The Cult of Saints
You’re in pain. You’re suffering.
That’s good. Real good. Means you’re alive.
So quit your sniveling and hear my words, boy.
Pain is weakness leaving your body. Suffering is doubt fleeing your soul.
You’re not dying. At least, I don’t think you are. But the complacency inside of you is bleeding out like a stuck pig.
If you survive, if all that pain and suffering finally comes to an end, for better or for worse, your conviction will be galvanized like never before.
Then, and only then, do we finally meet the man inside of you. He will kill the sniveling boy riddled with weakness and take his place.
So save your tears. Ain’t nothing you can do about the change that’s coming.
Best not to meet the man you’ll be with piss in your breeches.
-Sir Goddard Humfries, The Barking Knight
Book 2 in the Last Falcon Trilogy
The squire to the druids stepped inside of the large rectangular structure that was practically bursting at the seams with the transfixed citizens of Raven’s Hill. A pungent, offensive aroma assaulted his senses as the vile acrid smell burned inside of his nostrils. The occupants were standing shoulder to shoulder in tight rows as they swayed in unison under the high ceiling of the community structure, standing in near total darkness, the almost full moonlight filtering through the windows the only source of illumination in the dark, damp town hall. He tried to hold his breath as he fell in at the end of one of the lines, trying to use his height to peer over the heads of the farmers and their families standing in front of him.
Cartyr froze in terror.
At the front of the hall was a large trough filled with water next to a lean, diseased-ridden cow. The halter to the sickly heifer was being held by a bald man with a snake-like tattoo that ran from his jawline up over his left eye then down the backside of his head. Even in the absence of suitable light in the hall, Cartyr could see the man had pale skin. Torsten. But how? He never leaves Princess Alixon’s side. But there was something different about the man. After a few panicked breaths, Cartyr composed himself enough to realize that the dark cultist wasn’t Torsten. He’s shorter and wider and his eyes are the same colors. Cartyr suddenly felt sick as he stared at the dark cultist.
Cartyr stood for what felt like hours near the side of the room. Outside, an older child wailed for help, only to fall silent moments later. He’s aware of the child. He just doesn’t seem to care. Just as the squire was about to succumb to the mounting paranoia in his guts, the bald tattooed warlock at the front of the room wordlessly walked over to the cow, pulled a long, thin, ceremonial dagger and opened the animal’s throat.
Torsten’s acolyte once more took his place at the front of the room, standing just behind the trough full of water as the heifer sank to her knees to finish bleeding out on the wooden floor, the animal’s blood draining between the gaps in the floorboards. Suddenly, the rank smell Cartyr couldn’t place made sense. It’s dried, rotting blood. They never clean the floors, they just let the blood pool beneath. He fought the urge to retch in the back of the town hall.
Like cattle, the citizens of Raven’s Hill began to fall in around the dead cow and the trough of water, sinking to their knees as half tore into the slain beast with their fingers and teeth and the other greedily slurped cupfuls of stale water using their bare hands. Meanwhile, the warlock at the front of the room leaned against the wall, lazily watching the residents of Raven’s Hill crowd around like too many piglets after the same teat. Cartyr was trying to time the warlock’s glances toward the back of the room. Just as the farmers around him began to step forward for their turn to feed, he prepared to slip back out of the town hall. But the cool, disinterested gaze of the dark cultist fell on him. Instinctively, Cartyr took a step forward, trying to mimic the unfocused saunter of the farmers. Then, he took another while still under the gaze of the dark caster. And another. By the time the warlock looked away, Cartyr was several paces away from the door. Curses. No way I can leave without causing a disturbance. I’m in this for good now.
When he reached the front of the room, Cartyr did his best to push his way into a spot at the drinking trough where he could keep an eye on the dark wizard seemingly controlling the citizens of Raven’s Hill. Meanwhile, two dozen mindless farmers continued to tear into the flesh of the dead, diseased cow. They have to go back to the farms sooner or later. I just have to maintain the deception for a little while longer.
Cartyr reached down and lifted a cupped handful of water to his lips, trying to match the cadence and awkward movements of the cultists surrounding him. The water was cloudy, stale, and warm. Abrasively it ran down his throat, leaving him raw and itchy. When it reached his gut, Cartyr felt nauseous as the dim light in the room began to play tricks on his mind. The warlock. He’s watching me. What’s happening to him? The dark wizard at the front of the room started to change, his gaunt face seemed to decay rapidly. Some of his skin had begun to shrivel and rot, revealing deep fissures in the dead tissue beneath. Cartyr looked back down at the water as panic began to surface in his chest. Despite the rawness of his throat, he felt inexplicably thirsty, as if the water was calling to him.
The child wailed outside again, breaking Cartyr’s fascination with the stale water. From his kneeled position, Cartyr saw a faint smile pass across the warlock’s undead face. The child is trying to escape. This amuses him. Cartyr tried to focus on fitting in. I can worry about the child later. I can’t help anyone if I’m dead. Not the child, or Opax, or Aroura. Cartyr took in another vile mouthful of the water with his hands. When he gulped it down, it tasted like bile, burning its way down into his chest.
The warlock stood up tall and began to sniff the air, his face turning into a terrible sneer as more of his skin eroded from his face. “What’s this?” The dark culstist’s voice was much higher than Torsten’s, but it still had the same awful grating to it, as if his vocal cords were saturated with gravel. Once the words were in his head, Cartyr couldn’t seem to let them go. They grew louder and louder as they reverberated inside of his mind. “Is there a wolf amongst my flock?” Cartyr felt frozen in place as the hair on the back of his neck stood. All at once, the residents of Raven’s Hill stopped feasting and drinking, prompting Cartyr to do the same. Please. The voices. Make them stop.
Outside, the child stopped screaming. Time seemed to slow as the cultist leader began to sniff his way around, smelling the backs of the necks of the kneeling occupants, his bloodied sacrificial kris still in his right hand. First, he made his way past the dead heifer, passing out of Cartyr’s vision as he moved around the far side of the kneeling farmers. Though Cartyr couldn’t see the warlock, he could feel his presence. Three people away. Please don’t come this way.
Another deep inhale seemed to sap Cartyr’s courage. The sound of the acolyte’s hard-soled shoes tapped gently on the wooden floor as he moved to the next resident. Cartyr could feel a bead of cold sweat run down his chest. Two people away.
When the warlock bent down to the woman kneeling next to Cartyr, the petrified squire could feel and smell the dark servant’s breath. The mixture of the hot breath of the warlock and the dried blood from past sacrifices made Cartyr’s stomach churn. I’m thirsty. By the light, why am I so thirsty? Through great effort he managed not to vomit the tainted water he had just consumed back into the trough. A skeletal hand extended into Cartyr’s periphery to raise the raven black hair of the middle-aged woman sitting next to him. There was the sound of a deep gasping inhale as the warlock breathed in the scent of the woman. He released her hair, then stood erect once more. He’s taller than any man I’ve ever seen. He knows. He knows I don’t belong.
Cartyr’s heart felt like it was in a vice as he sat petrified while a strong, cold hand gripped his shoulder. His entire body seized as the dark cultist leaned in. It’s over. He knows. He’s going to kill me. I don’t want to die thirsty. Maybe I could just take one last drink of water. Everything would be all right then. The room started to spin as the warlock took in a deep inhale, savoring the scent of fear radiating from the squire’s neck. Cartyr lowered his hands into the warm water and prepared to raise them to his lips. It’s okay. Everything is okay. I’m ready to die. . .
. . .
. . .
. . . The fuck you just say, boy?
Wraal. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. He knows. Wraal, he knows. He’s too powerful. I’m just a man. He’s a demon. A god, even. I’m not you, Wraal. I’m no one. And now my time is done.
Fuck your sense, Cartyr Bastille. So what if he’s a god? You’re a Falcon. You’re the last goddamn Falcon. Start acting like it. Falcons don’t die in cages, so get up and put this fucker down. Hard.
Catyr felt cold tears sting the corners of his eyes. I’m not a man. I’m a Falcon. Falcon’s don’t die in cages.
“Ah, there you are, A’gridissil, Nast’uar.”
Cartyr’s eyes shot wide open as the need to retch overpowered his senses. The warlock was still behind him, his nose inches away from Cartyr’s short auburn hair as he spoke softly in a language Cartyr didn’t recognize.
When the warlock inhaled a second time, Cartyr erupted with rage, throwing his head back as violently as he could, crashing the back of his skull into the bridge of the acolyte’s nose. Cartyr fell backwards and vomited all over himself as the warlock crashed onto the wooden floor. The roaring words of Wraal once more filled his thoughts. Don’t let him get a spell off or we’re fucked. Fly God damnit! The squire scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, pouncing on top of the warlock before the dark caster could recover. Behind a flurry of elbow strikes to the face, Cartyr worked his way into a mounted position. At first, the warlock resisted, but soon the acolyte’s strength began to wane as Cartyr continued to pummel his face with fists and elbows.
Cartyr stopped as the dark wizard’s hands fell by his sides, all strength taken from him by the blunt-force trauma to his head. A painful gurgle was coming from the warlock’s throat. He looks human again. He’s trying to speak. No. No, he’s laughing. The warlock opened his mouth into a wide, sadistic grin, revealing broken teeth and a mouth full of thick dark black fluid. Even though he was choking on his own blood, the cultist continued to cackle. He swallowed painfully, then smiled once more.
“You’re too late. I see you now.” The high falsetto voice felt sharper than any blade Cartyr had ever held as it raked against his thoughts. It occurred to Cartyr that the words were coming from inside his mind as he felt an uncontrollable desire to crawl back to the trough and slake his burning thirst. Damnit, boy, he’s inside your head now. I can’t fight him for much longer. You let this fucker up and you’re as good as dead. Time to end this. Now, Pug!
Cartyr blinked stupidly while Wraal began to rage inside of him as the Viking warrior battled Torsten’s warlock inside of Cartyr’s mind. The squire was unsure of who was winning the skirmish. I’m out of time, I have to end this. He arched his back and brought his forehead down with savage force, rendering the warlock unconscious as he fractured the dark wizard’s face. While still in a mounted position, Cartyr turned to locate the wizard’s dagger. I have to end this. I have to end this now. He sees me now. He’ll find me. He’ll make me drink. I’ve never killed an unarmed man. But I have to. I have to kill him while I have the chance. Cartyr got back to his feet to retrieve the dagger.
But he was already too late.
The villager that grabbed Cartyr by his left wrist and forearm had an iron grip. Several more sets of strong hands grabbed the squire as the townsfolk of Raven Hill fell upon him, biting and scraping at his flesh with their fingernails. Cartyr tried to resist and pull away but the hands of men who had tilled fields their entire lives were simply too strong. More hands grabbed him as the crowd swarmed around his location. Panic began to flood into the squire’s mind. He yelled as loud as he could. “Help! Ryatt, Casey! Help!” Soon there were hands around his throat, suffocating him as the possessed farmers scratched at his face. Just before they were about to drag Cartyr to his knees, he heard the voice of Nornaie’thel in his head. Before anyone can help you, you must learn to help yourself. A hunter solves his own problems.
Cartyr felt the hands begin to squeeze and drag him down. His eyes darted toward the exit one last time. A hunter solves his own problems. With all the wind he could muster, he screamed through his constrained windpipe.
“Aech’ Ahlanei!”
With a rush of energy, he burst back to his feet, bringing his arms high, then down in a violent chop that broke the hands of the possessed villagers trying to hold him. With a jerking motion, he took a quarter turn, leading with his right elbow, catching a farmer squarely in the jaw. The man teetered backward, collapsing into the crowd, providing a momentary path out of the feeding house. Quick as a doe, Cartyr leapt twice, once onto the chest of the farmer he had just floored, the second past the outstretched hands of the men and women trying to cannibalize his flesh. He bolted through the door out into the middle of the main road.
My heart, it’s pounding out of my chest. Opax told me not to use his spell, damnit. He looked back at the town hall as his spell began to dilute, his weakened knees nearly buckling as they caused him to stop and pant for breath. Farmers were beginning to slowly file out, one at a time, stumbling toward him with outstretched arms, some of them groaning involuntarily. Like the warlock had, some of the farmers’ flesh began to melt off their faces, revealing the rotting corrupted muscle beneath. Other’s grew massive horns or seemed to self-immolate. Despite the terror of his assailants, the pounding of his still-fragile heart took precedence in Cartyr’s mind. He quickly took a deep meditative breath, the way Ryatt had been teaching him to when trying to balance his personal Chaos ledger. Ryatt! He’s here. He’ll know what to do.
With one hand clutching his chest, Cartyr began to shout toward where he had left his companions. “Ryatt. Casey! I need you. Please!” The pale moonlight began to play tricks on his eyes, casting shadows where there were none. Amongst the skeletal inhabitants of Raven’s Hill were demons and devils of every variety, crawling toward him, pressing in all around him.
Cartyr turned in a complete circle searching for the mage that was nowhere to be found. He felt sick when he heard the dark cultist answer his call from what felt like the inside of his head. “Ryatt can’t save you now, boy. Not when I can see you. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. We serve the same master now. Your Viking can’t keep me at bay forever. Your mind belongs to me now, Cartyr Bastille.”
Wraal? Please Wraal. I need you.
The peasants stopped filing out of the town hall after him. Cartyr fell to his knees as fear clutched his pounding heart. The warlock was standing in the doorway of the town hall as the bloody collage that was once a face began to transform, growing two long demon horns. Cartyr could hear the warlock, even though his lips weren’t moving. “You’re not going anywhere, fool. You’ll be with your Viking soon. It’s time to die, Falcon.”
Cartyr’s insides burned like fire as sharp, piercing pain raced throughout his body. His hands found their way to his stomach as he keeled over, desperately trying to alleviate his seizing organs from outside his body. Then the pain stopped. Cartyr looked up just in time to see the massive bolt of electricity crash into the top of the door frame of the town hall with such force that it exploded the entryway, bringing down the entire side of the structure, burying the warlock and his closest slaves in rubble.
Cartyr looked behind him toward the blacksmith where the lightning had come from. Ryatt was standing there with his robe sleeves rolled up, a mixture of fear and wrath on his face. Standing behind Ryatt in a protective stance was a woman a few years older than Pug with exposed toned, muscular arms and broad, athletic shoulders beneath a taught leather jerkin. Her face was badly cut and bruised, matching the black eyes framing her snarling lips. Behind her eyes was a feral hunger as she stared hatefully at the collapsed entryway to the town hall. Last to make their way into the town center was Casey, holding a dark-skinned boy of about ten. The hedge knight placed the boy in the woman’s arms and ran toward Cartyr.
“Come on, Pug. We have to get out of here. This place is about to be crawling with goddamned enemies.” As if to make his point, the guttural moans of more possessed residents of Raven’s Hill began to echo throughout the trees surrounding the town’s center. Cartyr let Casey help him to his feet, his insides still hurting terribly as he struggled to walk under his own power. With his arm draped around Casey’s neck, he hobbled after Ryatt and the powerful woman holding the boy. Through labored breath Cartyr tried to ask a question to get his mind off of his nearly failing organs.
“Who . . . Who are they?”
Casey continued to drag Cartyr along, pulling him across the main drag toward the surrounding forest. Without taking his attention off of the surrounding trees and the danger they presented, Casey answered absent-mindedly while trying to pick the safest route through the dense forest.
“Just some folk that needed a bit ‘o rescuing like you. She said her name was Courtney. Courtney and Dank.”
Perhaps it was the fact that Cartyr had almost died, but he smiled sweetly upon learning her name. Suddenly, his eyes felt heavier than they ever had before. He could barely hear Casey’s voice, even though it was practically roaring in his ear. Cartyr wasn’t even sure that he was actually speaking but that didn’t stop him from focusing on his words. “Hello, Courtney and Hank. You wouldn’t happen to know a baker by the name of Micah, would you? I’m looking for a lost name. It’s important. It’s the most important thing in the world.”
Cartyr could still barely hear Casey shouting. “Ryatt, he’s crashing, goddamnit. Do something. Dank and Courtney can look out for themselves.” Who’s crashing? Oh, it’s me. That’s not good. Cartyr felt himself losing consciousness. One last loopy thought passed through his mind before the darkness overtook him.
The boy’s name is Dank, not Hank. What a strange name. Didn’t Balen have a brother named Dank? So very nice to meet you . . . You even look like Dough Boy . . . How strange?
Then everything went dark.
Cartyr had experienced nightmares before.
But not like this.
Blood of the Demon King
Everyone knows the story of the little girl raised by wolves. Who returned to a society all too prepared to clothe her in pity and concern. To nurture her with the comfort of weakness back to health. To teach her to see the lies that had been her entire life.
To fix that which was broken.
And when the society that plucked her from her mother’s den realized that there was no taming the wolf inside of her, they did what all men do. They feared that which they could not control. Then they persecuted that which they did not understand. Ultimately, they condemned her because she was different. Because she was dangerous. When they put the pup in her cage and threw away the key, it was for the betterment of their society.
But society is subject to perspective. While the rest of the world saw a dangerous human that was damaged by wolves, no one thought to see the truth that was there all along.
The failed human they locked away was always a perfectly healthy wolf.
The simple truth of the matter is, the weak have always tried to convince the strong that they are flawed.
I’ve often wondered what happens next in the story.
When the wolf gets out of her cage.
-Aroura
Book 3 in the Tyranny of Light Cycle
In the two days since Varahallas had sent Weasel down into the tunnels beneath Knotter’s Hill, he had developed some new habits. On the first day, he began pacing constantly from the abandoned shanty he and Kaiya had holed up in. Yesterday, he added anxiously twisting his hands into knots to the routine. This morning, the eye twitching completed the trifecta of nervous ticks. The young paladin knew he was driving Kaiya and the lion Bos’ni crazy with his incessant fidgeting. I never should have let her go down there alone.
Suddenly, Bos’ni snapped his head up from where he had been lazily resting in the shade of a nearby partially ripped awning. Someone is coming. The lion showed his fangs and let out a half-hearted roar as if to wake himself up from his lethargic state, before trotting out to the main drag. Varahallas and Kaiya scrambled to join the hulking cat.
Varahallas felt a pang of dread as two Askargaardian militants marched up the main drag toward him. Despite the summer heat, the soldiers wore midnight black chain mail adorned with painted black ostrich feathers. Varahallas immediately recognized the peculiar uniforms. Unlike most of the warriors Varahallas had ever faced from Askargaard, these men looked clean and disciplined, not dirty and lawless. Just before Varahallas was about to tell Kaiya to flee, Weasel popped out from behind the shorter of the two crow officers.
Varahallas couldn’t help himself, he ran to the girl, collapsing to his knees so that he could hug her tightly. “Thank God, you’re all right. Damn that infernal armor, I shouldn’t have sent you down there. I was beginning to think the worst.”
Varahallas felt Weasel pull away, placing her hands on his shoulders with a facial expression that could only mean one thing. Bad news.
“You were right, Vara.”
Varahallas just blinked stupidly. “What was I right about?”
“Thinking the worst.”
Varahallas looked up at the armed guards standing a few paces behind the young girl, instinctively pulling her into his chest for protection. “Are they here to hurt you?”
Weasel pushed away once more, turning around to peer at the two soldiers as if she was surprised they were still standing there. “Them. No, they’re all right. They just came along to make sure I keep my word. But I already told them I’m going to be in the Brotherhood of Osgoode. I told them the number one rule in the Brotherhood is to never ever break your word. Trust is most important. You told me that.” Weasel gave her crow escort a dirty look. “But they wanted to come anyway. Crows aren’t too keen on trust, but they’re not dangerous. The one that wants to hurt us is V. He’s really dangerous.”
What? None of this makes any sense. Varahallas looked behind him at Kaiya for help but the strawberry-blonde sorceress just shrugged her shoulders helplessly while Bos’ni let out a deep purr before plopping down in the shade. Varahallas had no clue what Weasel was trying to say, but the way she said the word “dangerous” gave Varahallas chills that tickled his spine. “You’re not making any sense right now. Who is V, and why does he want to hurt us?”
Varahallas watched as Weasel bit her lip and looked down at her feet guiltily. This can’t be good.
“Well, V sort of runs this place and I kind of set it up so that you have to fight him. But it’s not my fault, really. It was either that or I’d have to fight him, and he’s big Vara, like huge! I knew you wouldn't want me to fight him, so I said you’d be my champion.” It was a small mercy that Weasel paused long enough for Varahallas to digest. “Tomorrow, in the arena, to be exact. They say everyone in Knotter’s Hill will be there if V’s going to fight in a challenge. But I’ve seen you fight, Vara. I think you can beat him. You’re the hero of light after all. How hard can one man be for someone who slayed a dragon?”
Varahallas stood up and massaged his temples with both of his hands trying to comprehend the information the little girl was giving him. He looked at the taller of the two soldiers.
“Does what this girl says make any sense to either of you?”
The shorter crow responded. “Aye. Your little girl here has challenged V for rule of all of Knotter’s Hill and she’s named you as champion. V’s accepted. That’s all there is. One way or another, you fight tomorrow in the pit.” The matter of factness with which the soldier spoke had a finality to it that was extremely unnerving.
I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. “But we’re not even from Knotter’s Hill? Why in the name of the seven spheres would we want to rule it?”
The two guards looked at each other for a moment before the short one shrugged then responded, “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t. But that don’t matter now. A challenge is a challenge, and yours has been accepted. Let’s go.”
“And what if I refuse?”
Again the crows looked at each other as if confused by the very nature of the question. The shorter guard was obviously the ranking officer. “I don’t really know, ain’t nobody ever refused a challenge. I suppose V would just kill you publicly in some sort of terrible way. If you want, we can take the little girl all the way back and ask him?”
The taller guard felt compelled to colorfully add to the conversation. “If I was a betting man, I’d guess he’d hang you up in the middle of the pit and cut open your guts and let them spill for everyone to see while you died slowly. One thing everyone knows about V is he likes to make a show when he kills.” The shorter guard had taken to nodding in agreement with the expert analysis of the Viking V’s perverse appetites when it came to human slaughter. Varahallas, meanwhile, was still hoping to wake up from the nightmare.
The paladin looked down at Weasel with a mixture of exasperation and anger while the girl was trying her best to look innocent. Good Lord, girl, what have you done? Suddenly, Weasel’s face lit up.
“Vara, I forgot to tell you the good news.”
This will be rich.
“I found your armor, it’s locked up and guarded in V’s armory.”
Varahallas was too frustrated to follow the logic behind Weasel’s elation. “I fail to see exactly how that helps us.”
“Because, silly. Once you beat V in the arena, you’ll be the ruler of Knotter’s Hill. Or I would be. I’m actually not sure how that works since I’m technically the one who challenged the big bully. Either way, when we win it becomes our armory. We’d get your armor back.”
“If I beat V, you mean. Weasel, I’m no warrior. I’m sure there’s a very good reason this V has risen to power here.” He’s probably climbed a stack of corpses one-hundred bodies high, every one of them with their innards gruesomely hanging out, to ascend to his throne. The smug look on the guard’s faces all but confirmed Varahallas’ suspicions.
Kaiya had taken a place right by Varahallas’ side, carrying herself with an authority that belied her age per usual. “The girl is right. Varahallas Raz’Asash will be ready for the challenge tomorrow. Lead the way.”
Varahallas looked down at Kaiya suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
“We need that armor and this sounds like our best opportunity to get it. Our lives are lost anyway without it. You may die. But you may win. So win.”
So win . . . If only it were that easy. Maybe it could be. Varahallas didn’t like the thought of cheating. But with Kaiya’s powers, perhaps she could incapicitate my opponent and mitigate some of the risk. Varahallas tried to strategically ask the question so the two crows wouldn’t catch on.
“Kaiya, if I am to fight tomorrow in the pit, do you think you could . . .”
The eleven-year-old sorceress just shook her head. “Not in a crowded place like that with everyone thinking the same murderous thoughts. It would take me days to find his consciousness. It would be like trying to pick one specific red rose out of an entire garden full of them. The only mind I could touch would be yours. But you can win on your own volition, Varahallas Raz’Asash. Belief is your armor. Faith is your weapon. Remember?”
Kaiya and Weasel smiled at each other happily for a brief moment before turning to follow the crow guards back into the hidden city beneath Knotter’s Hill. While Varahallas wanted to revel in the fact that the two girls in his care had finally found something to bond over, the direness of the situation was still stirring his guts. I think I might vomit. Varahallas took a few seconds to process Kaiya’s blunt advice before looking down at the lion Bos’ni, the only one of his companions who hadn’t trekked off after the crows.
Something about the calmness of the lion settled Varahallas.
“What do you think, Bos? Varahallas Raz’Asash, hero of light and Viking conqueror of Knotter’s Hill? And to think I once had a relatively simple life.”
The lion yawned loudly before rising to jog after Kaiya and Weasel.
Varahallas looked in the direction from whence he had come only to find a dusty alleyway carving through the endless destitution that was Knotter’s Hill. “You’re right. Best to get moving.”
***
Varahallas had only felt as embarrassed as he did down in the tunnel staging area that led to the grand arena one other time in his life. And that had been lying rooted to the soil completely naked while Norn looked upon me. The butterflies in his stomach only seemed to grow more active as the arena attendants stripped him down and dressed him in his gladiator’s loincloth. Once they had finished, the attendants scurried off down the tunnel. Varahallas was alone, wearing practically nothing while holding the small six inch dagger they had placed in his hands.
Everything in the arena was carved from the granite core of Knotter’s Hill and Varahallas’ staging area was no exception. All along the back wall were short chains with a single manacle attached to them, each spread apart by a distance of four paces. The ceiling itself was deceptively high on account of its color and texture flawlessly integrating with the surrounding rounded walls. Four pillars of granite, each roughly three meters in diameter connected the floor to ceiling with each column supporting half a dozen lit torches, providing a soft light that seemed to soak into the ancient stone cavern.
Varahallas took a look at the six-inch blade the arena attendants had equipped him with. I don’t know the first thing about knife fighting. It might as well be a sharpened stick. Varahallas callously tossed the blade aside. After the dagger had finished clattering across the granite floor, a deep throaty voice called from the attendant’s entryway.
“Don’t be thinking you’ll need a weapon, eh? Perhaps I’ve underestimated you, hero of light.”
The man who stepped out of the entryway and took his place alongside the wayward paladin was easily eighteen stone and well over two meters tall. He was dressed in the same loincloth Varahallas was, but that was where resemblance ended. The stranger was covered in thick black curly hair that connected from his ankles all the way to his long braided neck beard before running down his arms. He had a physique that could only be described as engorged. Oversized muscles permanently flexed with tension under sweaty matted body hair. He looks like a bear. Varahallas stole a glance back at his dagger resting against the far wall, missing the illusion of safety it might provide.
Varahallas took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He’s just a man who walks hand in hand with the darkness. The light is the only weapon I need. Varahallas cleared his throat and tried to speak levelly. “V, I presume?”
“Aye. But that’s just what the sheep call me. Like everything in this shithole, the name is just for show. My true name is Viktor Hrymsblöd. And I am at your service.” Viktor looked over to where Varahallas’ dagger had laid to rest. “You’re going to find I’m difficult to kill without a dagger.”
Varahallas let the Viking warlord know that he wasn’t intimidated with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I suspect you’re difficult to kill even with a dagger. I have other weapons.”
Viktor smiled, revealing a surprising set of pearly white, perfectly straight teeth. “Aye. As do I. I like you, Varahallas Raz’Asash. It will make me sad to kill you, but the Fates demand it. I may be a king, but only a god can defy the Fates. Hel demands her sacrifice. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
A long time, but I’ve only arrived a few days ago. Varahallas sensed the trap, but couldn’t help but step into it. “My armor. It was simply bait. But how? How did you know that I would have it?” Someone betrayed me. Calida? Weasel? Varahallas pursed his lips in frustration.
“Relax, hero of light. Your friends are loyal. Stupid, but loyal. Some years ago, a champion summoned the light to defeat a hell boar in the middle of an elven forest. So it was that the legend of the hero of light began. Our master has been scheming how to remove such a powerful piece from the gameboard ever since. This day has been three years in the making. And now here we are, on the precipice of my master’s return, with me in position to deliver the darkness a momentous victory against the light. I will be rewarded, hero. I hope you die knowing that you serve a purpose higher than yourself.”
Varahallas felt the anger inside of him surging. “You still haven’t answered my question. How did you know I would have the armor?”
“Because, hero, you are a fool who trusts too easily. Because you believe in goodness. We infiltrated your monastery long ago. The friar who loaded your armor into your cart is of Askargaard. From there, it was easy to track your movements and set your trap. But alas, you proved worthy in combat. I told Rangvald to be careful. He wasn’t and you blinded him for it.”
Varahallas’ face darkened as he recalled the tortured agony of the crow he had permanently blinded with Chaos. “That man, whoever he was, deserved it. He chose the darkness long ago. Now that same darkness is his permanence.”
Viktor’s face contorted in anger as he turned to stare at Varahallas with murderous intent. “Rangvald was of clan Hrymsblöd. He was my half-brother. He was far too clever, so it would seem. But I have promised him vengeance. Your death will be slow, hero. Still, at least you face a Viking’s death. You will dine in Odin’s hall, Varahallas Raz’Asash, of that I am sure. There are worse ways to die.”
“You said ‘our master,’ instead of ‘my master.’ Who else hunts me?”
Viktor smiled once more, the anger dissipating from his face. “Everyone. Everyone that embraces the darkness. We all serve one master, the fallen god. He will return, and when he does we shall be prepared. All he need do is simply arrive and all the significant pieces that would resist him will already have been removed from his path to ascension. And then the world will plunge into darkness. The druidess, the boy, your precious sorceress, they will all be ashes buried in shadow. When my master returns to Prima’Tol, there won’t be a single thread of light left.”
Aroura, Dough Boy, Kaiya. Varahallas felt himself giving into the rise the Viking was clearly trying to get out of him.
“Aroura won’t make the same blunders that I have. I may fall by your blade today, but believe me, you are no match for her.”
It was Viktor’s turn to casually shrug his massive shoulders. “Perhaps not. Your friends are . . . talented. I’ll give you that. The warrior Renzler was strongest among Askargaard and it’s rumored your druidess bested him. But she’s not my concern. She’s flying into one of Sparrow’s little cages. With Sparrow, what goes into the darkness never comes back out. I doubt even your druidess has the power to fight her way back to the light. She will never be seen again, I’m afraid.”
Sparrow. Cora was in league with him as well. I’m close to putting the pieces of this puzzle together, if I can just keep him talking. “Who is Sparrow?”
The question was punctuated by the banging of drums out in the arena.
Viktor turned his head to look down into Varahallas’ eyes, the careless collegiality in them replaced by a smoldering hatred. “No more questions, hero. It’s time.”
The Waif and the Warlock
You told me to be a dove.
You told me the world had far too many hawks in it.
I remember how you explained the logic down to every detail. In a world full of hawks, rife with conflict, they will tear themselves and all that is around them asunder.
It’s safer to be a dove.
It’s safer to run and hide, to choose peace.
That’s what you told me. You said I would be safe. You said I would find peace.
But I can’t live as a dove.
Not anymore.
I’m so sorry.
-Nahwei’Ko
Book 1 in the Tyranny of Light Cycle
Like a butterfly with broken wings, the lashes on my right eye flutter open, fighting against thick mud and heavy tears. Another wet sensation trails past. Hot. Sticky. Blood. It’s mine. The left side of my face is paralyzed, buried in frozen mud beneath two finger-widths of permafrost. The frozen mud mixes dangerously with my fever. I try to lift my face and the fire shoots down my neck, spreading throughout my ruined body. In stillness, my eye searches desperately for something, anything. A new pain, unbearable and inescapable. Inevitable. It chases the fire away.
I remember. I remember everything.
I look up and stare hopelessly at the gathered masses of were-bears overlooking the arena, one stands a head taller than the rest. Everyone revels in my looming death. They praise their old gods, they howl for the Great Mother. Only he looks upon me. He alone cares whether I live or die. Is it pity? Guilt? Love? The other bears sing their satisfaction, their roars rising into a feverish howl as they salute the newest tribe member to the Molokai of Mua’Mikah. Their champion’s voice responds with his own guttural acknowledgement of his ascension. A new slick sensation runs from the inside corner of my eye, bridging over my nose into the frozen mud.
I can’t breathe. So, I close my eye, pressing the tears from it as I wait for their voices to carry me to the Great Mother and what lies beyond.
Only, he remains silent as we silently mourn a life that could have been.
***
I am three years old. I don’t remember much from my childhood but I remember the seasons, the contrast of the warmth of the sun on my skin and the chill of snow beneath my toes as the first blossoms of spring break free of winter’s grasp. I remember the fear on the day I was discovered by the Molokai of Mua’Mikah, a small village beyond the borders of men, forgotten in the frozen wastelands beyond the River A’kan’e. When I am older, I will learn that I was discovered just beyond the Kingdom of Fylker, wild lands governed by warring clans of northmen. But I am not of Fylker.
I am of nowhere.
Were-bears, eight-feet tall, crowd around me, snarling in their visceral language. Some bare their teeth and growl. Others simply scowl. Only one remains calm. Though I am young and don’t speak their language, I remember that when he speaks, the others listen. I don’t know why I am not afraid of him as the others are. They take me to the Molokai village, my feet cut from the unforgiving ice and snow of the forest. Good sense returns to me and fear begins to seep in. I remember crying. The tears freeze to my face before they reach my chin. My captors don’t care.
I had a family once. At least I think I did. I believe that they loved me. But the first words I ever learn in the feral language of the Molokai is to trust your eyes and never your heart. To see what is there. What family could have abandoned me to monsters in the middle of a blizzard. What family could have left me to die?
Sometimes in my dreams I see my father. His face is warm but tired. His name is on my lips, but I cannot speak it. I try to memorize his face. I see that he is kind. I see that he is strong. I can see the weight of the world in his eyes.
I see him now. But he can’t see me.
Perhaps he never did.
***
I am seven years old. Summer heat soaks into the green forest floor as the last of the spring snows melt. I trail behind the towering chieftain of the Molokai passing between the pine huts that form the sprawling hillside village of Mua’Mikah. A head taller than all of the other Molokai when standing erect, Shaw’Ti ambles through his homeland, taking long strides with his powerful legs. I time three of my steps to his one to keep pace.
We reach our destination, a small lodge, four stone-pile walls framed by powerful, petrified pine. Running along the outside of the room are heated volcanic rocks, the ceilings dripping wide droplets of melting snow onto them. They sizzle like animal fat over a fire as they feed the room with steam that clings to my skin. I breathe in the heavy dense air. In the center of lodge lies a great clay basin surrounded by two Molokai mystics, each peering over the skeletal remains of rodentia in the center of their bowl.
The bones, the arbiters of fate in Mua’Mikah and the closest thing Molokai have to divinity. The source of both the hardship that makes life impossible here for a human child and the miracle that I live at all.
The mystics look up. They aren’t surprised to see Shaw’Ti, only me. Cold eyes peer with even colder indifference. Without speaking they take their leave. Shaw’Ti ignores them as he carefully tends to the coals that fill the room with heat and steam, breathing life into this sacred place. White sage wafts in with the hot steam, powerful and cleansing. The chieftain takes his place on his haunches by the clay basin, wiggling his massive hips as his focused eyes consider the bones left behind. With his powerful paw, he scoops them up and rolls them. My breath catches as they rattle across the surface, clattering like chattering teeth in a snowstorm.
He sits in silence. I do the same. Seconds turn into minutes as the heat of the room continues to build. When he speaks his voice is a low, soft rumble. This is not my first time in the shaman’s lodge. This is not my first time seeing the mighty Shaw’Ti of Mua’Mikah read the bones. But this is the first time he chooses to speak to me about them. I feel my heart pound inside of my chest as sweat drips from my temples.
“Chaos is waning in this world. Like withered grapes on dying vines. The endless drought will soon kill what is left. Then all magic will be gone from this world.” He pauses to sigh as he slightly shakes his snout, tiny droplets of sweat shake free from the fur covering his jowls. His eyes leave the bones to find mine and my heart plummets into my stomach. “Tell me, human cub, how would you save the vines?”
I try to swallow but my throat is too dry in the heat of the sweat lodge. There is a deeper meaning, one that I can only sense enough to know I will never understand. The question is far too heavy to hold, let alone carry, and he knows it. When I open my mouth to speak, no words come out. But the shaman chieftain of Mua’Mikah has no intention of coming to my rescue. His eyes narrow as he awaits his answer. I lick my lips then try again.
By the Great Mother, I am thirsty.
“Water. Not for the vines, but for the roots.”
Shaw’Ti takes a moment before nodding thoughtfully. His eyes soften with sadness as they return to the bones.
“Water. Water for the roots. Trust your eyes, never your heart.” I want to smile but I can’t. Shaw’Ti moves the bones to the side, unwilling to share what he has seen with the elder mystics. He sounds more tired than ever before. “Yes, child. A new well so that Chaos may blossom in this world once more.”
His words feel out of place. They burn in my thoughts as the walls and bones and even Shaw’Ti himself begin to fade from my memory.
Soon only his words and darkness and heat remain.
“A source, new and eternal, will cure these lands. But this world is cursed. By drought. By famine. By the greed of men. Tell me, cub, what do you think will happen when our new well is discovered? What will your ancestors do when they unearth your precious source?”
I do not speak, for I do not know. The pain that has ruled my life resurfaces and I drown in waters too deep to comprehend. His voice hardens. I can feel is heavy breath carving through the heat in my thoughts. I can hear my pain in his voice in the final darkness of the memory.
“My heart fears the answer more than you’ll ever know.”
***
I am eleven years old. Pine needles begin to fall as autumn sets upon Mua’Mikah. As I walk through the village, deep set ursine eyes follow me with mistrust and anger. The years since my discovery have been plagued with hardship for the natives of Mua’Mikah. There are those in the village that believe I am cursed.
It doesn’t help that I am one of them.
Life amongst the Molokai has become difficult. I am not the only child in this village. But the other younglings are nearly six feet tall and weigh nine stone. I don’t even weigh four. I keep my head down, hiding behind my filthy, honey-blonde hair, keenly aware that my golden armor is parchment thin. A young Molokai my same age loudly yawns, showing his sharp fangs as he lazily stares at me, searching for the energy to make my life harder than it already is.
I don’t intend to give him the chance. My feet quicken as I scurry toward the cliffs to the Northeast. On the day I was discovered in the deep snow just beyond the village borders, popular opinion was to simply return me to the snow. It was Shaw’Ti that insisted they consult the bones. After they were read, I became a ward of the village, raised by elders that had lost their children during the trials of ascension.
I should thank the bones. But I don’t. Life in the Mua’Mikah is cruel. There are those that believe Shaw’Ti falsified the reading of the bones all those years ago. His political rivals claim that he parlays with the northmen of Fylker, that I am his pet. But they don’t scare me, not nearly as much as Shaw’Ti does.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I find three adolescent were-bears gathering, their eyes glaring as I near the edge of the village. Trouble. I am sure of it. I don’t even need to go looking for it anymore. I break into a sprint and disappear into the forest before any more trouble can find me.
Hours later, the sun is nearly setting. I stare past the end of the cliff at the ocean where the dolphins play. My fingers fumble with a broken seashell I’ve found in the sand. I wrap the blood red cloak the elders found for me tightly around my shoulders. A cool breeze licks my exposed arms and neck, filling my nostrils with salt and crisp, free air. The pain of my life is behind me now, at least for this moment. A broken smile passes across my lips as I stare at the waves below. Soon the dolphins will leave with the tide. As if to say farewell, one crests from beneath a wave, leaping out of the water into the air majestically before acrobatically returning to the sea.
“Farewell.” I am surprised that I speak the words out loud. I am more surprised to hear them answered.
“Farewell? But I’ve only just arrived, cub?”
Startled, I scurry to my feet, scraping my knee on the sand dense with broken seashells. Shaw’Ti is standing upwind. How long he has been there, I cannot say. I swallow as I brush the sand from my clothes; viking wares the village has traded for with the nomadic tribes that roam near our borders in the summertime. I have worn the same clothes for many years now. Once they were loose. Now they are tight. Shaw’Ti waits patiently as he eyes the ocean suspiciously. The sea has never been a source of food nor trade for his people. My eyes instinctively follow his, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the playful dolphins. But they are gone. Shaw’Ti’s low rumbling makes the hairs on my arm stand against the biting winds of the seaside cliffs.
“Come, it is time. The elders await.”
My throat tightens as my hands ball into clammy fists. I feel the sweat of my palms with my fingertips. I am eleven years old. The naming ceremony awaits. I stammer my best defenses.
“Forgive me, Chieftain. I was unsure that I would be included in the ceremony. I am not Molokai.”
“No. You are not.” There is a simplicity to his sentiment. His beady ursine eyes are unreadable. Then he shrugs. “But I can’t go on calling you ‘cub,’ for your entire life. You need a name.”
A name. I may need one, but I don’t deserve one. Most of Mua’Mikah has gone out of their way to tell me as much. Molokai names are a source of power. Prior to their naming day, children are simply umbas or dotas. If I had been Shaw’Ti’s daughter, I would have been Dota Shaw’Ti. The elders that have raised me won’t let me share their names. In the days of the ancestors a Molokai’s name was a bond, binding a youngling to their spirit. When a child came of age, they would attune to a spirit of the wild and would find their true name deep in that animus bond. Once, when the world was ripe with Chaos, those bonds were strong and often imbued the Molokai cub with the spiritual energy of their guide. In special cases, those energies came with talents.
Now, young Molokai now simply choose the animals they admire the most and take their names. Klaw’Fu means Iron Bear. Shoo’Fu, Swift Bear. Nearly everyone chose to be a bear. They’d be better off choosing to be sheep if you ask me, but no one does. There are a handful of lynxes and wolverines. Shaw’Ti’s own name translates to Seeing Owl. As far as I know, the chieftain is the only owl in the village.
As if he can read my thoughts, the chieftain of Mua’Mikah speaks while we traverse the cliffs back to the village, me carefully placing my hands and feet to scale the deep descent while he casually leaps, covering great distances with each bound. “These ceremonies have become pageants, nothing more. As Chaos leaves our world, the bonds between our children and their guides are fading into nothingness. Our traditions are built on sand and the rains are coming. Soon the path of the Molokai will be lost forever.” His voice is a mixture of sadness and anger. Molokai blame humans for the slow death of Chaos. Soon, magic in the world of Prima’Tol will be gone forever.
I find myself wondering if Shaw’Ti blames me. The sentiment is too heavy for me to carry on the cliffside so I put it away and force my thoughts elsewhere.
I never thought that I would have a name. With the village looming in the distance, I have little time to find one for myself. Shaw’Ti’s words play in my mind. Our traditions are built on sand. The rains are coming.
Nothing lasts forever. Not even names.
The great hall to Mua’Mikah is built from ancient timber. I have never seen the inside of the heart of Mua’Mikah. Now, on this day, I find myself following the chieftain inside. Carved from petrified timber are the heads of chieftains past looking down over the council, sentinels from ancient history keeping watch over our traditions. Their wooden eyes watch my every step as Shaw’Ti leads me to the adolescents awaiting the start of the naming ceremony. I take my place amongst them, hiding behind my honey blonde hair, but it will take more than my golden armor to protect me. My mind races.
A name. I need a name. I can’t be a bear. I wouldn’t want to even if I could. If I pick an animus that is shared with another youngling, they will perceive it as an insult. I search for an animus currently not in use. I close my eyes, breathing deeply and am transported back to the cliffside, watching the dolphins swim.
I could be a dolphin. Ko. I would be the first. But that would only serve as another reminder of just how different I am. Unable to pick a name, the adolescent fools around me make light of picking one for me, snorting their laughter, reveling in their cruelty.
“Sapu’Fu.” Tiny Bear. “Moni’Fu.” Stupid Bear.
They have already decided upon their own names so I suffer their insults quietly. Words hurt less than sharpened claws. Tears form at the corners of my eyes. I will them to stay. I will not cry.
One youngling who stands a head taller than the rest smiles placidly, revealing deadly teeth beneath hateful eyes. Shok’fu, Razor Bear. He circles around me on all fours like a stalking predator, sniffing me with disgust before rising to his feet. When he speaks, there is cruelty in his voice.
“Nahwei’Ko.” Nahwei. Chaos. The word is sacred and forbidden for younglings. Silence sweeps the hall. I look up just in time to see the grin fade from Shok’Fu’s snout. Our petrified sentinels peer down at me and this foolish boy. But they aren’t the only ones. Behind Shok’Fu, I see Shaw’Ti rise, his lips curl into a feral snarl, his body tightens like a coiling pit viper. Fear knots in my stomach. For the first time since I can remember, I am not alone. Shok’Fu shrinks beneath his chieftain. When Shaw’Ti speaks his voice is sharp and cold and angry and hurt.
“You dishonor our ancestors and your family. You dishonor yourself. You would dare take the name of Chaos in vain? You are brave and you are strong. But you are a fool, child, and that makes you dangerous.” Shok’Fu raises his head in defiance and prepares to speak but thinks better of it. The moment feels like a lifetime. By the time Shaw’Ti shifts his attention to me, Shok’Fu is cowed, his own eyes searching the dirt floor to the hall for answers we both know don’t exist. I lift my own head as my eyes meet my chieftain’s.
He speaks in a deep rumble and Razor Bear trembles but for the first time in my life that I can remember, I am unafraid. “‘Nahwei’Ko.’ A fitting name. But one of far too great a consequence. For now, simply ‘Ko,’ will do.”
Ko. Dolphin. I smile softly for what feels like the first time in eight long years.
Some moments aren’t meant to last. Shaw’Ti’s next question sends fresh fear running cold through my veins.
“Ko. Do you seek justice?”
Justice. Of all the archaic traditions in Mua’Mikah, justice is by far the most barbaric. In Molokai law, accusers of wrongdoing have the option to seek justice against the accused. This is achieved through combat in the arena. When justice is offered, it is exceptionally shameful for both accuser and accused to refuse. Should the accuser be maimed or die in the arena, then the accusation was ill-founded to begin with and the accuser is punished for bearing false witness. Should the accuser somehow kill or maim the accused in the arena, then not only was the accusation well-founded, but punishment has tidily been accounted for.
There are no limitations on justice. Now that it has been offered, I can lay claim to it whenever. I look to Shok’Fu, who has found his courage once more, rising to his full height to join the rest of the hall in glaring hatefully at me. When justice is offered, you take it. But what if the accused is three times my size and has sharpened claws instead of useless fingernails? They don’t call him Razor without reason.
Seconds march toward eternity. I speak but like my skin at that moment, the words don’t feel my own. “I refuse justice.”
Shaw’Ti’s lips frown. Shok’fu’s face twists in anger. Justice is his opportunity to absolve his dishonor and I’ve taken that from him.
Life is going to get a whole lot worse in Mua’Mikah.
***
I am thirteen years old. It is one of the most brutal winters I have ever endured. Life has become unbearable in the village. In the years that followed my naming day, Shok’fu has become a leader amongst the younglings. As one of the biggest and strongest of his age, he runs a small gang of similar, small-minded adolescent fools.
There is nothing in this world more dangerous than small minds that gather.
My heart longs to believe that they will grow tired of their cruelty. I know better. Trust your eyes, never your heart. The thought tastes bitter in my mouth.
When Shok’Fu and his cronies aren’t out hunting, they find me. When they find me, they hurt me. In the years since my naming, I have been beaten badly enough to need shamanistic healing a dozen times. A dozen times justice has been offered.
A dozen times I have refused.
The cliffs call my name. The dolphins have swam south for warmer waters. Still I hold out hope that they will return. But I cannot go to the sea. I have been summoned by Shaw’Ti. I wait outside his hut, a structure massive for a human but modest by Molokai standards. His voice rumbles from within.
It’s time. I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding before stepping inside. Shaw’Ti sits upon a timber bench against the far wall. His shelves are lined with herbs and poultices; fennel and sage, chamomile and garlic, comfrey and aloe. Small relics to help channel Chaos decorate the lower shelves. Amongst them there are human trinkets; a wooden ankh, a glass jar filled with beads, a half-burnt wax candle. There is so much about my race that I don’t know. He waits as my eyes take it all in. When he speaks, the tenderness is hard to find.
But it is there. I wish I understood why.
“Ko. Dota of the humans. You are nearly of age. Only the tree that sheds its needles survives the winter. Our people are no different, our weaknesses must be pruned so that the Molokai may survive in the winter of Prima’Tol. You have lived in our village. You have taken a Molokai name. You must face ascension.”
Ascension. Like justice, only more barbaric. I say the only words that I can find. “Yes.” I am surprised at the strength in my voice as my knees quake. “I know the path all Molokai must walk; I am ready.”
“You are?” The question hangs in the air like a death sentence. The old chief stares through my defenses and they fall apart like sundered armor. I am not ready. “The next blood moon marks the trials. Do you understand Ascension?” I simply nod. I know the barbaric rules. Just as I know the next blood moon will be my last amongst the Molokai.
My last with you, Shaw’Ti.
The weight of the moment only grows as the silence swells. Shaw’Ti lets out a measured sigh. He dreads this as much as I do. Why? I am not his daughter. I am not even Molokai. The old chieftain wills himself to continue.
“Two cubs enter the arena. No weapons. No assistance. The victor elevates to become a tribesman of the Molokai with full rank and honor. The defeated completes the circle by returning to the Great Mother. Should you lose and somehow survive you will be banished to the forest to live out your days. It is a great dishonor to your family to survive and suffer banishment.” He pauses. We both breath heavily, our chests rising in unison. He breaks the tension with a shrug. “Consider yourself fortunate Ko. You have no family.”
I feel the crushing weight of his words.
I have no family. I only have him. Tears fill my eyes. This time there is no holding them back. Shaw’Ti nods. “Do you understand, Ko?”
I have always known this day would come. Now that it is here, I am paralyzed. I hear the words leave my lips. “I understand.” But they are not my words. I don’t understand. I’ll never understand. I am barely five stone. Even the smallest Molokai cub to face the trials will be ten. I have no chance in the arena. Shaw’Ti puts words to my fear.
“Lose quickly, Ko. Once banished, you can find your way back to the humans, back where you belong. You can live a life. You can have cubs of your own.”
Shaw’Ti has no children. I’ve always known this, but now I hear my pain in his voice. I am not the only outsider in Mua’Mikah. He looks down in shame.
My chest fills, not with air, but with fire. Back to the humans. Back where I belong. Humans abandoned me. Mua’Mikah has always been my village. Today it becomes my home.
And I will fight for her.
I stand taller, my fingers curling into fists. I speak, and for the first time since I can remember, the guttural language of my caretakers feels like my own. “I don’t want a human life. I want my life. I want the life that you’ve given me.”
Shaw’Ti slowly raises his head. The tears continue to stream down my cheeks but they are no longer tears of sorrow. I weep in gratitude. Shaw’Ti rises and closes the distance between us. I collapse into him, my fingers finding their way tightly into his fur. It is a silent farewell, we both know the next blood moon will be my last if I am not willing to lay down without a fight. But I would rather die than face banishment. Such is the path Molokai must walk. The moment lasts forever and is over all too soon. The last thing I remember is the way he smells. Like pine and sap and sweat.
Like home.