Savages: Sector Seven in the Othala Witch Tales Series
By Conner Kressley
Chapter 1
Running my fingers through my hair, I felt the dabs of sweat that had formed on my forehead. I hadn’t realized how nervous I was until this very moment, until I found myself standing on the transport disc.
The entire time I had been in training, this had all seemed like a dream to me. Being a Roamer, actually moving around outside the walls of the Sector, was a dream that I’d had ever since I had learned how to dream. There was an entire world out there, a world that had nothing to do with the wagon wheels my father had wasted the best years of his life repairing or the elite noblemen who rode atop them. It had nothing to do with desolate,water-deprived lands that had slowly died out and refused to yield food from its berth, and it certainly had nothing to do with an outdated hierarchy that informed a girl of nineteen that—if she was found unworthy to be a Roamer—she’d have to find a husband before her next birthday.
I wanted this, and, what was more, I felt like I needed it. I had spent my entire life being the prim and proper repairman’s daughter, wearing unnecessarily long and ornate dresses, and smiling at smarmy, spoiled noblemen’s sons whom I had very little interest in. Not that it mattered. Unless I was interested in a roll in the hay behind one of the barn parties, most of them thought they were way too good for me.
That didn’t matter, either. I wasn’t born to be a married woman. I didn’t belong in a kitchen, tending to horses, or doing dishes while looking out the window and wishing I was somewhere else.
I was born for this, and I was about to prove it.
“Starla.”
My father’s voice echoed through me, the pain in it tearing me apart. He had never wanted this for me. The life of a Roamer is a dangerous one. At best, I would be gone for years at a time. At worst, I would get my stubborn ass killed outside the safety of the Sector’s walls, and he’d never see me again.
Hesitantly, I looked up at him. He looked older than ever in the mid-morning sunlight. Older than he had when he’d introduced me into a society that had given a collective shrug, older than he had when he woke up to find my mother lying dead beside him, and older than he had even this morning when he was readying my bags and keeping up a strong face.
That face was starting to waver as it dawned on both of us that the time for me to leave was no longer coming. It had arrived. I was next in line on the transport disc. In minutes, maybe seconds, I would whisk through the walls of the Sector on my way toward the fortified base the Roamers called home.
As I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in my father’s rounded bottle glasses, I realized that his wasn’t the only face starting to show signs of pain.
“It’s almost time,” he said, his voice breaking upward as he tried (and failed) to sound less affected than he obviously was. “Do you have everything you need? Do you have your blanket? I hear it gets cold out there. I just want to make sure that you stay–”
“Poppa,” I said, blinking back tears and clutching my bag tightly to stop myself from rushing toward him and throwing my arms around his shoulders. “What did we say about you worrying about me? I’ll be fine. I’ll be more than fine. This is my dream. And, besides, you won’t have to listen to some ingrate girl whining every day.”
I smiled, and he smiled in return, though neither of us really felt like it was right.
“I didn’t mind the whining,” he answered. ‘“It’s the silence that I always dreaded.”
A spike of guilt pierced my heart and I swallowed hard, trying to keep myself steeled over. “It doesn’t have to be silent, Poppa,” I said. “The widow Mormont is very sweet on you. Everyone in the Sector knows it.”
“Now, you stop that, young lady,” he said sharply, looking downward. “Your momma–”
“Has been gone for three years,” I said. Tears filled my eyes anew as I thought about my father tooling around our humble three-bedroom house all by himself. “Promise me you won’t keep to yourself, Poppa. You promise me right now.”
“Starla, if I can’t worry about you, then I don’t see the need in your worrying about me,” he said, his eyes still pinned on the ground. The old man was either on the verge of crying and he didn’t want me to see it, or he was counting down the seconds until the entire disc went red and pulled me away. At the moment, it was three quarters of the way there. Almost time.
“Just promise me, Poppa. It’ll make me feel better,” I said, leaning on the daddy/daughter thing that had always helped me get my way with him.
“Well, hell, if that’s all it takes, then I suppose I’ll promise. Just so long as you promise me that you took your blanket,” he replied.
“I’ve got the stupid blanket,” I blushed. “I’m right near two tens old, you know.”
“I don’t give a hot damn how old you are. Old people get cold too, and your momma sewed that blanket the day she found out you were going to be like her.”
He looked up at me, and the tears were evident in his eyes, the way they only were when he was talking about my mother. When he said ‘“like her”’, he didn’t mean a woman or a redhead. He meant the other thing that had made my mother special.
He meant a witch.
Though, where my mother’s powers had been strong and obvious, mine were weak to the point of being nearly passive. I couldn’t control the wind and the air the way she had before her untimely death. All I could do was see things. Sometimes they came to pass;, other times they didn’t. Often, they made no sense at all, and that made for an interesting and oftentimes solitary existence.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked, letting all the pretense drop from my voice. “Just tell me you’re going to be okay, and I’ll believe you.”
“I fought in the Regent wars, little girl,” he reminded me, like he had ever let me forget. “I was on the battlefield when those traitors tried to kill the Regent herself and throw her on a burning heap like so much trash. I beat them back and pushed them outside the damn walls you’re about to ride through. I lived in trenches for weeks and weeks. I think I can make my own dinner.”
“Just say it,” I said, using the daddy/daughter thing again. “Please, Poppa.”
“I’m going to be okay,” he replied as the last of my disc turned red. “I promise, I’ll do all the crap you’re afraid I wo–”
His eyes caught the disc. They widened, first with grief and then acceptance. “You be who you are, little girl. Be who you are, and know that I love–”
Tragically, the disc whipped forward, taking me with it and cutting off the last of my father’s words.
“I love you too!” I screamed as I watched him and the only world I had ever known grow smaller and smaller until it was absolutely nothing.
I watched the wall open up far enough to let me out and then felt a shiver of cold as it snapped back in place, sealing me out.
I whipped through the jungles surrounding my Sector, hearing strange growling and sounds of movement that I had never heard before.
But I was going way too fast to see anything, really;, to allow my eyes to settle on any of my new and fleeting surroundings.
All I could hope, as I rushed toward the fortified Roamer base, as the disc tore me out of my home and literally pulled me away from the only family I had left, was that my father had heard me.
“I love you too,” I repeated, as though it might make a difference. “I love you too.”
&
nbsp; Chapter 2
The pull of the transportation disc as it lunged toward my destination was almost enough to throw me off. If my feet hadn’t been strapped flat against the smooth metal surface, I’d have undoubtedly gone careening off into the thick brush of the jungle as I flew past it. The sheer speed of the thing was enough to make my stomach hop up into my throat and my heart skip at least a couple of beats.
When the disc finally skidded to a stop, the world jerking violently back into place, I had nearly forgotten where I was and what was going on. But a blink or two later—just enough time to get my bearings—brought all of it back in one stark picture.
The fortified base that existed as the main hub of Roamer activity within an enemy-occupied jungle was known as the Outpost to those of us living inside of the Sector. We heard stories about it growing up, about how exotic and strange it was, about the unique vegetation that sprang up within its walls and the wacky customs that through the twenty-five or so years since its inception- had become new traditions among Roamer members. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting as I stared out into the expanse of the Outpost, still blinking away the fuzz that had come with being thrown at light speed through the jungle. Perhaps the images that had filled my mind as a kid, visions of a magical place with strange and beautiful sights at every turn, had colored the more reasonable part of my now grown-up brain. Maybe the stories the people inside the Sector told each other were exaggerations or outright lies. Whatever the reason, the image in my mind did not quite stack up to what I found, now that I was actually standing on the other side of the impenetrable Outpost gates.
I had expected magic, but what I found was a horse crapping on the side of a dirt road.
“You planning on buying him a drink, or are you just gonna stare at him ’til he blushes?” a voice chimed from behind me.
The proximity of it startled me, so I jumped back a little. Steeling myself, I turned to find a guy about my age with scraggly brown hair jutting out from under a filthy and aged ten-gallon hat. He was wearing a pair of denim pants that had seen better days, a white shirt that was missing at least two buttons, and a vest the likes of which I was pretty sure I had seen hanging untouched in my father’s closet. To say he was disheveled-looking would be like saying the corset I had worn to my first society event had been only a little uncomfortable.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling at me and surprising me with a set of very white—and all accounted for—teeth. “The name’s Chester.” He extended his hand for me to shake.
I did so, even though it looked at least as dirty as the ground where the horse had just relieved itself.
“What gave it away, Chester?” I asked, pulling my hand back as quickly as possible.
“’Bout near everything,” he chuckled. “That long dress you got on;, the way your hair’s all curled up. Plus, you got a whole ‘I don’t know what in tarnation I’m doing here’ thing going on with your eyes.” He shrugged. “Pretty much a dead giveaway, if you ask me.”
“Really?” I asked, narrowing my eyes so that perhaps he couldn’t get quite as much information from them. I thought I’d kept my guard up well enough. I had heard that you didn’t want to go into the Outpost looking like you didn’t belong there, that things could be harder if that was the case. I guessed I needed to work at that a little more, because here I was:; a walking street sign advertising all I needed to keep hidden.
“How long have you been here, Chester?” I asked, assuming he was some sort of rugged welcoming committee.
“In a minute, it’ll be two,” he smiled again. “Minutes, that is. I just got here myself.”
That was a little unexpected. He seemed worn. He seemed tired already. He seemed chiseled, like he belonged here. So, how was it that he hadn’t experienced any more of this place than I had?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, leaning closer to me and stuffing his stained hands into his pockets. “How did this amazingly attractive man with so much overt sexual charisma take to a place like the Outpost so quickly?”
Well, he was half right.
“I’m gonna tell you, Jenny,” he said, tipping his hat to me.
“The name’s Starla,” I answered.
“Sure it is,” he replied. “The thing about me, Jenny, is that I don’t come from the snooty-tooty upper crust kind of society that you and your like do.” He looked me over. “Let me guess: you’re from West End, the Hills, maybe even Hope’s Bluff?”
“The Hills,” I conceded, thinking about my home and the way that most people in it had very little to worry about in terms of coins and comfort. I wasn’t most people, though, and I couldn’t remember a day in my entire life where worry hadn’t factored in just a little. “But my father was a wagonsmith,” I explained. “We didn’t have the sort of stuff that other people have.”
“More than some, I’m sure,” he nodded, tipping then tipped his hat again and grabbed the suitcase from my hand.
“Hey! That’s mine!” I said instinctively.
“I know it’s yours,” he answered, shaking his head. “You were holding it, weren’t you? Don’t worry. I’m not gonna steal all your lady stuff or anything like that. I’m just trying to be a gentleman, is all. Don’t you people have manners up there in the Hills, anyhow?”
I thought about that for a second as I relented and let Chester take my bag as we both started up the seemingly never-ending path toward the Outpost. The men in my town did have manners. They just usually saved them for women of higher birth than me.
I shook my head. That didn’t matter now. We were all equal in the Outpost. Soon enough, I’d be a Roamer, just as good (or bad) as everyone else.
“So, what brought a prissy girl like you to a place like this, anyway?” Chester asked, turning toward me as he smiled at me again. “I’d have figured somebody as pretty as you would have a husband by now—get a little security under those lacy britches and pop out a couple carpet crawlers to make sure he can’t leave you.”
I bristled. “As charming a picture as that is, I could never see myself marrying a man for anything less than love.”
I wasn’t sure why I was admitting that to him. I hadn’t even told that to my father in such straightforward terms. Maybe it was being here, being free in the way a person only truly can when she’s starting over. Or maybe I had just stopped caring.
“So, join the Sisters of Sorrow, why don’t you?” he asked, pulling his hat off and wiping sweat from his brow. “What would convince you that running around a dangerous jungle, beating back bloodthirsty Savages, and uniting and gathering food we don’t get to eat ourselves was a good idea?”
“The same thing that convinced you, I’m sure,” I said curtly, my jaw tightening. He might have been carrying my bag, but that didn’t mean he got to write me off as some delicate flower in need of protection.
“I doubt that seriously,” he said, his voice dropping so low and turning so solemn that I immediately regretted both my tone and my insinuation.
“I’m a witch,” I clarified when it became clear that he wasn’t going to go any further.
“No shit,” he said, a bright smile replacing the sourness that had come to settle on his face. “I knew a witch back home once. Could make it rain if she tried real hard. Of course, she had to sleep for a full fortnight after that. Took the piss right out of her.” He glanced over at me. “What kinda stuff do you do?”
“I see things,” I said, running a hand through my hair again.
“What kind of things?” he asked, keeping pace with me even though his legs were much longer and his flat-heeled shoes meant that he could be walking a lot faster than I in my high heels.
“Lots of things,” I answered. “Sometimes they come to pass. Sometimes they don’t.”
“Really?” he asked, sounding more than a little confused. “So, and forgive me, ’cause Regent knows I’m stupider than a turkey who looks up at the rain ’til he drowns, but how is that different from gu
essing?”
A sharp and unexpected laugh escaped my lips, and I threw my hand up quickly to muffle it. “You know,” I admitted, “I have absolutely no idea.”
He laughed right along with me, and, before long, we found ourselves talking more freely. He told me how he was the son of a railway worker, how his father fell into the bottle every night after working all day in the sun, and how he swore he was never going to end up like that.
“Even if it means that I’ve gotta come here,” he said, motioning toward the Outpost.
It was now in view, and, from this distance, it was clear that absolutely none of the stories I had heard about this place were true. There was no vegetation, no unique flowers or flowing springs of water. With its old wooden buildings, dirt pathways, and horses grazing freely on whatever sparse grass might pop up in the otherwise unyielding sea of desert sand and rocks, the Outpost was just like the place I had left.
I would learn quickly enough, though, that this place had one huge difference.
A huge creature leapt from behind a jagged rock formation, darting toward us like some horrible thing from a campfire tale.
With its sharp fangs and claws as well as a tail that swung about freely like some razored killing machine, it took me all of a blink to realize what this was.
“Goddamn Ravager,” Chester muttered under his breath, effectively reading my mind.
But that didn’t make any sense. Ravagers weren’t allowed beyond the walls of the Sector. People were posted along entry points for just such an occasion. And this place had the same walls. So, how was this thing able to get in?
While I was mulling over this turn of events, Chester was quick on the draw, pulling a pistol from his side sling and aiming it at the creature. It shone blue as a dart of energy flew from it toward the thing.
“A Remington,” I muttered, much in the same way he just had. Those sorts of weapons, the same that had been used by the traitors when they’d tried to oust the still-sitting Regent, had been outlawed for over two and a half tens now.
Savage: an Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector Seven (The Othala Witch Collection) Page 1
