Erah

Cool iron rustled a loose autumn braid. Two sandaled feet settled themselves into the scorching sand as Erah dropped into the pit. Her fists clenched around the hilts of two chipped short swords, their leather wraps rubbed smooth with use. Sweat dripped down her forehead and neck, soaking into the canvas tunic belted at her midsection. This was her prison.

Her temples pounded from the eyes of the twin suns in the sky above the nine circular training pits that formed a perimeter around the Den. Tilting her head to the side, she heard the master’s feet shift backward. Erah watched his movements. Feet in Bird stance, opcaushke. First Form. Two steps forty-five degrees. Right diagonal. She had time. Every step the master took was an eternity in the eyes of the gods. Wait. All she had to do was wait.

Erah’s eyes flicked up to the top of the clay wall as a shadow shifted over her. Jeku, Fifth Councilman to Oru, prowled by. His body was covered in elaborate white and gold silk robes, an ornamental golden sword on his hip. His face resembled a vulture’s beak, a pointed black beard jutting out of his chin. It was a wonder the others didn't see the resemblance to the God of Crows, that Jeku had climbed up the ranks of Oru with no family and no title. His hands, rather claws, had yanked her out of the frigid waters of the mountains and trapped her in the scorching sand, binding her soul to the coin of Death. She turned back to the fight at hand.

Grunts echoed over high clay walls. Swords clanged as the rest of the legion trained. Tomorrow would be the Festival of the Fourth Year, the day in which nine warriors from the elite legion would compete in the Den as a spectacle of power to appease the gods. A sacrifice of eight to mark the holy creed of war to call on the blessing of the gods.

Jeku’s thumb ran in small circles around a gold coin with the face of Death. The glint in his eyes were mimicked by Death’s feline grin. This Festival marked the end of peace and the beginning of scorching fire and destruction for those who lived beyond the mountains. A testament that Oru ruled over all. The Councilmen had read it in the glass. They had seen their victory. They had planned their attack. They had trained Erah. Jeku had seen to everything. Erah shifted her feet into the Fifth Scorpion. Her blades arced above her head, body low to the ground.

“Is it this one, Lord Jeku?” A second, smaller priest stood at the Councilman’s shoulder.

“The girl has the blood of the War god. Death cannot claim her before war has even begun.”

Erah spun into a series of four parries. A thin film of sand gritted under her heel as her sandal shifted. She killed and slaughtered at the bidding of the Councilmen, of Jeku, had festered her hatred and bided her time until their deaths would be remembered.

“But a frostchild, my lord. A frostchild can never lead the desert to victory.”

“Have you ever seen a frostchild bleed, Teret?” The priest bobbled his head, no. “The ice they are born with stays frozen in their veins. If one never bleeds, Death holds no power.”

The two swords in the pit clanged as Erah blocked a forehand attack to the head. She batted the metal away from her body. She heard everything. She saw everything. Locked in Oru had heightened her senses where darkness pressed down around her.

“The glass – ”

“The glass predicts our victory.”

“Is that a priest’s intuition or message from the god of Truth?”

“It is an observation from one who listens.”

“Then listen, Teret. Erah will fight our war. It is what she had been bred to do.”

“Of course, Lord Jeku. May the communes tonight bring light to the true victor in the Den.”

A sharp grunt brought the eyes of Jeku and Teret down into the training pit.

“Up, frostchild,” the master barked at Erah. Her knee was bent in the sand after a swirling counterattack at the end of Scorpion form. Erah cracked her neck in agitation. The constant drum of the desert forms made her temples pulse with pain. Her natural fighting style had been whipped out of her. Only the scorching forms were left to her disposal.

Spinning her left leg in an arc behind her, Erah brought her body into a defensive crouch. Her white knuckles dissipated as she eased into the thrum of the Fourth Crow. The chatter of Jeku and the priest dimmed into a thick cloud and her mind narrowed as the master’s blade whirled toward her. He had chosen the offensive style of the Horse.

Angling her body to the right, Erah pressed her chest to her knee. The breast binding itched where it pinched her ribs. Springing up, Erah brought her leg around in a reverse crescent kick. Before it was destined to impact, her hips rotated. The kick turned into an Evergreen Round. The motion snapped the master’s arm inward. As the sharpened blade clattered to the floor of the training pit, Erah crested her dual swords around her head and halted their path a fabric’s width away from the master’s exposed trachea.

Erah pulled herself upright, lowering her swords. Her eyes were set on the sand. Jeku and Teret’s figures were frozen with unease.

“The Evergreen,” the master’s voice glided out of gritted teeth. “An ice form.”

She felt the whip sliding into the master’s hand. The crack stirred more of a response than the stinging prick of the tip against her cheek. She didn't feel it. Her skin didn't show a mark. Teret inhaled a sharp breath. Jeku remained unmoving, his face a sheet of tight marble. Erah’s fingers twitched just enough to cause her blades to fall to the sand. To the Councilmen it was pain, to her it was agitation. To rake her daggers through the soft, warm body of the master would not satisfy her hunger.

Her breath remained steady.

"If you cannot bleed, perhaps another will."

There was a rustle of sand as the grains fell into an iron staircase that emerged from the hole. A young boy, clad in muslin robes and a muzzle around his mouth, shuffled out. He kept his head low and tore away a strip of cloth, exposing his chest.

“Imogen,” Erah whispered under her breath. Her one breath of the night sky, the son of a paper maker. A slave in every sense of the word, the same as Erah. Except where Erah killed, Imogen knelt, taking the punishments where the elite legions could not. A twisted form of humanity crying for

The boy sniffed.

“Imogen, don't – ”

The whip cracked. Imogen flinched. His skin had been flayed to the bone. Erah's cheek would have looked the same had she not have been born other, a frostchild from the mountains with no blood to bleed and skin of ice. Erah didn't allow her face to change, not for a moment, as Imogen looked her straight in the eye, defying. No, Oru had not broken him either. The sand filled the opening once more leaving Erah with the master wetting his lips.

“To the god of Death, I pray hers is quick. For the sake of Oru,” Teret hissed in Jeku’s ear. The feared her, as they should. The frostchildren had been wiped out centuries before in a war that started after a Festival of the Fourth Year. Her kin. She was the last of the dying race, four hundred and eight years old but with the face of a fourteen year old human. The priest abandoned Jeku on the wall. The Councilman shifted his focus and the coin of Death to gaze over a different pit. Erah rolled her tongue across the front of her teeth. She had been waiting for her chance in the Den.

“Again.”

The two continued until the beating suns finished their paths across the bleak, milky Oru sky. Erah sheathed her swords. Her face was a blank mask, steeled from her years serving the masters of Oru. Her fury twisted and writhed with disgust in her gut. The sheep has finally been prepared to slaughter.

A jarring rumble from the base of the training pit jostled her fatigued legs. Holes in between metal beams sucked the sand inward, the pit draining of the coarse grit. The metal cage beneath the surface cooled the soles of Erah’s sandals.

Two beams cracked inward, shaping themselves into steps that led down into the underground city in the heart of Oru. The pits and Den were the only surface features of the desert kingdom. The inhabitants lived and breathed the metallic air of subterranean cities.

Erah shouldered her way through the packed passageway, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimly lit corridor. All noise was muffled by sound absorbent disks placed every few feet. The kingdom of Oru was hidden from sight by land and air. An impenetrable fortress of a kingdom and an inescapable prison to those within.

Carthae housed the majority of the armies in Oru. It was connected to the remaining eight cities by a catacomb of tunnels that resembled that of an ant colony. Burrowed and dark. The principle cities were governed by a Councilman who oversaw all access points with the surface lands and taxed those who wished to enter. Jeku was the lord of Carthae, the richest Councilman of the nine. And the most cruel.

Erah had learned quickly. Submit or die. It had taken years to perfect the façade. Years locked in a cell with only her mind to plan every move of the downfall of Oru. She had convinced them all that she had been broken, with the frost in her blood melting away into the scorching desert sand. But remain it had, chilling her to the core. The frost in her blood could never be broken or melted away.

She slipped through a rusted metal arch that opened up into a vast domed space of pointed metal buildings. Erah booted her way toward the Elected Palace. Black onyx spires glinted high above.

Erah veered away from the collectors that swiped copper coins out of the hands of Carthae citizens. Her lungs cramped with the need for crisp midnight air. There seemed to be a layer of oil and grime that coated her insides, making her nostrils reek of metal with each breath.

Tomorrow would test her in ways that years under the whip of Jeku and the masters could never prepare her for. The Festival of the Fourth Year was designed to be a spectacle. A cry to war. Where a demon from the dungeons was released to remind the people of Oru that they would not survive without the Councilmen, without Jeku and Teret. It was a festival for the desert people and their violent dreams. She was a frostchild, born in the mountains. Alone. Free. With wolves and cats as her guides.

Erah’s hooded figure shifted through the narrow streets, making her way in between crowds of drunken merchants placing bets on the morning’s slaughter.

“Worth less than a full cat skin of ale?” A tender called out from behind a bar. “I’ll match whoever bids highest with a night on the house.”

A flurry of Carthaeans descended onto the bar. The pressure from the masses pushed Erah into the midst of them all and cornered her inside the packed tavern. There was a thick hand on her shoulder, tearing her hood down.

“Ay, boys, what we bet this one’ll pay up tomorruh?”

“Ja, she’ll pay up tonight.”

Four men cornered her, each fingering coins that slid from one hand to the next. They didn't know her. They wouldn't. She looked like every other young girl in Carthae. Pale and dark haired and thin. Erah’s dagger grew heavy under her cloak as the men pressed in around her. The stench of alcohol dripped off of meaty lips.

“You couldn’t afford it.”

“An ja, what’s so special about ya, hm?” One reached down to pull at the string on his pants. Erah ground her teeth and made a motion to draw a dagger. She would kill all of them. Every one. And then drink what was left to prove that she did indeed have human blook running through her veins.

“Bah, save it for an ale and wench, Jenga,” the tender called. He had positioned himself at Erah’s back, his hands wringing the top of a skin full of frothing beer. “You won’t be matching none of that in here.”

“What’s the hurry? Den won’t open up for another few hours, got to amuse ourselves.”

“Amuse elsewhere.”

The men stumbled back a few steps and were soon lost in the hive of gamblers.

“Y’alright, miss?” the tender said over her shoulder. Her hand still hovered within a breath of the dagger’s handle. “Miss? Your family missing you?”

Her hawk-like gaze snapped to his, causing the tender to flinch. “M-miss—”

“You think a family can survive in Carthae?”

The tender puzzled at the steely outburst of the girl. Erah dipped away from the thick crowd gambling on her life. A flash of gold spun in front of her nose. The coin with the face of Death landed in the hands of the tender.

The streets became less populated with each turn. Streetlamps became scarce and dirty. Long shadows inked across her vision. The sign of an old printshop creaked up ahead.

Wafts of stale ink and old parchment reached her nose. The figure of a young boy sat in the back, his back bent over a leather breastplate. Muffled little thumps from the leather hammer reached the door.

“Imogen, it’s me,” Erah called out softly. Imogen’s head snapped up. His chest was bound and blotched with blood.

“My father’s gone.”

“That wasn’t my doing.”

“Death follows you. You thrive in it. I know who you are.”

“Imogen…I’m so—”

“No, you’re not. You’re incapable of emotion. A frostchil-”

“One last look at the sky, Imogen,” Erah whispered, cutting the boy off.

“You know how much Carthaens would pay to see the stars?”

Erah flinched. He was always gentle, regardless of his purpose as a bleeding slave to the Councilmen. Forgiving to a fault and every trusting. But a light had gone out in his eyes. She had watched it go for weeks after his father got ill. Good, she thought. Better he harden himself now before I'm finished in the Den. Her cheeks were flushed as she dug around her pocket. She cupped three coins out to him, the metal clinking softly. His three steps backward were accompanied by a shake of his head.

“No. Gold cannot change your future written in the glass.”

The coins fell from Erah’s fingertips onto the nearest table. “I didn’t sell your father to Jeku.”

Imogen shifted to the back of the shop, laying his weight onto one of the press tables. Gears began to click and the wall behind it imploded. An arched, iron door revealed itself from its depths.

“You may as well have. The poison started the moment you stepped into our shop. All those who know your name end up dead.”

She stood at his back, facing the door. He was a foot shorter than she, his clothing oily and torn in places. “And what is my name?”

“Erah.”

“You’re not dead.”

“With each breath I pray that you are the first to die in the Den tomorrow.”

The tunnel engulfed her in darkness. Erah felt her way along the smooth metal passage. A whisper of peace hummed through the air. Her hands ran along the exterior of the door, feeling for the latch. Erah pushed her shoulder against the weight of the sanddune. Her eyes drifted closed as the fresh air from the surface floated over her. Goosebumps leapt up her arms.

Two steps later, she had left the border of Oru and entered the land of the air. Her eyelashes ticked the base of her eyebrows as stars spiraled above her. Constellations winked and the deep navy sky swirled with twinkling lights.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, the stars seemed to whisper.

***

Erah’s hands twitched the twin blades with anxious irritation. Imogen’s words had haunted her, a feat rare in her many years of torture and captivity.

I pray that you are the first to die in the Den tomorrow.

She stood facing a clay gate and a bloody ramp. The whole of Oru sat on elevated pews above the Den, cheers and cries ebbing and flowing with each of the nine facing the game.

The crowd went silent. The clay gate creaked awake and rose. A piercing white light gleamed through the entrance. Erah’s feet carried her up the ramp, tracking blood up with her into the sandy pit.

Her stomach knotted, not out of fear but anticipation. Before her was a sea of blood, inches deep. The first seven bodies hung crucified in the center if the arena where they were placed on display, tributes to the gods and a statement that they had failed to defeat the demon.

Erah’s grip on the swords tightened. Each step took her deeper into the Den. The wall shrunk behind her as she neared the lake of blood and death. Above, Jeku sat in a golden box with the other Councilmen. Their robes were white like those of the gods. At their backs were the priests. Each held a tribute to the gods. Teret stood at Jeku’s shoulder, his muscles twitching with anticipation and fear.

Jeku leaned forward in interest. The coin of Death glinted off of the two suns, balanced between his knuckles.

Erah’s sandals sunk into the blood and thick crimson mud up to her ankles. She kept walking.

As she approached the bodies, one writhed. Erah’s eyes narrowed, looking to identify the mutilated face. It was Imogen.

He spluttered a moan and locked eyes with Erah. Thick blood strangled his voice.

All those who know your name end up dead. Imogen’s voice reverberated through the cold interior of Erah’s body. Her eyes flickered frost-white and she turned them up towards Jeku. She hadn't remembered nailing him to the cross along with the other six. Didn't recall any of the previous kills.

Whipping her sword up in a clean arc, she severed Imogen’s head from the crucified body without breaking her gaze with the Councilman. She shifted past the cross as the head fell into the bloody lake. She let her sword sink in to the saturated sand.

The blood reached her ankles. Her foot hit a rod beneath the surface. Dipping her hand into the lake of crimson, Erah retrieved a spear. The tip was spiked with three razorblades. There was one last kill to finish the Festival of the Fourth Year and then she would be free. Erah flipped her hold on the spear and took another step, her gaze still locked on Jeku.

The citizens of Oru were silent. The Den held its breath. Jeku pressed his elbows into his kneecaps and grinned.

Erah locked her arm back and let the spear fly.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the spear whistled past Jeku’s ear. The three blades sunk deep into the heart of Teret. The priest’s eyes went wide and the spear shot through his ribs and into the decorative wooden backdrop.

There was a dainty little clink as the token coin of Death fell through Jeku’s fingers. Death itself wrapped the priest in its warm embrace. Teret’s head rolled to the side, tongue slipping in between his slack jaw.

Jeku’s eyes remained locked on the girl drenched in the blood. Addressing his fellow Councilmen he said, “The frostchild has chosen her sacrifice. Do you see it yet?”

The nine clay gates opened and the legions of Oru poured through. They surrounded Erah, her body unmoving and still. Her mouth curled up in a grin. As the warriors angled their weapons at the figure in the center of the lake of blood, Jeku sat back in his chair.

“She is the goddess of Death. The demon of the Den has won.”