Dindi
Long after the other girls had finished dressing, Dindi stayed in the lodge. She lingered so long that she was the last young woman still there.
Miskeymew and Puddlepaws made mischief. The kitten batted at the tassel on her dress. She gave him a scrap of food to distract him. Then she sat down, reached into her basket, and pulled out the doll. She studied it closely.
She had seen magic on the Tor of the Stone Hedge. That night—the night of her Initiation, the night she failed the Test—she had no doubt she saw something real.
But just as clearly, she did not have magic herself.
At least not enough to matter.
If she had been truly worthy, she would have been able to follow the steps of the tama from the Unfinished Song. Instead, like her grandmother, she had failed. She had looked foolish in front of everyone.
Now she was sure: the only reason she had even seen the magic that night… was because of the doll.
She had given the totem doll to Tavaedi Brena during the ceremony, like she was supposed to. But this morning, it had been returned to her.
Dindi had half expected someone to notice something strange about the doll. But no one said anything. No one commented on how old and worn the doll was. Or how strange a totem it was for a girl like her.
Dindi knew she should tell someone. The doll was hexed. She was almost sure of it.
She also knew she wasn't going to say a word.
Once, the doll had a painted face—some totem's face. Whose was it? Could it be Vessia the Corn Maiden? The young woman Dindi saw in her Visions? The maiden who had danced the tama so perfectly—the same tama Dindi wanted so badly to learn?
Did you save me or destroy me? Are you a gift… or a curse?
A bright shimmer lit the air around her. A Vision was coming.
She made her choice. She would not fight it.
She welcomed it.
"Dindi…" Gwenika stepped into the lodge.
Her mouth fell open. She saw the glowing light in the air. Her look turned from shock to fear.
"Dindi, don't do it!"
Dindi panicked. She wished she had never taken the doll out. She threw it as far away from her as she could.
But it was too late.
She couldn't stop the magic now.
The Vision swept over her...
*
Hi! Short chapter today, so I have permission from a friend to share a teaser from his Sci Adventure book, Strike Force Orion:Prisoner of the Kharduun, by my friend David Abbot. You can find the book on the Misque Press website.
Jace's ship had taken the brunt of an attack by the larger Kharduun clan-ship. Engines sizzled. Hangars caved in. And now, the final insult... boarding parties.
The Kharduun were like devils out of old Earth myths, hulking bipeds with snarling lion manes, blue battle-fur soaked in gore, and horns like obsidian scythes that curled from their brows. They wore no helmets. No need. Their bodies were weapons.
And now they were inside.
Gunfire barked through the corridor ahead, answering the dull tremor of heavy footfalls. Then came the growl, deep, chesty, and sickeningly amused. One of them was laughing.
Jace slammed the emergency door shut just as a Kharduun shoulder-rammed it from the other side. The metal buckled inward, but the seal held.
"Bridge is three levels up," Keane panted, voice tight as a garrote. "If we lose it—"
"I know," Jace said. His tone left no room for argument. They at least had to hold off the Kharduun long enough for the refugee ships to escape. "We don't lose it."
He turned down the next corridor and paused—just long enough to check his ammo. Two mags. One frag. No power cells for the plasma cutter. All he had was his hunting knife, a gift from his father.
They moved, swift and low. The wounded Hart limped along behind, clutching his stomach. Jace wanted to carry him, but there was no time. If the Kharduun took the bridge, they could disable the last of the Marathon's defensive drones and open the core for detonation. They reached the final turn before the bridge—just in time to see the reinforced doors ahead split open with a screech of mangled steel.
The Kharduun poured through.
"Form up!" Jace roared, swinging out from cover and opening fire.
It was like trying to hold back an avalanche with a flare gun. The first of them went down, riddled with bullets, but the second warrior barreled through, roaring, claws flashing. Keane caught this one in the throat with a bolt from his ion pistol, only to be swatted away like a rag doll by a third Kharduun.
Jace moved instinctively. Dropped one with a round to the eye. Shoved Hart into cover. Took a claw swipe that slashed his vest but missed his gut. The corridor became a blur of motion, screams, and gunfire.
Time stretched.
And then, just as his rifle clicked empty, Jace looked up at the biggest damn cat he'd ever seen.
The Dominator.
Nine feet of muscle, bigger than any other Kharduun Jace had seen, his horns spiraled like the blades of a planetary auger, curling back over a skull ridged with ceremonial scars. He wore a dark crimson war-plate streaked with black, a mark of a clan-chieftain, or "Dominator." His eyes were a pale gold, locked on Jace with a predator's focus.
"Human," the Dominator growled in a voice like a furnace. He bared his teeth.
It wasn't a smile.
The Kharduun raised his weapon—a Tarn-Vor, the great sparkblade of his station. The blade's edge crackled with a faint violet discharge, arcs of electricity dancing along its length. Jace's own spark-knife was a pocket toy by comparison; this was a weapon meant to cleave through bulkheads and bisect armored foes. He also carried a Rith-Shak, a scattergun loaded with dense slugs, slung casually over his shoulder like it was a mere toy. He didn't need guns to take this ship, his action said.
The Dominator charged.
Find Prisoner of the Kharduun on Misque Press dot com.