** A quick note to subscribers: This is my first crack at serializing a novel, a method of storytelling that’s always fascinated me. The goal is to release a new chapter every one to two weeks, with each being several hundred to a thousand (or so) words.
The Arm is a YA story that’s been fermenting in my noggin for years, and I’m using the idea of serializing it through Substack as a means of motivation to get me to actually write it, with the end goal of publishing the story as a complete piece once it runs its course.
I hope chapter 1 piques your interest enough to keep reading as new chapters are released. **
The Hunting Party
“Did it hurt?” Fitcher asked. “You know, when they cut it off?”
Martin watched as eyes drifted toward the stump, just below his elbow, where his right arm ended.
It was a question everyone in their party wanted to ask, and Martin understood their curiosity. Living on the edge of the Wilds, few of them had ever seen a devotee of The Arm. He doubted any had ever shared a meal with one, and none would have had a chance to fight alongside a member of his sect. Not until now.
Yet, it was a question Martin did not want to answer. The pain he had felt in that instant the Scolasticus's axe cut through flesh and bone was brief. Gone the moment he passed out. Forgotten in the years of training that followed. Not so the memories of his consecration. How the reflection of firelight danced along the runes of the curved blade. The echo of his screams. The horror of watching his forearm fall into the sacrificial fire. The smell of burnt flesh . . . Those memories lingered. Dwelled in nightmares.
“Would you like to find out?” Martin replied, without a hint of emotion in his voice.
Fitcher lifted his eyes to meet Martin’s. For just a moment. The ruffian was years older and a head taller than the one-armed youth sitting across from him, but he could not hold Martin’s gaze for long. Not long enough to know whether those words were a jest or an invitation to also become a devotee of The Arm.
“A stupid question if I ever heard one,” Tack said, putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Course it hurt. Hurt like hell, I bet. But he ain’t gonna admit to it. Just like I'm not gonna tell you about pissing myself the first time I drew my blade in a fight.”
The laughter was slow to come, but even Martin smiled at Tack’s joke.
“I never pissed myself,” Fitcher grumbled.
“‘Cuz you’d never been in a real fight,” Renkle said, nudging Fitcher playfully with an elbow.
Then Zilla, the only female in their group, added, “Not with that twig he calls a sword.”
That had everyone roaring with laughter, including Fitcher.
Martin envied them, the members of their small party. They carelessly teased each other. Slapped each other on the back as they joked. Tossed crusts of stale bread at each other.
Is this what it’s like to have friends? he wondered. Real friends.
Martin couldn’t imagine doing any of this during mealtimes at the monastery. Not in front of the preceptor, who would have punished anyone for wasting so much as a crumb of food. Not with his fellow neophytes, who would have taken any slight as a challenge to their status.
With his left hand, Martin deftly pulled off a hunk of bread from the loaf they all shared. He knew his companions watched him. As they chatted and laughed, they cast sideways glances at Martin. Measuring him up. Thinking that he must be barely of age—16 maybe 17—while they were all young men with stubble on their chins. Well, except for Zilla.
Martin let them stare. Let them judge. Let them underestimate a boy missing half an arm and what he could do.
Even if he felt like joining in on their conversations, Martin wouldn’t know what to say. He knew nothing of village life, having spent most of his years at the monastery. He knew nothing of things like the crush Renkle had on a barmaid. Of how Zilla’s father thought she should find a husband instead of joining the Trackers Guild. Perhaps he felt most akin to Fitcher, with a disapproving father who found fault in everything he did.
“If you’re all done gabbin’, it’s time we move on,” said Brann, the leader of their party.
He had stood on a rocky outcrop keeping watch while everyone else lunched. He was the oldest of the group. The only one with responsibilities back in the village. The one least interested in idle chit-chat.
Everyone scrambled to get ready. Some ducked behind trees to take a quick piss. Others stuffed gear into packs. Then they took up weapons, bows and spears, except for Martin. He left his short sword sheathed at his side.
Zilla led as she picked up the trail of the beast they hunted. Though, Martin doubted her skills were needed. Even he could see where its heavy, clawed feet had scarred the earth. And if that weren't evidence enough of its passage, the beast had left behind globs of inky-black ooze.
It's no ordinary bear we're after, Marin thought.
You, my subscribers, are also my beta readers, so please feel free to comment, whether you notice a grammatical error or have a question about the story.
Very good intro to the characters. I love the idea of this Arm cult — intriguing. And hooking us with the bear at the end was great.
What a fantastic start. I already feel like I know this band of characters, and I’m invested in wanting to know more! Love it.