The Black Directive: An Outer Rims Novel

By N.D. Mellen

Im no hero, no matter what people say. After all, you cant be a hero if you despise those that youre protecting. The way that I look at it, what I am is a matter of circumstance: I gave up dresses and skirts the day I watched my parents die. I was eight years old, and was mauled and scarred by the creature that killed them. If it hadnt been for the intervention of a half insane blacksmith I would have perished beside them. I survived, but was infected by the Blackness.

My face was tattooed when I was sixteen to hide my scars, and I started training under the brutal tutelage of one of the most skilled killers to ever walk the Outer Rims shortly thereafter. He battered me for years, teaching me how to kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Not people, mind you. No, we trained to kill Ferals; the white skinned, black eyed monsters that killed my parents and so many others.

There are still a few who object to what my pack and I do. They think that- since Ferals used to be human- we owe them some sort of sympathy. I dont think that deeply into it. I just kill them, and when the Blackness is roaring through me and I have my spear in my hand, Im really good at it. I know all the old wives tales about princes and princesses; everyone has a happily ever after.

But this is my story, and theres nothing happy or beautiful about it. You can call me Maqui, and its an understatement to say that I have staggering anger issues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491749128

N.D. Mellen

N.D. Mellen doesn’t have a fancy degree in English literature. His teachers were Stephen King, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman, Brent Weeks, Joe Abercrombie, and hundreds of others. A lifelong practitioner of combat sports and martial arts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife and three children.

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THE BLACK DIRECTIVE

AN OUTER RIMS NO VEL

Copyright © 2015 N.D. Mellen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4913-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4912-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014919176

iUniverse rev. date: 1/8/2015

Contents

Part I Introduction

Year Eight: The Night

Year 10

Year 16

The Wedding

Part II Teach Me

Year 19: Training

Teach Me (II) Year 20: A Draw?

Life Outside of the Courtyard

A Day in the Market

Whores That We Are

Teach Me: Training With Shade

Teach Me: The Tournament Coffee

Burp

Teach Me: The Tournament A Long Day

Waking Jed

When the Sun Goes Down

Part III Unleash Me

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The Champion of Oris

When the Dam Breaks

True Training

Something Wicked (II)

A Taste For It

More Wicked Than Wicked

By Sea and Sand

By Sea and Sand

A Gift Horse

Eggs, Fear, Blood, and Flies

First Steps

Idle Threats

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning

A Breath of Destiny

Eskriss Isle

Trap

Epilogue: The Birth of Prophecy

Part I

Introduction

I have a tattoo on my face.

I’ll tell you how I got it soon enough. What I want you to know, first off, is how uncomfortable it makes people. It was always so easy to see the fear in their eyes; the trepidation. They looked at me and knew I was different. It doesn’t bother me anymore, though, and hasn’t in a long while. I’ve been through enough at this point that a fearful glance was the last thing that I bothered to concern myself with. The tattoo, which was given to me years ago, covered most of the scars that lanced across the side of my face. The scars were weakness; the tattoo was a symbol of control and vengeance. It was a different kind of scar.

And to be honest, what’s one more scar?

I could jump to the present. I could tell you all about the way that we shattered the Outer Rims, how we broke every boundary that shouldn’t have been broken. I could tell you about the day that Sammuel was taken, or the way that I found myself drawing closer and closer to the Blackness, whether I meant to or not. None of this would make any sense, though.

I’ve learned through hardship and experience that if you want to understand the present you have to understand the past. So the past is where I will start. What you need to understand is that even though I’m the one telling this story it doesn’t mean that it has a happy ending. I will say this: I did my best, and tried as hard as I could. Sometimes, however, fate, destiny, Prophecy—whatever the hell you want to call it—doesn’t give a shit, and will steer you where you need to be. Whether you want to be there or not.

So I stand before you now as a vengeful, sacrificial lamb. I’m no hero, no matter what people might say. I just did what I thought was right, and it cost me everything that I held dear. This is the story of how I fought the Ferals, the Nightmares, the Skinwalkers, and there is only one place that I can start: at the beginning.

Back when He tried to claw the eyes out of my face; back when I was still human.

You can call me Maqui, and this is my story.

Year Eight: The Night

I remember the rain bringing me back.

Soft drops pattered across my cheeks, my forehead, my lips, as my eyes slowly opened. Hazy as my vision was, I was greeted with the sight of the clouds I was staring up at, illuminated in soft gray by the sharp cracks of silent lightening dancing behind their curtain. My vision was swimming, shifting back and forth as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Something wet and viscous shifted under the back of my head, and as I gradually regained my senses I realized that I was still lying in the mud where he had thrown me.

I coughed, roughly, as the air that had been forced from my lungs found its way home. Head ringing, I rolled my chin to the side and looked at the shadowed buildings that made up the wide square of the Market. The torch lamps positioned around the area, sputtering from the drizzle, cast black shadows across the front of the buildings, causing them to look bigger, more sinister.

Didn’t notice them at the time, though. As my eyes gradually focused, the only thoughts in my mind were of my mother, Alice, who braids my hair and makes dolls for me out of her old dresses, and Dail, my father, who tosses me in the air and tickles me until I scream. The mud squelched beneath me as my eyes danced around, searching for them.

All I found, that night, were the remnants of who they used to be.

My mother was lying on her back, her unblinking eyes staring at me blankly. Daddy, only a couple of feet away from her, was face down in the wet earth with one arm flung out towards her as if trying to reach her hand. It probably would have looked sweet and tragic (and trust me, I know tragic) if he hadn’t had the majority of skin and flesh flayed from his back to expose the red meat of raw tissue and glistening white bone of his ribcage.

This isn’t real, I told myself as I looked at the two lifeless mounds that used to be my mother and father. My head was still swimming as I thrashed in the mud, struggling to rise as my sodden dress tangled up between my legs. Just as I had gathered in a horrified breath to scream a massive weight settled across my body, forcing me back into the mud. The built up scream whispered between my lips in a wheezing gush as I turned my head up to gaze into the eyes of a nightmare.

I didn’t know it at the time, but his name was Marco and he was second only to Jabrom, the Lord Proctor of Oris. I’d never seen him before, but his face would stay with me for the rest of my life. He held me down with his forearms, but dragged his right leg over my stomach until he sat astride my hips, straddling me, pushing me deeper into the wet earth. I thrashed about wildly, trying to get away, but he was too heavy and held me down easily. I lay back in the mud, my chest heaving in fear and desperation, looking at the Wendingo that was about to kill me.

Long, lank, greasy white hair hung across his face and dangled about his chin, but did nothing to obscure the completely black eyes that stared back at me with a sadistic intensity. Garments that had once been fine were now tattered and covered in the mud that he had been wallowing in. Even in the dim lighting his skin was far too pale, and drooped from his cheek bones as he snarled at me, revealing teeth that were sharper than they should have been. Bloodless lips curled back over his gums in a maniacal grin as he began to cackle insanely.

Little girl, he began, his voice a poisonous hiss, his breath drifting across my face, don’t be scared.

He stopped speaking for a moment, overcome by a gale of insane, cackling laughter. The chortles trickled off, and once he had regained himself he turned those black demon eyes back on me, his face falling slack.

I can smell you, I mumbled with a low intensity, his words almost unintelligible as they slipped through teeth that had grown too sharp, too quickly. There was something dire about the way that he said it, and I started to thrash from beneath him, my muscles filled with the strength of fear.

My thin arms lashed out, but didn’t accomplish much more than splashing mud on my cheeks before Marco slipped forward over my torso, pinning my elbows with his knees. He gripped me firmly by the jaw with one hand, turning my face towards his in a grip that couldn’t be denied. Free though they were, my hands fell to my sides as I gazed into those black depths, the tail ends of my hair drifting across the knuckles holding my chin firm.

Little girls, he began, his voice soft as he straddled me, almost apologetic as he pointed over to the tattered remains of what used to be my parents, they shouldn’t see such things. I whimpered.

Shush, he continued, gripping my chin in one hand and placing a pallid finger across my quivering lips. There’s no reason to cry; I can fix it. His face, solemn for the moment, cracked wide in a brittle smile. The finger across my lips vanished, but reappeared immediately as he used his free hand to trace a sharp nail gently across the skin of my hairline. I can do anything. You’ll never have to see this again.

The jagged fingernail on my forehead paused, and a deep sense of dread filled me just before the gentle touch curled into a claw. Nails sharp as tacks dug into the skin high over my right eye, causing me to scream as they pierced deep. Marco halted, flinching at the sound of my wail and drew his hand back, the tips of his talons already bright red in the moonlight.

What? he asked, genuine confusion gleaming in his black eyes. "Why do you scream? This is for you, my dear, for you, so that you don’t have to be afraid ever again." He drew his hand further back towards his head, nails already coated in my blood, and paused. The black eyes left mine as his head twisted to the side and I could practically hear the creaking of bones and stretching tendons as his nose drew level with his fingertips.

Oh, he hissed, his voice distant as his nostrils flared wide, drawing the scent in deep. This is good.

He paused for a moment, still as only the dead could be, and then violently shoved his hand into his mouth. Fingers disappeared down his gaping gullet as his jaw worked grotesquely up and down, gnawing at his own hand as he tried to consume every drop of my blood. The macabre scene was too much for me to watch, and my eyes flicked back and forth as I lay in the mud, searching for someone to come to our aid.

The tears streaming out of the corners of my eyes made the streetlamps blur, and I could only see indistinct silhouettes of the many towns people gathered at the perimeter of the square. Blurred shadows of people, holding their loved ones close, blending into blurred shadows of buildings, staying at a safe distance to watch while the demon straddled me.

No one lifted a hand to come to our aid.

Finished with his hand, Marco lapped languidly at his own knuckles where his teeth had opened new gouges that leaked blood that seemed far too dark. His pale tongue dragged slowly across his fingers as his eyes twitched back to me. Oh, he said, as if suddenly remembering I was there. Yes, that’s right.

Now, he stated as if there had been no interruption, placing his talons back on my bloody brow. His black eyed gaze bored into mine. Remember, whatever happens, I’m doing this for you.

I began to shriek as the claws, piercing and burning, started to drag down my face, digging into my eyes. The pain was staggering, tearing the breath from my lungs to leave me wheezing, and I could feel a toxic fire dipping into my body. My limbs began to shake and spasm as I struggled to breath.

You’ll never see anything bad again, he cooed before erupting in another gale of insane laughter while I screamed in agony. I don’t know what hurt worse: the pain of his filthy claws dragging though the skin of my face, or the sickening fire that was beginning to burn through my blood. The pain started to reach a crescendo pitch, causing my senses to warble, when another sound joined it. Focused on my own pain as I was, I didn’t really hear it, but the new sound was a trumpet’s herald for the man who saved my life.

My eyes clenched against the pain, I continued to scream as Marco’s laughter assaulted my ears. The new sound drew closer, louder, filled with fury and anguish so heartbreaking to hear that I felt like I was to be blamed. A deep concussion wracked through Marco, reverberating into my own body. His weight was lifted off of me, his claws coming free from my eyes although they still managed to drag deep furrows down my face.

Sobbing, I gritted my teeth against the pain, biting into the heels of my hand to stifle the screams that were still trying to force their way out of my throat. I tried to open my eyes, but the right one wouldn’t respond. The left one did as I required of it, but my vision was awash in blood. I swiped the palm of my hand across my eye to clear it, careful of the sea of agony that was the right side of my face.

My eye cleared, but my view was obscured by a massive silhouette standing over me. At first I thought it was Marco, but I quickly realized that the newcomer had his back to me, standing over me protectively. In the dim light, it took a moment for my addled brain to realize he didn’t have a shirt on, and that dense muscle filled a back covered with coarse, dark hair. The hair on his head was braided into a thin strand that ran half way down his naked back, and it shifted against his heaving shoulders.

I just wanted to cry.

I rolled over onto my side as the rain grew heavier, wishing that the mud would just suck me down into its depths, and looked between the spread feet of the newcomer’s legs to where Marco sat crouched in the mud. He was propped on both hands and a knee, with one leg splayed out straight behind him like a rabid animal. Almost fearfully, I allowed my eye to trail up to his face, but those black eyes weren’t watching me anymore. They were focused on the hulking figure standing over me.

Grunting, Marco cocked his head to the side and I saw that there was only a sodden mess where the left side of his jaw used to be. Black ichor dripped from his broken teeth to the top of his knuckles as he worked his lips up and down. Horrified, I glanced up at the stranger standing over me and noticed a heavy work hammer dangling from his hand.

Marco’s mouth opened wide as he hissed with hatred, dark fluid dribbling from what remained of his lower jaw onto the ground and into the matted strands of hair hanging down his face. His body bunched, muscles clenching in the split second before he leapt from the ground. He hurtled forward like a lion at a stag, arms extended at the stranger standing over me while I cowered between his feet.

With no hint of warning, the stranger’s free hand struck straight out, catching Marco in mid-air by the neck. A quick pivot of his legs and a vicious snap of his arm, and he’d slammed Marco on his back in the mud right next to me. The muck beneath him squelched, splashing yet more on me, as the stranger’s hand, the one holding the hammer, began to move. He held it high for just a moment, the flickering light of the torches glinting off of the dull head, before slamming it down on Marco’s thrashing head with brutal force.

The sound was sickening, a wet and sodden crunch that I can still recall to this day. The stranger wasn’t done, though. Despite the accuracy and force of the blow, Marco was still thrashing on his back, his heels kicking into the mud as he tried to force the stranger’s hand away from his throat. The hammer fell again. And again.

And again.

Over and over, the stranger’s arm worked like a rotating wheel while he roared, pummeling every inch of Marco’s now lifeless form. A slip in the mud and he fell to his knees, but the hammer continued to fall as rain splattered across his back. After what seemed like an eternity, the arm wielding the hammer ceased its’ constant spin and fell limp by his side as the stranger pushed himself to his feet. He staggered to the side a bit, revealing what was left of Marco and to my single working eye it looked like bloody oatmeal housed in clothes and boots.

His back and shoulders were heaving with exertion as he lumbered to the side, tripping over my ankle and falling to his hands and knees once more. The hammer, stained black along its length, fell to the side in the mud a few feet away, forgotten, as the stranger turned his bearded face to me. I remember how my soul shriveled in new found terror.

The huge man’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated as far as they would go. His jaw was slack, his expression manic, and a trail of saliva dangled from his lips. His distant gaze focused on me with a dazed intensity as his slack lips worked, trying to form a sound.

Alyssa, he mumbled, almost unintelligible, as he stared through me with that blank gaze.

My eye, my face, burned like a fresh brand, and the poison in my blood felt even worse, but there was something about the stranger that I feared even more. Who is Alyssa? I wondered as I tried to scoot away, the stranger crawling towards me. I was too weak, though. The pain and poison were too much to overcome, and I just couldn’t fight anymore as the stranger’s face loomed over my own. I whimpered, closing my eye as I pressed my palms once more against my face.

Gentle arms scooped under my legs and back, lifting me easily. I started to squall, but the thick arms tightened, holding me in a firm, protective grip to his chest. Don’t worry, Alyssa, he mumbled into my ear. No one will hurt you anymore.

No one will hurt me anymore? I thought to myself. I hurt now.

The rain pattered against my cheek as I whimpered against his chest. Rolling my head over, I forced my left eye open to gaze at my mother for the last time. She was lying in the mud, same as she had been before. Her wide eyes were blank, but I imagined that she was looking back at me, telling me goodbye as I bobbed in the stranger’s arms as he carried me away.

The pain and fear finally became too much to bear. With a roar like a crashing wave, blackness claimed me, pushing me away from consciousness and into oblivion.

Year 10

Brat! he bellowed, his voice bouncing off of the wooden walls of the shop, Get over here! Bring me my ten pound!

His name is Tomis, but everyone called him Maker. Big and gruff as he is, he looked mean, he sounded mean, but I knew he wasn’t. He was just broken, same as I was. Young as I was at the time, I probably wasn’t supposed to know it, but I did. I saw it the Night that he saved me, and I continued to see it still. Not all of the time, but there were moments when his eyes sparkled with a particularly intense brightness that I knew.

He called me Brat, and occasionally, when he was deep into his cups, Alyssa. He never said my real name, though; no one did, not anymore. Everyone called me Maqui now, which Tomis told me meant Little Maker.

At his call I pushed myself up from the sand floor of the workshop, dusting off the knees of my trousers before trotting over to the wall where all of his tools hung. In the first few years I lived with him he had a tendency to be messy, but the forge where he worked was always pristine. Myriad tools hung from a peg board in perfectly spaced increments, covering the greater part of the big wall that made up the shop. It may have been overwhelming to someone else, but after almost two years of following him around I knew where everything was. I located the ten pound mallet, and after lifting it from its hook ran it over to where he was working the forge.

It was only just past midday, but the super-heated coals still managed to cast an orange glow that illuminated where he stood. His beard was starting to go a bit gray, but he’s still just as big, just as strong, as the Night that he saved me. He’s covered in a heavy leather coat to guard against the embers that spark with every swing of his hammer, but I can still see the heavy muscle shifting beneath it as sweat drips from his brow and the tip of his nose.

Ho, Maker, a voice calls from outside the open doors of the shop, causing me to pause in my tracks, the hammer hanging heavy in my hands. Tomis glanced over to the shop’s open doors, setting a smaller hammer down to the side as he did so. My eyes followed his, peeking from around a corner, as a man stepped into the shop wearing the armor of a city guardsman. Weathered creases graced the corners of his eyes, and laugh lines curled around his lips. He had a beard, like Tomis, but while the blacksmith’s was just starting to take on a few white hairs, the new comer was well into the gray.

I thought he looked handsome.

Don, you old bastard, Tomis shouted out, his face splitting into a wide grin, how the hell are you?

Tomis stepped forward, clasping forearms with the stranger that had wandered into the shop. Although he only came up to Tomis’s nose, the stranger matched him grip for grip; no mean feat when dealing with the hardened hands of a blacksmith. As friendly as the handshake was, though, the stranger’s face was clouded.

Dark news, I’m afraid, Don began in a voice like the rough side of a boulder, glancing at the ground as he released Tomis’ hand. We had another attack last night, he said in a weary tone.

Normally gruff to begin with, Tomis’s face darkened and fell. Shit, he muttered, stepping away from Don as he put both hands on the back of his head, pacing a little circle. Those big arms dropped to his side as he turned back to face the stranger.

Survivors? his voice tinged with a bit of hope, but Don was already shaking his head as he unconsciously placed a hand on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. Tomis sighed, placing his hands on his hips. Where?

Out at the edge of the Rim. East side, Don answered. Farming steadfast. Neighbor on the outskirts informed us this morning. Don caught my eye peeking around the edge of the wall, but looked back to Tomis. I just thought that you should know, considerin’, well, you know, he finished, glancing back at me briefly from the corner of his eye.

I had been starting to wonder why no one really seemed to look me in the eye. The adults never had broad smiles for me; there was never a friendly hand to ruffle my hair. When people looked at me, it was a fleeting glance, their eyes nervously searching out something else to hold their attention. I had thought that it was because of the deep scars dragging over my eye, cheek and nose, and I felt self-conscious about them, but Tomis said that it was more than that. He said it was guilt that drew people’s eyes away, but I was too young to understand what that meant.

No, Don, Tomis sighed, looking forlorn as he patted the guardsman on the shoulder, his heavy handed strength unintentionally forcing the smaller man to the side. I understand. Thanks for keeping me informed, and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.

They clasped arms once more before Don walked out into the wide courtyard separating our house from the shop. Tomis walked over to his work bench, turning his back to me as he leaned his arms against a shelf, head bowed. Only a crescent of his face was visible to me as I continued to silently peek around the corner, and for just a moment his rough exterior crumbled, revealing the anguish underneath. He mumbled to himself, but the only thing I caught was …do something…

Watching him I felt sad and alone, trying to consider a way to make him feel better. He yells and curses, never really smiles much, but even though he seems mean I know that he’s not. The only time he was ever truly mean, truly scary, was one evening when I was still trying to get better. It was the one time that I accidentally called him Daddy.

I hadn’t meant to; it just came out. Tomis had flinched back like he had just been slapped, and then he started yelling at me, telling me to never call him that again. I’d been scared, burrowing into my blankets while he raved, but sad, too. It doesn’t bother me now, though. I understand him.

There are nights when we sit in our living room with nothing but the candles for company. I sit on the floor playing with toys that he made for me while he lounges on the couch, drinking too much ale. He never said anything, but I could feel his eyes watching me. They would get fuzzy, and it would almost look like he had tears, but Tomis doesn’t cry, ever, so I would pretend not to notice. These are the nights that he sometimes calls me Alyssa, and seems sad enough to make as stone weep. These were the nights that I knew he loved me.

Shoving himself off of the shelving, Tomis stands up straight, regaining his composure. Brat! he bellowed, turning around to look for me. Where’s that Gods damned ten pound!

Switching the hammer to my other hand I ran it over to him.

It was just me and Maker; we were both broken.

Year 16

I don’t know what’s happening with you, Brat, Maker said to me as I leaned back into the contoured seat and rested my head against the pillow placed there. We’re in an inker’s shop on Tavern row, a part of the city that, while not exactly dangerous, many people find a reason to avoid. The walls are stark white, and the room smells of soap and burnt sulfur. Maker takes a seat across from me, settling his bulk on a stool near my knees, running a hand across his bearded jaw before resting his chin in the same palm.

I see that white hair, he begins in a low voice as he stares into my eyes with an odd intensity. Maker is the only one that looks me in the face without flinching. I see it, I know what it means, and I’m afraid of what I know.

He reaches down, his big hand enfolding my wrist where it sits on the armrest. You’re not gonna be like them.

My lip starts to quiver as I cringe, my shame causing me to look away.

Hush, Brat, Maker says, his quiet voice low but insistent. Look at me. I comply, turning my head back to him, trusting. I trust him above all others.

I’ve watched what happens when you get mad, he continues, speaking softly, an odd gleam to his eye. He pauses, his lips pursed, as he gathers his thoughts. Why does he need to gather himself? I wondered. I’m the one in the chair.

It’s those damn scars, he blurts abruptly, pressing his palms together almost like he’s begging me to understand. Normally so stoic, Maker rose from his stool and began to pace back and forth in the small space, his face a mask of nervousness. You see’em every day, and when you do you think about how they got there. You try to fight it, I know you do, but that rage starts to come out.

How’s everything in here? a voice asks from the doorway, interrupting Maker’s monologue. The inker, a wizened old man with only a few wispy strands of hair on his pate steps into the sterile room. He’s wearing an apron over his bare torso, and every inch of visible skin is covered in dark pictures and patterns. Some have faded with age, the outlines leaking into his papery skin, while some look almost new.

’Bout ready to start? the inker asked, the stem of a well chewed pipe clenched between his lips.

In a moment, Maker orders, not taking his eyes from me. The inker nods, moving quietly about the room as he gathers the tools of his trade.

We’re gonna fix them, today, Maker continues, pausing for a moment. You’re not gonna see those scars anymore. You think the scars make you weak, so we’re gonna make you strong. This will be a sign of strength. You got a purpose, Brat, and I want you to think about it every time you look in the mirror.

The inker steps over with a laden steel tray, setting it on a small work table next to the chair I’m reclining in. He seats himself on the stool that Maker had vacated, looking at both of us. As my Da used to say, he began, his lips working around the stem of his pipe, Anything else is just scratching balls; gives you something to do, but just wastes time.

Maker nods to him, stepping close to my shoulder as a nervous flutter begins to take flight in my stomach. He bends down so that his eyes are level with mine, the whiskers of his beard close to tickling my face.

Bite your lip, Brat, he whispered, his eyes bright. This is gonna hurt like hell.

The Wedding

Get out here, Brat! Maker’s voice boomed from the courtyard, completely audible since the door to the porch was open.

I was laying on the couch in the living room when his voice bounced off of the walls, holding a wet rag to the right side of my face. It’s been a few days since the inker finished his work, weaving a dark black design from my hairline to my chin, but it still hurts. The tattoo has started to scab over, and along with the pain it itches. A lot.

But I kind of like it.

There’s something about the pain that feels refreshing, revitalizing, and I’ve found myself glancing into the smoked glass mirror that Maker has hanging over the hearth more times than I would have thought. My new reflection peeked back at me, and it was a bit of a shock each time.

Thick black lines, like the tentacles of a kraken, drape down from the edge of my hair, gliding through my eyebrow, and ending at three sharp points at the edge of my jaw. The faded scars over the bridge of my nose and left eye are still visible, but the deep gouges over my right eye and cheek have been almost completely obscured beneath the black.

I’m not gonna lie; I know that I’m considered to be an oddity in Oris. I try to keep my head down, try not to interact with any of the townsfolk, but it always seems like there are people watching me anytime I venture beyond our front door. Quick glances from the corners of their eyes, forced conversation or laughter anytime I walk past. But now it seems different.

The day after the inking I went out to collect the work orders at the mailbox connected to one of the wooden posts that mark the perimeter for the courtyard. Like always, I kept my head down but managed to cast furtive glances around to see who was watching me. As always, there were more than a few. Something about the way that they were watching me caused me to raise my chin high, staring them in the face, baring the raw side of my face where the tattoo had been inscribed on my skin. Eyes would flutter and then flash away. I don’t know if something was really different, or if it was just my eyes that were starting to see things differently.

Don’t make me wait, girl, Maker’s voice echoed through the open door, drawing me out of my brief reverie. I tossed the damp rag on to the round kitchen table and headed out through the open door onto the covered patio. The heat from the sun caused the scabs to sting, but not too badly as I looked back and forth searching for Maker. I had to squint my right eye but my vision finally alighted on him standing at the rear of the round courtyard, halfway between the forge and the house. He had a long stick planted on the ground next to him, and as I approached, eyes still slit against the sun, I realized that he wasn’t alone.

While Maker stood stock still in the sunlit courtyard, a man I’d never seen before lounged in the shadows of the old oak at the edge of the property. If he’d stayed still I probably wouldn’t have seen him at all, but at my approach he stood, his body uncoiling smoothly from where it leaned against the trunk of the tree to stand next to Maker.

While not nearly as broad in the shoulders and chest, the stranger was just a bit taller than the middle aged blacksmith. The loose vest he wore was sleeveless, and his lean arms were muscled in a sinewy sort of way. Loose, baggy pants were tucked into the top of his high calf boots, and a bushy but cultivated goatee ringed his mouth, which was smiling widely. His skin was the shade of aged wood, and his hair had been pulled tight back against his skull in a club tail.

As I drew closer a tiny tingle of apprehension started to swim in my gut, and I noticed a few things very quickly. The long stick that Maker had planted in the dirt wasn’t a stick at all: it was a spear. The double edged tip pointed towards the heavens, glinting faintly in the light as Maker stood grimly, the butt grounded. As the stranger sauntered forward, I saw that he was also cradling a short hafted spear in the crook of his right arm. I glanced back to Maker, and now that my eyes had adjusted to the light I saw a burgeoning bruise high on his left cheek.

What’s going on? I asked, wary and uncertain as I stopped before them, directing the question at Maker while I pretended to ignore the stranger. The tall man didn’t make it easy. His wide smile seemed to stretch his face to breaking, his impossibly white teeth managing to gleam even in the shadows as his dark eyes remained locked onto me with an uncomfortable intensity.

This is Jediah, Maker grumped without preamble, his broad face unreadable. I brought him here to teach us. He’s expensive, so we need to make it worth the while.

At the mention of his name, the stranger nodded his head incrementally towards me in greeting, his eyes never leaving mine.

I’d always felt a certain sense of shame when people refused to look me in the eye, but at that moment I found myself offended that the strange man refused to look away. Normally I would have found a reason to scurry back to the house to hide myself from those glances, but something in me was feeling surly and sullen (what Maker calls pouty), and I felt my back stiffen. I raised my chin high, tossing my whitish blond hair back so that he could get a good look. My hips shifted as I planted my feet wide and stared challengingly right back at him.

What’s he going to teach us? I asked in a snotty, irritated voice as I blatantly looked him up and down, crossing my arms over my chest. How to fish with a spear?

Maker didn’t answer, staring past me, through me, as the stranger, Jediah, began to chuckle. His laughter was deep, smooth, and filled with patient condescension as he rolled his eyes.

Ahh, you know what I have to teach then, yes? he asked in a lilting accent I didn’t recognize as he smoothly transitioned the spear to his crook of his left hand. He spread his right arm wide to the side as he bowed politely from the waist, using his other hand to hold the spear length wise before him. Take this then, and show me that you know what I know.

Bent at the waist, Jediah was still smiling, his impossibly white teeth standing out starkly against his ruddy skin. He was still holding the spear towards me, bouncing his wrist lightly to suggest I take it as he tucked his right hand behind his back. His eyes, however, never left mine. I glanced to Maker, whose impassive face remained unreadable. As Jediah’s hand continued to bounce I turned my eyes to the spear waiting in his hand. It was a simple thing: four foot wooden shaft with a barbed metal head glinting dully in the light.

What’s the point of this? I wondered to myself. Having found no answers from Maker, I turned my eyes back to Jediah, who was still grinning widely. I drew myself up as I stepped forward, reaching out to take the proffered spear from his waiting hand. Just as the tips of my fingers were about to make contact with the dark wood of the shaft a concussive blow struck the side of my head, causing my brain to scramble and my vision to white out.

I felt the hard packed earth of the courtyard biting into the flesh of my right cheek as I started to pick myself up from the ground where I had fallen. It took a stretched out moment for my scattered wits to regain themselves, and then a moment more to realize that I had been struck on the left side of my face. Groggy, I turned dazed eyes to Maker, but his face was still devoid of emotion as I lifted myself from the ground on wobbly legs.

My vision was swimming, but I shifted wide eyes back to Jediah, who was still bowing; still smiling. The spear remained outstretched in his hand while his right was still firmly tucked behind his back. His posture hadn’t budged by a whisker, but the smug look on his face was all I needed to tell me that he was the one that hit me. A dull throb had formed on the left side of my face where I was struck, pulsing in time with my racing heart, and on the right side the rough scabs of the tattoo were broken and bleeding from where they made contact with the ground.

You did not take the spear? Jediah said into the silence, his eyebrows contracting in feigned befuddlement, a merry glint twinkling in his eyes. Perhaps, then, you do not know what I know, yes?

There was something about the way he said it, smooth disdain mixed with a dash of ridicule, but as I regained my footing, it started to happen. The throbbing in my cheeks faded away as my vision began to go black around the edges. From somewhere, rage came boiling up, lighting my blood on fire as a physical pressure built up, trying to force its way out of my body. My dimming eyesight suddenly focused and clarified at the same time that every muscle in my body contracted involuntarily, my hands curling into tight fists at my sides.

It wanted out.

I could feel myself beginning to shake with fury, but Jediah hadn’t shifted a muscle: bent at the waist with the spear held before him while his right hand remained behind his back. But there was something hostile in his eyes; something wild and savage. The fount of rage was spiraling through me, pleading to be released, but the false smile on his face gave me pause.

He wants me to do it, I thought, stunned, as I stared into his hungry gaze. It was with a cold stomach that I realized that this stranger and I had reached the same conclusion: if it came down to it, only one of us would be left standing, and chances were it wouldn’t be me. Finding myself suddenly unsure, the rage ebbed quickly. Jediah must have seen something shift in my body language because the tension leaked from his shoulders as if it had never been there.

You did not like that, yes? he asked, seeming surprised that I hadn’t hurled myself at him. His eyebrows quirked once more in feigned confoundment. And you did not take the spear? He shrugged as he stood upright. Perhaps, then, I have something to teach you after all, yes?

I looked uncertainly to Maker as my chest heaved, the bruise on his cheek standing out a bit more clearly, now. I was somehow certain that the throbbing I felt in my own face would grow to bear a startling resemblance to his. Maker’s face remained emotionless, but his eyes caught mine, staring deep. As if he was reading my mind he nodded, his whiskered lips twisting sardonically. I told you he was expensive.

I was out of my element and I knew it. Maker’s dour expression was telling me nothing, and that left me with the stranger Jediah. I turned halting eyes back to him, and he was still bowing, still smiling, still extending the spear before him. The hand holding the spear bobbed once more as his grin continued to gleam.

The adrenaline was still running hot in my body as I took a hesitant step forward, the dried ground of the courtyard crackling beneath my feet. Never taking my eyes from his, I reached out a tentative finger to take the spear from his hand. Just before I could lay a finger on the shaft he moved, whip cord quick, his figure a blur that my eyes could barely follow. I flinched away, assuming that I was about to be hit again, my eyes closing involuntarily, but there was no impact. Instead I heard a sharp scratching sound, and as I opened my eyes I saw that Jediah had used the tip of the spear to draw a long line in the dried earth directly in front of his feet.

And the son of a bitch was still bowing, still smiling.

This spear, Jediah said, his accent crisp yet somehow slurring, It is your husband, yes? You may not touch your husband until you cross this line, and you may not cross this line until you know his name. Jediah paused, pulling his hand from behind his back as he raised a finger at me, his expression expectant. Every husband needs a name, yes?

I sensed that he was trying to tell me something, deliver a message of some sort, but I wasn’t getting it.

Your husband, he continued, not sensing my confusion (or choosing to ignore it), will have many successors, whores that we are, but they will all bear his same name. He paused, head cocked quizzically to the side as he asked, Do you know his name?

Full tilt confusion had set in by this point, as I had no idea how to decipher the riddles that Jediah was speaking. I didn’t know what to do, and I looked to Maker for a sign, some sense of direction, but his face remained utterly impassive and as readable as a stone. His hard eyes were like a knife in my chest. He’d saved my life, taken me in, but was now watching this stranger beat and humiliate me while he stood there with that damn spear planted in the dirt.

Girl! Jediah barked, drawing my eyes back to him. "What do you look at him for? Do you wish him to name your husband for you? Do you wish your husband to be his bitch?"

Flustered and angry, my hands were shaking with the sheer indignation of it all. I didn’t know what he wanted of me, what he expected of me, and I couldn’t begin to respond. At my hesitation, Jediah’s eyes hardened. Faster than the blink of an eye, his right hand lashed out in a blur, slapping me across my already bruised cheek with a crack.

A shocked cry forced its way between my lips as I pressed my hand to the stinging side of my face. Jediah stood tall, towering over me as he placed the offending hand once more behind his back. His eyes bored into mine like augers, but his voice was surprisingly calm and controlled as he asked Do you know your husband’s name?

My face was burning on both sides, mixing shame and pain in equal shares. Against my will, tears finally started to prick at the corners of my eyes as I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth together to keep the snarl from my lips.

No. Pause. I don’t.

To my surprise, every ounce of aggression leaked from his body as he stood up straight, his face relaxed but pensive.

Well, then, he said in a light tone as he tucked the spear behind his back with a flourish. You must think on this, yes? You may not come back here, you may not cross this line, until you know his name. He paused for a moment, and suddenly his dark eyes were deadly serious once more. His true name.

With a final considering look Jediah marched past me, spear held lightly in his hand as his boot heels crunched on the parched ground. I didn’t watch him leave; didn’t watch where he went. The moment that his foot falls had faded away my reserve finally broke. Tears of rage and humiliation pooled in my eyes, dripping over the lids to trickle down my cheeks as a rough sob ripped through my chest. My vision was blurred as I turned my eyes to Maker: my mentor, my idol, my savior. His feet hadn’t budged from where I first saw him, and his face held as much emotion as a rock as he continued to grip that damned spear.

Is this what you brought me out here for? I shrieked at him, my voice cracking and breaking high. I pointed an accusing finger at the right side of my face where I could feel the broken scabs of the inkers work leaking wetness down my cheek. Was this not enough? Why wasn’t he beating the shit out of you, too?

Maker finally moved, and it was like watching a stone column shift as he turned to face me. The bruise high on his left cheek had grown darker and stood out against his tanned skin, mirroring the one I felt growing on my own. He had a strange look in his eyes, but after all the years I had spent with him I knew every component that made it up: Sadness, anger, determination…and that tiny little gleam at the corners that I had begun to suspect were traces of utter insanity. When he spoke, however, his words were soft and measured as his fingers tightened on the spear haft until his knuckles turned white.

Because I knew her name before he started hitting me.

(II)

This is bull shit, I thought to myself as I stalked back up the stairs to my room, pointedly stomping on each step harder than I had to. At Maker’s less than sympathetic reply I had turned away from him, fleeing back to the safety of our house.

What do you mean, know my husband’s name? It’s nothing but a pointy stick; why would I name it? And Maker just stood there, watching him hit me!

I entered my room and threw myself face down on the mattress, ignoring the sting of the broken scabs on my face. My chest heaved in a final sob, but emotional exhaustion had already taken its toll. My eyes were watery and sore, and the lids felt puffy and heavy. I drew an even breath, allowing my eyes to close, and fell into a light slumber…

…only to be rudely woken as water splashed over me.

At some point of the brief nap I had rolled over onto my back, but the sheet of water in my face caused me to rocket up out of bed with an indignant squawk. I sputtered, sodden hair clinging to my face as I used my hands to sluice the water from my eyes. My vision cleared, and I saw Jediah standing over the foot of my bed, an empty bucket dangling in one hand.

"What the fuck!" I screamed as I stood, flapping my arms out and throwing droplets and streams of water about my room. Explosive as it was, my tantrum didn’t seem to affect Jediah in the least. If anything, his expression was hurt.

You are sleeping? he asked, his face a mask of utter disbelief, Now? When you do not know your husband’s name? He tossed the bucket to the side with a clang. How can you sleep, he bellowed, when you do not know your husband’s name!

I’m kind of embarrassed to think about it now, but I made a sound like a squealing piglet as I shoved my way past him, heading for the door. I was half way down the stairs when I heard the heels of his boots on the wooden floor boards, calmly following me. I reached the last step and paused, my heart pounding against my chest as my vision started to dim around the edges. The pressure was building, pressing hard and heavy against the back of my eyes and causing an abrupt migraine to blossom like a firework. I leaned over, hands on my knees, huffing, as the pulsing pressure gained strength.

I can feel it coming, the darkness, when out of the corner of my eye I saw Maker standing in the open doorway to the courtyard. He was leaning against the door jamb, the midday sun pouring in behind him, with his thick arms folded across his chest. His eyes weren’t on me as they should have been, though. Instead, his gaze was focused over my shoulder to where Jediah stood halfway down the stairs.

When we spoke, Jediah said, his eyes directed to Maker, his face etched with disgust, you said that this girl, this girl here, needed training and instruction. He waived his hand at me in a flippant motion as his mouth turned down at the corners.

This is not a girl, he spat, voice filled with disdain. This is nothing but a child.

Chest heaving and blood beginning to burn in my veins, I looked to Maker at Jediah’s scathing words. It was coming, he had to know it was coming, but he stood there, silently ignoring my presence as he kept his own gaze on the lunatic standing halfway up the stairs. A rabid scream started to force its way past my lips, tearing at the lining of my throat, and the blackness took me.

When I came to, which seemed like only a few blank moments later, my chest was heaving with exertion. My knuckles were bloodied, and throbbed in time with my beating heart while my skin felt like it was on fire. Feeling fresh wetness dribbling down from my eyes, I looked around the house, surveying the damage.

Shards of crockery and plateware lay scattered across the floor, acting as the broken bones of the cabinet that had been ripped from the wall and tossed negligently to the foot of the stairs. Four large holes gaped in the wall where the cabinet anchors had been torn out, allowing sunlight to stream through. Our heavy wooden table (which we seldom used) had been broken in half down the middle, and splinters and spurs of wood covered the better part of the kitchen floor leading up to Maker’s feet.

My shoulders went slack with shame and embarrassment as I raised my brimming eyes to Maker. I couldn’t help it when these things happened, and he was the only one that cared enough to coax me through them. Don’t get me wrong; he had a heavy handed way when it came to getting me out of these fits, but he tried, and he was always there. At that moment I felt particularly bad about the table, which Maker had rebuilt only a few months back.

To my surprise, Maker still hadn’t budged from where he stood in the doorway, although his eyes were locked onto Jediah with a kind of quiet, certain intensity. Jediah himself stood slightly higher up the stairs than he had previously, his hand tucked behind his back at his belt line as he watched me with fierce concentration.

You feel better now, yes? he asked sarcastically, following me with the sharp eyes of a hawk. My chest was still heaving as I gulped air down my parched throat, and I couldn’t help but look at all the damage. Even though I didn’t remember doing it, I knew that the fault was mine, nor was it the first time that it had happened.

I-I’m sorry, I stuttered as my tears began to flow in earnest. I didn’t mean to do it.

Jediah watched me for a moment with hard eyes that were weighing, calculating. The moment stretched out until his body loosened and his hand relinquished its place behind his back, coming to rest by his hip. Neck still tensed, he turned his gaze to Maker and gave the slightest of nods.

Tomis, he said in a terse voice, I am not familiar with how the sun flows here. How many hours of light do we have left?

Leaning against the open doorway, Maker shrugged his heavy shoulders. ’Bout six, I’d say.

Six hours is good, yes? Jediah replied, his tone business like. Standing tall, he finished his descent down the stairs.

Girl, he said brusquely as his boot heels hit the floor, Come outside; there is something that I would show you.

(III)

Jediah led me outside silently, and went to a fence post where a dark horse I hadn’t noticed before waited patiently tethered in the shade.

This is Covos, he said by way of introduction, gesturing to the brown beast that towered above me. My nose crinkled at the scent; I’d always hated horses. You will follow behind him in silence, yes?

I glanced over my shoulder to where Maker was standing on the porch, the stem of his pipe clamped firmly between his teeth as a cloud of smoke ringed his head. He gave me a slight nod, and then tilted his head, directing me to follow.

Jediah untethered the horse in a fluid motion, and grabbed it by the bridle with a firm but gentle hand. He clicked his tongue (and to this day I don’t know if it was at me or the horse) and began to walk forward. Covos stepped forward obediently, his shod hooves clopping against the cobblestone. I didn’t want to, but I followed.

Holding the horse by the bit between its teeth, Jediah walked me down a lane leading through the center of town. It was the busiest part of the day, people walking in both directions, going about their business, and I felt my shoulders hunch in on themselves as their eyes turned my direction, my feet slowing.

Your eyes see nothing, Jed barked without looking back at me. Your sight, it will stay on Covos’s rump, yes? That is all that you need see.

I followed wordlessly, focused on the swishing tail in front of me as Jediah led us both to the edge of the city. A rough wooden fence marked the perimeter of Oris, standing as a stalwart guard against the beyond, but Jediah didn’t stop there. He continued past it, drawing me onto a rough road edged by grass that reached halfway up my thigh. This was the farthest that I had ever been from home.

Just off in the distance, the horizon was ringed by a heavy fence of dense pines, signaling the beginning of the Outer Rim that circled the city. The trees loomed together, clouded with thick shadow, emanating a sense of foreboding that tingled in my blood. They loomed like silent goliaths, but did nothing to break the light breeze that was rolling across my skin from that direction as Jediah came to a halt, surveying the run of land between the perimeter of Oris and the dense wall of pines.

Now what? I asked, nervously. Those were the first words that I had uttered on the short trek that had taken me farther from home than I had ever been before. Rather than respond, or even look at me, Jediah tilted his nose into the air, drawing in a slow, deep breath. As his eyes opened, he hoisted himself onto the horses’ saddle in a fluid motion, balancing smoothly as the animal danced a couple of steps. He turned the beast about to face me as he reached into a saddle bag and removed a coiled whip. He unlimbered it with a flick of his hand, allowing the leather tip to dangle against the earth.

Now? he asked in a dry voice, an eyebrow quirked as he towered above me on his mount. Now, we run.

(IV)

The rest of the day was a nightmare.

Jediah sent me out to run before him on a thin rutted path that wound between the tall