By McKayla Gates
The ground beneath Yeomra slipped out from under her. Snow mixed with beaten soil slicked the roads surrounding the barracks. With each step, mud seeped between the gashes in her boots, cold finding its way deep into her flesh. The burlap sack the guards placed over her head sucked in with each breath and choked the air out of her. But the men dragging her toward Commander Otsana’s tent did not care for the comfort of a thief. They yanked her arms like the leather reigns of an unruly warhorse needing control. Yeomra thought there would be more pain in the lugging of her body, in the bruises spreading across her jaw from where fists met flesh. But, with the winter at its height, the cold numbed whatever pain lived within her.
She could still feel the sliver of bread between her fingers. Yeomra joined the military not for the glory of war—but because she needed food. Being a grunt on the front line, she expected more food than the once-a-day rations of unleavened biscuits and frozen grits. But, in an encampment of a thousand guards stranded in the wilderness until the weather improved, there was little food to be shared, at least for the lower ranks.
The piece of bread she stole was no larger than her palm. It wasn’t greed or gluttony that told her to take it; the stab of pain in her stomach begged her to stretch out her hand and snatch the bread from her superior’s tent. Stuffing her mouth with snow no longer sufficed. The thought of eating mud crossed her mind, but she’d rather be alive with a pitted stomach than lower herself to the likes of a pig in a sty. But her beggar’s attempt had been for nothing.
Yeomra’s tongue barely sucked in the taste of wheat before a knuckle squared her across the jaw. A flurry of hits from fists and steel-toed boots followed until she blacked out. The last thing she remembered were fingers plunging down her throat until she vomited up the spare contents of her stomach.
“Pick up the pace, runt!” the man beside her shouted.
Yeomra’s boots dug into the muck. Her wrists chafed against the rope cuffs as she sought more purchase on the ground. As she found her footing, the guards threw her forward. What met her was not the cold gunk of the road, but a warm carpet.
The guards pulled the bag off her head. Her cheeks and fingertips welcomed the burning heat of the fire ahead. Orange covered the dark expanses of the tent. Lounge chairs, cushions, silks, and even expensive fleeces from foreign shores covered the room. Yeomra never thought there was luxury in war. Her barracks on the outer ring of camp held no comparison to that of Commander Otsana’s. She had no furs for warmth and certainly no cushions for adequate rest. If she got to sleep, she had to curl into herself for warmth that never stayed as snow melt would soak her wool blanket and then her clothes.
But it was not the grandeur of luxury surrounding her that dazzled Yeomra, it was the fire. She couldn’t recall the last time she stood this close to the warmth of a blaze. Her hands reached for the hearth to remind her body that not everything in life was cold, but the rope around her wrists kept her from taking hold of that sun and swallowing it whole.
“Why is she not in irons?” a hoarse woman’s voice called out from the shadows.
“She’s parastin, Commander Otsana,” a guard answered with a straightening back.
The silhouette of a heavily-armored woman exited the darkness. The red of the fire caught the bronze that clad the woman, setting her aglow as if fire rested in the metal armor itself. “A metal-bender, are you?”
“Makes you an easy target, doesn’t it,” Yeomra croaked, still tasting the putrid bile caught in the folds of her throat and mouth. “I could squish that armor around you, make you a statue before you had a second breath.”
Otsana laughed. “But you won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because if you wanted me dead, you would have done it already.” Otsana marched toward Yeomra and knelt. The Commander’s scarred hand twisted around Yeomra’s face, forcing her head up. “I hear you stole something that is not yours.”
“All of this for a scrap of bread.” Yeomra glared at a plate of pastries beside the couch. “By the looks of it, a sliver wouldn’t be missed.”
Otsana withdrew her grasp and cushioned herself in the arms of a velvet couch. “What is your status, soldier?”
“Insurgent battalion.”
“What did you do to end up there?”
“Born poor.” Always poor. Constant winters left nothing for the poor man to make wealth. Nothing grew in this wasteland. No trade existed for commoners beyond selling themselves to those with power, whether in a mineyard or to the barracks.
Yeomra looked at the guards dressed in their finery, who had brought her to the tent. They made it a point to remind her how much their underlinens cost and how upsetting it was that someone like her had ruined them. And, admittedly, she smiled at the mess she had made.
“Didn’t have a rich parent to pull strings.” Yeomra jutted her chin toward the guards.
The men drew their swords, showing off their fangs. Yeomra crumpled them to the hilts with a curl of her fist.
“I could have your hands for that,” Commander Otsana added.
“But you won’t.”
Otsana’s brow rose at the assertion, intrigued that this runt and pathetic excuse for a soldier tried besting her. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m a strong body in your army—and a gifted one at that.”
Otsana leaned forward. “When I was a little girl, my father warned me about beasts like you.”
“I am not a beast,” Yeomra snapped.
“He told me the weakest in the pack of wolves become violent. They are unruly, unpredictable, insubordinate,” said Otsana, emphasizing each negative characteristic. “I need soldiers who take orders. Do you understand the problem?”
“I understand,” Yeomra replied with a growl. “You want puppets and not people.”
“Everyone serves something, Yeomra.” She rose from her seat. “Some serve gods. Others, the weather and stars. And if you don’t want to submit to authority, then I have no choice but to rid you of status in this military.”
Otsana did not draw a knife, did not unsheathe a sword or dagger, but somehow, a rope found its way around Yeomra’s throat. The chord tightened around her until the prickly hairs of twine cut into her esophagus. The guards dragged Yeomra toward the snow and darkness. She thrashed. Her hands clawed at her throat; nails dug beneath the twine as a plea for one more breath, one more word, one more second in the warmth of a fire.
“Wait.…” the word fought out of her larynx. All that fear she thought had vanished in the presence of power bubbled forth. She feared death, feared the blackness that followed, feared she’d be forgotten like so many others. She wanted to live even if she lived in hunger and snow. Black spots filled her vision. Her lungs rapped on the cage of her ribs, demanding breath, but no air would come.
Otsana held up her hand. The rope loosened. Breath flooded in. Yeomra wretched and coughed, rubbing her throat raw. The singing of metal unsheathing rang in her ears. Her hands moved to manipulate the steel, but before she could do so, Otsana dropped her sword in front of her.
“You want your life so bad?” Otsana said, unmoved.
“Yes.” Yeomra coughed, still choking on the influx of air.
“Bring me back a wolf, and I will ensure you no longer hunger.”
One hundred leagues stood between Yeomra and civilization. All that lived in this wasteland was snow and the blackened bodies of trees that shook and waved in the determined wind. She should have known no matter what she did, Otsana would have her dead. This was her execution—a dance with death and nothing but an off-balanced sword to kill the beast.
She would have taken the rope if she had realized the choices were a quick death or a cold one. At least then, it would have been over in seconds. A cinch of the noose. A snap of the neck. The blur of the world as oxygen sifted out of her body and ushered in the final and infinite blackness. Instead, she chose a race against frostbite and her sword in the heart of a wolf.
The flicker of torchlight from camp disappeared under the veil of snow as a blizzard rolled in from the coast. Yeomra was halfway up the mountain when the storm’s full fury hit. All her training told her to head back to camp before the whiteout disoriented her, but she pushed on. Her only saving grace was the torch in her hand. The flames licked at the falling snow, unfazed by the frigid air determined to blow it out.
“Keep fighting,” Yeomra whispered to the fire. Or was it herself? Did she even want to go on? If hunger didn’t take her, the cold would. She needed to find shelter to wait out the storm.
Yeomra scooped a handful of snow and stuffed it in her mouth. If the cold weren’t forcing her to move, she would have crumpled into herself at the pain in her stomach. It became constant. Every breath stabbed her abdomen. Her hands shook uncontrollably from the wind’s cut, from starvation, from fear.
Frost wove around her fingers and powdered her eyelashes. Yet somewhere, deep in the pathetic body she called hers, Yeomra would not let herself be another corpse shipped back to the capital in a box. But her body would not find its way into a coffin. Yeomra’s shriveled frame would not be spotted among the mountains of snow. Not even her black hair or the red of her coat would help locate her among the white.
“We just have to find a wolf,” Yeomra whimpered to the flame.
With the snow still drumming down, no wolf would be found tonight. Most wolf-prey hunkered down, leaning on one another for warmth, and left no reason for their predators not to do the same.
Yeomra diverted her path toward the low country, hoping to find a cave among the tattered rock faces and pine trees. Graveyards of fallen boulders scattered the mountainside, building colonies of alcoves for small game to den. Yeomra found herself among them in a shallow depression in the rocks.
All that stood before her was white. Emptiness lived in every direction. No trees swayed beyond. No birds cooed or stars hung in the sky. The earth was dead. Silence echoed through the woods. And it was in the comfort of cave walls that Yeomra found herself struggling to breathe. Each suck of air hiccupped in her lungs. Tears fought their way up, but Yeomra suppressed them. She kept looking at the flame, holding onto the warmth of the small hearth she harbored. For a moment, she could smell the makings of her mother’s bone broth that she would never taste again whisk through the air.
What would her mother think of her caught in a storm on the edge of expulsion and death? The mineyard would have taken better care of her. They would have sheltered her from the snow, fed her with hot grits, maybe even spirits. But she would have been a body on the line, an expendable worker. There was no upward mobility, no greater salary, and no way to send money for food back home. But it was more than that. Yeomra was tired. Tired of being overlooked, stuck in a cycle of hunger and powerlessness. She no longer wanted to be helpless. She wanted to be remembered.
Her eyes grew heavy. Her head swayed, trying to trick her into sleep, but she had to stay awake. Sleep meant freezing to death. It would come like a gentle kiss, a persuasion to let go. Give up. Give in. Give in.
Give in!
Yeomra’s head knocked back. Her blood awoke at the echo of a screech bouncing off the canyon. Another wail came, bellowing in a low baritone like a war horn calling for reinforcements. Cackles and wolf cries drowned out the elk as it screamed for its loved ones until death took its voice away.
Yeomra slid her sword from its sheath and grappled the torch. The kill wasn’t far off, but she had to start moving if she wanted a chance at a wolf.
Snow pelted her cheeks, each flake a shard of glass scratching her skin. The pain was all that drove Yeomra now. Each step pierced through her like pins and needles, each breath the swallowing of daggers.
The yipping of wolves grew louder as if they gloated in the feast of a bull, barking like drunk soldiers around a war room. Yeomra imagined their faces smeared with fresh wine, stomachs full and round. She hated them for it. Hated that her stomach growled while theirs churned and demanded release.
Yeomra’s appetite grew vicious, unmanageable. The cackle of wolves became human. Commander Otsana’s voice was the loudest of them all as she ordered her men to eat more. She could taste their blood in her mouth as she ripped their throats out for it. Hunger and pain no longer drove her toward those wolves. Hate did. Yeomra grew rabid at the thought of hearing another minute of them dining at a closed table while she stood outside starving.
The dinner party was gone when she reached the valley where the downed elk first called to her. All that was left was a chewed-up carcass and a trail of bloody paw prints. A pit welled in Yeomra’s stomach as if her organs had been ripped from her like the elk’s.
“No,” she whimpered. “No. No. No. No!”
She chased after the tracks and tripped in the snow. Her face met the cold ground. Her fists punched into the frozen soil. A shout bellowed up from the innermost part of her and ripped out of her throat. The cry did not echo as the elk’s had. No one would hear her in the wilderness. No one would come looking.
Cold, lost, as good as dead, Yeomra lugged herself to the side of the slain bull. Blood oozed from it and turned the white snow crimson. Patches of flesh still clung to its ribs.
“Do not worry,” Yeomra said to the body. “You are not alone in this graveyard.” Hunger urged her forward. Her fingers groped the leftover meat.
The flesh was still warm, blood still full of life. Yeomra tried not to focus on the feeling as her fingers carved off a chunk of meat. She had become accustomed to the scraps of the pack. At camp, it was bread or grits passed down from the corporals and generals. In the wild, it was the forgotten flesh of an elk. She slid the beating handful of flesh into her mouth, closed her eyes, and forced herself to chew it down. The taste of iron slicked into the corners of her throat as she swallowed fistful after fistful.
When she opened her eyes, what awaited her was not the emptiness of death but a snarling black wolf. He was thin like Yeomra. Even beneath the layers of thick fur, his ribs protruded from the skin.
Yeomra sought her blade. The clatter of metal leaving her sheath made the wolf twitch. His fangs snapped in the air. A growl hummed from him, telling her to back off. She knew what it was like to be hungry, knew what it did to people, and she’d have to slay another with famished teeth and gut. Yeomra grabbed the torch and waved it at the beast.
The wolf was no longer intent on the elk. He lunged forward for a fresher meal. Claws met flesh, cutting Yeomra’s arm as she dodged the attack. She sprinted for the forest. Teeth nipped at her heels with each labored step. She pivoted and planted her boot into the snow to escape her path. The wolf skidded to a stop. Yeomra clutched the sword in her hands, the end pointed at the beast’s chest.
“It’s either you or me,” she growled.
Yeomra’s mother told her when she was little that death came gently. She never knew death had teeth or that it came biting. The wolf pounced. The sword flew from her hand. The two tumbled onto the snow. Each snap drew closer to her neck. Claws slashed across her chest. Blood seeped out. She was warm for the first time in a year as her life flooded out of her. Her hand reached for the blade, seeking the metal, and commanded it.
In a second, everything stopped. Yeomra looked up and did not see the wolf. Her own weathered body loomed above her with a sword rammed through her chest. Blood bubbled out of her lips and down her chin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as the body fell to the side.
Her hand caressed the jaw of the slain wolf, fingers untangling mats, showing only hospitality to the corpse in death. He was thinner than Yeomra realized. The meat of his body was nothing but skin. There wasn’t even flesh to dine on. He was skeletal, doomed to die no matter what Yeomra had done.
She dressed the body as if it was the corpse of a close relative. Her blade slipped between skin and bone and peeled the pelt from the body, then she buried the dead in the snow.
The streets of the barracks lay powdered with white. Yeomra’s stride did not slip or hiccup as she dragged the wolf pelt down the central aisle with blood smeared across her body. The camp stood still. Heads turned. Soldiers from her battalion whispered in astonishment at this crimson ghost marching toward Commander Otsana.
Barks came from the Commander’s tent. A cloud of fermented spirits hovered in the air. Yeomra pushed past the guards on watch, opened the tent doors, and marched into the center of the room, where Otsana sat swathed in silk.
“Here’s your wolf,” Yeomra croaked. The room spun. Her knees wobbled out of exhaustion. Pain throbbed around the claw marks across her chest, blood still seeping out, but she kept straight and unmoved, unwilling to show weakness.
Otsana rose from her cushion to pet the fleece. Her hands caressed the black fur, still bloodied, letting the strands lick her skin—a smile formed on the edges of her mouth. Then, taking the pelt by the head, she draped the wet fur over Yeomra. “Gentlemen! Get our new corporal a drink.”
A general who once dug Yeomra’s face into a pile of manure stood up and made her a plate. Freshly cooked meat, sweets, hot grits, foods Yeomra had never had the coins for sat before her. But as she picked up the first slice of food, she froze. Her hands were covered in blood.
“Go on,” Otsana encouraged. “You earned it.”
But there was still blood on her hands. A foreigner’s blood—her blood, the wolf’s blood—glared at Yeomra as she bit into the roasted elk. Then, another bite and another. Until she forgot all about the weight of red covering her. Until the spirits, which she never before had the pleasure to drink, faded any memory of who she was before that wolf found her in the woods. And she killed it. Both of them.
