Changelings (Monstrous World)

Prologue

The air across the savannah crackled with latent sparks and choking smoke, the kind that invaded the lungs and stayed there for days. Balar’s throat burned with it, but it was nothing to the firestorm in his chest.

“Amat,” he implored, “it was an accident—”

“Enough!” his mother spat. Turning her angry gaze onto the young male knelt before her, she raised her arm and before Balar could stop it—down came her claws in a vicious blow.

Soren rocked back on his heels from the impact, his face whipping to the side. Blood and fur flew through the putrid air, carved from his very flesh. Soren slumped forward, blood dribbling from his ruined cheek onto the ashen ground.

Heaving, his mother, the erēz of their pride, spat on the ground before Soren, her spit mixing with his blood. Lips pulled back to reveal her yellowing fangs, she hissed, “It is unforgivable what you’ve done. My sister’s blood in your veins is all that spares you, utun. Be grateful for exile.”

Soren said nothing, as was his way.

The pride stood on, the many brothers, sisters, cousins, and uncles resigned. The erēz had spoken. That was the manticore way.

Females were precious; leaders, mothers, artisans, they were the lifeblood of the mantii tribes. Especially after the treacherous Pyrrossi had ensured plague swept across the savannahs, impacting mothers and infants most, females had become rarer, more powerful. Their word was law. Sacred. Final.

His mother often said Balar was everything a manticore male should be—a provider, protector, dutiful to the last.

Perhaps that was true.

Today, it wasn’t.

Balar strode to stand beside the kneeling Soren. His mother’s lips curled back. “Don’t,” she growled.

Balar laid his hand on Soren’s shoulder. Although one of the strongest in the pride, Soren trembled beneath his paw pads. A cousin and brother both, the son of his aunt and his father, Soren shared more of Balar’s blood than any of his other brothers.

Close in age and in bond, they had passed through this life together, taught to hunt in the wide grasslands by their father.

They had defended the pride against wild beasts, mercenaries, and Pyrrossi, standing shoulder to shoulder in their boiled leathers.

And most important, as their father had laid upon his death shroud, Balar had promised—he would always look after Soren.

Life and the pride hadn’t been kind to Soren.

His birth had brought about the death of his mother, the favorite sister of the erēz.

Some whispered that his dark mane, so unlike the golden mantles of their tribe, was stained by her blood.

Small and sickly as a cub, their brothers and cousins had picked upon him like buzzards.

He’d grown into a strong warrior, one devoted to the pride, dutiful to the point that Balar thought him overzealous—and yet, when Balar looked down upon him now, all he saw was that small cub. The one he’d promised his abbat he’d protect.

“I beg you to reconsider, amat. It was an accident. You know he meant no malcontent.” Although the ensuing wildfire raged in the grasslands to the south, it hadn’t yet jumped the river to threaten the pride. It was a simple error, one any of them might have made.

Soren wasn’t one to make mistakes. He’d never endanger the pride, intentionally or accidentally. Yet they saw what they wanted to see; it was an easy excuse to blame the dark-maned runt. Anyone with eyes could see that Soren shielded someone else, taking the blame for—

“Malcontent or fool—both are dangerous and neither belongs in this tribe,” his mother growled.

“It was a mistake—”

“Mistakes kill people!” she cried, her golden-green eyes, Balar’s same eyes, narrowing. The way she glared at Soren left no doubt over what mistake she spoke of.

“Allow him to atone. Seek penance and forgiveness,” Balar implored. “Our numbers dwindle with every dry season. Don’t weaken us further.”

“You would call us weak?” An unhappy murmur went through the pride as the big body of his elder brother, his mother’s firstborn, pushed forward.

Artash came to stand just behind their mother, crossing his arms over his wide chest. A smirk pulled at his lips.

No doubt he enjoyed seeing Soren punished and Balar denied—he always had enjoyed the dismay of others.

Family lines were important, none more so than the matriarchal line—Balar and Artash, sons of the same mother, may have been considered true brothers—but Balar carried no love in his heart for Artash.

It was mutual. Balar represented competition to Artash, a division in their mother’s affections and the loyalties of their pride. To Balar, it was far simpler; Artash was an ass. He’d been cruel and petty since they were younglings, and Balar disliked him.

Balar’s truest brother knelt in the dirt, facing exile. But Soren wouldn’t face it alone.

Turning away from Artash, he met his mother’s gaze.

She’d led their pride ably for many years now.

She was a steely matriarch, one who could remember when the rains came predictably and the Pyrrossi were but myth.

In her time, the gazelle herds ran in their hundreds of thousands, the rivers were full of fish, and gold nuggets could be plucked from the riverbanks to trade.

So much had changed in her time—Balar saw it all reflected in her gaze. Her golden mane had long since gone pale, bleached of color and luster by age and the sun. Gold hoops and rings adorned her ears, wrists, and neck, signs of status that erēz hadn’t needed before the Pyrrossi came.

He looked upon his mother and saw an old queen. One who’d faced too many troubles.

It wasn’t for her that his heart ached. It was for the mother who teased him, who welcomed debate across the dinner fire, who taught him to walk and write and politick. He’d miss that mother dearly.

Balar didn’t always agree with her. As dumas, second son, he didn’t have to—but he did have to obey. And he had. For years now, Balar had been a good manticore male. A good son.

But too many disagreements had begun to pile up, growing taller than a dung heap.

The future of the tribe was clouded—Artash and his faction were circling, already choosing an insipid, weak-willed cousin to become the next erēz.

Balar and his own faction had resisted it, supporting their own presumptive, but they numbered fewer.

After this, he knew there would be no place for him and Soren in the tribe.

Sometimes that was the way of it. Mantii prides had split before, when they became too large. Barzi, they called it. A culling.

So be it.

His mother knew him well enough to know his decision before he even voiced it. Her whiskers twitched, and the lines beneath her eyes lengthened. She shook her head once.

“If Soren must leave, then I go with him,” said Balar.

The pride gasped in shock, some cried out, while Artash just grinned. Beneath Balar’s paw, Soren jerked.

“You can’t do that, seska,” Soren murmured.

There was no other choice for Balar—pride and honor demanded it.

“I won’t allow it,” his mother announced, swiping her claws through the air in denial.

“This isn’t for you to decide, amat.” Balar nodded, even when his mother laid her ears flat. “No one may deny barzi, not when it is freely taken.”

Curling his hand under Soren’s arm, he pulled his brother upright. Soren stared blankly at him, still dazed. Blood ran down his neck and chest in a gory display, but with a little salve and honey, he would heal. Perhaps the scars would entice a female.

Clapping Soren’s shoulder, he turned his brother toward their abodes.

“Stop!” called the erēz. “You cannot!”

No one made a move to stop them.

Artash and his faction would be happy to see the backs of them. Others respected the choice and ancient rite. And a very few joined them.

First Diar stepped forward, another brother of their father’s line and loyal to Balar.

Next came Akila, cousin on his mother’s side, a surprise; but then, Akila never met a challenge or adventure he’d turn down.

And last young Kiriken, whose left leg had been weak since birth—and who’d been left alone to tend the hunting fires.

Balar walked, his brothers beside him, deaf to the demands then cries of his mother. He hardened his heart to the sounds, let the smoke burn away any doubts or fears inside him. This place held nothing for them—hadn’t in a very long time.

And so it was that five of them set out to seek their fortunes. Somewhere beyond the savannahs, perhaps. Where a male might make his destiny—and find a pretty mate he didn’t have to share.