By the blade. By Ban-Keren. By the... fuck this.
Juda Vikaris swept the scimitar low, his eyeline in perfect symmetry with the edge of the smooth obsidian blade as it sliced through the air. His opponent, a fifth-born runt from the Bo-Dreven line – the upper echelon family who owned the prison ships transporting the condemned to the dead fields - was really starting to piss him off.
He'd worked hard to study the strengths and weaknesses of each of his fellow novices, but even Juda had to admit he'd underestimated this one and it could cost him dearly. Terrick Bo-Dreven was shorter and slighter than the other Highguards, but he was not the soft-in-the-belly dutzal that Juda had thought him to be. In fact, as Bo-Dreven dodged sharply out of the reach of the deadly scimitar, Juda knew he had to change tact if he was going to beat Terrick's incisive moves.
The crushing silence from the audience on the three levels of tiered balconies lining each side of the square yard, only made every sound from the battle harder and more abrasive on the ears. When Juda had first joined the Order, and he could still feel the venomous sting of the batak oil on his flesh, the deathly silent battles in the training arena had felt eerie and disconcerting, but he'd soon realised the unnatural hush served a dual purpose.
For the novices in combat, it was a reminder that there was no glory to be found in their duty. Forget pride. Forget playing to the crowd. Let not your heart beat with the thrill of the fight. Think only of the task in hand. The endgame. Your opponent's final breath. There was no room for rage. For hatred. For emotion. Move. Attack. Countermove. Blood.
That was all.
For the spectators, it was the relentless suppression of feeling. Watch with dead eyes. Relish not in any injury. Care nothing for the demise of either novice. Watch. Learn.
And wait until it is your turn to honour the blade and the King with your opponent's death, because the throne required nothing less.
Juda had mastered the arena on many occasions already and each time it was easy to imagine that corpses overlooked the yard as he fought, their rot fouling the air, clogging his mouth and nose, infecting his lungs with their putrefying stillness. Here, he was surrounded by shadow and by those who would plunge their scimitars into his heart with as little emotion as he was expected to show as he destroyed theirs. The Serpent Order was no brotherhood. It was nothing but the cold grip of the grave. The soulless army of the eternal King Aldolus Ban-Keren.
And Juda fucking loathed it.
As he circled the yard, ashen dust billowing up around his feet, he thought of his mother. The soft turn of her brow. The way she would chide him for not binding his hair tight enough but never really meaning it, because she secretly enjoyed fussing over him and tucking loose strands out of sight. The warmth in her eyes. The fresh laundry that scented her skin from her time as a washerwoman in the King's household.
The way she screamed when the Highguards of the Order came for her.
Juda firmed his grasp on the leather-bound grip of the double-bladed scimitar, his movements sure and steady as he dead-eyed Bo-Dreven, who wasn't looking so self-assured, despite his surprising endurance. Keeping his distance, Juda held his stance, spine straight, legs slightly bent. With his left arm outstretched in front of him, palm facing outwards, and his right holding the blade, perfectly angled and poised to strike, the skilled novice let his gaze sweep over his opponent's form. Unlike his brutish older brothers who now ran the prison fleet, Terrick was raw-boned and sinewy, but with his light step and formidable agility, Juda knew Bo-Dreven would keep up this death-dance until Juda tired. A fine sheen of perspiration already coated Juda's bare torso, glistening over his hard lines in the burning glare of the midtide sun.
There had to be something. There was always something. Every man had a weakness.
'Patience first, Juda,' said his mother, smoothing out the scowl on this brow. 'Patience always.'
But it was hard to be patient when this damned battle had been dragging on, and all Juda had to show for it was a lucky slice across Terrick's shoulder and busted cheekbone where Juda's boot had cracked him sharply under his eye. If he didn't finish this soon, then The Grim would have them both shipped off to the dead fields, where the waters would soon bring everything to an agonising end and Juda had worked too hard to get here, just for this scraggy sack of brogboar shit to best him right where he'd proved his worth many a time.
He'd already started to see it in the other novices' eyes when they looked at him. The ones only ever destined to end up bleeding out into the dust had a nervous edge whenever they faced him in the arena. Juda couldn't blame them. He was ruthless. Cold. Detached. Once the blade was in his hand, he had only one goal in sight and that was to win, no matter the cost. It was what The Grim was teaching them after all. The others only displayed a determined hunger, and he couldn't really blame them either. Juda knew of the wager between the Highguards. Argo, the fellow novice who'd joined the Order on the same day as Juda, had told him just how much his death was worth to the winner.
'You're the prize, Juda,' he'd said, hunkering down in Juda's cell one eventide. 'To best you and win The Grim's approval is all they yearn for now.'
'Then they'd do best to heed The Grim's words, wouldn't they? They seek pride and glory, Argo, nothing more and if they listened more, then they would know that pride is nothing but a selfish arrogance and the only glory to be found is that which belongs to the King. Pride and glory will be their downfall, but they are too beset with envy to see beyond the end of their ugly, privileged beaks.'
Argo had looked at him then, concern for Juda in his doubtful eyes and Juda had turned away from him in disgust and despair. He didn't want Argo's concern. He would not have it. One day – maybe soon – they would face each other in the training yard, and Juda would have no choice but to make the novice regret the day he ever began to consider them friends.
There was to be no friendship here. Just duty. Just the blade and Ban-Keren.
Terrick continued to mirror Juda's stance, albeit with less aptitude. His arm was not straight enough. His legs not quite bent at the right angle. It was as he circled the outer edge of the yard, probably hoping that the scant shadows would mask his intent, that Juda saw it.
There was a slight drag to the novice's gait, a split-second of delay to his step, almost as if bothered by an old injury. The less observant among the novices would fail to spot it, but not Juda. He'd spent his whole life mastering a sharp gaze, seeing what others did not and it had served him well. He was still alive, after all, despite the odds he'd always faced.
Clearly emboldened by the fact Juda hadn't yet killed him and no doubt scarcely believing his fortune, Terrick darted to the right, using the advantage of the sun's glare to slice through the air with his scimitar. Confidence in someone who had no right to it, always amused Juda but knowing that a Bo-Dreven, of all people, felt bold enough to think he had somehow bested Juda was a particularly sweet feeling.
'Humility now, Juda,' whispered his mother. 'Honour yourself later.'
She was right, of course. She had always been right. Now was not the time to take pleasure from this spectacle. Now was the time for blood, and death.
Dodging Terrick's attack, Juda swept his leg, fast and hard, pinpointing what he hoped was the exact spot where Bo-Dreven was weakest. His boot connected sharply to the edge of Terrick's shinbone, just above the ankle and the novice cried out in pain and stumbled, quickly regaining his stance but Juda knew he'd hit the target. Pressing on, Juda went at him again, doubling his efforts, catching Terrick across the ribs as he swept the blade in a wide arc. A deep welt opened on his flesh, blood seeping freely from the long wound. Sweat drenched the novice's forehead, as he made error after error, all teachings from The Grim lost in a panicked haze.
Backed into a corner of the yard, Terrick was becoming desperate, lashing out wildly with his scimitar, his focus diminishing by the second.
'Never lose sight of your goal,' The Grim would bark at them. 'There is no place for panic in the Order.'
But panic was all that Terrick had now, his only defence against Juda's sustained, relentlessly brutal attack.
A dazzling glint from the balcony above reflected the burning sun, blazing a searing light into Juda's eyes. He glanced up, squinting to avoid the flashing glare, instantly spying the weighty gold medallion worn only by the King's dark priests of Druvari.
Juda's heart thudded against his chest, a fire surging in his veins.
It was said that the secretive Druvari sect were Ban-Keren's closest advisors, counselling him on everything from matters of warfare and politics to issues of security and espionage. It was even whispered the Druvari had a hand in the King's private affairs, advising him on who should share his bedchamber and assisting him in disposing of any partner who displeased him – which, if rumours were true about the number of bodies washed up on the poisonous shores, was most who had the misfortune to fall under his gaze. Juda had heard that the Druvari helped to hand-pick the King's personal guard direct from the Serpent Order, taking only those they deemed the most skilled and most devout, but Juda had never seen one here until this day.
The black-robed priest stood close to the side of The Grim, his shaved head covered in intricate etched swirls of ink until barely any of his scalp remained free of script. Juda knew what that meant. The more etchings adorning the skull, the more important the priest, the more important the priest, the closer he was to Ban-Keren himself.
Why was the Druvari here, of all places, watching Juda with the same impassive stare as the novice's commander?
He had no time to think further on it, when Terrick, realising his opponent was momentarily distracted, leapt forward with a cry that seemed to erupt deep from within his chest. Spinning his scimitar, the tip caught Juda along his jawline. Heat rushed to the surface, the blood dripping down his chin and trickling fast down his throat.
Focus, Juda. Focus now.
With his attention fixed firmly back on the fight, Juda timed his moves to perfection, gaining control easily with Terrick now lost to rage and frenzy. Each of Bo-Dreven's countermoves missed the target, his actions becoming wilder and more hysterical, and Juda skilfully parried every single one, allowing Terrick to close the distance between them. It was a risk, some would say perhaps a foolhardy one, but they were not Juda Vikaris and they did not possess his sharp gaze and patient resilience. He'd trained for this from the day his mother was torn from him and condemned to perish in the dead fields, to this very moment, fighting for his life under the corpse gaze of the Serpent Order.
By the blade.
He struck the first of his final blows. Blood sprayed from slash on Terrick's chest.
By Ban-Keren.
There was no hatred now. No emotion.
He kicked Terrick's legs out from underneath him, hearing the crack of bone as Bo-Dreven's weakened ankle finally snapped. The novice fell hard, his back slamming against the unforgiving ground, his scimitar spinning from his hand.
By Aleina Vikaris. By my mother. By my blood.
Standing over the prostrate, screaming Terrick, Juda plunged the blade into the novice's gut, feeling the sickening wrench of muscle as he withdrew it, tearing flesh on the jagged edge of the scimitar. On one knee, ignoring the blood that had begun to pool on the dirt ground, Juda looked into the face of his opponent, as he positioned the tip of the blade over his heart. Terrick's breath rasped over his dry, parted lips.
If this had taken place anywhere but the training yard, surrounded by the unwavering emotionless gaze of The Grim, the Druvari priest and the other Highguards, Juda would have taken his blade and carved out Terrick's eyeballs. By the dead gods, he might even have used his bare hands, sinking his fingers into his sockets and gouging until he felt the fibrous muscles twist and snap, tugging free the eyes that were so like his father's.
Juda would never forget those eyes as long as he lived.
He had never forgotten the day he hid behind the crates at the dock, where the stench of decaying fish and fear filled his nostrils, shoving his fist into his mouth to stifle the sobs as he watched his mother being dragged up the gangway of the prison ship. He had never forgotten as Jasul Bo-Dreven, Terrick's father and one of the King's closest allies, had backhanded his mother across the face, silencing her screams and rendering her body limp and pliable for the arduous journey ahead.
A Highguard had no business taking trophies from his kills, but Juda would have loved to take Terrick Bo-Dreven's eyes. Instead, he would have to satisfy himself with looking into them as the light faded and as Terrick finally understood.
Crouching low, so that his mouth was close to Terrick's ear, careful to keep his whispers from reaching the silent audience above, Juda pushed the tip of his blade in a little deeper. Terrick whimpered; his face stricken with terror at the inevitable outcome.
'I've been waiting for this, Bo-Dreven, did you know that? I've been waiting for you. Doesn't that make you feel special for once in your miserable, worthless fucking life? To be wanted? Because let's face it, your family didn't want a pathetic kreeworm like you for a son, did they? That's why they sent you here. But I wanted you, Terrick. Did you think you would never pay for your family's crimes?'
Terrick's eyes widened. There it was. The awful clarity cutting through the agony of his impending doom. The understanding.
'They tell us not to enjoy death, Bo-Dreven. But I am enjoying this very much, just as I will enjoy the deaths of every single one of your family until the Bo-Dreven line is nothing but a whisper in the history books of this pitiful citadel. And then, and only then, I will watch Druvaria – including your beloved Ban-Keren – burn.'
Juda – his face a mask of total calm and detachment – applied more pressure and pushed the blade as far as it could go, until he felt the resistance of the ground meet its tip, one side of the scimitar almost fully submerged in Terrick's chest.
The endgame now his, Juda stood, turning abruptly to face The Grim and the Druvari in the balcony above. Bending sharply at the waist, his arms pressed against his sides, he bowed low, holding the salute to his commander for the allotted time.
There was no applause. No cheers. No acknowledgment of his victory.
Just silence. Endless silence.
But inside, Juda's heart roared.
***
Juda wiped the last of the blood from his torso and face, studying himself in the mirror as he cleaned, knowing most of what now stained the washcloth had belonged to his dead opponent. His flask of rationed water, shipped to the citadel from the neighbouring kingdom of Dreynia, had almost run dry and it would be a week until the next shipment came into port. Even then, Juda knew the bulk of it would be sent to the upper echelons of the citadel and the Order would be tasked in crushing any unrest in Grimefell when they discovered they were to receive far less than what had been agreed.
But that was to be the next week, and right now, Juda cared nothing for water, nor the simmering unrest that festered in the underbelly of the citadel.
All he cared about was a last gasp of pleasure to send his exhausted body into much-needed slumber.
Often after the kill, he would head to Grimefell, the shadow-drenched narrow streets and darkened backrooms of the smoke-filled taverns serving as perfect cover for a Highguard who wanted to conceal his identity and reward himself with the gratification only a woman could provide.
Juda had no time now to slip away to the slums, to seek warmth between the soft thighs of one of the whores in the upper east quarter. A pity. He could sorely do with the expert mouth of Estella, or even the firm, masterful grip of Seren. By the dead gods, even the stern Shyla would suffice, but no matter. He would honour himself instead.
Resting on his cot, he loosened his britches, and he slid his hand inside, already hard thinking about the warmth of Estella's soft lips around him, when a knock came, and the door opened without a fore greeting.
'For fuck's sake, Argo,' he said, with a snarl, hastily pulling his hand free, and propping himself up on his elbows. 'Do I not deserve a little time to myself?'
Argo, who glanced briefly at Juda's crotch, his mouth dropping open and cheeks pinkening, shook his head as if to remind himself why he'd burst into Juda's cell uninvited.
'They found him, Juda. They found Luca Zar-Kuron!'
Juda groaned and fell back onto the cot. 'You interrupted me to tell me that? Where did they find the fucking useless dutzal? Had he run back to his mother's breast after all? I knew that upper echelon shitsack wouldn't last.'
'No! They found him washed up near the old fish market in Grimefell. They say he was murdered!'
Juda sat up. 'They'll have us tear the place apart.'
'It's worse than that,' Argo said, his eyes wide. 'Juda, they're cutting them off. They're going to refuse them the water.'
Argo was right. This was worse.
Because Juda had plans. Plans that he'd been formulating for a very long time and now Luca Zar-Kuron's death was going to seriously fuck everything up he'd worked so hard for. All the training. The deaths. The guilt he felt every time he looked in the mirror.
By the fucking blade!