The Forsaken

battle?” Sinxen asks. “The Monk said no more fighting. That if we came here, we’d work together with him.”
    “A battle isn’t a fight. A battle is a challenge of wills and strength.”
    I don’t like the sound of this. It’s clear the Monk’s followers are even more bloodthirsty than he is. I dare to speak up. “Can we talk to the Monk?”
    “You’re talking to him now. Like I said, we are all his vessels.”
    “If he breaks his word about fighting us—” Markus starts to bluster.
    “You’ll do what?” the drone asks. Markus looks away. We have no weapons. We’re just a handful of stragglers in the heart of this enemy camp. The drone turns from us in contempt.
    For the next several hours we sit and watch the camp around us. It’s impossible for us to talk and strategize among ourselves, because drones stand guard, silently listening to everything we say. Girls bring us cold lumps of meat and a couple bowls of brackish water.
    The more I see of the camp, the more disgusted I get. For all their supposed devotion to the Monk, these kids act like they have no morals whatsoever. The larger boys dominate everything ruthlessly, running around, acting wild, throwing their ubiquitous fireworks into the sky as they shove and kick the smaller boys.
    Girls are second-class citizens for the most part. I see a few pregnant ones, and some tending to small, dirty children. Many have scars and brands marring their cheeks and arms. Some nearly topless girls gyrate wildly by the fire pits, trying to attract boys.
    I’ve never seen anything like this. Not on the wheel, and definitely not in the UNA. I’m lucky that Gadya found me, or I might have ended up here and not known there was any alternative.
    Would I have become one of these desperate girls? This camp is exactly what I expected the island to be like—a violent, depraved colony of Unanchored Souls. Maybe the GPPT works after all, and the other villagers and I are just statistical anomalies.
    As we sit and wait, I see a few girls watching us curiously, like they want to approach. The few kids that do get near us spit and heckle us angrily. Some recite incomprehensible prayers that sound like exorcisms. Maybe they think we’re demons from the forest, instead of fellow exiles on the wheel.
    Finally, once the sky has been dark for at least an hour, the long-haired drone in the hoofer skin vest reappears, clutching a spear. “Heathens!” he shrieks at us, striding into the clearing. “It’s time for you to amuse us! Time for your death battle!”
    “Screw off, loser,” Gadya snaps.
    Unexpectedly, he laughs. He’s drunk. “Look at you. You’re feisty. A hellion. Look at your hair.” He gestures at her wild blue-streaked mane. “That’s the hair of a heathen, all right!”
    He leans in closer. For a moment, I think he’s going to stroke her hair. Gadya does too, and she recoils. Then his hand lashes out and grabs a fistful, yanking hard.
    “Ow!”
    The drone cuffs Gadya’s ear as he pulls her to her feet. She is snapping and flailing, and I know she wants to fight back and kick his face in. And she’s on the verge of doing so. But the drones guarding us have at least three sets of arrows aimed directly at her heart.
    “I was gonna ask for a volunteer,” the long-haired drone tells Gadya. “But your hair just volunteered you!”
    He finally releases his grip and steps back, grinning. Gadya swipes at her hair where he touched her.
    “Your turn now, girlie. Your turn to chose,” the drone tells her.
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Our entertainment is to watch you battle someone else.”
    “The Monk didn’t say anything about this!” Markus calls out angrily.
    “He’s right,” I second. “If he makes us fight, how can we help him tomorrow?”
    “This isn’t for the Monk. It’s for us, although he permits it. Watching heathens do battle brightens our day.”
    “I’d love to battle you,” Gadya says to the drone. “I’d rip your tongue right out of your mouth.”
    The drone chuckles. “You don’t get to battle us. Heathens must battle other heathens. That’s our custom.” He gestures at our group as we sit there, huddled against the quickening chill of the night. “You must chose one of your friends.”
    “To fight?”
    “Yes—to the death. You might want to pick a girl. The crowd likes that best. Girls are weak.”
    Gadya’s face is saying, Oh, really? But she doesn’t speak. Just glowers. Meanwhile,