Young Writers Society

Timara Klever wrote:Man, I don't think I'll be able to keep up the 2 reviews per post deal...I think I'll shoot for 1.5 instead. That I can probably do around school, work, and rifle team practice. XD

Chapter Two

After what seemed to Avain like a thousand miles and a million more traps, two bruised, battered, and thoroughly beaten boys emerged into the sunlight at the base of a mountain. Avain had not realized how far they had come. The valley they came into was in full bloom, a sheltered, fertile haven amidst the imposing mountains that surrounded it on all five sides, rendering it inaccessible by any means other than the path they had just traversed. And, Avain supposed, four similar paths cut through each of the other mountains. He looked up at the sky. It was well past midday. Avain groaned.

“There’s no way we’re one of the first three teams!”

“I don’t know about you,” Sarran muttered, taking stock of their surroundings, “but I’ve come too far to fail.” He headed for the center of the valley.

Avain glared after him. Sarran was such a snob, an arrogant, egotistical snob. He was always the best at everything, and everyone knew it. Avain hated him.

But, for now, they needed each other. Avain rushed to catch up.

They found the shikareen set on a rack on a raised platform near the middle of the valley. None of them looked the same. In fact, the only vague similarity common to all six was the distinctive shape, that of two wide, flat, curved blades attached to either end of a short wooden haft. Not even the blades were uniform. Some were longer than others, some were more slender; some were plain, others were engraved; some were steely blue, others the deep gray of iron; some flashed bronze fire in the afternoon sun, others seemed dull and listless, the color of rust. Avain’s eye was drawn to one on the end with wider, but shorter, blades than the rest, blades that gleamed silver, as though made of tin. Sarran paused just short of their goal, and Avain drew even with him.

“Something’s wrong,” Sarran muttered, nearly inaudible. Avain did not respond, but slipped two of the four knives he had secreted away into his companion’s belt. (I really like this line! Not sure way, but I do.)“All of them are still here,” Avain noted aloud.

“We cannot be the only ones who survived,” Sarran protested.

Avain ignored him and danced ahead. “Why the sour look, Sarran? Pick your prize!” He reached out and brushed his fingers across the short wooden haft of the nearest shikar.

Suddenly, yet another of the slender knives shot out of nowhere, and Avain only barely pulled back in time to avoid losing some fingers. The boy looked around wildly for the source of the assault.

The trees grew thick in this sheltered bowl ringed by mountains. The shikareen had been set in a stand in the center of an open glade. Two people, a boy and a girl, appeared suddenly from the underbrush across the clearing. Avain made a grab for the shikar, but yanked his fingers back, stunned, at the electric shock that passed through him.

“It’s already been claimed,” the girl, older than both Sarran and Avain, informed them. “By me.”

Avain leapt back, drawing a knife from his belt. “Let us pick, too, Amevon!”

The girl had always been a rather mediocre student, but she was mean and overbearing, a real bully. Avain had always been one of her favorite victims.

“You still don’t get it, Avain. You can never become a bael’kar. You’re not even one of us.” Amevon came forward and took her shikar in hand, spinning it effortlessly before her. The wide, curved blades flashed in the bright sunlight. Her companion lifted a second shikar off the rack and fell back, skittish and wary. Avain did not recognize him.

“Where are the others?” Sarran asked abruptly.

Amevon shrugged one shoulder. “They came. We killed them.”

“Why?”

The girl faltered, blinked, and the passionate fire fled her gaze. (I think you should say "fled from her gaze") It returned a moment later, even more vivid than before. “Because I could! I’m better than all of them! And you!” She lunged, her shikar coming up and around in a clean arc that ended right where Sarran had been. Luckily, the boy had anticipated the move and ducked away just in time. Amevon’s teammate did not enter the fray.

“You missed,” Sarran observed.

Amevon snarled something particularly nasty and leapt at him, but Sarran managed to stay always one step ahead, always dodging just in time. (Take out one of the "always", they're a little redundant) Avain took a moment to gather his scattered wits before jumping to Sarran’s aid, leaping in with his knife. He attached himself to Amevon’s back and clung tight, slowing her down through sheer superior bulk. Sarran saw his chance and slashed at her with one of his knives, but Amevon twisted in a complicated maneuver and brought her shikar around, knocking the blow wide and throwing Avain from her back in the same motion. The knife flew from Sarran’s hand and stuck in the ground halfway across the glade.

Avain slid across the forest floor, stopping just short of the tree line. Amevon’s teammate still had not moved to assist her, but he watched the battle with a sort of rapt, almost hypnotic attention. Avain leapt to his feet and charged the pair of combatants, lunging in with a downward slash that would have proved fatal had it landed across Amevon’s back as was his intention. As it was, he found himself suddenly facing Sarran, not Amevon, and he only barely checked the blow in time.

“Where’d she go?!” Avain cried in dismay, looking about wildly. Sarran jerked his chin toward the rack of shikareen. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on his cheek. Avain whirled about and caught sight of Amevon, perched on the edge of the dais. “How—”

“Her shikar." Sarran gestured to the elegant weapon. All shikareen were imbued (what does imbued mean?) with magical gifts. That was part of what made them so dangerous. "Hers…is the gift of teleportation.”

“So she can just—!”

Sarran nodded once, his fixed stare never leaving Amevon’s face.

The girl smirked. “That’s right. Why don’t you two just give in now? You’ll never beat me, not without your own shikareen. And I’ll see to it you don’t get those.”

Avain bristled at the implied insult. “We don’t need shikareen to defeat ("defeat" doesn't feel like the right word here. Maybe just "fight". I don't know why. Probably because he's a tough guy, and "defeat" sounds like some aged warrior word) you, Amevon!” He lunged at her, but Amevon disappeared, leaving only a small puff of smoke in her wake. Pain shot through Avain as her elbow connected solidly with his back. He crashed to earth, more ashamed than hurt. She was toying with him.

Sarran took full advantage of Amevon’s distraction. He seemed virtually (nix "virtually" I think) to teleport himself, moving almost faster than the eye could follow. But Amevon must have heard him coming, for she disappeared just in time. Sarran, quick as a cat, did what Avain could not, redirecting his attack in the blink of an eye, but Amevon was not there.

Baffled, Sarran froze on the spot, his quick, intelligent gaze flicking all about the open glade and into the trees beyond. Avain picked himself up off the ground.

“Where’d she go?”

“Shut up, idiot.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! You can’t order me around like that!”

Sarran made a soft noise of disgust and swept Avain aside. Avain, already a bit peeved by Amevon’s dismissal, flew at him. Sarran leapt back, right onto the dais where the shikareen stood.

Amevon appeared suddenly between the two boys, her shikar very close to Sarran’s chest.

“Slick.” Amevon smiled nastily. “Very slick, Sarran. They always said you were the best.”

Sarran stared sullenly, but did not respond. Amevon’s smile grew. “But I suppose you already knew that. You know everything, after all.” Still, Sarran did not speak. Amevon pressed her shikar to his ribs. “Don’t you?”

“Not everything. If I did, you would be dead right now.”

Amevon laughed, and her shikar wavered a bit. “I begin to like you, Sarran.”

As ever, (nix "as ever" - my opinion) Sarran took the opportunity. His second knife leapt into his hand, and, almost of its own accord, launched itself at Amevon. In the same instant, Sarran threw himself back, flipping over the shikar rack and snatching one up as he went. It was a risky move, Avain knew, since only the proper shikar would allow a particular person to handle it. If Sarran chose wrong, the results could be devastating. But then Avain had no time to consider his teammate’s plight. Amevon teleported to safety a short distance away, and Avain found Sarran’s knife headed right for him.

Avain had practiced his knife skills so long and so hard, the act of catching and rebounding a projectile had been ingrained to the point of instinct. He nearly failed to register Amevon’s position before the knife came and went. It flew straight and true, but, as ever, the girl vanished just in time. The knife continued on, right into the chest of Amevon’s partner, forgotten until that point. (You might want to mention the partner at least once before now)

Several things happened just then.

Amevon screeched and toppled off an overhanging branch far above, her shikar cart wheeling wildly through the air. Both hit the ground simultaneously, one with a dull thump and the other with a sickening crunch.

The small boy let out a gasp of pain and fell to earth as the air around him shimmered, as though from a sudden wave of intense heat.

Sarran shouted some warning Avain did not heed.

Avain leapt forward, guilt and anguish scrawled across his young features.

Sarran caught Avain halfway to the wounded lad. Avain struggled mightily.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit him, it was just instinct!”

“Avain!” Sarran shook him roughly. “Avain, look at him!”

After a moment, Avain forced open eyes he did not recall closing.

The boy was gone. In his place lay a man, middle-aged and already going gray. He was clad in long robes, and a stick, not a shikar, rested across his open palm. He coughed weakly, and blood sprayed the front of his clothing.

Avain paused, thoroughly baffled. “W-what…what happened?”

“Let’s find out.” Sarran released his now-calm companion and stalked toward their unknown adversary, a gleaming shikar clasped in his right hand. He must have chosen right. But then, this was Sarran. He always chose right.

The man rolled his head toward them and offered a weak smile. “Who would have thought…that I would fall…to children…?”

Sarran stood over the man, the tip of one blade of his shikar brushing the grass bare inches from his head. “Who are you? What have you done to Amevon?”

“The girl…is dead.”

“…Dead…?” Avain echoed blandly into the ensuing silence.

The fallen man laughed harshly, then stopped, coughed, and spit up more blood. “Do not fear…I will be…joining her…very soon…”

“Who are you?” Sarran demanded once more.

The man did not respond, so Sarran bent and grabbed a handful of his robes, hauling him up off the ground. He grimaced in pain, and, for a moment, Avain thought Sarran might kill him outright, but then something caught the boy’s eye. Sarran pulled back the man’s collar, revealing the swirl-and-dots tattoo of Crestil. “You’re a Crestilian wizard.” Sarran’s eyes narrowed as he pieced together the puzzle. “A vin Shah, right? You specialize in mind control. You made Amevon attack us, and caused us to see you as a peer.” He scowled darkly. “Why not just kill us outright?” Then his expression cleared. “Of course…This way, you didn’t have to risk anything. You were in no danger—if Amevon got killed, then you could step in. But if you got killed…And that’s why she died, isn’t it? The bond broke too abruptly.”

“My, but you are a sharp one, aren’t you?” the wizard snarled nastily.

“Then her death…had no meaning,” Avain concluded hesitantly, fairly confidant he had kept up with the discussion.

Something about the proclamation unnerved Avain. At the ihari-kar, the students were taught to embrace death as a necessary part of life, but only if that death had a purpose, a logical, rational reason. Unchecked violence was a very real threat in a community of warriors, so morality and a strict code of ethics were battered into the students from day one. Just as the wild game gave up their lives so that the hunter might live, the enemies of the baeleen’kar surrendered theirs so that all the Killeen’ghymn might survive. Even though he supposed Amevon had fallen into this last category, there was something inherently wrong about her death. Perhaps it was the fact that Avain had known her quite well. They had lived and learned and grown together for as long as he could remember, and while neither cared much for the other, they had been obliged to work together on numerous occasions, just as Avain was forced now to cooperate with Sarran.

Then again, perhaps the uneasy feeling spawned from the fact that Amevon’s death had not been Avain’s intention when he threw that knife. Had he known she had no control over her actions, he might have—would have!—acted differently.

Whatever the reasons for Avain’s regret, Sarran shared none of them.

“There are others, aren’t there? How many? Where are they? Why are you here?”

“Surely you know this last,” the wizard muttered, his voice growing fainter with every passing moment. He would not live much longer. “As to your other questions…I don’t feel like telling you.”

Sarran released the man abruptly, and he fell back with a sharp grunt of pain. “They’re at the village, Avain. I know it.”

“How?”

“Don’t ask! Just do as I tell you! Select your shikar, and hurry. We don’t have much time!”

Avain, ever impulsive and never one to think things through, vaulted onto the dais and snatched up the first shikar that came to hand. He dropped it with a yelp of pain an instant later, nursing burned fingers.

“Idiot,” Sarran murmured derisively.

Avain shot him a withering glare, but his wary hands hovered over the two remaining weapons before he closed his eyes and grabbed one. It, too, seared his skin. Exasperated, Avain dropped it and reached for the final shikar. It clattered to the ground, and he stuck his now-aching fingers into his mouth.

Sarran stared at Avain, alarmed and confused. Then his expression cleared. “Yours must be the one the wizard hid away so he could place his own impostor shikar on the rack.”

Avain nodded, but could only dream of the level of certainty and confidence with which Sarran shared his insight. What if none of the shikareen accepted him? What if everyone had been right all along? What if he wasn’t cut out to be a bael’kar? He knew that his father had been an outsider, a raskha, and that he possessed only half of the esteemed blood the rest of the village held so dear, but he had always managed to convince himself, at least, that his other half was no worse than the first. (Very long sentence!!) Now… (the elipses isn't necessary) for the first time, he doubted himself, and that very act seemed to yank the proverbial rug right out from beneath him, sending his universe sprawling into the infinite void he had thus far avoided through sheer force of will.

Between them, it did not take Sarran and Avain long to discover the missing weapon, casually discarded beneath a massive oak just within the tree line. Sarran found it first and called Avain over, but the boy found this shikar too hot to handle as well.

A heavy cloud of despair descended over Avain, but something within him rebelled forcefully. There had to be an answer, some simple solution he had merely overlooked. If he tried hard enough, poured his heart and soul, his entire being, into a task, there was nothing he could not do. If nothing else, Avain would go so far as to force himself to handle one of the wrong shikareen until either it submitted to his right to wield it or he grew immune to the pain it inflicted. Nothing could stop him. Nothing ever had, and nothing ever would.

Despite his sudden resolve, Avain found himself reluctant to put his tolerance for pain to the ultimate test. He hazarded one final possibility. “Maybe Amevon’s…?” Everyone knew that, sometimes, when a person killed a shikar’s first selection, it might make another. In fact, the shikareen that were given to new baeleen’kar had been handed down through the ranks of the Kille’ghymn elite for generations, taken from the dead and passed on to the new initiates.

Sarran hesitated before nodding once, acknowledging the validity of the possible solution.

Gritting his teeth against the uneasy feeling in his stomach, Avain crossed over to where the now-dirty weapon had fallen beside its slain master. He crouched and reached out to touch it with a tentative finger, sick and tired of being burned. At first, his own mind projected the expected shock of pain, but then he realized it didn’t hurt, but, in fact, felt rather cool and soothing, very comfortable, as though it belonged. Swallowing hard, Avain closed his fingers over the smooth, polished haft, pausing only a moment to admire the perfect curve of the twin blades before rising and whirling about, all smiles.

“All right! Let’s go!”

They left the peaceful valley with no living witnesses to the chaos that had ruled only moments before. Avain knew, because he checked both corpses before they left. He no longer felt the terrible guilt at the deaths. Both had served their purposes, one by freeing the other to live and the other by freeing him, Avain, to fulfill his destiny.

May you rest forever in your own paradise, Amevon, for you have created mine.

The sense of closure was almost more of a relief than the gift of the shikar.