Cruel Empire – Robyn Wideman

Now, though, he felt a flicker of fear. They were still near the ocean. The wilderness was untamed land… What if the Marked Ones had found a way to shore? The raiders from the ocean often pillaged and looted farmer homes and fields. The Empire was cracking down on such attacks, but the Marked Ones were known for their cunning. But Oren wasn’t sure. He’d been told the raiders didn’t speak their tongue at all—been told they spoke a different language entirely.

But if that was true, then these strangers couldn’t be raiders. So who were they? Oren’s heart pounded wildly, and he watched the men move through the trees, trying to keep an eye on them. He shifted in his position, also slinking along with the sound of voices, of movement and motion. The closer the men got to his family’s camp, though, the quieter they went. And then, the torches suddenly went out. Oren felt a flicker of panic.

It had been hard to understand what the strangers were saying, but now, judging by the suddenly doused light, it seemed as if they knew where his family was sleeping. He followed after, his hand gripping tight on the small knife. His other hand, wrapped in bandages, dangling uselessly at his side. A one armed seventeen-year-old, out of his element, was hardly an ideal guardian against a wilderness ambush.

Still, he had to do something. He hastened forward, as quickly as he could navigate in the dark, moving through trees, under branches, into branches, and ricocheting painfully off. The voices ahead were murmuring now. He thought he detected the faintest sound of iron against sheathes. “Four slumbers,” whispered one man. “Seen come past in two.”

“Hour be two?” “Hour be.” The two voices faded again. And then dark silhouettes arose from behind a tree. One of them, with furtive hand gestures, directed the other to slip around towards the oxen. The other, with something sharp and gleaming in his hand, began to stalk slowly towards Koki’s slumbering form. Oren stared from his hiding spot in the trees, nearly twenty paces away. He didn’t have time to think. If he shouted, it would alert everyone but might also prompt the ambushers to faster action. He still didn’t know who they were or what they wanted.

He hadn’t spotted any tattoos, suggesting perhaps—hopefully—they weren’t cultivators. If they were, this was all a moot point anyway. The few hours of freedom would turn bittersweet in death. They weren’t raiders. He’d decided that much. He could understand them, though, not well, but also the Marked Ones from the ocean were known for their combat prowess. Known as swarthy, muscled men who fought for honor and coin. These men, on the other hand, were a bit pudgy.

A bit slow. They didn’t even have proper weapons now that Oren had a good look.

There, in his hand. Stolen. On the outskirts of the village, beneath the cherry blossom trees ornamented with white and pink flowers, Oren Peng stared at the blade with eyes threatening to pop from his skull. Which only made things worse, as he very much liked his eyes exactly where they currently resided. It was rare in the coastal village of Talktu to find someone with mismatched eyes: one the hue of unburnt coal, the other of storming seas.

Now though, the gaze that some had described as “off-putting” was directed towards the contraband. The cool metal of the cheap dagger weighed against his fingers and palm, rough on his already calloused hands. But Oren’s callouses were those of a laborer, a worker, and a self- styled lover—though at seventeen-years-old and single, he was still working on that last part.

But he was not a soldier. And certainly not a thief. “W-where did you find this?” Briefly, he wondered where that high- pitched little girl’s voice was coming from. Then he realized his own words had risen an octave. He winced and tried again. “Where did you get this?” This time, his voice trembled, and his mouth felt as if it had been dabbed with cotton. His friend and partner-in-crime, Koki, gave a giddy little jig of excitement, which involved shifting shoulders and far too much hip- shimmy for Oren’s personal comfort levels.

“Stop that,” Oren insisted. “No, stop—stand still! Where did you get this?” He demanded, holding the curved dagger up to the light. “Do you want them to take your hand?” His eyes bugged even further, and he suddenly dropped the blade. “Or my hand?” He took a couple of shuffling steps back and nearly fell into the river. Thankfully, Koki caught his shirt, holding him on the water’s edge. An impressive feat partly aided by their size disparity.

And, perhaps, by Koki’s experience with clothing in general—the farmer’s son always wore somewhat nicer garb than Oren. Multiple sets of nicer clothing. Koki was also a head taller than most the boys in the village and had broad shoulders and an even broader smile. His hands were readily calloused from the time spent working dawn until dusk on his father’s farm. If anything, this only further terrified Oren, as thieves and pickpockets were meant to be small, with thin fingers.

The sorts that went unnoticed. Koki had the subtlety of a boulder avalanche. Someone at the festival would have noticed him. Maybe even now soldiers were marching through the streets, heading to the cherry groves to arrest them. Oren, unlike his friend, was of average height.

His arms were muscled from days at the forge wielding his hammer.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 41c28f96eb3e696d
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,936,488 bytes (1.847 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 399
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 620.97 minutes
• Total Words: 124,194
• Total Characters: 706,162
• Average Words per Page: 311.26
• Average Characters per Page: 1769.83

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