Chapter 9

Chapter 9

As an athlete and shikari, Sana’a had found that the perfect workout wasn’t a matter of having more fun at the training.

Nor testing out the latest craze.

Honing her body had a direct impact on whether she won or lost, upped her slay count or not.

For Sana’a, fitness made all the difference. It lifted her from the fog of her endless physical pain and soothed her mind after its nightly wandering.

Unsettled by her dream, she rose from her cot and pulled on her togs.

She strode out of the dorms, past the weapons room, where she nabbed a curved dagger and straight into the open gym with individual cages.

Several fighters, including the burly Kiho, were already engrossed in their sets, and Sana’a nodded to a few.

He and one other, a woman, dipped their krests back while the rest ignored her as she nabbed a fighting ring.

Tucking her head in, Sana’a lost herself in a series of heart-racing sets and kapo sequences to soothe her rising jitters about the royal smug face in her dreams and the unknown match ahead.

She had no idea what to expect.

She wanted to pull out her SHärd blades to practice with the superior weapons.

It was her best preference to take the edge off, but it was too soon to play her best hand.

Instead, she worked the shotel in her hand.

Some mercs she’d fought with in the past had thought the weapon’s design unwieldy.

Others complained that the shotel’s hilt was too small in proportion to its sizeable rounded blade. Grousers claimed it made it difficult to use and challenging to aim.

To the Shotelai, these were all advantages. It all came down to learning the art of speed and aether movement to maximise its lethal power.

She ran through a series of flicks that turned the curved cutlass so fast that it’d disembowel a warrior’s core in seconds.

She lunged, practising her signature reach, designed to inflict severe damage to vital areas.

Another method she’d perfected was the whirlwind swing of the sword. In which the blade came down at a perpendicular angle on the adversary’s head.

Focusing with deep concentration, she moved with lightning-fast precision.

Her style was flawless, her motion honed from decades of discipline.

At one point, she closed her eyes and called on her father’s spirit.

The Shotelai King had been a peerless warrior bestowing a hardcore dagger-swinging storm in battle. All moves he’d executed had been fierce, so perfect it was like he’d ascended to a plane where he was one with his sword. Every slash he made had been precise; each cut deadly.

She channelled his energy, repeating instinctive reactions, forming an unimpaired tempest across the drill ring.

An hour later, she slowed down, coming out of her inner world to see a crowd around her fighting cage.

They scattered as she stared back at them, sweat dripping down her lithe frame.

With a shrug, Sana’a turned to a series of relaxing stretches and breathing exercises, which helped to release her joints from the immense pressure they dealt with daily.

She almost sobbed in relief as tension rolled from her body.

‘Strong workout,’ came a quiet comment as she pulled out of a head-down extension. ‘You’re in great nick.’

Sana’a glanced up to the edge of the perimeter where Kaniz stood, arms crossed on her chest.

‘You were watching,’ Sana’a said, stating the obvious, reaching for a towel to dry off her dripping hair.

‘Of course. Needed to see what shape you were in.’

Sana’a shrugged. ‘I’m not bad.’

Kaniz snorted in disbelief. ‘Don’t give me that false humility. I can spot a blade maestro from a mile away.’

Sana’a sliced her eyes away with a wry upturn of her mouth. ‘You did mention you’re an assessor.’

Kaniz shot her a grin. ‘As well as a kəthi, I’m what they call a kísímí master.’

Sana’a took in the information with a press of her lips. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I function as a trainer, manager, and impresario, all in one. I look out for the best fighters and train and contract them for bouts. I work with other kísímí masters to plan combats, set seat prices, arrange publicity, and hire entertainers. I’m one of the circus ringmasters and want you in my ring. Now finish off, shower and meet me in the kantina. We’ve bizna to discuss.’

She walked off with a small smile, leaving Sana’a with a thoughtful expression.

Showered and primed to face the day, the Shotelai sauntered into the mess hall a quarter of an hour later.

It was filled with hungry fighters and loud banter.

The fare was simple but satisfying, and Sana’a devoured it, only looking up when Kaniz slid onto the bench across from her.

‘I’ve got you into a handful of training matches,’ she announced. ‘You ready?’

‘Always,’ Sana’a said.

‘It’ll allow me to work out how to place you in our public-facing bouts.’

‘Your prerogative.’

Kaniz gave her a long, quizzical look. ‘What really brings you here, Sana’a? We’re an obscure off-colour planet with a raptorial reputation. The pay at the entry-level is middling compared to the schills you can make on Rhesia. Only the kavs walk away with large sacks of schills. Most xkénos fighters play for glory here, for we are Pegasi’s most formidable arena. Few venture this far unless - ’

‘Unless what?’ Sana’a challenged.

‘They’re cocky or supremely confident they can win. Some fall into the first group and become punching bags for the rest of their time with us. Those in the second genus are rare, and even so, no xkénos has ever won against a Kɛstrəl Kavalier or Kísímí master.’

‘You keep saying.’

Kaniz leaned forward. ‘It’s because I know it - and how hard it is to make it here.’

‘Sante for the heads up.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Sana’a chose silence, then changed tack. ‘What’s your story then?’

Kaniz’s lip pursed for a moment, her eyes softening with old memories. ‘I was born into a Krypós Kyrfalcon kəst. My father wanted me to follow a different path from his as a patrol Kärd. So he had me drilled in kapo, boxing, wrestling, swordsmanship and archery. I started as a sābər ring girl but aspired to become a fighter, and I made my debut twelve years ago. I studied with the best and fought my way from the bottom, scaling every step. I’ve won 121 of my 187 fights.’

She said it devoid of pride, stating the facts without emotion, which Sana’a respected.

‘Good for you.’

‘My success caught the attention of the Kəˈnerē and other assorted nobles. I was hired to train them and their guards. Soon, I had a crew of wealthy students for regular weekly sessions and apprentice kavaliers on my books. Preparing them to survive the arena’s duels and tournaments. My team is now one of the superior and most competitive in all Katánē.’

‘Now it sounds like you’re trying to sell me on you,’ Sana’a said with a teasing smile.

‘Maybe so. Not only will you get a great reward for your efforts if you fight well for our crew, but you can gain social honour. The very best combatants can transcend the hierarchies of Katánē. Some have catapulted themselves into the ruling classes, married into the Kəˈnerē or become sponsored by them.’

‘Not interested.’

Kaniz gave Sana’a a quizzical glance. ‘Just schills then, you’re only after the money?’

Sana’a shrugged and glanced away, her jaw ticking.

Kaniz got the hint. ‘You’re an enigma wrapped up in mystery. I can’t wait to see what you’re all about. On that note, if you’re finished with your chow, let’s start in the arena.’

After the meal, Kaniz led her towards the outdoor coliseum, where a small crowd had gathered.

At one end of the vast amphitheatre was an enormous fire, its flames dancing and crackling while smoke rose to the sky.

The billowing smoulder rolled over a cantilevered sculpture of an immense eagle, its talons clawed and wings spread as if in mid-flight to capture its prey.

It’d been cast from bronze and silver, and its fierce gold eyes glowed with pure lodestone.

Sana’a glanced at it, raising her brow. ‘Fascinating.’

The fighting pit was a stadium-sized circle.

Its sandy ground was marked with a series of lines and grids.

Surrounding it were steel poles and electrified nets to stop weapons from sailing over the fence and hitting onlookers.

The shafts themselves were burly enough so one could grab them and shove off to get more speed into their attack and winged flight.

In the centre of the arena was a second circular level platform made of synth plex where the main kavaliers squared off against one another. Surrounding the central hollow were smaller fighting cages occupied by other cadets.

Sana’a wore flat shoes, and the hot sand beneath her feet ground grit and sharp pebbles into her skin through the thin filament of her metsai slip-ons.

The ring’s surface was smooth and worn into a glossy finish from all the battles it had seen.

Despite the open air, the place reeked of sweat, rust, blood, and iron.

A cloud of dust hung in the sky, kicked up by fighters in their training rings dotted throughout the corral.

Inside each of them emanated the sounds of steel on steel, the clank and grind of sparring.

A series of terraces facing the arena were walled in and lined with stone benches where spectators could sit and watch matches.

Clusters of trainers, masters and observing combatants sat scanning her and judging the stranger who dared to challenge the kavaliers.

Sana’a sensed several eyes on her as she brushed the hilt of her shotel, wishing once more she could unsheathe her blades instead.

They vibrated in response against her back. They kept vigil in their barely visible pouches, snug, ready, and waiting in case things got out of hand.

A figure swaggered toward her, chest puffed out.

He was a tall, sinewy male with a shaved head, a striped gold and white krest mohawk and a thick beard.

He wore only a loincloth, his body dusky, oiled and glistening in the hot, pale sun.

Eyes tracking his approach, Kaniz woman leaned in and whispered to Sana’a. ‘He’s one of our most able koya fighters with the ability to control his sābər with only his mind’s íkan flow. He can guide it through the air, telekinetically move it in and out of his hand, and even combine it with other arms like íkan-guided blades, spears and arrows. He’s been instructed to be lenient with you today and won’t use other weapons. Mind you, in a real battle, you take one of his koya if you win. If he takes the bout, he is allowed to slice off what he wishes from your body. From your locks to your krest feathers or even a finger. Most take the hair or krests, making it hard for bald and xkénos fighters to book another fight, given they’re now seen as losers. Only winners advance in this arena.’

Sana’a was about to tell Kaniz to ask the kavalier to bring on all he had when she stopped herself.

There was no need to show off when she knew who she already was.

She flicked her eyes over her opponent with disinterest as he chanted to himself, pacing the ring.

His colossal black and gold streaked krest rocked back and forth, his arms pumping at his sides.

With a turn of his colossal head, the man smirked, sizing her up with a glance.

Sana’a tried to keep her expression neutral, but she couldn’t help the twitch of her mouth.

‘Name’s Keb’, he drawled.

She faced him with her hands relaxed and inclined her head in acknowledgment. ‘Sana’a.’

Kaniz stepped forward, her voice ringing out across the training grounds. ‘Kəthi kin, we have a new fighter joining us today. Sana’a of the Shotelai.’

‘No clue of her or them,’ a burly Kɛstrəl called out from the sidelines.

Sana’a pressed her lips together. You’ll rush to find out more once I’m done here.

‘Don’t be a preen, Kendo,’ Kaniz snapped at the insolent bystander.

The gathered kavaliers stirred at her admonishment, one or two grunting their welcome.

‘Keb, Sana’a,’ Kaniz said, turning to the two fighters. ‘Stay low, keep it clean and to the floor. No atmospheric antics, for now. We’ve no paying punters around seeking entertainment. This is an assessment, so show me what you’ve got, Sana’a.’

Keb groaned in exasperation at the rules, but Sana’a ignored him, closing her mind to his arrogance.

Focusing instead on the adrenaline surging through her as she turned off the metsai flight feature in her undersuit and slip-ons.

Leaning forward, her eyes locked on her rival.

The weight of the food in her belly melted away, replaced with a knot of balled-up energy.

The same tingle was always present whenever she faced a challenge, and she welcomed the electrified tendrils as they worked their way through her spirit, soul and sinew.

Her focus narrowed away from the boisterous rings and the shouts of the onlookers. She shut her ears, oblivious to the smack of a sābər blade-on-blade, the scrape of soles on the sand, the grunts of exertion, and the yells of the combatants.

She only had eyes for one focal point.

Keb.

He swung his hand into his tall mohawk and withdrew one of his koya. Its ebony and gold sword extended just by the touch of his hand, and a thick hilt formed that his fingers dug into.

He then brought his weapon to his chest, thrust back his magnificent head to the skies and shouted. ‘Kuvu! Strength for the battle.’

The word echoed across the arena as the watching kəthi, and Kaniz repeated the words. ‘Kuvu! Power to prevail!’

Without warning, he sent his lightweight missile whistling through the air, his eyes flashing as his mysterious Kɛstrəlíkan energy flowed in glowing strands around it.

Sana’a dodged it with ease, her body moving with a fluid grace that surprised even herself.

Taking a deep breath and stepped forward, drawing her curved shotel from its sheath.

The koya arced back into Keb’s hands, and he swung it once more.

He lunged towards her with a vicious grin.

Sana’a was quick on her feet, dodging the attack and slicing her blade towards his arm.

They circled each other with wary glances; Sana’a kept her eyes on him, trying to read his movements and predict his attacks.

She flourished her cutlass, the metal singing as it sliced through the air.

He charged with his talons, his koya zipping in front of him

‘Flank, to the left.’

The shout came from the sidelines, but Sana’a ignored it despite its astuteness.

I know what to do.

As Keb hurled the koya at her head, she ducked and rolled, moving so quick she was a blur, trailing him and slashing with her blade.

The man roared as her shotel nicked his flesh. Enraged, he twisted and flung the koya at her again.

She dodged to the side lightning-fast and lunged forward. Her blade clipped his flank, and she swivelled it rapidly on its flat side to slap the top of his arm before darting away.

The kavalier grunted in pain and humiliation, swinging again.

In a whirlwind of milliseconds, Sana’a was behind him, her muscled forearm around his upper shoulders, her shotel at his throat.

As a single cheer rose from the sidelines, Sana’a growled against his temple. ‘Concede?’

‘Fokk off.’

His mohawked krest furled out and bristled on her cheek, his four other koya vibrating as if they were about to set loose on her.

‘Surrender, and I’ll let you go. I won’t even take your koya.’

When her weapon dug deeper, he lifted his hands into the air in capitulation.

With a grunt, she released him.

The man stumbled, his sābər clattering to the ground.

The watching crowd fell silent.

She sensed them bristle around her but ignored them, crouching to the surface where she lifted her opponent’s fallen koya and handed it back to him.

Keb nabbed it from her with a snarl.

Still light-headed, he stumbled back, glaring at her as he floundered into the arms of the waiting Kiho, cursing at her.

Sana’a saluted them both with two fingers and sheathed her curved dagger.

Turning to leave, she paused mid-step as Kaniz walked up to her.

‘Keb doesn’t take well to defeat. You did well. While making a mortal enemy.’

Sana’a gave her a huff and a wry smile. ‘Not sure if you’re congratulating or commiserating, but that said, sante.’

‘You have unusual speed and great reflexes, the best I’ve seen in a while.’

The Shotelai woman shrugged, giving Kaniz a narrowed look. ‘Did you cheer for me, a xkénos?’

‘Naam,’ the master said. ‘That’s because I am one, too, in a manner of speaking. I’m from a lower-class Krypós background. It takes a long time for the imperial kavaliers and the noble houses who sponsor our fights to recognise an underdog or outsider, let alone an xkénos. I believe in backing good kavs and bankrolling winners.’

‘I appreciate the support. Twas a breeze.’

‘Don’t get too cocky. The matches only get harder from here.’

Sana’a nodded, her mind already focused on her next match.

The kísímí master shot her a keen look. ‘I’d like to repeat my earlier offer to you. I want you to be part of my training kəst.’

Sana’a raised a brow. ‘What does that entail?’

‘Some kavs bout solo, independently. Others join a house of trainers where we pool resources, skills and wins.’

Sana’a gave it some thought, her eyes tracking Keb and Kiho’s exit, then across the arena to where a cluster of fighters stood staring at her.

‘I’m a lone operator,’ she ventured. ‘I don’t do well in clusters and crews.’

Unless it advances my oath cause, she thought.

Kaniz was quick to draw. ‘You’ll get extra for your effort, book better contests, win higher prizes and get paid for certain for each bout. Like any sport, vultures circle the ring and fleece you if you’re not in with a solid training crew. You’re good, and I also know my sponsor will like you. She champions women fighters.’

Sana’a’s interest was piqued. ‘Who is she?’

Kaniz leaned forward. ‘She is married to the prince-hawk himself, Kaadiq. Son of the recently passed Kíríga. She’s also the sister-in-law of Kalila, the old King’s sibling. Rumour has it the two loathe each other.’

Sana’a’s heart rate picked up, and she fiddled with her shotel hilt, pasting on indifference. ‘Just like you said, royals come with their piles of shit. Not sure I need it. Rumours of how messy the fight for the monarchy is leave me cold. Not sure I want to mess with royals, given the old King’s sister seeks the elusive usurper and ferments troubles in the court.’

‘That she does,’ Kaniz mused. ‘She likes drama, and the usurper is all everyone can talk about outside the arena. Kalila also desires the crown for her son, Kashin, and according to some, she hunts the legendary hawkstone, if it even exists.’

‘What does she have to do with your kəthi kəst?’

‘She doesn’t. I just don’t like the woman. However, because Kesia is our sponsor, Kalila hates our guts and undermines us any chance she can. She despises that we win so often and that she has to wager on us most weeks to make her money back.’

‘Is that right?’ Sana’a murmured. ‘Does she attend the matches?’

Kaniz jerked her chin. ‘She never misses a major one. She shows up with her son Kishan for many of the smaller bouts. I hear they’re in deep with the schill-lenders, and since the Kíríga’s death, their debts have only mounted. So it’s a sure bet we’ll see much of them this match season.’

Sana’a hid her sudden engrossment in the topic with a flick of her hand. ‘Like I said, I care less for royals, titles and shit like that. I just want to get paid. Mayhaps I can find safety and power in being numbered with your kəthi.’

Kaniz nodded, her eyes glittering. ‘You will. Besides, I like you. You’ve got fresh spirit, and we need that to spice up the bouts. We’ve been staling for some time.’

Sana’a stretched a hand and shook Kaniz’s. ‘Lead me to water, and I shall drink.’

The training íkhara was noisy over the next few days as preparations for the match season unfolded.

The air was thick with the clang of koya on metal, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the grunts of exertion.

It was a symphony of chaos and will, a miniature battlefield preparing the fighters for the inevitable battles.

Despite her quiet personality, Sana’a warmed to Kaniz’s kəthi crew.

Some were wary, but most welcomed her. They trained alongside her with competitive posturing yet ribbed her like she was one of their own.

News of her blade skills spread like wildfire through the íkhara, and soon, their training sessions became a spectator sport.

Sana’a gave them the spectacle they came for, making Kaniz grin no end.

Yet, at the back of her mind, she could not let go of him.

Sana’a spent her mornings and practice sessions wondering whether her planned ruse would work.

On a man so cerebral, his presence was so palpable throughout Kos.

It even engulfed her even while she was asleep.

Wherever he was, she was sure he, too, was aware of her arrival on Katánē because, heck, the man had abilities far beyond anything she’d ever come across.

She’d met men, kings, generals and princes of might with exponential capabilities,she thought as she duelled with Kaniz early one morning. Yet this one soul sat above them all, this unknown, untapped soul, with his heat-seeking eyes and an energy that whipped around him like a storm.

Many moons ago, she’d sought her mother’s advice about her oath and the King she was meant to kill.

The Queen had warned her about the bearer of the hawkstone.

‘Whoever wears it is also called the kashu, the eye of knowledge, to the ancients of Shotelai,’ her mother had said. ‘Like the SHärd, it can usher one into hidden realms and spaces of higher consciousness. This makes the wearer the shikashu, a spirit that can sway entire galaxies and lead them into light or darkness. The Kíríga of Katánē is purposed to wear one, and he who slew your father was searching for it. So be careful should you encounter the hawkstone and its bearer.’

Evoking those words now helped Sana’a understand more of Killen’s unusualness.

When they’d met, it impressed her that he didn’t seem to have time for worthless pursuits. Instead, from what she’d gleaned from meeting him, he leaned toward logic, metaphysics, and philosophies far beyond her understanding.

His mind had been primed to focus on ethics, political theory, aesthetics and rhetoric.

She also recalled his physicality and the instant awareness that he could have pulverised her into pieces just by a glance when she’d almost lanced him.

The fact was that while he infuriated her, he also fascinated her.

Her thoughts churned as she remembered his intense, tacit energy.

Under that chilly facade, she sensed a wild heat that made her heart race and her palms sweat.

His voice was a low timber, smooth as whiskey and just as silken.

His presence had commanded the room, and she shivered as she replayed his piercing gaze, cutting through her in a way she’d never experienced before.

Even his scent, a mix of sandalwood and musk, had been intoxicating, making her want to lean closer to him.

Also, the unseen but palpable clashing of their energies had ratcheted up every second they’d shared on that rooftop on Eden II.

Sana’a’s entire being had never thrummed this much.

She‘d even begun to have dreams of him freakin’ to her, which left her imagination wondering how it’d feel to have him pounding his thickness inside, his lips on hers, his hands heating her skin.

The flat of a koya hit her upper arm, and she jumped.

‘Snap out of it, shikari. Stop dreaming of your lover and keep your eyes on your blade.’

Sana’a snarled, annoyed to have been caught out.

With a small cry of defiance, she lunged at Kaniz and lost herself in a cloud of sand, swords and koyas.

With an inhale,she shook off all thoughts of the confounding Kíríga she’d yet to lure into her ruse.