Girl of Blood: A Science Fiction Dystopian Novel (The Expulsion Project Book 3)

by Norma Hinkens

  “They might be too frightened to answer,” Velkan says. “I’ll see if they’re down there.”

  Before I can respond, he slides his legs over the edge and drops down into the cellar. Seconds later, I hear him cry out in pain, then a heavy thud, followed by silence.

  My brain freezes with fright, then immediately swarms with a thousand questions. Is this a trap? Or did Velkan twist his ankle or something? Should I shout down to him? Or hide? Surely Karad wouldn’t set me up after everything he did to help me. But, I’ve been deceived before. For an agonizing moment, I flail in a sea of confusion. Then I pull myself together. “Velkan!” I call tentatively down to him. “Are you okay?”

  I hear a scuffling sound, but he doesn’t respond. Fear seeps through my veins like a powerful numbing potion. Velkan would answer me if he were able. Someone is down there with him, I’m more sure of it with each passing second. They might be holding a knife to his throat.

  I glance around the shed for something to use as a weapon and spot a long wooden stake leaning up against the wall. There’s nothing else for me to do but to go down into the cellar after him. I won’t leave here without him, no matter the cost. I take a deep calming breath, listening for movement, before dropping down into the shadowy cellar. I hold the stake out in front of me, my muscles taut and ready to spring at any potential attacker.

  “Velkan,” I hiss into the shadows as my eyes gradually adjust.

  I blink around the space, stiffening when a figure shuffles awkwardly toward me out of a dark corner, dragging one leg behind him.

  “Velkan!” I gasp, taking a tentative step toward him. Then my blood runs cold.

  It’s not Velkan. I drop the stake and stumble backward. My heart lunges at my rib cage—a manic desperation in my chest for this to be real, tempered by the knowledge that it can’t possibly be. I must be hallucinating.

  “Trattora!” the figure rasps. “Is that you?”

  I sway back on my heels, the breath sucked from my lungs. My fingers clutch at air as the familiar voice washes over my wounded heart—weaker in tone than I’ve ever heard it before, but resonant even in its frailty. “It is you, my child.”

  My father moves into the light that spills through the trapdoor. I stare at his swollen face in disbelief. Most of his long wiry silver hair is gone, hacked off close to the base of his skull. Dried blood crusts his cheekbones, and a shoddy bandage is wrapped around his forehead. He takes another limping step toward me, one arm flapping against his chest in a makeshift sling, the other gripping a heavy wooden post, which I’m guessing he used to swing at Velkan.

  Despite his extensive injuries, and the grotesque swelling in his face, I would recognize his penetrating eyes anywhere. A giant sob jams in my throat, forcing me to gasp for air. I remain immobile, all my bodily functions rendered numb from shock, as my father hobbles up to me. He drops the post and folds his good arm around me, doing his best to cradle me. A dam breaks inside me, and I lean my head against his sleeve, salty sobs racking me until every part of my body aches and I have no tears left to cry.

  Gently, my father pries me loose, forcing me to look up at him. “My child, are you all right?”

  I nod, gulping back a dry sob. I’m all right, but he looks like he’s at death’s door. “I thought you were dead.” My voice cracks. “Parthelon said he executed you.”

  My father lets out a weary sigh and limps over to lean against the wall for support. “He imposed the sentence, but during the night Karad and a couple of the other elders dug me out and brought me here. They buried a dead Mauler in my stead and set a bevy of sand snipers on him. Then they cut off my hair and draped it over his swollen head. From a distance, it was impossible to tell whose disfigured face it was. Parthelon never questioned it and ordered the corpse burned the next morning.”

  I stare at him, jaw hanging loose for a long moment, before I suddenly remember Velkan. I spin around and spot him slumped on a makeshift bed of shramskins in a corner behind me. “Speaking of disfigured, I hope you didn’t hurt my friend too badly.”

  “Ah, yes. The serf. He’ll be sporting a welt on the back of his head for a few days.” My father gives an apologetic chuckle. “That’s about the height of it.”

  “Looks like you knocked him out cold,” I say in a reproving tone as I kneel beside Velkan. He groans when I run my fingers lightly over the bump on his head.

  “He’ll live,” my father says. “He’s a strong one. I take it he is in your service now?”

  “He is a serf no longer, but a free man,” I say, assisting Velkan into a sitting position. “His owner … passed away.” I frown to myself, remembering Sarth’s bloodied face as we climbed into her shuttle and left her to her fate on Razaran.

  “Aww,” Velkan groans. “What happened?”

  “Something unimaginable! My father lives! Karad has been hiding him down here.”

  “Your father knocked me out?” Velkan frowns, eying him over my shoulder.

  I grin sheepishly.

  Velkan rubs the back of his head gingerly. “You swing hard for an old man. I would have told you I was with Trattora, but you never gave me a chance.”

  “I had no choice,” my father replies, sounding genuinely apologetic. “You didn’t give the signal whistle Karad and I agreed on. I assumed my hiding place had been discovered.”

  “Why didn’t Karad tell me you were alive?” I ask.

  My father shakes his head. “I ordered him not to until we had a plan in place. I knew you would insist on coming straight here, and that would only have endangered Karad and his family.”

  “It may be too late for them,” I say. “Marph tried to kill Karad. I don’t know if he’ll pull through, and I don’t know where his family is.”

  My father grimaces. “Karad knew he was under suspicion. He sent his wife and son to stay with her sister on the other side of the settlement. They’re safe for now.”

  Velkan gets to his feet with a grunt, eyeing my father with unabashed curiosity. “Looks like Parthelon did his best to kill you before the execution that never actually happened.”

  My father’s expression hardens. “He had me flogged like a criminal before he ordered me buried for execution.”

  Bile seeps up my throat from my gut. Whatever connection I felt toward Parthelon as one of my own people has long since dried up in the wake of his growing list of atrocities.

  “Mother thinks you are dead,” I say. “Her heart is broken. We must relay the news to her as soon as possible.”

  “First, we deal with Parthelon,” my father replies. “I have been plotting with Karad to overthrow him and reclaim my seat as chieftain, but I was too weak to move for weeks. Only now am I beginning to regain my strength.”

  “Our people are gathering in the Great Hall as we speak. I was planning to address them, but it will be an even more powerful statement if they see you alive and well. They will know then without a shadow of a doubt that Parthelon has been lying to them.”

  My father takes an unsteady step toward the trapdoor. “I’m going to need some help getting out of here.”

  I shimmy back up through the trapdoor and find a coil of rope in the shed. With Velkan’s assistance, we hoist my father inch-by-inch up through the cellar opening. He rests for a few minutes to catch his breath and adjust to the light his eyes haven’t seen in weeks. I drape a shramskin over his head to hide his distinctive features while Velkan takes a quick scout around outside to make sure the coast is clear of any of Parthelon’s men. When he returns, he places an arm around my father and helps him hobble toward the shed door.

  In the light of day, I’m shocked at the full extent of my father’s injuries, and the toll the abuse has taken on him. He looks pale and fragile, dark hollows carved beneath his intelligent, gray eyes. Rage bubbles up inside me when I think of Parthelon exacting such a despicable sentence on his own chieftain. Parthelon will be lucky if I can control my anger enough to allow him to stand trial for his crimes instead of tearin
g him limb from limb when I finally have him at my mercy.

  Our pace is agonizingly slow as we set out for the Great Hall, and with every step my father grows weaker. Velkan does his best to support him, but my father is a tall man of imposing stature, and it proves no easy feat. By the time we reach the steps to the Great Hall, my father’s legs are shaking like reeds beneath him. To my relief, several warriors race to our aid, bowing low to the ground, their faces ashen, when they recognize him.

  “He is no ghost. Your chieftain lives,” I assure them.

  When they have halfway recovered from their shock, I instruct them to pick up my father and carry him inside. I follow a few steps behind them, noting with satisfaction the reverential hush that falls over the Great Hall at our appearance. The faces that greet us are peppered with a jarring mixture of shock, fear, and delight. Bodies fall prostrate as our small but significant procession makes its way to the dais at the front of the hall.

  “All hail the chieftain!” a voice booms out.

  “The chieftain lives!” another shouts.

  Other jubilant voices join in, echoing the news as we walk by.

  The two warriors seat my father on his throne at the front of the hall and take a knee on either side of him, gripping their spears. Slowly, my father lifts a shaking arm to the vaulted ceiling. “Rise, Cweltans, your chieftain has returned.”

  An ecstatic rippling goes around the room, followed by more triumphant shouts and roars of exuberance that shake the very rafters of the Great Hall like no celebration I have ever witnessed here before. The sight of their chieftain lifted up and seated on his throne has restored my people’s faith. I can almost feel the hope emanating off the walls as I stand at my father’s right side, in my designated place as his heir.

  “Fellow Cweltans,” my father says, “today, a dark period in our history ends. A few faithful elders saved me from execution and hid me from the traitor, Parthelon, who sold you into servitude to the Maulers.

  As I speak, the Syndicate fleet is on its way here to destroy the Maulers’ ships and rescue the Fleet Commander who, thanks to Rutane and his brave warriors risking their lives to pull him from his downed ship, is alive and safe.” He reaches for my arm and raises it high. “Today, my daughter has been returned to me, and to the people of Cwelt. As my representative, she will lead the assault on the Maulers’ ground forces while the Syndicate fleet attacks them in the skies.” He pauses and looks around the room intently. “And when this battle for freedom is over, Parthelon, and the elders who stood with him, will face judgement for what they have done. I swear on the sacred triangle that they will be brought to justice and punished for their treason.”

  Another roar that shakes the walls goes up from the crowd, but this time it is drowned out by the drone of approaching ships.

  28

  An expectant hush falls over the Great Hall. The Syndicate ships have arrived! All eyes look to the dais where I’m standing by my father’s side next to his throne. His words rise up inside me like a beacon lighting the way to the destiny I came back to fulfill.

  Today, my daughter has been returned to me, and to the people of Cwelt. As my representative, she will lead the assault on the Maulers’ ground forces.

  “To arms!” I yell, raising my spear to the carved ancestral beams above me as this moment sears itself in my memory forever.

  “To arms!” my people shout back. The very walls vibrate with confirmation that they are with me. With a thunderous roar, they surge toward the heavy wooden doors at the back of the hall and push them wide open. I lock eyes briefly with my father and he inclines his head in blessing before I leap from the dais and join my people in what will be, without doubt, a bloody bid to take back Cwelt from the Maulers.

  Adrenalin-charged, we pour down the front steps of the Great Hall and out into the main street to join up with the rest of the warriors waiting for us at the edge of the settlement. As we barrel through the marketplace, Cweltans grab anything that can be used as a weapon or a shield from the abandoned stalls.

  Rutane wastes no time organizing the warriors into an attack formation to lead the charge, and we pound our way to the Mauler camp with mounting fury, the honor of the sacred triangle first and foremost in our minds. The chieftain lives, and the glory of Cwelt will rise again from the ashes of servitude. Today, we will take back our land and drive out the Maulers, or we will die trying.

  As the camp comes into sight, the first wave of warriors lets their spears fly with precision, taking the Maulers by surprise as we descend on them, brandishing short-handled knives. We catch them amid dragging out their dead from the sand sniper attack in the sleeping huts, and few have weapons at hand. But the Maulers are bred for battle, and they quickly recover and rally their remaining troops. They come at us like flying beasts, matted hair streaming out behind them, knotted beards trailing from their chins, their massive fists wielding axes, clubs, and deadly maces. The ridged scars on their faces glisten like serpents’ scales as they leap upon us, grunting and snarling with a savage thirst for blood in their rabid eyes. Only our speed allows us to survive the onslaught by a hair’s breadth.

  Those Cweltans unlucky enough to be trapped in the stampede are bludgeoned to death in seconds, the Maulers’ roars of fury drowning out their dying cries as their lifeblood smears the dirt beneath our feet. Fear rises in my gut, but I muster my courage at the sight of my friends battling by my side for Cwelt. Velkan and Ghil work in tandem, systematically driving back their attackers and slaying every Mauler who comes at them. Phin’s superior fighting skills have never been more pronounced; he is everywhere at once, burying his blade in Mauler flesh, cutting down every attacker in his path, his energy only increasing with each kill.

  The battle wages on, bloody and vicious, shramskins seeped red, shrill wails of terror piercing my marrow, overshadowed by the unrelenting plasma cannons in the skies above. It’s a fight to the death, but the Maulers’ numbers were decimated by the earlier sand sniper attack. Gradually, we begin to gain the advantage, yet the surviving Maulers remain locked in combat, giving no indication that they are willing to surrender.

  “Show no mercy,” I yell to Rutane. “We will take no prisoners.”

  I dart behind a sleeping hut to cut down a stocky Mauler bearing down on a wounded Cweltan. Half-blinded by sweat, I lean against the wall to take a breath, my limbs weary from wielding my gore-tipped spear. Something flashes in my peripheral vision, and my nerves coil into readiness. I twist my hips at the last minute, just in time to careen backward and dodge none other than the Mauler overlord closing in on me in a surge of mad rage with a hulking hammer in his hand. That’s when I see a fresh scalp with shimmering silver hair streaming from his belt.

  My hand shakes, and for a split second, I hesitate at the unsettling sight. By the time I gather my senses, the Mauler overlord is almost upon me again, jaws snapping, knife poised to slash my jugular as he moves in for the kill. But before he lands his deadly blow, Rutane leaps on him from behind, whips his head back and hacks him to the ground. A spasm goes through the Mauler overlord and he flops lifeless to one side, his blood spattering me.

  My ears ring with the grisly sounds of battle as I take a couple of unsteady steps backward, staring in horror at the spreading pool of blood beneath the Mauler.

  “Are you all right?” Rutane calls faintly to me through the thunder in my head, not waiting for an answer before running off to rejoin the fight.

  I kneel by the dead overlord and study the long flowing silver hair. In my heart, I know who it belongs to, but there’s no time now to hunt for a body and confirm my suspicions.

  Overhead the sky screams, ships firing relentlessly, metal hulls clanging, engines exploding. Smoke-filled hulls drop like dead birds in the desert beyond the camp, adding to the carnage on the ground.

  A fresh burst of adrenalin rushes through my veins and I launch myself back into the battle. I race out from behind the sleeping hut in time to take out a Mauler who has
knocked Phin’s spear from his hand.

  ‘Thanks,” Phin calls to me, grinning as he snatches up the Mauler’s blade. “Still getting the hang of these primitive weapons.”

  I retrieve my knife, and then look around for another target. That’s when I realize that most of my people are doing the same thing. The Maulers lie dead or dying all around us. Against all odds, we have succeeded in securing the camp. I sheath my knife and run to the nearest injured Cweltan. “Gather all the wounded together,” I shout to anyone within earshot. “And fetch every healer, there is much work to be done.”

  Exhausted as we are, we don’t stop combing the camp until every Cweltan is accounted for. The dead are laid out with their hands clasped in front of them, waiting for their loved ones to claim their bodies. The wounded are treated by the healers who work furiously to save as many of the seriously injured as they can.

  When I have done all I can possibly do to help, I sink down in a sweaty heap on the ground next to Velkan outside a hut. “You’re covered in blood,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  He nods. “It’s not mine.”

  I don’t argue with him. His face is so bloody, I can’t tell if his nose is still bleeding, but right now Nalkryie has higher priorities to attend to.

  The skies above us are eerily silent of gunfire. I stare blearily at Phin as he walks up to us. “The first Syndicate ships are coming in to land,” he says.

  “Any word from Ayma?” I ask.

  “Just linked to her. She’s setting the stealth fighter down next to the Syndicate ships.”

  “Time to greet the fleet,” I say wearily, getting to my feet.

  Rutane assembles his uninjured warriors, and Velkan, Phin, and I accompany them to the far side of the settlement where the Syndicate ships are docking. Ayma and the Fleet Commander are already deep in conversation with Captain Monrovix. When he sees me approaching, the captain gives a salute of acknowledgement. I suck in a deep breath and splay my hand to him in return. I take it as reassurance that the slate is wiped clean now that the Fleet Commander is confirmed alive and well, and the stealth fighter is no worse for wear. I only hope Justice Kuberev will be equally quick to let bygones be bygones. Nothing changes the fact that I inadvertently almost had her husband killed.