The Complete Training Diaries by James Frey

Author:James Frey [Lucy Foley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2015-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

The polecat’s neck fits perfectly in Baitsakhan’s small palm. He squeezes—gently, he reminds himself. It wouldn’t do to sever the spine. Not yet, at least. Baitsakhan presses the polecat against the hard-packed dirt, trying his best to hold the squealing animal still. It squeaks and wriggles, but that is no matter. It cannot escape. It’s utterly under his control. When Baitsakhan unsheathes his dagger and, with a sure hand, brings the blade down on its tail, it can do nothing but scream.

Its screams sound almost human.

Baitsakhan finds this interesting.

Also interesting is the blood spilling from the creature, splashes of bright red against the dirt. The raw meat of the wound. The rotten-sweet smell of it. The way the keening noise trails off, turns to a whimper, then a hiss, then nothing. Baitsakhan notes all of this carefully.

Most of all, he notes the look in the polecat’s eyes. Pain and terror. The same look the dog gave him when he sliced out its entrails. The same look his baby sister gave him when he pressed the sizzling cattle brand to her foot, hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream. It should, perhaps, amaze him that pain is such a powerful leveler, that it brings all creatures, large or small, to the same hellish ground.

But nothing amazes Baitsakhan.

Amazement is a word without meaning for him, like sorrow, like love.

But pain? That, he understands.

Also joy.

Joy is what happens when he causes pain in others.

The polecat’s blood flows and flows. If he liked, Baitsakhan could release his grip: the creature is too weak to escape. Or he could tighten his grip, a few millimeters, choke the air from its lungs, crush its throat, put the animal out of its misery. It would be merciful.

But it would not be joyful.

Time passes, and the cat does not die. Good. The wound is not fatal—there will be time for more. Baitsakhan carves the polecat carefully, like his father dissects their evening meal. First the paws, then the flank, then, when he finally grows bored, the tender belly, letting the steaming innards drop to the ground with a soft plop. He waits impatiently for the creature to expire. Then he reaches into his box for another one.

It is his sixth birthday.

This is his present to himself.

One year later, the Trials begin.

The Donghu hold the Trials every six years. Those Donghu children, ages six to eight—fortunate enough to be born within the right window, to have the chance to serve their people—are brought to an arena 100 kilometers south of Ulaanbaatar. This is the law of the land, and those who violate it are severely punished. For three days and three nights, more than 100 children pit their skill and strength against each other, whether they want to or not.

Baitsakhan has been waiting for his Trials ever since he was a toddler. The children are pitted against one another in feats of strength and ferocity. They are not trained in fighting methods—or, at least, they’re not meant to be.

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