So, this was why the Bard was drinking wine, to keep Zionbuss from protecting his queen.
“Do it, boy. Strike hard, strike fast. Kill her, become the Shaigun you are, the Shadojak you’ll become.”
Bray couldn’t believe this was happening, that this was real. He wouldn’t have put it passed the Shadojak to bring Elora down to be executed, if he judged her to be too dangerous he would have taken her life immediately. Maybe she was already dead and Diagus was searching for proof that his Shaigun was pure of feeling, in full control of his emotions.
The shape wasn’t moving, the chest appeared still beneath the rug, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Kill her Bray. It’s one life. One soul against two worlds. Make your judgement boy. Find the balance.”
Bray’s arm moved mechanically, pulling the sword back, ready to thrust forward.
“Do the right thing,” growled the Shadojak, spit flying from his mouth.
Body tense, jaw tight and teeth locked, Bray moved.
Dropping his leading knee to add weight to his thrust, he slammed his arm forward as fast and as hard as he was able; hearing the scream rupture from his lungs with the effort. He put all that he was into that one motion and did ‘the right thing’.
The tip of his sword disappeared two inches into the dirt between the Shadojak’s feet. Stopping only when the blade touched the stone foundations beneath.
He let go of the hilt and stepped away from his sword, away from his master and away from his chosen path and the life he had.
Diagus didn’t flinch, his stony expression as grim and unreadable as always as he yanked the rug from Elora, revealing a stout wooden post with a stuffed sack tied to the top. Her boots innocently standing to attention against the base of the pole, empty - like Bray’s future.
“When the time comes I will kill the girl. If you stand against me, I will kill you. If you run, I will hunt you down.” The Shadojak spoke in a single flat tone, the words rougher than a sharpening stone.
Bray turned his back on his old master and walked away, a numbness filling his mind as the clouds above opened. Rain, cold and heavy spilled from the dark sky, grey tears splattering on his clothes, his face, his hair - yet he barely felt anything. The world would cry for him but who would cry for the world.
Elora...Elora. Her name was whispered each time the wind blew through the open window to disturb the curtains, each time the material swished against the polished floor, ...Elora. When the door opened in the night, as Ejan came to check on her, her name creaked from old hinges and again when the Norsewoman left. Every sound in the old inn: footfalls echoing down the corridor, the cork popping from a bottle, even the horses snorting from the stables. Elora...Elora...Elora. Spoken in a thousand hushed voices, the darkness called to her, sang to her, worshipped her. Elora.
“Elora?”
She opened her eyes and saw Otholo standing by the window, concern wrinkling his brow as he sloshed red wine around a glass he was nursing.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he said.
It was morning and judging by the charcoal sky it would be a wet one. She sat up and rubbed life back into her legs, nerve endings flashing pins and needles through her skin.
“Is everybody ok?” she blurted out, suddenly remembering what had happened in the dungeon. “Did I hurt...” Otholo raised a hand to calm her.
“You’ve hurt their pride maybe. Ragna’s a bit stiff, Bray’s already healed and is out there sparring with Diagus. Can’t believe you gave the Shadojak a black eye. Your life’s turning out to be a ballad all on its own.”
The events in the cell came back to her in a flash. She had wanted to kill them, destroy them totally. The level of violence that propelled her was so intense it was all consuming, powered by the belief that she, herself, was indestructible. It was the dark voices that had been calling to her, guiding her anger, her wrath and if it wasn’t for Diagus touching her skin with her father’s blade, she would have killed them all. Somehow that blade held a power that drained her will.
“What did Zi, what did the demon do to me?” Something had changed inside her, bringing the whispers that came to her from the darkness, snatching other sounds and energies and shaping them to speak her name. Even now, the dual outside between Diagus and Bray, the clashing together of steel against steel brought her name to her ears; sharp, scraping and deep.
“He awakened you. Stopped your heart so it could sing again to a different beat, to a darker beat. Do you feel different?”
Elora nodded. She felt more than herself as if she had spent her life in a dream-state, drugged and only now waking from her stupor but couldn’t shape the words to portray how she felt to Otholo, so she decided to change the subject.
“I thought Diagus ordered you not to drink?”
“He did, although he hadn’t needed to.” He raised the wine toward his lips but before his mouth touched the glass his hand shook, and the arm lowered. “I’ve not touched a drop, I can’t. It’s so infuriating to have something controlling your limbs when you’re actually conscious.”
“It’s Zio...”
“Don’t speak his name or you’ll call him forward. But yes, the demon won’t let me touch a drop.” Sad eyes cast down upon the drink in his hand. “I should be grateful really. I haven’t been sober in a long time. It just irks me that it wasn’t my choice.” He set the glass down on the windowsill and peered out. A scowl bringing his blonde brows together.
“That’s interesting,” he said rubbing his chin.
“What’s interesting?” asked Elora as she joined him at the window.
Otholo stood aside, giving her room. She looked down into the grounds and watched Bray walking away from Diagus, his sword stuck into the ground at the Shadojak’s feet. “What happened?”
“I could be mistaken but I believe the Shadojak now needs a new Shaigun” replied Otholo. Elora stared at Bray as he walked out of the courtyard and into the developing storm.
“What do you mean?”
“Bray’s given his sword back to Diagus, giving his title of Shaigun up. He’s now a free man.”
Her eyes found the Shadojak’s who turned his stare from Bray to her, his expression hard, accusing. Did he blame her for this?
“I need to get dressed,” she said, pulling at the clothes she had slept in, the same she had worn yesterday. Otholo took the hint and crossed the room to the door.
“I’ll be around if you need me,” he said, treating her to a mock bow before leaving the room.
Elora dressed in the green britches and shirt she wore on her first evening at the inn, tied her hair back in a no-nonsense way and set off to find Bray.
The inn was quiet as she made her way across the empty barroom, her feet making the only sound, slap slap on the polished floor. She stopped when her gaze fell upon Ragna’s great war hammer hung above the fire place. Her hand print sunk into the steel of the Fist of the North.
