Unmarked Part 1: Unmarked, #1

By R. Minter

Lilau Noka wasn't just born different, she was born to die.

The intervention of the spirits kept the local tribe from leaving her to her fate, but the spirits only demanded she live. Acceptance was never part of the deal. Stuck on the outside, the unwanted child grows into an equally unwanted woman. But when a golden serpent grants her magical sight, an unknown threat drives her on as a single question burns an ever deeper wound—if she is so worthless, why is she alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Minter
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223399094

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alarge beast burst through the underbrush, its white striped breast heaving as it pushed ever onward. Black hooves sunk into the soft, dark soil. Its passage stirred up the still air, introducing the scents of fear and heavy sweat that clung to its light brown hide.

Its pursuers burst through the brush it just vacated. The noise spurred it on, its eyes wide and wild as it ignored the pricks of burrs and the slap of branches against its antlers.

The lead pursuer, a sleek, steel gray wolf nearly the size of the prey it harried, veered off to the left with a powerful thrust of its haunches, its rider tucked against the fur on its back. The wolf’s tongue lolled out, but not from fatigue. Sheer excitement pounded through every fiber of its being. It was made for this, born for it, and it knew its prey would be beneath its teeth soon.

A dusty brown packmate came up on the right and matched strides. Its own rider laying flat against it, their arms and legs holding tight to leather straps. Together the two wolves flanked the great buck even as a third ashen wolf and rider traced a straight line to the animal’s short tail.

Their prey strove harder, foam splattering across its hide as it sensed the ground it had lost and they had gained. Its great heart pounded in its chest, giving its all to the limbs that were growing heavy with strain.

The great buck stumbled, sealing its fate. The wolf on the right lunged and stretched its body out as it twisted. Claws and teeth caught in the deer’s flank, the extra weight pulling it down. The deer’s long legs pinwheeled and stomped, unwilling to give up despite its doomed situation.

The center wolf dug into its haunches and brought them flush with the earth as the wolf on the left jumped for the throat. Blood filled the hunter’s mouth, hot and sweet as its fangs sunk through the tender flesh. A bellow shook the trees. The final, desperate cry of an animal that lost the race of life. It shuddered, then lay still, its strength now belonging to the predators who held it within their jaws.

The wolves released their grip as their prey went still, tails wagging furiously, ears standing erect. They were eager, expectant, but calm and happy as their riders slid from their backs to examine their handiwork. The three men, ruddy as the setting sun from the tops of their rough shorn hair to the bottoms of their leather shod feet, quickly went to work.

One drew a sharp hunter’s knife, its five-inch blade opening the neck as easy as the wolf’s fangs. The other two pulled long, hand-woven rope from the leather harnesses that twined their way around the wolves’ bodies. With deft hands, they knotted a rope around each hind hock, then threw the ropes over a sturdy branch. With a heave, the deer rose from the forest floor. Its flaccid tongue hung down as the rest of its life fluid ran from the gash in its neck and collected in a small, carved bucket. Sure of their share of the kill, the wolves waited while the men worked.

A sharp cry cut through the focus of the hunters, shrill and urgent. The wolves cocked their heads, but they would not move unless their people decided they should. After all, a human babe was none of their concern.

The men halted their job, the partially flayed deer hide hanging off of the dangling carcass. They muttered among themselves for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. The cry sounded from a newborn. While every one of them would normally race to help a child in need, they knew a newborn alone in the forest was likely to mean one thing, that the child was weak or ill-formed. Such a child would only take from its parents, from its village, and never give. Such an existence should return to the land, so that its essence could be recycled into a different form. To interfere with that was taboo. None dared to risk such a dire offense.

But what if it wasn’t left on purpose? one asked. To leave a healthy youngling to die would bring offense to the Fokla, the spirits of the forest. Dared they risk that either?

There was no suitable answer, and the wails grew more insistent. Finally, they decided the path of least harm was to go and look. If the Fokla favored the baby, let them show them a sign, otherwise, they would leave it to its fate.

The wolves padded behind the men, alert. Their riders walked with rigidity, a tightness that bled down to them and made them wary. If something attacked, they would be ready.

Before long, they found the source of the piercing cries. On a bed of leaves lay a tiny, bare baby girl, so new to the world her ghostly pale skin kept a waxy hue and the remains of the cord which bound her to her mother still stuck to her round stomach.

It’s as I said, one man huffed. It’s Unmarked and weak. Just look how small and pale it is. We should leave.

Another sighed. He hoped to rescue a survivor of some unfortunate event, but this was not the case. He nodded, ready to turn back to finish preparing their kill. They only managed one step when a gale ripped through the trees. It knocked them down; the leaves caught within its grasp, cutting small grooves into their exposed flesh as they whipped by.

They turned in the direction the gale blew to protect their eyes, finding themselves yet again facing the Unmarked. The sight forced a quick prayer from the lips of all three.

Still tiny and deathly white, yet now surrounded by leaves that had touched down in a star-like pattern far too intricate to be chance.

Look, brother, the forest has spoken. The man smiled. He had been right. None of them could deny the sign of the forest the very wind had drawn around her leafy cradle.

His comrades stood, perhaps stunned, perhaps still unsure. Let them doubt the very spirits, he would not. He shed his fur tunic, wrapping it around the delicate form that calmed at the proximity of another human being.

Reverently, they returned to the carcass. They stripped the hide. Although the blemishes in it from the wolves’ attacks marred its surface, it would make fine leather once treated.

A swift cut lay the entrails bare, anticipation rising among the wolves at the sight of such tender meats. The men wasted no time in freeing the offal from the body cavity and threw it to their drooling companions. No piece would go to waste. They would fillet away the meat for food and collect the bones for tools, toys, and utensils.

As the knives glided over the muscle and through sinew, a baby looked on from a furry tunic-turned-blanket, smokey alabaster eyes tracking something unseen through the canopy.

THE SUN WAS HIGH WHEN the hunters returned to their village. Dappled sunlight shone on the cluster of small huts and structures. Their make of plant materials and earth gave the impression they had sprouted up from the forest, instead of built from it. The pervading scent of musk, dirt, and conifers in full growth only solidified this idea.

Fur-covered forms, both four and two-legged, moved around and through the structures. Many hunters and foragers had returned with their bounty, which they now prepared for use and storage.

Two of the newly arrived trio split away, eager to go about their tasks. The other had a stop to make. His wolf weaved through the crowd with a dexterity at odds with its bulk. It led its rider up to a long, wooden hut twice the size of those around it.

The rider slid off, touching the ground without a sound and without jostling the bundle that had been lulled to sleep by the rocking gait of his companion. Devoid of its rider, the wolf trotted away to find another willing to relieve it of its other burdens.

The man did not have to knock. Exercising her well-known, almost preternatural, ability to know when a visitor was at the threshold, the Elder Woman opened the door. She regarded him with a piercing look that took measure of him and his cargo within seconds. Her eyes narrowed, but she stepped back and waved him in.

Dipping down in thanks, he accepted her invitation and stepped inside. Simple wooden furniture dotted the inside of the open interior. Long shelves, heavy with bone and leather containers, lined the back wall, while low tables stood covered with herbal ingredients that cast their pungent odor into the air.

The Elder had invited him in, but she did not offer him a seat.

What is the meaning of this? she asked in a scathing voice roughened with age.

The hunter cowed under her tone like a reprimanded child.

We found this baby in the forest. We were going to leave it, as nature decrees, but the forest gave us a sign.

A sign? Describe this to me so I may know the consequences of your actions.

And so he did, with every detail he could remember.

The Elder regarded the child in his arms with what he first guessed was alarm, but deciding such a reaction made no sense, instead figured on surprise and awe. Such an occurrence was something only told in stories, so it seemed a reasonable reaction.

I see. You were right to bring this child to us. I shall keep it until Raval’s return, when we shall discuss what we will do with it.

Reaching in to the tunic, she slid her hands under the baby’s arms, pulling it up to lie against her shoulder. It was a motion that carried with it the necessary care, but no tenderness. This did not surprise the hunter. The Elder Woman was well known for her knowledge of caring for others and her apathy toward their plights.

You may go now. Tell Wika that we need some of Balin’s milk, for today at least.

The man bowed in respect, then retreated out the door. He was glad to fulfill the Fokla’s wishes, but he was happier still to not have to care for the strange child. Something was amiss with it, and he would much rather the Wise Ones carry that burden. Theirs was the way of spirits, healing and knowledge. His was the way of the hunter and the artisans.

The woman put the man from her mind, focusing on the conundrum in front of her. Bending down and ignoring the twinge of protest from her lower back, she smoothed out the soft fur pelt that lined the floor in front of the fire pit. It was thick and warm, taken from a mottled brown bear that had grown in a full winter coat. The insulation it gave combined with the already warm early summer air would provide plenty of heat for the naked babe. At least until she decided it was worth the trouble of making it a tunic and blanket of its own.

After placing the still sleeping child on the rug, she settled into her own fur-covered chair a couple of feet away. She watched the child curiously as she waited for her partner to return. The village outside bustled, the sounds barely muffled through the plant and earth walls. It was far from quiet, yet the baby slept deep, oblivious to its surroundings. Perhaps it was already too weak to save. Yet if what the hunter said was true, that wouldn’t make sense. The Fokla would not deign to show themselves for someone already returning to the land. Not that the newborn didn’t already look halfway to the spirits anyway, with its pallid, stunted body.

She was still musing, and the baby sleeping, when her partner walked in. Like hers, his hair was half silver. Also like her, his age and experience had garnered him the position of Elder.

The sudden increase in the volume of noise as he opened the door caused the baby to wake. It made a face, curled up tight, then stuck its limbs out straight and wailed.

Oh? It seems I am right on time. He chuckled as he came around, scooped up the baby, rug and all, and stuck a carved bone spout in its mouth.

The baby scrunched up its face, trying to cry around the bizarre thing sitting on its tongue.

Now, now. It may not be what you want, but it’s what you got, little one. Drink up. He tilted the small container, spilling a bit of the wolf’s milk down the baby’s throat.

It startled at the sudden influx, throwing its limbs out again as it gulped it down. It scrunched its face up more, but stopped crying, finding swallowing to be a better course of action.

The Elder Man plopped down into a chair, his eyes twinkling with good humor. Look at that, Mara! She’s tiny, but she’s got a good appetite!

Mara snorted. Or you’re forcing it down the child and it will soon come right back up. Better you than me.

Bah, don’t be so negative, woman! She’ll need a lot of good food and good care to grow. She’s got plenty of catching up to do!

Care that won’t be ours to give, Raval. Remember that. May be no one’s.

Raval narrowed his eyes at her.

"What do you mean? The hunters told me the same story, every one. To let her die now