Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  I turn my head in the direction and open my eyes. A dark shadow stands right beside me, and my hair swishes with its sudden presence. It doesn’t see me. It looks straight at the Wild boy and starts slowly towards him.

  It will kill him. It will kill the only one who can keep me safe!

  The shadow draws closer, sweeping past me. I step after it. It halts, sensing the danger, and starts to turn around.

  I sweep the dagger in front of me, and its tip connects with flesh.

  Chapter XIII

  The wounded cry is human.

  The Wild boy is on his feet, a moon sword in hand, and looks in my direction. I prepare to dodge out of the way and let him finish the would-be-attacker with a thrill of anticipation. I have not forgotten the unknown style with which he fought nor the skill in which he protected me all those years ago. To see his improvement would be worth the days in the Burnt Forest.

  The Wild boy lowers his sword. “Well, you dumb shit, that ought to teach you to sneak up on me,” he growls in frustration.

  Shocked, I stare at the shadow illuminated in the glare of dim light from the Wild boy’s sword as a fully human boy – a boy with rings around his pupils. He is pressing a hand against his side. Blood flows between his fingers.

  “I was unaware you were entertaining a guest,” the new boy hisses between clenched teeth. He looks in my direction and stumbles before turning wide eyes to his comrade. “A Kelban, eh?” His voice is calm but the tinge of surprise is unmistakable.

  The Wild boy shrugs and sits back down on his blanket.

  The other turns away from me and joins him, slamming the sack slung over his shoulder to the ground. He has one moon sword strapped to his back and removes it too. He sits and growls in annoyance when he sees the blood coating his hand. Instinctively, I edge up against the tree and tighten my hold on the blade. Against one Wild boy I had hopes for my survival. Against two I already hear the hammer on my coffin.

  Calaisar, help me.

  “If you haven’t noticed, asshole, I’m bleeding!” the new boy snaps.

  The Wild boy pulls a packet from the leg of his boot and tosses it to his comrade. I watch the wounded one squeeze a dab of gooey ointment onto his finger and spread it over the gash on his side. He winces but makes no other gestures to the pain.

  Anger, precise and hard, slams me in the gut. He had healing ointment the whole time. He could have put it on my finger. He wanted to make me uncomfortable. Wanted to degrade and insult me. Though the Wild boy doesn’t glance in my direction I know he senses the violent glare I deposit.

  “You’re a fool,” the new boy continues. He hands the packet back. “I told you to stop going to the Burnt Forest. You’ll never kill it.”

  Despite my irritation, I grasp the new information with surprise. The Wild boy has been trying to kill the siratha. That’s why he won’t believe me.

  The Wild boy hisses between his teeth. The new boy realizes his mistake and glances in my direction for the first time. He wrinkles his nose.

  “Much as I appreciate the sudden change of your cold heart, friend, you should have left her behind. Things are bad enough without adding an outsider to the lot. You’ll really get your ass kicked for this little stunt.”

  “Sav gar, Axle!”

  I try to control the sudden surge of shock that rumbles through me and maintain a nonchalant position. Neither boy notices my discomfort. But those words . . . that tongue . . . that accent . . .

  “Le vranar e jakar.”

  She found the bridge.

  I am not mistaken. It is ancient Kelban.

  Axle blinks. “No shit?” He looks at me, and I try to look perplexed and frightened at the same time. “She survived that place? Alone?”

  The Wild boy cocks his head. “I never asked if she was alone.”

  Both of them look at me, and I turn from the prying eyes.

  Axle snorts. “Navra brav. Igra fravlor ver nara sorv van tavranas es.”

  Noble breed. Always figure they know more than anyone else.

  Hell, he had no idea! No clue how damned much I knew.

  Axle’s eyes narrow, and I realize I let the mask fall. I disguise my sudden facial change for that of pain and rub tentatively at the small of my back. He looks away but his shoulders have stiffened.

  “I’ll offer more information once I’ve had sleep.” He glowers at me. “And once the wound has healed.”

  The Wild boy grunts an agreement and lies on his back again.

  Axle, however, waits until I sit down. He watches me clean his blood from my dagger and sheath the weapon at my side. Watches me stretch across the blanket. Watches me tuck my legs up beneath my chin. I pretend to suddenly notice his gaze and flinch.

  He smirks and lies across his own blanket, our gaze never breaking.

  “Yes?” I ask, battling to keep the annoyance from my voice.

  He chuckles softly and rolls his back to me. I do the same and stare at the base of the oak tree in front of me. The chill that spreads a canopy over my body is not entirely from the night air.

  I don’t think I fooled Axle one bit.

  The Wild boy is gone when I wake up. In his place, Axle leans casually against a tree, watching me with his ringed eyes. They are much lighter than his companion’s. A glassy blue color that could be friendly if he weren’t intentionally icing me with malicious ferocity. I scramble to my feet, dusting leaves off the shredded skirt of my tunic. I will be picking them out of my hair for hours.

  “Where did he go?” I ask.

  Axle kicks some dust onto the last embers of the fire and uncrosses his arms. “My bosom companion is tracking at the moment . . . so you must suffer my presence as an escort.” He seems strangely pleased at the idea.

  I shrug. “I’m used to boring, arrogant sops following me around. Be my guest.”

  His eyes narrow. “Careful, Kelban. My restraint is on a short tether today.”

  “Likewise.”

  We don’t speak again as we break up camp.

  I wear the rolled up blanket across my good shoulder with a rawhide strap and follow Axle through the maze of trees. They grow so close together that its hard to define a pathway between them, but he seems to know where he’s going so I step where he does. The silence is broken by occasional birds or foreign animal noises and crunching leaves.

  We finally pause and he hands me the sack of hunter’s brew. It takes only a few mouthfuls to replenish my energy. He doesn’t drink any of it and swings it back over his shoulder. I wait for him to continue walking but he doesn’t.

  “Ostracized, correct?” he asks.

  I flinch. It would be hard to miss the swollen red skin around the strap of my right shoulder. Any fool could have guessed why I’d be in this gods-forsaken wilderness.

  “You are a noble. Everything, from your posture to your features, betrays it,” he surmises. “But you possess muscle and mannerisms not suited to your rank. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve had considerable practice in the arts of self-defense – especially with a dagger. You’ve also had experience with hand-to-hand combat. This suggests you’re either the member of a family prone to maintaining their rank through violence – or – you’re interested in the knowledge denied to you. Considering the hints of foolery and stubbornness I’ve detected, I would opt for the latter. However, I hardly think society would have approved of such scandalous practices so you’ve done it in secret – which means you are rather conniving and intelligent. But who could you trust to teach you such skills without the danger of being betrayed or caught. You couldn’t possibly train on your own. A family member? Brother, perhaps? Ah, it is a brother. An only sibling too for you to trust him with such a dangerous pastime. He must also be older than you – at least three years – and in the habit of acting as your guardian.”

  “How the hell do you . . .?” I cut myself off.

  He chuckles. “His involvement has also somewhat effected your character as well. Don’t take offense to that, darling. I
like brash young women.”

  “I’ve had enough of you and your . . .” I spin around and stomp through the trees.

  “You’re seventeen years old,” he calls out. I keep walking.

  “You weigh approximately one-hundred fifteen pounds, but you’ll put on a little more weight after you’ve recovered from your time in the Burnt Forest and weigh one-hundred twenty-two pounds again in no time.”

  I stop and turn around.

  “You are tall for a girl – especially for nobility. Five foot six inches.”

  “How do you . . .?”

  “Most noble Kelban girls are married by the time their seventeen years of age and you possess that same scar – the ‘marriage scar’ I believe you call it – on your right wrist. Probably a man much older than you and unpleasant to the eye, but with good heritage and substantial wealth. Your weight and height are easy to guess if you’ve an eye for observance.” He smirks in arrogant pride.

  “Since you discovered him, my companion has informed me that you’ve been surprisingly calm despite the circumstances. This means you either know very little of the tales your kind spreads about us – which, if we’re being honest, I highly doubt – or you’ve decided there are greater threats than ‘cannibals’ in this land.” He steps towards me and his brow furrows as he scrutinizes my features.

  “Very observant,” I praise in a berating tone. “Or it could be I don’t consider you a threat.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re that stupid. You understand when the circumstances are dire. That’s why you crossed that bridge. You know how to manipulate. It’s how you defeated the siratha. You are very observant of your surroundings. It’s why you didn’t drink from that river. You know we’re a threat. You just haven’t decided on how to defeat us yet.”

  “You’re a madman!” I snap.

  “I prefer highly intelligent creature from your kind, darling,” he says, “but the human reference is equally satisfying.” He stops directly before me, leaving a decent foot of space between us.

  I study him too. He is very thin. I can see his ribs through tanned muscle. A rash of ugly burns long since healed deform one side of his abdomen. Three lines across his upper chest closely resemble the marks of some predatory beast. Another scar runs across the bicep of his right arm. His hair is blonde and very dirty and unkept. It hangs in wild strands halfway to his shoulders and shields most of his face from view. But his eyes – piercing blue ice – are hard to miss. So is the three inch scar above his left eyebrow. He, too, has seen battle. He is intelligent, but naturally so. His knowledge had not stemmed from hours upon hours of study but from a natural gift.

  I try to discern from his features, his posture, his attitude where he comes from, how he has lived, what he enjoys. But I cannot.

  “How do you do it?” I ask at last.

  He smiles. “I am one of the best trackers in this land and an equally dangerous hunter.” He closes the gap between us and backs me against one of the trees. “I am very intuitive and crave a deeper understanding of everything I see.” He boxes me in with his arms and his breath warms my jaw as he comes closer. “I am interested in new species: why they live and love and die the same as us, but are completely different. Why the separation between our worlds is a barrier that can’t be crossed.” Despite his earlier disgust towards me, despite his obvious disdain for my kind, his close proximity, his breath in my face, unfurls a deep blanket of cold in my stomach. I swallow nervously and press my wounded back against the tree until I feel blood.

  Behind the icy stare, a tiny spark of something akin to shock, causes Axle’s unbreakable gaze to flinch. Slowly, he pulls back. I don’t hide the relief that cascades through me.

  Axle looks like he’s going to say something to me. He opens his mouth. “I am one of the best huntsmen this land has ever seen, girl. Isn’t that right, pal?” He looks over his shoulder.

  From the shadows of the trees, the Wild boy appears. I cringe as he draws closer. Everything, from his eyes to the curled fists, speaks danger. Axle notices his friend’s change of mood as much as I do and gives him a wide berth.

  “Unsuccessful, eh?” he asks.

  “Piss off, mud-crawler!” the boy growls and elbows past him.

  Axle straightens his vest. “Thanks a lot, asshole. I was making an impression.” He winks at me.

  I brush past him, making sure my elbow gouges his arm properly.

  I hear it before I smell it. Water. When I step out of the trees a small river – at least thirty feet across – cascades before me. I stumble towards it and fall at the edge. The hunter’s brew is sufficient enough for energy but nothing will quench my thirst like cold water. Life sprouts up around the river but I watch for different signs. I wait for the tell-tale splash of fish in the water. The overhead buzz of a dragonfly. The croak of a frog.

  A harmless green snake slithers near my hand and enters the water. I watch it twist on the surface of the water before diving into the depths.

  Tiny minnows play beneath the surface of the water. They meander away when the sun casts my shadow over their playground.

  The water is safe.

  I cup it in my hands and drink. Water soaks the front of my tunic and drenches my skin. I slurp at the water so fast I inhale some of it and choke.

  “I think we’re having an improper effect on her manners, don’t you think?” Axle asks as he steps right past me into the water. After two strides, he’s up to his knees.

  The Wild boy growls in frustration and spares me a quick glance. He hasn’t said a word to me the entire day but his gaze softens when he sees me. I recognize the pitying stare and immediately hate it.

  Axle tosses his vest onto the shore and reaches for the belt buckled low around his bony hips.

  Heat blasts my face, and I scramble to my feet, looking around helplessly. I spot a canopy of trees upstream among the rocks. Shallow water has to be up there. I won’t let them see another of my weaknesses.

  “I’m going to . . . to bathe . . .” I don’t dare look at the Wild boy as I speak, afraid that he’s stripping as well.

  Axle’s pants slop onto the ground. Behind me, he chuckles. “I will say, she has the modesty of a Kelban.”

  The Wild boy glares in his direction and then breaks his silence. “It would be practical to remain within eyesight of one another.”

  I stroke a finger over the hilt of the dagger at my waist. “I’ll be careful.”

  He frowns at the dagger, most likely doubtful of my expertise, but nods vaguely. “Suit yourself. But we won’t be able to hear your screams over the roar of the river.”

  “I don’t scream.”

  I turn my back before he can say anything else and hurry upstream. The rocks soon shield me from view, but I hear Axle’s laughter as he splashes in the water and a growl of frustration in answer to his playfulness.

  I search for a shallow bed of water and eventually find a small bay of water no larger than two men branching off of the river. I can see the stones glittering from the bottom and yank the worn tunic over my head. I remove the dagger and set it gently on the ground.

  The water turns an ugly mud-brown and red color as my legs enter the cool liquid. When I am completely submerged I can no longer see the bottom. My skin prickles to life as the water laps at the wounds adorning my body. I waste no time grabbing my tunic and scrubbing my arms, my chest, what I can reach of my back, and my legs clean. The water is so red I might as well be bathing in blood.

  Holding my breath, I submerge myself and grapple at my hair. Dirt cakes between my fingers and the water thickens. My lungs beat with panic, and I come up for air. I submerge again. And again. Again. Until the water around me turns clean again as the river washes away the grime. Until I can see my naked limbs through the water, clean and beautiful once more.

  I lift a hand from the water to admire it. It is a hand I recognize. Tough from practice with unladylike excursions but still graceful.

  I take a c
hance to search myself for wounds but can find none excepting the ostracized scar on my shoulder and the lash-marks across my back that burn at a single touch. Even the marks from the siratha are gone.

  I comb fingers through my hair until not a tangle remains before exiting the water. I pull my tunic over my head and tie the string of rawhide around my waist again. The dagger I strap to my leg and pull the tattered folds of my skirt over it. The tip of the sheath is still visible but the location is practical.

  All at once, the scars on my neck sting painfully, like claws have suddenly dug into my neck and choked me. I flinch and place a hand over them. They pulse beneath my fingertips and my body throbs with heat. Voices assail my ears. Guttural voices. Raspy voices. Unearthly voices.

  Voices I heard three years ago and haven’t forgotten.

  I draw the dagger and spin around towards the tree-line, scanning it viciously. I see nothing, but a shadow would be hard to see within the darkened trees. The scars tighten, pinching skin. I hear a raspy chuckle and turn towards the noise. Nothing is there.

  “Kelban,” a voice rasps behind me.

  I spin with the dagger, but slash empty air.

  “Kelban,” it rasps again. “You don’t belong here.”

  “Show yourself!” I cry.

  “You don’t belong here.” The voice is closer this time.

  I turn and run. A raspy chuckle follows me. Air swishes around me. A tree branch snags my hair, but I tear free. The pulse in my scars beats rapidly as the air draws closer around me.

  “Kelban . . . you’re not one of them!”

  I break out of the trees and slam straight into the Wild boy. He cries out as his back connects with the ground and my cheek slams into the hard muscle of his chest. Behind us, Axle swears. The pulsing in my neck instantly stops and the chill around my shoulders dissolves.

  The Wild boy groans beneath me. I push myself up on shaky arms so I’m not crushing his chest and he splutters as my hair dangles over his face.

  “Get the hell off of me, you . . .” He looks up at me and blinks in astonishment. That ferocious, animal gleam in his eyes disappears and leaves bewilderment, real and human, instead. Once again, that faint aroma of smoke and trees teases my senses. I become completely aware of the angles of his hips against mine, the muscles of his thighs against mine, and the hardness between my legs . . .