The Soldier and Kerri: Tales from Pocatello, #1

By Jessie Sanders

After three hundred years of oppression, the brave natives of Nerja finally gathered the strength to fight against the magical country of Malaga. Now the war is over, but the years of violence still affect both lands and their inhabitants. Alejandro and Kerri are just two of the many refugees looking for a new home amidst the devastation. The two of them must band together if they are to escape the ruined Malaga and make it safely to the newly freed country of Nerja. But even as they journey through Nerja, forces both external and internal are trying to drive Alejandro and Kerri apart. Will this soldier be able to win another fight, or will he and Kerri be separated for good?

 

The Soldier and Kerri is the first tale from Pocatello. Approximately 15,000 words.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stormy Night Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497753303

Jessie Sanders

Jessie Sanders reads, writes, and parents in Oklahoma. She is a freelance editor of fiction and the author of the Grover Cleveland Academy series.

Book preview

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Note to the reader:

The countries of Pocatello mentioned in this story are Hispanic in origin and should be pronounced as such.

Part One: Málaga

The Malakan town wasn’t much, merely a tired handful of rough stone cottages and tents in the market square. Four years of war had ravaged the country, and it didn’t help to be on the losing side. Now that the war was over, the townspeople were doing their best to pick up the pieces of their former lives. On this early evening, a few men, some veterans and some young enough to have escaped the battles, were doing their best to repair the thatched roof of the town hall. They stopped and stared as a young woman trudged across the market square. With the war had come fewer crops, smaller incomes, and less to sell, so the market was almost empty. It was easy to pick out the stranger. She was barely old enough to be out from under her parents’ roof, but she patiently held the hand of a small boy, perhaps two years old, who was dragging his bare feet in the dust. Both of them wore patched and faded clothing and were covered in dirt. She approached the group of men cautiously.

Pardon me, she said, her voice soft and non-intrusive, but might any of you have some leftover bread?

They all heard the strain in her accent, the way she tried too hard to make her o’s short like the people of this region. She couldn’t cover up the way she leaned on the middle of her words, like the people on the coasts of Nerja, rather than the ends of her words, like the people of Málaga.

A beefy man sitting atop the roof with a fistful of thatch scowled down at her. We don’t want any of your kind here. Go someplace else.

Please, I only ask for my son. Anything that the dogs haven’t finished from the afternoon’s dinner. She looked down at her hands as she spoke.

The beefy man, clearly a leader of some sort and convinced of his importance, gave a coarse laugh. Even yesterday’s scraps would be too good for the likes of you. Now return to your lord’s castle before I call a slave hunter to take you.

She dared to look up, her green eyes glistening with tears. Please—

Kerri!

The deep voice echoed through the air and froze even the passersby on the other side of the square. The young woman and the men on the roof turned to see a man a few paces away. He wore civilian clothes, but he stood at attention like a soldier, and the lines on his face betrayed the years of violence he had seen. His lips were set in a grim line, and he strode with purpose to the woman.

Kerri, he repeated and slapped the woman soundly across the cheek with his right hand.

She gasped and stumbled, letting go of the boy’s hand to regain her balance.

You’ve made me look a disgrace, parading around like this. His accent was clearly Malakan. He held her wrist as best as he could with his left hand. She looked down at it, and her eyes widened with immediate understanding.

Forgive me, she whispered.

And you, he continued, turning to the other men, should perhaps stop assuming that my wife is some nobleman’s mistress.

She—you— the tavern owner began, his face turning red. But she’s Nerjan!

I may choose whomever I please, be she from our fathers’ rolling hills or the rebel’s sandy shores, the soldier said firmly. I would challenge you to a duel for the way you spoke to her, but she has been disobedient and we are in a hurry to return to my family’s estate.

Do not let me prevent you, the tavern owner said. He started to crawl toward the ladder that leaned against the tavern. But first, allow me to offer you this evening’s dinner. My servant can prepare us lamb and a selection of fresh vegetables, and I have fine ales for you to sample.

Fresh vegetables were a luxury in a land ravaged by war. Many fields had been burned and were still recovering. The soldier paused in thought but said, No, we must be on our way. I hope never to meet you again, stranger. He let go of the girl and shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers.

May the Great Dragon accompany you on your travels, the owner said, and the other men nodded their agreement.

The soldier said, Come, Kerri, and turned to go.

She stood