Free Heartfelt Sounds by C.M. Estopare Page B

to pull it from him. To stick it through his belly.
    For me?
    For me it would be hard—he'd kill me!
    But isn't that what you want, Naia? Deep, deep down…
    …you either want to die or kill them—isn't that true?
    The first man begins moving down his rank, tapping men at random. They step from the line, and the second man does the same—but he's yelling. His voice is stark and hard—gray yet brittle. It rakes at my ears like the screech of a poorly tuned zither and I tense. My shoulders rise to my ears.
    He comes closer— screaming.
    I notice the men he chooses are frail. That the men both soldiers choose are tiny, feminine—like children. Like me.
    “They're weeding out the weak.” Blue eyes whispers near me. “Priming for the march ahead.”
    “Where do the weak go? What do they do with them?” My voice is hurried—panicked.
    I feel the man rise his shoulders. He lowers them. Shrugs.
    I hear hard footsteps in the grass. Blades crunch.
    “You!”
    He comes nearer now—shoving people out. Pulling them to stare into their faces only to push them back into line.
    For the march ahead.
    A hard hand grips my shoulder.
    Blue eyes tenses near me.
    We both hold our breath.
    As I look into the face of a grizzled old man—tanned. Eyes cut into thick skin that's like cardboard.
    Hard, dark, eyes.
    …evil eyes.
    They widen in recognition—only to curve. Their corners crinkling.
    His smile is crooked. Fleeting. All black teeth.
    He shoves me out of line.
    And onto the ground.

14. Sworn to Follow
    The man Akane stabbed—the old man who tried to capture me…
    How is he alive?!
    The man leans over me—inches from my face. “You're lucky I care about what meat joins my infantry, girl.” the last word is hissed—barely above a whisper. “If you knew who was talking to you—you'd get up.”
    But I make no move to stand. The ground is so nice. So warm.
    He snorts—spits. The wad landing squarely on me. I blanch as it hits my face. Splat— right in between my eyes.
    “Get up, runt.” the words are orders—barked harshly at me. I hear men turn in the grass—staring. “Get up.”
    And I scramble onto my knees, I plant my hands beneath my shoulders.
    Just as he slides my hands out from under me, the toe of his boot swift. Unmerciful. My jaw slams into the frozen ground—a tooth cracks. My face washes with heat before the pain comes—and it's like a thunderclap in my head. Deafening.
    “You were too slow.”
    And he moves on. Going down the line. Pulling men out. Leaving them to stay.
    I am the only one who can right myself. Who can wipe the phlegm from my face and stand—even though my jaw aches horribly. A lump forms in my throat—choking me. Forcing more tears that burn my chapped skin. But I make myself stand like the others—beaten, embarrassed and defeated.
    I want to run.
    I want to turn around and go back—start my life over—beg Althea not to let me go.
    But the river at my back is brutal. The wind is calling—calling me back to this world. Ordering me to say.
    Is this what the Fates have willed for me?
    When the clouds above slightly part, the sleet stops. A beam of gold emerges from a sliver of clouds, and the men who earned the chance to stay in the ranks march up the dirt road towards the castle and pause—kicking up a cloud of dust. Moments later they keep going, a man barking cadence. A tuneless sound that's horrid. An insult to the call of the wind.
    I look around. There's a handful of us. Maybe fifty or sixty. We weren't worth their time—their training.
    Is this my chance to run?
    Down the hill comes a single man, purple silks glinting in the single beam of sunlight that pours over the plains. He wears a round cap upon his head, a long feather prowling from it. Bouncing as he glides down the hill. Marking his steps.
    He claps his hands loudly when he's close. Hailing us with a sound.
    The men run. Sprinting to the man in purple—forming a column of twos. I am last to the