A Thirst for Vengeance (The Ashes Saga, Volume 1) (20 page)

Blackstone extended his hand to me. I took it.

“Come on,” he said, pulling me up. “If we get back to my home, I know an apothecary that carries the antidote. We’ll get it to you in time.”

I stared at him. “You mean we’re going to
leave
?”

Blackstone grimaced. “The Arena is just one job, Dagan. Your leg—you’ll have to live with that forever.”

“But Three-Grin is going to be here!” I cried. “I thought this was our chance to kill him? You told me he doesn’t come to watch the fights!”

“Aye, and so we’ll miss him,” Blackstone said. “But the price isn’t worth it. You’re wounded. You won’t be able to do your part.”

I staggered away from him, supporting myself. “I will!” I proclaimed. My numb leg felt like it would give out on me at any moment. I fought to keep it straight. “No. No! We can’t give up now. No. We won’t!”

“Dagan.” Blackstone laid a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me. I have been looking forward to this day as much as you. But losing the feeling in your leg permanently? That would be as good as crippling you. It’s not worth it.”

“We have time,” I protested. “If we rush—”

“No.” Blackstone shook his head. “You cannot run. You can barely walk. Both of us need to be able-bodied to pull this off.”

“I got back to you,” I said. “I did it without any
Laciruss
in my system.”

“You were running on adrenaline.”

“I was still
running
!” I said.
“We can do it. We’ll get the antidote. Come back. I’ll have the feeling in my leg, and—”

Blackstone cut me off. “I admire your courage, son. I really do. But the minute you drink the antidote, the pain will consume you. You’ll be even worse off than you are now.”

“I can handle it,” I promised. “I swear. We need to do this. We have to, Black!”

Blackstone peered deep into my eyes. I felt the intensity radiate out from him.

I matched it one-to-one.

“We
have
to,” I said again. “Please?”

He continued to stare at me. Finally, he spoke.

“This is your heart talking? You are not blinded by your desire for revenge?”

“No!” I said. “I’m not—well, I
am
, I
do
want revenge. But it’s not what’s driving me. You taught me to push it down. I know what we have to do. I’m still up for it!”

Blackstone stood up. He walked a few paces away. “Walk to me,” he said.

I gritted my teeth and began to march. Every second step sent me lurching to one side. My leg felt as if it were filled with liquid metal.

“You cannot balance,” Blackstone observed. “You would be useless in a fight. The muscle in your leg is severed.” He shook his head. “You won’t be able to walk once the
Laciruss
is gone.”

“I will,” I insisted. “I can do it!” I could feel hot tears welling up in my eyes. “We’re so
close
!”

“Dagan, I’ve seen men twice your size take wounds half as big and be dragged screaming off the battlefield. You’re young, and fueled by courage. But this is not something we can pull off any longer.”

“So that’s it?” I spat. “You’re just going to abandon it, because of me?”

“There will be other jobs.”

“But none as important as this one! Please. I saw another cart filled with children delivered tonight. They were in cages, Black. They are all going to die if we don’t do something!”

Blackstone’s face darkened. “You saw a cart?” he said.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “The man I killed drove it here. He said it was from Three-Grin.”

Something changed in Blackstone’s expression. His face turned hard.

“I rode to Hallengard in a cage,” he said under his breath. “That day, I vowed I would destroy the Arena and all those like Three-Grin.” He looked at me. “You truly believe you’re up to task?”

Hope bloomed in my chest. “Yes!” I exclaimed.

Blackstone looked at me. I could feel his eyes weighing. Judging.

I stood as tall as I could. I was not about to back down now.

“All right,” he nodded. “We will try. But we have to hurry.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Arena was past the massive doors and down another long, sloping tunnel. When we came to it, I was astounded by its sheer
size
.

It looked like a crater dug underground. It was a circular space surrounded by rows upon rows of old, wooden benches. I stared in wonder at how many people must be able to fit in those seats. Thousands.
Tens
of thousands.

Blackstone led our team of horses around while I sat in the back of the wagon. I hated feeling so useless, but riding was much faster for me than walking.

The barrels surrounded me. We took a path that wound below the structure of the Arena. Blackstone said he knew about it from his time here. It was a maintenance path, running underneath the enormous structure. Down there, I could see all the planks of wood that made up the Arena’s base.

He knew the six spots where he wanted to plant the explosives. We rode around, circling the outer rim. Once every forty planks, Blackstone would stop and deposit a barrel against a massive vertical pillar. He bound it tight with a heavy rope, and we continued on.

In time, all six barrels were in position. By some stroke of luck, we did not come across another person during our entire escapade. Blackstone had me keep watch, armed with a new set of throwing knives. He told me to kill on sight.

I suspected it was just his way of making me feel useful. He undoubtedly planned the route beforehand so that we wouldn’t encounter anyone.

At some point, I heard whimpering below us. I looked at the ledge where the floor met the wall, and saw small air ducts leaving little gaps in the wood.

“The slavers keep the children even deeper,” Blackstone said when he noticed me looking. “They’re left in separate pens before the fights. I lived it.”

A shiver ran down my spine. If not for that miraculous rescue, I would have died down there long ago.

An uncomfortable thought occurred to me. “Tonight,” I said, “if all goes according to plan… what happens to the fighters?”

Blackstone did not look at me when he answered. “They will burn.”

I sputtered. “
What
?”

“We cannot save the ones already taken. Their fate has been decided. All we can do is save others from a similar existence.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

He sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. But even if we could save them, Dagan—and we cannot—where would they go? What would happen to them after? They would die on the streets. They are nearly feral. Their humanity has been stripped from them. They will not survive.”

“They will have a chance!” I said. I remembered the scared little boy I had woken up next to in the cart. “By leaving them, you condemn them to death!”

“Such is the way of the world. They would have died without us. What difference does it make if they die because of us?”

“It makes a difference,” I stated. I could not verbalize
how
, but I knew it did.

“There is nothing more we can do.” Something about Blackstone’s tone told me the conversation was over.

I brooded in silence as Blackstone turned the wagon back up. I was dimly aware of my leg. I was more worried about the fighters.

Blackstone said we couldn’t save them. I didn’t doubt that was the truth. But I still thought that we should at least
try
.

On our way up, Blackstone stopped by the two bodies I had left. He cleaned up some of the blood and arranged them in a position to make it look like their death was the result of a brawl gone bad.

“Not the most elegant solution,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”

I grunted my agreement. I was still bitter about leaving the slaves.

You see, back then, I had childish notions of honor and justice in my mind. I had seen little of the world. My moral compass had not yet been corrupted by the bitter truths of life.

Here are those truths as I know them now:

Life is hard. Life is unfair. There is no such thing as justice. To chase after it in the vain hope of attaining some metaphysical glory or feeling of self-righteousness is a fool’s errand. Things will always be bleak and cold in this world. Do not try to change that. It would be as fruitless as trying to change when the sun rises.

The weak do not survive. The strong always win. Some of those caught in the middle plod along, living off whatever scraps they might find. But it is a thin existence. When you are young you believe you can change that.

You cannot.

I have told you once before that my story will teach you the folly of being a hero. That was my life for many years. I know better, now, just the same as Blackstone knew back then.

He was a good teacher. Do not fault him for not instilling the merciless nature of the world into me at the time. He knew I would have to make my own mistakes to learn.

The first mistake I made came later that night. It cost me dearly.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

We’d gotten back to Blackstone’s home, and he brought me the antidote. It was a dark blue liquid in a tiny vial half the width of my pinkie.

On his request, I waited until after he’d stitched up the wound before taking it. I’d also changed out of my blood-soaked clothes.

I swallowed the potion. Blackstone told me to lie down in anticipation of the pain. To show him I was strong, I remained standing.

I waited for a few minutes. Nothing happened. I was about to suggest that maybe he’d gotten the wrong vial, when an avalanche of pain and agony crashed into me.

I staggered to the wall. The world turned white. My entire leg felt like it was on fire. No. It was more than that. It was the feeling you might experience if you were dipped into a pot of boiling water. The pain was not just isolated to my leg. It consumed my entire body.

Using every ounce of strength I had, I collected that pain and pushed it into the deepest corner of my mind. I fought as it throbbed and tried to break free. It wanted to overwhelm me.

I gritted my teeth and willed it down.

My vision returned. The sequence felt like it had lasted seconds, but when I returned to myself, I felt my shirt drenched in sweat. It must have been minutes.

I pushed off the wall. The pain wasn’t entirely gone—I could still feel a dull throb in my leg—but I had to leave that if I wanted to retain any control over the limb.

I walked toward Blackstone, who was watching me with dark, hooded eyes. My first few steps were uneven, but as I got closer, they levelled out.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked. His voice was grave.

I looked at him. “What?”

“The Flame of Souls. It is a powerful mental trick. Who taught you?”

I looked at him without comprehension. “Nobody taught me.”

“It takes many years of practice to achieve what you just did, Dagan. I have not told you about it. I will repeat myself only once. Who. Taught. You?”

I shook my head. “Nobody taught me. It’s just something I… knew.”

His eyes focused on me. “Since when? For how long? Why have you not used it before?”

“In Three-Grin’s dungeons,” I said. I thought of Alicia. “Before I could speak. I didn’t know it was something special. It was just something I did.”

“And since then?” Blackstone grilled. “Have you used it since?”

“No,” I said. “It was just a way of dealing with pain. I haven’t had to. I don’t even think I could, before I got stabbed today.”

“Come here, Dagan.” Blackstone motioned me closer. “Sit down. Let me tell you something.”

I climbed up next to him.

“The Flame of Souls is not just a
way of dealing with pain
. It is so much more than that. It is a way of controlling your sleeping mind. It takes years—decades—of practice to achieve what you just did.

“It is a remarkable talent. It allows you to unlock the full potential of what’s in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Most people aren’t even aware they
have
a sleeping mind. But it’s the most important part of you. It houses your instincts. It gives birth to your feelings. It controls the thousands of different processes that keep you alive. The ones you don’t think about, like breathing. It works in the background to form new ideas and solve problems. It is most active when you sleep.

“You know the saying, ‘sleep on it’? It has a double meaning. When you close your eyes to rest, your conscious mind is suppressed. It takes a step back and allows the sleeping mind to come forward. That is why you dream. That is why
sleep
is so important. It seals new memories. It strengthens old ones. It helps you learn the things you practiced that day.

“When you sleep on a problem, you allow that part of you to function unabated. The sleeping mind does not compete. It churns away in the background, and floats to the surface only when you rest.

“Everyone’s mind is capable of astounding feats. Most of those—intuition, common sense, problem solving, self-discovery—come from the sleeping mind. It is also where your reservoir of magic exists.”

Blackstone exhaled. “If magic still remained in our world in full force, I believe you would have had the potential to become the greatest sorcerer of our time. If you stumbled upon the Flame of Souls by yourself, when you were no more than a babe... well, it’s fascinating to think of the things you could have achieved if you were born in a different age.”

He glanced at me. “Don’t let that go to your head. The Flame of Souls is an impressive achievement. But it is also dangerous. It grants you access to the parts of your mind that are usually locked off. Things like breathing. Your heartbeat. Pain tolerance.

“I am warning you of the dangers now, Dagan. Do you remember the rings I drew once? I would have spoken to you about the Flame only after you have reached the fifth level. Even then, it would have likely been too early. But I know that you already show great promise.