Beyond the Core (The Starborn Series Book 1)

by K. R. Cunningham

  Owen swallowed hard when he looked up at a long, thick branch.

  A man hung limp by his neck, flies buzzing around the body. Owen’s heart pounded.

  I have to get out of here.

  He took a step back, but heard voices, so he ducked behind the tree and hid behind one of the tents. He peered around it and saw a large fire burning in the middle of the camp. Around the area were more tents, and small shelters built out of branches and leaves. Several men sat around the fire, eating and drinking. One of them walked around with a bow in his hand, arguing with someone.

  Owen licked his lips. The men ate from a skewered chicken, and a big pot of something cooked over the fire. The men’s faces were scarred and dirty.

  He eyed the tent as the low voices behind him neared. He darted into it quickly. Thankfully, no one was inside. There was only a small table and a few sleeping pallets.

  A jug of water sat on the table. Owen gulped it down. A plate of partially-eaten apples and burnt biscuits sat nearby. He devoured them, not caring who they’d belonged to previously. The biscuits were almost too hard to chew, but he was desperate. He noticed how dirty and grubby his hands were. He must look like a wild animal.

  This was not how he had pictured himself looking only a few weeks ago. What had he become? Was this how street beggars felt when they saw others eating? Did their stomachs always feel so hollow, their minds void of anything but food? Or did that feeling eventually pass?

  “Hey! How’d you get in here?”

  Owen turned around, dropping the rest of the apples, and moved to run away, but a man caught him by the arm and shoved him out of the tent.

  “Hey, Dellum—look what I caught!” the man shouted.

  Owen tried to break free, but the thin-looking man had a firm grip on him.

  A tall, bald-headed man rushed toward them and narrowed his eyes. A few other men walked their way, staggering away from the fire. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Found this mutt stealing our food.”

  The bald man crossed his arms against his chest. “What do you suppose we should do with ‘im, then?”

  “Hang ‘im!” one man shouted from behind, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Why don’t you let me play with him instead? We could all get a turn.” A straggly haired man licked his lips and ran his thumb across a curved blade.

  Owen tensed and tried to pull back.

  “Nah,” the thin man said. “This one likes resisting. We should put him up for some entertainment.”

  The bald-headed man squinted for a moment before looking back at the others. “What you gonna do, then, Rigel? Make ‘im play charades? Squawk like a chicken?”

  “No.” Rigel grinned. “Put him in the ring with the others.”

  Dellum’s lips spread into a slow smile. He nodded, then took Owen by the arm and dragged him forward.

  Owen’s feet could barely keep up as Dellum forced him through the camp toward the light of several torches. On the ground, a circle of stones and pebbles made up a giant ring. Owen’s heart hammered against his chest as he saw several men approaching, until ten of them surrounded the watery, muddy ring.

  Dellum stopped and shouted at them, and they echoed his cry. When he spoke in a language foreign to Owen, they responded with hoots and whistles. Most of them took off their shirts, exposing scars and tattoos. As they looked at Owen, they pounded their chests, then shouted, spit flying from their mouths. Two women took to the crowd, their arms wound around the waists of a few men. Their shouts were just as loud.

  Someone ripped Owen’s bag off him and tore his dagger from his belt. He reached out to snatch it back but someone pulled him away.

  “All right, then, halfwit,” Dellum said. “You got the balls to sneak into our camp? Show us what you’re made of.”

  He pushed Owen forward with a rough hand, making him stagger and fall hard to the ground. Laughter surrounded him as he stood up slowly to regain his composure. He licked his lips and tasted dirt, his hands twisting in slick mud.

  “Who wants to step up first?” Dellum shouted.

  In response, a bare-chested man a few inches taller than Owen came into the ring. Cracking his knuckles, he smiled and said, “Oh, he’ll be easy to break, that’s for sure.”

  “First round of the fight tonight. All fists, no weapons. First one out of the ring loses. Got it, mutt?” Dellum eyed Owen sharply.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way out of this,” Owen said nervously.

  The men booed him in response.

  “Okay,” Owen muttered to himself.

  He watched as the other man readied his position, legs apart and fists up. Owen prepared for the sudden onslaught by holding up his arms in defense.

  The man’s blow sent him staggering back. He landed a jab on Owen’s wounded shoulder, then again in his ribs. Owen doubled over as the impact knocked the wind out of him, and a sharp pain traveled up his left side.

  The men outside the ring hooted and hollered.

  Owen stood his ground, trying to block the man’s blows, but eventually his defense broke once more, and his face took a smashing from the man’s fist.

  Feeling himself boil inside, Owen glared at the man. He wiped the blood and mud from his lip and held up his fists. When the man lunged forward, Owen stepped to the side and dealt a blow to his arm.

  The men around the ring cursed at him, but there were a few hoots.

  The man in the ring did not look happy at Owen’s jab and lunged at him again. This routine continued until the man finally tripped him.

  Owen staggered back. He blinked his eyes a few times to clear the fog from his mind. The man punched him again in the shoulder and Owen stumbled out of the ring. A few men pushed him forward from behind. The more they tossed him around, the harder it was to think. The man in the ring smiled as the others tightened their circle around the fight.

  At that moment, Owen knew this was more than a game to them. These men were brutal, and they were willing to fight to the death.

  He gripped his stitched arm. He could summon his power to defeat this man, but if the others found out about him, they would no doubt kill him instantly. Not only that, but he was dreadfully tired.

  He barely had time to think of channeling as the man in the ring came at him again. Owen blocked the blow and this time came back with another punch before kicking the man to the dirt.

  Muffled laughter ensued from around the ring, but Owen kept his focus on his foe. He clenched his fists, his blood boiling, the heat inside him igniting. He would have to chance his power.

  It was not until a woman’s voice shouted from behind that Owen froze. The air was quiet as he looked up at the men around the ring. Following their eyes, he turned around to find a short, serious-looking woman making her way into the ring. Her dark hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck. She wore simple brown trousers, like the men, and a black tunic.

  “Dellum, is this your doing?” She scowled.

  “Just a bit of entertainment, Gilda,” Dellum said nervously.

  “And that warrants a fight in the ring?”

  “We didn’t know what to do with him.”

  “I don’t care,” Gilda said sharply. “Leave him to me. He’s earned his stay, I’d say.”

  Dellum scratched his neck. “And what would Harold think of that?”

  “Harold’s not here. Until he gets back, I’m in charge. Understood?”

  As the men cleared the ring, the woman beckoned for Owen to follow. The man on the ground got to his feet and glared at Owen before he staggered off with a growl.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Gilda said. “No one else will hurt you here.”

  “So you’ll let me go?” Owen huffed.

  Gilda raised an eyebrow. “If I let you go they’ll kill us both.”

  “I didn’t know this camp was here. I was cutting through and got lost.”

  “You stumbled into the camp. You’ll have to pay a price to leave. Harold’s
rules, not mine.”

  “Was the fight not good enough? And who’s Harold?”

  Gilda smirked at him. “Come on, follow me to my tent. You can clean up and I’ll explain there.”

  “What about my bag?” Owen glanced around and spotted it on the ground. A man rummaged through it.

  Walking up to the man, Gilda snatched it away and hissed at him. The man sized her up with a sneer before stomping away.

  “And my dagger?” Owen furrowed his brow as he looked around for who might have taken it.

  “Who has the lad’s dagger?” Gilda called out.

  The response was the shing of the blade as it sliced between them. The tip wedged into a scrawny, dead tree. Howls of laughter boomed behind them.

  “It was an ugly blade, anyhow!” someone called out.

  Owen swallowed hard and wrapped his hand around the hilt, but before he could pull it from the bark, Gilda moved him off and tugged it out.

  “Sorry, but I can’t let you have weapons right now,” she said. “Come on. Follow me.”

  Owen bit his lip, but followed the woman to a tent a little bigger than the others. Two lanterns hung from wooden posts on either side of the entryway. Around the inside of the door, strings of bone fragments and blue flowers hung loosely from the ceiling.

  “Come in,” Gilda said, her voice small and raspy. “I promise I won’t bite.”

  Owen sniffed the warm air. It was filled with a strong, earthy aroma. Wooden chimes hung from the ceiling, and jars of mint, honeysuckle, and jasmine sat on a small table. On the floor was a pallet of plush blankets and pillows.

  “Sit,” Gilda demanded, and patted the blanket.

  Owen was hesitant, but he did as she bade and sat with her.

  “Don’t be so tense,” she said. “I’m sorry for what they made you do. You hurt?”

  “No,” Owen breathed, his left side stinging.

  She raised an eyebrow and stared at him. “The bruises and scrapes on your face say otherwise. I’m Gilda, by the way. And you?”

  He stared hesitantly at her face. She looked much older than him, perhaps in her late thirties. Deep brown, almond shaped eyes looked at him curiously. A dark mole rested on her left cheek near her eye, and specks of dirt covered her face. She did not seem the least bit timid.

  “Owen,” he finally said.

  Gilda smiled, showing dimples in her cheeks. “I like that name. Here, let me help clean you up.”

  She brought around a bowl of water and soaked a clean rag. Then she wrung it out and wiped at the scrapes on his cheek.

  Owen pulled back from her touch and winced.

  “I won’t hurt you like those mules out there,” she said sharply.

  Though he was uncomfortable, Owen let her clean his face of blood and dirt. When she was done, he shifted his position and flinched. He put a hand over his left side, where the pain was hot.

  “Are you hurt there, too?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You should let me take a look.”

  “No. It hurts, but I’ll manage.”

  Her face softened, but there was a hard layer of determination underneath. “You should at least change out of those clothes. You look as though you’ve been rolling in the mud.”

  “I fell into it,” he whispered.

  Gilda handed him his bag, and thankfully she turned while he changed into his clean trousers. When she saw the bloody wound in Owen’s back from Rhielle’s star, Gilda insisted on cauterizing it, and Owen lay down on his stomach while she heated a clean knife.

  When she pressed the hot blade against his skin, he buried his face in the pillows and clenched his jaw. But in a strange way, he welcomed the pain. After several minutes, he slowly turned over, pulled on his shirt, and lay back against a few pillows.

  “You want some food?” She held out a plate of apple slices.

  He took a few, eating them slowly. Then he drank down a cup of water she offered him.

  Gilda smiled. “Poor thing. These brutes like to indulge in entertainment when they can. If I hadn’t stopped them, they’d have kept on till you were a bloody pulp.” She popped a slice of fruit into her mouth and settled down opposite him. “So, then. Tell me why you were traveling through Norclen. Most folks steer clear of this wood and the marsh down the way.”

  “Marsh?” Owen asked. “You mean the marshes along the eastern coast?” When Gilda nodded, he said, “I was avoiding the main road.”

  “Ah. A criminal, are you?”

  “By now, yes.”

  “You look too polished to be a criminal. Even so, you could have butchered a village for all I know.”

  Owen coughed and nearly choked on his apple, and then his hand flew to his side as pain radiated through his ribs. “No,” he whimpered, glancing at her anxiously. “I would never even dream of such a horrid thing.”

  Gilda laughed as she crossed her legs on the pallet. “I’m messing with you. You look tired. You can sleep here in my tent.”

  “Then I can leave in the morning?”

  She scowled at that, her brows knitting together. “I can’t let you leave. I’m not in a position to do that.”

  “But you can just act like I escaped.”

  “Hush,” she hissed. “Harold’s in charge around here, and with him out hunting I can’t just let anyone we catch go. The others will make sure he hears about it, and it’ll be on me if you get away.”

  Owen stared at her, unsure how to persuade her otherwise.

  She sighed as she brought a dented brass goblet to her lips, sipping its contents slowly, then offered it to Owen.

  In his reluctance, he took the goblet. The taste of the wine was too bitter for his liking, but she encouraged him to drink anyway. As he got used to it, he had another glass, then another as the two of them ate in silence.

  “So did those buffoons attack first, or you?” she asked.

  “Well, it was really sort of my fault. I was hungry and saw the camp, but then I saw a man hanging by that tree. I hid in one of the tents and they found me.”

  “Can’t blame them for being suspicious, or protecting the camp, but they were rash to make you fight. I’m not surprised, though. The man who was hanged—that was Harold’s doing right before he left. It was a warning for anyone who stepped out of line while he was gone.”

  “I hope you don’t get into trouble for helping me, then.”

  “That’s not what will land me on that branch. Letting you get away will.”

  Owen caught the serious look in her eyes and nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Where were we, then? Oh, yes—you hid in the tent. Where were you traveling to?”

  Owen’s mind relaxed as he set down the empty goblet. “I’m not sure if I should tell you or not.”

  “You can tell me anything. I keep secrets well.”

  A heavy drowsiness overcame him while the pain in his side lessened. As he glanced over at Gilda, he smiled at her. “I’m looking for someone,” he muttered.

  “Who is that?”

  “My friend. He’s . . . I have no idea where he is.” Owen chuckled, then he frowned as he thought of Amias.

  “It’s all right,” Gilda said. “Is he looking for you?”

  Owen said nothing, sinking lower into sadness as the effects of the drink overtook him.

  Gilda smoothed back his hair. “Get some rest,” she said, then moved away from the pallet and sat at the small table full of jars.

  Owen shook his head to stay awake, but eventually gave in to his drowsiness and leaned his head back against the pillows. He fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 21

  Owen jolted awake with a gasp. Sweat matted his hair to his face, and his shirt clung to his back. He ran his hands through his hair and winced as he breathed in, the pain in his side sharp. It felt as if he had fallen off a horse, which was a frightening experience he never wished to have again. A cup of water sat beside him. He drank it so quickly the liquid spilled out of his
mouth.

  What happened last night? he thought.

  Thoughts of Gilda flooded his mind, of fighting in a ring with another man. A sharp pain spread from his cauterized wound. When he tried to get to his knees, the sting in his side radiated again, but he forced himself to his feet anyway. He wavered as he tried to make his way out of the tent, but when he got to the doorway, the flap opened. Gilda stepped inside, her face full of surprise.

  “Owen,” she started. “You’re up. Where are you going?”

  “I need to leave,” he said, clutching his side.

  “And go where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You step foot outside without me and these men will kill you. You’d best stick with me.”

  He nodded and left the tent with her. In the daylight, the camp was more at ease. Some men slept on pallets within small tents, while one man brewed something in a pot over the fire.

  “Are you all thieves?” Owen asked. He seemed to have a habit of running into them.

  Gilda shrugged. “More like ruffians and fools.”

  “Still playing with the puppy, are you, Gilda?” called one man nearby.

  “Better than playing with mutts,” she called back.

  “Ah. Come play with some nuts then, aye?” The man grabbed himself and laughed.

  Owen looked away, sickened by the act. He glanced at Gilda, who remained reserved. “Are you the only woman here?” he asked. “I thought I saw a few others last night.”

  “There are others, but Harold keeps them around for entertainment. These men are too stupid to do anything but hide in the woods. Most of them are thugs and escaped criminals, and most of them stay drunk. They’ll kill a lone man on the road just to take his shoes.”

  “Then why are you with them?” Owen asked. “You seem so different.”

  Gilda’s smile was painful. “Harold was a different man a few years ago. He took me in and cared for me. I thought I loved him at one point, but I figured out not long ago that it wasn’t love, but rather I was looking for comfort. He’s not a kind man. I’ve been looking for the right time to leave.”

  “You could go with me, you know.” Owen kept his voice low. “I could use a companion, and you could get away from . . . Harold.” He swore he had heard the name recently and could not pin where it had come from.