Warrior of the Wild(6)

“Go back to the village, Havard,” I say. “I beat you at every fight you instigate. How could you think this would be any different? Are you so fond of pain that you now seek me out for it?”

An unkind thing to say, for sure, but sneaking up behind me to strike was low of him.

Havard rips his ax from off his back and advances toward me. “Let’s have it out here, then! See how you do against a real weapon.”

The shout sends bats sailing upward from the trees, their chirping and clicking following them into the night, and I hope no ziken were near enough to hear Havard’s outburst.

I pull my ax from my back, preparing to defend myself against Havard and his friends. Torrin does the same beside me. We spread our legs apart, one foot forward, in a readying stance. Kol and Siegert mirror their leader, advancing in a straight line.

“Rasmira.”

Everyone freezes at the new voice.

Havard’s shout didn’t alert the ziken.

It brought my father.





CHAPTER


2


My father, Torlhon Bendrauggo, is flanked by three other warriors from our village. He surveys the scene quickly: Havard, Kol, and Siegert charging toward us with their axes as Torrin and I are about to defend ourselves.

“You’re injured,” Father says, as though I maybe hadn’t noticed the flaring pain in my head. “Which of these boys hit you?”

“Master Bendrauggo,” Havard starts as he hides his bloodied knuckles behind his back, “we—”

“To the village. Your excuses can wait until we’re out of the wild.”

No one dares to argue. Five axes are returned to their owners’ backs, and we’re shuffled along with my father and the guards dispersed among us—as though we’d try fighting one another with them here.

It is a long trek back to the village boundaries. We take the road this time, which is much easier. We need not worry about brushing against stinging agger vines, skimming poisonous yoonbrush needles, or getting a foot stuck in a snaketrap plant.

When at last the road dumps us into the village, Father rounds on the boys behind me.

“Since you four seem to think you’re already men, you can take watches tonight. Show us your prowess at protecting the village.”

Havard won’t look my father directly in the eye as he asks, “For how long?”

“Until you’re needed for your trial.”

There is the punishment. No rest before the most important day of our lives.

“What about Rasmira?” Torrin asks.

“That is none of your concern. Now stay here. If I hear word from any of your parents that you returned in the night, it’s banishment and the mattugr for all of you.”

We are all silent at that.

In the old language, mattugr means “might.” But it has no implications of strength. No, the mattugr is a challenge. If one has been issued the mattugr, it is because one has lost all honor, and the only way to redeem oneself is to attempt the challenge given. Attempt, because the quest is always something that is meant to end in death.

A mattugr has never been issued from my village during my lifetime. But I have heard stories of challenges given in the past.

Walk for a thousand days without pausing to sleep or eat.

Jump from the tallest peak and land on your feet.

Sleep for a night at the base of a pool of water.

Other challenges are less obvious in their implications of death, but they are no less deadly.

Kill the gunda and bring back its carcass.

Take a tooth from the mouth of a living mountain cat.

Face the ziken without a weapon.

That my father would threaten us with the mattugr—

He is furious.

“Rasmira, follow me.” Father turns on his heel and leads me deeper into the village. All is quiet, for all are asleep save the warriors left roaming the outskirts, watching for danger.

Father marches right through our front door without bothering to check that I follow still. I’m half-tempted to make a run for it. Mother’s likely still up.

But I follow through, and the metal door doesn’t make a peep on its hinges as it closes behind me. Very little is built out of wood, for it soon becomes brittle and fragile once the ground no longer nourishes it. The wagons carrying the god’s spoils will crumble in a few days.

Our home is the largest in the village, with a massive receiving room. It’s bedecked with the finest decorations to show our standing: furniture handsomely crafted out of marble and cushioned with bird feathers, mounted horns from various beasts my father has killed, jewels cut and crafted into the most beautiful designs.

My mother and sisters come running into the room at the sound of the front door closing.

“You’re safe,” Mother says. “Bless the goddess!” She tries to throw herself at my father, but he stays her with an upraised hand.

“Did you know Rasmira had left the house?” Father demands.

Mother finally takes notice of me standing behind Father. She debates for a moment. I can tell she wants to lie, to say she did know. But to be caught in a lie is a grave sin.

“I hadn’t! I thought her in her room.” That’s probably not entirely true. I doubt she thought of me at all.

Father looks pointedly at the three girls standing beside her. “Tormosa, Alara, and Ashari are not in their rooms.”