by Jesse Teller
“Betten, darling,” she said. “Try to keep it clean.”
He nodded and turned.
She turned around, unable to watch him leave. She found Tulbo behind her, and he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight to his chest. She sobbed as her heart left her for the second time, and when she thought she would lose her mind, she let Tulbo walk her home. He stayed with her until she was asleep.
When she woke, Ellen pulled the bone from behind her ear and threw it to the ground. She never thought of it again.
A few days later, she was walking home and a group of people crowded around her door.
“Let me kick them and bite them until I clear you a path,” Rachel said.
Ellen laughed. When she got to the crowd, they all turned to look at her, and stepped aside so she could reach her house. They whispered, and she found her way to her door to see a perfect script on her door, bold, written by a strong hand. It was her language. And she stared at the words for a long time before she understood them.
Will you marry me?
She turned to see him sitting the barrel with a smile on his face. She shoved her way through the crowd and jumped in his arms. When she kissed him, the crowd cheered.
He carried her into her home, and she rang her bell six times.
Book Four
DAUGHTER OF BEASTS
I
36 Years Before The Escape
Four.
The girl’s grip was wrong. Rachel reversed hers and slipped her arm up the girl’s side. Twist, pull, shove. The girl tumbled over Rachel’s shoulder and hit the ground on her back.
Five.
The next girl came in, swinging her impossible fists. This one was good with her fists. She hit Rachel before. Rachel ducked the first hit and spun. She hooked the girl’s leg with her arm and stood. The leg came, the girl dropped, an axe kick to the chest and it was over.
Six.
The next girl came in with a wooden dagger. Rachel ran at her, flipped in the air and came with her legs. They struck the girl on the chest, and she fell. Rachel grabbed her leg and twisted. She rolled the girl over, gripping the foot just right. The girl tapped.
Seven.
Rachel saw the next two coming in tight to each other. Rachel spun and roared at them. Rage rolled up on her, and she pulled it in tight around her shoulders. She charged. A whip cracked across her back, and she screamed in rage and turned to face her instructor.
“Wrong,” her weapon’s master said. “Rage is the way of the Fury people, but you are too small, and there are two of them. You dropped your shoulders and your stance fled. You lost.”
Rachel snarled. “I could have beaten them.”
She stretched her back, feeling the sting of the whip sear and the blood trickle.
“You would have lost,” the woman said.
Rachel hated her. The woman thought she knew everything just because she taught them how to fight. Rachel was the daughter of the Nyst. When she was Nyst, she would have this woman whipped, and she would teach the young girls.
“You are five years old and you beat seven girls today. Be happy with that. Go to the creek and wash. Fire your last 100 arrows and go see your mother.” The instructor’s face shot through with a bolt of worry and sadness. Rachel hated her more.
“My mother will be fine. She is stronger than that poison,” Rachel said. But she was beginning to doubt. When she had last seen her mother, things had looked bad.
“Do as I say, and do it fast. Your mother needs to see you.”
Rachel stomped her foot and curled her fists so tight. She felt the need to bite down on something, and she turned, knowing she shouldn’t bite, knowing it would get her in trouble. She ran to the creek and took off her vest as she ran. She pulled the straps of her battle skirt, and was naked. She streaked past the village and out into the woods. She jumped a few rocks and rolled under a tree limb before reaching the cliff, dropping her clothing as she jumped.
Falling made her feel like a matron eagle, the sacred symbol of her nation. She threw her arms out wide and closed her eyes. She was flying, until the ground called her back, and she dropped. She twisted in the air, pulled her arms around tight to her body. She led with her head and plummeted to the water. She dropped like a stone, her eyes open and searching as she fell past fish and a turtle.
She giggled under the water before kicking her way to the surface. She threw her hair back and screeched. She watched the sky above her, and wished a matron eagle was soaring over her. She closed her eyes and lay back in the water, floating. The current of the creek took her down river. She floated past males washing clothing, and little boys playing. Past a woman carving wood for practice daggers, and past the rock the other girls jumped in from. They would not attempt the cliff. They had not the nerve. She watched it all pass by her, and looked up at the sky. She let it all drift by and felt the weight of the truth coming to her.
Her mother was dying. They killed a male for the poisoning, but whispers and rumors said he had not been guilty. Her friends told her they had snuck into the temple and heard talk that a woman warrior had murdered the Nyst. Rachel felt fear rise up around her and close in tight when she heard it. The weight of it was not lost on her. If a warrior could kill another warrior through treachery and poison, then chaos would result. Anyone could kill anyone else, no matter who was the stronger warrior. Anything could happen. They could even kill her.
She drifted to the pool at the end of the creek and stepped out of the water. She felt the cold cut straight through her, and looked at her arms and legs seeing gooseflesh rise. She wished she had not floated so long. She took the trail that led back to the cliff where she had thrown her clothing, and heard a sound. She froze.
She knew that sound, though she’d never heard it before. Been warned about that sound. The sound of a man’s voice.
The males in her village were not allowed to speak in their full voice. To hear a voice of a male out loud was to be insulted by his audacity. The males of the village were taught to whisper all their words. They spoke with hushed, reverent tones. This was not that. This voice was so low, so powerful. Fear stood like a wall before her, and she gritted her teeth and stepped through. It was as if she were pushing her way through mud to make her limbs respond, but she stepped close and dropped into a crouch behind a bush.
This was not one man, or even two. This was six men. One looked little more than a boy, but could not be mistaken for one. His face was tan and thick, his eyes bright and alert. He wore a metal shirt and carried no weapons. But the other men with him did. When she gazed upon their weapons, she could not imagine how heavy they were or how much strength it took to carry them.
She had been taught what a sword was, a spear and a shield. About a great sword and the power of two little swords when wielded by a master. Now she saw all these and more, and she knew real fear.
“We are almost there,” the man with the spear said. It was easily the biggest weapon Rachel had ever seen. She had no idea how he intended to fight with it, but the idea was ridiculous. This man was helpless with this weapon. “When we get there, you let me do the talking,” he said to the youngest of them.
“My brother sent me in his stead. I will speak to whoever comes to face us.” The boy turned to face the spear-holding man, and she watched fascinated as the young boy looked into the eyes of the most terrifying being Rachel had ever seen. This spear man was half-beast to be sure. He looked about to eat the younger man. She pulled closer to watch them fight. “No one dies tonight,” the boy said. “We will talk to them. I will ask for the girl. I will ask to see the Nyst. We will make no demands. We will not pull a weapon. The man who does will answer to me.” Both men stared at each other, then a third stepped before them. He touched the bigger man’s shoulder and smiled at the boy.
“You have my word, no one will speak but you,” this other man said.
Rachel didn’t need to hear anymore. They were going to try to talk to her mother. She
needed to warn the village. They needed every warrior. She turned and ran, leaves crunching beneath her feet. The men started and began talking about her. She did not care. She ran faster. She jumped boulders, ducked tree limbs, flipped when she needed to, and added more speed when possible. She cut her way for the village. When she reached her home, she ran straight for the warning drum, and picked up the baton. She beat the drum fiercely, screeching her war cry.
“Men are coming! Men are coming!” she shouted. “Men are on their way!”
The warriors came running. Every hand grabbed a bow. The males rushed to the shacks. The women formed ranks around the temple. Her trainer snatched the baton out of her hand, and Rachel turned to run.
She reached her post, a tall shack overlooking a wide street, and climbed the rope. She grabbed a bow and a fist full of arrows as other girls climbed up next to her. They pulled their bows and gripped their arrows, and she turned and looked down the road she would protect. When the men reached that short path, she would fire from above. She stared at it, her concentration sharp and deadly.
The other girls were scared. Some were weeping. Rachel knew them to be disgusting. Now was not the time to cry. Cry after. Her mother told her she had wept from fear after every battle she ever fought, but during those battles, she had not cried. Tears blurred aim. Now Rachel looked at the girls around her, and huffed.
“Now is the time for warriors. Stop wailing like babies. How are you supposed to hit anything that way?” The other girls snarled at her, but she did not care. She was going to kill one of those men. She would set her aim for the one with the spear first. He was too fierce to allow to live.
Nothing, and more nothing. Rachel did not hear screams of battle. She did not hear cries of pain.
“We should go check,” the girl beside her said. Rachel nearly slapped her.
“This is our post. We are depended on to hold this street. You never leave your post.” She growled at them all. “Stop being babies and think about the training. We have to hold this street. The rest of the battle is not our concern. Now focus or I will spank you with my bow and send you back to your fathers.” She turned her gaze back to the street and waited.
She did not know how long went by. It might have been a long time. It may have been brief. But a warrior woman came up the street and waved her hands in the air. Rachel stuffed the bow back in the barrel fit into the roof. She had done well. She had been a warrior.
“Rachel, come,” the woman said. “The rest of you stay. Hold your post.”
Rachel grinned. She did not know how this warrior had known, but she knew Rachel had done the best. She was going to be rewarded for her service. She might even be given her warrior name. She beamed with pride. If she was made a warrior today, she would be the youngest warrior ever in the nation. She slid down the rope and ran.
“Seems today is your day,” the warrior sneered.
“I did it exactly as you told me to,” Rachel said.
The warrior snatched her arm and twisted it painfully. Rachel’s heart broke out frantic. “You are going to say goodbye to your mother right now,” the warrior snapped. “Then we are done with you.”
Rachel fought back the tears. “No, I did it all right. I did exactly what I was supposed to. It was the other girls. The other girls were crying. They were scared.” Rachel felt her tears coming. She feared them more than the swords of a hundred men. “No, I did it right.” They rounded a corner, and she froze. She was dragged, and kicked her way to her feet. There before her mother’s house stood four men.
“Why are you taking me to them?” She was pushed through a crowd of warriors and thrown at the feet of the men standing on her mother’s porch.
She rolled to her feet, crouched and hissed. She was naked. She was unarmed, but curled her fingers into talons and snarled at them.
“By the Seven, this has to be her,” a man said. He wore a steel shell on his chest and his hands were steel. She did not know how that was possible, but it was. He wore two short swords on his hips, and brushed his jet-black hair back and nodded at her. “It is a great honor to meet you,” he said. He bowed to her, and she spun. She ripped a dagger out of the sheath of a Fury warrior behind her and brandished it in his face.
“Speak to me again and I will cut out your foul tongue,” she said.
He nodded but said nothing. The youngest and shortest of them stepped off the porch. He had no weapon, and stopped when the warriors behind her pulled their weapons.
“Not another step, male,” a warrior behind her snapped.
He stopped and sat down.
Rachel stared dumbfounded. That didn’t make any sense. How was he supposed to defend himself if he was sitting? He waved a hand to the ground before him.
“Will you sit and talk to me?” he said.
She paced before him. “No, male, I will not sit with you.”
“Will you talk with me then?” he asked.
“I ought to cut your face for even talking to me.”
“I am a warrior,” he said. “My name is Ruggamon. Is it a great dishonor to speak with another warrior in your culture?”
“No.”
“Then can we talk?” he asked.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Your father is here,” Ruggamon said. “We came to take you with us.”
She hissed and pulled back horrified. She turned to the warriors behind her and they looked at her with disgust.
“No, don’t be mad,” Rachel said to her people. “I am not one of them. They will not take me. I will fight them. Help me kill them. I won’t go with them. Don’t let them take me.” She spun on Ruggamon and stabbed at his face. He did not flinch. “I will kill you.”
“Rachel, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I know you are scared,” he said.
“I’m not scared of you,” she said with a burning rage. She hated the tears that came. “I will kill you if you try to take me.”
“Rachel, your mother is dying,” he said.
She sobbed. She wiped it away with her arm, and he nodded solemnly.
“I think you should go say goodbye. Meet your father and decide with them both what is to become of you. Whatever they decide, I will abide, but I think you should be in on that conversation.”
Rachel wiped more tears and stomped her foot. She swiped the blade through the air at his face, but he did not flinch. He did not move. She shoved her way past him and brandished the dagger at the other men on the stairs. They stepped aside as she kicked the door. She stalked into the room and saw two men. One carried a massive shield. He looked like a man comprised of stone. He stood still and calm, and she decided she would hate him the most.
Near her mother’s bed the spear-wielding man knelt. He held her mother’s hand and whispered to her. Rachel walked up behind him and lifted the blade above her head. She stabbed down with all her force.
“Get away from my mother!” she screamed.
He grunted in pain and jumped to his feet. He pulled his hand back to slap but thought better of it. He looked down at her and sighed. It was a sound she had heard males make. He reached up over his shoulder, pulled the dagger out of his body. He looked at it before handing it back to her and stepping back.
She stared at him, then turned to her mother.
Jolonyst, the nation called her, and Rachel could remember when no wandering eye dared look her direction. She had watched her mother train and had seen her fighting twelve warriors at a time. No warrior matched her mother, but as Rachel stared at her in bed, she saw none of that might or power.
The skin had become nearly translucent. It was tight to her bones in some places, sagging off in others. Her eyes seemed to have sunken into her skull. The lips were crusted over with yellow scabs, and her entire body trembled.
“Rachel, Rachel, apologize to your papa for stabbing him,” her mother said. The words came out as a gasp and seemed to tire her mother greatly to speak them.
“Do not listen
to her, Rachel,” her papa said. “I find our meeting to be fine.”
She looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“You have a good thrust.” He winked at her, and she wondered if he was making fun of her. She decided then she would have to kill him.
“She will kill you if you do not watch yourself,” her mother said. “The other girls cannot stand against her. She will be mighty.”
“She already is,” he said.
Maybe he wasn’t all bad.
“Rachel, come see your mother,” Jolonyst said.
Rachel pulled in close, and her mother gripped her hand. It was like clenching tight around a bag full of bones.
“You have to run,” her mother said.
Rachel felt sick to her stomach. She shook her head. The words didn’t make any sense.
“My enemies are strong here, and they will destroy anything that reminds this nation of me.”
“I will not run from them,” Rachel said. “I will stand and fight. I will kill many of your enemies and die covered in their blood.”
“They will not kill you. They will not fight you. They will break you.” Her mother gasped.
Rachel did not know what that meant, but she would not break. Nothing could break her. She was strong.
“You will be bound. Your feet, your chest. You will grow twisted and weak. They will deprive you of the bow. They will break your spirit. They will make you scrape and beg. They will force you to cook and clean for them.”
Rachel pulled back in horror. She did sick up then. She vomited all over the floor. She wept angry, sour tears, and shook her head. “No one can make me clean.” She sobbed. “I will not do it.”
“They will make you.” She heard from the other side of the room. Back in a corner, a figure stepped out of the dark, then Rachel realized she was naked. She felt shame, and covered her body when looking at this person.
Her aunt stepped out of the darkness and sneered. “When she is dead, they will defile her body. They will drag her bow through the mud. They will break everything she ever touched. And that means you as well. I will stand by and watch it happen,” her aunt said. “Because I will be powerless to stop it.” The woman smiled. Rachel knew the words to be a lie. Her aunt would not try to stop it because her aunt hated Rachel.
