Little Witega: Witega series book 1

By R. L. Neely

Picture this: a war-torn land where the only magic is the kind that twists your sense of right and wrong. Mylah gets snatched up and thrown into a life of servitude. But she's not the type to meekly accept her fate. Oh no, she's got a backbone made of steel. A trait of all Witega's. As she fights for freedom, she stumbles upon a group of rebels

• Language: English
• Publisher: JoeMamas
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088145432

Book preview

I

       Taking the heads of slain adversaries and impaling them upon thick spears was a favorite pastime among the race of Bealu. Who if asked, would refer to the skewered skulls of the weak as a joyful spectacle. They did all in an act of liberation, indoctrinated by their Monarch. They were a fierce armed pilgrimage, speaking only in the Gramword tongue, the sole language for all the Monarch’s servants. When verbalized it was a malicious string of nasty noises.

When cities were seized by their hand, it was commonplace for all occupants, no matter their age, to be summarily killed. Only those deemed worthy were spared, it was an omen to be worthy of life to a Bealu. The streets would run like mingled wine, with gore as reveled in the deepest of hell. Those who hid in their homes or took refuge in the fields would be burned alive, few lived through the siege. Those who survived were transported as slaves back to their capital. The city of Banloca, their capital, had a wall outstretching the entirety of its borders; it held no prison, having no need of one, as all the occupants were jailed within the walls.

I was one of its inhabitants. My brother Byre and I were taken three years ago, during the ambush of our town, I was twelve at the time; he was seventeen. Byre had just come back from a hunting trip, empty-handed again. He was exchanging harsh whispers with my mother in the kitchen, hoping I would not hear.  

The men saw a scout on our borders. They’re coming, Mother. We need to leave.

And where will we go? This is our home, Byre. 

Have you not heard the tales?! You and Mylah are not meant for war! 

We will stay; there is no escape from their hand. My mother’s voice was raised now, and shrill, she was losing her patience. Byre had been her close confidant since Father died; he took care of us and stepped into the many roles and burdens far too heavy for his shoulders to bear but didn’t bear it begrudgingly. He loved his family, and very rarely ever argued against our mother. 

You willingly march towards your death with your children in tow. My brother cried out, cutting her off, and stormed past my form that was leaning against the wall, eavesdropping. A chill ran down my spine at his tone. He never lost his resolve like that before. The rest of that day was a tense blur. The anticipation was crippling. Mother didn’t so much as regard my existence; she did nothing but pace the kitchen with a glazed look in her eye. Byre had left, gathering the young men, to form a defense of our beloved town. 

They ambushed us late into the night; we heard them before we saw them. Their cavalry of horse hooves rumbled the ground. Their many chants sounded like thunder, echoing and unnerving. It had begun to rain softly, the crisp air was biting. Our defense was no match. Men were lying along the thatched roofs, armed with bows, many though were too young or weak to sufficiently use them. Men armed with swords stood along the gate, their eyes showing fear, but they stood courageously nonetheless.

Women and children sobbed as the men held their crumbling resolve; reassuring them they would live through the night. Our small cavalry was a mixture of horses and mules mounted by our strongest men, congregated near the front of the line. The young children and elderly were barricaded in a tomb, the men knowing it was the sole building that could not catch fire.

Their faces were as gray as the stone they used to seal it shut. Byre did not agree with that decision. He got in a screaming match with a member of the town's council. I could not hear what the man had said in reply over the loud booming voice of my brother. 

You seal them unto their own death! Evacuate the town! They can make for the Mountain pass! 

-This is no mere skirmish! You will weep upon your knees in a puddle of carnage you chose for these people.

 He would not let me join them, snatching my arm and dragging me away from the procession of embracing couples and mothers who put on a brave face for their children. 

He handed me a sword, which I clumsily held with both my hands. It was dull, rusted, and longer than my wingspan. I followed him as my sword drug along the ground, catching on the small rocks and pebbles as I went. If you lose sight of me, run. Do not look back. Do not hesitate. I nodded numbly.

 He mounted our family mule and joined the party at the front of the ranks; we could see dim orange lights approaching. They appeared at first like a grouping of fireflies but soon shown to be torches shining on the men of Bealu with a fierce glow. Their faces were grotesque, the torchlight flickering strange shadows onto their moving forms. Courage. I heard one of the men say, turning to a boy who looked no older than me, holding a sword with wide eyes that rivaled my own.

A horn sounded and arrows rang out, firing down on the crusade.  

My heart took residence in my throat as I watched Byre race on in our cavalry to meet the enemy head-on. Many of the riders were tossed off their horses, as the chaos and distress made the horses to flee. They weren’t battle steeds; they were well-loved family pets. Screams rang out into the night as they easily picked off our defense and used their torches to set fire to our homes. The archers who weren’t already shot down themselves were forced to jump down and fall upon their spears. The screeching of metal on metal was deafening as our men valiantly fought back.

 Bile rose in my throat, as an elderly man fell not ten feet from where I stood, his body sliced open, intestines spilling from his mangled torso. His wiry gray beard was now a dark scarlet. My heart pounded in my ears as one of the Bealu dismounted coming towards me. I lost sight of Byre, but my feet could not move from their spot.

The Bealu now was an arm’s length from me; his face was gangly and putrid, sprayed with the gore of his triumph. His armor was of black leather and shined slick against the rain. I trembled holding the sword with all my strength and swung it, stumbling. 

RUN! Mylah! Byre screamed, his brown hair clung to his face in the rain, his eyes were wide.

He was now further in front of me, surrounded by evil men; our mule lay in a heap on the cold, wet ground. The rain was coming down heavier now, making my hair a protective veil against the trauma, and the ground an ankle-deep river of pink. My arm was seized, nails dug deep into the flesh underneath as I was led away from my beloved town, Pasmus. The only home I’ve ever known. He spoke to me in his garbled language, yanking me as he went. I watched in horror as one of the men who had surrounded Byre pinned him to the ground.

NO! I screamed, trying to fight the fierce grip. Blood oozed from where I was held, stinging as it mixed with the rain and open air. 

We were bound at the wrists and thrown in a large metal cage on a wooden platform, drawn by their horses. Surprisingly, their horses did not act as malicious as their owners, nor did they look the part. There were others from our town too besides Byre and I. Though I could not remember their names or point them out in a crowd, all the others were Mermin. We huddled together in the cage, trembling while watching on as they went towards the tomb. 

All of us had given up our fight, except Byre. Our countenances were as numb as we felt getting pelted by the rain. Not my brother. He rattled the metal with his bound wrists, shouting at them, as we watched them remove stones one by one from the tomb mouth. I hid my face when I heard the screams. Byre was right they were sealed unto their death.

A dark-haired soldier snarled, opened the gate to the cage, and stepped inside. All of us cowered into one corner, our bodies toppling each other, forming one indistinguishable mass. All except Byre, who was still shouting, he met the soldier’s gaze with his own. His jaw was clenched in defiance. 

Byre quit! You’re going to get killed. Please stop. I whispered. The soldier approached Byre slowly, smiling, revealing dark, rotten teeth. The creases in his skin looked like writing from the dirt and blood embedded there.

You would have me hold my tongue?! Compliance with evil is evil itself, Mylah. I would rather have my body slain than die to my morals. Byre hissed back at me, his gaze never faltered from the soldier. He stood tall, as the man stood in front of him towering over his form.

The soldier punched him hard in the stomach, every hit echoed like a wet drum. Byre fought back and blocked as best as he could with his wrists tied, but it was a losing battle. The soldier cursed, and spat on him, turning on his heel and locked the gate again, leaving my brother in a wheezing heap on the ground.  

 The journey to Banloca was long, at the dawn of the next day the soldiers split off, one group taking us in tow going south, through the Plains of Ocridel, and the other marching forward, through the rubble and ash journeying to their next conquest.

They gave us nothing to eat besides flat, hard biscuits, which seemed to draw out all the moisture in our mouths as we ate them. 

Every day of our journey wore harder and harder on Byre, who, even while needing to be supported to stand, would call out to them. He only relented upon seeing my tears on the 5th day of travel.

I have no one else. Please, they’ll kill you. I whispered to him.

His face was unrecognizable. Deep purple bruises along the base of his jaw trailed up reaching his left eye, which was swollen shut.

He was different when we arrived to the city, colder and more distant, a shell of who he once was. 

Reaching the city gates, we were filed out of our cage like cattle and lined up along the base of the towering stone wall that blocked out the sun. The horses drawing the cage were led away from the wall and down a path of what I can only assume were the stables, or perhaps their next conquest.

 The stone was cold and damp as we pressed our backs into it; moss grew in the cracks of the stone. Along the many guard towers, men could be heard talking and shouting, their voices carrying through the arrow slits down to us. We were released from our bonds; our wrists were raw and aching. We pledged in the Gramword tongue to the service of the Monarch, unaware of what we were saying or being instructed to do. The soldiers snarled and sneered at us, continuing to repeat the same string of malice until we repeated them. 

The speech had felt heavy in my mouth as if it were a curse damning us all. Byre hesitated on his turn, taking a glance at me from his side, his one good eye pierced into mine as I silently pleaded with him. He held his head high and recited the vow perfectly, without faltering. He spoke boldly, as he held his hand over his heart. The gate rang as it was pulled up and we were filed through.

The city was the largest I’ve ever seen and was circular in shape. The streets were wide and cobblestoned; every building seemed connected to the next, all made out of the same gray stone the wall was built with. I longed for just another touch of the soft moss in this hard, harsh environment.

          There were stacks of water-stained crates and barrels shoved up against the buildings and men in black leather seemed to be everywhere we passed. Banloca seemed to rise like a hill, having multiple layers and staircases. Each terraced level having its own wall surrounding it. There were three levels, peaking in the center, where an enormous castle stood; we could see the bare glimpse of the glittering copper roof from where we stood on the lower level. There were no merchants on the streets, however, no children laughing, no hustle and bustle of life.

Téigh Anfeald! A soldier shouted, pressing his sword gently into my back to urge me forward.

His face was sunken in; his large pale eyes seemed to glow with his anger. 

Large birds of prey flew over our heads as we ascended the levels of the city; they were bright red in appearance, having long tail feathers that seemed to scissor out. Their thick talons hung low as they flew. Their screeches were loud and metallic sounding, causing me to flinch and falter in step every time I heard it.

  The second level of the city had more people walking the streets, lines of children clothed in course, rough, beige tunics filed silently past us. Never meeting our eyes, they held their heads down. Their feet made a soft rhythmic sound as their wooden sole clogs made contact with the stone. There were adults too, clothed in the same manner, though some had red striped patches on their sleeves. They bowed to the soldiers as we passed and spoke in the same Gramword tongue.

Their eyes were sad and distant.

They seemed haunted by more than just their dreams. The higher we climbed, the more I felt crippling dread wash over me. There was so much life on this level, but their eyes held no life, no hope. The third level held a large, deep, crystal clear mote that surrounded a palace, with no bridge in sight to cross it.

The soldiers shouted again the same phrase. Téigh Anfeald! which I’ve come to understand must mean they want us to move forward.

We stood at the water’s edge hesitant. I could see my reflection in the pool, my brown hair was matted, my clothing was ripped in various places and caked in dried blood and mud making me appear feral. A soldier shoved a boy to my left, causing him to yelp as he fell into the pool and thrashed to keep his head above the water.

His blue shirt looked invisible as he splashed. I looked to Byre, who was already watching me; he nodded and jumped into the waters next.

              The water felt like ice as we swam to the other side. Byre was dragging the boy who was shoved in; he couldn’t swim and was flailing his limbs frantically, splashing water while screaming. The surrounding water clouded with our blood and mud. The soldiers dove in behind us as two palace guards stood on the other side of the mote.

They held white daggers at us as we climbed out of the water. Their clothing was different from the soldiers who brought us here; they wore full-length, close-fitting, cream-colored robes. The soldiers bowed to the men after they rose from the water. They stood at the back of our group as the palace guards led us in front; they all acted as if what we had just done was normal. 

 We were led through a large wooden door and inside the building. Our shoes squeaked against the marble flooring, and formed small puddles in the shape of footprints, leaving a trail where we walked.

The inside of the palace was much different from the rest of the Banloca, beautiful tapestry adorned the walls with depictions of historical events, the forming of the six races of men, the Great War, the Stearc genocide, there were others too, most I was unfamiliar with. Ceilings were high and vaulted, painted to resemble the sky outside, hues of blue and white mingled together forming soft clouds, so realistic I questioned if the copper roof was even real. The palace held so much color it was overwhelming after being surrounded by nothing but gray.

We were stopped in the hall mid-step, and stripped of our clothing. It was a shameful experience; we all hung our heads low. I have never felt so exposed and vulnerable as I did standing there with only my hair as a cover. 

 Scrud!

We were each thrown a sorry sack of a garment, the same beige that we saw other children wearing we had passed before. Byre’s was different from the rest of ours; his held the same striped patch on the sleeve that we had seen before. They led us barefoot through the corridor, not allowing us a second glance at our only memento of home.

Niwe geboren, A palace guard called out in front of an enormous set of double doors.

 His posture was stiff and closed off. The doors creaked open, and they ushered us into a vast throne room. The Monarch sat on a tall upholstered chair; a small weasel of a man clothed in shadows. His greasy hair was sticking to him unnaturally. His breath was a deep mechanical sounding hiss; his crown hung low on his brow as if he were to but tip his head down it would swallow him. 

Welcome, welcome my children! He said, his voice was hoarse; his eyes were glazed over, never quite meeting ours. My mouth hung open in shock hearing him speak in a language I could understand. 

He extended a shaky arm to us. He didn’t at all appear like the fierce leader from the tales we’ve heard. 

We all gaped at him, unable to speak, most afraid to. You have been saved! Welcome to Banloca, we are a gracious people! He paused, licking his lips.

We have chambers prepared for you. You have journeyed far to join such a republic.

I was shocked by his words. Saved? Gracious? We were to be enslaved. I looked to Byre, and he shook his head, but didn’t speak. Knowing it was a fool’s errand to argue with a puppet king. Despite being surrounded by color, the Monarch only thought in black and white. My limbs felt limp as I stared at my reflection forming in the puddle at my feet.

He continued on his speech. Bile rose in my throat as he ranted and raved. We all stood silent, some shivering either from fear or their wet hair and thin scratching tunics. 

II

I didn’t see much of Byre after that day; I only got a few brief moments with him at night when I would sneak out of our sleeping quarters and meet him in a small cleaning closet in between the men's and women’s sides of the compound. The room was cramped and dark; it stunk of potash. It was our own space, free from others. There was never room to sit, only enough for us to both stand. Some nights we would just embrace, neither one of us uttering a word.

Other nights, I would tell him what I had learned in the school we had attended during the day. The schoolmaster Unlar did not translate for us, or show pity for our lack of understanding.

 We learned the language by way of his anger. He had a hooked nose and sallow skin. He was cold in his expression, yet spoke with such heated anger. Byre picked up the language before I did. We did not share classes together. Though there seemed to be no distinction or classification based on age or knowledge, my class had both adults and children fit more for a nursery.

One night in the closet we stood embracing, and I told him what I had learned that day, Unlar had taught us that the country of Geliesan was to blame for the carnage, if Geliesan would relent to the war the states in the mist would not suffer. Geliesan was to blame.

Is that the truth? Byre asked me.

Many nights we would meet in the closet and I would tell him what I learned he would always answer in the same manner. Is that the truth?

Our visits got less and less frequent as time went on. He was signed off on and became a scribe in the palace, keeping records, though he never saw the Monarch while working. After his 20th birthday, they demoted him in rank. The reasoning? He would not falsify documents.

We only saw the Monarch during festivals and holidays. He would parade the streets with palace guards flanking him, their fine robes wet from the swim through the mote trailing behind them, catching dirt and pebbles as they strode through the streets. There were three festivals the Bealu celebrated in Banloca, one took place mid-winter, honoring the ceres, soldiers paraded along the walls of the city crumbling biscuits into the air, letting the wind carry the crumbs.

 The second festival was in the spring. The Monarch would stand along the wall and give a long ramble of a speech welcoming in the new season. At the beginning of summer, there was a festival for the fallen. The Bealu sang hymns in their garbled tongue along the wall. Their lament and anger would carry down to us. That festival was hard; it was one you wished so much to not have need to be out during the day. There were two holidays that were also celebrated, the Monarch’s birthday, August 3rd, and the founding of the city and joining together of the Bealu, October 8th. The Monarch’s birthday was my favorite. Every year, we would get meat with our meals on that day. 

  Byre’s days were then spent cleaning the training fields and weapons used. He met the sneering soldiers fresh from war at the second gate; he lugged a heavy cart, the weapons inside clanked noisily. I passed him by sometimes, always able to tell if his load was coming or going by how much the metal gleamed or if hordes or flies encircled it. It conflicted him greatly. When we did get moments together to speak, he would hurriedly change the subject.

Do not burden yourself with it, Mylah. I knew he was haunted.

Cleaning and sharpening the blades that would soon be used to kill the innocent. 

It was the February after my 15th birthday when they started transitioning me into the workforce. At first, it was only a couple of times a week, while the other days I still attended classes under Unlar. I worked in the kitchens, making ceres, the dense biscuits we first had eaten on our journey here. They were about the size of one’s palm, as thick as two of them, stronger than wood. It took a whole day to make one small batch; the recipe was a simple one of milled grain, salt, and water.

The water was the least in quantity. My arms always burned with fire on kitchen days, from the hours of kneading. The biscuits were only consumed during travel; they had a shelf life of months. My favorite days in the kitchen were tin days. Those were the easiest, grabbing the finished ceres and packaging them into small tins for the soldier’s journey. Our job was one of most importance. If we were lax in any of our procedures, it would mean spoilage, moldy or worm-infested biscuits. The Bealu held high regard for the ceres, as it was the sole source of energy often during their long journeys.

I met my best friend there in the kitchens, Claret; she is my brother’s age; she is of the race of Mermin, the sole captive from her family. The experience made her detached and withdrawn. Her speech comes out as a rehearsed call-and-response answer. Her hair is always kept tightly in a braid, tunic sleeves rolled up neatly, as though if they were to brush against her skin, she will grimace at the contact. 

Our first conversation took place while we stood across from each other, both forming the small biscuits in our hands with the dough.

You seem very good at this. Have you been in the kitchen long? I asked.

Her eyes never left the dough in her hand; though she smiled sweetly. The Monarch is most gracious in allowing me to work, was her reply.

Most of our conversations, if there were others around, were much the same, all coded with her true hidden meaning. On the occasions we did make eye contact, her eyes shown hesitancy and trepidation, as if she could not distinguish friend or foe.

Unlar would often single me out in class now, verbalizing his disdain for my flaws. My skin wasn’t as thin as it once was, and the string of malice he spewed took longer to cut. It was almost enjoyable going back and forth with him, even if I paid for it.  

Mylah, tell us of the races of men. He lifted his chin, smirking, knowing I would challenge him as my brother had before me. 

I stood up, pushing my chair back as I did, meeting his steely gaze with my own blank stare. Yes, Schoolmaster Unlar, there are six races of men, Stearc, Bealu, Witega, Wlite, Beothuk, and Mermin. I listed off, my fingers flexed at my side as I counted. 

Now tell us which is the superior. He waved his hand in the air in a yawning motion. 

All men are equal; there is none superior in race, only in truth and deed. My voice wavered, but I held my head high.  

You insolent fool! He roared striding towards me, pausing in step he spoke much softer. His lips twisted into a malicious grin. I pity you; after years of learning, you still possess ignorance so thick it veils your form. The class roared in laughter, but it was forced and hesitant. My face burned scarlet and hot tears formed in my eyes.  

Very well, Anfeald, come to the front. You may read the section of history from the books for the class.

I reeled to the front, blinking back my tears. I didn’t turn to look at the class as I walked; I knew they thought of me as a troublemaker. The adults shunned me and the children were afraid of me, those my own age seemed to think me an alien.

Anfeald was the Gramword word for simple-minded; Unlar called me that more than my own name. There were some long stretches of time I would suspect he had forgotten my name, solely addressing me as Anfeald or the Anfeald. 

The thick book felt heavy in my hands as I opened it to a passage I practically had memorized from reading so many times. I read it in a monotone voice, a false narrative, a deep-rooted bias that made me clench my jaw while reading. I repeated Byre’s words to myself in my mind.

‘Is that the truth?’ 

Stearc, live long lives, they keep to themselves not venturing out of their community much even to trade. They are a race of hermits, though they are kind and hospitable if a traveler comes through. Their skin is pale, as are their eyes; they live high in the Dreich Mountains, just south of the Geliesan border. They have thick hair; the women often have facial hair themselves. They live by way of monarchism; Father has met the king once and wasn’t impressed. Though I have heard, their queen is quite pleasant.

The Bealu are an evil race, having no stability or homeland, a horde of traveling mercenaries for hire. The race of Bealu is solely men; it is curious and unknown as to why. The wives they take for themselves are often enslaved or captured brides of other races, who only produced sons. Their appearance varies in color and bone structure; however, all of the Bealu hold the same angry eyes and live the same short, riotous lives. It is only by the last century the Bealu even began to organize and form their own cities and communities, with their capital being Banloca, before they were just a race of bandits.

The Witega, My race, is a deep-thinking people. Zealous in beliefs and statutes, often not getting much accomplished in local governments, as everyone fiercely argues their activism never coming to an agreement; yet all in like mind having an ingrained sense of duty towards the greater good. We are intuitive, and not affected by peer pressure like other races. We are a dying breed, having few townships and cities along the Plains of Ocridel. Our governments are different than that of other races. We have no sole leader, everything is run by council, so in turn all decisions are drug out, and not very much gets accomplished, due to infighting. 

The Wlite are industrious. Their country, Geliesan is the most advanced in all of the earth. They hold an intrepid spirit. You can always tell a Wlite by their posture, always open-bodied, tall, shoulders back. Before the Monarch’s reign of terror, we saw quite a few Wlite pass through our town of Pasmus. They were always fascinating, walking with purpose and always smiling. Their government system is similar to ours, though their council only allows men of hoary hair.

The Beothuk live in the marsh, south of the Dodmer River. They are said to be free-spirited, giving into their imaginative impulsiveness. They do not live in houses instead reside in the trees that grow in the bogs; they are skilled swimmers able to see through the thick

Reviews for Little Witega

[Queen B · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Riveting. Take a chance on this book because you won't regret it. So many unexpected plot twists that leaves the reader wanting more. Exciting adventures.