Page 68 of Veiled Flames
The small kid who got hit in the stones remains bent at the waist, and he’s been hit so many times in the back, even I’m starting to feel bad for him.
A massive boulder hurtles toward him. “There’s one down.”
But before it hits, the pink-haired runt tackles the small boy, pushing him out of the boulder’s path. The runt rolls, narrowly missing the boulder himself. But before he gets back to his feet, a missile, a half span in diameter, strikes his back.
The pink haired runt’s body jolts at the impact, but he jumps to his feet and scans for more incoming projectiles, barely showing his pain. A barrage of smaller rocks heads toward him, but he leaps from their paths, all while kicking the other boy to the side, so he too avoids most of the strikes.
“Impressive,” Treacher says, clearly looking at the pink-haired runt.
“Too bad Rosshall is too small,” Saxon interjects. “He won’t last the day.”
I shrug. Rosshall, the pink-haired kid, is lucky I’m not down there throwing rocks. If I were, he’d be dead.
But my compeers have recognized Rosshall’s agility, speed and attentiveness, and they’re testing him without mercy.
Stone after stone flies toward Rosshall from all directions at once. Bobbing and weaving, he dives, jumps and rolls out of the path of many, barely reacting to the ones that do strike. I shake my head. He’s certainly taking some good hits, but either he’s lucky, or he’s prioritizing which ones to dodge, avoiding most of the ones aimed for his head.
Admiration rises inside me. The runt is stronger than he looks, andveryagile—able to spring out of the path of many rocks, even with his bound hands and what must be several throbbing contusions. Nearly every senior candidate is aiming only at him now.
“Enough!” Saxon yells, ending the exercise.
Rosshall dodges the stones already in the air, and then his legs collapse as he drops to the dirt.
Twenty-Six
Rosomon
My body has never endured as much pain as it has this morn. Not even last night with Saxon. Although that pain cut much deeper.
By my count, ten candidates quit during the run at dawn, and seven died in the pit. Many more, bruised and limping, piled into the offered wagon that left camp before we even broke our fasts. The vacating wagon of deserters was uncovered and appeared to offer none of the luxuries we enjoyed on the way here—like bed rolls, cushions and piss buckets.
And our day has not let up since the pit. After that ordeal, we were given a quick meal to break our fasts, but since then our activities have been grueling, albeit less dangerous than rocks hurled at our heads.
Back on the training field, we spent hours alternating between various drills. Most had us running and leaping, some tossing rocks at far away targets. I was at the back of the pack for some ofthe most physical trials, but I refuse to quit. More than a quarter of the men I arrived with have already disappeared.
My hands and arms are the parts of me screaming the loudest at this moment.
Against my arms’ protests, I pull my chin up to the bar I’m hanging from, fighting to keep agony from my expression as I complete my fifty-first consecutive pull up. As soon as my chin crosses the bar, I hear the count and drop back down to hang. There are but four of us left in this trial. While it’s not clear that performing the most pull ups will earn any reward or advantage, Saxon is standing nearby, his strong arms tense and crossed over his broad chest as he watches us, watches me.
I’m certain the others still competing are hoping for praise from the master if they win, but I’m making a point.
I deserve a place at this camp. I deserve it as much as any man, and neither Saxon’s brutality last night, nor his coldness today can chase me away.
“It isn’t fair,” Egon says from the ground below me.
“Yeah,” Amis adds. “The runt has an advantage. Less weight to pull up.”
The other three men still performing chin ups aren’t “runts” by any stretch of the imagination, which makes it clear that Egon and Amis’s complaint is aimed at me.
“Egon, if you’ve got too much weight to pull up,” Saxon says, “perhaps skip your third serving of pudding tonight.”
A few of the other men laugh, and I hear a thud and a grunt, as I start my next chin up.
“Egon,” Saxon says, “I’ll ask you to save your punches for combat training.”
If I had the energy, I’d grin, but I need every bit that I have to pull myself up again. Straining my neck, I struggle to make sure my chin passes above the bar. With Egon and Amis’s attention focused on me, there is no chance I’ll get away with an incomplete pull up.
Then again, none of us can. Saxon, plus every other man who’s dropped out, is watching the four of us like hawks. And that’s on top of the servants keeping the official count.
