Only the Worthy. Morgan Rice
was a strength that demanded her to be bigger than she could ever be.
As Rea walked slowly down the dirt street, she became dimly aware of her surroundings, and of the eyes of the villagers watching her. She turned, and on either side of the street saw the curious and disapproving eyes of old and young women, of old men and boys, of the lone survivors, maimed men who bore the scars of that night. They all held great suffering in their faces. And they all stared at her, at her stomach, as if she were somehow to blame.
She saw women her age amongst them, faces haunted, staring back with no compassion. Many of them, Rea knew, had been impregnated, too, and had already taken the root. She could see the grief in their eyes, and she could sense that they wanted her to share it.
Rea felt the crowd thicken around her and when she looked up she was surprised to see a wall of people blocking her path. The entire village seemed to have come out, men and women, old and young. She saw the agony in their faces, an agony she had shared, and she stopped and stared back at them. She knew what they wanted. They wanted to kill her boy.
She felt a sudden rush of defiance – and she resolved at that moment that she never would.
“Rea,” came a tough voice.
Severn, a middle-aged man with dark hair and beard, a scar across his cheek from that night, stood in their center and glared down at her. He looked her up and down as if she were a piece of cattle, and the thought crossed her mind that he was little better than the nobles. All of them were the same: all thought they had the right to control her body.
“You will take the root,” he commanded darkly. “You will take the root, and tomorrow this shall all be behind you.”
At Severn’s side, a woman stepped forward. Luca. She had also been attacked that night, and had taken the root the week before. Rea had heard her groaning all the night long, her wails of grief for her lost child.
Luca held out a sack, its yellow powder visible inside, and Rea recoiled. She felt the entire village looking to her, expecting her to reach out and take it.
“Luca will accompany you to the river,” Severn added. “She will stay with you through the night.”
Rea stared back, feeling a foreign energy rising within her as she looked at them all coldly.
She said nothing.
Their faces hardened.
“Do not defy us, girl,” another man said, stepping forward, tightening his grip on his sickle until his knuckles turned white. “Do not dishonor the memory of the men and women we lost that night by giving life to their issue. Do what you are expected. Do what is your place.”
Rea took a deep breath, and was surprised at the strength in her own voice as she answered:
“I will not.”
Her voice sounded foreign to her, deeper and more mature than she had ever heard it. It was as if she had become a woman overnight.
Rea watched their faces flash with anger, like a storm cloud passing over a sunny day. One man, Kavo, frowned and stepped forward, an air of authority about him. She looked down and saw the flogger in his hand.
“There’s an easy way to do this,” he said, his voice full of steel. “And a hard way.”
Rea felt her heart pounding as she stared back, looking him right in the eyes. She recalled what her father had told her once when she was a young girl: never back down. Not to anyone. Always stand up for yourself, even if the odds were against you. Especially if the odds were against you. Always set your sights on the biggest bully. Attack first. Even if it means your life.
Rea burst into action. Without thinking, she reached over, snatched a staff from one of the men’s hands, stepped forward, and with all her might jabbed Kavo in the solar plexus.
Kavo gasped as he keeled over, and Rea, not giving him another chance, drew it back and jabbed him in the face. His nose cracked and he dropped the flogger and fell to the ground, clutching his nose and groaning into the mud.
Rea, still gripping the staff, looked up and saw the group of horrified, shocked faces staring back. They all looked a bit less certain.
“It is my boy,” she spat. “I am keeping it. If you come for me, the next time it won’t be a staff in your belly, but a sword.”
With that, she tightened her grip on the staff, turned, and slowly walked away, elbowing her way through the crowd. Not one of them, she knew, would dare follow her. Not now, at least.
She walked away, her hands shaking, her heart pounding, knowing it would be a long six months until her baby came.
And knowing that the next time they came for her, they would come to kill.
CHAPTER THREE
Six Moons Later
Rea lay on the pile of furs beside her small, roaring fireplace, entirely and utterly alone, and groaned and shrieked in agony as her labor pains came. Outside, the winter wind howled as fierce gales slammed the shutters against the sides of the house and snow burst in drifts into the cottage. The raging storm matched her mood.
Rea’s face was shiny with sweat as she sat beside the small fire, yet she could not get warm, despite the raging flames, despite the baby kicking and spinning in her stomach as if it were trying to leap out. She was wet and cold, shaking all over, and she felt certain that she would die on this night. Another labor pain came, and feeling the way she did, she wished the marauder had just killed her back then; it would have been more merciful. This slow prolonged torture, this night of sheer agony, was a thousand times worse than anything he could have ever done to her.
Suddenly, rising even over her shrieks, over the gales of wind, there came another sound – perhaps the only sound left that was capable of sending a jolt of fear up her spine.
It was the sound of a mob. An angry mob of villagers, coming, she knew, to kill her child.
Rea summoned every last ounce of strength, strength she did not even know she had left, and, shaking, somehow managed to lift herself up off the floor. Groaning and screaming, she landed on her knees, wobbling. She reached out for a wooden peg on the wall, and with everything she had, with one great shriek she rose to standing.
She could not tell if it hurt more to be lying down or on her feet. But she had no time to ponder it. The mob grew louder, closer, and she knew they would soon arrive. Her dying would not bother her. But her baby dying – that was another matter. She had to get this child safe, no matter what it took. It was the strangest thing, but she felt more attached to the baby’s life than her own.
Rea managed to stumble to the door and crashed into it, using the knob to hold herself up. She stood there, breathing hard for several seconds, resting on the knob, bracing herself. Finally, she turned it. She grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the wall and, propping herself up on it, opened the door.
Rea was met by a sudden gale of wind and snow, cold enough to take her breath away. The shouts met her, too, rising even over the wind, and her heart dropped to see in the distance the torches, winding their way toward her like enraged fireflies in the night. She glanced up at the sky and between the clouds caught a glimpse of a huge blood red moon, filling the sky. She gasped. It was not possible. She had never seen the moon shine red, and had never seen it in a storm. She felt a sharp kick in her stomach, and she suddenly knew, without a doubt, that that moon was a sign. It was meant for the birth of her child.
Who is he? she wondered.
Rea reached down and held her stomach with both hands as another person writhed inside her. She could feel his power, aching to break through, as if he were eager to fight this mob himself.
Then they came. The flaming torches lit the night as a mob appeared before her, emerging from the alleys, heading right for her. If she had been her old self, strong, able, she would have made a stand. But she could barely walk – barely stand – and she could not face them now. Not with her child about to come.
Even so, Rea felt a primal rage course through