Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

He doesn’t show any surprise at the blade thrust in front of his face. He makes no movement towards his own weapons. He smirks instead. “I can see you’re not easily manipulated,” he mutters.

  “How can I trust you?” I plant my feet firmly in the ground, knees bent slightly to allow for quick movement.

  His mouth twists into an ugly smirk and his eyes flash.

  Does he think I won’t use my weapon? That I don’t know how?

  He swings his arm in a wide arc across the landscape. “Can you trust them? The wildlife? The sky? Or yourself? I’ll tell you this . . .” He steps close, his nose inches from mine, “. . . the stories you’ve heard about us . . .” His eyes flash. “They’re not all true.”

  The hell they aren’t! I guard my tongue and relax at the feel of cold metal in my palm.

  “How can I trust you?” I repeat.

  He growls, low and vicious. “I just let you live, Kelban.”

  That he holds my life in his hands – that he controls whether I live or die – infuriates me. But I ponder his words. I barely escaped the siratha. I am not prepared, physically or mentally, for the other horrors that surely await in this wasteland.

  “I can make this decision real easy for you, Kelban, since you seem to have difficulty determining myth from reality. I’ve got one question for you.” Maybe its his change in tone, the sudden ferocity that possesses him, but I meet his gaze, allowing my anger and unrest to deplete. “Do you want to live?”

  Do I? I came close to swallowing Celectate Wood’s pill. I struggled to decide if real hell was worse than this . . . banishment. I wanted to join the siratha. Wanted to have peace. Rest. Selfish escape. But I hadn’t taken the offer. I hadn’t fallen. I hadn’t given up.

  I was still alive. No, I don’t want to die.

  I tip my chin in agreement.

  He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just nods slowly. “Alright then. Follow me.”

  He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just steps onto the first rung and starts moving across with agile speed. The rungs bend and lurch beneath his weight but he move too quickly for much harm to come.

  I sheath the dagger at my side and approach the flimsy excuse of a bridge. I press the sole of my sandal against the first rung and put full weight on it, prepared to shift to the next one. It snaps and I lose balance, leg slicing straight through the bridge, towards the foaming river beneath. I barely manage to pull myself onto the bank again.

  The sandals are too rough. Too heavy on my feet. The idea of taking off the one protection between pain and my feet makes my stomach clench, but slowly I remove the sandals. The Wild boy is already halfway across the bridge, dancing from rung to rung. I notice, for the first time, that he is barefoot.

  Asshole! He didn’t deign to inform me about such a precaution. I’m quite sure he wants me dead.

  I stick the mangled sandals into my belt and put a foot to the next wooden rung. It bends beneath my weight and before I can lose courage, I push off from the bank and shift towards the next rung. The wood splinters slightly beneath my foot and I dance to the next once – the next. The next! The bridge sways slightly at the clumsy crossing, but holds.

  The water rushes beneath the bridge and it dips closer to the deadly surface, inches from the poisoned fangs of water spurting around stones. I falter as a spurt of water slices into the air, drops flailing my direction on a soft breeze. One of the wooden rungs snaps beneath my feet. I manage to shift to the next one and continue on.

  Don’t look at the water. Don’t look at the water. Don’t look . . .

  Everything fades to nothing around me. There’s only me and the rungs and the water beneath.

  I am not fast enough, and a splinter of wood pierces the sole of my foot. I cry out and falter again. A drop of blood dribbles off the broken rung and sizzles upon contact with the water.

  The scars on my neck slowly burn, their ridges raised against my skin, turning the blood in my veins to fire. The rung strengthens beneath my feet and the hard surface propels me forward. The wood no longer bends beneath my weight. Snaps at the strain. Even the water in the foaming river beneath calms. The low buzz in the tips of my fingers is heavy and lingering. The moment my feet touch solid ground, it stops, leaving my body heavy with a new feeling – fatigue. My temple throbs like I just endured a mental assault.

  The Wild boy leans against the tree-line of the welcoming forest, arms crossed in casual indifference. I want to scream at him. Curse him. But he’s my one remaining chain to survival. Angering him could be disastrous

  “Seeing as you’re more than able to handle yourself in dire circumstances, I can be persuaded to suffer your presence.”

  Persuaded? I’m not begging him for my life. I haven’t sunk that low.

  I communicate that opinion by crossing my arms.

  His jaw tightens. “I have a couple of rules. Rule one: you do as I say! No objections. No arguments.” He pauses, allowing the words to sink in.

  “Rule two? Leave if you don’t do what I say. Or I’ll leave you. Got it?” He waits for my answer.

  I believe him. I nod.

  “Okay. Then follow me like a good little girl and don’t irk me so.” He turns and steps inside the dense greenery.

  I don’t even have the desire to snap at him for calling me a “little” girl. Swallowing my anger, I follow him. I want to kick his arrogant ass, but he will leave me. I’ll be dead then.

  Common sense before justification is, unfortunately, my new motto.

  When the foliage hides the river from my sight, I have the freedom to look around. It is like any other forest, except thicker and wilder in appearance. Vines and leaves of unknown origin brush against my skin. I entertain the idea that they, too, might be poison and keep a weary distance.

  A rabbit darts out of the Wild boy’s path. He makes a move towards his sword, then suddenly remembers I’m there, and returns his hands to pushing shrubbery aside.

  I rub ordinary green leaves between my fingers. Smell the dirt, the wood, the life in the air. Relish the realization that it is leaves and not bones that crunch beneath my feet. In my relief, I make a misstep and topple straight into a tree. My right shoulder snags it brutally and skin rips. I stifle a scream and limp forward.

  Straight into the Wild boy.

  His eyes dart over my face . . . and the new wound on my shoulder. I cover it with a hand. He lifts a brow at me.

  “I didn’t irk,” I say quickly.

  He stares at me for another moment before turning and continuing to walk. He practically steps over a whole fallen tree trunk with no problem. I have to pause and use my hands to lift myself over it. The trunk scrapes against my knee.

  The Wild boy’s lack of talking begins to scare me. I see him thinking. Watching. Observing how many times I stumble. How often I pause to catch a breath. How many times I wince. The cold calculation in his gaze chills me to the bone.

  Internally, I debate whether I should keep following him.

  Instinct tells me, no.

  Common sense tells me, yes. He seems to know where he’s going.

  It could be a trap, instinct snaps.

  But it could not be.

  Damn common sense. It always wins!

  Somewhere through the dense smell of wood and ash and greenery, a new smell dampens the life. It is a smell I have grown accustomed to. A smell that burns my nostrils. Chills my blood. Puts my nerves on edge. A tinge of copper so strong that bile rises in my throat.

  The Wild boy smells it too. His back has gone stiff and his shoulders are thrown back, prepared for the danger. The hilt of one of his swords quivers the slightest bit. I try not to compare the way the boy sticks his nose in the air to that of a wild animal. The similarity is frightening.

  The smell comes from behind a rumpled patch of ivy and vines. I can see scuff marks in the forest floor. Red lines and swirls mar the ground as if an artist recently spread his greatest masterpiece with bold skill.

 
; Unconsciously, I step towards the vines.

  “Don’t . . .” The Wild boy’s hand skims mine but he’s not fast enough. I’ve already turned the corner.

  I grab the tree to hold myself steady, but I don’t look away. I can’t. Not from this. Never have I seen such butchery. The animal – or what’s left of it – is only four feet long, with fragile bones and soft, brown skin. I cannot tell how many legs it possessed, how many eyes it had, how it moved, or wailed upon death. Pieces of it lie scattered around the area. Tossed into brambles. Hanging from tree branches. Soaking the ground with red stain. Puncture wounds line the brown hide that remains in one piece.

  “What the hell . . .?” I manage to choke out.

  The Wild boy’s not listening. He’s crouched low to the ground and his fingers sweep over the blood. It clots on his fingers. He sniffs it and that sickening feeling in my gut claws again. He prods the hide with gentle fingers and raises the hand to his nose again. He sniffs once and lets out a breath. Sniffs again. Frowns. Looks towards the trees in front of us, a deep tangle of branches and vines and thorns. Mutters something under his breath.

  “What?” I ask.

  A slight tremor shakes him and he turns around. For a moment, his eyes are blank – as if he’s forgotten I exist. The mask returns, returning his eyes to the predatory gaze that turns my stomach once more.

  “Shouldn’t you be hurling your guts up, Kelban? Or is this type of violence a daily entertainment for you? You probably enjoy watching such spectacles. Too bad you didn’t get to see this one.”

  The urge to hit him – to watch his blood join the other animal’s – is strong. I hide the fist I’ve made behind my back but too late. He’s seen it and understands its motivation. Slowly he stands, muscles rippling like some powerful beast of the forest. Those eyes – eyes full of nothing but black emptiness – lock on my own.

  “You forget,” I say with unchecked coldness, “I was such a spectacle.”

  His eyes dart to my shoulder, searching for the scar hidden behind my strap. A small spark of something ignites in his eyes – but it dies as quick as it came. The arrogant smirk is back. “I didn’t forget.”

  He stands, wiping the blood on his fingers across his pants. I try desperately hard not to stare at the stain. He stomps through the leaves and blood and brushes past me without a word. I spare one last glance at the poor creature before following at a fast pace.

  “Shouldn’t we bury it?”

  His step falters. “What?”

  “Bury it. The . . . remains, I mean.”

  He turns around, brow raised high. His head’s cocked to the side in that animal way again. The cold observance returns to his face. “Leave it. Some starving scavengers too weak to find their own food will stumble upon it.” He continues walking.

  “What killed it?”

  He doesn’t answer me.

  But his shoulders tighten.

  The light begins to fade, casting the forest in deep shadows, some so dark I wonder if they’re alive. The Wild boy continues walking, leaves crunching beneath his boots. He stops before a tangle of vines and pushes them aside. I spot a clearing before he steps through the ivy and disappears from sight. When I join him a moment later he’s already leaning over a stone circle, wood piled high to make a fire.

  His camp, I realize.

  I don’t know what to do or where to sit or what to touch so I stand like a useless fool and watch him. Sparks fly and a flame forges the dry wood into a towering tongue of orange and white.

  Once the fire is burning brightly, he turns around and pulls something from the tree branches. A large sack.

  I flinch when he removes a rusty knife, with the thinnest of edges, and sets it on the ground nearest the fire. It is well worn with use and still bears signs of slaughter.

  He tosses a well-worn bundle behind him at the foot of a tree. I stare languidly at its form. Wool. Soft, warm wool.

  “Kelban!” he snaps. I swivel to face him. Something smacks me hard in the chest. I barely manage to maintain balance. He snorts disapprovingly and returns his attention to the fire.

  I stare at the blanket in my hands. It’s wrapped like his and bears signs of ill-use. But is is soft and fair protection against the cold.

  “T-thank you.”

  He growls something in his throat and doesn’t look up.

  I search out a tree farthest from him, but close to the fire, and decide on a large cedar with overgrown roots launching out of the ground to make a protective rail around me. Should any beasts wander into camp between now and morning, I will not be the first source of a feast they find. I stretch the blanket across the ground and sit down. The fleece brushes the underside of my legs with a gentle caress. I remember the tangled thorns of the Burnt Forest. The creatures that tore my flesh. The cold that rattled my bones.

  “I really mean it,” I say over my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  No sound comes from behind me. No breathing. No movement. I turn around, confused, and my heart skips a beat. He’s gone. I scan the clearing. The trees. The darkness.

  Something glows a faint white near the fire. I edge closer to get a better look and sigh with relief. His swords. The twin moon swords are still there. He wouldn’t have left them if he were deserting me. Assured that he’s gone off into the woods, probably to take a piss, I kneel down before the swords. In the darkness, the intricate ivy patterns on the sheaths glow a faint silver light, mingling with the dark gray on the remainder of the sheath.

  Slowly, I pick one up, my conscience rebelling with curiosity. It’s extremely heavy. I know I shouldn’t. I know I should set it down. But this is the sword that saved my life. The sword I’ve wondered and researched and dreamed about for three long years. The sword that cut darkness in two and destroyed it. I block out the conscience that orders against it and pull the sword from the sheath.

  The melodic sound it makes as it’s pulled from confinement is nothing like anything I’ve ever heard. It should grate against my ears or sting or sound like nails on a chalkboard. But it’s something soft and lazy, like a gentle hiss of steam.

  The blade is miraculous – like a sheet of glass molded to a hilt. My face reflects in the slim surface of the sword. The sword illuminates the clearing in soft rays. It is so light that my wrist feels as relaxed and swift as it does with a dagger. Instead of the fierceness of an average sword, it possesses a unique beauty and balance. I swing it in front of me and nearly topple sideways, so swiftly does it cut through the air. The edges glint razor sharp, thinner than any blade’s edge I’ve ever seen. Landor once said that the best swords are those that cut at a single touch and that few possess such a deadliness. I wonder . . .

  Ever so slightly, I lay the pad of my thumb against the paper-thin side – and my skin breaks!

  Blood pours from the new wound and and drips to the ground. A thin line of red runs down the white blade and drops to the ground. I press tight fingers to the new wound. It hurts much more than a normal cut. A sizzling, burning feeling that eats at my thumb like death itself.

  “Sharp, eh?”

  His sudden reappearance sends me scurrying backwards as he emerges from the woods, a leathery creature slung over his shoulder. He pays the fallen sword no mind and throws the creature on the ground at my feet. The dead thing is covered in scaly skin from head to tail. It’s upside down, revealing a soft belly of fat where a clean puncture oozes fat and blood. It’s two feet long, complete with three claws on each limply hanging paw.

  I swallow. “Is that . . .”

  “Dinner? Yes,” he interrupts. “Why? Not appealing to your delicate appetite, little girl?” He turns it onto its belly with a prod of his boot. Two black beady eyes stare up at me, empty and lifeless.

  “That’s not what I said.” I try to quell the turning in my stomach. It actually looks appetizing, I’m struggling to control myself from snatching the whole thing and eating it raw. Disgusted at the depravity of my hunger, I turn away from the sight.

/>   The Wild boy retrieves his sword, inspecting the blood that stains the otherwise silver blade – my blood – before licking his thumb and wiping the stains away. The edge doesn’t cut him. A small twinge of envy hits me low in the gut until he smirks at me. A flush of heat warms my neck at the realization that he did it on purpose to show how foolishly inapt I am to touch it. He tucks it safely inside the heavy sheath and drops it beside its companion again.

  “That ought to teach you never to touch one of these again.”

  Like hell it would. Only next time I won’t cut myself, I ponder with a reproachful glance at my thumb. The open skin pukes an ugly dark red.

  “Let me see it.” His voice is so close I jump back several paces. He grabs my hand. I wince at the roughness of his skin and try to pull away.

  “Hold still, Kelban!” he snaps. He presses a finger over the wound, sealing skin back together, and sizzling pain shoots up my arm. I bite my lip. The blood ceases to drip between our hands. He removes his hand from the wound and pulls my thumb towards his face – into his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” I shriek and jerk back.

  He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me close. He removes my thumb from his mouth and spits a glob of blood and saliva onto the ground between us. “You cannot possibly fathom, Kelban, what evil has stained that sword, no matter how brightly it shines. I would assume you’re eager to remain alive and breathing.”

  “Use the hunter’s brew,” I argue, struggling to keep him from continuing.

  “It is a liquid intended for energy, not healing.” He pops my thumb back into his mouth, tongue circling around the tip.

  I count. One, two, three . . . Endless seconds. Slowly, the burning fades from my arm – my thumb – until all I feel is his tongue against my skin. He knows at the same time I do and allows me to pull away.

  The wound still bleeds, but not as deeply as before. I press it against the bodice of my tunic and ponder how long it will take to scab over.

  The Wild boy returns to the fire and kneels down before the scaly creature. He grips it by the scales around its neck, peeling them from the flesh in one quick jerk of his arm. I watch in stunned silence as he grabs the rusty knife by the fire and inserts it between neck and scales, gives a terrifying thrust of his hand, and the shell I had mistaken for scales, pops off with a sickening crack. The shiny red flesh beneath ripples at the touch of the aging knife. Blood dots the ground. He pays it no mind as he digs the knife into the base of the skull, slicing a clean line straight across the torso. Slipping hands inside, he pulls white intestines from the oozing middle.