Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) (8 page)

I wrap my arm around Seven’s neck and he smiles, pulling me up to my feet. “Unit Seven, fall back!” I look around to see Nine, Five, and two other fighters from our unit run in our direction. We retreat, keeping distance from the rival unit. Seven releases my arm while still supporting my waist. “Can you stand on your own?”

I press my feet harder against the ground. There is stabbing pain, but at least my legs are holding. “I think so.”

Seven rests one of his hands on Nine’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Stay here, if the other fighters confront you, engage them as a team.”

I feel my stomach shrinking as I notice Eleven and his unit approaching. They are about fifty yards away and coming closer with every step.

Seven turns to face them. “Enough!” his voice breaks through the silence that clings to the air of the arena. “This is between you and me. Our quarrel ends today. It ends now.”

Eleven grins, whispers something to what’s left of his unit, and sprints forward. Seven runs to meet him and time slows down. Their swords clash, disrupting the seemingly endless stillness that has captured everyone. I want to look away, but I can’t. Seven shoves Eleven’s sword aside and raises his leg, kicking him in the stomach. He pivots his body and aims his blade across Eleven’s neck, but Eleven bends back, missing the hit by millimeters. Both swords strike again, and again, and again, until I can’t keep track of the hits anymore.

Eleven manages to strike Seven’s sword out of his hand and Seven doesn’t waste time to retaliate. He grips Eleven’s wrist, bending his arm into an awkward angle and causing him to drop his sword on the ground, too. Eleven rotates his body in order to set his arm free, but Seven thrusts his heel into the back of Eleven’s knee, and he falls. Seven’s grip pins him down, but instead of fighting the pressure, he yields, collapsing against the ground.

The sudden movement throws Seven off balance and Eleven breaks free. I can barely stand now. My body shakes cold at the edge of exhaustion and blood loss. My legs wobble under me and Nine moves closer to help me support my own weight. I lean against her shoulder, ready to give out, and my hand finds its way to the pocket at the hollow of my throat. I let my fingertips move along the smooth surface of the rectangular item my sister died to give me. I don’t have to take it out to know what it is. A plaque.

The piercing sound of the high-frequency horn reverberates through the arena, declaring the end of the battle. I look up, half expecting to find Eleven dead. To my dismay he is not. He is very much alive, and so is Seven. They look at each other for merely a second before separating. My mind races back to a particular memory during my first week of training.

“The horn dictates the beginning of the battles and the victory of one of the units after the other is defeated,” Seven had said. “It is also used to halt a battle that has violated the rules of combat. If such is ever the case, trial and execution will be the end result.”

My heart slows down. Our efforts were wasted.

We fought for nothing.

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About the Author

M.C. Muhlenkamp was born and raised in Caracas, Venezuela. After graduating from Brigham Young University with a degree in Latin American Studies, she moved to Sacramento, California, where she currently resides with her husband and their two young children.

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Acknowledgements

Once again, a giant thank you to my family and friends. Your support really keeps me going. A special thank you to my hubby. As always, your patience and awesome design skills make all the difference.

I also want to thank my editor Debra Hartmann with The Pro Book Editor. I don’t have words to express how amazing you are. Thank you.

Lastly, I want to thank all of you who read the stories and gave me wonderful feedback. Your excitement is contagious! These stories wouldn’t be what they are without your help.