“Nice try,” he says, and I almost smile.
When I start to backtrack he releases me. Dramatically, I throw myself to the ground and curl up on a blanket, sighing heavily.
“There’s nothing to watch anyway,” he says in The Voice. Not his normal, everyday speaking voice, but the one that sounds deeper and more solid, like it comes from a place low within his gut, almost like it’s spoken by someone else who lives inside of him. A man greater than himself, full of power, barrel-chested and well-muscled—like Gard, a warrior.
The Voice.
When people hear The Voice, they listen.
Even I do. Well, usually. Because The Voice is never wrong.
I set my elbow on the ground and prop my head on the heel of my hand. “Why not?” I ask, suddenly interested in everything my father has to say—because he’s not my father anymore. He’s the Man of Wisdom.
Maybe the meditation wasn’t him doing nothing after all.
His cheeks bulge, as if the words are right there, trying to force their way out. But when he blows out, it’s just air, nothing more. Then he says, “Listen.”
I cock my head, train my ear in the air, hear only the silence of a camp in hiding.
Silence.
Silence.
And then—
—the chatter of horses’ hooves across the plains, getting louder, approaching a rumble, then becoming the distant growl of thunder.
“Now you can go,” Father says in his normal voice, but I’m already on my feet, bursting from the tent opening, running for the edge of the camp while other Stormers are emerging from hiding.
I charge out of the camp and onto the plains, my footsteps drowned out by the grumble of the horses galloping toward me. Gard’s in the front, leading, and he flies past me like I’m not even there. Another few Riders pass in similar fashion before I see her.
My mother, astride Shadow, her skin and robe so dark she almost looks like she’s a part of her horse, a strange human-animal creature, fast and dangerous and ready.
She stops in front of me, perfectly balanced, her sword in her left hand.
“What happened?” I say.
She motions with her sword behind her, where, with the sun shimmering across the water, the white ships are sailing off into the distance, barely visible now.
“They’re gone,” I murmur.
Chapter Three
Huck
Still screaming his head off, the bilge rat’s sword flies past my head, whistling in my ear as I duck out of the way.
A cheer rises up from the heavy crowd, who suddenly feel like they’re closing in, surrounding us, preventing any chance of escape. I blink hard twice, trying to get the sweat out of my eyes and the noise out of my head. My stomach clenches when I see my father watching quietly as the brown boy stumbles, regains his footing, and then turns to face me again.
I don’t know this boy—
Don’t want to fight this boy—
But I can’t let my father down again.
I squeeze my stomach muscles tight, bite away my fears, and attack, swinging my real sword the way I always practiced with my wooden one. The boy’s eyes go wide and he shrinks back, narrowly deflecting the first of my blows with his blunt blade.
Using this sword is nothing like a wooden one. It’s weighted differently and feels unbalanced in my hand, each slash becoming more awkward than the last. The bilge seems to realize it and easily dodges my next attack, kicking me in the stomach with a dirty bare foot.
I feel the wind go out of my lungs and I gasp, clutching at my gut. Like before, the boy’s face goes from fear to anger in an instant, and he kicks me again, this time in the rear and I go flying, crashing into an empty barrel and sprawling headlong on the deck.
My face is burning, so hot—red and burning. Not from exertion or anger—humiliation. I’ve literally just had my backside kicked by a bilge rat, a scrawny one no less.
But I’m not done yet.
Because my father is watching.
And there’s blood in the water—my mother’s blood. Teeth snapping. I can’t fail him.
Not again.
I push to my feet, only to sense a brown form charging from the side, slashing with his sword. I’m ready this time.
I duck, pushing my fist hard into his stomach. He doubles over and I knee him in the chin, launching him back, his sword flipping end over end as it leaves his hand. Leaping forward, I try to stomp on him, but he rolls away, grabbing his sword. He stands to face me again.
I mutter a curse.
We dance in a circle, staring at each other. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there when he was first pushed into me. Anger? Violence? No and no, I realize. Desperation. He’s fighting for his life, and I’m fighting for what? Pride? My manhood? My father? Even I don’t know anymore, only that I must continue on, finish what I started.
I slash and he blocks and I slash again, narrowly missing and trimming a shred of cloth from his already tattered sleeve.
My head spins and suddenly there’s a rush of air all around me and I feel my blood pumping and my heart pounding and sweat pouring out of me like rain, and I could’ve killed him—that last swing could’ve killed him and I didn’t even take anything off of it and if it had connected he’d be dead right now and I’d have done it.
I’d have killed him.
I don’t even know this boy and he hasn’t done anything to me except fight for his life and I almost killed him.
I realize I’m breathing heavy and on the verge of tears and my sword is lowered and the bilge rat’s staring at me, probably wondering whether I’ve caught the Scurve because I’m sweating, sweating so damn much that it’s pouring off my brow and into my eyes, blurring my vision.
I stare back at him through sweat—or are they tears?—and strands of dirty-blond hair that have come loose from my ponytail, wondering whether we can just shake hands so he can go back to his scrubbing and I can go back to becoming a man.
Sensing my weakness, he attacks with a fury. It’s all I can do to raise my sword to block his attack, the metal on metal contact ringing out, rising above the cheers of the men around me, who have come to life again. He pushes me back and I stumble. When he pushes again, I’m off balance and my legs get tangled up and I trip, dropping my sword as I try to break my fall with my hands, skidding backwards on my rear, coming to a stop.
I look up, panting.
My father stands over me, his lips a thin line beneath his beard.
But all I can see is the motion of his head. Shaking, shaking, back and forth, wishing I wasn’t his son and that I hadn’t failed him yet again.
And then the tip of the bilge rat’s rusty old sword is at my throat and I can’t breathe and I’m looking up at him and I’m scared of him doing it, but I’m even more scared that he won’t and I’ll have to face my father’s head-shaking and disappointment.
The boy’s face is hard, and for a moment I think he’ll do it, that he’ll kill me, but then he sighs and throws down his sword, letting it clatter to the deck with a dull clang. He stalks off and I close my eyes.
There are murmurs from the crowd, whispered words I can’t hear, and plenty of words that I wish I couldn’t hear.
“The admiral’s son…bah!”
“Beaten by a bilge rat, what an embarrassment!”
“He’d be better off swimming with the sharp-tooths if you ask me.”
Each comment is like a slash to the heart, cutting off another piece of me, ripping me open. Hot tears well up beneath my eyelids, but I won’t open them, not for anyone or anything. Won’t let the tears out where he can see them.
“What a joke,” I hear Hobbs mutter before he stomps away. There’s more scuffling feet and I know the crowd is dispersing, going back to their morning work.
“Huck,” a gentle voice says. A kind voice.