Dark Allies, Dark Adversaries (The Katalonan Chronicles Book 1) - Oz Mari G. & S.J. Powell

Dark Allies, Dark Adversaries (The Katalonan Chronicles Book 1) by Oz Mari G. & S.J. Powell

Book excerpt

Chapter 1: The Council of Nine

Beliza stared at the thick woods. She had been there many times before. Virtually every tree within a five-kilometre radius was familiar to her. She had even named a few of them. But today was different. The forest felt uncharted, almost unwelcoming. And alive with sinister intent.

The breeze that whispered through the leaves sounded as if it was warning her to stay away, yet daring her to take another step.

Her beating heart agreed with the leaves, but somewhere deep inside, a compulsion wouldn’t allow her to retreat. She took that step, and instantly, the midday sun sheltered behind a dense mass of grey clouds. The forest floor became darker, just as a chorus of ominous hums rose from the ground into the canopies. It was enough to induce panic, and her pulse galloped.

Rigid with terror, she looked around to see where the sounds were coming from. She was alone. At least, no other human was in the vicinity. But the shadows seemed to watch her, carefully, like animals preparing to pounce as soon as she turned her back.

Behind her, the woods looked sparser and safer.

The forest was tempting her with an obvious choice – to return to the familiarity of the village where she had grown up. Where humans like her lived. Not the strange creatures and beings that fascinated her, but that seemed unwilling to be known or understood.

Beliza trudged on, despite the contradicting caution in her mind. Her heart and brain agreed, but she followed the inner instinct to proceed. All around her, as she walked deeper into the darkening bosom of the woods, the birds screeched as the branches quivered as if strong winds were shaking them.

A faint, whistling started to her left. She angled her head to listen closely. And there it was, a second whistle that seemed to reply to the first.

Then another.

And then a fourth, fifth and a sixth. All distinct from each other. The volley of melody sounded like a conversation.

Beliza looked around, hunting for the source, but couldn’t make it out. Perhaps the creatures creating the tunes were like crickets, that seem to project sounds from the opposite direction.

She knew they weren’t insects or birds when the whistling became louder and harmonised. And the tight clutching fear loosened its grip on her heart. The eerie song somehow made her feel braver.

Instinct guided her into following the whistles. New-found courage urged her on through the path that was denser, darker and more tangled.

An hour later, she stepped into a clearing and blinked hard against the blinding sunlight.

Her pupils adjusted within seconds. Before her were six – no, eight – kids about her age, all watching her emerge from the trees. And in the middle, with a satisfied glint in her eyes, stood the only adult among them – the chief katalonan.

***

She beckoned Beliza with a gentle wave. “Come closer.”

The woman had the kindest eyes Beliza had ever encountered, but those pupils seemed to pierce deep into her soul. And she felt a slight unease.

Four girls and four bayoks watched her draw near. The bayoks, though dressed in almost identical loose cotton shirts and knee-length dark shorts, were as feminine, maybe even more so, than the girls.

“Call me Inay Gerona. Come and get to know your fellow kabaguhans, since you will spend nine months with each other as you train with me,” the woman said as Beliza joined the circle.

“We were just starting with the introductions. Let’s resume.” The chief katalonan nodded to the girl at her right. She was thin and the tallest among them. A long braid controlled the thick, curly hair, while shorter, wild tendrils framed a serious face.

“I’m Agueda, from Tayabas. Oldest of four siblings. My father is a barrio captain. My mother… was killed by a curse.” Her voice trembled a bit as she surveyed them all for their reaction, but her gaze was keen.

Everyone’s head bobbed sympathetically. Beliza blinked, surprised she was the only one who seemed disturbed by Agueda’s revelation. The others acted as if it was a common cause of death.

Inay Gerona nodded at the girl next to Agueda. The girl – the smallest among them – looked barely 10 years old. Her hair was short and straight and she had a pouty upper lip. But her stance and gaze were direct and confident. She oozed authority, belying her stature. And if she hadn’t been standing beside the lanky Agueda, Beliza wouldn’t have noticed her height.

“Nieves, from Sariaya. I’m 13. The youngest child. I have two brothers. My mother is a teacher, my father is a merchant,” she said in a clear tone that reminded Beliza of a bell.

Nieves nudged the pretty and dainty, pony-tailed girl in a guava-pink floral dress with a ruffled collar who looked more suited to being in a classroom than in the middle of the woods.

“Uh… me next?” she asked in a soft baritone. The brown-haired girl smiled; eyes sparkling with excitement. At Inay Gerona’s nod, she continued. “Uhm… I’m Valeria from Borawan Island. Middle child. Thirteen. My mother is a fish vendor, my father is a fisherman,” she said, followed by a nervous giggle.

Everyone gaped at Valeria. There was something intriguing about her, and it took Beliza a long second to realise that Valeria was also a bayok. The flouncy, printed dress with puffed sleeves made him look like a girl. Until he spoke – then he had the voice of a boy. Valeria’s cheeks reddened with self -consciousness, fingers fluttering over his hair as everyone continued to stare.

“Your turn, Cinio,” Inay Gerona prompted the plump boy next to Valeria. He sported a low ponytail; his hair was dark and glossy.

“OK…” he said, although his gaze lingered with a touch of envy towards Valeria. “Ehrm – I’m Patrocinio, Cinio for short. I’m 13 as well. Only child. My mother sells vegetables in the market. My father is a farmer.” Shallow dimples danced on his cheeks. “Oh yeah, I’m from Rosario,” he added, his voice cracked, but he covered it up with a nervous wave to everybody.

Beliza instantly liked him. His gaze was open and affable, as if he truly wanted to be friends with everyone.

The bayok beside Cinio was a complete contrast to him. The boy’s eyes were melancholic, his gaze shy and apprehensive. His shoulders curved, making him appear thinner and smaller. He looked as if he wanted to fold into himself.

“I’m… Dayang…” he said in a hoarse, whispery voice that faded in and out.

“Please tell us more about you,” Inay Gerona said, gently.

Dayang nodded briefly and mumbled. “I’m 14… From Talisay… Only child…”

Beliza strained to hear him but the shy boy didn’t invite further questions. Something about him called to her. Perhaps it was the familiar feeling of otherness, or the air of having grown up to harsh words and condemnation.

The bayok next to Dayang was a jolt to the senses. A coronet of wildflowers in varying colours adorned his hair; his movements were exaggerated in their femininity. He had the most beautiful, tanned skin Beliza had ever seen; it was even and with a slightly reddish tint to his cheeks.

“Hi, I’m Silayan. I’m 13. Only daughter of my parents. My father was a trapper, my mother a weaver. Also, the only bayok in Candelaria,” he said in a singsong tone and capped his introduction with a flourish and a curtsy.

Most of the group chuckled. Beliza liked Silayan instantly. His wide smile and fun personality lightened the awkward circle.

Encouraged, the last bayok beside Beliza spoke with a smile. “I’m Melo, I’m 12.” His voice was squeaky, his face was soft and rounded like a child’s and short hair curled around his face. It reminded Beliza of the statue of the infant Jesus. “I’m from Lucena. I have a younger brother. My father died when I was born…”

“How did you come to have a younger brother, then?” the girl next to Inay Gerona interjected, one imperious eyebrow arched.

Melo blushed. “I… I was forbidden to ask my mother… She was a former nun.”

A chorus of oohs turned Melo’s face redder and infused the tension back into the atmosphere. Inay Gerona remained cool and observant as she watched the interaction.

Beliza took it as her cue when her eyes met those of the chief katalonan, who smiled at her encouragingly.

“I’m Beliza. From San Juan. I’m 12, but I will be 13 in four months…” Her voice trailed off as she realised she didn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t you have parents?” the so-far unnamed girl asked. She sounded taunting, but looked merely curious.