by Shade Owens
All because of her.
My heart skipped a beat, and my ears rang. I couldn’t think clearly… couldn’t see clearly. All I knew was that this woman was responsible for countless lives lost that morning.
Without thinking, I yanked the sharp cutting tool out of Arenas’s hand, jumped to my feet, and ran straight toward Holland, my heart pounding out of my chest and my legs like jelly.
CHAPTER 4
The first hit was satisfying—her head jerked to one side and her jaw hung loosely before she came crashing down underneath me. I grabbed whatever I could to hold her still, but she kept swinging her arms around, as if she couldn’t tell where the attack was coming from.
I swung another hard fist at her face, feeling alive.
“Fight!”
“Fight!”
“Fight!”
Pulling Arenas’s cutting tool from my injured hand, I pressed it into the base of Holland’s neck. She immediately stopped trying to fight me off. I sat, my muscles as hard as stone, my lips curled over my teeth, and my eyes popping out. I’d never experienced so much rage in my life. I’d have torn her throat out with my hands if one of them wasn’t so injured.
I regripped its thin handle in my sweaty palm and pressed it into her skin even harder, a line of maroon blood appearing underneath the blade.
“You,” was all I could say.
“Brone,” she said. Her chest heaved up and down so fast it probably looked like I was riding a horse.
“Don’t,” I said through clenched teeth.
“You don’t understand.” She clasped her fingers around my wrists, trying to relieve the blade’s pressure. “I didn’t have a choice. Brone, I didn’t—”
Wrinkles formed on her forehead and around her nose, and she let out a weird, choppy sound before bursting out into a full-blown sob. “I didn’t want to… I didn’t think it…”
“No, you didn’t think!” I shouted, and my voice carried into the crowd that had formed around us: wild women with hunched postures and closed fists.
“Get up, Holland!” someone shouted.
“Fight!”
“Kill herrrrrr!”
“It was only supposed to be Murk,” Holland said, her nails now digging into my skin. “They said—they said they were only taking Murk. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” And she burst out crying again. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”
I stiffened.
Was she lying? I stared at her face, a contorted mess that looked like it had gone through a blender, and my anger slowly dissipated. I’d never forgive her for what she did, but how could I possibly kill someone who was crying her heart out? I hated her, but at the same time, all I saw was a girl. A frightened girl who held onto an immeasurable amount of guilt.
How was I supposed to hurt someone who was hurting so much herself?
I got up by pushing myself off her, and she winced at my sharp movement. “You should be sorry,” I said, and I straightened up, so everyone could hear me. “You killed dozens, if not hundreds, of innocent women.”
She slapped two hands over her face and kept crying. “I-I-I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sorry wouldn’t fix what she’d done, but it did do something because the idea of killing her was no longer appealing to me. Although I wasn’t ready to admit it yet, Holland was a victim in this, too.
Whispers suddenly erupted around me, and I felt like a bearded lady in a circus act. What were they all looking at?
“Who is that?”
“Who’s that girl?”
“Did she just give her mercy?”
“Isn’t Holland the reason her people are dead?”
I dropped the cutting tool by Holland’s face and stared at her for a moment. Her bloodshot blue eyes squinted beneath the sun’s afternoon rays, staring back at me.
I could see her pain. She was already suffering for what she’d done. Death would only bring her relief.
I turned around and started crossing the open space around us when I heard someone’s voice.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the woman said. She stepped into the circle, her massive leather boots stomping through the sand. I hadn’t seen her before, but it was obvious she was a Norther (either an Original or an Orphan, going by Coin’s simplification of terms).
“Fight’s not over,” she said.
I glanced back at Holland, who sat up slightly, her torso held up by her elbows behind her back.
Fight to the death, I remembered, and she had my weapon. She reached for the cutting tool and stood tall, her dark roots falling over half her face.
How was any of this fair? I’d shown her mercy, and now, what? She was going to kill me? With my own weapon? The crowd around us burst into a cacophonic cheer, and the Norther tried to smile, though it looked more like a hideous grimace. She held a wooden club in her hand, and she smacked it repeatedly into her open palm.
Holland walked forward like this whole battle-to-the-death thing was nothing more than a walk in the park. Had she played me? Manipulated me into feeling sorry for her? I clenched my good fist.
But when she got closer, she didn’t lunge or swing a fist. Instead, she knelt on one knee, her scraggly half-tone hair still dangling in her face, and raised the cutting tool over her bowed head.
What was she doing? Why was she giving it to me?
The air around us filled with a heavy silence and all I could hear was my rapid breathing.
“Take it,” she muttered. “Honestly, after what I did, I don’t deserve—”
But she let out another whimper. I slowly reached for the blade, realizing this may also be a trick. But it wasn’t. She didn’t pull away or try to attack. She remained still on one knee, her gaze fixated on the ground at my feet.
The crowd started up again, and this time, solid fists pumped into the air.
“Fight!”
“Fight!”
“Fight”
How could I? How was I supposed to take her life? She wasn’t a threat anymore. Yes, I was still angry about what had happened, but the blame couldn’t be placed on one person. I reluctantly looked up at the Norther, who stood as stiff as a piece of plywood, her fingers white around her club as if waiting for an excuse to bash me in the face.
I couldn’t do it.
I let the blade hang loosely at my waist, and the entire crowd went still—so still, in fact, that I could hear the Norther’s fingers tighten around her club. Her bushy, untrimmed eyebrows came close together and she let out a grunt.
“You fight, or you die!” she shouted, and her voice carried across the entire city.
Only then did I notice that even the nearby elephants stood still, their ears flapping from side to side as their handlers pulled at ropes.
I wasn’t sure what led me to stand up to a Norther, especially one willing to kill me, but the idea of dying at that moment was less disturbing than the idea of taking Holland’s life—a woman filled with grief and self-hatred.
I stared at the Norther—the uncivilized animal now glaring at me—then dropped the blade into the soil at my feet and drew my shoulders back.
CHAPTER 5
The Norther with the wooden club took a step forward, her cracked lips now forming an ugly smile.
“Two deaths,” she said, whacking the club in her palm.
Holland stood up and side-glanced me. “You don’t have to do this. Get it over with, and you’ll live.”
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth on my face, and imagined what was waiting for me on the other side. I didn’t have the energy to fight, and I couldn’t imagine a place harsher than this one, so the idea of death became comforting.
All I wanted was for all of this to end.
But then, another image crept into my mind—Ellie’s face. She stood smiling with her head tilted to one side and her wavy brown hair brushed over one shoulder. What if she was still alive? What if she was waiting for me at the
Cove? Then, I thought of my mom, who was probably sitting in her apartment, lonely and depressed and binge-watching old movies to keep her mind occupied. If I gave up, would it be selfish?
An orchestra of gasps filled the air around me and I cracked open my eyes in time to see the Norther raise her club into the air. It all happened so fast, but at the same time, everything moved so slowly. With her rotted mouth wide open, she swung the club straight for the side of my head. I had no time to think—only act. I dropped into a crouched position, feeling the club brush through the hairs on top of my head and suddenly, a familiar rage-fueled instinct set in. With my good hand, I grabbed the cutting tool by my feet and threw myself at the monster in front of me, digging the blade into her neck, right below her jawline.
It slipped in like a knife through butter, and warm blood came pouring out over my hand.
The skin on her face tightened, pulling her hairline back, and she dropped her club. My ears rang, and my heart pounded so hard I couldn’t tell if the crowd was making any noise. I pulled the blade out of her neck and blood spritzed into the air and onto my lips. When I stepped back, she slapped two hands over the stab wound. She looked at me, her pasty lips parted, and I stared back, watching her bright eyes glaze over as her life slowly slipped away.
“Brone!”
I followed the voice, but everything was so bright, all I saw was a silhouette moving toward me. I hated this feeling. Hated the disorientation that came along with a surge of adrenaline. I clenched my fist around my bloody weapon, prepared to take another swing at the next Norther—because they were coming, I was sure of it. I’d killed one of theirs. There was no way I was getting out of this one.
“Brone!” the voice said again. This time, I recognized it.
“Coin?”
“Come on, let’s go,” she urged. She pulled at my arm and I dropped the blade into the dirt. Then, as if my hearing had suddenly come back, whispers erupted all around me.
“Oh my God.”
“Did you see that?”
“I can’t believe it.”
Coin yanked on my arm even harder to lead me out of the circle—away from the vultures surrounding the Norther’s dead body. I shoved my way through warm bodies, avoiding eye contact at all costs until I turned around briefly and caught Holland’s gaze. She didn’t move as the circle tightened around her. It was almost like she wanted to be accused of killing the Norther. Why wasn’t she leaving?
“Brone!” came Hammer’s voice.
My legs shook, and I didn’t know what to say.
“Give her some space,” Coin said, but that accomplished nothing.
Women started circling me, eyeing me with fascination. Coin swung her arms out again, but in scissorlike motions this time. “Back off!”
And then, to my surprise, the women did precisely that. They spread out, forming a long, empty stretch through the sand. But they didn’t do it for us. They backed off for someone else. I raised a hand to my forehead, the afternoon sun now like fire against my skin, and gazed down the opening they made.
It led to the wooden gates—the ones with pointy pikes fastened tightly together. One woman atop an elephant stood beside its front gate, which was now open, and pointed her spear in my direction. She shouted something, but I couldn’t make it out.
What I saw next made my stomach sink.
Zsasz came blasting out with six other Northers scurrying behind her. She walked toward me with a heavy step, her soulless eyes never leaving mine. Her chin was raised, and her zebra-scarred lips formed a flat line. I’d never seen her like this before. She usually had a sly smirk on her face—a look that told me she was always one step ahead of us.
But not this time.
And she was coming straight for me.
I swallowed hard.
CHAPTER 6
Her wide, crystal-blue eyes underneath hairless eyebrows were enough to make me want to drop to my knees. She stood inches away, staring down at me, her head bowed forward.
“I see you haven’t learned your lesson,” she said, eyeing my broken fingers.
I couldn’t speak.
“Do you know what we do to bad girls?” She tilted her head to the side.
I shook my head. She made me feel weak and vulnerable. How did she manage it? Was it the abuse? Had she programmed me to fear her? Because I’d never been so afraid of anyone in my life.
“On your knees,” she ordered, and I dropped like a dog, my knees digging into the dirt.
I hated her. I hated myself. Why was I even listening to her?
“Brone,” Coin tried, but Zsasz swung the back of her hand at Coin’s face, and she was thrown into the group of women who formed an enclosure around us.
“I asked you a question,” she said, her chin elevated so high all I saw was the bulge in her throat.
What question? What was she talking about?
“Do you know what we do to bad girls?” she repeated.
“Bad girls?” was all I could say.
Why couldn’t I think clearly?
She swung an open hand across my face and I fell to my side, not wanting to carry the weight of my body on my injured hand.
“Get up,” she ordered.
The skin on my face was hot, and my cheek throbbed painfully. She’d already beaten me this morning, and now she was hitting the same bruises. It felt like nails were puncturing my face.
Smack.
Another hand smashed me across the face, this time, on the opposite side, and my vision went blurry.
She knelt on one knee, her bumpy, white-scarred face inches away from mine.
“Have you been a bad girl?”
I stared at her, and she slowly moved closer, her eyes never leaving my face. She pressed her dry, zebra lips against mine and through her nose, let out a hot breath that smelled like decay.
I cringed and she pulled away revealing that familiar smirk. Then, without a single warning, her face transformed into a monstrous scowl and she grabbed my broken fingers. I yelled out in pain, and she squeezed harder until I heard a crack.
She pulled my hand upward, and I bounced into a standing position, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. Then, like a vicious master tugging on their dog’s leash, she swung around, forcing me to follow.
I cried out and clawed at her solid grip, but it didn’t loosen. She marched down the path the Peasants had formed, and I followed close behind, my bare feet nearly kicking the back of her boots with every painful step.
“P-p-please!” I begged.
She dragged me through the front gates of the barrier. The six other Northers following close behind, and one of them made a hand gesture at the closest elephant handlers, who I could only assume, closed the gate behind us. I was in too much pain to understand what was going on.
The moment we were inside, she let go of my hand, and I grabbed it, tears dripping onto the tips of my broken fingers. What was she going to do to me? Torture me? I blinked away tears, and my surroundings came into focus.
At the back of this strange space was the base of a mountain—a rocky, gray, pebbled surface that rose up on a steep angle. The farther up I looked, the more greenery was to be seen. In front of this were wooden steps fastened together by rope and wooden poles that formed a crooked path toward the side of the mountain. I hadn’t seen this hidden path when I’d first laid eyes on the city. It looked like a secret passage into a cave and reminded me of Murk’s headquarters.
Was this where Rainer resided?
Beside the bottom of the steps were two women—armed Northers—standing stiff like statues with metal-tipped spears pointed at the sky. It was obvious, the stairs led to something, or someone, important.
On both sides of the two Northern guards were dozens of small log cabins without windows and with roofs constructed of vegetation. Composed of dry wood and crisped leaves, they looked old and appeared large enough to fit a single bed inside. Was this where the Northers slept? Compared to our sleeping arrangements in
the city, this was luxury.
Why had Zsasz taken me in here?
Several women with heavy gear—weapon belts, bows, blades, and even battle-axes—walked around, their chests puffed out and their hateful eyes raking me up and down. A handful were seated by a campfire, carving weapons, their backs hunched as they chewed on pieces of crisp meat. It was like I’d traveled back in time to the Stone Age.
And then I heard it—the sound of women battling. I followed the clanging of metals, the hitting of sticks, and the puncturing of arrows. At the far back of this enclosed space, this territory that I assumed was designated for Orphans and Originals, and overtop vividly green grass, were women dressed in plain clothing—women who looked like Peasants—training for battle.
Had they chosen to fight for the Northers? They weren’t as beastly-looking as the Orphans or the Originals—again, though I couldn’t yet differentiate the two, I could tell them apart from regular women. Yet they were battling with such ferocity, I had a hard time believing they’d chosen this life.
Franklin, I thought.
What if they’d taken her to create a soldier? A Battlewoman? I searched the large group of fighting women, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but all I saw were fast-moving bodies and weapons swinging through the air.
“Keep moving,” someone grumbled behind me, and something hard nudged me in the back.
My head rocked back before straightening out, and I quick-stepped my way to Zsasz, who was headed toward the wooden stairs at the back—the ones that led up the side of the mountain. But when she reached the guards—two women staring straight ahead as if their personalities had been entirely stripped away—she stepped sideways and continued down a stone path behind the log cabins. I hadn’t even noticed it.
Tall green grass and ginger-orange flowers decorated the edges of the path, and I flinched when a huge, shiny admiral-blue-shelled bug buzzed by my face. Her heavy footsteps crunched the stones beneath us, while I shifted every few steps, careful not to press the weight of my bare feet on something sharp. The air around us became cool and damp, and the sun was no longer visible.
