A/N: I had a falling-out with FP for four years-ish, during which I drowned myself in poetry. Then, while stuck in a college lounge without internet access one day, I spontaneously wrote 12 pages of a fantasy novel, something I haven't done written in...four years-ish.

What else would I do but post it on FP? Enjoy.

Warning: Probably loaded with clichés, occasional profanity, and smut. But I'm workin on it.

Everyone says I was born this way, that the only time I spoke was when I was screaming in the midwife’s arms. After that, they say, I never spoke again.

The midwife says I didn’t even scream when I was a baby. I just opened my mouth like a fish out of water and gulped in air. She thinks it’s because I knew, even right out of the womb, that my life would be a life of misfortunes.

I don’t think my life is so bad, I write to her on a spare leaf I have. It’s true that I am different, that my hair is dark red when it should be yellow like everyone else’s. How is that misfortunate, though?

She snorts, “Chickpea, I hate to break it to you. But you belong to the tribe, so that’s terrible enough.”

Terrible?

“In the pecking order,” she says, stroking my hair, “you’re last. You won't get it easy. It’s good you’ve got such a strong spirit.”

I smile.

“Now run off, chickpea. I don’t want your bad luck to rub off on me or old Blue,” snaps the midwife. She is trying to fix up a sore on her family horse’s knee. He’s a beautiful, ancient roan, and since I don’t want anything unfortunate to happen to him either, I scurry away.

The midwife says I’ll be sixteen this winter – she would know, since she birthed me – but I have the mind of a twelve-year-old. She claims that because I ask her a lot of questions, and I pester her because she’s the only one in the tribe that will answer them. Sometimes I think the rest of the tribe doesn’t know I exist.

On my way to the horse paddock, I come across Jan and Maica huddling over the ground. I run up behind them and peer over their shoulders. They’ve captured a rat and are trying to leash it with a piece of string. I push Jan’s shoulder and frown at him. He also belongs to the tribe, but since he’s sixteen and a boy, he shrugs me off and ignores me. Maica, his little brother, glances at me guiltily. I know Maica hates doing this kind of stuff, but Jan says that since it is Maica’s fault their mother is dead, he has to do whatever Jan wants him to do.

The boy is twisted, I know. I’d rather have the mind of a twelve-year-old than the cruelty of a sixteen-year-old any day.

“Did you hear that?” asks Maica suddenly. We all look up. The adults have heard it, too. They are streaming out of their tents and making their way to the central clearing. Everyone is chattering loudly, and some even have knives and sticks out. Jan leaps to his feet and joins them, but Maica and I just stare at the rat for a long moment, until it realizes it’s free and dashes away.

“Are you scared, Cara?” he says. He can tfell from the way I shiver slightly.

I nod. Of course I am. The sound is unmistakable. It is the sound of horses thundering, of many horses galloping across the plains. And that can mean only one thing.

Hael, I write in the dirt.

Maica is young and has to silently sound it out before he understands. He looks at me with wide eyes, because the Hael killed both our fathers many years ago. We had both heard enough stories to be terrified. Mothers told their children that the Hael would get them if they didn’t behave. But since we didn’t have mothers either, we had gotten the facts from the tribe elders. And we had grasped one thing: the Hael kill, and kill ruthlessly.

I grab his hand and point to the horse paddock. He reluctantly gets up and walks over with me, reluctant because some part of him wants to join his brother. But mostly, he is afraid like I am.

We hop over the fence, and I feel instantly at home with the horses. I understand them, and they understand me. We talk to each other, and it’s nice because they are the only real company I have. But I keep it a secret because I am sure no one would believe me. I’d bet I can talk to our flocks, too, if only the tribe trusted me near them.

Maica hugs his favorite horse, the mare Holly. She is old and very kind. She snorts into his shoulder and he giggles.

Strider, the chief’s personal stallion, clip-clops towards me, muscle rippling. He’s an extremely formidable black horse, and took the chief two months to break. But Strider and I have been friends from the beginning, because we share something in common. We both want to leave this place, this tribe, this land. There is something bigger out there than the “life of misfortunes” the midwife promised. We belong to other people, and we are sick of belonging.

I stroke his neck and breathe in the scent of his musk. I can already see the Hael approaching the tribe, rumbling to a stop in the central clearing where the chief is waiting gravely for them. There are nearly one hundred of them, fewer than the size of our tribe, but all of them wear grotesque masks, masks that make me think of demons.

I’m scared of what they will do to us, I say to Strider. You can smell it coming, can’t you?

For once, he is quiet, and that scares me, too. Horses know things that people don’t. I am afraid of what he knows now.

Strider, I moan.

The Hael leader is loud. Maica and I can hear him from where we stand. Maica runs to me and buries his face in my shirt, so I rub his shoulders anxiously.

“His Majesty asks little of you,” says the Hael man. “Only your complete surrender. We will let you roam the plains as your tribe has always done, but we may take from your wealth and your women as we choose.”

Our wealth? We are not wealthy. We have vast flocks of cattle and sheep and goats, but we are always on the move to find fresh grass for them. We don’t have time to become wealthy. And our tribe is too small to have many women.

Strider doesn’t understand our language, but he can sense their intent. Greedy, but powerful, he says. I don’t like them.

You don’t like anyone, I say lightly.

But he is being serious. They mean to destroy us.

I look sharply at him. Destroy? The Hael man said nothing of destroying us. Was he lying to the chief, then?

“And if we don’t surrender?” booms the chief.

“Then we will force it from you,” says the Hael man.

I have never seen the tribe so silent before. Maica presses closer to me.

There is quiet discussion among the chief and elders. The Hael are patient, and finally, the chief speaks again. “We think your measures are fair. If you only want our women and our herds, you can have them.”

“We’re surrendering?” whispers Maica. He begins to cry.

“Prepare us a feast of your best animals,” says the Hael man. I can hear the smile in his voice. “We’ve ridden a long way. And we want to see your women, too.”

Then the Hael are dismounting and laughing among themselves, and some members of our tribe are taking their horses. Strider pushes his nose into my back. Run, he says.

I look at him like he’s gone mad, because he has. How could I run? Where would I run? Why would I run when the Hael could easily take me down?

The midwife walks by with one of the Hael horses, headed for the watering hole. “Cara, Maica, help with the feast,” she says. She has also been crying and we can instantly tell. We leap over the fence and run to hug her.

“What happens to the women?” demands Maica. “Do you have to go, too?”

“Not me,” says the midwife kindly. “Just the young and pretty ones, to work in their kitchens.” I realize that Maica is too young to be told the truth, and I ruffle his head.

“Like Cara?” he says, frowning.

The thought hasn’t occurred to me. Suddenly, I realize why I have unconsciously been so nervous.

The midwife shakes her head. “She has a pretty face, but she’s too young.”

I take out my spare leaf and pen from my hip-pack, and write, A life of misfortunes. I show it only to the midwife, and she laughs a little, a watery sound a little too sad for my taste.

Maica says, “Let’s go help them with the food.” He grabs my hand and we run off, although I turn to wave good-bye at the midwife and Strider.

Strider just stomps his hoof.

You’re going the wrong way, he says. Come back.

The feast tonight is magnificent. If anyone can feast in celebration, it is our tribe. But we have nothing to celebrate now, and the food and festivities seem empty.

One of the elders struck up a huge bonfire and blessed it. Some of the men are carefully roasting a boar, for the entertainment of the Hael. But the real cooking is going on in another clearing, where the wives are turning great skewers of lamb, and seasoning thick slices of freshly killed calf. The tribe only eats meat once a month, during the feast of the full moon, and the children that belong to the tribe only get leftovers. It smells so good and my mouth is full of saliva.

The midwife brushes past with an armful of cups. “We’re serving the shul,” she says. “Why don’t you help us?”

Shul is my favorite drink and something we only use for important events. It’s a sweet, fermented yogurt stuff that we sometimes blend with fruit and spices. I run to where the jars of shul are kept, pick one up, and sneak a sip. Then I take it to the central clearing where the Hael are waiting with empty cups.

The jar is heavy but I am careful, pouring the drink into their outstretched cups. They really like it and hardly take notice of me. When the jar is empty, I go and retrieve another one. Soon, I have filled all their cups, and the wives have served the meat.

“Where are the women?” shouts the Hael leader. They have taken off their masks and I can see him in the light of the fire. Like the other Hael, he has dark hair and dark eyes, with a nose as sharp as his blade.

The chief is sitting beside him, clearly uncomfortable. The chief is much older than the Hael leader, but he bows his head. “We will assemble them,” he says.

All the wives and young women line up in the clearing, even the old midwife. Our tribe doesn’t have many women. I do not like all of them but I cannot feel sorrier. The Hael leader stands up and crosses over to them. He walks around them like they are beasts, the way one would walk around a horse to assess it.

“This one, this one, and this one,” he says, pointing to the prettiest three of our tribe. One is married but still young and beautiful. The other two are in their twenties and still unmarried. “Ki-Hoo,” he calls to another Hael man. “Take them away. And someone get me some more of that drink.”

I have a half-empty jar of shul beside me, so I grab it and head over to the leader, who is sitting down by the fire again. He holds out his cup and I fill it.

“Wait,” he says as I turn to go. “Come here.”

My heart is racing. I step forward and he takes my chin, looks into my eyes.

“Chief,” he says. “I thought I said to show me all your women. I didn’t see this one just now.”

“She’s not yet sixteen,” says the chief hastily. “She’s still a child.”

“If she’s old enough to bear children, she’s a woman.” The Hael leader turns towards the chief and releases my chin. “I daresay she’s the prettiest one here. And what strange red hair! You forgot her?”

“She’s been an orphan from birth,” he says. “She does not even speak. I didn’t realize she mattered.”

Like a serpent, the Hael leader unsheathes his knife and slices off the chief’s left ear.

My face is frozen in a silent scream.

“You’re just the chief of a small, backwards grassland tribe,” he says, his voice so cold that I feel chilled to the bone. The chief is shrieking and clutching at the blood pouring from his head. “I didn’t realize you mattered.”

Then the Hael leader glances at me and smiles. “You don’t speak?”

I can only stare in horror.

“Answer me. Nod your head,” he says softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

I don’t believe him. But I nod anyway.

“Ki-Hoo!” he shouts. “Take this one, too. But set her aside for the general.”

“Yes, sir,” says Ki-Hoo, who is large like a bear and as crude as one. He takes my wrists and ties them behind my back. I offer no protest. When he’s satisfied, he begins to push me towards where the Hael horses have been tied up, where the other three women have been thrown into one of our caravans.

“Cara!” screams Maica. I turn and see him running towards us. “Let her go!”

Jan suddenly reaches out and holds him still. He struggles to break free, but Jan is strong. “Be quiet,” he says. “Do you want your ear cut off, too?”

“Cara! Cara!” Maica is crying and I also begin to cry. Even Jan looks troubled.

“Come on,” growls Ki-Hoo, and he takes me to the caravan. Roughly, he tosses me inside and slams the door shut. The caravan is small and I curl up against the locked door.

“It’s the orphan girl, the one who can’t talk,” says one of the women in surprise. Her name is Vera and she has also been crying. “Cara.”

I nod, but I am only thinking of Maica and the midwife and the horses I am leaving behind.

“She’s too young,” says the woman that is already married, Laurel. “I can’t believe those men.”

Annin, who is kind and has talked to me before, says, “At least we’ll be going together.”

But none of us knows exactly how long we will be together, how long before the Hael tear us apart. So we sit there in brooding silence, Vera occasionally sniffling, until we fall asleep.

I love-love-love constructive criticism. Please claw at me where you will, as long as it's helpful. Does the flow suck? Are the characters, especially Cara, relatable? Is it interesting you at all? Can you count all the clichés on one hand, or do you need two? Etc., etc.

Good reviews returned. Although once school starts...heh.