“Skye. Why do they call you that?”
The young boy with emerald eyes stared down at the little girl chained to one of the metal rings welded to the floor of the metal wagon. Her brown hair was lank with the weight from the downpour from above. Warm grey eyes searched her fellow prisoner’s face. Their crystal color stood out from the filth and bruises that covered her face and body and shown hard and cold as steel, even in the dim light of the early morning.
Ratty, worn out clothing that was equally heavy with the rain, had been recently torn. The bruises on her young, bear thighs stood out against the paleness of her northern skin. She couldn’t have been more than ten. She, and the other twenty children in the caged wagon, were most likely refugees. Having lost their families and homes in the battle near Braydyn and Cardellaen the slavers and traffickers have been taking these children to sell, either to soldiers or to others with darker interests. It didn’t matter to them which side they were sold to. It was dark times these young lives lived in. Most of them were already too far broken, their eyes, dull and vacant.
The girl sniffed and wiped her nose on her shoulder.
“I heard the guards talking last night when you were brought in,” she said, talking to the floor, but staring at the boy from the corner of her eye.
The boy didn’t reply at first. He was different from the others, but not just physically. He sat straighter, back against the metal weave of the cage, rather than hunched over, his strange eyes alert and focused. He had an air of confidence and exuded strength even from his slight build.
In this black and grey gloomy world painted with the colors of slate by the mist and rain, this boy stood out starkly. Snow-white hair that was cut close to his scalp branded him as a foreigner. Deep-set eyes the color of the ancient forests of legend glowed with an inner light. It was so faint, the girl thought it was a trick of the light. He had a sharp face like a wolf or fox but with a stubborn jaw and slightly pointed ears to complete the picture. Black tattoos encircled his wrists, forearms and ankles. A brand, the skin still red and puffy around the deep burn, had been pressed into his shoulder through his thin black tunic.
He gave the girl a sharp look.
“What did they say?” his voice was calm, but hard.
“I only heard some of it, they thought I was asleep.” She leaned back against the iron. “They cursed you. Said something about bad luck and they called you Skye.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Of you?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “No. But they were. What did you do to make them so scared?”
The boy said nothing. The racket of the rock and bump of the wagon as it waded through the rain filled the silence between the youths.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked after a while.
The boy looked into her serious face and then down at his bear feet and the heavy chains that trapped him.
“Now?”
She nodded.
“You can do it, can’t you. Get out of here, I mean. That’s what the brand is for, and why these men are afraid of you. You have magic,” all of this she said as statements.
The boy looked up at her. He was far too serious for his age.
“It doesn’t frighten you knowing that?”
The girl smiled and shook her head, “No.”
The boy looked around at the other children.
“What about them?”
The girl shrugged.
“You could give them the choice, but I don’t think they’ll come.”
He didn’t say anything again for over an hour. The rain had stopped, but the clouds overhead still blocked out most of the rising sun. The road the wagon was taking was traveling along side the forest; its leafless trees stretched their twisting, grasping fingers toward the sky. The boy looked up from his hands.
“You ready?”
The girl stared at him for a moment, having given up on the boy after his long spell of silence. She nodded.
“Yes.”
A loud crack like lightning broke the stillness of the day. The ear-piercing screech of wood twisting and splitting filled the forest and valley. Shouting of the guards and the squealing of the horses shocked the children out of their stupor. A great tree crashed down on the front end of the wagon, crushing the men that rode in it. The horses had broken free, the harnesses had snapped. They bolted by the cage, running back down the road.
The girl with the grey eyes watched the chaos with wide eyes. When the chains fell from the limbs of the children, she was up and halfway out the blown open door when she turned to look back over her shoulder. The boy was standing and staring at the other children. All eyes were fixed on him.
“I can give you food and a safe place to sleep if you come with me,” his voice carried strongly over the sound of the yelling men on the other side of the fallen tree.
No one moved at first, they stared at one another nervously.
“We need to go,” the girl said urgently.
The young boy remained still, waiting. About to yell at him again, she stopped. An older boy stood up, black hair and brown eyes, a scar along his forehead, and nodded toward the young mage. Two more children stood, a boy and girl. The tall girl held the hand of the little boy, a strip of cloth wrapped around his eyes.
The small group left, running down the road.
“Into the woods,” the boy with white hair yelled at his troop.
Fast as they could, they ran up the short hill and into the woods. The sound of the men was growing closer. The brush was slowing their progress. Fighting to the front of the group, the white-haired boy led them, the girl behind him. Thrusting a hand in front of him, a shockwave hit the undergrowth and trees in front of them and then they parted, dipping and bending out of the children’s ways as they ran. The older boy stumbled over a rock as he stared in bewilderment as the foliage bent to the power of the spell.
Vaulting over a rotting log, the white-haired boy halted the company of children and they hid under it. The sound of the men had faded. After a time when they were sure they had lost them, they stared at one another, sizing each other up. The girl with the grey eyes suddenly offered her hand to the boy with the white hair.
“Jack,” she said simply.
The boy gripped her hand.
“Skye,” he said hesitantly. “Gawan Skye. Rather you called me Skye…” he trailed off, lamely.
She smiled and let go.
“Nice to meet you, Skye.”
The older boy offered his hand.
“Name’s Dalton Bayrns.”
Skye shook his hand.
“Thanks for saving us back there,” Dalton said.
The tall girl offered her hand. Skye took it in a strong grip that surprised him.
“I’m Dana and this is my younger brother, Ravyn.”
Skye nodded.
“Good to have you with us,” he said.
“So…now what?” Jack asked.
“I recall you saying something about food,” Dalton put in helpfully.
Skye looked around at the group of children all looking to him. He smiled for the first time.
“Yes, I believe I did.”
Chapter 1
Dim amber light spilled into the room as a candle was lit. A rustle of cloth and the scuff of boots being dragged across the wooden floorboards were the only noise in the small room. The candlelight caught the shine of a scar on the young man’s shoulder before it was covered with the black cloth of his tunic. He clothed his lean, muscled body, the body of a fighter, but still with the slenderness of a boy, and readied to face the dawning day. Lastly, he tied on his purse and dirk, the jingling of the buckle, a soft tinkle of sound before the rough tightening of the leather belt. Dragging his fingers through his white hair, the pearlescent strands shone in the soft glow of the candle, he tied it back, out of his way. Pulling up the dark green hood of his coat, he walked to the door of the room. The candle put itself out behind him.
“Look, I said he would be here to meet with you about our purchase for travel, and he will. He just has a hard time getting out of bed this early,” said a young woman in black to the scruffy sailor.
She was shorter than him by a head. Long brown hair was braided loosely back with short locks curling in ringlets about her ears. Sky grey eyes searched the darkness restlessly. A tall man with black hair stood off behind her, leaning against the wooden siding of the fishing shack. Built like a warrior with thick-corded muscles, and a sword strapped to his side, he crossed his arms and sighed impatiently. A tall young woman stood next to him, dressed in dark blue, her cloak covering her array of knives. An older boy stood on the other side of the man; long black hair covered his eyes. A dirk sat comfortably on his hip.
“He had better come, the ship leaves in half an hour,” the gruff sailor said.
The grey-eyed woman snorted.
“He will.”
“And if he don’t?” he asked.
She gave him a hard look.
“I’ll kill the idiot myself.”
The man grunted. Silence ensued.
“Calling me an idiot again, Jack? I thought we agreed not to do that until I actually did something idiotic,” Skye’s voice drifted up through the dark, behind the gathering. His voice had held the lilt of laughter, but the face that emerged from the shadows held no such humor.
“About damn time,” Dalton grumbled, dropping his crossed arms to his sides.
“I have a hard time getting up in the morning, didn’t she tell you?” Skye said to the sailor, ignoring Dalton’s comment.
© 2014 Morgan Krepky. All Rights Reserved.
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