by Rey Balor
“I don’t think I ever seen someone move so fast.” Lye was entirely too happy, although he kept his voice low so as not to wake the other sleeping forms in the barracks. Although it was dark, Illias’s eyes quickly adjusted, and he could make out the sharp orange of Lye’s hair as well as the outline of a spear — his spear — in the man’s hand. He tossed it towards Illias with another chuckle. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to steal it. I don’t think I’d know what to do with it if I did. What’s it made out of?”
“Bone.” Illias could not fully keep the suspicious tone from his voice. “You said Pan sent you?”
“Ay, truth be told, I do think she’s got a bit of a soft spot for you. Wants to make sure you last. It’s not often we get new recruits, let alone from outside the city. We try to stick together as best we’re able, and today’s your first test on how well you fit in.”
“And then will I be allowed to stand before the Queens?”
“I said it once, I’ll say it again: eager, aren’t you? The Queens pick you, man — not the other way around.” Lye nodded towards the door, stepping over a few of the men on the ground. The pair moved through the area carefully and quietly, not stopping until they reached the doorway. “Look, I get something’s going on with you. Not my business, I know! I’m just saying you want to be careful. The Aegis have been on high alert these past weeks, and you seeming eager to chat with the Queens is enough to make them a little wary. Look, I get it! First time in the city, and things work a little different here. We’ll watch out for you, but you got to help.”
Illias felt the rough staff of his spear rubbing old callouses on his palms and looked down at the single point he had attached the night before. He imagined it existing in the same space as the Queens. Royal guards and his old spear: they were images that couldn’t exist together. The longer he tried to force the two worlds to coexist, the more danger his people were placed into. The longer he was separated from Olena, the more danger he placed himself into.
Shaking his head, he answered, “It’s more than that. I have information that they’ll need to hear. The sooner I can get to them, the better it’ll be for everyone — villages and city alike. There’s more going on than either of us know, but if we can do something about it, it’ll be worth whatever trouble these Aegis try to bring our way. So I appreciate your offer to help, but only offer if you mean it.”
“Wouldn’t have if I didn’t. You are stubborn, aren’t you? Well, I’ll try to see what I can find out, but you’ll have to impress us all. I’m not gonna stick my neck out for just any poor villager that comes along.”
“Aye, that much I can do,” Illias said.
He was led down a stone path along the side of the barracks, and although Lye seemed keen to keep his eyes on the way in front of them, Illias turned as he followed. He tried looking at everything at once. The walls of the buildings stretched taller than most trees, creating a forest of grays and whites. Smoke billowed from a few chimneys, and the warring aromas of different foods cooking met in the alleyway. Although it was still before sunrise, there were a few individuals rushing by with their arms full of clothing. In the distance, the sound of dogs fighting could be heard, and a large insect scuttled across his boot in reminder they were not the only living creatures here. It was a place of life, although it tried to pose as something else. Large statues of women stared down at him from the tallest buildings, and in the distance, the grandest man-made structure he had ever seen waited. The Citadel. They would not be going there today, but soon, he promised. Soon, he’d march to the Queens.
The pathway ended abruptly at a square area separated off from the nearby buildings with thin wires. Lye tugged open the gate, yelling out a greeting to the other guards who waited inside. Pan waved exuberantly in return, and Illias nodded back. He recognized a few others from the previous day, but their known names had been lost on him. Like him, most carried weapons of their own, although none were quite as bulky as his spear. A few stared, but there was no open hostility — a positive sign, in his experience.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Training!” Pan gladly answered. She had a band around her head to keep her long bangs from her face, and as she rushed forward, she tugged a pair of fingerless gloves onto her hands. None had armor, but her patchwork of clothes seemed better fitted to her than the others. They reminded him of old farmers given tools they didn’t know how to use to take lands that weren’t theirs. “We want to see what you’re made of, Roam,” she continued. “There’s a bucket of staffs and swords to train with, if you want one. You seem to have brought your own though. What’s that made out of? Looks like some sort of…”
“Bone,” he said simply. “Bone and—”
“Amazing! Must fight like a dream. We don’t have anything quite like that, but I prefer the swords meself. There’s one that makes me feel like an Aegis, silly as that sounds.” She walked to the bucket she had mentioned and pulled out a wooden sword. There were notches in the false blade, and she tossed it lightly between her hands to test its weight. “You and me, Roam. I made a bet on who would win a spar this morning. Are you ready? First one to bruise loses.”
“No warm-up?” Lye called. A few others had gathered around him, watching curiously. “You bastards are crazy.”
“There’s no warm-up in a true battle,” Illias yelled. The mood of the training field was contagious, that was for damn sure.
Pan grinned and lunged towards Illias, swinging one end of her staff around. Illias just managed to leap out of the way. The second attack quickly followed with the opposite end of her staff. She was desperate to make contact with the weapon. His spear blocked it and sent out a loud hollow echo of sound. Pan flashed him a sheepish smile, and the corners of her eyes crinkled at the gesture — a familiar gesture, it was clear. “He gets it! No warm-ups. I keep telling the others we shouldn’t give any warnings as to when trainings are. Just attack in the middle of the night to keep us prepared.”
Surprising himself, Illias offered a smirk of his own. Instead of furthering the divide between Erie-folk and chained-folk, the dissimilarities broke as the pair sought to gain ground on each other. He would push forward, jabbing and defending with every unfair advantage he could use; she would give only a step before pushing back, using just as many unethical tactics in return. She kicked up the dirt beneath them. He attacked with fists and feet and weapons alike. She tried to ensure the sunlight was in her opponent’s eyes. On and on. They were not evenly matched — he was stronger, and she was faster — but they were, strangely enough, on the same team. Each move was met with a grin and an arrogant brag.
The fight ended when he used the end of his spear to trip her, sending her backwards onto the ground.
“I can already feel the bruise forming,” she grimaced. Specks of dirt coated her clothes, and for the first time since arriving in the Citadel, he felt on equal grounds with its citizens. They were as dirty, as fresh, and as rowdy as he was. If he had any money, he would have bought them each a drink.
Instead, he held out his hand to help Pan up.
“At least you lose with grace. My sister’s only lost a handful of times to me, but each time, she throws a tantrum I’m surprised the Citadel doesn’t hear.” He let out a chortle as Pan stood, and each tried to dust themselves off as much as possible. “Is this what you’ll do all day? Train for some war no one’s talked about?”
She shot Lye a look, but he was distracted with spars of his own. The amusement from the brief skirmish had faded slightly, and she tossed her wooden sword to the side, peeling off her sweaty gloves with an expression of mild disgust. “Not quite. If it were that easy, there’d be a lot more of us. We patrol the outer walls, make sure people are getting along, and collect taxes whenever the moon’s full. It’s not a fun job, but we can send some money home to our families — you’ll get yours if you make it through the week.”
“Taxes?”
“The Queens require a little from ever
yone. I know some groups of guards are rougher on families than others, but we do what we can. It’s why I joined this group over others. Lye’s a good man. He keeps us straight.”
“The Queens sound ruthless.”
Pan’s gaze turned sharp suddenly, and she looked over her shoulder towards the heart of the city, as if the five women would be able to hear them. Stepping closer, she kept her tone to a whisper. “Don’t say things like that, Roam. The Queens have done more for us than I can say. Sure, we might not agree with them all the time, but they know what they’re doing — it’s why they’re Queens. They make sure I get paid, and they make sure my family’s fed. We depend on them, and I know they might not be the warmest leaders, but we’d be dead without them.”
“Do you think they’d listen to someone looking to save lives, even if they don’t agree?”
“I know it seems there are a lot of rituals and rites here that are hard to keep track of. Everyone’s trying to protect the Queens and protect this city, but the Queens made us a promise in return — keeping us safe, Roam, that’s what they promised. They’ll listen, if it’s what’s best for their city.” The gleam returned to her face, and Pan punched his arm lightly. It was so characteristic of another woman, leagues away, that he had to blink twice to make sure his spica hadn’t decided to accompany him after all.54 “Do you think you’ll play the part of the hero, Roam? You must be hoping for a spot in the Aegis too.”
“Hero’s a lazy word. I’m just trying to keep people free as they can be and safe as that makes them.”
“Spoken like a true troublemaker then.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Don’t tell me another.” She waved towards Lye to show they were finished and began walking backwards toward him, keeping her sight on Illias. “I’ll be expecting a story from you, Roam. You’ve got a lot to tell, I’m guessing.”
He followed after, the beginnings of a habit forming.
“A story for a story — that’s my payment.”
“Deal.”
SPICA:
There were three of them total. First was Olena, who crouched low to the ground, clearly knowing what to do. Her hair was bound tightly in a knot and the gray of her eyes shined the same color as the moon. Her attention was torn between where she was going and the two following behind her. Hops was second. Although he was much taller and broader, he was uncertain in this element — in this wild wood of a country he claimed as his own. He still wore the apron from his job, as if by holding onto the memento, he was keeping that connection alive. Ranger followed last. She was deadly in her silence, and although she did not know this terrain, she knew how to pass unseen. There was a wicked look about her, with her auburn hair jagged around sharp, scarred cheekbones, but it only served to make her far more dauntless. Her hands were bound, but she had loudly boasted that she did not need them.
Together, the three moved parallel to the main traveling path. With people posing as Erie-folk, it would be dangerous to travel along the road, and as there was still much Olena didn’t know, she thought it best to at least remain nearby in the hopes she could learn more. They needed to get to the Citadel, to Illias, as soon as possible. A wolfling, a lost man, and a captured asset — it was a terrible collection of people, Olena knew, but they weren’t going to fight. Not yet. Her companions should be fine.
She knew the pair would make their journey a long one, but if she was to command an army of people who valued personal choice above unity, she could keep her traveling band together — at least until she could figure out what else to do with them. Hops had nothing, and she might make a warrior of him yet, but Ranger? Killing her would go against the trial; keeping her alive would be caging her, an even worse fate yet. Her father had warned her it was these decisions that would determine what sort of leader she would be, and although she would have been furious if he had taken this choice from her, it was not one she could decide upon in a night. So it was that on her journey to find her spica, she would bring them both along.
Of the group, she was the only one who carried a weapon. She had attempted to pass a short spear to Hops before they left, but he had vehemently denied the offering. While she held her usual bow in hand, Illias’s dagger was stowed safely in her boot. Anyone who stumbled near to them would have to deal with an arrow and a blade. Behind her, she could feel Ranger’s gaze, greedy for the weapons that she possessed.
It really should have been obvious Ranger would try to kill her for it. If it had been Olena in a prison of the other’s design, she would have clawed at her chains until she was free; she would have chewed through muscle and sinew in an effort to feel the sky again. Whenever she even glanced back at Ranger, Olena would bristle with annoyance almost immediately. That damn smirk was endlessly infuriating! She truly did try to keep her captive in her mind’s eye, but it was a difficult thing to do with a dozen other plans rolling around in her thoughts.
When the woman fell, Hops tried his best to catch her. When Olena was next alone with the man, she would give him his first lesson of the wilds: people lived and died by their own design. If someone fell, he couldn’t catch them; he simply had to offer them the choice of taking his hand afterward. Ranger was far cleverer than either had given her credit, however, and she fell past him, straight into Olena.
“What the—” Olena hissed the words as they stumbled together, but Ranger’s fall was fluid. She grabbed hold of one of the arrows in Olena’s quiver, and before either of them had even hit the ground, she was jabbing the point into Olena’s side. The arrow pulled away with her. Even with bound hands, she was deadly, just as she had promised. She laughed as she rolled back to her feet, attempting to cut through the binds at her wrists with the blood-coated tip.
Olena had suffered pain before. Freedom came through pain — a pain of body and a pain of soul. She had been stabbed on more than one occasion; she had been kicked and trodden on by chained-folk far more times than she could count. What did she say when her mouth tasted of blood and her hands ran black with the mud of the earth she rested in? Try again. Her hands turned to fists, and she ignored the sharp scent of blood — her blood, not even causing a dent in that fucking smirk — as she forced herself to stand once more. She kept her palm on the wound and spit on the ground.
“Oh, come on now! Couldn’t you stay down for another minute or so — just until I cut through these ropes?” Ranger paused in her efforts, holding the arrow point between both hands. Her grin twitched. “What did you make these out of? Human hair?”
“Do you want me to kill you, woman?” Olena’s bow had tumbled from her hands during their fall, but her dagger felt hot against her ankle. If her prisoner wanted a fight, she’d give her one.55
Ranger cocked her head to the side, as if it was a game to her. There was something unstable that pulsed just beneath the woman’s features, and whatever they called the Erie-folk of the woods — wolves, savages, terrorists — it was little compared to what radiated from the woman now. “Oh, I think that’d be fun. We can die together, Khalsa. How sweet would that be? You could sing me a song as I go.”
Sucking in her breath, Olena knelt quickly to retrieve her weapon. Ranger lunged forward at the same time. Olena shouldered the woman in her stomach, causing her to stumble back. With her spica’s dagger in hand, Olena was revitalized by the power of the earth and sky, crashing together in the horizon — the birthmate connection was one just as ancient. It didn’t matter that she was bleeding because she would heal soon enough. It didn’t matter that she was in pain because pain was a moment in a long string of a lifetime. The details of the battle faded. She focused on the whole. Survive the moment.
She lifted her dagger. There was no hesitation as Ranger moved toward her again. It made her wonder if her captive willingly sought out death — if the smirk on Ranger’s face was a prayer to the stars to end this now. If it was, it was a conflicted prayer. For every swipe Olena made with her blade, Ranger moved impossibly fast out of the way. I
t was as if she had nothing left to live for but was unwilling to die. Her survivalist nature made her all the deadlier a foe.
Olena’s blade finally made contact. The dagger was as sharp as any blade in the wilds could be, but it left only a thin red line behind. There was no lasting imprint, and Ranger did not acknowledge it. With a laugh, the woman continued to dodge Olena’s swipes. She did not attack, so keen was she to avoid. It was relentless, but Olena was nothing less than the same. Olena stabbed, Ranger jumped back. Attack, avoid, attack, avoid. It was not a dance; it was an argument.
Ranger had clearly pinned Olena as the warrior and Hops as the poor victim of fate, but he stepped behind her. Olena paused her next attack. He grabbed Ranger around her waist in an attempt to constrict her movements. She was slender but nearly as tall as him, muscles present even beneath her dull tunic, and she struggled against his grip. Elbowing, biting, clawing wherever she could reach. She transformed before their very eyes from a threat to a sad, broken thing.
Olena watched her for a moment, and her chest moved rapidly as she fought for breath. Red was smeared everywhere, with her sticky hand unable to keep her wound contained. Somehow, she managed a smile of her own, and she nodded to Hops in a motion of gratitude.
“No one keeps me on my toes quite like you, Ranger, that’s for damn sure,” she said.
“Oh, believe me, I’m far more fun in other ways,” Ranger retorted.
It was Hops’s turn to flash Olena a look of disbelief, but she didn’t see it. An idea burst in her, so sweet and so dangerous that she had to know where it led.
“Let’s just tie her to a tree and leave her, eh?” Olena jutted her chin toward one of the taller trees. Looping her finger around the bind of Ranger’s hands, she tugged her forward. There was nothing so nice as seeing the false confidence of one’s enemy give way to genuine concern. “It’s far enough from the road not to attract any immediate attention, but it’s close enough that they’ll smell the stench of her soon enough.”
