Page 1 of Humans Don't Have Horns
Chapter One
Lian
I hold tight to the hilt of my dagger. The weapon’s beautiful mother-of-pearl hilt matches the thousands of pearls sewn to my wedding dress.
My entire appearance, like the knife, is an extravagant demonstration of wealth created by my father, the king of Aldon. My forced marriage was to cement a fragile alliance with the wealthiest monarch in all of Amada.
My guardian slipped me the dagger before she fled for her life as the attack on the wedding camp unfolded. This woman who had been my shadow for so long left me alone to face my fate. Even last night, as I was savaged, she had stayed, diverting her eyes from mine as I was stripped of my dignity and humanity, and darkness descended. When it was over, she drew a bath for me and scrubbed my skin clean until I bled, her eyes never meeting mine. She then dressed me in my nightgown, wordlessly. What was there to say? Nothing would have changed what happened.
But now as I stand with the dagger in my hand, I resent her for not giving it to me then. She was meant to stay and ensure that I fulfill my duty; that much I know. But as soon as the attack began, she ran like the coward she is. Am I too hard on her? What good would itdo if we both were ruined? It would not salvage me in any way. And it would not make me any less dead.
“Protect your father’s honor,” she told me as she handed me the weapon.
I’m now to kill myself. That would be the only way to save Aldon’s honor and the delicate new accord with Kozari.
Because the Cursed Ones are raiding the wedding camp. I can hear them slaughtering people right outside my wedding tent.
I shut my eyes tight and breathe in the hot summer air. It is sweltering in the tent in the late afternoon, and my dress clings to my sweat-covered body. It’s not a garment for such weather. Then again, none of my royal gowns are appropriate or convenient for the summer heat.
I tighten my grip on the pearl hilt of my dagger, and it feels slippery in my clammy hand.
A Cursed One just slaughtered his way into my tent. I can sense him standing behind me, and my blood feels like ice in my veins. I know there is only one way to save my honor. It is the only acceptable choice. But I can’t do as I’m expected. Not after last night. So instead of plunging the dagger into my body, I turn and stab the Cursed One with all my force.
For a second, I feel nothing. No fear, no hesitation. Blood pounds in my ears. I then realize the Cursed One has grabbed the dagger’s blade with his right hand. I had only one chance to save myself, and it was so weak, so pathetically executed, that the Cursed One suffered nothing more than a small cut on the palm of his hand. What a joke.
He looms above me, sneering at me in contempt. I’ve never seen such a large male in my life. My dagger looks ridiculously small in his hand, and his broad shoulders block my view, obscuring the light. His blood-smeared face, is rigid with the intent to enact violence.
This is the first time I’ve seen a Cursed One in real life. Until now, I’ve only ever seen them in the paintings hanging in the palace. The drawings are always dreadful, portraying their murderous nature. Blood drips from their mouths, and two big horns sit on their heads. Their appearance is always scary, but this Cursed One infront of me looks more terrifying than even the worst of the paintings.
It’s his eyes. Those obsidian-black holes waiting to suck in any light around them. The rage and hate emanating from them evoke a violent surge that sears me. His eyes are the most terrifying part of him. Not his size, or the blood smudged all over him, not even his horns.
All Cursed Ones have two horns. It is the mark of their sins. Of their curse. But this Cursed One’s right horn is broken. I’ve only heard of one Cursed One with a broken horn, the Butcher. They say the Butcher drinks the blood of Puresoul children. Wherever he goes, only death follows. But they also say he has a long tail and his eyes shoot out lava, so maybe it’s not him. Whether he is the Butcher doesn’t matter now. While there’s no lava, his eyes burn me with loathing so fierce I can feel my skin igniting.
But I don’t look down or away. I stare straight into those obsidian-black eyes, and I don’t beg for mercy. There is no point in pleading. I learned this cruel lesson last night. He eyes me, and I see a flash of curiosity, but then it passes so fast I’m sure I imagined it. He then lifts me over his shoulder without a word and carries me like a rag doll out of the tent.
I do nothing to resist, because all is lost now. I already missed my only opportunity to stop what appears to be the kidnapping of the Princess of Aldon hours before her wedding to the King of Kozari. Outside, the screams and cries of the injured reach me. My guardian lies in a puddle of her blood, her mouth open as if she’s trying to call out and an expression of horror in her wide, unseeing eyes. There are only Aldonian bodies in the camp. To no one’s surprise, the Kozaries fled once the raid started. They were not about to fight for an Aldonian princess, even one who was set to marry into their royal family.
Two Aldonian soldiers suddenly run in our direction, their swords held high. I can see them clearly, even upside down over the Cursed One’s massive shoulder. Their white uniforms are somehow still immaculate. Their appearances are so different from that of theCursed One. Their red hair and eyes mirror the bleeding skies as the sun begins its withdrawal.
While they are symbols of solemnity, he is the manifestation of feral violence. His hair and short beard are dark like his eyes. Leather armor covers his upper body and there’s an ax on each side of his belt. His hands are sprayed with blood.
Cries of battle spring out of them as they rush closer to strike the Cursed One.
I try to drop down to my feet and succeed, since he hasn’t bothered to tie me or because he doesn’t stop me.
He fights the two soldiers with alarming ease. He grabs one by his sword arm and breaks it in half. The bone cracks before the soldier’s scream reaches me. The sword falls to the ground with a thump. The Cursed one lifts the injured soldier and hurls him at the soldier behind him with such force that the first soldier is speared with the sword of the second. Both soldiers fall to the ground. The one on top is dead, while the one lying beneath him yells in terror. The Cursed One just stands there, his body vibrating with something so dark and malicious I don’t even know how to name it. I soon realize he is waiting for the living soldier to rise. As if the wait is a pleasure of its own, as if this killing is like a fine vintage wine one sips slowly, savoring every moment. Yet the soldiers die too quickly for it to linger.
The soldier attempts to get to his feet from under the body above him. Before he can fully stand, the Cursed One’s hand finds the soldier’s head, picking him up by his red hair. The soldier’s howls of pain pierce the air. The Cursed One crushes the soldier’s skull with his bare hands, and all that is left is the sickening sound of crushing bones.
Bile rises in my mouth, and my legs shake. Those soldiers died trying to save me. They were probably the last soldiers to die, judging by the corpses scattered throughout the camp. What chance do I have in front of such skillful brutality? The Cursed One drops the soldier’s body and turns to me. Without pause, he hoists me over his shoulder again. It didn’t take even two minutes for him to kill two of Aldon’sroyal soldiers with his bare hands. He never even reached for his axes.
We quickly reach the outskirts of the camp and a waiting behema tied to a tree. The animal resembles a giant warthog. Only the Cursed Ones ride behemas. They are untamable, violent creatures, like their masters. Without a word, the Cursed One slumps me over the beast, my legs dangling from one side, my head, facedown, on the other. He then ties me to the behema, and I can barely breathe, my body tightly secured to the smelly beast.
The Cursed One’s rough movements set free hundreds of pearls from my dress. Is this how they will find me? Following a trail of pearls?
No, they will not look for me. Once touched by the Cursed One, I became befouled and, therefore, worthless. The only chance for me to be found is when they come after the Cursed One for revenge. But if he is the Butcher, it is pointless.
The Butcher got his nickname for butchering Puresouls of all races: Renyans, Kozaries, and Aldonians. For years, he invaded our villages, cities, and castles and killed everyone there. The bounty on his head has been excessively grand for years, but no one has captured him. Not even with Kozari lassos. But even if they do find me, they’ll just burn me to death now that I am defiled and sullied.
