Undeterred, I raise my bloodstained hand, showing them the jagged pottery still clutched between my fingers. “Stay away, or I will kill all of you.”
I’m sure they see it as a vague threat. There’s at least twenty of them, and I’m alone. So very alone. Yet with one curse, I could end all of them.
The man closest to me sneers. “You may land a blow or two, but you will not leave this alehouse alive.”
His words should give me pause, but I’m too consumed by the darkness smoldering in the pit of my stomach—the ever-present shadow that has grown over the last three weeks, feeding off my desperate situation. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized just how much the darkness had fattened while I starved. Now it overwhelms me like a stream that becomes a raging river when rain falls on parched land.
“Careful that she doesn’t touch you with her diseased flesh,” the man to my right warns.
The sight of my trembling hand, still extended, jolts me from the brink of oblivion. But it isn’t the blood on my hands that affects me, it’s the black. It will kill me as surely as any ravaging disease. But first, it will claim my soul, if I let it.
I cannot cast Bloodstone magic again.
I gulp in a quick breath and force myself to reevaluate the situation. My gaze moves over the men. Fear sparks in their eyes, fear of the unknown and the woman who refuses to back down.
My surcoat billows around me as I take a step forward. “You want justice?” I shout, my voice ringing out in the cramped alehouse. “You want to punish me for defending an innocent woman? Then let me have a trial.”
They probably had expected an opportunity to beat down an old woman.
The men exchange wary glances, their faces tensing with a mix of surprise and caution.
I take another step forward. “I demand a trial by combat. If I am guilty, let the gods strike me down. But if I am justified in my actions, let me go free.”
A heavy silence blankets the room as the men’s expressions shift from aggression to a wary respect.
I turn to the man closest to me, the one who sneered at me earlier. “What do you say?”
He hesitates, but after a moment, he speaks. “Very well,” he says. “I’ll be your opponent.”
A rush of anticipation surges through my veins again, and I nod in agreement.
As we step into the cool night air, the rest of the patrons of the alehouse gather around us, forming a circle. The moon casts a pale glow over us, as if it holds the rain clouds at bay so it can watch and make a tapestry of what transpires for the high gods.
The man who agreed to fight me is taller and broader. I eye him, expecting to feel fear. Something. Anything. Yet, I don’t. Instead, there’s the same anticipation as earlier, that same craving for a fight.
My opponent and I circle each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Without breaking eye contact, he lunges at me, his fist aiming for my head. I duck, feeling the wind whistling past my ear as he misses. I counter with a swift kick to his shin. He staggers back, cursing. I take advantage and launch myself at him, knocking him to the ground.
He grunts as he hits the dirt, but quickly recovers and tries to push me off. I grab his wrist and twist, causing him to cry out. With his free hand, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks. Pain stabs through my scalp, but I refuse to scream or shout in pain. Instead, I wrench my head free and deliver a swift strike to his face. He groans, blood streaming from his nose.
A young man clad in armor and a surcoat bearing the Kyanite sacred tree steps forward and raises his hand. “Enough!” he says, his voice commanding enough to draw the crowd’s attention to him. “You have proven yourself.”
I scramble to my feet and brush dirt from my surcoat and hands. The crowd stares in silence as the man moves to where I stand, his green eyes unreadable.
“Go, old woman, or this town will exact its own type of revenge on you.”
* * *
By the time I reach my cottage, the moon has succumbed to the rain clouds, and I am soaked. I step through the doorway and sigh when I discover the empty bed. Kahlia is gone.
I’m not surprised. My cottage isn’t somewhere anyone would want to stay long. It barely passes as a shelter, which is likely why it was abandoned and free for me toborrow. There is constant pounding from the cobbler’s shop next door until they retire for the evening. And the roof is slowly collapsing. Tonight, rain pours freely through the hole in the corner opposite the bed.
A sigh escapes me as I dump clean water into the basin and strip off my bloody clothes. After I wash my body, I change into the last clean garment I have, an oversized surcoat I stole from a clothesline four days ago. The coarse material scrapes against my skin, making me itch.
Even though I know today was foolish—very foolish—I still crave a fight.
It’s the darkness.
The mattress dips as I sit on the edge and stare down at my hands. The black hasn’t spread, but something isn’t right…
