Darius heard the occasional bark at his feet, and he did not need to look down to know it was Dray, the neighbor’s dog, sitting loyally by his side, watching him as he always did, barking and getting excited as Darius struck the target. A medium-size dog with scarlet hair that grew too long, like his master’s untamed hair, Dray had unofficially become Darius’s dog long ago. He belonged to one of the neighbors, but whoever owned it had stopped feeding it long ago. Darius had encountered Dray whining one day, and had given him one of his scarce meals. Ever since, Darius had had a friend for life. Since that day, they had developed a ritual: Dray watched Darius fight, and Darius ate only half of his dinner, giving the other half to Dray. Dray rewarded him by always seeking out his company, especially when he was at home, sometimes even sleeping in his cottage.
Dray lunged forward and bit the bamboo, playing along with Darius’s imagination, snarling and tearing at in imaginary enemy, as if it were a true foe coming for Darius. Darius often wondered what would happen if he faced an enemy with Dray at his side. Like Darius, Dray was not the biggest of the bunch, or the strongest, or the most loved. But he had a great heart, and he was the most loyal animal in the universe. Over the last few moons, he had even taken to sleeping curled up before Darius’s door, snarling if Darius’s grandfather even dared to approach.
“Are you tired of swinging at sticks?” came a voice.
Darius looked over to see Raj and Desmond standing there, each holding long wooden swords, looking back with a mischievous grin.
Darius stopped, breathing hard, wondering; they lived on the other side of the village and had never come by his cottage before.
“It’s time you sparred with men,” Desmond said, his voice dark, serious. “If you strive to become a warrior, you are going to need to hit targets that hit back.”
Darius was surprised and grateful that they had stopped by. They were several classes older than him, much bigger and stronger, and well respected amongst the boys. They had many older, stronger boys to spar with.
“Why would you waste your time on me?” Darius asked.
“Because my sword needs sharpening,” Desmond said. “And you look like a good target.”
Desmond charged for Darius, and Darius held up his wooden sword and at the last minute, blocked the blow. It was a mighty blow, strong enough to shake his hands and arms, and to send him stumbling back several feet.
Darius, caught off guard, saw Desmond standing there, waiting for him.
Darius raised his sword and lunged forward, slashing down. Desmond blocked it easily. Darius kept swinging, slashing left and right, again and again, and the click-clacks of their wooden swords filled the air. He was thrilled to have a real, moving target, even if he could not overpower the bigger and stronger Desmond.
Dray snarled and barked at Raj and Desmond, running alongside Darius, snapping at Desmond’s heels.
“You’re quick,” Desmond said, between blows. “I will give you that. But you don’t use it to your advantage. You’re not half as strong as I—and yet you fight as if you’re trying to cut through me. You cannot fight a man my size. Fight as if you’re your size. Be quick and nimble. Not strong and direct.”
Darius swung with all his might and Desmond stepped back, and Darius went circling through the air, stumbling forward, landing on the ground.
Darius looked up and saw Desmond standing over him, reaching out, giving him a hand, pulling him up.
“You fight for the kill,” Desmond said. “Sometimes you just need to fight to survive. Let your opponent fight for the kill. If you are patient, if you avoid him, and watch him, he will overreach; he will expose himself.”
“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to kill a man,” said Raj, coming over. “You don’t need a strong blow—just a precise one. I believe it’s my turn.”
Raj raised his sword high, aiming for Darius’s head, and Darius spun, raised his sword sideways, and barely blocked the blow. Then Raj leaned back, put his foot in Darius’s chest, and shoved him, and Darius stumbled backwards.
Dray barked and barked, snarling at Raj.
“That’s not fair,” Darius said, indignant. “This is a swordfight!”
“Fair!?” Raj yelled out with derisive laughter. “Tell that to your enemy after he has stabbed you between the legs and you lay dying. This is combat—and in combat all is fair!”
Raj swung his sword again, before Darius was ready, and he knocked the sword from Darius’s hands. Raj then dropped to the ground, swung his legs, and kicked out Darius’s knees from under him.
Darius, not expecting it, landed hard on his back in a cloud of dust, winded; Raj then pulled a wooden dagger out of nowhere, dropped down, and held it to Darius’s throat.
Darius conceded, raising his hands, pinned to the ground.
“Again, unfair!” Darius complained. “You cheated. You pulled a hidden dagger. These are not honorable actions.”
Dray rushed forward, snarling, and leaned in close to Raj’s face, showing his teeth, close enough to make Raj drop his dagger, raise his hands, and slowly get up.
Raj roared with laughter as he jumped to his feet, grabbed Darius, and pulled him up.
“What is honor?” Raj said. “Honor is what we, the victors, name it to be. When you are dead, there is no honor.”
“What is battle without honor?” Darius said.
“He who speaks of honor is he who never lost,” Desmond said. “Lose once, lose a leg, an arm, a loved one—and you will think twice of honor next time you face your foe on the field. Surely, he is not thinking of honor. He is thinking of winning. Of life. Whatever the cost.”
“You’d be surprised how much a man is willing to throw away—including honor—when he is staring death in the face,” Desmond said.
“I would rather die with honor,” Darius countered, defiant, “than live in dishonor.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” Desmond said. “Yet what you think and what you do in a moment of life and death do not always match.”
Raj stepped forward and shook his head.
“You are young yet,” Raj said. “Naïve. What you still don’t see is that honor comes in victory. And victory comes in expecting everything. Even dishonorable actions. You can fight with honor if you choose. If you are able. But don’t expect your enemy to.”
Darius thought about that—when suddenly a strident voice cut through the air, interrupting him.
“DARIUS!” yelled the harsh voice.
Darius turned to see his grandfather standing at the door of his cottage, scowling down at him. “I don’t want you with these boys!” he snapped. “Get inside now!”
Darius scowled back.
“These are my friends,” Darius said.
“They’re trouble,” Darius’s grandfather replied. “Inside now!”
Darius turned to Raj and Desmond apologetically.
“I’m sorry,” Darius said. He felt bad, as he’d truly enjoyed fighting with them. He already felt his skills sharpened from just their small bout, and he wanted to fight again.
“Tomorrow,” Raj said, “after training.”
“And every day after that,” Desmond said. “We are going to make a warrior out of you.”
They turned to go, and Darius realized he’d made two close friends in the group for the first time. Older friends, great fighters. He wondered again why they’d taken an interest in him. Was it because of what he’d done for Loti? Or was it something else?
“Darius!” snapped his grandfather.
Darius, Dray at his heels, turned and walked to his grandfather, who stood at the door, scowling. Darius knew he’d face his grandfather’s wrath; his grandfather never wanted him sparring at all.
“You should not have been rude,” Darius said as he walked through the door. “Those are my friends.”
“Those are boys who do not know the cost of war,” he retorted. “Boys who embolden each other to revolt. Have you any idea what happens in a revolt? The Empire would kill us. All of us wou
ld die. Every last one of us.”
Today, Darius, emboldened, was in no mood for his grandfather’s fear.
“And what of it?” Darius asked. “What is so wrong with death, when it is from fighting for our lives? Would you call what we have now life? Slaving away all day? Cringing at the hand of the Empire?”
Darius’s grandfather smacked him hard across the face.
Darius, shocked, stood there, feeling the sting. It was the first time he had ever struck him.
“Life is sacred,” his grandfather said harshly. “That is what you and your boy friends have yet to learn. Your grandparents and mine sacrificed so that we should have life. They put up with slavery so that their children, and their children’s children, could have a life of safety. And all of the reckless actions of you teenage boys will undo generations of their work.”
Darius glowered, ready to argue, not agreeing with anything he’d said, but his grandfather turned his back and snatched a cauldron of soup and crossed the cottage with it, preparing it before a flame. Something Darius’s grandfather said made him think. Something clicked within him, and for some reason he had a sudden burning desire to know.
“My father,” Darius said coldly, standing his ground. “Tell me about him.”
His grandfather froze, his back to him, holding the pot where he stood.
“You know all there is to know,” he said.
“I know nothing,” Darius replied firmly. “What happened to him? Why did he leave us?”
Darius’s grandfather stood there, his back to him, and remained silent. Darius knew he was on to something.
“Where did he go?” Darius pressed, stepping forward. “Why did he leave?” he asked again.
His grandfather shook his head slowly, as he turned. He looked a thousand years older as he did, saddened.
“Like you, he was rebellious,” he said, his voice broken. “He could stand it no more. One day, he made a run for it. And he was never seen again.”
Darius stared at his grandfather, and for the first time in his life, he felt certain he was lying.
“I don’t believe you,” Darius said. “You are hiding something. Was my father a warrior? Did he defy the Empire?”
His grandfather stared into space, as if staring into lost years.
“Speak no more of your father.”
Darius frowned.
“He is my father and I will speak of him as much as I wish.”
Now it was his grandfather’s turn to scowl.
“Then you shall not be welcome in my house.”
Darius glowered.
“It was my father’s house before you.”
“And your father is here no longer here, is he?”
Darius studied his grandfather’s face, seeing it in a different light for the first time. He could see how different of a man he was from him. They were cut from different cloths, and they would never understand each other.
“My father wouldn’t run,” Darius insisted. “He wouldn’t leave me. He would never leave me. He loved me.”
As he spoke them, Darius for the first time sensed the truth of his words. He sensed also that there was some great secret that was being hidden from him, that had been hidden from him his whole life.
“He would not abandon me,” Darius insisted, desperate for the truth.
His grandfather stepped forward, seething with anger.
“And who are you to think you are so great as to not be abandoned?” Darius’s grandfather said sharply. “You are just a boy. Just another boy. Just another slave in a village of slaves. There is nothing special about you. You fancy yourself to be a great warrior. You play with sticks. Your friends play with sticks. The Empire, they play with steel. Real steel. You cannot rise up against them. You never can. You will end up dead like the rest of them. And then where have your precious sticks gotten you?”
Darius frowned, hating his grandfather for the first time, hating everything he was and everything he stood for.
“I might end up dead,” Darius said back, his voice steel, “but I’ll never end up like you. You are already dead.”
Darius turned and began to storm from the cottage—but he stopped at the door, turned, and faced his grandfather one last time.
“I am special,” Darius said, wanting his grandfather to hear the words. “I am the son of a great warrior. I am a warrior myself. And one day, you, and the entire world, should know it.”
Darius, fed up, unable to withstand another moment, turned and stormed from the cottage.
Darius burst outside into the late afternoon light, no longer wanting to see his grandfather’s face, to face his lies. He walked quickly out through the back fields, and looked out at the horizon, at all the slaves still filtering back from a day’s work. He studied the horizon, the endless sky, lit up in pinks and purples. His father, he knew, was out there somewhere. He was a great warrior. He had risen above all this.
One day, somehow, he would find him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gwendolyn sat in the cave with the others, before a fire, staring at the flames here in her new home, and feeling hollowed out. It was late at night, most of the others fast asleep, the cave walls punctuated by their snoring and by the crackle of flames. Nearby sat her brothers Kendrick and Godfrey, their backs to the wall, along with Steffen, his newlywed wife, Arliss, Brandt, Atme, Aberthol, Illepra—still holding the rescued baby—and a half a dozen others. At Gwen’s feet lay Krohn, his head curled in her lap, fast asleep. She had fed him well all night, all throughout the festivities, and he looked as if he could sleep a million years. Even he was snoring.
Throughout the rest of the endless cave, going so deeply into the mountainside, were hundreds of people, what remained of the Ring, all spread out, all finally sated from the food and wine. They had all come here, led by the village elders, after the long night of festivities, and had been shown their new home. It was a far cry from what she was used to at King’s Court, and yet still, Gwendolyn was grateful. At least they were alive, had a place to stay, to rest and recover.
And yet hanging over her like a dark cloud were those words from the seer at the night’s festivities, ringing in her ears. Thorgrin, in the land of the dead. If the seer was true, then that meant he was dead. How? she wondered. Somewhere in his search for Guwayne? Eaten by a sea monster? Blown off course? Caught in a storm? Dying of starvation, as she almost had?
The possibilities were endless, and each anguished her to no end as she contemplated them. Each made her want to curl up and die. And with Thor dead and gone, that meant Guwayne was gone to her forever, too.
Gwen stared into the flames and wondered what she had left to live for. Without Thorgrin, without Guwayne, she had nothing. She hated herself for letting Guwayne go on that fateful day on the Upper Isles; she hated herself for the decisions she had made that had led her people to this place. Deep down, she knew she was not to blame. She had done the best she could to defend and save her people from the million attacks on her troubled kingdom that had been left to her by her father. And yet still, she blamed herself. It was hard to feel anything but grief.
“My sister,” came a voice.
Gwen looked over to see Kendrick sitting beside her, arms crossed over his knees, face reflected by the flames, somber, tired. His eyes were filled with compassion and respect, and he wore the look that he always wore when he wanted to console her.
“Not all seers see clearly,” he said. “Perhaps Thorgrin returns for you as we speak. And your child with him.”
Gwendolyn wanted to believe his words, but she knew he was just trying to console her. The seer’s words still rang in her head with more authority.
She shook her head.
“I wish I could believe it was so,” she said. “But this is the night of the dead. The night when the spirits speak the truth.”
Gwendolyn sighed as she stared into the flames. She wanted his words to be true. She really did. But she sensed they were just the words of a
kind brother trying to console her.
Krohn shifted in her lap, whining softly, as if he sensed her sadness. Gwen reached out and stroked his head and offered him another strip of beef. But Krohn would not take it. Instead, he lay in her lap and whined again.
Kendrick sighed. He spoke again, softly, his voice cracked with exhaustion:
“I had always taken such pride in my lineage,” he said. “I had always known myself to be father’s firstborn son. The King’s first son. The next in line to rule. Not that I cared to rule. Yet I took pride in knowing who I was in the family. I looked at all of you as my little brothers and sisters, as I still do today. Everyone always said how I looked exactly like Father, and indeed I did. I thought I knew my place in the world.”
Kendrick took a deep breath.
“We were young, just kids, maybe ten or eleven, and one day I came home from sparring with the Legion. I encountered Gareth, younger than me, but already looking for trouble wherever he could find it. He was standing there with Luanda, and the two of them faced me, and Gareth uttered the words that would change my life forever: ‘You are not our mother’s son.’
“I could not comprehend what he was talking about. I thought it was just another one of his schemes, his imagination run wild, another cruel trick. He enjoyed meanness, after all. But Luanda, who never lied, nodded along with him. ‘You don’t belong in our family,’ she said. ‘You are not mother’s.’ ‘You are the son of a whore,’ Gareth said. ‘You are just a bastard.’
“Luanda had stared at me disapprovingly. I can still see that look in her eyes today. ‘I do not wish to see you anymore,’ she said. Then she turned and walked off. I do not know who had hurt me more, Gareth or Luanda.”
Kendrick sighed, and Gwen could see the pain on his face as he stared into the flames, reliving the scene.
“I confronted Father, and he admitted the truth. At that moment, my world spun. It all fell into place: Father’s never speaking of my being King after him. Others being distant from me; the way the staff looked at me. I never really fit in, and from that day onward, I noticed it everywhere. It was as if I were a visitor in my own home. But not family. Not true family. As if I didn’t really belong. Do you know what it feels like? To feel like a stranger in your own home?”