Legends of the Exiles

by Jesse Teller

  “I am. And I am searching right now for the reason a Son of the Seven came storming into my brother’s wedding, armed and armored, stabbing fingers and demanding my captains.”

  “I will not answer to you. You are not my king chief,” Gerber stated.

  “And where is your king chief now?” Borlyn asked.

  “Back at his city, holding a place for us to retreat to.”

  “So, you are at war?”

  “Oh, yes, Flurryfist,” Gerber spat. “I am at war.”

  “Who is this noble enemy of yours that you come to me for aid?” Borlyn said.

  “They have my daughter,” Gerber said.

  Borlyn stared at the man for a long time before he shook his head. “You may not take Gaulator Stonefist.”

  Gerber swung his spear around and lowered it at Borlyn. A hand was placed on his shoulder, and Gerber hissed at the one who touched him until he looked into the hooded cape and froze. The Beastscowl slammed the butt of his spear into the floor and stepped back.

  The hooded man stepped forward and carefully, slowly lowered his hood to show a tan face, hard and chiseled. A face to break men and lift them up, a face to lead warriors onto the battlefield. His hair was red, his eyes cold blue. He wore a scar across his left cheek that had been stitched hastily. When his eyes landed on Borlyn, he dropped to a knee and lowered his head.

  Gerber grabbed the man’s arm and fought to lift him back to his feet, but the man shrugged off his hand. Slowly, every man present dropped to a knee. It seemed to Ellen as if Borlyn had no idea what to do.

  The man looked up at Borlyn and smiled. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  “I do,” Borlyn said. “You are Jessop Redfist, son of Yenna.”

  Ellen gasped. The entire assembly gasped. The room dropped to instant silence, and every soul within fought to get a better sight of the man on his knees.

  “It does you dishonor to bow to me, Redfist. Please, find your feet,” Borlyn said.

  “There is no greater honor than to bow before the king chief of the mountain. I will stay my knees until I have made my plea.”

  “Then speak it quickly, I beg. My heart cannot take seeing you on your knees,” Borlyn said.

  “We came looking for heroes. Gerber’s love has been poisoned. She lies dying, and her enemies wait for her to expire so they may have at his daughter. We seek brave souls with whom to rescue the little girl and bring her to stay with us under Redfist protection. We know Gaulator Stonefist; he was raised in our city. We know of Breathos Steeltooth, and we desperately need his shield. We have come to beg aid. I have come to beg aid.”

  “Take me!” a man cried out. It was a desperate plea, at once echoed by every voice of every man the tribe boasted.

  “I will fight beside the Redfist!” a man shouted.

  “I will die beside the kings!” another yelled. All over the hall, men vowed and spat oaths, and every soul within begged for the honor of fighting beside this one man. As Ellen stared at him, for the first time, she wished she were a warrior. That she could lay her sword at the feet of this man, and follow him into whatever Hell vied to harm him.

  “Let us see the mark!” a man cried.

  All the while, Borlyn and Jessop stared at one another, deep in silent conversation.

  “You mean to take this girl from the arms of Fury,” Borlyn said.

  The room hushed.

  “We will come out of that wild country with the girl on our back, or we will not come back at all,” Jessop said.

  “You mean to take all of us to war with you,” Borlyn said. “And when you leave, you will go back to your Tergoran home and leave the mountain to bleed. The Furies will lift their bows and charge down the hills at us, and we will suffer for the life of this young girl.”

  “You are a coward, Borlyn Flurryfist!” Gerber shouted. He fought his way to his feet and slammed the butt of his spear on the ground.

  “Borlyn is no coward, and I will not suffer him to be called one in my presence,” Jessop said. “His valor is impeccable and his vision wise. If he helps us, he will drag his entire nation into war. Thousands will die for the sake of your Rachel,” Jessop said, still his eye did not tarry from Borlyn’s gaze.

  “You cannot take Gaulator Stonefist,” Borlyn said.

  “Gaula, get down from there right now and help me get my little girl,” Gerber said. “We have been friends since you were born. Would you let me do this without your fist? Me?”

  “Gaulator is chief of the Stonefist tribe. If he goes onto Fury soil with the intention, or even the inkling there will be a fight, it is an act of war,” Borlyn said. “You can plead with him until we all drop dead, but you cannot have him. My nation will not start a war with the Furies. Let me talk to Jolonyst. She is a friend and ally of mine. She is the queen of the Furies, and she will aid us in this. She and I have talked for long days about the need for kinship between our people and—”

  “I would love to let you go on and on about the love you hold for the Furies, but your friendship with my Jolonyst cannot help us. She cannot help us. She lies now in the bed she will die in, poisoned by her enemies and clutching my daughter’s hand. And do you know what she is saying to her right now? While you sit in the hall of my dear friends and tell me no, she is whispering, ‘Fret not, my dear, your papa is coming.’” Beastscowl roared and every man, woman, and child pulled back in horror. “And she is right. Rachel’s papa is coming, and he will burn down Hell to get her!”

  “Let me go, king chief,” Breathos said. “My shield is needed. It can stop a hail of Fury arrows. It is a wall they cannot penetrate. This girl needs my family’s relic. I need to do this. I am one man, not a great chief, just a man. My involvement cannot bring the Fury storm.” Breathos rapped two knuckles on his shield, and Ellen’s heart stopped with the sounding. She did not want Breathos running to the peaks of the mountain after some little girl, any little girl. He looked at her while she stood there in fear, and he winked.

  “I will send Breathos Steeltooth with you, noble Redfist, but I cannot entrust him to you. He is of the mountain. I do not even want you there to be honest. I cannot have the leadership of the family of kings in this endeavor.”

  “You cannot deny me my Redfist!” Gerber shouted. He rushed the throne and a great man with a thick, white braid folded over his shoulder grabbed Gerber and pulled him back.

  “I would not tell you that you cannot have him. Take him with you, but my influence must see this job done. My steady hand must be present to watch that no unneeded hostilities erupt. The Redfist, I do not know. I cannot entrust him with this task.”

  “Then give us a leader you want us to follow. We will fight when he says fight and run when he orders us to,” Jessop said.

  “You want to hand over the running of this mission to his man?” Gerber said. He looked betrayed as he stared at Jessop, but the Redfist’s eye never wavered. He locked it fast to Borlyn’s.

  “Rugga,” Borlyn said.

  Ellen froze. She looked over to the young couple. Ruggamon pulled a knife and cut the cord that bound him to his wife. Terala looked scared as Rugga kissed her cheek and joined the men on the dais.

  “I will send you with the greatest man I know. I will send you with Ruggamon Flurryfist,” Borlyn said. “He will command you when to fight and when to run.”

  Gerber scoffed at the young man. “This cannot even be a man branded. He is far too young to be a Flurryfist man. He must be nine.”

  “I am the second born son of Cochran Flurryfist. I do not bear the legendary size of my family, but I am of Seven Blood, and I am a man branded.” Ruggamon pulled his shirt open and bared the seared flesh. “I am at the command of my king chief and will lead your men if you will agree to it,” Ruggamon said as he stood over Jessop Redfist.

  Gerber shook his head and scoffed. “He is unacceptable as a—”

  “We will take him, with glad heart and eager minds,” Jessop said.

  “Redfist, no,” Gerber
pleaded.

  “I find him fair. And on my honor and the honor of my line, I will follow every word of his instruction. His every whim is my command. If you call him great, I will not doubt him.”

  Ellen looked at Ruggamon, searching for pride in the young man’s eyes, searching for fear or boasting at the idea of leading a Redfist into battle. If he felt any of these things, his gaze was too reserved to show it.

  *******

  “Wake up, Wife.”

  Ellen heard the words spoken and didn’t understand them. She felt the blade at her throat, then understood it completely.

  “If you move, I’m going to slit your filthy man-loving throat.”

  Ellen kept her eyes closed, confusion dawning as she realized this speaker was a child.

  “You’re going to get up and get me something to eat. You’re a wife, you’re good at it. You’re going to get me wood so I can make a—” There was a hitch in the voice and a bit of a sob, and Ellen’s heart broke. “I’m going to make a bow. They took my bow. I will make a new one and go back into that village and kill that man with the big shield.”

  Ellen gripped the girl’s wrist and twisted. She sat up and fought to pull the blade away. The girl dropped the knife and caught it with her other hand. Ellen felt the slice across her arm, and hissed. When the blade slid across her back, she grunted, rolled to her feet and spun. The girl was up and glaring, with a cute face streaked with tears and a bloody knife in her hand.

  “I’m going to gut you, Wife.” The girl could not have been more than five years old. “You’re going to help me make a bow.” The girl stammered. “N-no, I mean, I’m going to make it, and you’re going to string it for me.” The girl sobbed, her eyes welling with tears, shook her head and growled. “I’m going to kill all of them. I’m going to kill you all.” Her breath hitched again as she fought for control of her fear and sadness, and the girl gritted her teeth. She opened her mouth and loosed the most ferocious screech Ellen ever heard. It was a cry to drive a person insane, and Ellen drew back in horror.

  The girl punched her own head over and over again as she held the blade out before her. Ellen dropped to her knees and held up her arms.

  “Don’t kill me, mighty warrior. I will obey,” she said. Though the child frightened her more than a little, the abject sorrow that held this child fast in its grip was too unbearable to watch. Ellen lowered her head and kept her hands up. “What do I call you, warrior?”

  The girl stood silent, then she spoke. “I’m Rachela, proud warrior of the Fury people. I am your captor, and I will be merciful if you are a good servant.”

  “I will serve, master. What can I do for you? Are you hungry?” At that, Ellen heard the little girl’s stomach growl. “How long has it been since you ate?”

  “I won’t eat what those men give me. They are fiends, and I will not let them poison me as they poisoned my mother,” Rachela said.

  “Then let me make you food,” Ellen said. “I am a good cook. I have meat I was saving for my breakfast. I dried it last night. Let me get it for you.”

  “I will let you do that, servant. And hurry. When a warrior wants food, she gets it.”

  “Of course.” Ellen started a fire. She pulled her spit and her pot. She pulled a small bag of spices from her cooking kit and dropped them in the pot. Rachela licked her lips.

  “Is it poison?” she asked.

  “No, I would never poison such a mighty warrior. Will you keep me safe if the men from the village come to take me?” Ellen asked.

  “I will not let them hurt you,” Rachela said. She looked proud now, licked her lips again and stared at the pot. “Is it ready?”

  “No, but you can eat this while you wait.” Ellen pulled a few radishes out of her stash and dropped a handful of mushrooms with it. “Eat those until it is ready.”

  Rachela grabbed them frantically and stuffed them in her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned as she ate, and Ellen went back to the stew she was cooking.

  “We are going to make a bow.” The girl sobbed and wiped her eyes of tears before brandishing the knife again. “I’m going to, but you will help me. It takes different muscles to string a bow, and the bow I make will be too powerful for me to string.”

  “Do you know how to fire a bow?” Ellen asked.

  Rachela jumped to her feet and screeched again. She swung the knife through the air and hissed. “I have been firing a bow since I was three. That is two years, Wife. I’m five now. How old are you?”

  “I’m sixteen,” Ellen said.

  “You ever fire a bow, Wife?”

  “Not even once,” Ellen lied. Her father taught her to fire a bow long ago. She was a good shot, but Rachela didn’t need to know that.

  “I heard about you,” Ellen said.

  “What did you hear?” the girl asked. She seemed almost afraid of the answer.

  “I heard you are the daughter of the queen of the Furies.”

  “She died. She was too weak when the men came for her. He stole her spirit from her people. That man took my mother’s heart and carried it away. The big dumb one with the shield grabbed me and ran with me. The arrows kept slamming the shield on accident. I am lucky he didn’t get me killed. They were aiming for him so they could save me. I am a—”

  “Warrior princess,” Ellen said.

  The girl paused.

  “Yeah, a warrior princess,” Rachela said. “And a powerful warrior. I will liberate you if you want me to. We can leave this place and run back to my homeland. They will be gathering a great army to rescue me, but they will find me with you, marching proud back to the Nyst, covered in the blood of my enemies.”

  Rachela slid her blade in a makeshift belt she made out of a piece of rope. She rubbed her hands together and licked her lips. “Now give me the meal. I want meat. It will make me strong so I can kill my enemies.”

  “Not ready yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m hungry.” Rachela grabbed the pot and pulled back, hissing. “Ouch! That pot is stupid.” She jerked her hands back and snarled. “And it is not a warrior.”

  Ellen burst out laughing. She could not help it. She fought to stop, but when Rachela’s face screwed up in anger, Ellen laughed harder. This girl was so cute. Light brown hair, sharp blue eyes, her nose held the tiniest of freckles and her full lips snarling back looked as fearsome as a puppy.

  “Stop laughing at me, Wife.” Rachela pulled her knife again, then Ellen shook her head.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Rachela. But you’re right, this pot is not a warrior,” Ellen said. “My other pot is my warrior pot.”

  Rachela’s eyes widened. She looked at Ellen in awe before pulling back and shaking her head. “No,” Rachela said. “I mean no, right? You don’t really— Do you have a warrior pot? Because if you do, then that is the one we should be using.”

  When Ellen broke out into gales of laughter, Rachela scowled at her. In that moment she looked so much like her father Ellen loved the man a little. “I don’t have a warrior pot, Rachela. That was a joke.”

  She crossed her arms and shook her head. “I knew it. Ha! A warrior pot owned by a wife like you. No, if there are any warrior pots in this village they are—” Rachela looked at Ellen.

  The little girl snorted out a laugh. “There are no such things as warrior pots, are there, Wife?”

  Ellen shook her head slowly. “No, Rachela, but if there were, I would use mine to cook your food.”

  They ate, and Ellen could not imagine the kind of manners with which the Fury warriors ate. The girl chewed loud. She spit often. Her mouth and face were smeared with grease and sauce when the meal was done, and Ellen pulled out a cloth and wiped the girl clean.

  “You cook good, Wife. Does your husband like your cooking?”

  “I don’t have a husband,” Ellen said.

  Rachela screwed her face up in confusion. “But all the women in your nation are wives.”

  “Not my nation.”

  “Do you have warri
or women in your nation?”

  “We do now,” Ellen said.

  Rachela sneered, but when Ellen looked away, she saw the girl smile. It was a beautiful smile, and Ellen loved this girl a little.

  Rachela slept the entire day. Ellen watched over her. She walked to the edge of the cave and looked out over the village below, and wondered where Rachela’s father was. They had to be out chasing this little girl. Had to be looking for her, and when would they think to come looking in her cave? It had been five days since the wedding of Ruggamon and Terala. If Gerber Beastscowl’s daughter was with her, Gerber could not be far behind. But the longer she waited, the more she realized Gerber was not coming.

  Breathos should come looking. But he hadn’t. There was no way they missed her in their search. Ellen realized the Sons of the Seven were waiting for her to bring Rachela back. They would have to wait a little longer.

  “These men of yours are stupid,” Rachela said. She crouched with her bow in her hand and wooden arrows sharpened with a knife. She wore a small outfit Ellen had sewn for her that day, and no boots. Rachela glared out of the cave and shook her head. “They are stupid.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ellen asked.

  “If this were my nation, they would have found me by now. Men have too thick of heads to think right. That is why women are smarter.” Rachela tapped her forehead with her knuckles like Breathos tapped his shield. “Lean, sharp minds. Women’s minds are sleek like an arrow’s shaft. Far better.”

  Ellen had to agree.

  They talked. They talked for hours about her culture and the great warrior she was going to be one day; how when her aunt had taken her bow and snapped it over her leg, she had been confused. Her aunt actually thought Rachela wanted to go be with the men, that she wanted to know who her father was — But she didn’t. She shook her head and was adamant about it. She hadn’t cared who her father was. She did not like his friends either. They were far too big, and they fought her Fury sisters in battle. Even the ones that fired at the shield. Even though they were terrible shots, they were still her sisters, and they deserved better than what a spear or a sword could give.