Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

“Climb over the rail. Don’t fear the pricks. They only strengthen your skin.”

I grab ahold of the thornwood fence, trying to avoid the thorns. “Ouch!” The class snickers again. Dammit! I grip the top rail of the fence tightly, ignoring all half-dozen thorns that pierce my hands, and hop over it. I inspect the damage done and watch the lacerations seal up almost instantaneously, leaving only a few remnants of blood behind.

“There is only one rule. No talents. This is hand-to-hand combat intended to improve your self-defense and combatant skills. Any questions?”

“Yes, sir. Which one is my opponent?” I ask, hoping it’ll be the smaller of the two.

“Both,” the man answers. “Defend!”

“Tigershit!” I think aloud. What is happening? One moment I’m on the outside enjoying a little entertainment, and now I have two fellows, small and large, running toward me to beat the piss out of me.

I easily tuck and roll with more coordination than I witnessed from the other two, and I run to the opposite side of the ring to gather myself. If only I had Life Bringer. I’ve never fought anyone with my fists before. A dance with the blades is more my style.

The two boys approach again, this time from each side. I stand my ground, waiting for the attack. If I continue to run, this fight will go on forever, or I’ll end up tripping over myself and be even more humiliated. So, I might as well hold fast and endure a beating if I must.

The man-child, with his lumbering speed, approaches a moment sooner than the other. He cocks his arm mid-run and comes full speed with an outstretched fist. I take a step backward and trip over my own feet in anticipation. Four knuckles land square on my forehead, sending my already falling motion into a projectile motion.

The impact from the compacted ground is as rough as the blow to my forehead, but I don’t let it dissolute me. I roll to the side, avoiding a second blow to my stomach from the shorter boy’s foot. He tries stomping on my abdomen immediately after with his opposite boot and succeeds. I struggle for air and want to hurl at the same time, gasping and salivating.

The shorter boy hauls me up to my feet by my underarms. He then pulls my arms behind my back. The boy remains behind me as if he’s holding my hands together solely with his might, but there is something more. I can feel it digging into my wrists. He has bound my hands together with some form of twine or rope.

I squirm and struggle to free myself. It’s hopeless. The taller boy confronts me with an overconfident strut and wallops me as the other holds me in place. The blows are countless to my face, followed by a solid one to my gut that leaves me hunched over in pain.

Defend, I think to myself during a short break in the pummeling. The instructor said defend. I don’t necessarily have to attack these fellows. I simply must outlast them. The pain is temporary. The damage is temporary.

The boy behind me grabs my hair and yanks my head upright. As the larger boy hurls another fist toward my face, a surge of adrenaline flows through me. With the last of my strength, I flex and break my hands free of my bindings, ducking at the same time to avoid the finishing blow. Instead of breaking my nose, the man-child overextends his reach and plants one directly between the other boy’s eyes.

The blow to his face stuns him for a moment, but that is all. They both look vexed by the humiliation. They come at me again, and I stand my ground, hoping this will just end. The larger of the two boys rushes me and tackles me to the ground. He straddles me and unleashes blow after blow. I feel helpless to do anything. I can taste the blood in my mouth and feel it pouring from my nose. My visibility is limited from swollen brows and likely a broken cheek bone. Why hasn’t the instructor stopped the fight yet? Can’t he see I’ve given up?

The boy pummels me without end. Maybe the instructor’s not going to stop the fight. Maybe he’s waiting for me to do it. Maybe this is a life or death thing. He said there weren’t any rules. My heart beats faster at the thought of death. Will it really come to that? Would the instructor let me die? Would Astor let me die? Fear sets in, and I take one last chance at defending myself. With much struggle, I clutch the boy’s upper arm and pull him closer. I then grip his throat with one hand, trying to defend my face with the other. Through my blurred vision, it appears his face is turning a shade darker. I can’t imagine my grip is so much that I’m able to choke him out with one hand, but maybe, I guess. His neck grows darker around my fingers. The skin is soft to the touch, like overly ripened fruit.

“Halt! At ease, gentlemen.” The boy stops pummeling me.

Come to think of it, he stopped pummeling me when I grabbed his throat. I, however, fail to let go at the instructor’s command.

“I said at ease!” He jumps into the ring and rips me out from under the boy. As my grip is pulled free of his neck, the discoloration disappears, and the boy collapses.

The instructor kneels over the fallen boy as the other combatant looks down on him with concern. The eyeing crowd whispers and mutters explanations under their breath.

“Are you okay?” The instructor asks the boy on the ground.

He tries to speak, but only a gurgle comes out.

“You’re alive. That’s what matters.” Master Stormwood looks in my direction, not with anger as I would expect, but