3. CHAPTER THREE
The bolt tore through the ferns and struck the ground next to the hare’s foot. The startled creature dashed behind a pine tree and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Katell cursed under her breath. That was the second time she’d missed her target this outing, and she never missed. She stood and loaded another bolt, ready to track the animal down.
Beside her, Rosko, one of Camp Bessi’s most seasoned hunters, scoffed. “Pitiful.”
She clenched her fists. She had nothing to prove, yet his words still got under her skin. Joining the hunt while her father fought for his life back home had been a bad idea. But the Council had insisted as the party had been a hunter short, and without enough food, the camp would go hungry.
Scylas, their leader, approached, his sharp gaze falling on Rosko. “Leave.” His tone brooked no argument. “Go help the others load the stag and pack up. We’re leaving soon.”
Rosko’s beady eyes flicked between them, and he stalked off with an irritated grunt.
Katell hoisted her crossbow across her back, acutely aware of Scylas’ proximity. He stood tall in a dark green vest, his muscular arms bare in the absence of his usual wolf fur cloak, which he”d removed in the late spring heat.
“Are you all right?” His fingertips brushed along the back of her neck.
She shied away from his touch, scanning the trees. “You shouldn’t do that. They’ll start talking about us again.”
As the son of a councilman and grandson of Elder Ignatius, Scylas led the hunters and was destined to take a seat on Camp Bessi’s Council like his father. A man like him required a well-mannered and obedient wife at his side, a woman handpicked by the elders and trained for domestic life. Everything Katell was not.
He cradled her chin, turning her head to meet his golden-brown gaze. “I don’t care. They should treat you with more respect.”
“No matter how many times I’ve joined the hunt, they don’t like having a woman around. Especially when I beat them.”
All her life, Katell had endured the condescending looks of men. Despite being one of the camp’s best hunters and fighters, she’d never earned the Freefolk’s respect or admiration. At least her father was proud of her; nothing would ever change that.
Scylas’ brow arched. “That must be why I like you so much since I always win.” He lifted the fresh kills in his hand, his tanned face breaking into a grin.
“You do not always win.” Her lips tugged into a smile, one reserved only for him. “When it matters, I always beat you.”
“Well, let’s see how many more kills you can get under your belt before we depart, then.” Checking that they were alone, he brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t let thoughts of your father distract you, Kat. We need to bring as much fresh meat back to camp as possible. Come summer, these woods will be crawling with stragglers.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. “If we get enough kills today, I promise to cut the trip short and head straight back for Camp Lukim. They may have news of your father.”
Laying her head on his shoulder, she breathed in his familiar musk. His mere presence eased her mind; she could always count on his support. However, cutting the trip short would cause trouble. The Council might understand their reasons, but the elders would never approve. Especially Elder Ignatius.
“Your grandfather won’t be happy to hear that,” she said.
Scylas winced, running a hand through his short, sandy-coloured hair. “I can handle his wrath.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “You’re not the one he’ll end up punishing. He’ll try to marry me off to some shepherd again.”
Frowning, he grasped the back of her neck, his gaze latched onto hers. “Trust me, I would never let that happen. Not to you. Not to Alena.”
His conviction filled her with warmth. She wanted to believe him. Yet their friend Leywani’s cruel fate hung heavy in the air between them, a silent reminder that the elders could marry either of them off at a moment’s notice for a pile of furs and a dozen goats.
Katell trusted her father to keep her safe from the camp’s arranged marriages, but Scylas’ parents would have no qualms about marrying their son to the first wife they found suitable should his late-night encounters with Katell ever be discovered.
Shouts rang through the forest, and Scylas stepped away. “I’d better see how the others are faring with the stag. Keep an eye out for stragglers, and don’t take any risks.”
“I’ll be fine.” She patted the Achaean short sword strapped to her hip, a gift from her father. “Don’t worry about me.”
Katell bound the squirrels together with a strip of leather and attached them to her belt, adding to her collection. The afternoon’s hunt had gone smoothly, and although she hadn’t found the hare again, she’d made up for it with a half dozen squirrels.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, she was eager to show her fresh kills to Scylas. With a bit of luck, it would be enough to call off the hunt and ride home.
She couldn’t help but worry—not only about her father, but Alena, too. Her sister had promised to do everything within her power to save their father, but in hindsight, she should never have been left alone to carry such a burden alone. Their father had been barely holding on when Katell had left camp. If he died, her soft-hearted younger sister would forever blame herself.
Katell began circling back to the rest of the group but froze as fresh tracks in the mud caught her attention.
Sandaled men. With horses.
Stragglers.
Her pulse quickened, and she unsheathed her sword, scanning the pine trees for any sign of the enemy. She saw none.
A warning shout tore through the forest, and she rushed forward, zigzagging through the roots and thorny bushes grabbing at her riding trousers. She spotted Rosko ahead, his mouth pinched, arrow drawn, and Scylas at his back, holding his sword at the ready. The other hunters stood around the horses, daggers in hand, focused on the trees.
Then Katell spotted them too—a dozen men wearing dirty, red tunics and chain mail surrounded the clearing.
Rasennan army deserters.
A few wielded swords while others carried daggers and spears. Some even wore iron leg greaves and rounded helmets. But all of them had the dangerous look of men who had travelled too many days on empty stomachs. Men who would kill in a heartbeat for the merest scrap of food.
The steppe was no place for travellers. It offered no shelter or food. The Freefolk had their camps and flock to rely on, but for Rasennan soldiers, the forest was their only relief.
Katell’s gut clenched. Scylas and the other hunters sized up the stragglers, preparing for a fight, but there were too many.
No words were exchanged, but none were possible anyway, as neither party spoke the other’s tongue.
Katell caught Scylas’ gaze, and a cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach. They wouldn’t make it out alive.
The stragglers were trained soldiers from the Empire, fuelled by hunger and desperation. They wouldn’t stop until the hunters were all slaughtered. She’d fought them before and warded off their combat skills, but never so many.
She’d been so focused on hunting and her father that she’d dismissed the real dangers of the forest. They never should have lingered so long.
Her hands shook, and the back of her neck prickled. Fear enveloped her like winter water, and her heart lurched as a vision of her death crystallised in her mind’s eye.
Run, Scylas’ wide eyes urged her. The stragglers hadn’t noticed her yet, but Katell remained rooted to the spot.
The hunters would be massacred, Scylas included. The thought was unbearable.
She couldn’t flee and let her closest friend die. She couldn’t lose the man who had always been there for her, who had understood her need to prove herself and helped her train harder than any of the men. Scylas had defended her every time she’d sent one of the elders’ suitors packing and comforted her when their friend Leywani had been taken by the same cruel suitor Katell had refused.
Leywani’s loss had almost destroyed her. She would not lose Scylas too.
Her neck prickled again, and her blood roused. Anger, hot and potent, ignited in her chest, melting the numbness that had enveloped her. She unsheathed her sword.
She was Damocles’ daughter, after all. She’d been training her whole life to protect her loved ones. And even if the thought of her father and sister grieving her was unbearable, she’d rather fight to the death than run like a coward.
A foreign warmth, powerful and invigorating, surged through her veins like a blazing inferno. Her father’s sword seemed lighter in her hands, and a thrill raced down her spine.
She would kill them—kill them all—even if it was the last thing she did. Bursting out from the shadows, she lunged at the nearest straggler. He snapped to attention and brandished his sword.
Too late.
She barrelled into him and ran her blade through his chest with a sharp cry. Her attack shattered the forest’s tense silence. In an instant, chaos erupted.
Kill them.
Two more stragglers rushed at her with ramshackle shields and spears, but she sidestepped the first man’s stab. Snatching the spear, she wrenched it from his hands and kicked him in the chest. Readjusting her grip, she thrust the spear into the other man’s chest, pinning him to the nearest tree.
His mouth opened into a silent scream, sending a rush of exhilaration through her. Senses sharpened, she dove back into battle, tearing through the enemy with wild abandon.
Kill them all.
She knocked swords and daggers from her enemies’ grips with a grin, slitting their throats and flaying open their bellies. Hot blood soaked her blade, and she revelled in it.
They couldn’t stop her. No one could.
Through the bloody mess, she spotted Scylas battling a dark-haired brute in heavy armour. Scylas faltered and fell to one knee, holding his sword high against his enemy’s.
Katell rushed to his aid and seized the straggler’s shoulder. With startling strength, she threw him across the clearing. His skull collided against a tree with a deafening crack, leaving a dark smear of blood in its wake as he sank to the ground.
More. She needed more.
Dead stragglers littered the forest ground. For a brief moment, the distinct coppery scent of blood in the air quenched her thirst for violence.
She smirked.
When she turned, Scylas’ familiar, autumnal gaze locked with hers, horror flickering across his face.
The world shifted, and she stilled, her heart thundering inside her chest. A chilling stillness settled upon the clearing, broken only by the groans of the dying stragglers. Every pair of eyes was fixed on her, wide and unblinking.
Katell glanced down at herself and swallowed a gasp. Hot, sticky blood dripped from her blade and spattered her clothes and arms. Corpses surrounded her, corpses of her own making. Nausea crawled up her throat.
Shaking, she dropped her sword as if it had burned her hand.
What had she done?
The tall, yellow feathergrass covering the steppe rolled out before Katell, an endless sea of gold shimmering in the fading daylight. Goats and sheep dotted the rolling hills, and in the distance, pillars of smoke heralded Camp Lukim, their resting place for the night.
Katell rode ahead of the hunting party. After the battle against the stragglers, none of the other hunters would approach her, and she couldn’t blame them.
She should have defied the Council’s order and never joined the hunt.
But then, who would have protected the hunters?
A grey horse trotted up beside her, and she cursed under her breath.
Scylas reined his horse in, falling into step with Katell’s. “We’re nearing the camp. We need to talk—before we reach it.” His gaze, fixed on the horizon, refused to meet hers. From the hard set of his jaw, it was clear that he didn’t want to discuss what had happened.
But they had no choice. As soon as they reached the camp, the rumours would spread. Everyone would demand answers from her, and she had none to give. So, she remained silent.
“By the Moon, don’t ignore me, Kat. I’m trying to help you.” His golden-brown eyes cut into her. “You single-handedly killed over half a dozen men—and Rasennan army deserters, at that. You’re the best fighter in camp, but still… the things you did…”
Katell bit her lip, unable to think about the attack. The sheer amount of blood she’d spilled made her sick.
“No matter what I tell them, the others will talk, and the Council will find out.” Scylas paused. “So, you tell me. What was that?”
Her stomach hollowed at his warning. She brushed a hand against her mare’s rough mane, blood still crusting her fingernails. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do. Are you Marked?”
She choked. “What? No, of course not!”
“Keep your voice down,” he growled, peering over his shoulder. “Are you sure? My father told me enough stories about Marked ones that I wouldn’t be surprised. Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“You mean, has a strange symbol suddenly appeared on my skin?” Her eyes narrowed. The elders forbade even the mere talk of Marked ones. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that. I just wanted to protect my people. You know how hard I train, and you said it yourself: I’m the best fighter in Camp Bessi. I did what I had to. So stop this ‘Marked’ nonsense before you get us both into trouble.”
She pushed her mare forward and galloped away, strands of hair whipping about her face.
Scylas was wrong. She wasn’t Marked. Marked ones were people with magic, people who came from the Old Lands. They worshipped the gods, waged war amongst themselves, and ruled over kingdoms and tribes that meant nothing to her. Her father often spoke of them at night while sharing goat’s milk or honey wine around the fire pit, but that was all they were—stories.
Nevertheless, the memory of slicing through the stragglers as if they were little more than straw targets gnawed at her.
She trained her eyes forward and didn’t slow until Camp Lukim came into view at last.