by Jesse Teller
“I’m not hungry, Mother. Betten fed me well the whole time we were out there,” Helena said.
Ruggamon snorted out a laugh.
Her mother held her hand out and waggled it in Helena’s face.
“Rugga, let me feed my daughter and we can talk about the rest of this when my husband gets back from his hunting trip.”
“That man likes to hunt,” Rugga said. “Always out there on long treks seeking the best game. Or avoiding home. One or the other. No, I don’t think I will let you take that little girl into your house. I don’t think I will let that happen at all tonight. Until your husband returns, Helena stays with me and Terala.”
“Whatever you think is best, Flurryfist,” her mother said. She slowly made her way for the door, her head down, her step cautious.
“How about it, Helena?” Rugga said. “Do you remember where you put that bag, sweet girl?”
Helena rushed away. She stopped at the home of her father’s hunting partner. The man was never home. His firewood pile was unused and had been all her life. Helena threw a few logs aside and pulled the bag from where she hid it.
The feel of the bag was greasy. It felt dirty in her hand, as if it had been smeared with spoiled fat. She walked toward Rugga, and her mother reached for her but missed. Rugga took the bag, a small cotton bag her grandmother made long ago. He pulled it open, sniffed inside, then jerked his head back and shook his head.
“This is black weed,” he said, and spat. He dropped it to the ground and pointed a finger at her mother. “This is forbidden in this village. This is forbidden in every village save one on this entire mountain. I won’t have it. You will answer to my father. You will answer to your chief.”
Her mother turned and ran.
Ruggamon whistled for his dogs and chased after her. It took him a few hours of hunting, but he brought her back.
The next day, Helena watched from the second level of the village as her mother walked out of the village and into the wilderness. She carried just enough food and water to get her off the mountain. The scout who walked with her would take her as far as Fendis land, to the gates of Teggegor, where she would turn for Tergor. Helena’s mother had been exiled, and she was alone. Helena swore to herself she would never see the gates of Teggegor, never leave the mountain, never be an exile. Her father did not come back for a year. When he did, he never went hunting again.
II
25 Years Before The Escape
“For the love of the Seven, look at Erick,” Tess whispered.
Helena rolled her eyes. “Erick, Erick, Erick,” Helena said. He was fifteen, she thirteen, and she was not impressed by his size or his name.
“Yes, indeed,” Malsha said. “Erick Flurryfist.”
While her two friends concentrated their eyes on the brash, loud, brute of a Flurryfist boy, Helena turned to Deispa. He held a club and shield, but only because he was sparring Erick, and Erick was a Flurryfist.
Deispa would need a shield today.
He moved well. He had his shield up every time Erick’s fat little hand came in for a slap. Deispa swung and connected with Erick’s temple, then Erick stumbled back. Helena laughed as Erick roared. Deispa hit Erick in the thigh, then the hand, and Helena thought she heard Erick’s hand break.
“He ought to have a little respect,” Malsha said. “He is fighting a Son of the Seven.”
“Good hit, Deispa! Give him another!” Helena shouted.
Her two friends gasped.
Deispa turned, grinning, and his ears were clapped. Dumb Erick couldn’t help but clap a boy’s ears when he sparred. Deispa stumbled back, then Erick stepped in with his palms flying. Slap to the face, slap to the hand holding the club. The weapon flew away and bounced across the Warrior’s Circle. It stopped at Helena’s feet. She scooped it up.
Erick hit Deispa in the stomach with a hard slap that doubled her champion over. The Flurryfist brute dropped that impossibly fat hand of his across Deispa’s back, and he hit the ground. Erick placed his big, fat boot on the boy’s back and held him down, the same thing he always did when winning a bout. He smiled at her, and Helena shook her head in disgust. His behavior was stupid and demeaning. She hated it.
“Alright, Erick, let him up,” Rugga said.
Erick stepped back and reached down to help Deispa to his feet. Both boys laughed, and Helena scowled. She stepped into the Warrior’s Circle. It was against every law the village had for a girl to be in the Warrior’s Circle, but she did not care. The only adult here was Rugga, and she owned that man. She stepped up to Deispa, handed him his club.
“You were great, Deispa. If Erick didn’t always clap a boy’s ears, then you would have won. Funny, don’t you think?” She turned to Erick, who stared back at her with a blank expression. “Flurryfist boys are supposed to be known for their fists, but still Erick wins all his bouts with his palms. How is he supposed to clap a man’s ears in battle?” Scowling, Helena stepped up before Erick. “Maybe he is not as good with his fists as he should be.”
Erick growled, but Rugga laughed. “Erick, get over here,” Rugga said.
Helena watched him walk away and knew he was going to get yelled at. Maybe she had just beat Erick.
“She is right. You will have gauntlets on when you fight in battle. A clap to the ears is not going to be as effective. This next match, you will refrain from the clap.”
“I will fight as my father Borlyn Flurryfist fought, bare-fisted and bold.”
Helena returned to her friends and smiled. “Bare-fisted and dead.”
“Helena!” Malsha gasped. “How dare you? That is your chief’s grandson.”
“He didn’t hear me,” she said, but she saw Rugga frowning at her. She felt suddenly sick and looked away.
“You will fight again, and this time, no ears,” Rugga said.
“It is the other boy’s turn,” Erick said.
“Then let’s give them a chance, shall we?” Rugga pointed at two boys and Deispa and grinned. “You three against Erick.”
“That is not fair,” Tess snapped.
“Ladies, I let you watch our bouts because I think a woman needs to see a man in battle to know what he can do. But if you interrupt, I will send you away.”
Helena looked at Tess and scowled. “You shut up. I want to watch Deispa,” she hissed. Helena turned to Rugga. “Tess will keep her mouth shut or I will shut it for her, Rug. You just send them after that little whelp of a nephew of yours.”
Erick snorted, and Tess and Malsha threw their hands up.
“His name is Ruggamon,” Erick said.
Erick was not a whelp by any standards. He was a full head taller than every other boy his age. Helena knew, one day, he would be as big as his grandfather and his father. Most men of the progetten race stood between seven and eight feet tall. Every Flurryfist man she had ever heard of had been over nine except Ruggamon. Erick was huge for his age, but she liked the way his face purpled when she called him small.
Rugga laughed. “Quit stalling, boy. Go for your whooping.”
“Can I pad my fists?” Erick asked. Helena imagined she heard a whine in his voice.
“No. Open hand. Go now.” Rugga clapped his hands together and the other boys rushed in. He taught them to fight as a group against one single man, and told them one day there were some men one person alone could not take down. They closed in around Erick, and he looked in all directions, fear staining his face. Helena didn’t need to see it. She knew he was beat. It would be better if she wasn’t here.
Helena left the Warrior’s Circle and walked to the hall’s doors. She looked over her shoulder and saw no one. She pressed against the door softly and it opened.
Helena slipped inside.
*******
The room was cool. Helena hadn’t expected that. She had always seen men leaving the hall sweating and stumbling. She always imagined this place as sweltering, but the room was cool and dark. Helena pressed against the door as she entered and closed it sl
owly. She stepped to the right and kept herself pressed against the wall. When her eyes adjusted, she gasped at the beauty of the place.
The hall was large the way the sky is large. Bigger again twice than she had ever thought it was. She saw the ceiling, massive and domed, and from its rafters seven great flags hung. Helena knew the flags, the symbols, and the stories of the men they had been sewn for. That did not impress her. Stories were great on a crisp night around the central fire of the village, but they did not interest her as much as the height of the ceiling. She stared at it in wonder. “How do they clean those flags?” she whispered.
A wide bar on the left side of the room clung tight to the wall and wrapped all the way to the front dais. She saw men there talking. She wanted to hear what they were saying, but could only stare at the kegs that climbed the wall behind the bar.
There had to be thirty kegs all stacked and tapped. They were set on huge shelves, and a ladder on wheels led to the topmost kegs. She imagined climbing that ladder when a man requested a drink, and she thought of that man looking at her ass as she got that drink. Helena chuckled.
Scores of tables, long and lined two-by-two, stretched through the length of the room. She saw stools, hundreds of stools, and realized she always assumed the hall had benches for the men to sit on. Each stool sat upside down on the tables, their four legs stabbing at the ceiling.
The wall she pressed her back to was smooth stone. She could feel carvings on them, but with the limited light she could make out none of them. She ran a hand along the surface of the wall and shook her head. She had always assumed the walls were rough cut in this building. The stones that made the outside were rough and chipped. She looked at the floor, and it gleamed bright. Even in the dim light afforded her, reflections glimmered off the floor.
She slid the width of the wall. When she was lined up close to the front table, she ducked under. She bent over and kicked her slippers off. As she walked with her legs spread wide, her body bent in half, and her head stuffed low, she fought to be quiet. She reached the center aisle, dropped to her knees, and went still.
“This must be the party of all parties,” her chief said. He sat in a massive throne. His fists, curled and flexing, seemed to dwarf even it. “It has been generations since we have been asked to host, and we cannot disappoint.”
An elderly woman’s voice opened, frail and wavering in the air, and Helena smiled. This was Magna. She was a favorite of Helena’s, but she saw her so little. The woman was the mistress of the hall. She lived here, having served the men of the village for decades. “I have the ale,” she said. “Your stores will not run dry. I have the vegetables and the tubers.”
Helena’s nose crinkled when she heard tubers. She still hated tubers.
“I don’t have the meat,” Magna said. “I don’t have even enough to serve our village in a great feast, let alone the kind of numbers you are describing.”
“We will hunt,” Kecices said. “Our men are known to be the greatest hunters on the mountain. I will lead an expedition and—”
“We must have him lead the hunting party,” Chief Cochran said. “I have sent word.”
Kecices stood. “I am half-again a better hunter than that beast. He is not a man. His brand is poor humor. He is wild as a river and just as clueless. No, I will not follow a boy on a hunt. Especially not a feral one.”
“Sit, Kecices, now,” Cochran said. “Your bow will be needed. Your soaring pride, I can’t use. The men of this village trust you. They will hunt with you, but you are not the hunter he is.”
“I know the beasts of these woods better than any man alive. I have been hunting them for longer than you have been chief.”
“You will stay home,” Cochran stated.
“I am the hunt master of this vill—”
“And I am its chief!” Cochran roared, and Helena covered her ears. He stood. “Betten will lead my hunt. That kid knows where every animal on the mountain walks. He knows more about hunting than any twelve men.” Cochran walked to the edge of the dais, and Kecices cowered back. “I am of Leeven’s blood in Leeven’s hall. Do not think you will tell me how to run it. Do not think I will not break you in half right here and banish you from this place.”
“I served you my entire life.”
“And I value your service, but this party has to be perfect. This is my Son! This is all of the Sons, and they are coming here. Betten will fill my stores. He will do it with you, or you can stay home and slaughter the beasts. I’m sure Magna needs an extra blade.”
“May I go?” Kecices asked.
“Take your pride off my ancestor’s floor and go find a place for it. When Betten is ready to go, you will be, too, or you will stay.”
“Yes, master,” the man said. He skulked off.
Helena looked around in a panic. She was not allowed in here, and Chief Cochran was angry. He would have her whipped if he caught her. She looked down and slowly turned. She stepped as quietly as she could until she made it to the wall. She eyed the door. She needed to be there when it opened next, needed to slip away when her chance arrived. But she saw a staircase going up not ten feet to her right. She knew where that led. She could not pass up the chance.
Cochran stood and stared at the door, his chest heaving. He was still angry. She had time. She rushed up the stairs as quietly as she could. When she reached the top floor, she saw a great circular room. The walls were smooth stone, the floor carpeted with a thick tapestry of the seven noble clan symbols. She saw in the wall a set of double doors with the symbol of a fist rising from under a mountain. She gasped.
Helena knew no man had been in that room in two thousand years. She walked to the doors, gripped the handles. They were lined with white leather and steel wire. The door was smooth and warm, the symbol perfect in its rendering.
“The Redfist room,” she breathed.
Leeven was the only one of the Seven to build the great kings a home in his hall. The grandeur within was a thing of myth. The only breathing being allowed in the room was the Keeper of the King. This woman had one job her entire life. She only cleaned this room. Her whole life was about keeping this room ready for the return of the clan of kings. Helena gripped the handles. She closed her eyes. She pulled ever so gently, and the door swept open. She stood, her arms spread as far as they would go, her hands locked on the handles of the doors, her eyes squeezed shut so tight they ached. She drew in a deep breath and could smell the musk of men, as if the smell of the Redfist still haunted this place. She begged herself to open her eyes, but before she did, she gently closed the door.
The woman who saw that room had no husband. No children. She was the Keeper of the King and nothing else. Helena had to respect that. She couldn’t soil that sacrifice. And Helena wanted love. She wanted a man to call her own one day. She closed the doors and kissed the place where they met. “Come back to us soon,” she said. She slipped away and down the stairs.
When she closed the hall doors behind her, Deispa grabbed her and pulled her around the corner of the building. He hugged her close, and she drew in his scent. He smelled of sweat and the musk boys carried with them everywhere. She loved the smell and felt herself growing hot. She was flush and waited for him to kiss her.
He reached up, gripped her breast and twisted it hard. She shoved him away and punched him in the face. He thrashed back and cried out in surprise and pain. He looked at her. She had broken open his lip. She smiled and glanced down at her breasts. She looked back up at him and licked her lips.
“I’ll give you another chance if you are less of a brute about it,” she said.
He stared at her, enraged.
She sighed. “A little girl can’t hurt you, Deispa. You are fine. Are you going to kiss me, or should I leave now?”
He grabbed her and pulled her by her shoulders in for a kiss. She liked that more than she thought she would. He opened his mouth too wide. His tongue came out in one great lap that smeared across her lips and almost to her chin.
He shoved his teeth into her lip painfully and groaned in an odd way when he did it. She pulled back, wiping her mouth. He looked to her a little less attractive, and she patted him on the shoulder and nodded.
“Goodbye, Deispa.” She needed a new boy to think about. This one would not do.
“That is a good kiss right there,” he said. “That is how a man kisses a woman.”
She nodded and waved behind her back. “Goodbye, Deispa.” She hated him a little now. He had ruined her first real kiss. She didn’t know what a kiss was supposed to be like, but that was not it at all.
*******
The village had been buzzing like a hive of bees for weeks. A feast was happening, and visitors from all over the mountain were coming. There was a rumor Erick was going to take his brand. Helena hated the idea of a great big party in his honor. Whatever happened to humble men? Whatever happened to quiet men? She thought of runty little Rugga, and she smiled. He was so sweet, but she didn’t want to marry that. She needed a bold man. A brash man, a man who could challenge her, a man other men feared. She needed a man of men. But she did not know any. Her village had only hangers-on of Erick and his cuter, younger brother, Virgil. Neither of them was right, though. She tried to figure out what she was going to do about the feast, so she went to her greatest ally. She went to see Terala Flurryfist.
She stuck her head in Terala’s kitchen and laughed. “Sweet Terala, how goes your day?”
“You smelled them. That is what brought you to my door?” Terala said.
Helena had smelled the onion rolls Terala had been cooking. She pulled in close and sniffed them, her eyes rolling back in her head.
“You’re the only one I know who likes how they smell,” Terala said. “Want one?”
Helena took two.
“I want to ask you a question,” Helena said. “It’s about the feast.”
