Starside

Chapter 3

I’ve never been this far east before. Stellan used to travel to the castle often, to bring weapons to the king. He never let me go, even though I pleaded. Now I’m going to find out why.

Stellan. Thinking of him rotting on our floorboards makes my stomach turn. There was no time for a burial, but I should have dug him a plot. I should have listened when he told me to stay home that morning.

It’s my fault he’s dead.

It’s my fault all of them are dead.

I push the pain and regret down, bury it all below my ribs and in the darkest pockets of my mind. I let it fuel the forge within me, hatred turning, boiling.

For him. I’m doing this for him now too.

Kira and Zane are in my cart, along with a few others.

We sit side by side, with just enough room to stretch out our legs if we take turns.

The road is ground dirt and jagged rocks for miles.

The cart’s wheels are uneven. Our bodies jostle and lurch forward, churning waves of nausea through me every few feet.

Enough challengers in front of us retch that I’m grateful for my collar, pulling the fabric up over my nose, even though the sun burns so hot in the afternoon, I quickly sweat through my clothing.

Stormside’s name is like a taunt—a reminder of what it once was. We pray for storms. We haven’t had one in years. No rain at all. Only the beating sun, which often does more harm than good.

It’s said that the first drop of magic brought back from the Questral always leads to rain. People leave buckets outside, waiting for it. I can almost feel the cold water upon my skin, if I close my eyes.

A flash of a memory has me opening them again.

Looking around, it’s clear most of these challengers don’t know how to survive long stretches outside in the heat.

Some have already gone limp. Others are complaining loudly, asking when we’ll stop for shade.

I wonder if they spend most of their time inside, without having to venture out and scavenge, like most of us.

This is my advantage. I might not have the same metals as them, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for survival. I’ve always found a way to live, even in the harshest conditions.

Kira watches as I tuck my braid back around and pin it up to keep it from sticking to the sweat on my neck, and also, in case I lean too far over the cart and it gets stuck in a wheel and breaks my neck.

A few minutes later, she begins shedding some of her layers, until she’s in only her underthings.

Cadoc Bolter turns in the cart ahead of us and yells past the horse and guard leading our own wagon, “There’s already enough vomit on the road. No need to make the rest of us sick.”

Asshole.

She makes a vulgar gesture at him, but I’m close enough to see her pale cheeks go scarlet. She hugs her legs against her chest and looks away.

Cadoc’s gaze shifts to me. “And you. Covered up to your chin. I wouldn’t mind if you undressed.”

I want to throw the sword in the scabbard along my spine through his skull.

But I can’t. Not until we’re told the Culling has officially begun.

Little is known about the challenges, since those that survive go onto the quest. Few ever make it back.

All I know is they can’t be long. The Questral always starts on the twenty-fifth day of the fifth month. Which is in just two days.

It would be a death sentence to face Cadoc now anyway. The sword I grabbed from Stellan’s forge is titanium. A strong metal, but not a high one, and nothing compared to Cadoc’s gold, two steps below Starside steel.

Cadoc opens his mouth again, but Zane says, “It’s said that men who maim with words can’t do the same with their swords. Is that true? I didn’t get a chance to see your skill set yesterday … All those shields were in the way.”

Silence.

Cadoc’s eyes narrow, though his smile remains. He’s trying and failing to look unaffected. “And you are?”

“Zane.”

“Zane what?”

“Sterling.”

This time, Cadoc’s smile does drop. Kira slowly turns toward Zane. My eyes go to his weapon—an ax, sheathed. I realize now that I haven’t seen the metal.

“House Sterling?” Cadoc says, his tone even but his posture changed completely.

Zane barely nods.

Cadoc straightens. “You’d be better off in our cart, then. My house has provisions handled for the entire journey.” He motions to the distance, and there, on the horizon, is a convoy of men on horses. Of course.

They likely have food. Water, which might as well be Starside steel on this barren road. My pouch was drained hours ago.

Cadoc turns to one of the men in his cart and says, “Switch.”

“What? We’re cousins, Cadoc. My father—”

“No need,” Zane says, his deep voice casual but his eyes narrowed. “I don’t think there’s room for me in that cart, with you and your ego in it.”

Kira’s mouth falls open.

Cadoc only gives a cold smile. “Suit yourself,” he says, before turning back around. A few minutes later, his cart is too far ahead of us to hear him anymore.

That’s when Kira whirls to face Zane. “You never said you were House Sterling.”

Zane taps his fingers against the side of the cart. “I did say I was from Helmspeak.”

“Yes, but you didn’t say you own the entire fucking mountain,” Kira counters.

And everything inside it. Including centuries’ worth of mined silver.

The Sterlings provide metal to the king’s guard, and to blacksmiths like Stellan.

Their own swords are why their house has retained control of the mountain all this time, without having to go on the quest. Which makes Zane’s involvement even more mysterious.

Why does House Sterling suddenly need magic?

“You should have taken his offer,” Kira says bitterly.

Her words are even truer later in the afternoon, when we watch Cadoc and his friends guzzle pouch after pouch of water, and eat meat dish after meat dish, throwing bones toward us when they’re done.

Bastards.

My tongue is rough with thirst. My throat aches. My eyes sting from all the dirt kicked up by the endless string of carts.

Hunger hollows my insides, the hole growing by the hour. We keep going, only stopping briefly to relieve ourselves, and then we’re back on the road.

I didn’t sleep last night, or eat dinner, and now, I’m starting to feel it.

My eyes flutter closed, before our cart’s wheel hits a big rock, and I nearly fly out.

I grip the side just in time, scraping my skin raw.

I pick the splinters out of my fingers and decide I’m not going to fall asleep again.

Easier said.

My fingers begin to numb. My head leans forward, and I jerk myself awake. My stomach feels like it’s gnawing itself. My lips and nostrils are dry. It hurts to breathe.

Just when I think the heat and hunger might kill me, Kira curls her hand around my arm.

“Look,” she says.

It takes a few blinks to see the shape of a village up ahead. And … people. People standing outside, lining the road. Their hands are outstretched. Begging? No. Their palms aren’t empty. They’re holding things I can’t see until we get closer.

Baskets, filled with food. Weapons, even, made of lesser metals.

“Offerings,” Kira whispers.

I don’t question it, though maybe I should.

But I’m too fucking desperate. My hands are greedy.

They take everything that’s offered. Bread, which I swallow down without chewing well, nearly choking myself.

Water, which drips down my chin, seeping into my collar.

I pour some over my face, wiping the grime away, before accepting another pouch.

“Why give when they have so little?” Kira asks, while chewing something that looks like dried meat. A packaged cake barely misses her head as it’s thrown right into the cart.

Zane unwraps it, sniffs, then takes a bite out of its corner. He makes a pleased sound. “They’re hoping we survive, and that we don’t forget their village when we come back with magic.”

He’s right. Some throw letters into our carts, messages for the gods, wishes, prayers.

A woman whose bones I can see through her clothes manages to keep pace with our cart.

When she sees me watching her, she rushes forward and presses a note into my palm.

Her dirt-covered nails dig into my skin. “Please,” she begs. “Take it.”

I want to tell her it’s useless. She’s better off burning the letter. The gods have forgotten us.

But her hand is so bony, her eyes so glassy, her voice so frail, that I take it. I tuck it into my pocket. Her knees buckle. She thanks me from the ground as our cart passes her by, the wheels kicking up a cloud of dirt.

“They’re so … hopeful,” Kira says, swallowing a bite of bread as she watches the people fade away.

A man in our cart huffs out a laugh. He’s been silent all this time, sitting as far from us as possible.

His armor is covered in long scratches, and made of iron, a lesser metal below titanium.

Still, any type of armor is valuable. “What they are is pathetic,” he says.

He isn’t eating anything offered. In fact, he takes a handful of letters that are tied to rolls of bread and throws them right off the cart.

Kira’s green eyes narrow. “Spoken like someone who has never had to beg for anything.”

The man only smiles. His teeth are too crowded together. He looks amused. “Will you beg?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Her pale brows knit together. “What?”

“When I have the tip of my sword at your throat, will you beg for your life?” He’s serious.

“Will you beg for yours?” Kira finally counters.

The man’s smile is slow and serpentine. “No … I don’t think I’ll have to,” he says. Then he turns his attention back to the road.

The sun is relentless. By the time day turns to night, my cheeks are pink, the top of my nose burned. Kira’s freckled skin is tanner and deep red at the shoulders. For once, I’m grateful for all my fabrics.

All I want to do is sleep, but just as I consider it again, a yell cuts through the darkness. Then, our cart jerks to the side as one of the wheels runs something over.

A body.

Another one.

Another.

I swallow, a chill rippling through my blood. The Culling hasn’t started, but under the cover of night, it’s hard to know if someone fell … or was pushed.

I keep my eyes open, and my sword gripped tightly. Kira and Zane seem nice enough, but we all want one of those fifty spots. I can’t trust anyone.

Time crawls forward, until finally, night bleeds into day.

A screech peels through the morning. I look up and see a flash of silver. The hawk. A moment later, the Watchman comes riding along the carts with his horse. We know what that means. Another break. “Everyone up,” he yells.

The carts park at the edge of a forest, and I stare up at the trees in awe. It’s not the woods of the painting in the ruins. There’s hardly any green at all. It’s mostly dirt, and twisted branches, and tiny, prickling leaves. But I haven’t seen anything like it in years.

A few people dart farther inside the trees to take advantage of the relative privacy. I stretch my cramped legs, fingers trailing along the bark, looking around in wonder.

There’s a stream trickling nearby. A few challengers run toward it with their pouches. I stay in place and roll my neck.

Stellan’s trips to the king never took more than three days total, which means we’re close. The king will likely feed us before the Culling starts. No use in taking a chance on water that could very well make me sick.

Kira takes a step toward the spring, and my arm juts out. I don’t even know why I do it. Her death would only help me. Friends are liabilities.

Still, I say, “I wouldn’t.”

“But I’m out.” She lifts her pouch.

Zane steps next to me. He stretches his neck with a satisfying crack. “I once knew someone who drank from a bad spring and shit himself to death.”

Slowly, she tucks her pouch back into her bag. “Okay, then. How much longer, do you think?”

“Half a day. Maybe less,” I say.

Kira’s shoulders slump forward in relief. “Good. I can’t take another moment sitting in that cart. I have about a dozen splinters in my ass.”

That almost makes me smile as we walk toward the Watchman, silver hawk now perched on his arm.

Instead, I freeze.

The carts are gone. Murmuring starts to spread through the challengers like wildfire.

Only when all of us have emerged from the forest does he speak.

“There are two hundred and sixteen of you here.” The number sends a chill through my blood.

Ten challengers were killed on the road.

“And there are only a hundred and fifty horses.” I turn and squint.

There they are, at the top of a distant hill just beyond the forest, saddled and standing in a line.

“The Culling starts now,” the Watchman says.

And all hell breaks loose.