Tribe: The Red Hand (Tribe Series Book 1) (12 page)

Kestrel rolled to her back in time to avoid Aiden’s next strike, which hammered a deep groove in the grass. She scissored her legs around and swept him off his feet. When he slammed down into the grass inches from her, she tried to drive her blade into his face. He caught the weapon with his own, and shoved it aside.

Scrambling and grunting, they both came up together. They circled each other warily, each panting like overheated dogs. The trickle of blood running from her brother’s nose proclaimed that her last strike had landed, after all. The bellowing villagers bounced on their toes and waved their hands overhead, calling for more.

“Are you done playing, little sister?” Aiden growled, spinning his wooden knives in a showy flourish.

Kestrel dug a toe deep into the grass. “I am a Red Hand. I do not play.”

“You are no Red—”

He cut off with a yell when Kestrel kicked a tuft of grass and dirt into his face. Clawing at his eyes, he spun away.

She followed, hammering one blade against his shoulder, the other against his ribs. Shaking his head and snarling, Aiden fell to one knee. Kestrel reared back, lifting her weapons high, meaning to crack his head.

Aiden had been waiting for the irresistible attack. As soon as she stretched up, exposing her middle, he lashed out. His fists, wrapped tight about the hilts of his knives, crashed against her belly, one after the other, driving the breath from her body and knocking her backward. Kestrel’s arms pinwheeled, her feet tangled, and she went down in a twisted heap. Instinct alone made her get up, her head swinging wildly in search of her brother.

He was not where she expected. He had darted a quarter of the distance around the clearing, and was flashing near on her weak side, one blade held out before him, the other cocked behind his head.

She blocked the outthrust blade before he could stab it into her neck, and his second weapon instantly slashed down, glancing off the side of her head and cracking against her injured shoulder. As he flew by her, his foot collided with her chest, knocking her to her back.

Kestrel rolled woozily to her side, head lolling. Aiden, wooden knives held over his head in triumph, swaggered around the ring. The villagers bellowed their approval. Kestrel found her mother and father standing beside One-Ear Tom. Their expressions ranged from fear to disappointment to pity.

Fury caught fire within Kestrel, gave her the strength to get to her feet again. As Aiden continued to play the strutting rooster, she stood swaying, wooden knives held limply in her hands. Her ribs felt cracked. Blood swamped her mouth, a trickle dribbling from her lips. More ran from the bandages at her hip and neck. In that moment, she saw her mistakes. By falling prey to her desire for revenge against her brother, she had shamed the only person that mattered.
Herself
. Everyone would remember how she had failed this night, but what she would remember was how she had proven Aiden right about not being fit to be a Red Hand.

No
, she thought. Then, with more force,
NO!

Play the rabbit,
One-Ear Tom and Tessa said as one within her mind.

To defeat the wolf, she had no choice.

When Aiden returned his attention to her, he flashed a merciless grin and stalked close, gaining speed with every step. His blades whirled.

Come to me, wolf.

At the last instant, Kestrel threw her arms high, as if stricken with terror and meaning to surrender. Scalding tears threatened to overspill her eyes, and she let them fall.

Aiden’s pace increased.

Kestrel abruptly lowered her blades. Seeing her ploy, Aiden tried to turn aside, but he was too close, coming too fast, and he rammed against their wooden tips. He grunted sharply when they dug into his belly. Kestrel locked one arm and folded the other, spinning Aiden off balance. She shoved hard, and sent him sprawling facedown.

Before he could leap up, Kestrel brought both blades down on the back of his head, splitting his scalp in two places and slamming his face against the ground.

Stunned silence fell for the second time that night.

Before victory could escape, Kestrel leaped on Aiden’s back, slid the edge of one wooden knife under his throat, and caught the tip with her other hand. Aiden convulsed, trying to buck her off, but Kestrel pulled hard, grinding the blade against his neck. She had only to pull a little harder to crush his windpipe. He went still, his rapid breaths gurgling and strained.

“Do you surrender, brother?” she hissed.

Instead of answering directly, Aiden twisted his head. Blood was pouring from his nose and split lips, and there were bits of grass stuck to his face. He surprised her by rasping, loud enough for all to hear, “I’m beaten. Please, little sister, have mercy!”

As the villagers erupted, Kestrel felt Aiden shuddering, and eased the blade from his neck. She looked again at his bloody face, and was shocked to find that he was laughing.

Before she could even begin to wonder what he thought was so funny, the villagers lifted her above their heads and carried her on a surging wave back up the knoll to the Bone Tree.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Kestrel felt dazed and distant from all that had happened. The seeker’s tea, gaining the mark of a Red Hand, displaying her fighting skills alone and against Aiden, and finally the crazed, bouncing journey back up the knoll in the hands of her exuberant people, all seemed like parts of a peculiar dream that fit poorly together.

And now, once more, she found herself standing beneath the Bone Tree. Only one thing remained before the tribe recognized her as a Red Hand, but she had a hard time focusing on it.

Sweat, dirt, and blood covered her head to toe, and tufts of dead grass hung from her hair. She hurt all over, and each heartbeat thumped in her ears, taking the place of the drums that had fallen as silent as the watching villagers. The taste of blood on her tongue made her queasy, and she worried, here at the last, that she would finally vomit in front of everyone.

Somehow, she swallowed the rising bile; somehow, she lifted her head and looked straight ahead.

An engraved box made of aged pine sat on the black and white stone bench between her and the Elders, who were braced on either side by the Warchiefs. Her father gave her a reserved grin and shook his head, as if to say,
My daughter, whatever will I do with you?

With some effort, she shrugged meekly, and thought,
Let me sleep, I hope.

Aiden stood among the Warchiefs and the Elders, looking as battered as she did. She did not for a minute believe skill had let her win the contest between them, but luck only. Had they really been fighting, Aiden’s initial attack would have crippled or killed her immediately. When the day came when she fought a true battle, she would remember what had happened tonight, and be better prepared.

At her back, her mother was hidden amongst the rest of the Red Hands and the villagers, who had all pressed in close, but remained silent, listening intently to catch every detail of the ceremony’s conclusion.

Kestrel began to think if things did not hurry up, she was going to have to sit down. If that shamed her in some way, so be it.

It was then that One-Ear Tom came forward with her father at his side. Where Matthias put on a solemn expression, Kestrel’s mentor favored her with a pleased smile. Her father spoke first.

“On this night, the Ancestors have blessed all of us with another worthy protector. That Kestrel is my daughter, and my second child to prove she has the ability and fortitude to serve us as a Red Hand, only blesses me that much more.”

The villagers matched the Elder’s gravity with a low rumble of approval that made Kestrel feel loved and grateful. From this night forward, her sole purpose would be to defend these people at all costs, a task she had wanted all her life. Tears of gladness welled in her eyes.

“Now,” her father went on, as One-Ear Tom opened the lid of the box and reached inside, “let these bones we hang upon the tree of our Ancestors, and those we hang around her neck, prove to one and all that my daughter, Kestrel Stoneheart, has fulfilled all the demands required of her to join those who defend our lives against our enemies.”

The murmurs of approval were louder this time, sprinkled with clapping from the women, and chest pounding from the men.

For Kestrel, what her father was saying, and the response from the villagers, had grown distant. Her eyes had locked on the necklace One-Ear Tom took out of the box. There was something wrong with it. The lion’s teeth were clear enough—four of them, long and sharp, strung on a stout leather cord. But there were other teeth on the cord, as well. Human teeth.

As One-Ear Tom stepped around the bench and came closer to her, holding the necklace out before him, Matthias reached inside the box. Instead of pulling out one skull, two came out. In his right hand, he held the lion’s skull. It had been stripped of all flesh and hide, and gleamed a creamy yellow in the torchlight. In his left hand, he held a human skull, which also shone with a buttery hue. The top of each had been fitted with a short length of wire and a brass clip. As he raised them up for all to see, an awed murmur went through the crowd.

Kestrel stared at the human skull, a low buzzing sound filling her head.
What is this?
Before she could work up enough spit to loosen her tongue, her father spoke again.

“When my son, Aiden, became the youngest Red Hand by taking a Black Ear as his Kill, I never expected to see his achievement bested. Apparently, my daughter saw fit to follow his example. Not content with slaying a fierce lion, she also pursued and killed one of our vilest foes.” He hefted the skull. “Thankfully, this particular Stone Dog will never join another raiding party against us.”

The cheer that erupted from the villagers was deafening, and despite the formality of the ceremony, dozens of people surged forward, all reaching out to touch Kestrel, as though she were a living talisman that could change the fortune of their lives. At that moment she understood her mother’s strange edginess earlier, and also her father’s look of pride.

If One-Ear Tom had not arrived at that moment and placed the necklace around her neck, Kestrel would have fallen over. As he backed away, an idea struck her that made more sense than anything else did.
I am dreaming. I’m lying somewhere up on the mountain, feverish and dying from flesh-rot.

Her father raised his hands, quieting the villagers. “To all those Potentials who seek to become Red Hands in the future, I give this warning. Do not think you must prove yourself better than my children.” Unable to hide his proud look, he added sternly, “Once you become a Red Hand in the
usual
way, there will be plenty of opportunity to face our enemies. Doing so before you are ready, even if you
think
you are ready, or worse yet, because you
think
you should, will only result in far fewer Potentials returning home with their Kill. Is that understood?”

The villagers accepted his words of caution by laughing loudly, and slapping the backs of the few young, blushing Potentials.

Kestrel peered about. None of this felt like a dream, yet she knew she had not killed any of the Stone Dogs who had chased her….

Her silent denial drifted way like so much thistledown, along with the rowdy villagers. And then she was on the mountain again, only a few steps ahead of rough men howling for her blood, sprinting through darkness slashed with pulses of lightning, the trees around her whipped by wind and rain.

She saw the hazy outline of a man rise up before her, saw herself lifting her knife and locking her elbow, turning her arm into a spear. A second later, she collided with him and bounced away. When she got to her feet, the knife was gone from her hand, and her enemy was making
breathless
gagging noises. She might have knocked the wind from him, or.…

Or did I bury my blade in his chest?

It seemed possible, even likely.

The memory danced away, and another took its place.

She was sitting on the soggy ground across the fire from Aiden, angry and hurt after listening to him tell her how honorless and weak she was, but she was also frustrated because he refused to believe the number of men she had seen—eight on the mountain, and another lying in wait at the edge of the forest….

Another shift, backward, to the moment Aiden attacked the Stone Dogs, his blades whistling through the rainy night air as easily as they cut through the men. They fell, one by one, and she counted them now, as she had then. The number remained the same. Seven dead. Seven Stone Dogs. Not eight or nine, but
seven
….

Another shift, forward to the moment before they set out for the river.
A true Red Hand, little sister, never loses their weapon,
Aiden had said, and then hurled a knife into the ground beside her hip. The knife her father had given her; the knife she had lost. There was only one possible way Aiden could have retrieved it.

While I was unconscious, he must’ve gone back up the mountain
. Kestrel clearly imagined him ghosting through the sodden forest, a shadow among shadows, until he came to the fallen man—
The man I stabbed … the man I
killed
.