by Ryan Cahill
“Really?” he said with a laugh. He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I can’t think of any.”
“Oh go away, you,” Ella said, giving him a half-hearted shove.
Rhett laughed at her again. Small creases formed at the corner of his eyes as his smile grew wider. He always did that – smiled with his eyes. He bit the corner of his lip as he held her gaze, only for a moment, before taking her hand and leading her back towards the village streets. “Come on. A group of merchants at the southern edge of the village told me they will be playing music long into the night.”
“Okay, okay.” Ella tried to add a disapproving tone into her voice, but it was not an easy task.
“I’ll miss this,” Rhett said, gazing around. He laughed as his eyes rested on the comatose body of Marlo Egon, an empty tankard of mead in his left hand. “Every time,” he chuckled.
“I know, but we still have plenty of time. We won’t leave till after The Proving, and that’s not for a few weeks.” She nestled her head against his shoulder. “As soon as we are set up in Berona, we will come back to visit, and we can leave notes to make sure they won’t worry.”
Rhett’s lips pulled to the corner of his mouth as he let out a sigh. He kissed the top of Ella’s head and pulled her closer to him as they walked. She knew that he wanted to start a life with her in Berona, but he was unsure about leaving this way. They didn’t have a choice, though. Her father would never let them just leave. He would never forgive Rhett.
“Rhett, I—”
A deep growl came from down one of the side streets, followed by shouting.
“Get him off me!” came a shrill voice.
Rhett gave Ella a look that she knew meant for her to stay where she was. He took off around the corner without a moment’s hesitation.
“Ella!”
She hurried around the corner after him. Two young boys were strewn out on the floor. Rhett knelt beside one of them with his hand slipped under the back of his head. A greyish-white wolfpine sat curled up beside the boys, blood lining its mouth.
Ella’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the wolfpine. “Is that Faenir?”
The wolfpine lifted his head at the mention of his name and padded over to Ella. He rubbed his back against her leg with a low whine.
“It’s Calen and Dann,” Rhett said with a hushed voice.
Ella dropped down beside him, worry coursing through her veins. “Rhett, is he okay? What happened to him?”
“They’ve been beaten pretty badly. I couldn’t see who it was. Faenir must have chased them off.” Rhett placed his hands on either side of Ella’s cheeks. “Ella, look at me. He is okay. He’s unconscious, but he’s okay. Ferrin is only around the corner. He told me he was going to The Gilded Dragon after his watch was done. Go, bring him back here so he can help me carry the boys home.” She began to protest, but he immediately stood up to go check on Dann.
The wind nipped at Ella’s face as she ran. The cold air burned in her chest. He’s going to be okay.
Ferrin was exactly where Rhett had said he would be, standing outside the inn, mead in hand.
“Ferrin!” Ella dropped her hands to her knees, panting as she dragged air into her lungs. “You need to come – now!”
“Whoa, Ella, calm down. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Calen and Dann. They’re hurt. Rhett told me to come and get you.”
Ferrin’s expression changed in an instant. He shoved his tankard of mead into the hands of the merchant he was talking to, who took it without hesitation. “Take me to them.”
“Okay, we have this from here,” Rhett said when Ella and Ferrin bounded into the side street. “You need to go now, ahead of us. I will come and see you tomorrow.” Rhett placed a kiss on her forehead and turned back towards Calen.
“I’m not going anywhere. Calen is hurt—”
“Ella, what happens if he wakes up and sees the two of us here? Do you want to explain that? To him – to your father?”
Ella’s shoulders dropped. She sighed. “Please get him home safe.”
“I will. Don’t worry. Now please hurry home. It’s getting cold out.”
Ella sighed, pinching her lips together. He was right. Calen would probably understand, but her father? No, that would not be a conversation so much as it would be a screaming match.
She reached up onto her tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on Rhett’s cheek. She didn’t say anything as she turned around the corner, onto the main street. She slipped her hands in her pockets and tucked her chin down against the top of her chest.
The walk home didn’t take long, but her heart pounded with every step. She eased the front door of the house open, careful not to elicit the creak that always came when it was opened too slowly. The smell of lavender twisted around the smoky aroma of extinguished candles as she tiptoed through the kitchen, stepping deftly over the creaky floorboard beside the kitchen table. Her mother was a light sleeper.
With a hushed sigh, Ella slipped in between the crisp sheets of her bed. She didn’t toss or turn. She just lay there. She knew there would be no sleep for her until she heard Rhett and Calen at the door.
CHAPTER 4
Like Father, Like Son
Calen felt the tenderness in his bones. It had been a week since he and Dann were attacked by Kurtis and his idiot friends, but the bruises persisted. He told his parents that they had gotten in a fight with some drunken traders and that it was all a misunderstanding. There was more than a hint of suspicion in his mother’s eyes. He thought about telling them the truth, but there was no need to cause any more tension in the village, especially with The Proving coming up.
He nocked an arrow. The glaring sun caused him to squint. He took a deep breath as he drew his string back, trying to clear his mind, as his father had taught him.
“Morning, Calen.”
With a whoosh, the arrow sliced through the air and disappeared into the thicket behind the wooden target. Dann chuckled. Calen sighed as he greeted his father.
“I just hope young Lina Styr isn’t still picking berries in those bushes,” Vars chimed, a cheeky smile spreading across his face. “It’s time for sword practice. I figured you would enjoy a break from the bow.”
Vars reached down and unfurled a bundle of cloth on the ground, then tossed Calen his wooden practice sword. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, with blunted edges. Calen twirled the sword around in his right hand, gauging it, getting used to its weight and balance. He knew them like he did the finger grooves that had been worn into its handle. But it was habit.
He barely had a moment to react as the blow came in, just above his shoulders. He turned it away shakily; the collision of swords jarred his arm. Without a chance to take a breath, the first strike was followed by an unrelenting flurry of attacks. It was all he could do just to keep Vars’s blade from marking his hide.
He grimaced as one strike hit his ribcage, which was already a little worse for wear. Another connected with his hip, then his shoulder. Calen knew that he couldn’t keep on the defensive for long. Pressing forward, he shifted his feet, driving his sword straight towards Vars’s abdomen. He felt the wind rush from his lungs as Vars’s knee collided with his unprotected chest.
Calen sat on his knees, desperately attempting to recapture the air that had just been forcibly removed from his lungs. Vars grasped his forearm and dragged him to his feet.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t expose yourself like that, even if you’re sure of a killing blow. Haem would have—” Vars cut himself off. A look of regret crossed his face. “Again.”
Calen stroked a newly emerging bruise on his hip as Vars tossed him a waterskin. He knew by the burning sensations striped across his body that there would be more bruises to follow.
“Is there something on your mind, Calen? You seem distracted today. I should not have connected with that last one.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a tenderness in his voice.
“I’m okay. I guess I’m just a bi
t nervous about The Proving. It’s only a few days away now… I’m not ready.” Calen took a deep drink from the waterskin, his eyes never leaving the ground. The silence seemed to go on for an eternity.
“Haem was nervous too, Calen.” Vars ran his eyes over his son’s face with a note of caution. “The night before The Proving, I found him throwing up in the grass out back. He was a nervous wreck. Worried about failing. Do you know what I told him?”
The air caught in Calen’s throat.
“I told him that the sun will set, and it will rise again, and it will do so the next day and the next. The gods are in charge of such things, but it is by our own will that we pick ourselves up when we fall. He would be proud of you, Calen, as I am.” The words seemed to hang in the air as
Calen handed the waterskin back to Vars. “We should get back to practicing.”
His knuckles were white as he gripped the hilt of the practice sword.
Haem…
The sun was near setting when Vars placed the practice swords into their cloth wrapping, tying it off with a worn piece of string. Every muscle in Calen’s body ached. His shoulders stung with a dull, pulsing throb, and new cuts had sprung up across his body from the many times he exposed himself. Even so, he wore a grin. He had landed a few blows – strong blows, by the way his father rubbed his fingers along his ribs. Calen knew he was a fine swordsman for his age, but Vars was the best in all the villages.
Vars was eighteen summers, working as a blacksmith apprentice, when High Lord Rayce Garrin rose to power in Varsund and turned his eyes towards the plains of Illyanara. The Lorian Empire had never paid much attention to the petty squabbling of the Southern lords, only stepping in if one seemed to gain too much power. The fighting was an easy way to “cull the herd.”
When the Varsund War broke out, being a young man with a sense of adventure in his bones, Vars answered High Lord Castor Kai’s call and rode to Camylin with a group of other young men from the villages and joined up with the Illyanaran army. The Varsund War lasted eight gruelling years. Calen had heard the stories many times over. The devastation was far reaching. The soil was fed with the blood of over-eager youths from the fields of Oberwall all the way to the Argonan Marshes. Towns and cities burned, fields were salted, and bloodlines were erased. Through it all, Vars survived.
He never spoke much about it to Calen, but it was well known across the villages. “A captain of the Illyanaran army,” Calen had heard Jorvill Ehrnin say once. His father was well thought of in The Glade, and his words were always considered. Even Erdhardt Hammersmith gave ground when Vars spoke, and Calen rarely saw the village elder heed counsel at all.
“Calen, I didn’t mean to upset you when I—”
“I know,” Calen cut in. “I’m sorry.”
Vars rested his hand on Calen’s shoulder. A warm smile spread across his face.
“Well, how are we? Not too sore, I hope, after beating each other senseless with sticks?” Calen had not noticed Dann until his hand clapped down across the middle of Calen’s back, igniting a tenderness from the earlier sparring session. He swatted away Dann’s hand. “Get off me, you ass.”
Calen’s anger was met with a mirthful laugh. “How is he doing, Vars? I hope better than the bow. I had to go pick that arrow out of a dead squirrel earlier.” Dann laughed at his own joke until a swift hand cracked him in the back of the head.
“Do you ever shut up?” asked the stern voice of Tharn Pimm, who seemed to appear out of thin air. He winked towards Vars as Dann rubbed the back of his head, muttering to the wind.
Dann’s father was a handsome man of average height, with short blond hair. His frame was wiry, but the muscles that rested on it were dense and used to hard work.
Dann began to complain, but a stern look from Tharn made him think otherwise. Calen found it difficult to suppress a grin.
“How goes the training, Calen?” Tharn asked. “I was watching with Jorvill from the edge of the training field. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone land as many strikes on Vars in a long time.”
Vars raised his eyebrows.
“Well… ever, to be honest. You have a fine sword arm on you.” Calen saw Dann getting ready to make a smart comment, but the words never made it to his lips. “Unlike this loudmouth over here. He’s not too bad with that bow of his, but Achyron himself will need to bless him if a boar gets close enough to smell him. Look after him in there, Calen, and try not to let him do anything too stupid.” Tharn wrapped his arm around Dann’s neck and knuckled his hair playfully as he led him away towards the village. “I will see all four of you for supper, in about two hours. Vars? Ylinda has been preparing the venison all day.”
“Aye, we shall see you then.”
Dann muttered in protest as the pair ambled away, Tharn’s headlock still in place.
Vars stared at Calen out of the corner of his eye, an approving look on his face. His father often did that when looking at Calen or Ella, and he always seemed to have a semi-vacant look in his eyes when he did so, as if he were in a faraway land.
“Dad?” Calen wiped the sweat from his brow that had condensed with the cool evening air.
With a momentary look of sadness, Vars’s eyes snapped back to the real world. His expression shifted, as if melancholy had never touched his face. “Yes, sorry. Let’s get going. Best not be late, Calen.” He turned away and started for the village, the bundle holding the practice swords gripped neatly under his arm.
They walked in silence for a while, side-by-side, across the practice fields and into the village streets. With the Moon Market over and the peddlers and performers now on their way to the far reaches of Epheria, The Glade had transformed back to its natural calm and relaxed atmosphere. People floated through the square, going about their business in a lackadaisical manner as dusk settled in.
Mara Styr was in a world of her own. She packed up the stall outside her shop, in her typically haphazard manner. She threw carrots, leeks, potatoes, and onions unconcernedly into one big woollen sack before dragging it through the shop door, not so much as flinching when the sack cracked off the doorframe with a thud. The hard-earned lethargy of a hard day’s work was evident in every motion.
Aela Hammersmith nodded at Vars and Calen as they passed across the main square. There was a warmness in her smile as she fastidiously tucked away her jewellery display. Each necklace was placed into its own tiny wooden box and topped with cloth before the lid was placed on.
Calen found it strange to picture her and Erdhardt together. He was easily twice her size, and he was as gruff as she was beautiful. Her dark opal eyes were mirrored by her chestnut brown hair. The softness of her facial features had led many a traveller to mistake her for a woman twenty years her junior. Calen didn’t let his eyes linger too long.
The imposing figure of Rhett Fjorn emerged into the square from a side street. He wore the deep blue of the town guard, with a worn metal breastplate across his chest. His raven-black hair was swept back off his face by the wind. By all definitions, he was a handsome man; even Ella seemed to swoon after him.
He directed a cautious smile in Calen’s direction, then gave a stiff nod to Vars, which was returned with a thin-lipped grimace. With that, Rhett ducked down another street on the opposite side of the square, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. Calen sensed a coldness emanating from his father as Rhett vanished into the night’s cloak.
Calen felt sorry for Rhett. He had been Haem’s closest friend, and he was a genuinely honourable man, kind to a fault. He was the only one who returned two years before, when Haem led a group of men to force the Uraks back through Ölm Forest and into Wolfpine Ridge. He was half-dead when he crawled like a lame animal through the trees at the edge of Ölm Forest and into The Glade. His arm was broken in two places, and his clothes were soaked in the blood of the men he had grown up with. Vars had nearly spat on him when he was finally conscious enough to recount his story to the village council. “You should have brought Haem back or di
ed with him!” Calen remembered him screaming, his face red with pain and wrought with anger. Rhett had just stared at him, his eyes sunken holes of despondency, his lips unable to form words.
Haem and Rhett had been inseparable since they were kids, brothers bonded by time instead of blood. Deep down, Calen knew that Haem’s loss burned as deeply in Rhett as it did in himself.
He had always sensed that Vars knew his words were entirely misplaced, but that he did not have the strength to take them back, so he continued to treat Rhett as if he had swung the sword himself. It weighed heavily on him.
“Have you seen Ella today?” Calen asked, trying to pierce the ice that surrounded his father. Ella always brought a glow to his father’s face, no matter the time or place.
“She went out with your mother this morning to help her gather some herbs. Verna had asked for your mother’s help with a sick peddler. She’s not sure if he’ll see the next moon.”
They continued to make small talk as they made their way back to the house. The dark mood lifted further from Vars’s shoulders with each footprint they left in the dust.
CHAPTER 5
The Proving
“Quiet now. Quiet! Settle down.”
Erdhardt Hammersmith’s booming voice carried through the market square, staving off competition from the deafening buzz that was synonymous with large crowds and a bit too much mead. Many new arrivals had made their way into The Glade over the past few days, and many more would arrive through the night.
Erdhardt stood on a newly erected wooden stage that looked out over the market square; his huge frame made the thirty-foot-wide stage seem something more akin to a large podium. He waited for the noise to die down as the crowd turned their gaze upon him. There were three or four hundred people packed into the market square. Entire families came to celebrate the young men proving themselves – and to join in the celebrations afterward. “It is my honour to welcome you all to our village. Food and mead will be provided to all, as much as it takes to fill your bellies and warm your hearts!”