by Jesse Teller
She sighed but said nothing.
Betten had a fire going before the pillows were placed, and she wondered how the man could set a camp so fast. She knew him to be more animal than man, so decided not to think about it too much.
When they had laid her down, she heard a familiar voice outside the tent, and she shouted.
“Get in here, Stonefist. Come see your princess.” She giggled when Jordai stuck his head in.
He carried a bundle, and she stared at it.
“You never came back. Flak sent you to check on the mountain, and you never came back,” she said.
“Found something in my travels.” He handed her the bundle, and she stared at the pink face within the folds of the swaddling.
She looked up at Jordai and sighed. “What’s his name?”
“His mother named him Jordai. I was against it, but she is not one you argue with,” he said.
“Well, I miss you. You are the only civilized one of Flak’s friends. What do you call him if not Jordai?”
“I call him Little Pup.”
“Why?” she asked.
“His mother is the Fendis shaman.”
Jocelyn smiled. “You married a Fendis woman? Jordai, that is wonderful.” She kissed the baby and kicked her feet. “Stonefist married to a Fendis girl. Jordai, that makes me so happy.”
“We are not married, but I can see why. You Fendis women are crazy.”
She nodded but did not find it so funny.
“We miss you,” she said.
“I miss you, too, but my place is here. When he is older, I will send him to Tergor. He is destined to serve that Redfist you are whelping right there.”
“I’m sure he will.” She looked at Little Pup and realized she would never see that day.
When the baby came, he brought a storm with him. The men huddled in a tent a few feet from them while she fought with the son of Flak in the women’s tent.
She felt as if her back was breaking, and screamed. It seemed like the child had a fist full of her soul and as she was birthing him he was ripping it out. She felt as if she would burst. She begged them to cut the child out, but Helena and Ellen and Rachel kept working. They did not panic, though she was sure there was reason. They kept telling her she was doing a good job. She was not doing a good job. She wanted to smack them every time they said it, and it seemed the only thing they were capable of saying.
When the head broke through and the child slipped out, the women gasped. She looked up to see a blood wrapped mess of tissue, a blob of sorts that had no features, no arms, legs, or head. It was a mess. A quivering mass, nothing more. She screamed in horror. All the women stared horrified, except Rachel. She gripped the baby and bit into it. The blob popped like a bubble, and out erupted a boy. When the cord was cut and the butt smacked, the boy started breathing without wailing or even whimpering. He seemed poised and collected, as if even at his birth he would not panic.
“What was that around it?” Jocelyn asked.
“That was the blood sack,” Rachel said. “It is very rare, but some children are born in their sacks. It’s a strange omen. Men get funny about things like that. Do not tell anyone outside of this tent. Flak might think the child cursed.”
“Doesn’t sound like Flak, but I will do as you say,” Ellen said. “You’re the expert.”
“Yeah, I know. In fact,” Rachel said, rubbing her belly.
They all laughed and Jocelyn was handed her baby. He was still covered in a lot of blood, but he looked to have red hair. She liked that.
“Did you know?” Flak said, after he shoved all the women out of the tent, out into the blizzard. “Did you know what the shaman girl told me?”
She nodded. “You will never be king chief. Peter is going to run this mountain one day. If you take his throne, he will never take it from you. You must hand over the throne to your son. You must be just a man.”
Flak shook his head. “I have been preparing all of my life to be king chief. Yenna is old. He asked me to take over for him yesterday. What am I going to tell him? A little girl who calls herself the Fury shaman told me if I ever take over my nation I will destroy the mountain!”
Her head was hurting and she wanted to be alone with her child. “Flak, tell Yenna whatever you want. I don’t care what you say. Just know Peter is the Fist of the Mountain, the one legends have spoken of for generations beyond count. He will rule this mountain one day. You are destined to stand by and watch. Your son is a better man than you, Flak. Embrace it. Embrace your faults. I have.”
He stormed out of the tent, and she kissed the Fist of the Mountain. She would not have him for long. She needed to hold him while she did.
VI
One Year Before The Escape
Jocelyn sent a letter. Few of the citizens who had grown up on the mountain knew how to read. But Towsne could read. His father raped six women in the Gray Mane village when Towsne was only six. They had been exiled after the chief castrated the man. Towsne learned to read, learned to steal, learned to fight. He had no honor, and was perfect for her uses.
So, she sent a letter, years after Thomas Claymore killed Yenna. After Jocelyn moved things about to get Towsne on the throne of the Ragoth castle in Eastgate. After she shaped things enough that he had begun to buy the slaves the Bloodblades were selling. After she slowly watched his entire reign collapse into a heap of corruption and debauchery.
She sent a letter and told him Flak was coming. She told Towsne he was preparing to take the throne. The letter claimed Flak would give that throne to Peter. The letter warned that to kill either man or child would be seen as an act of war. She warned that to kill the Redfist clan would bring all the citizens of the Ragoth nation to the door, but she also said that to kill Flak’s wife would break him, would break Peter.
She sent a letter. And in that one act, she killed herself.
It was time. She had watched her son grow into a god of boys. Watched him slowly take over every child in the city and turn each into a weapon. She had seen Peter craft his army one boy at a time. He had won over Earl Flurryfist and Brandon Beastscowl, trained Traylon and Bellick Black Hand in the ways of war. Peter was carefully getting everything in line. He was taking over the world, and she knew one day he would possess it.
It was time.
Her Steppen left the city nineteen years earlier. She watched for his return every day, waited for the one man she loved all her life to walk back in. She decided if he did come back, she would leave with him, but he never had. He would be almost fifty now. If he was going to come back and save her from her life, he would have already done so.
It was time. As she heard Towsne coming out of the castle with fifty of his filthy warriors, she knew her death was upon her.
“You are a fine man,” she said to Flak as they rounded the corner and marched toward their tiny shack. “You are just not my man.”
“Did you ever know love?” Flak asked.
“Once, but not for a long time,” she said.
“Is today the day you spoke of?”
“Today it is all over,” she said. “You can have your queen. She is coming to collect you. I gave you the Fist of the Mountain. I leave you to him. Remember what he is and guide him. You’re a fine man, Flak Redfist. Too fine for me, I think.”
He did not argue.
Before they were taken, she pulled the globe Drelis had given her a lifetime ago and held it behind Peter’s back when she hugged him. His grip on her lightened a bit as the love he felt for her ebbed. Peter could not have grief holding him down. She watched that globe suck almost all the love he had for his mother right out of him, but she left him with a little. She only hoped Fora could provide him with what she had taken.
When she was placed in her cell, she looked into Peter’s eyes and saw a bloody boy, an angry monster of a boy who would save Peter’s life over and over again, a boy who would bring about change. She knew how Peter would find that boy, so she took Peter’s face in her hands
and looked him in the eye.
“They are going to kill me,” she said to her son. “They are going to hurt me bad first. They are coming.” She could hear them jeering and laughing. She kept her eye locked on Peter and thought of the next few hours. She thought of the Bloodblade who was coming and needed to bind her son to him. “When they kill me, I want you to watch.”
Peter’s face crumpled. He shook his head. “I will protect you. I will kill them all.”
“No, son. Just avenge me.” She knew as she said it he wouldn’t. Knew she was setting him up to fail. But his failure would bind him to the new Bloodblade king chief, and that would lead to the Bloody Boy.
“I will avenge you, mother.”
“Swear it on your blood. On your bloodline, swear you will avenge me.”
They came to the gate, and she looked at Peter again. He was such a handsome boy. Drelis’s boy with Jocelyn’s face.
“I will avenge you, mother, I swear on my blood.”
She was ready.
When they came for her, they ripped her shirt off. They threw her on the ground and the horror began. She wondered if Steppen was dead, wondered if he would be in the same afterlife as her, wondered if she would see him again.
She carried his face into the nightmare.
Book Three
DEAD GIRL
I
40 Years Before The Escape
Ellen had never seen anything like him. She stared as he walked through the valley. She stared as he walked up the road, and stared in wonder as Borlyn Flurryfist strode into the Stonefist village with two hundred men, a few women, and a group of tag-along children.
Borlyn was big, much bigger than any man she had ever seen. He stood two feet taller than her father; a foot and a half taller than her chief. His bulk he wore well, his weight high on his shoulders, his middle muscled and thick. His hair was long and blond. He wore a rich blue scarf wrapped over his head and draped across his shoulders. His eyes were a cold blue, his face tanned and smiling. His chest was bare, laying open for all to see the mighty Flurryfist symbol he was branded with, and he wore the sarong of Leeven Flurryfist.
The sarong was red, long, covered his waist and draped down his legs. The plates sewn into it shined like polished mirrors. His boots were thick and heavy, the toes covered over with steel, the heels dipped in metal.
Where Borlyn walked, power followed. Where Borlyn walked, honor was not far behind. Where Borlyn walked, light shined.
Her chief, Gaulator Stonefist, met Borlyn in the middle of the village, and he dropped to his knees as the streets filled with citizens. Every eye stared, every mouth hung open in awe. Breathos Steeltooth took a knee right after, and the spell was broken. All in the village dropped to their knees before the mighty Borlyn Flurryfist, son of Cochran, king chief of the Ragoth of the mountain.
Ellen lifted her dress and dropped to bare knees. She tried to keep her head down, but could not stop herself from looking up at her king chief. His eye landed on her, and she looked away.
“Please rise, mighty Stonefist tribe. I wish to rest in your town and witness your hospitality. I wish to drink with you and eat with you and enjoy one of the great tribes this or any other mountain boasts. I declare this day a day of celebration of your culture and your ways. For this village holds not one but two Sons of the Seven. This village bears more honor than any other on this mountain.” He held his arms out to the heavens and laughed. “What say you? Will you entertain your king chief?”
The cheer that lifted to the sky was enormous and the village broke out into a storm of activity. Ellen was short for her twelve years. She rushed to a nearby pen for hounds and climbed atop it. She gripped the roof of the building beside her and watched as everyone stretched to touch their king chief. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Real joy radiated from her.
Six boys chose that day to take their brands. Many were twelve years old like her, and she did not think they were ready, but if they could take their manhood brand before their king chief, they would. She thought that was awful selfish of them, to be sure.
The king chief had come to celebrate their tribe, not just the branding of a few boys. Borlyn was to be praised and held in high honor, not them. But she had no say. No one listened to Ellen. She had long been unfavored in her home. Far too opinionated, far too clever. She wondered if Borlyn would chide her for her thoughts, but she kept her mouth clamped shut tight. She would not bring darkness to this night.
Fathers seared the flesh of young boys, and men were made. Borlyn gave a speech where he asked for the greatest these boys had to offer. He did not want them to seek glory in battle. He vowed that in his days as king chief he would not bring them to many wars. He instructed them to study their weapons, but even more so to think. Study the mountain and her history, study the workings of the sky and the path of art. For warriors were fine, but they must be men first. Before killers and fighters, they were to be fathers and husbands. He spoke of a day without war when a man’s pursuits would be learning and art. He told of the day, not far away, when peace with the other nations of the mountain would be possible.
Borlyn said a lot of things greeted with silence. When he spoke, a hush had fallen over the assembly. There was quiet until Breathos rapped two knuckles on his shield, the mighty Steeltooth, the relic of his clan. At that, the entire village broke out into cheering and song.
The boys were playing Wolf Lords. A small group of boys had captured a girl from Ellen’s village. The girl’s name was Terala, and she was no more than eight. She was not the prettiest girl in the village, but Ellen thought she had the best smile, and the boys had her on the porch to the drinking hall.
They were the Wolf Lords, and the other boys were the Ragoth heroes. They had to save the girl but were horribly outnumbered. As the fighting began, Ellen saw the Wolf Lords take one boy after the next to the ground. They bound them with ropes and carried them to the porch. The Ragoth champions were losing. She stood against a building in the shadow, looking back and forth between the men talking in the Warrior’s Circle and the boys fighting. She watched as the last boy stood staring against the Wolf Lords on the porch. She did not know him. He was short, with dark brown hair and tan skin. He stood with clenched fists and no wooden weapon, staring at Terala.
The Wolf Lords came down the stairs, and that boy kissed his fists. Then it began.
That last little boy did not growl or roar as the other boys did. He did not spit or cry when he got hit. He just took every blow and with each swing of his fist dropped an opponent. Ellen watched stunned as this little boy took out one Wolf Lord after the next, and before long a battleground of groaning boys lay around him.
He looked up at Terala and slowly climbed the stairs to her. He bowed to her and there was something humble in the way he bowed, as if he were asking her a question, or telling her something soft. Terala kissed his cheek, and he leaned close. When the kiss had been planted, the game was over, and they would start up again. But the little boy leaned in close and whispered to Terala very softly. She whispered back, and Ellen wanted to know what she had said. The two of them stood beside one another blushing. Ellen turned to go. It was too bad that little boy was from the Flurryfist village and Terala from this one. They might have made a smart couple.
The young girls came out and danced for the king chief. They had practiced a dance for harvest for many months. Ellen knew they were not ready, but the king chief was here, and he asked for dancing. She stood with the other girls in line waiting for the work drum, and was suddenly seized with the need to pee. She looked up, frantic and searching for a chance to run quick, but the drum began and the dance lurched to a start.
She stomped when it was time, and her bladder swelled. She shuffled left and threw her arms wide. She shuffled right and stooped to grab at invisible grain, and with every step and every movement, she nearly wet herself.
The dance was for the harvest. It was to be performed while the girls cut grai
n and threw it on the wagon. It was a dance practiced all year long and Ellen knew it well, but she did not want to be here right now. She did not want to dance for the king chief. Right then, the only thing she wanted was to crouch behind a tree. Her bladder quivered with each step. She fought back her grimace and kept moving.
When the dance was over and the drum fell silent, she did not wait for Borlyn to comment or clap. She did not wait for anything. She spun, shoved the nearest girl out of her way and ran. She pushed through the crowd, out into the night. She slipped behind a tree and loosed her water.
“You are pretty,” she heard as she was walking back to the celebration. She froze. She turned and looked at the shadowy corner of the shack where the words had come from.
“Who are you?” Ellen asked. She had heard of women being forced into sexing a man. She did not know if she believed any man traveling with Borlyn capable of that, but every time she was alone in the dark with a man, she thought about it. “Come out into the light,” she snapped.
The boy did. He was tall and lean, carried a sword on his hip. She noticed immediately it was not wooden, and knew she was talking to a branded man. His hair was shoulder length, and it looked blond in the moonlight. He wore his shirt open and waving around him, and smiled at her as he stepped closer.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“I am Ellen Black Knuckle, daughter of Tena,” she said. He was very handsome, much more so than the boys of her village. She did not know why he was talking to her. She was not the most beautiful girl in the village. Her nose was too big and her hair was never right. She wore it long, very long, down to the back of her knees, and it was always tangled. She fidgeted with it when she got nervous, and caught herself doing that now. She gripped her braid end tight and ran the tips across her palm.
“I’m Ghean, son of Wallis,” he said.