Kendry the Vicious by M L Chambers

Author:M L Chambers [Chambers, M L]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-08-29T22:00:00+00:00

Kendry’s sword, Goldilocks as I’ve taken to calling it, connects, and the Last Gate, the Defender of Ihra, the Most Just, slices into my bicep, leaving a trail of red.

“Ow,” I yelp, jerking away, losing my footing, and eating sand.

A nanosecond later, Kendry hovers over me, Goldilocks aimed at my neck. “Dead,” he says unnecessarily.

Ruby lies in the sand twenty paces away, ripped from me. I didn’t have time to grab it before the Gate advanced, before he caught me, struck, froze before the final blow.

“I need a break,” I grunt, using the back of my hand to push Goldilocks away to stare at the sun. Not yellow. It burns so fiercely, it’s white, edges rippling with heat.

“You are dead. You need a casket.” He sheaths Goldilocks, not a whisper of sweat on him. The breeze doesn’t even ruffle his linen pants. My new incredible strength is a drop compared to what Kendry wields.

I want to crawl to the shade, legs limp, dragging behind me, unholy groans flying from my lips. I don’t. I push to my hands and knees and stand, hobbling for the water.

“What about your sword?” Kendry calls. He’s obsessed with me keeping track of my sword.

“We’re not on speaking terms.”

It’s as heavy as a safe, twenty layers of bulletproof tungsten. My arms are overcooked spaghetti. It’s also long. The moment Kendry nears, it’s useless, too long to jab, too wide to swing. Blisters pop up across the pads of my hands, my thumb. And cuts, cuts marking Kendry’s death blows, give me a swallowed-by-a-wood-chipper look. Piercing lines scatter my calves, my biceps, my ribs. My left cheek.

As shallow as papercuts, they’re marks of my failure. “Do you have to cut me every time?” I ask, ladling murky hot water into my mouth, catching a whiff of my sweat.

“And have you suffer no consequence for losing?” Kendry doesn’t drink. He’s a cactus. Ninety percent water, ten percent bastard.

“What about humiliation? I’ve got that in spades. I don’t have a great track record with cuts. What if they get infected?”

“I will clean them. They will not become infected.” His attention snags on my ankles, the gaps of skin showing gnarled webs of circular burns. Imprints of my chains. So few have scabbed.

Darkness settles over his face. “You will not get sick,” he vows.

Telling him he can’t control disease would be as futile as telling an infant crying doesn’t help.

“Are you ready?” he asks. “Is your break over?” After two seconds.

“My break will end tomorrow when I can lift my arms over my head and I’m not looking at two of you.”

His lip works. “Is your sword too heavy?” It’s rhetorical. No surprise, no pleasantness, only smug arrogance.

“Yes, it’s heavy. And giant and alarmingly sharp.” I think I cut my own hand. Sure enough, I raise my palm. “I cut myself on it that last round.” What was that? My thirtieth death?

Lena Casten, batting zero.

He smiles. Sadist. “The broadsword is a poor weapon for hand to hand combat.”

I frown up at him, slipping into a pool of serene Kendry shade.

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