still looking for attention as she's writhing about on the ground.

I sigh. "You let your left arm lag, anticipating I would do another slow slice," I tell her. "You should have been watching the tensing of my left arm muscles. Then you would've known I was feigning with my right and you could've protected yourself against my left."

Binks's prone form opens one eye. "Well you're no fun today," she mutters. She pushes herself up from the ground, wiping dust from her knees.

One of the other Ill-Fated yelps. I don't need to turn to see who it is, I know it's Jak by the timbre of his voice.

Binks turns her back to me and picks up her sword, replacing it in the latticed wooden basket by the ring's door. One of the guards watches her warily, his eyes trailing her every move.

Eight guards stand against the circular limestone wall, each of them clutching a poleaxe tight enough to turn their knuckles white. Seven of them are human, like me, but one is an Epiphagy with his eyes set wide against his shoulders. He's shorter than the others and his ink-black tunic hangs almost to his knees. I can see the cords of muscle beneath his tan skin and I know he won't hesitate to throw his fists if the situation calls for it.

The clanging sounds of blades and axes pierce the air, and I focus in on the other prisoners. I watch them all, taking in their tells and silently marking their fighting tactics. Triane shifts to the ball of the foot she's planning on leading with, digging in her opposite heel to anchor her as she pivots over that leg. Jak goes for cheap shots on arms and legs, his shoulders giving away which arm he'll swing with next. Mika prefers fists, with her wrists the betrayers of how and where she'll strike.

The sound of a meaty thunk lands behind me, and I swivel to see who's been hit.

Myles. He's small with a wide face and expressive eyebrows. Two tiny antler nubs mark his temples, but the rest of his body is human, marking him as one of the dying Elch.

I take a step toward Myles, my hand ready to pull him to his feet, but Binks catches my arm.

"Don't," she warns, and I stop, still turned to Myles's young face.

He was locked in here four days ago. Looking at him, he can't be more than fourteen, which is how old I was when I was first thrown in this shadowmare of a prison. But that was three years ago. I'm no longer the child I was then.

Myles's eyes water as he stares at his opponent. The opponent—Jak—lowers his hatchet, and appears to apologize, but not before Myles's expression hardens and he swipes out with his foot, sending Jak toppling to the ground.

I instinctively look to Myles's left forearm. Etched in black script against his skin is one word: Deceiver.

"Come on," Binks says quietly, "I want to get some practice in, too. You promised. I gave you an hour of sword work, now you owe me an hour of archery."

I tear myself away from the scene with Myles and Jak and focus back in on Binks.

"Alright, alright. Pick up your bow."

But Binks is one step ahead of me. "Already in hand." She smiles, holding up a slender wooden bow. A quiver of dull arrows rests against her back.

I should've known she'd already be prepared. She's the quickest and most skilled shot I've ever seen. I've watched Binks pierce a pea with an un-fletched arrow from across the arena. She doesn't need the practice, but, unlike me, she loves it.

"So this time," Binks begins, as if picking up on a conversation I'd forgotten we were having, "I was thinking you hold up your hand, and I'll shoot an arrow between each of your fingers."