AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Why would anyone choose to?”
The high priest flings Krista’s little dagger to the soft earth at her feet. “Take your foul weapon with you. You will need it out there.” At last, he smiles. It's a small, cruel expression like the one he wears when his acolytes discipline their ‘wayward flock.’
“Thanks.” Krista swipes the small dagger from the earth, flicking a bit of mud in the priest’s direction. The man steps back, though the little clods come nowhere near him.
Flipping her hood over brown, rain-damp curls, Krista spares one last look at her home. Not so much at the Priest and certainly not at her once-father or her once-sisters, but at the commune itself. It’s a tiny, half-flooded nothing place, but she grew up here. It’s the only place she has ever known.
Well.
She will just have to get to know some new places.
2
Krista
Kristaknowsabstractlythatother settlements exist. Trade has to come from somewhere, and so does gossip, the stories on her lost data tablet, and the lost data tablet itself. She also hears things about the outside. Just … not enough to find her way around out here. As the imposing wooden walls of her birthplace fade softly into the mist, the grand, swooping joy of freedom fades with it. How easy it had been, with the commune huddled safely at her back, to look out at the rain-wrapped forest and imagine survival. She had been so capable back home, so in command of herself. Why shouldn't the same be true out here?
The idea seems sillier with each step that carries her further from the gates.
But Krista refuses to be afraid. If she lets fear creep in, it will stay and it will paralyze her. Fear is the sort of thing that sticks where it settles, like cobwebs. Better to push it away than to let it cling. Instead, she focuses on the monumental task ahead of her, breaking it down into simpler steps. First, she will need directions, or maybe a guide if she can find someone going the same way. Krista has been following a muddy wagon trail so far, expecting that at any moment she will meet someone on the road. Maybe this hypothetical person will know where she can find a shuttleport, then maybe someone at the shuttleport will let her onto a starship if she works for her passage. She got the idea from a book on her tablet, so it must be a common practice.
But minutes pass, then hours, then the whole day has gone. Krista shivers wretchedly in her damp cloak, watching the watery sunlight fade with a sort of weary desperation. She won’t know what to do when she can no longer see. Movement is the only thing left keeping her warm, but she won’t be able to move around in the dark and hunger gnaws plaintively at her insides. Her legs ache, her ankles swell in her ratty boots. She will have to stop soon. If she doesn’t stop, her body will stop itself for her, but she will go on as long as she can. At this point, it's a decision about how she will die. Will she freeze to death in the dark, huddled pathetically by the side of the road, or will she die proud of herself, satisfied that she tried?
Setting her tired shoulders, Krista plods onward.
It doesn't get any better. The rain clears for a while, then starts again with a vengeance, soaking through Krista’s traveling cloak and the simple cotton dress beneath. Her boots flood and her feet squelch inside of them, the toes rubbing together and blistering.
If Krista closes her eyes she can almost remember the dull patter of raindrops on the thatched roof and roasting her body on the hearth until her skin turned pink from the heat. She used to love a good, pounding rain. Turns out, it's less nice without a roof to keep her dry. Huddling in her heavy, waterlogged cloak, Krista considers the failing light with a grimness she has never associated with dusk. Nighttime is supposed to bring relief, a time to hunker down and relax with her sisters. Former sisters. Krista already misses their idle chatter, the quiettink, tink, tinkof their knitting needles, and even their silence, when the conversation lulled and the fire popped in the hearth and they could all simply exist together in the same space.
Wait. Taking a few steps backward, Krista cranes her neck, trying to spot what she thought she—yes, there! It’s only the faintest glimmer of light, barely visible in the fog-choked trees, but it’ssomething. Krista crosses the road at once, following the uneven shoulder for a few more steps before she sees it again, glowing low and orange.Fire. Krista pulls her lower lip into her mouth and worries at it with her teeth. If she goes, she will forfeit the wagon trail in the dark.
But itisa fire. It has to be a fire, right?
Unless it isn’t. How would anyone get a fire going in this weather?
Krista knows the old children's stories of travelers lost in bogs, stumbling around and following treacherous lights. Lights in a bog are never a good thing, but this isn’t a bog. Do the same rules apply? Krista had always scoffed at the people in those fairy stories, wondering aloud how stupid a person had to be to fall for such an obvious trap. Swaying on the edge of the untrustworthy wood, she hesitates, suddenly understanding those people completely. They had not been stupid, just desperate.
The gods that Krista knows only listen to men, so she doesn’t bother sending prayers. Krista understands that when she gathers her cloak in her hands and steps off the path, she does it alone. The gods were not looking after her on the day she ‘wedded’ the blacksmith. Why should they take any interest in her now? Gritting her teeth, Krista feels her way carefully into the dark, her eyes blinking against the sudden midnight that falls beneath the trees. Holding a hand out in front of her turns out to be a necessity. Otherwise, she would break her face on the enormous pillars of bark. She jams her fingers on several before she slows her pace even further.
Though the forest above is dense, the understory isn’t crowded. These are the sort of trees that block daylight and turn the soil to acid with their needles. Krista’s footfalls sound like nothing atop them. She can hear her toes knock lightly into exposed roots as she scuffs them carefully over the ground and occasionally, a fern will rustle, but apart from that she could be a ghost. With her hem lifted, the damp fronds lick at her bare calves, eliciting a new flinch with each feathery caress.
Bad, bad, bad, this could be very bad,her mind sings at her every single time she loses track of the fire. But she's careful, halting immediately when the orange glow winks out of sight, then backing up, readjusting, step by careful step. Before long, she hears careless laughter and deep, booming voices—jovial voices that make Krista’s chest ache for companionship. It has been too long since she’s seen a Human face. It has been longer still since she has seen a friendly one. Gods, shehopesthese people are friendly.
Some of her relief wanes as she realizes that their language is not one she knows. Krista speaks Standard, but that is all. Her commune is isolated and secretive, so she has never had any use for the implanted translators that seem so commonplace in her books. Krista shivers. She can't imagine putting anything into her brain even now, listening to the guttural syllables of someone else’s speech and detecting humor in it, but no meaning. Humor could be a good sign, but it might not be. For all she knows, these people are psychopaths laughing about the last set of travelers they robbed and murdered. Krista could walk right into a universe of nightmares and be none the wiser.
Biting her lip, Krista edges closer, hoping for a quick look at the owners of those voices. It’s impossible to tell a person’s true nature just by looking—that damned, smiling blacksmith had taught her that—but Krista still peeks around the nearest tree trunk like a jumpy doe, feeling silly.
At least until she sees them.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Krista draws her head back quickly, pressing her spine to the rough bark like she can become one with the wood and disappear into it if she leans hard enough.
These arenotHuman men.
Shit, shit, shit.These guys arehuge, wearing layers and layers of bulging, tattooed muscle instead of shirts. The muscle sits on them like armor, heavy planes of tough warrior’s flesh piled on them in unreal shapes. In that one brief glance, Krista spotted muscles that don’t evenexistfor Human males. In the dark, their flesh is deep green, almost black like the forest around them, though the fire makes it difficult to pick out exact hues. Their limbs are thick and powerful, spiraling with jagged, yet ornate markings that are somehow both harsh and beautiful. Their faces are hard and masculine, each with its own set of vicious canines—an upper and a lower—like those on the livestock guardian dogs back home.
Harkurians! They must be Harkurians, and two of them in one place! All Krista has to go on are descriptions and warnings and the unreliable gossip that the traders bring with them sometimes, but the descriptions match. Harkurians are supposed to be huge and brutish, addressing their squabbles in the sparring ring through obscene displays of martial skill. Krista feels her cheeks heat as she recalls oneparticularrumor she’s heard about their sports—mock battles, of course, but with a carnal twist. She shouldn’t have even heard that rumor. It was something an outsider said—one of the traveling merchants from the stars.
Filthy gossip,Krista reminds herself, ignoring the memory of toes curling secretly in her boots when she heard about how they like to end those wrestling matches.
