by Ryan Cahill
The taller of the two soldiers was silent. His thick black cape flapped in the morning breeze.
Clink.
A golden coin flipped through the air, rising a foot or two, then fell back down into the man’s open hand. It was the man who fought Aeson. Farda. A chill ran up Calen’s spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He could not escape this man since seeing him at the docks.
Vars straightened himself, pulling his shoulders back. He let out a long calming breath. “I cannot tell you what I do not know. He is not here, and I do not know where he is. What need have you of a young man like him? Why is the empire at my door?”
Calen heard whispers coming from the gathered crowd, all of which knew his family. They knew Vars, but there was as much fear of the empire in the villages as there was hatred.
“I am not here to explain myself to you, blacksmith. I consider myself a fair man, but my patience is wearing thin. Now, tell me where your son is, or I will cut that indignant scowl from your face and take your wife as a serving girl. She still looks capable, despite her obvious years.”
The man drew his sword, gripping it in one hand. The soldiers in the circle did the same. Farda continued flipping his coin, paying as much attention to the conversation as a child would to drying paint. Calen had seen enough. He couldn’t stand there, hiding, while his parents were punished for his actions. He would own up to what he did, and he would pay the price, whatever it would be. He stepped out from behind the wall. “Leave them alone,” he shouted. “I am here.”
Farda snatched the coin out of the air and turned his head towards Calen. His eyes burned brightly into Calen’s own, the skin around his mouth twisting into a satisfied grin. He did not speak.
“Come here, young man,” the other soldier said. “My name is Rendall.” He gestured for the surrounding soldiers to break rank and allow Calen into the centre.
Calen approached one step at a time. The two halves of his brain tore at each other as they argued whether this was the single stupidest thing he had ever done. He had already established that it was stupid. His stomach was in knots. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Calen, what is happening, my boy?” came the whispered voice of Jorvill Ehrnin.
Calen tried to respond, but his mouth felt wired shut. He heard others calling to him in hushed tones. Mara Styr. Ferrin Kolm. His heart skipped a beat as he thought he saw Anya’s red hair, but his feet kept moving.
“Calen, what are you doing here?” Vars’s voice broke through the noise. There was a look of agony on his face at the sight of Calen.
The soldier in the red cape, Rendall, scowled at Vars for talking out of turn. “I am an imperial inquisitor, sent from Al’Nasla. You got yourself into a bit of trouble last night, didn’t you?” He paused for a moment, not to let Calen speak but to let him stew in his own fear. And fear did grip him; the inquisitors were just scary stories. They did not truly exist. Then again, neither did giants. “What was it he did, Farda? Interrupted imperial questioning, disobeyed a direct order – oh, and what else was it? That’s right – murdered an imperial soldier.”
A wave of shock rang through the crowd. The commotion burbled with hushed whispers and exasperated sighs. An accusation like that was far from commonplace in The Glade. It was far from commonplace anywhere, Calen reckoned.
Every hair on Calen’s body stood on end at the sight of his mother’s face. Freis’s eyes were swelling pools of loss. “Calen… I…” She stumbled over her own words.
“Son, is this true?” Vars’s voice did not waver, his eyes fixed on Calen.
“Excuse me, blacksmith. Are you calling me a liar?” Rendall asked. “Your son attacked my men, in aid of wanted murderers. In doing so, he took the life of at least one young initiate. Oren Harstead – correct, Farda?”
Wanted murderers? Is that what Erik is? And Aeson? and Dahlen? A knot twisted in Calen’s stomach. The taller man nodded, an amused grin on his face. Like a kat watching two rabbits fight. Calen wanted to speak, but he was not sure what he could say. He killed that man. He watched the light fade from his eyes…
“Now,” Rendall said, “I am in a good mood today, and as I said, I consider myself a fair man. If you lead us to these murderers, then I will grant you amnesty for your misguided acts, for that is the generous man I am. But if you refuse, I will have no choice but to seek the emperor’s justice in claim of your crimes.”
Calen heard gasps from the crowd. His father’s face was set into a hard stare.
“What… what is the emperor’s justice?” Calen asked. He had a feeling he already knew. A weightlessness entered his stomach.
His mother sobbed. “Please…”
Rendall glared at Freis.
“The emperor’s justice is true justice; an eye for an eye, a life for a life,” Rendall said, his tone level. “Now, if you will kindly tell me what I need to know, then we can be on our way.” Rendall raised his eyebrows, opening his arms out to the air. Calen had no idea what to do. On one hand, he had no doubts that whatever Rendall would do if he found Aeson, Erik, and Dahlen would not be pleasant. On the other hand, he didn’t even really know them. Were they murderers? They had certainly killed men… he watched them do it. But so had he… was he a murderer?
“I….”
“Spit it out, boy!” Rendall snapped. Cracks spread through his falsely charming demeanour. Calen felt the tension building in the gathered crowd. Everybody was on edge. His mother still sobbed softly, his father’s arm around her shoulder. Vars’s glare burned through the side of Rendall’s head.
“I… I don’t know where they are. I left them in Ölm Forest.” Calen tried desperately not to vomit as his stomach twisted in on itself. “I swear.”
Rendall’s face twitched in irritation. “You see, boy. Like father, like son.” In a slow, steady motion, Rendall placed his helmet back onto his head. “It must be hereditary, because I just don’t believe either of you.” Rendall looked towards Farda, who flipped his coin high into the air, letting it fall perfectly into his open palm. Farda glanced at the coin and nodded to Rendall.
Rendall sighed. “It is a pity to take a life before the sun has even risen to its fullest, but these are the things that must be done.” The wicked smile that touched his lips betrayed his words. Calen had a feeling the man delighted in taking a life, no matter where the sun sat.
A din of disgruntled noise spread through the crowd. The soldiers in the circle turned to face the gathered crowd, which had grown significantly since Calen had first arrived.
“Back! Get back, or there will be more than one dying this morning!” one of the soldiers shouted.
Rendall’s grip tightened on the handle of his sword as he stepped towards Calen.
Sobbing, Freis threw herself towards Rendall. “Please, leave him be. He is just a child! This is all a misunderstanding! I—”
Rendall caught Freis with the same vicious backhand that he had given Vars, sending her spiralling to the ground with a scream. “Know your place, woman!” Rendall scoffed, spitting on the ground. Vars roared and lunged at Rendall, connecting with a powerful left hook on Rendall’s cheek. Rendall stumbled a few feet backwards. He touched his hand to his cheek and recoiled slightly as he touched a tender spot.
“Give me a sword and fight me like a man,” Vars hissed. Fury burned behind the blue of his eyes. “You go around bullying children and hitting women. Is this what the inquisitors do now? Inquisitors used to be men of honour, at least enough honour to face a man. Put a sword in my hand and show me who you are.”
Rendall’s eyebrows peaked in surprise. He looked at Farda, who shrugged with disinterest. In a blur of motion, Rendall leapt towards Vars, closing the gap between them in fractions of a second. A look of shock spread across Vars’s face as Rendall drove his sword up into his chest, right to the hilt.
“Now, why,” Rendall said as he dragged the blade free of Var’s chest, staring into his eyes, “would I do that?”
A deep wail filled th
e air. Freis collapsed on the ground in a crumpled, sobbing heap. “No, no, no…” Her usually warm and welcoming eyes were raw and red. She shook uncontrollably. “Why…”
Calen leapt towards Vars’s body as it fell, lifeless, to the ground. He felt empty as he crashed to his knees beside his father’s body, grabbing at his shoulders.
“Wake up! Wake up!” He shook him, harder and harder, until his arms felt like they couldn’t work anymore. He felt numb, hollow. “Please, please, for the love of the gods, wake up! Dad…” He pulled Vars’s body into a tight embrace and sobbed.
“Oh, get up.” The disgust was evident in Rendall’s voice as he wiped the blood from his sword with a cloth. Calen felt the numbness melt away. Rage shot through his veins. It burned so hard that his head ached.
The villagers had fallen into a quiet shock when Rendall drove his sword through Vars, but that shock had worn off. Outrage took over. “Keep them in line,” Rendall shouted to the soldiers surrounding them.
Calen dragged himself to his feet. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. His heart thumped against the walls of his chest. A low humming blocked out all other sound. Villagers pushed at the lines of soldiers, their mouths moving unintelligibly as they roared profanities, kicked, and pushed. Rendall had his back turned, shouting instructions to the soldiers.
Calen dropped his blood-soaked hand down to his waist. His fingers fell on a thick metal coin that led into a handle wrapped in leather. He had forgotten about his sword. He was so unused to carrying one. His body shook with rage and his fingers wrapped so tightly around the handle he thought it might crumble in his grip. He pulled the blade from its sheath and threw himself at Rendall. The only thought in his head was of his blade piercing through that wretched creature’s excuse for a heart.
A jarring vibration shot up through his arm as his sword bounded backwards. Farda had stepped across his path, deflecting his strike with ease.
“Silly child.” Farda swung his blade back around towards Calen’s head. Calen just managed to parry the blow at the last second. Farda moved faster than any man he had ever seen. His face barely showed any signs of effort as his blade danced through the air. It was nothing like the sword fighting he was used to. It took every ounce of strength and will for Calen to match his strokes, but Farda hadn’t even broken a sweat. He barely looked interested. There was no way Calen could keep this up.
Farda’s outstretched boot caught him in the chest like a hammer. Calen thought his heart had stopped as he was lifted into the air. Pain wrenched in his chest as he crashed down into the hard ground. His sword clanged against the dirt beside him. His head was a daze. He coughed violently, splatters of blood landing on his shirt. He struggled to draw air back into his lungs.
When his eyes came back into focus, he saw Farda standing over him with a flat expression. He flicked that coin into the air, then let it drop back into his hand. He took a quick glance at it, then raised his sword up over his head.
“No!” Freis leapt at Farda, using all her body weight to push him backwards.
He looked genuinely surprised for a moment, then stood up straight and collected himself. “I am sorry for the pain that must be caused today, but it is simply that, it must be.”
With a look of regret on his face, he lifted his hand up into the air, as if swatting away an annoying fly. Something unseen lifted Freis off her feet, sending her flying backwards. She crashed through the wall of their home. The wall splintered in all directions as it collapsed inward. Farda clenched his hand into a fist. Screams and shouts rose above the din as Calen’s home erupted in flames.
“No!” Calen’s breath caught in his throat. He felt a deep, implacable pain in his chest when he tried to breathe again.
How did he… Mother…
He heard the harsh metallic noise of steel crashing against steel all around him. The village folk had finally snapped.
Gone.
The pain in his chest hurt so deeply, he thought he might die where he lay. He watched, unable to move, as Farda approached him. Farda took one slow step after another until he again stood over Calen’s crumpled body. “None of them had to die, but you had to play the hero, and fate made its choice. You, though, you have to die. For this, I do not need to ask.”
Once more, Farda raised his sword up over his head. He paused for a moment at the top of his swing. Through the chaos, Calen heard a low whistle. An arrow sliced through the bicep of Farda’s sword arm, sending the blade bouncing off the ground in a series of metallic rings.
Calen felt hands wrapping around his chest as someone heaved him to his feet.
“Get up!” Sweat streaked Dahlen’s face as he dragged Calen from his slumped position. Calen stared past Dahlen, a hollow void in his chest. His eyes were lost in the roaring flames of his home and the lifeless body of the man who had raised him and loved him. Mother… Father… Ella!
“Ella!” Calen lunged towards the blaze. His heart wrenched in his chest with the realisation that Ella would still be asleep in her bed. Dahlen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, shoved his sword into his chest, and stared into his forlorn eyes. “They are dead. If you don’t move, I am leaving you here to die too. Snap out of whatever dream you are in and run!”
They’re dead. Because of me. I killed them.
Dahlen grasped a clump of Calen’s shirt and shoved him onward into a run. Calen felt his feet moving, but he didn’t remember telling them to. He was not in control. It’s my fault.
Another arrow whizzed past his head. He looked up to see the slight figure of Therin. The bard stood upon a rise in the ground about forty feet away, a large curved bow in his hand. His mottled greenish-brown cloak flapped in the wind as he nocked another arrow. What is he doing here?
Calen snapped his head back over his shoulder and followed the flight of the arrow. It slammed into Farda’s shoulder. Two other shafts protruded from his bicep and leg. A burning fury was etched onto his face as he glared back at Calen. He flipped that coin again. Whatever the result of the flip, he turned his attention away from Calen. He snapped the shafts of the arrows off with the blade of his sword and joined the soldiers. He wasn’t even limping.
Dahlen bounded into view. “Calen, if you don’t run, I swear to the gods I will put a sword through you myself!”
Calen stumbled, unable to collect his thoughts. “My mother… Ella…” His voice trembled. The pain in his chest threatened to take away his consciousness.
“They are dead, Calen. I am sorry.” Dahlen looked solemn. He sighed. “If we don’t run now, then we will all be dead as well. I need you to run. The villagers will not keep them distracted for long, and those arrows will not stop Farda. He is not natural.”
Calen took a mournful look at the scenes just a little below him. The soldiers had already overpowered most of the villagers, who were bloody and bruised. They were forced to throw down their weapons. He wanted to help them, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He brought the soldiers. It was his fault. My fault…
He looked back at Dahlen and nodded half-heartedly.
Therin had already slung his bow back over his shoulder by the time they reached him. He cast a concerned eye over Calen, searching for injuries. Calen wanted to speak, to ask Therin what he was doing there, but he didn’t.
It only took a few minutes before the others came into view. Rist and Dann sat on the two horses they had stolen from the camp that night. Dann had a hold of the third horse’s reins. Aeson and Erik were beside them, astride two large brown geldings. They each held the reins of another, similar horse. When they reached the group, Therin leapt onto the back of one of the horses without breaking stride, pulling the reins to his chest as he got up. Dahlen mounted the other spare horse. He reached his hand out and dragged Calen up behind him, sighing with effort as he heaved Calen upwards. Calen felt like nothing but a useless dead weight. He was not in control of his limbs. Just taking in air was a struggle.
“Calen?” Rist’s voice was t
entative. “Calen, what happened?”
Calen just stared at his blood-soaked hands… his father’s blood.
“Are you okay? We heard the fighting.”
Calen did not respond. He could not respond. He had as much control over his voice as he did his legs. It all just kept replaying in his head. The moment Rendall drove his sword through Vars’s chest. His mother sobbing, then being thrown through that wall. The flames. Ella.
Aeson and Dahlen exchanged looks. Dahlen shook his head. Aeson nodded solemnly, bringing his reins up to his chest. “Ride hard and do not stop until the sun sets.”
CHAPTER 14
A New Path
The heavy air of Ölm Forest had become somewhat of a comfort for Calen. He took a deep breath in, letting the heavy air swell his chest, then released it in an exasperated sigh. The sun had set an hour ago, and the group made camp in an opening about halfway into the forest. They had ridden faster than Calen would ever have thought possible through such a dense wood. His new companions looked as if they were almost born into a saddle. He, on the other hand, was not. Every bone in his body ached from riding. His thighs were rubbed raw, and the muscles in his stomach burned from keeping himself upright. One look at Dann and Rist, who sat either side of him, told him they were in the same condition.
Both of them were speechless when Therin told them what happened. The soldiers hadn’t come for their families. Therin, Aeson, Erik, and Dahlen had followed them through Ölm Forest and back to The Glade. When they caught wind of the soldiers, they separated and went to find the three boys. It seemed that Calen’s name was known to the soldiers from the incident in Milltown, and they discovered where he lived. Somebody must have given them his name.
Calen still wasn’t sure how or why Therin was there. He hadn’t had time to talk to him, nor the will. He hadn’t spoken at all since The Glade. An aching hollow filled his chest. He found it impossible to not become lost in his innermost thoughts. He sighed and tossed a loose twig into the crackling fire.