“Competent, eh?” his uncle asked. It wasn’t a sneer exactly, but it was said in that tone adults always used when they wanted children to know they had been wrong.
Excuses floated to Yanko’s lips: nothing he’d heard about the Turgonians had suggested such speed, and he’d expected the other man to test him first, that they would exchange a few tentative blows to judge each other before growing serious. He kept the thoughts to himself. Excuses would only make things worse.
“I did not prepare myself adequately,” Yanko said. “I will strive to improve.”
“I hope so. Six months is not a long time.” Uncle Mishnal sighed. “Son, you are the only one amongst my children and your father’s children to be born with the talent; you are the only one who can redeem the family in the eyes of the Great Chief. It is unfortunate that your mother… made the choice she did and that our whole clan has lost its place in society and been forced into—” he curled a lip toward the walls and ceilings of the mine, “—lesser positions. But that is the way of our world.”
“Falcon may prove himself as a marine,” Yanko said, naming his older brother. He had been banging at things with a wooden sword since before he could talk.
“We need more than that if we are to ever reclaim our former standing.” Mishnal pinned Yanko with a frank stare. “Your father sent your books. You will practice the Science in the mornings and spar with your chosen enemy in the afternoons.” He extended a hand toward the Turgonian, who remained by the wall, his shield and sword at the ready.
Yanko gulped. How many times could he be smashed to the floor over the course of an afternoon? Make that multiple afternoons? Six months’ worth.
“You made a good choice with him,” Mishnal said. “If your father and I still worked in the capital, you would have had access to the finest weapons instructors all of your life, but—”
“Great Uncle Lao Zun is a fine weapons instructor,” Yanko protested, forgetting his respectful tone again.
Mishnal’s lips tightened at the interruption. “Great Uncle Lao Zun is a quirky old man. This—” he nodded at the Turgonian, “—will at least offer you practical experience against a dangerous enemy who’d like to see you dead.”
How… fortunate for him.
“He agrees with that?” Yanko asked.
“He has no choice. Regardless, he should find it a refreshing break from laboring all day in the mine.”
“Even if he figures out his purpose in practicing with me is to make me good enough to kill him?” Yanko couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
His uncle’s eyes hardened. “You shame your family with your disrespectful tone. I fear for our future if you end up taking after your mother rather than your father and grandfather. I must attend to my work. I will send someone to monitor your continued training.” He stalked out of the chamber before Yanko could apologize. He had no intention of abandoning his family; he simply wanted to be able to speak his mind.
Realizing the Turgonian was still standing by the wall with his sword and shield at the ready—and that the man who controlled the collar had left—Yanko cleared his throat.
“I’m actually better at the mental sciences than I am at blade work.” He wriggled his fingers, though he had no idea if the I-can-use-my-mind-to-make-things-happen gesture was universal. He hoped so. It seemed prudent to imply that he could control the collars, the same way his uncle could. No need to let the big fellow know Mishnal would have to let Yanko key himself to the artifact before that would be true. “You would call it, tabok, I think. Magic?”
The Turgonian’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t otherwise emote, and he certainly didn’t speak.
“My specialty is Earth Science. It means I can…” Er, he probably wouldn’t impress a warrior by bragging about his ability to enhance the productivity of a beehive or speed up the composting of manure. “Well, as an example, I could convince thick ropes of grass to grow up out of the ground and wrap themselves around your legs to keep you from attacking me.” Technically true, but only if they were standing in a meadow of grass rather than on salt more than a hundred feet beneath the earth’s surface. And also only true if he had the time to concentrate on his craft, something that was nearly impossible with an enemy soldier charging. It was the reason that even the most powerful warrior mages had bodyguards when they served in the Great Chief’s armies.
Fortunately the Turgonian didn’t ask him to prove the claim. He didn’t ask or say anything.
“Do you understand any Nurian at all?”
No response.
“It seems odd that your people would send you over here without teaching you a few survival phrases. Or were you simply traveling here of your own volition and got into some trouble?”
What are you trying to do, Yanko? Humanize him? He’s a monster—his people have killed thousands of ours, if not millions over all the centuries.
Then the Turgonian spoke. Not in Nurian, but in his own guttural, harsh tongue, one that Yanko didn’t know more than ten words of. From the simple and formal-sounding sentence, he had the feeling he’d been given the Turgonian equivalent of name, rank, and clan.
Yanko repeated the litany in his mind—he had an ear for music and remembering songs after only an iteration or two, so he was reasonably confident in his memory. “Dak?” he asked, taking a guess at which word might have been a name, though it sounded a lot like that miner’s phlegmy cough in the lift.
The Turgonian stared at him, then nodded once.
That meant the word before, truchag, might be his rank. Yanko didn’t know what that translated to, but he made a note to ask someone. Not his uncle. He doubted his uncle would approve of him talking to the prisoner.
So, why are you doing it, eh?
“I’m Yanko,” he said anyway, touching his chest.
The Turgonian didn’t respond. He probably didn’t care. He probably understood his purpose here even if he hadn’t grasped the language. He might even now be thinking that he had to kill Yanko before Yanko succeeded in killing him.
Footsteps sounded in the tunnel, and a middle-aged man entered. He wore robes less decorated than Mishnal’s but of the same yellow and orange color scheme.
“You are to train with the prisoner,” the man said. As an overseer, he must also have the ability to control the collars. “I will keep him from injuring you severely.”
But minor to moderate injuries were acceptable? Wonderful.
“Begin.”
Yanko took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”
Part 2
It was called the screw. Four men walked in circles around a pole, pushing wooden bars that spun a wheel that in turn raised carts of salt from the lower levels. Sweat snaked down the bare backs of the unlucky men chosen for the task, Yanko included. By the end of his third hour at the machine, his raw palms bled and his back felt like it had been trampled on by an elephant. Drumbeats drifting down from an overseer’s platform were intended to encourage one to ignore the pain and keep up with the pace. Yanko wished the perky musician would fall off the platform and into the mine depths more than fifty meters below.
“No,” the man behind him whispered in response to some muttered question from the man behind him. They shared laughter.
The chuckles might have nothing to do with him, but Yanko flushed anyway. When he’d stepped into a slot at the screw, the workers had given him perplexed looks, doubtlessly wondering why someone with hair that fell halfway down his back was toiling in the mines with them. A peasant might labor alongside prisoners of war and work camp detainees, risking his or her life for payment in lucrative salt, but not someone from an honored family.
A few meters away, on the platform where the carts were unloaded, men made way as an overseer led in a line of replacements. Yanko’s Turgonian was with them. Dak. Yanko glared at him. They’d been meeting daily to “train” for the last week. It had consisted of nothing more than Yanko receiving thrashings every time. Though the Turgonian never
said a word, Yanko always had the impression he was eager to end the sparring sessions as quickly as possible, maybe discouraging him intentionally in the hopes that Yanko would request another opponent. So much for Uncle Mishnal’s theory that the man would appreciate time away from the monotony of mine work. As for Yanko, thus far, all he’d gotten better at was ducking and dodging the Turgonian’s all-too-accurate swings. Defensive skills might be useful, but his blade work could have improved more under Great Uncle Lao Zun’s tutelage.
Dak went to work without looking toward Yanko. He unhooked carts as they rose and pushed them into the tracks where another man harnessed them to a lizard. The work placed him near the edge of a wooden platform that stretched out over a cliff. It dropped fifty meters to the next level of the mine, with nothing except hard ground below. Yanko supposed it wasn’t mature of him to contemplate running over and shoving his training partner over the cliff.
“Is he pushing at all?” came a whisper from behind him.
“…don’t know. Got some muscles for a sprig, but don’t know how to use ’em.”
“…heard he’s related to the controller.”
“Better not step on his feet then.”
Yanko flushed at being caught daydreaming and leaned into the bar. There was no point in dwelling upon fantasies. If he was going to think about something, it ought to be a strategy that would work against the big fighter. So far, his be-faster-and-approach-on-his-blind-side tactic hadn’t proved fruitful. The bastard was fast himself, far more so than someone that size had any right to be.
Yanko watched Dak haul another full cart over the edge of the platform, wondering if he had some other weakness that might be exploited. As he muscled the cart onto the tracks, the Turgonian leaned close to another man with olive skin, one who’d just come in, leading a pair of fresh lizards to the carts. The two men shared a few whispered words while attaching harnesses. The overseer standing on the musician’s platform above didn’t seem to notice.
Yanko felt his heartbeats quicken. Were those two simply sharing words because they had some kinship, or were they planning some conspiracy? An escape? Worse?
The Turgonian glanced his way, as if he had heard the thoughts. Yanko avoided his eye, pretending the bar occupied his attention.
It’s probably nothing. Ignore it.
But if the Turgonian was planning something that could affect the whole mine, it would mean trouble for his uncle. A mass exodus of escaped prisoners or something else that closed the mine would reflect poorly on him—and the family. If their clan suffered more setbacks, the Great Chief might shave everyone’s head and take the last vestiges of their status, including their land and their right to participate in government.
Stop it, Yanko. You’re letting your imagination charge around like an elephant tangled in the clothesline.
Of course, if the Turgonian was conspiring, it would be my duty to report it. He’d be punished… maybe worse… and I’d get a new sparring partner, maybe one who doesn’t pound my face into the ground ten times a day…
“Look out, gorilla. You’re stepping on people with those giant dung kissers.” A Nurian pointed to Dak’s booted feet.
“That’s right. He stepped on me more than once,” said a second man, one who’d just arrived and who hadn’t been by all morning. Quite a few people had just arrived. All Nurian. The Turgonian that Dak had been speaking to earlier was gone.
He stood alone on the platform, taller than those around him, but alone nonetheless. He had been about to pull a new cart off the ropes, but he’d stopped to face his accusers. His back was to the cliff, to the fall.
“Turg dogs aren’t anything but trouble when they end up in the mines,” the first speaker said. Others were gathering around him, some with pickaxes and others with chains or clubs.
Dak was unarmed. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, but the odds were against him, and he had little room in which to maneuver.
“Must be why they never last long down here,” a new man said, this one at the back of the mob.
Others nodded grimly. One chuckled, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. A scar ran across his scalp, and he was missing several fingers. Maybe he anticipated reciprocating some revenge suffered at Turgonian hands long ago.
This is your chance, Yanko realized, as the mob closed on Dak. He wouldn’t have to raise a hand to get rid of his training room nemesis. Someone else was going to do it for him.
The Turgonian had bent his knees and his arms hung loose and ready, but he stole a glance at the platform above. The overseer should have been standing up there, watching the workers and playing the drum to keep them moving in synch. But the music had stopped, and he’d disappeared. This had been planned.
The sweat dripping down Yanko’s back had grown clammy. With sudden certainty, he knew this collusion, this planning to commit a murder, had happened before. Even if the Turgonian was a criminal and came from a loathed enemy nation, this… wasn’t honorable.
Before he’d decided on a plan of action, Yanko found himself walking away from the screw. The workers had stepped onto the wooden platform and were inching closer to Dak, their weapons brandished. The Turgonian hadn’t given any ground, but he hadn’t much ground to give. In seconds, he would have to decide to try and push past or to stand and fight.
Yanko cleared his throat and lifted his hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was curious if you fellows wanted some help.”
The men stopped their advances and stared at him.
“Because ten against one doesn’t seem unsporting enough, does it?” Yanko said. “I have a few tricks that might come in handy. Like perhaps you want me to hold him down?” He stretched out a hand and plucked a familiar technique from his mind.
Vines appeared to spurt from the wooden planks of the platform. They waved in the air and stretched toward the ringleader, as if to entwine his legs. The man stepped back. Good. It was only an illusion. As Yanko had lamented earlier, he couldn’t easily access the nature sciences down here with nothing except salt and air to draw upon. The men murmured uneasily. Yanko’s heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with the mental effort the illusion required. He had grown up wielding the Science, but he had never used his skills away from his kin or those who knew him—he’d certainly never tried to cow strangers with it. And these workers might very well resent the intrusion of a practitioner; his presence had to be a reminder that because of fate he could aspire to a much greater station in life than they.
The men traded glances with each other. Nervous glances. Yanko made the tallest vine grow up, waving in the air like a snake. It reached for the ringleader’s face.
The man skittered back, bumping into the others to dodge the sinuous tendril.
“My uncle has told me,” Yanko said, “that the mines are being scrutinized due to low production. That is why I was sent to monitor from within and help increase efficiency. We can’t afford to lose any people, prisoners or otherwise, nor can we afford unscheduled rest breaks.” He pointed at the mob. “Get back to work, all of you.”
With the command issued, Yanko held his breath. What would he do if they didn’t obey? His uncle hadn’t granted him power over anyone and certainly hadn’t told him anything about the mines. He would be in trouble later if word of his claims reached Mishnal.
The men muttered unhappily, but they backed away. Yanko exhaled slowly and let his illusion fade. He glanced at the Turgonian, wondering if the display would have him worried, since his people were superstitious about the Science. Dak had already returned to work, pushing a cart toward the tracks.
Yanko sighed wistfully. He didn’t know why it mattered, but he had hoped for an acknowledgment from the Turgonian, at least a quick nod.
Two minutes ago you were fantasizing about his death. You don’t deserve applause.
Wood creaked. The overseer had returned to his perch. He peered curiously down at the Turgonian for a moment, but started in with the drumbeat again without a word.<
br />
Part 3
Yanko walked into the practice chamber without enthusiasm. The Turgonian waited, his back to a wall, his sword and shield propped next to him. The overseer stood near the door, his features those of a bored man. Watching a teenager get thumped repeatedly must lose its allure after a while. So long as he was quick to react when Dak tried to crush Yanko’s throat.
With that happy thought, Yanko chose the saber and kyzar and walked to the center of the room. The Turgonian stepped away from the wall, pointed at the short stabbing sword, shook his head, and pointed back at the rack.
“Uhm, what?” Yanko asked.
Dak repeated the series of gestures, shaking his head more firmly at the kyzar.
“You think I’d do better with something else?” Realizing the man wouldn’t understand the question, Yanko returned the weapon to the rack and raised his brows.
The Turgonian nodded.
Yanko pointed at a shield.
Another head shake.
“Just the saber?” Yanko asked dubiously. Most Nurian fighting styles involved weapons in both hands. Admittedly, he wasn’t that good with a blade in his left hand—thanks to his early aptitude with the mental sciences, he had learned to write long before he’d started training with weapons, and his right hand had always been dominate. He had long thought he might do better with a shield for blocking, but his great uncle and father had insisted on teaching him in the clan style.
Dak nodded and gestured for him to return to the center with only the saber. He faced the Turgonian who promptly gripped his shoulders and rotated him sideways. Having the big man so close made Yanko nervous, but Dak soon finished his adjustments. After a series of gestures, Yanko got the gist.
“Oh,” he said, “this is the Turgonian dueling style, isn’t it? You keep your side to your opponent to present a smaller target and attack in and out that way, kind of in a line instead of circling each other? That’s not what your soldiers use in war, though, right? I mean, I know you have firearms, but you still train with swords and shields for unit combat, don’t you?”