Mere hours later, Dorian’s at the door to my cave.
And I’ve been up a while.
I had a brief, but hard, sleep. Dreamless. A welcome respite from the overload of thoughts and emotions streaming through my head.
I woke up what would have been before morning bells, and with nothing to do and too many thoughts, memories of last night, running through my head, I prepared my atlatl.
I’ve no idea how to use the thing, but I needed the distraction, the monotony of working with my hands. I’ve only ever seen the one weapon in the photo and some Imperi soldiers carrying them. But I did what made the most sense. I sharpened the wooden tips of the spears, checked the leather binding to be sure the handle was secured. I even added my own talisman. For good luck, I broke off the already cracked end of Poppy’s pipe, sanded the wood, and then strung some fishing line through the holes like beads. I attached them to the end of the handle.
When Dorian and I enter the training cave the space is abuzz with the echoes of arrows whizzing, swords clanking, and small explosions, the smell of sulfur and sweat permeating, a blue haze in the air.
The large cavern, same one we used during the flood, has been transformed. What was then a makeshift living space is now sectioned off into separate training areas. The “walls” dividing where Night members train are not walls at all, but a hodgepodge of items from warped sheets of metal to driftwood to bricks and large rocks. But it’s effective. There are at least ten distinct training areas marked off.
And the movement going on within those areas? Complete and utter controlled mayhem. To our right, four soldiers work together, taking turns sword fighting. On the left of us, there’s a line of metal cans and hay-stuffed, haphazardly painted targets. Two lines of Night members wait their turn to try their hands and aim with the pelters, handheld weapons that hold tiny versions of the blue-smoke explosive Dorian used on the Imperi soldiers the night he brought me here. Each time one goes off, my shoulders jump at the loud popping sound.
“They aren’t deadly,” Dorian leans in to say, “but burn like the devil. They’re popular, but we only own a set of six we stole from the Imperi. We’re working to find a way to develop our own … No luck yet.” At “yet,” one of the soldiers shoots a bull’s-eye and the entire crowd erupts in cheers.
“Ah, here we are.” Dorian motions toward an empty training area straight ahead. It’s marked off with a mix of metal sheeting and wood propped in place by large rocks like a rickety fence.
“You go ahead and ready your weapon while I set the course up, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, not knowing how the hell to “ready my weapon.” Sure, I’m okay with a blade and I’m excellent with a fishing pole … I stare at the atlatl. It’s about as long as my forearm. The spears are simple wooden stakes. A few of them are worn, clearly the originals, while the others are more newly crafted. The hook of the atlatl is made of carved bone.
I examine one of the spears more closely and see that the back of it is slightly hollowed. Perhaps that’s how it fits into the atlatl itself? Using raw common sense, I fit the atlatl to my forearm, balancing it within the crook of my elbow. I then attach the spear to the hook so the point is uncomfortably at my wrist.
It falls to the floor with a loud whack.
Dorian’s eyes snap right to me.
I raise my eyebrows, throw a hand on my hip like I totally know what I’m doing.
He smirks. “It’s not fishing, eh, V?”
“No. No, it’s not.”
“Here.” He gives the target he was setting up a final adjustment, then jogs over and picks up the spear. “You’re going to put a hole through your hand holding it that way.” Dorian takes the atlatl from my arm. “Like this.” He removes his button-up uniform shirt, folding it over the nearest sheet of metal fencing. Pushing up the sleeves on his black undershirt—a light cotton tunic—I notice the ties have loosened to reveal a bit of his chest. I find myself distracted, and worse, he sees I’m distracted. The moment our eyes meet, a wave of embarrassment runs over me, then memories from last night, being close to him, invade my thoughts and send warmth up my neck and into my ears. “So…” He pulls me back into the present. “Place the atlatl like so.” He positions it over his right shoulder, hook in back. “As for the spear…” Dorian then fits the sharp stake into the hook like I’d had it, but holds it in place with his right hand so it doesn’t drop to the floor. “Then, smoothly, like you’re casting your line, cock it back, throw, release the spear, and—most important—follow through.” He mimics the motions and then demonstrates.
The muscles in his forearms flex and contract as he inhales, steps back, throws the spear while also releasing his breath, and sends it soaring right into the target. It’s not a bull’s-eye, but he’s only three rings to the middle. Respectable.
“Now you try.” He hands the atlatl over.
I nod, realize my shoulders are slumped, and straighten them. It’s like casting a line …
Pulling a spear from the quiver slung over my shoulder, I place the atlatl on my right shoulder like Dorian did, gripping it in the place I noted when he demonstrated. I then insert the spear, securing it into the hook and holding it steady with my thumb and forefinger. I step back, cock my arm, and ready it for a hard throw. “Wait,” Dorian says, cutting into my concentration. He steps so he’s standing right behind me and adjusts the atlatl so it sits closer to the crook of my shoulder, his warm hand grazing my ear, sending a shiver down the back of my neck.
I remind myself to focus.
Then, placing his hand on top of mine, he moves my fingers along the spear, but more toward the back of it, and, I swear, when our hands touch there’s a spark. Not the metaphorical kind, but a literal spark of static between us. Neither of us mentions it, but I know he felt it too because of the way he sucked his breath in, how he caught my sight from the corner of his eyes.
Dorian moves away, putting space between us, and clears his throat. “Have at it.”
I hone in on the middle of the target, a brown dot painted on cotton fabric wrapped over hay. I cock my elbow back, bend my legs for stability and extra momentum. Then, breath steady, I throw my arm forward, release the spear, follow through, and … The stake flies a solid two feet before it slams point first into the stone floor.
“Huh,” Dorian says right into the back of my neck. Except this time instead of igniting shivers, it actually lights a small fire of I’ll show him.
I pick up another spear. Aim at a closer target. The spear goes a little farther, but doesn’t get remotely close. Instead it hits the makeshift fencing next to it.
The next one flies so high it soars over the target and into the cave wall, where it cracks down the middle and falls to the ground in pieces.
“You tilted it too high. Try to focus, V. Aim.”
My eyes dart to his.
Aim? As if that’s not what I’m doing? As if I’m just tossing it like a ball?
Aim …
This time the spear actually flies straight but zigzags between two targets, missing both completely and ricocheting off the side of one of the frames.
“Better…,” Dorian says, not overly convincing.
With the next, I really try my hardest to aim more precisely, this time at a hay-filled dummy.
I shoot for the dummy’s middle but hit it in the knee.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Dorian nod. “Nice one.”
After that small success, I decide to stick with the dummy. Spear number six soars straight into its shoulder.
The next grazes the top of the dummy’s head and hits the fence, bouncing off the metal and clacking onto the floor.
Another barely catches the dummy’s middle, stabbing it in the side.
“If done right, that’d be a kill shot.”
Speaking of kill shots, my last two attempts completely fail. One nose-dives right before me, and the other, after overcompensating for the first, flies the highest yet. So high that Dorian has to yell, “Watch your heads!” To which everyone within a twenty-foot radius ducks and then stares.
“Damn it,” I swear under my breath as I quickly jog to retrieve it three training areas away where it’s sticking point-first in the top of a pile of hay near the corner of the room.
I see it in their eyes too. That’s our Lunalette? The one to lead our revolution?
At your service. Need some hay punished? I’m your girl.
“It’s your first try,” Dorian says, handing me the rest of the spears he’s retrieved from our course.
I take them, shove them into the quiver. “Thanks. I just need to practice.” But my words fall so flat, I find them hard to believe myself.
“Hey.” He runs his hands through the spiked side of his hair. “Why don’t you fill your water while I reset the course? Take a minute, okay?”
My canteen is mostly full, but I nod and leave. I know that a bit of fresh air will do me good, but there is no fresh air here. Still, I wander down to the spring, splash water over my face, behind my neck. It’s more refreshing than I thought it’d be.
When I return, the targets are in different positions, more dummies added to the course, a couple actually slumped over the fencing like corpses. I suppose he figures I kept hitting the walls anyway, so I might as well aim for them?
I thread the quiver back over my shoulder. I’ve got twelve spears.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” You’re the Lunalette. People are watching whether you like it or not.
“Just for fun, I’m going to time you this time. You have exactly three minutes to shoot all twelve. No exceptions.”
“Fun.” I’m doomed.
Turning his hourglass over, flipping it to the minutes side, Dorian counts down, “Three, two, one … Go.”
One—I aim for a target in the back, bottom corner: The spear misses completely, sticking into a wooden slat a foot above the target.
Reload. I fumble. Drop the spear. Reload again.
Two—I decide to shoot closer. Front, center: I catch the bottom ring of the target, but the stake immediately falls right out.
Reload. I bobble, but manage to keep the spear in place this time.
Three—a dummy to our right, propped against one of the metal sheets: I get the foot by the toe. But again, the spear doesn’t stick and instead falls with a plink.
“Shi—” I swear, stopping short by biting the inside of my cheek. Anger boils up from my gut and into my chest. Why can’t I do this?
Dorian raises his eyebrows.
I breathe.
Reload. Better this time. Still awkward, but steadier.
Four—dummy, far left: I hit the knee, barely, but it stays.
“All right,” Dorian says to my back.
Reload. It’s a little easier.
Five and six—center, back: The spear pierces the shoulder. Middle, right: Total miss. Nosedive into the floor.
Reload.
Seven through ten: complete misses.
I’m about to fling the cursed atlatl across the room.
I can’t do this.
“Come on, V. You’ve got this,” Dorian says.
I look over at him. He’s so calm, so confident in my abilities that are horribly lacking. Dorian just stands there, hands in his pockets, waiting …
Listening …
I take a beat. Breathe in. Try to refocus. Ignore the countless sets of eyes surely on me. Scrutinizing me. Sizing me up and watching me fail spectacularly.
I close my own eyes. Cock my arm back. Grasp the spear between my thumb and forefinger, memorize the ridges in the wood, the place where the spear stops and the atlatl begins, how it’s light on my shoulder yet so sturdy, powerful.
“You can do it, Veda!” someone calls from across the room. I think it’s Bronwyn. Then another voice chimes in, one I don’t recognize, with, “Keep steady … Don’t forget to breathe…” And before I know it, I’m surrounded by an encouragement and support I’ve never known. The soft rhythm of clapping begins to take hold. A “you can do this” cadence.
I focus on the beat, how it’s in time with the rapping of my heart. Then I hear Dorian: “Just like casting your line…”
I open my eyes.
Release the spear. Follow through. Concentrate on my target—a dummy in the very back, middle—keep my arm straight and steady as I can.
Eleven—smack dab in the … ear. It only grazes the dummy and clanks the metal sheeting, falls to the floor.
The gathered crowd, thankfully, begins to break up, but a few stay, determined to see me succeed, which makes it even more stressful.
I reload my last spear.
Twelve—another target in the middle and to the left. It’s a bad shot, but it sticks, right in the belly of the dummy next to the target I was aiming for, but I imagine Raevald’s face on it.
Chest heaving, blood rushing in my ears, I lower my arms.
“Damn, Veda,” Dorian whispers right next to me.
I glance at him, eyebrow raised, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
I play off the last shot like it’s exactly what I meant to do.
TRAINING CONTINUES, and I try my hand at the sword, which is less successful than the atlatl. I do all right with daggers. Forget about the bow and arrow.
So. Atlatl it is.
Members come and go in shifts. Dorian and I eat the lunch he packed—two overripe bananas; dried, salted meat; and a hunk of stale bread.
Eventually space opens up and Dorian takes the training area a few down from mine. I stay to work more on the atlatl (which he “definitely thinks is a good idea”), but during a water break, I walk down to sneak a peek.
I’ve seen a few different sides of Dorian … the Night officer, the sassy-sarcastic flirt.
I’m not sure exactly what version he was last night, but I liked it.
When I step around the corner of his training block, I discover warrior-Dorian.
He stands in the middle of the station, sword outstretched, battling a hay-stuffed, man-size target on a poorly constructed metal track. Another officer pulls the target by a rope tethered to its middle. The target, wielding a stick that’s been carved to a point, moves back and forth jerkily, its wood base groaning against the metal each time the other officer pulls it by the rope or kicks it back toward Dorian.
Every whack of the sword rings out as Dorian blocks the target’s unpredictable movements, sweat beading his forehead, barely showing through the thin cotton of his tunic.
Lunging forward, the target lurches a good two feet at him, the sharp stick falling and jutting toward Dorian’s middle. Jumping to the side, he stabs the target between the ribs, spilling hay to the floor.
In the back corner, another officer launches a ball over the top of a target. Dorian drops to the ground and rolls just before the ball explodes in a plume of blue smoke right where he’d stood. Burned sulfur fills the air.
Reaching over his shoulder, he pulls a throwing ax from his back and chucks it end over end into the target’s head, splitting it down the middle, red clay peeling like sinew from within the canvas sack.
Just then two more officers come out of nowhere, yelling, “Attack!”
Dorian bounds to the weapons wall and grabs a long-speared polearm. He makes a run for it back to the center as the four officers pummel Dorian with mound after mound of hay-stuffed projectiles.
One after the next, a constant stream of motion, he obliterates the targets, stabbing and slicing them in a deadly dance.
With one target left—the one on the track having been resurrected— he sees I’m watching. Staring me in the eyes, Dorian jabs the polearm straight through the dummy’s chest and out the other side.
The officers erupt in whoops and hollers.
Chest rising and falling, sweat glistening across his forehead, down his neck, he gazes up, so many emotions swimming in his eyes. Whose face did he imagine on that last dummy?
Dorian removes his shirt and wipes his forehead, the back of his neck with it. I don’t want to look, but he’s only a few feet away. It’s impossible to miss his body; each ripple and muscle and angle is right there before my eyes.
I force myself to swallow and then to breathe. I’m frozen, temporarily mesmerized, and he catches me. Sees the blush that’s overtaken my face and is creeping up into my ears.
He runs his fingers over the shaved side of his head and then shoots me his crooked grin. I’m not sure which version of Dorian this is, but deep down, I know I like it.
And as much as I want to shrink into the shadows, instead I smile back.
“Damn, Dorian,” I say, stealing his words to me from earlier.
I walk away, the smile reaching up into my eyes, cheeks heated, flush so deep it extends down my neck and to my chest.
I want so badly to glance back.
This time I hold strong.