Excerpts Page

CHAPTER THREE

Disobedient
Sh'yhn

The poles that had been driven deep into the sands of the desert and would hold a tent upright against the fiercest storm or restrain the most violent struggles of even the strongest stallion. This time posts were to hold neither tent nor horse, they had been set to expertly restrain a recalcitrant boy who required something to teach him a boy's place in the tribe.

Kicking and snarling, ee'va and cee'va gone, his ferally sharp teeth bared, Sh'yhn fought against the adult men trying to drag him toward the posts.

Though young, only a child of twelve, he was strong as a youth of sixteen and a skilled fighter. He already bore three of the black spots beneath his left eye that marked him as a warrior of the tribe. A hunter's mark, in crimson, graced the corner of his right eye. As his ah'sha, before him, he bore the signs of his non-im'taym'i heritage in the blaze of his red eyes and the powerful structure of his lean body.

Zhehnehv, the boy's father, had been eck'im-someone not of the desert people. When he had appeared in their camp out of a sandstorm Zhehnehv had been weak from dehydration, and badly injured from a fight with verritaym'i. He had survived his terrible injuries and remained of his own free choice with the tribe, rather than return to his distant homeland beyond the desert.

With hair and eyes the color of blood, and a face at once strikingly handsome and unutterably alien, Zhehnehv had come to them ignorant of their ways. A strange male from beyond the desert, he had been stronger than any three of the golden im'taym'i males, could run faster than the swiftest of their horses and had been the greatest warrior the tribe had ever seen.

Zhehnehv had learned their ways, had undergone the tests required of im'taym'i males with an ease that was unnatural. He had become im'taym'i, all for love of Sh'yhn's birthmother, Yhnleea. He had chosen to be her obedient, adoring servant, and her vel'nisha-her first husband-forsaking his own kind; forgetting the life he had once led as the commander of a band of explorers and warriors among his own people.

A balance was struck between Zhehnehv and the other males of the tribe. They had gracefully acknowledged him as the best warrior and hunter with no one challenging him for those positions. He was also often chosen for the duties of the vel'jan-the tribe's first lover-he who was given over to visiting women for the night to do as they asked of him, nor had any of his fellows denied him that right.

The same balance did not extend to Zhehnehv's son, however, as he was still a mere boy.

Enraged, Sh'yhn kicked one of the men, his booted foot landing a painfully solid blow in the man's stomach. The man's grip weakened just the tiny amount the boy needed to get free. Shrieking his fury, Sh'yhn struck the other man in the face with a fist that, to the man he hit, felt like one made of stone. He kicked the first one again, sending him to the ground, vomiting from the force behind the blow. Spinning around, Zhehnehv's son took the other man across the jaw with another of those fast spinning kicks, knocking him down. For all their training, the boy still had the advantage in such a fight. They had tried to learn the methods behind such an unusual combat style, but they knew only the rudiments of it. The boy had studied it his whole life. To him it was as natural as it had been to the one who'd taught him: his sire.

All around Sh'yhn a wall of black garbed women and amber clothed men were forming. Blocking what was happening from the innocent eyes of the children who should not see such violence, and keeping the boy's contumacious behavior from offending the women of the tribe and their Ih'mah.

Four other men moved in closer to the boy. They were all first husbands, experienced warriors, the ornately beautiful designs on their faces told of their prowess. They surrounded him, waiting for the right time to move in and capture the wild-eyed boy. Though not as skilled at the arts of war as the men now confronting him, Sh'yhn was unpredictable, and could be quite dangerous because his ah'sha had taught him ways of fighting that were alien to them. Further complicating the situation was the fact that he was faster than many of the im'taym'i men; also they had no real desire to do him permanent harm.

The oldest of the four men, Vai'im, gestured the others to refrain from attacking. He had been a good friend of the boy's father, and in his heart he felt he owed the man's memory at least the effort of trying to end this disaster with the boy unharmed. Wanting to try and reason with the infuriated youngster, Vai'im held his empty hands out to the boy. "Sh'yhn, you dishonor your birthmother's memory with this behavior, you dishonor your father as well."

"The bitches left my friend to die in the desert!" he hissed.

His voice had a deeper, richer, quality than a boy his age would possess among their people. Like his ah'sha's, it was a voice meant to whisper sweet endearments to a woman, and it came from lips that were meant for a woman's kisses. Someday. And his face, when it was not twisted in hate, was just as pleasantly made, the cheekbones already sharply defined, the jaw-line clean and well-formed. Sh'yhn was exotically handsome, after the manner of his ah'sha. The greatest legacy of his eck'im heritage showed in his eyes. They were the hue of blood, such a burning color that those unaccustomed to it found his gaze hard to meet.

"Sh'yhn, you know it had to be done. Vernef..."

Fiery eyes blazing hotter than the sun above, Sh'yhn shook his head, "No! Those bitches are the only reason he's like that! They have treated him like dung his whole life. No one ever tried to teach him as the other boys were taught. My father was training him, my father saw his worth when none of you did!"

"But your father is dead now-"

"Dead protecting that worthless chunk of walking shit!" Sh'yhn retorted, stabbing an accusing finger at one of the Dark Sisters who stood watching. "I was teaching him!"

One of the Sisterhood stepped forward. It was the same woman who had pronounced Vernef an outcast, the same one Sh'yhn had just insulted. Kensa. "It is not your decision, eck'im!"

Sh'yhn lunged at Kensa, a scream of fury and hate pouring out of him.

He never reached her.

Vai'im, a look of anguish on his face, grabbed the boy and slammed him to the ground hard enough to have injured any other child his age. But Sh'yhn was not so easily thwarted. He came back up to his feet with amazing speed, his fists pounding into Vai'im's face, left and then right. Hard enough to stun the man. Hard enough to leave the taste of blood in Vai'im's mouth. But it was already too late for Sh'yhn to break free. The other three warriors had closed in. They grabbed him tearing his robes open until he was stripped to the waist. Beneath his clothing his skin had the white purity of a tribemother's robes, another difference borne of his sire's blood.

Ropes were brought and his arms were secured to the posts, then his feet. He raged, struggling to escape, tugging so hard the posts to which he was tied swayed with each pull of his arms.

Vai'im marveled at the boy's strength. Someday, Sh'yhn would be a valuable asset to the woman and the tribe that was her home. With a sinking sort of knowing that gripped Vai'im's heart, he realized Sh'yhn would most likely leave their tribe, choosing to follow his kinsman rather than remain with the tribe of his birth.

The same woman who had cast Vernef out, the same one who had called Sh'yhn the hated word, eck'im with the inflection that denoted someone who was not a real person, came forward to mete out the boy's punishment. A boy's punishment, but it would be given by one of the Dark Sisters, not one of the men as was more often the case. He had deeply offended her with his words. To her was given the right to chastise him as she chose. She untied the cord at her belt and uncoiled her dragon leather whip, snaking it out behind her.

The onlookers moved back to give Sister Kensa enough room for what she would do.

Vai'im turned his eyes away ashamed that Sh'yhn, the son of his friend, had come to such a severe passage from the relative ease of boyhood into the harsher realities of an unmarried man's place in the tribe. He had shown ill temper, had spoken words there could be no apology for and those words had offended a high status member of the tribe, one who was not simply a member of the Sisterhood but one of the Dark Priestesses, an initiate of the Mysteries. A woman whose mere touch could kill it she chose to exercise the power.

That Sh'yhn held higher status than most of the boys his age made it even worse. More was expected of such youngsters. When they failed to live up to those expectations their punishment was usually greater than would be suffered by a boy of lesser status.

The whip cut into Sh'yhn's shoulders leaving a bloody welt behind. He snarled, baring teeth which were far sharper, the canines longer and much more pronounced than those of an im'taym'i. He fought against the ropes holding him like a creature gone mad, each scorching caress of the whip igniting him to a new height of unbridled wrath.

"I hate you! Bitch! Let me go!"

Kensa kept the whip cracking, drawing bloody trails across his once pristine flesh. She intended him to wear the shame of his punishment, cut into his back, for the rest of his life. It would lessen his value, but she had no care of that for she saw no value in the flame-haired boy. In him she only saw the shame of their tribe, the taint of eck'im blood.

The lesson of obedience could be cut into a youth's flesh if it would not be learned any other way. Humility could be taught to the song of the whip, if no other method proved adequate. And Kensa intended for the ill-natured animal that was called Sh'yhn to remember his place in the tribe for as long as he remained part of the tribe; for as long as he lived after he was sold, or more to her liking until he was cast out to die.

Available on August 15th, 2008 from Shadowfire Press.