Witchfire Read online

fire”

  An Excerpt from the novel Blood Brothers

  by M.F. Soriano

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  Copyright © 2013 M.F. Soriano

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  Cover photo by D.J. Neko Kittie

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  Author contact:

  [email protected]

  “witchfire”

  His eyes burning with bitter tears, his face a red mask of rage and shame, Athemon Arnmakh sprawled in the muck of the goat pen. The jeering of the three boys on the other side of the gate grew louder.

  “There you are, horn-head,” shouted Hanswerth, the beefy leader of the trio. “Back where you belong.”

  Athemon pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and came face to face with one of the pen’s occupants, a stout pygmy goat. It regarded him with its horizontal pupils, seeming nonplussed.

  “He recognizes you,” said Hanswerth. “Maybe he’s a long lost cousin. Go on, Athemon. Give your cousin a kiss!” The other boys roared with laughter.

  The goat put its muzzle near Athemon’s face and sniffed. Apparently it didn’t like what it smelled. It took a few stiff-legged steps backward, dropped its head, and came charging. Athemon scrambled to his feet, but too late. The goat struck him in the back of the knees, and he tumbled over it, landing on his back in the muck. The three boys thought this hilarious, of course; their laughter became even more raucous.

  The little goat shook its head and turned for another charge. Athemon scrambled to his feet again, lurching toward the pen gate, slipping and sliding as he came. But as he reached the gate, he found Hanswerth blocking his way.

  “Where do you think you’re going? Goats stay in the pen.”

  Though he was only a year older than Athemon, Hanswerth was a great deal bigger. He stood as tall as any of the grown men in Hovelton, and weighed more than most. Perhaps he owed his size to his diet—as the son of the neighborhood butcher, Hanswerth had meat with every meal, while a regular citizen felt lucky to have meat once a day. Of course, such a meat-heavy diet had its drawbacks too—Hanswerth’s face was always greasy, with a rash of pimples near his mouth. And he smelled bad.

  Athemon, on the other hand, never ate meat at all. He was a caprine, a racial minority in this mostly human town. Caprines didn’t eat red meat, didn’t dress in fancy clothing, and weren’t allowed to work in most industries. They were recognizable by their ruddy complexions (some caprines were positively red-skinned), their leather skullcaps (which came down to cover the forehead, and were worn by men and women at all times), and their humble stature in society.

  “Goats stay in the pen,” Hanswerth said again, as Athemon tried to squeeze past him.

  Athemon looked back at the little goat, which watched him warily and pawed the ground with its hoof. “Let me by, Hanswerth,” he said.

  The larger boy’s face suddenly turned grim. His companions behind him stopped laughing.

  “Are you giving me an order, horn-head?” Hanswerth said. He reached out with two meaty hands and took hold of the front of Athemon’s tunic. “Is a dirty little caprine telling a human what to do?”

  Athemon’s face flushed darker red. His hands dropped to his sides, and he looked down at Hanswerth’s feet.

  “Did I hear you right, horn-head?” Hanswerth said. “Jollsen, did you hear what I just heard?”

  One of the other two boys stepped forward. “You heard right, Hanswerth,” he said.

  “Rogyle, did you hear it?”

  The other boy stepped forward gravely. “I heard it too.”

  Hanswerth pulled Athemon in close, until their faces were mere inches apart. He fixed his eyes on the smaller boy and spoke quietly. “What did you say to me, you bastard son of a goat?”

  Athemon’s heart pounded in his chest. His face burned. His throat went painfully dry, and he tried to swallow to ease it. With his gaze still cast downward, he whispered “Please, Hanswerth. Please let me by.”

  The bigger boy held him there for a long, quiet moment. “Goats. Stay. In. The. Pen.” he said. Abruptly he snatched Athemon’s skullcap off of his head, and shoved the caprine backwards.

  Athemon hit the ground with enough force to slide a few feet, sending the little goat scurrying out of the way. He clutched at his head in panic, and felt the two familiar knobs there, on his forehead just below his hairline. The air filled with Jollsen and Rogyle’s roaring laughter, and with Hanswerth’s cruel voice, now raised in triumph. “It’s true!” he crowed. “It’s true what they say! The caprines do have horns under their little leather caps!”

  “Give it back,” Athemon pleaded, scuttling forward through the muck on hands and knees. “Give it back, Hanswerth, please,” he cried, one hand covering the horns, the other reaching out for the cap.

  “It’s true, after all,” Hanswerth said. And then an intrigued look spread across his face, and he said “I wonder if it’s also true that caprine’s were born from shepherds rutting with their goats.” He sounded delighted by the idea.

  “Give it back, please, Hanswerth,” Athemon said, tears about to spill from his eyes.

  Hanswerth looked down at the boy still on his knees in the muck, as if just remembering he was there. “Oh, you want this back?” he said.

  “Yes, Hanswerth, please.”

  “Well, all right then.” Hanswerth stooped down, gathered up a heaping handful of muck and goat droppings, and dumped it into the cap. “Have it back,” he said. He squeezed the cap into a filthy ball, and tossed it into the pen.

  The three boys turned and walked away, laughing merrily, as Athemon held his ruined cap in his hands, tears of shame running down his face.

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  Athemon lived in the poor neighborhood of Derberson, a ramshackle collection of city blocks known locally as Hovelton. The neighborhood was populated by caprines, down and out humans, and a few dwarves who for one reason or another chose not to live amongst their own kind. While most of Derberson’s streets were cobbled, the streets in the Hovelton district were of unpaved dirt, which turned to mud at the slightest rain. The district’s principle feature was the town dump, and a certain portion of Hovelton’s residents subsisted by sorting through the trash discarded by Derberson’s wealthier residents, searching for leftover food and items that could be repaired and then sold. Other common Hovelton businesses were bars, brothels, and shops offering merchandise the upscale stores wouldn’t sell.

  Athemon’s father Krathan was the owner of one of these shops. It was a sad little place, huddled at the back of a grimy alley, stuffed to the ceilings with poorly repaired items that couldn’t hope to bring a decent price, if they sold at all. The back rooms of the shop were likewise stuffed, with work tables, tools, and stacks of items awaiting repair. Athemon shared one of these rooms with his younger brother and his uncle; they slept on rag-mattresses stored under the work tables. After his run-in with Hanswerth and company, Athemon hoped to seek refuge in his room.

  But his father was in the shop when he came through, and when the senior Arnmakh saw the state of his oldest son—his clothing covered in muck, with more muck running down the sides of his face from the ruined skullcap he’d crammed back onto his head—he compelled Athemon to stop.

  “What’s the meaning of this, my son,” Krathan said, in a tone of nervous displeasure.

  Athemon stood quietly, unable to speak.

  “Why are you covered in filth?” the elder caprine continued. “And what happened to your cap?”

  Athemon stood silently for another moment, until finally, unable to contain his feelings, he blurted “A local bully and his minions threw me into a goat pen. They took my cap, and pushed me into the muck, and they mocked me.” Athemon’s face flushed with anger at the memory, and rage burned
in his eyes. He looked at his father, and shame overwhelmed his anger. “They filled my cap with goat droppings. They called me bastard, and horn-head.”

  Krathan flinched, and he looked away from his son. In his hand he held a tarnished bronze figurine, which he was trying to polish. The bronze had worn thin in several places, and would not hold a shine.

  “It is not seemly for a caprine to be seen in public without his cap,” he said.

  “But father, they took it from me!”

  “It is not seemly, and you should not provoke the humans.”

  “I did not—“

  “You must learn to mind your place!” Krathan said sharply. The room rang with silence for a moment, until he continued in a quieter voice. “Our future depends upon our ability to cohabitate with humans. If you do not know your place, you put your family in danger. The chance for a better life, all that we have worked for and are working for still, is at risk.”

  Athemon looked at the floor and said nothing, but his hands clenched to fists.

  “Athemon, my son,” Krathan said more gently. “You must learn to be humble before the