Chapter Eighteen
Date unknown
Time unknown
Ban-Hezikal, Kalar
FROM THE MOMENT Svetlana had first held a shock staff in her hands, she’d felt an urge to put it to use. Clad in the stone blue attire given to her by the Kalarael, she found herself at the precipice of satisfying that urge, feet planted on the pink plaster-earth as she gazed upon the slow yet magnificent setting of the Kalarian sun. She’d been told by Yigôzien that sunset was a process that lasted over three hours on that part of the planet, making it far more of an experience than any sunset Svetlana had witnessed on Earth. Its palette offered the same setting colors as the Sun did on Earth: deep reds, pinks, and oranges with an outline of slowly fading blue. But it was the ground—that pink plaster-earth—that gave the contrast of sky to ground such mesmerizing beauty. She decided to name the surface material runa legras, the Bakmanese words for “pink clay.”
The runa legras, as it turned out, was a fantastic surface for training—just firm enough to give her bare feet a solid foundation while still possessing enough give to cushion any falls. Not that she planned to fall at all.
It was with that mindset that Svetlana found herself standing several meters from Tauthin, who himself had been given a shock staff by the Kalarael. With her stone-blue half mask, its matching outfit, and her hair loose and blowing in the wind, she felt more ninjutsu assassin than interplanetary ambassador. She looked the part of Fury of Shanras. It was time to play it.
Crouching down by the side of the arena space, Akàziendi watched the two warriors keenly. After being told that a Kalarael chaperone was required at all times, Svetlana selected Akàziendi as her one and only escort, leaving Toro-shun behind to watch over the Bakma in their quarters. There were no other spectators present, at Svetlana’s request. She would save the live studio audience for Kraash-nagun’s beatdown.
“Any words of wisdom before we begin?” Svetlana asked, cocking her head. The faint trace of sarcasm matched her gesture.
“Win before you boast.”
Twirling the staff, Svetlana stepped backward and thrust it forward and upward in a ready stance. She waited for Tauthin to assume a fighting stance of his own. Even as inexperienced as she was with these weapons, she could recognize poor form—uncertain form—for what it was. Tauthin looked like a warrior who desperately wished he had a firearm. “Call it,” she said.
“It is called.”
Twirling the staff around her body, she snapped it against her side and thrust it upward and outward—a motion that made Tauthin flinch. Gripping his staff tightly, he held it in front of his body like someone who truly didn’t know what he was doing. A ploy? There was only one way to find out.
Stepping forward, Svetlana manipulated her back arm to jab her staff straight forward, then back and downward, then straight up from there. A simple fake-out and disarm. And it worked.
Halfway through her attack, Tauthin tried to slam his staff down atop hers, just in time for her to yank it back and reposition it to knock his staff clean up and out of his hands. She hit it with a solid thwock that sent it flipping upward and Tauthin flinching backward as if his own weapon might smack him in the face in its exit.
“Da’csh!” he said—a Bakmanese utterance of frustration.
Svetlana pivoted her staff upright and then slammed it vertically into the runa legras. Now, she could be cocky. “I must admit—that was quicker than even I thought.”
Retrieving his shock staff from where it’d fallen, Tauthin dusted it off.
Assuming her ready stance again, she watched him hold his staff in the same manner in which he’d held it before. “You should consider holding it the way I am. When I attack, attempt to parry.”
“I need nothing from you.”
Making a tsck, tsck, tsck sound, she shook her head a single time. “Just trying to help.”
Despite his grumblings, Tauthin did reposition his staff to hold it as she was. Unlike her posture, his didn’t look natural at all. “I am ready.”
His stance was so sloppy—so out of alignment. This wasn’t helping her at all. “Ready, too,” she said.
Striking first, Tauthin thrust his staff toward her head. She parried it with ease and stepped back. Once more, Tauthin thrusted, and once more, she backtracked and knocked the tip of his staff aside. So maybe this can help, she thought, as thrust after thrust was knocked aside. It was like a skill drill. A chance to improve via repetition. To experience the weight of one staff hitting another. She could sense the benefit of that. Until Tauthin ruined it.
Digging in with his rear foot, the Bakma suddenly switched tactics, ducking low to try and sweep out Svetlana’s feet. If the changeup threw her off balance at all, it was but for the most fleeting of moments. Moving out of the range of his staff completely—a sense of staff-depth-perception he apparently lacked—she found herself suddenly in prime position to knock him upside the head in his now off-balance state. The thought crossed her mind that to do so was to take advantage of a far less skilled competitor. It would almost be unfair. Almost picking.
Thwock!
She did it anyway. After switching her grip from that of a spear to a staff, she popped the side of the staff against Tauthin’s head. It wasn’t hard, but it was hard enough. The Bakma stumbled sideways, then slid to his knees in the runa legras.
“You are lucky these staffs are off!” she said, a bit chastising. “I would have just shocked your brain.”
Grumbling once more, Tauthin pushed up from his knees to a fighting stance. Futilely dusting off his staff again, he played around with his grip of it.
It was time to call this one. “Tauthin…”
“Prepare yourself,” he said.
“This is not helping me.”
A thrust, a swing, a jab. Tauthin went on an immediate offensive, shock staff flailing wildly as he strung together attack, after attack, after attack. None came close to connecting—very few even had to be parried. But when the opportunity presented itself, parry she did. Opting to stay on the defensive for the sole purpose of giving the fight a purpose, Svetlana deflected, spun, and deftly dodged his efforts. Though several of Tauthin’s attacks came close, none truly threatened her. She began to sense from the Bakma something she’d sensed in herself: extreme pride. He did not want to lose, and that was driving him forward. But unlike her, he stood no chance of coming out on top. Not in this fight.
Thwack! Crack! Swish!
An upward block, a cross-body parry, a thrust of her own to throw him off balance. Svetlana tried out every defensive tactic in her arsenal—many of which were literally being performed for the very first time. Despite her knowledge of all these moves in her head, these were still things she hadn’t actually done until now. Even as her Bakma counterpart swung at her wildly, her mind marveled at the sheer skill level that Nagogg had possessed. Were all Bakma chieftains so able with these weapons? For a species that walked out of their spaceships carrying plasma rifles, it seemed almost a waste of ability. But perhaps there were moments when the effort to learn the skill could find justification. Perhaps she was finding it now.
Whatever the history of chieftains and their spears, it was certainly something that was beginning to shape the way Svetlana thought of herself. Even as she dodged, even as she parried, even as she countered and moved, a part of her inner being screamed out, I could do this. She could fight this way. She could learn to utilize this weapon—this staff—in actual battlefield combat. Beyond the ceremonial, beyond duels such as the one she was training for. With Mishka, she could close gaps. With the Kalarael’s force field technology, she could repel weapons fire. With decisive hands, she could deal deathblows. The Fury of Shanras could be unleased.
Unleashed.
After twirling her staff end over end, she leaned back and sent it careening off Tauthin’s in mid-attack. The sudden shift from defense to offense caught the Bakma off guard, and he stutter-stepped backward. She wasn’t done. Upon shifting her grip to that of a spear rather than a staff, she thrust it deliberately toward the now-awkwardly-held staff in Tauthin’s hand. A sure-handed wrest later, and his staff was sent flying. There was no hesitation—her finger activated the staff’s power source. Minimal charge—but a charge just the same. With a lightning-fast thrust, she jabbed the tip into Tauthin’s exposed chest. There was a pop of energy; the Bakma came off his feet. Tauthin rolled and then slid backward on the runa legras, kicking up dry, pink dust as he did. Svetlana had a genuine moment of elation. Of power. But it quickly passed, and her eyes opened wide. “Tauthin!”
From the sideline, Akàziendi angled her head.
His gaping mouth grimacing, Tauthin propped himself up with one hand while his other rubbed his chest. Lowering his head, the Bakma moaned. Even as Svetlana slid to his side and put her hands on him, his head stayed downcast.
“I am so sorry!” Svetlana slid one hand to the center of his back to steady him. “I did not mean to do it.” But she had. “I do not know what happened! My finger must have…” All she could do was hope that he bought it. “My finger must have slipped.”
Pushing up to a painful stand, Tauthin stretched his neck from one side to the other. The movement was ginger. It reminded her of David after a battle. Far too old-seeming for a Bakma leader in what she felt was his prime. It wasn’t until he slowly shuffled toward his fallen shock staff that her eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Tauthin, you cannot be serious.”
“You have five days,” he said, voice hoarse. “That is your fault, not mine.”
Rising back to her feet, she followed him. “I am going to hurt you if we continue like this.”
“You will not hurt me.” Bending, he reached down to claim his weapon.
Svetlana’s foot slammed down on top of it. When he looked up at her, her eyes glared above her mask. “You are not good enough with this weapon to train me.”
The Bakma’s gaze matched her. “I must.”
“You must what? Break your body? Be my personal punching bag?”
“You are not as good as you think.”
After what she’d just witnessed, it was hard to believe. “I am better than you. Far better. In this skill, superior.” Allowing her gaze to drift, she looked at Akàziendi. “I would be better off fighting her. You are no match for me here—I do not say that in disrespect. If this was a gunfight, I would say the opposite. But it is not.”
Reaching down again, Tauthin tugged on the shock staff despite her foot pressing down on it. At long last, she stepped away. The weapon was his again. “Such arrogance. Such self-belief.”
“Did we not just experience the same fight?”
“You experienced a situation which allowed for perfect execution. It is not one that exists in reality. In combat, plans fail. Other factors enter. There are variables.”
“And so what is the solution? To beat you to a pulp? That would teach me nothing.” Once more, she looked the darishu’s way. “I will tell Akàziendi to fight me. There is no doubt she has mastered this weapon. She would push me.”
Tauthin scoffed. “She would do anything but. You are a gift from a goddess to these creatures. Do you believe she would dare strike you? She would hold back. You know that she would.”
She did.
“Only I am willing to push you to the point that is required,” he said.
There was no gentle way to say it. He needed to hear the truth. “I think, Tauthin, that we both know you cannot.”
Turning away, Tauthin took several steps in the opposite direction. He said nothing.
“I am not trying to be disrespectful. But—”
“Hear yourself,” he interrupted, though his voice remained calm. “Hear your arrogance. That is what it is. You have earned nothing. You have had a skillset installed into your brain with no experience to put it to proper use.”
Hear herself? Was he hearing himself? “I will spar Akàziendi. She knows how to wield this weapon. Even if she does not push me, she will still allow me to practice my form. That is what I need, is it not?”
Shaking his head, Tauthin said, “You need to fail.”
Blinking, she looked back at him. “I need to what?”
“You heard my words.” He faced her again. “You are not the Setana I knew. Your lust for power has corrupted you.”
“Does not everyone lust for power over their situations? Do you not lust to have your captain’s chair returned to you? Do you not lust to defeat me now?” Now she was getting mad. “Do not speak of my lusts until you address your own.” Throwing her hands up, she turned away in disgust. “How did this conversation even get to this?” Then, right back at him. “Because I defeated you. Because you envy me.”
He bared his teeth.
“I am your superior. I earned that on the Zone Runner. I am more skilled than you. I am more revered than you. And for those things, you resent me. You are no different from Kraash-nagun.”
Eyes staring back darkly, he angled his head low. “And you are no different from Nagogg.”
The glare that was already on her face narrowed further. Beneath her half mask, her mouth was twisting, even though he couldn’t see it.
In her silence, Tauthin continued. “You say that your finger slipped on your staff when you struck me. I do not believe that. I believe that you wanted to inflict pain upon me as pain has been inflicted on you. That your Earthae heart burns for vengeance, and that I am perceived as a weak target. But I am not so weak as you believe.”
“Come at me again.”
“I intend to.”
“Come at me again, and we will see who is weak.”
For almost ten full seconds, Tauthin’s deep purple gaze stayed on her. But in all that time, he said nothing. He said nothing still, even as he dropped the shock staff to the ground and turned to walk away.
Angling her head, Svetlana asked, “Are we now finished? Have I so insulted you that you can no longer proceed?” When he continued to walk away, she took a single step after him. “Answer me, slave.”
The word had just come out. Like it had been there all along. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. But what surprised her more than its emergence was that she didn’t feel bad for it. Not nearly as much as she felt that she should have. But she still knew when she’d crossed a line. “I did not mean that.”
At that, Tauthin stopped—but only enough to slant his head down and to the side. “We both know that you did.”
Deep within her came an awful swell. Deep down in the core of her soul.
“You are still under my tutelage,” Tauthin said, “and I will still spar against you. But not at this time. At this time, you are correct—there is nothing I can teach you. But as is the case in other matters, that is your fault, not mine.”
Eyes closing, she looked down. The rush of anger and adrenaline had subsided. Now she just felt ashamed.
“I recommend that you spar with Akàziendi. As you stated, she is far more skilled with the staff than me. But I ask of you two things. First, that you not be deceived into thinking she would ever actually try to strike you.” He hesitated. “The second is that you speak to your God. Instruct Him to return you to your former state. Though not as skilled as a warrior, she was better as a friend.”
The words cut deep. They hurt. As Tauthin returned to the main structure of Ban-Hezikal, a dry breeze blew beneath her, dusty granules of runa legras caressing her feet. She watched them blow past—a momentary distraction from the turmoil within. But no distraction could subdue such a feeling for long. No distraction could change the fact that her best friend in that part of the galaxy had just turned and walked away.
Lifting her head, she turned to Akàziendi. She must be wondering what just happened. She must be so confused. Without Ed there, there was no way for her to relay to her darishu guardian what had just taken place. But perhaps that was for the better. Perhaps it wasn’t always best to leave the truth out in the open. Perhaps sometimes, it was just too ugly.
But she could convey one thing.
For the next hour and a half, Svetlana and Akàziendi sparred on the pink, dusty surface. Despite not having an Ithini to connect to her Kalarael escort, Svetlana was able to get the point across easily enough as to what she wanted Akàziendi to do. It did not take long into their session for Svetlana to realize that what Tauthin said was absolutely true. Despite Svetlana’s desire for Akàziendi to push her, there was virtually no chance that the darishu would. In a way, Svetlana couldn’t blame her. She wouldn’t want to be blamed for bruising the face of one sent by the Purities.
But it was something—and something was better than nothing. She even managed to break a sweat by the time she was through. The air was dry—cool. Perfectly comfortable. Tauthin would have told her that was the problem. Perhaps, he was right. Then again, perhaps not.
When Svetlana returned to her chamber, she discovered that her training session had not been so private as she’d believed. A multitude of Kalarael were in her and her cohorts’ quarters, gathered by the glass windows where they’d observed things. They made no attempt to hide their prying, nor did they seem embarrassed by it. With their innocuousness in mind, she assigned no condemnation. She simply requested that they depart so she could bathe and then find rest. Yigôzien practically insisted that she be permitted to bathe Svetlana as a courtesy from a saikuran to a master. Custom dictated, she assured. But that was a custom Svetlana had no interest in upholding. As much as she appreciated the gesture to have Yigôzien go Medieval servant on her, she politely declined. Yigôzien was hurt, naturally, but not offended. It did not bother Svetlana now so much as the first time. And so, she bathed in peace. Shortly after, she was informed by the invoker that tomorrow, she would be taken to Sélestere for the much ballyhooed Celebration of Shanras—an affair that Svetlana was not nearly as excited about as her counterpart. Whatever custom dictated, she supposed. By the time night fell outside of Ban-Hezikal, the effects of a thirty-three-hour day were taking their toll. She was exhausted.
And so, she slept. In spite of the strangeness all around her—from the runa legras, to the alien servants, to the mesmerizing chamber she’d been given—a bed still felt like a bed, even if it happened to float. Tomorrow would be an important day.
Tomorrow couldn’t get there soon enough.