Legends of the Exiles

by Jesse Teller

  “I don’t know why I did it. I can’t tell you what made me agree to it.” He turned and punched the side of his head. “I cannot take it back now.”

  “You have to, Flak, you have to.” Madeline grabbed his substantial back and with some modicum of effort turned him around. “You have to tell her no, that you have changed your mind.” Madeline dropped to her knees. Flak looked down at her in horror and helplessness, a face unknown to the stalwart warrior.

  “You have to tell them no, you were confused,” Madeline pleaded. “Tell them you love me.” She gripped his hand with clutching fingers. “Tell them you love me… Tell me you love me.”

  Flak stared at her with dread and pain. He looked at the woman he knew he loved right there before him on her knees, begging, and something died in him. Rachel saw it wither right there. Hopelessness ran right into him. His head dropped and his shoulders shook as tears rocked his body.

  “Flak, you can change your mind. You can still save us. It has been moments. You still can go in there and make it right,” Madeline said.

  Flak dropped to his knees and wept. Madeline wrapped him in a hug as he sobbed.

  “If I break it off now, Locke will be furious. I promised to marry his sister.”

  “It will be okay, he will understand. He loves me. He knows I am meant to be your wife, that it is our destiny,” Madeline said.

  “Oa will not be so understanding. He will rage,” Flak said.

  “Oa is a petty man. His bluster will not move Yenna,” Madeline said.

  “He will go to war,” Flak said.

  “You’re damn right I will,” Oa stated.

  Rachel jumped as the man spoke with such force and violence right behind her. “Get away from that girl right now, Redfist. You belong to my daughter, and you will not spend any more time with this girl ever again.”

  Madeline jumped to her feet, stomped his direction, and Flak caught her wrist. She pulled to get it back, but he was far stronger.

  “Your daughter is a witch!” Madeline shouted. “She is a thief and a conniver. She saw my Redfist, and the vile bitch snapped him up somehow.”

  Flak stood.

  He turned Madeline in his direction, and firmly but gently grabbed her by the sides of her disbelieving face. He looked sorrowfully into her eyes, and she shook her head. “Don’t do it,” she said. “Please, Flak, take it back.” Involuntary tears sprung to life, glistening her eyes and painting twin streams down her trembling cheeks.

  He shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “Let go of that little tart, and go back in there and sit with my daughter, Redfist. There is much to celebrate,” Oa said.

  Rachel pulled her sword and stabbed it just a bit into Oa’s back. Oa froze.

  “Shut your mouth, or I will shove this into your spine, and you will crawl for the rest of your life,” Rachel said.

  Oa huffed and Rachel stuck it in a bit deeper.

  “Girl, I will crush your skull,” Oa said.

  “You will let them say goodbye, or you will crawl forever. It’s up to you,” Rachel said.

  Flak kissed Madeline. Their first kiss. And likely their last. When he turned and walked away, Madeline screamed, and all the strength ran out of her legs. When she collapsed to the floor, Rachel put her swords away, mad, and focused very Fury-like.

  Oa spun on her, and Rachel stared up at him and grinned.

  “I’m not sorry,” Rachel said.

  Oa grabbed his hammer. Flak gripped his wrist.

  “No, she goes unscathed, or I will break my betrothal to your daughter and we will go to war. Touch Rachel now—or any other time—and the Fendis and the Ragoth bleed,” Flak said.

  Oa glared at her before gripping Flak by the back of the neck and pulling him away.

  “Go to her,” Flak called out to Rachel.

  Rachel stuck her head in the hall.

  “Ellen!” she shouted.

  The two girls instantly went to Madeline’s side. They needed to get her home now. Madeline’s life had been stolen and Rachel was not sure what to do about it — just yet.

  III

  29 Years Before The Escape

  She was numb from the waist down. Numb from the waist up. The only thing she could feel on her body was the bend of her left hand and tips of the first two fingers on her right. Her fingers twitched when the shot was taken, and she realized she wasn’t breathing.

  Rachel took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. She could hear the contest caller saying a name. The crowd cheered and a hush fell over the city. She kept her eyes closed, but her fingers flinched when the archer loosed and the arrow thudded into the target. The crowd groaned, a few scattered boos, then the next name was called.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the archery contest in full swing. Tears came in a slow course down her cheek to gather at the tip of her chin. She flinched when the memory of her bow snapping finally filled her ears, and she watched the man stride up to the line again and draw.

  He drew slow, much slower than she ever had. He looked scared when he held a bow. The pressure of the contest maybe, or maybe he was a coward. He held his breath when he paused before the loose. She could feel his hand trembling, and she remembered the arrow she had been lashed with by her instructor.

  “Breathe when you draw, breathe when you fire. Holding your breath will make your hand tremble. Rachel, if you do it again, I will use the whip,” her instructor had said. But Rachel hadn’t done it again, and she had been better with the bow than any of the other girls. Ever.

  The weapon felt right in her hands. The string sitting the bend of her fingers felt like life, thrumming and perfect. She could still see the line of the perfect arrow as she stared down the length before the shot. She could hear the subtle difference in the sound the wood made when she bent her bow than when she bent any other…

  The arrow thunked the target, and she knew from the sound of the strike it hit the center. She looked up and smiled. He was a good shot. Not a Fury, but he was as good a shot as any man could ever hope to be.

  She watched the tournament progress, the weight of her grief sitting heavy on her chest. She knew if she were to fire but a few scarce arrows she would win the contest. Seven years since she had fired a bow, but no shot here could compare with hers. Ever. She knew if she should pick a bow up, she could win this with no effort. No contest. Victory was hers alone—damn the fears. Damn the curses.

  Just the thought made her heart stop in her chest, and she looked around for her aunt. Would the Furies kill her if they saw her watching? She pulled her hood up over her head and closed her eyes. She would just watch a little longer. Maybe she could guess who would win.

  Her pick for victor got sloppy after the first twenty arrows, and she realized he had not fired enough to build up the strength he would need to win this contest. She wondered if his fingers were sore, and disgust rolled through her. Lazy archers should have to serve as targets. Anything less than three hundred arrows fired a day was laziness.

  A Fury warrior fired three hundred a day, every day. In her time as a warrior in training, Rachel had fired two hundred nineteen thousand arrows, give or take.

  Within the three hundred, the Furies used practice arrows, one hundred still and focused shots, one hundred moving shots, one hundred shots fired in less than a breath, and Rachel did so every day from the age of three to the age of five. Then, with the snap of her bow, they had taken that destiny away from her. But not her skill. And not her passion. None could match her with the bow, as untouchable as it remained.

  She felt the tears coming again, and she let them.

  The numbers of competitors kept dwindling. More and more were showing themselves to be worthless archers. But one was rising. The more he fired, the better shot he became, and she realized the first hour of the shooting had been just a warm up for him. She wondered at his laziness, not to have warmed up before the contest began, and she shook her head.

  Men were idiots. Of all the Fury
teaching that defied her current station in life, her mother’s words in this matter still rang true. Men really were idiots.

  She stood watching the boy shoot for another hour. It looked as if he made his own arrows. They were a bit longer than the others she had seen, a bit thicker. He had a glove to guard his hold. This was a weakness most men fired with. They feared the whip of the line if it hit their forearm. Her people fought with gloves, like most any other warriors, but they did not need them when firing. She remembered the terrible pain of the line slashing across her arm, and she shook her head. It was a pain she had been forced to get used to, just a part of being a Fury warrior.

  She watched him whittle down his competition slowly as the tourney went on, until a final battle between one boy and an old war veteran remained. They stood side-by-side, firing shot after shot, until the other missed his target. The boy drew slowly, deliberately. Arrows soared smooth from his bow, each hitting the targets perfectly. The other man, a fine shot he was, fired ten arrows perfectly. Then she saw him flex his hand, and she grinned.

  The boy had won. The old man could not keep up the pace much longer. He had worn out his welcome on the battlefield, and time waits for no one, especially in battle. The shooting went on for a few more minutes before the veteran ran out of power and his arrows began to subtly sail wide, muscle memory and accuracy falling sway to simple strength and the tenacity of youth.

  The crowd cried out in glee and simultaneously broke out in a groan. Money was changing hands as the betting played out, and Rachel stared with hungry eyes at the boy harvesting his arrows and waving to the crowd.

  She had to have him.

  She shoved her way from the grandstand and down to the walkway where he had to pass. Her twelve-year-old body was reacting perfectly to her approaching womanhood. Her breasts were small but tight, her hips tantalizing. Her neck was long, her lips full. Her brown hair caught flame in the sunlight, and the boys all lamented her beauty as none of them could tame her. She was quickly becoming the prettiest girl she knew. This was just a fact, and if she wanted this boy, she could have him. She would not sex him. He was human after all, and the only man she would ever consider giving herself to fully had to be a progetten man. But he had a cute face, and she wanted to slide his fingers in her mouth and lick his calloused finger pads.

  She pulled her hood down just a bit, just enough to show off her profile, and waited. He bowed to the crowd a few too many times for her taste. He waved and held his bow up, and when she thought he would turn away and walk past her, he bowed again.

  He was arrogant and needed the praise of the crowd. She was annoyed by that, but would let it go by if he would come already. After another few minutes, he walked her way. She slid her cape back to show off her frame, and she stepped before him. The crowd was drifting to nothing around them. He moved to step around her, and she moved to block him. She looked up into his eyes and they widened when he finally got a look at her face. She stared at him, then remembered her gaze frightened men. She let it drop to his chest, and walked up to him.

  “You’re a pretty girl,” he said. “How old are you?”

  He had to be fifteen at the most. Her being twelve might scare him off, so she decided not to answer. She walked up to him and touched his shoulders. She looked in his eyes and let her lips slowly move to a smile.

  “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked. She looked at his lips and leaned in close. He smelled strange. He did not stink, but held a scent that spoke of a foreign make up, a kind of musk no progetten man had. She liked that more than she thought she would.

  He licked his lips. They were a little too thick, but she would let that slide. She needed to feel his tough finger pads against her tongue.

  “I would kiss you if you wanted me to,” he said.

  “You would do me that favor?” she purred. She had been practicing sounding sexy for months. She had almost decided she would have to be a little less hard on the boys in the ghettos if she was to find a husband. She knew her sexuality would be her power when she got older, so she had been watching and practicing. She knew now what men thought was attractive and poured it all into this boy. She touched his shoulder and walked around him, her newfound and unfamiliar female powers swirling around her, within and without her grasp.

  He was slimmer and less imposing than the other boys. His human frame did not carry the kind of power progetten men had. One punch from Brenden would shatter this boy. But she thought again of the archer’s fingers, and idly wondered what they would feel like on her neck.

  She walked around him, trailing her fingers across his narrow shoulders and up the back of his neck. She ran her fingers up the back of his hair, and she tightened her grip and gave him a little jerk. He grunted in a very unflattering way, and she realized she had hurt him. She fought the revulsion back and reminded herself of his firing.

  “I will let you touch my lips if you want to,” she said. She stepped around in front of him again and took his right hand. She peeled away his first two fingers and looked at him. She could feel the rough patches on his finger pads. She put them against her lips, and felt warm. She kissed them. She wanted to be alone with him. She kissed them again, and he smiled. It was the ugly smile of a boy overcome with lust.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I know where we can go.” He grabbed her and pulled her arm.

  The arm bent wrong and pinched. It hurt, and she moved without thinking. She twisted her arm, grabbed his wrist. She spun and drove the heel of her other palm into his back. He flipped over and slammed into the ground.

  She pulled back, appalled, and he sputtered, staring up at the sky, gasping for breath. She cursed all the fights she had been in with her brothers. She had to act fast. Had to fix this before he ran like a coward. She dropped on him, straddling him and leaning over, her lips inches from his as he fought for breath. When he had it again, he scowled at her.

  “What in the hells is wrong with you? You almost broke my back!” he said.

  “Little girl like me could never hurt a man like you,” she purred. “I know where we can go. Let me take you there. We can be alone. My papa is gone. My brothers will not stop us. I can take you to my room and—” She couldn’t finish the thought. She had just thrown a man for the first time in a while. She could dominate him, she was sure of it. She liked the way he fit between her legs, and she knew he would do what she told him to. And he could never take more than she was willing to give. This was the perfect man to take with her. She just wanted to play with him a little. She licked his lips, and stood.

  “Follow me.” She sauntered away. She did not look back. Let him run to catch up.

  “If you throw me to the ground again, I will paddle you for it,” he said.

  She thought of him smacking her behind, and grinned. She was not sure she would hate that. She said nothing. She led him on through the busy streets, and he came. He stepped up beside her and a thread of anger ran through her. He was a good shot, but she did not know if he deserved to be walking beside her. She kept quiet and let him walk with her anyway.

  When they entered the Beastscowl ghetto, he slowed.

  She turned to him and smiled. “Are you coming?”

  “I’m human,” he said. “The progetten do not like it when humans enter their streets. We have no business here. Let us go to your house. What are you doing bringing me here?”

  “This is where I live.” She stepped closer to him and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I am a progetten princess. I am sought after by all of my people, and I am choosing you. Are you too scared to touch me? Too scared to be alone in my room with me?” She leaned back, looking him in the eyes. “Do I have the wrong man?”

  He thought about it for a long time. He looked at the large men around him and the wild streets before him, and he froze. She knew she would not go to his house. She decided he was indeed too much of a coward to come with her, when he took her hand and nodded. “Lead on, but you had better be alone with me soon. I
have ideas of how we will spend our time.”

  She did not let him slow down when she took him up to the Beastscowl house. She did not let him slow when she walked past her papa’s guards and they scowled at him. She was pulling him pretty hard when she got him to the door, heard the dogs barking, and almost had to shove him in the house when she took him into the room filled with broken furniture and crockery. She led him to a table and sat him down.

  “Wait here,” she said. She ran. She went to the storeroom and grabbed two mugs. She filled them with her papa’s honey ale and took them to him. She dropped it to the table before him and sat in his lap.

  He looked terrified.

  “Want to kiss me now?” she said.

  He was sweating profusely. She put her finger on his chin and lifted it so he was looking at her. “My lips,” she said. “Do you want to kiss them?”

  He licked his lips before a wicked laugh sounded off behind her. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

  “What is this then?” Hunet asked. She realized then this guy was much quieter than she was used to. “Who is this little boy you brought into our house?”

  “Hunet, I don’t want to hear it. You bring Clarta in here all the time and Papa has no problem with it.” Rachel stood and rounded on her brother. He stood bold and naked, with nothing but a belt wrapped around his middle carrying his long, curved dagger.

  “Why are you naked?” she asked.

  Hunet walked around her to look at the boy. Her guy seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  “Why is he so small?” Hunet asked. “Hey partner, eyes. Let’s look to my eyes, okay?” The guy’s eyes shot up from Hunet’s cock. “Who are you wanting to make it with, me or my sister?”

  Rachel hissed. “Get out of here right now or I will cut that blasted thing off and throw it out the window.” She pulled a sword from her hip, and the man gasped. It seemed he had not seen her weapons until now.

  This was not going very well at all.

  Hunet smiled at her before turning to look at the boy. “I’ll leave you two at it then,” he said. “Unless you want to get a better look there, boy. I will even let you give it a squeeze.”