I don’t immediately go to sleep like I should. Instead, I pull the picture of my mother and her atlatl out of my bag, lean it against the weapon.
Long into the night, lying on the wooly mat, I look at the photo, imagining fighting alongside my mother, working together to defeat the Imperi. Staring into her eyes, despite the image being fuzzy, I can see they’re the same dark green as mine. But fierce, so much fiercer than I’ve ever felt.
Then I think …
Would she stand for being forced not to fight in a battle she was destined to lead?
I think not.
CHAPTER 20
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.