Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Savoy slapped the ground as he fell, landing without injury. Newfound respect formed in his mind. The man knew his sport. Fighting for top position, Savoy tried to rise, but Den twisted him onto his back and knelt atop him, driving his knee into Savoy’s stomach. The effect was immediate and miserable. Pressure on his midsection made each breath an effort. Savoy looked up, knowing that little stopped Den from punching his head. Den returned the gaze. But he didn’t strike. Instead, the knee cinched tighter and tighter each time Savoy exhaled. Fighting for air, he struggled to twist his body out from underneath his heavier opponent. He succeeded only in relocating the knee a hand-width higher. It now pressed on his floating ribs. Savoy could draw air now, but the agony of straining bone overwhelmed the joy of breathing.

Collecting his strength, Savoy braced his hands against Den’s knee. He twisted sideways and out, shoving himself free from under the other’s weight. Maintaining momentum, he rolled to his feet and kicked. Den rocked back, a trickle of blood tracing his chin. Savoy’s chest heaved as he circled, looking for his next opening. He saw it and kicked again, aiming a roundhouse at the man’s temple. Had the blow connected, its impact would have knocked Den unconscious. It didn’t happen that way.

Den blocked the strike with the point of his elbow and wrapped his arms around the leg. He twisted, jerked Savoy off balance, and forced him back to the ground. This time, when Savoy slapped the sand to disperse the force of the fall, Den attacked the outstretched arm. The pressure on Savoy’s shoulder came sudden and hard, like a door slam. Den torqued the joint again and fire raced through limb. Savoy had no escape but to tear his own rotator cuff. He drew a breath.

“Tap out, moron.”

The pressure increased, muscles and tendons straining from the pull.

“I said, tap. Unless you fight better with severed muscles.”

Swallowing his pride, Savoy raised his free hand and struck the ground. The pressure ceased, but the fire remained. Shaking out his shoulder, Savoy hopped to his feet, determined to improve his performance in the next round.

Den shook his head, the look of bored indifference never wavering from his eyes. “I said once.” He stepped out of the ring and took a leash from the wall. “Hands behind your head.”

Faced with the choice of a voluntary compliance or a mage-forced one, Savoy gathered his remaining shreds of dignity and obeyed. The metal clip clicked as Den hooked it into the rings on the wristbands. A hated sound already. He stared straight ahead as Den led him toward the wall where another metal loop protruded from the stone. There was nothing special about that loop, just a common metal circle like hundreds of others found in any city. Found wherever people needed to tie up a horse.

Den threaded the leash through the ring and tied it off at a height too low to allow Savoy to stand, yet high enough that it stretched his joints when he knelt. He looked up to see Pretty’s content gaze and Boulder’s frightened one and hoped that his own reflected an indifference he wished he felt.

It was hours before practice ended and the line of fighters trailed out of the salle. Left alone, Den strode to Savoy.

The promise of relief inflamed the deep ache in his arms and back. The overpowering stretch of his abused shoulder made Savoy count time in breaths. He had kept his face still, and now silently counted down from a hundred to maintain composure through the final moments of punishment.

Den hooked his finger under Savoy’s chin and tipped up his face. “Are you through being cocky?” There was no malice in his voice. Den had disciplined a green boy, no more, no less, and that routine chore evoked no more emotion in him than tiring out an unruly horse would have for Savoy.

Whatever Savoy’s eventual escape would entail, showing up Den in his own salle would not be part of the plan. “Yes.”

“Good.” A moment of silence hung in the air.

Savoy held his breath.

“See you tomorrow, Cat.” Meeting Savoy’s eyes, Den turned away and walked out of the salle.

Savoy’s labored breaths violated the silence of the night. In the darkness of the salle, his arms, back, and shoulders were aflame, his wrist rubbed bloody against the bands.

He struggled against the ropes. Not from hope of loosening the knots—he knew that was impossible—but because he couldn’t do otherwise. Not in the depth of night, when the remembered smell of blood and piss in a dank dungeon cell filled his memory. Not when fear of something long over visited once more. He struggled, throwing himself against his binds. The hours crept on.

Eventually, he took hold of himself and stopped. A faint blue light from an amulet in the stone cast his shadow onto the sand, keeping him company until morning. A sagging man tied to a wall.

The door to the salle opened, admitting two men. Den carried a lantern, Jasper a bowl.

“Gods, Den, it was his first day.” Jasper set the bowl down and patted Savoy’s shoulder. Behind his glasses, the boy’s large eyes danced. “Poor pup.”

“Unbroken pup. He’ll live.”

Jasper reached toward the wall and untied the rope holding his wristbands. Relief rushed through Savoy’s arms. He collapsed to the floor and cradled his shoulders. Smiling, Jasper pushed the bowl toward Savoy’s knees. Inside, a spoon drowned in a brown mush, stinking of fat and overcooked, saltless meat. A pool of gooey, half-coagulated egg crowned the breakfast’s center.

Food. Savoy grasped the spoon in his fist, ready to swallow without tasting. Cramped muscles trembled. The spoon shook, spilling its contents on the way to his mouth. Globs of warm fat, egg, and meat plopped off and streaked down his chest.

Jasper chuckled. Den did not.

“This won’t do.” Jasper squatted down in front of Savoy, as if addressing a child. “I can Heal. Would you like me to?” Blue glow ignited around his hand. His breath quickened. He was eager.

Den caught the boy’s arm before it extended.

“He can’t train like this,” Jasper said, his voice rising. He stood, fingers curling into a fist simmering in mage fire.

“Yes, he can.”

Savoy tensed. The choice he was about to make, however ignorant, would gain him an enemy. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped toward Den. “I can train fine, sir.”

Den’s eyes flashed, but his hands and voice remained calm. “Begin by shutting up.”

Jasper’s lower lip trembled. He swallowed and turned away. “ I’m the keeper,” he whispered toward the floor. “I decide when a pup needs Healing.” When he turned back, his face was dark. The flame around his hand grew brighter and he gripped Savoy’s bicep.

A rush of energy invaded Savoy’s mind, smashing over his Keraldi Barrier. Savoy didn’t fight it. Experience with Healers had taught him not to.

Jasper’s magic lacked Grovener’s finesse. The young mage didn’t nip Savoy’s barrier as much as rip through it as if with a dull blade. A cry caught in Savoy’s throat, but he clenched his fists and remained silent.

The energy scorched down his nerves, mending the pulls and tears in his shoulders. Savoy relaxed and waited for Jasper to withdraw. Instead, he found a cruel smile tugging the corners of the boy’s lips. Savoy’s mind struggled to raise his Keraldi Barrier, but it was too late.

The boy closed his eyes, and instead of dissipating, the force inside Savoy’s body barreled on. It gripped his lungs; Savoy gasped for breath. It cramped on his diaphragm, and he convulsed, unable to exhale. He reached out to grab the damn mage, but Jasper only chuckled and stepped behind him without breaking contact. The next moment something squeezed Savoy’s stomach. Bile shot up his throat, filled his mouth, and poured out onto the sand.