by Matthew Wolf
This was Rydel’s favorite part.
Rydel loved sparring Dryan and Hadrian, and the others took a liking to it as well. It was a test among brothers and a showcase of their endless hours of hard work. Rydel quickly learned their different skill sets.
Hadrian, though younger than Rydel, was taller, broader, and undoubtedly the strongest. He was stronger than both Rydel and Dryan by a good bit. By the age of seven, he could even hoist a log over his head that required Dryan and Rydel together. Dryan was the fastest and most agile. Nimbly he’d duck and dodge Hadrian and Rydel’s blows and return swift strikes of his own. Rydel was a combination of the two. Neither was he as strong as Hadrian or as quick as Dryan, but he held the balance of both, and for that, the two respected him greatly and acknowledged him as their leader of sorts.
They learned how to wield a vast array of weapons from behemoth hammers, heavy-headed great axes, or far-reaching polearms, to small agile weapons like claws, swordbreakers, knives, and a hundred other tools of warfare. He had never known so many types of weapons had existed. All the while, Rydel’s annoyance grew along with a strange burning desire founded on that first day: no swords like the leafblade. He hadn’t touched a real sword yet, only wooden imitations. Instead, when they were tired and beaten like a sack of bruised potatoes, he would fall into a heap on the floor, unable to even reach his room. Lying, beaten and bone-tired, he would stare up at the leafblade where it hung above the mantel. Daily he’d watch it longingly as it swayed at Master’s hip or hung about their small hut like a fruit just out of reach. It will be mine one day, he would vow again and again, until this, too, became Rydel’s creed.
As time passed, they grew bigger and stronger. With age, their features slowly changed too. Their plump boyish features changed under Master’s tutelage. They weren’t quite hardened and chiseled, but the fat on Hadrian and Dryan’s cheeks hollowed out, the angles coming in more sharply.
Dryan had never lost that perpetual gleam of mischief in his gaze. The vines under his blue eyes had darkened along with his skin, and he appeared almost tan for an elf.
Hadrian grew taller and wider. A smile always donned his face. His jaw was sharp and angular and he seemed excited each time he discovered a new wiry hair on his body. He was quick to measure everything with Rydel, though Dryan’s competitive drive was never far behind. Arm-wrestling, feats of jumping, agility contests, spitting contests, and literally anything else could be turned on its head in moment’s notice to a sudden challenge. Once they competed to see who had the strongest toes, and another time who could sprint the longest blindfolded without running into something. Rydel had won by not participating in that one. Still, normally Rydel always joined in, if reluctantly. As time went on, he was distantly aware that their once scrawny legs and arms filled out with hardened, compact muscle. Despite the moments of levity and brotherhood carved out of brief necessity, the training was brutal and most days felt more like torture.
Bedtime was plagued with restless sleep. They had to learn to sleep lightly, to wake at a moment’s notice. If they snored Master would sneak into their room and beat them. Sleep became a mix of bliss and torment. Their hardships increased evermore as time progressed. They washed with only frozen water that stung like icy splinters. Over time, they grew accustomed to the freezing bite. Rydel was amazed at what one could acclimate to with time.
Master Trinaden, Rydel realized quickly, was an ever-creative genius for their trials.
They learned to run long and hard. Rydel’s legs wobbled as they’d run up and down hills, forced to sprint. Once frail and slow, they grew stronger until they loped like wolves, racing lightning-fast wild cormacs through the dense glades. When the time came that miles flew beneath their feet in a blur, Rydel felt an impending fear that a new obstacle was fast approaching. Sure enough, Trinaden forced them to strap rock-filled heavy packs to their bodies. As a final test of their speed, they were required to bring the same colored rocks to their master from one end of Relnas Forest to the other. The journey was a two day’s ride on a swift mount and they were to match that time. It was an impossible feat, but so were all Master Trinaden’s ordeals.
When the day came, they stood in the dark glade, packs strapped. “Well, shall we?”
After the first few hours, their breaths were all labored. The weight hurt Rydel’s ankles with each pounding step, but he saw Dryan was lagging. Rydel neared his smaller brother. The sly-looking elf had sweat straining down his face, pain etching his features. Rydel took off Dryan’s pack. His raven-haired brother watched him with his bright, curious blue eyes as Rydel took out stones from Dryan’s pack.
“You can’t,” Dryan said. “We need them all.”
Rydel gave a smirk. “We need them all, but he didn’t say we had to carry the same amount.” And he placed two heavy rocks into his own bag, dreading the pounding pain his ankles were about to endure, but he hid it with a wider grin.
Hadrian neared and took three big stones—one from Rydel’s back and two from Dryan’s. When Rydel looked to argue, Hadrian lifted a brow. “Come now, brother. You don’t want all the fun, do you?”
Miles continued until Rydel’s feet felt swollen to the size of dalwat fruits. The dull, repetitive ache in his ankles spread to his knees and he felt them swell as well. Still, they ran, sprinting like the wind. Rydel felt his bones crack—fractures forming in his legs as he ran. He wanted to stop, to lie down or cry out. But in his peripheries, his brothers ran as well, their breaths a chorus in his ears to keep going. Finally, exhausted, his bones aching, his body bleeding… they reached it. In one day they had run the course of Relnas Forest; a journey that would have taken an average human or even an elf a week’s trek.
Master Trinaden was waiting for them in a small glade. His shimmering hando cloak, the cloak of the Hidden, blended with the woods behind him as he stood like a statue. A stony expression graced his face, which still looked mean to Rydel to this day. Trinaden could scowl without scowling or stare down a full grown drekkar, a demon of Drymaus forest. His ever-present leafblade was at his side. Rydel emptied their sacks letting rocks spill to the mossy floor, showing them all. Before they had arrived, the burden had been split evenly between only him and Hadrian. Still, they had all made it—broken and battered, they had done it. Trinaden made no move. Finally, he gave a slight nod of approval. That was it. Nevertheless, Rydel felt a wave of warmth at the rare slight praise; though, for a flickering moment, his gaze was mysterious as he looked at Dryan.
The tortures grew more severe.
To increase their pain tolerance, they ran through briar patches or slept in the freezing cold in the dead of winter with only a thin blanket. Yet for every strike they would take, for every run, for every exercise, Master did it with them, harder and faster. This above all else made Rydel not loathe the elf, and like a seedling, his respect grew.
All the while, he trained them to be warriors above warriors.
He trained them not to fear death.
He trained them to be weapons.
Time passed in a strange blur, slow yet fast. Days became months, months became years. If he could have, Rydel would have thought about his past life, about his parents. Instead, the training was the only thing filling his thoughts. Every second was grueling. He needed every morsel of energy and concentration to survive. The pain, exhaustion, and intensity kept him ever-present. If he let his concentration slip, he would fail. And failure wasn’t an option. He fell sometimes, though when he did, the others would be there. Hadrian offering a hand, Dryan a nod. Other times, he would be there for them. They were three pillars leaning on one another. As the days went on, the feeling of hardship turned to true pain. More than once Rydel felt the icy grip of darkness slip over his mind, and he thought the embrace of death would take him, free him from the endless torture. Still, every time in that final moment, he pulled himself free or found a glimmer of light. Bruises. Cuts. Broken b
ones. These all became commonplace until they grew quicker and faster. Their injuries became less and less, though they kept their scars.
One day on the haystacks, Dryan’s arrow had missed the center of the target. Trinaden’s punishment was for him to sleep outside in the forest in the freezing cold. It was a night so bitter that even the water in their hut had frozen over. He and Hadrian were restricted from doing anything, but as the storm grew worse, Rydel’s worry increased until he couldn’t help himself. His brother was out there and he wouldn’t abandon him to the horrid storm. Hadrian didn’t take much convincing. They left and found Dryan covered in a blanket of snow. His normally tan skin was now grey as a pale moon. He was still as death and a black rot had settled on his ears. Rydel knew the signs that Dryan’s flesh was dying.
Putting his ear to the smaller elf’s chest, he listened for a heartbeat. A faint thump answered. Then another. Soft and staggered.
“Is he…” Hadrian had asked.
“Not yet,” Rydel replied. “But he will be if we don’t do something about it. Help me get him up.”
Hadrian hesitated.
Rydel knew what his friend was thinking. Trinaden would have their heads. There was no defying their master. Years ago it had happened. Dryan had tested their master and the big elf had hung him over a waterfall. The look in Trinaden’s eyes was clear back then. He’d have dropped Dryan to his death if the boy had uttered another disobedient word. Now they would have to face Trinaden’s same impassive, icy justice if they brought home their friend, even if he was dying. “We can’t leave him here, Hadrian,” Rydel declared.
Hadrian hesitated.
“We can’t let him die,” Rydel said more firmly. “He wouldn’t leave us.” Though he wasn’t certain about that. Dryan had always seemed different from them; though he was still their brother. They were all they had, and Rydel had made a promise long ago. I will protect you.
“Trinaden will kill us,” Hadrian said flatly.
Rydel looked at him. “Then we’ll die together.”
Hadrian gave a slow smile, then bent and helped him hoist Dryan. They’d hurried home seeing the small hut in the distance—a trail of smoke curled from the riverstone chimney, its roof laden with thick snow, an oddly tranquil sight in light of their dying brother. As the cold picked up, the storm bit deeper—stinging his eyes and face. Long ago his extremities had gone numb along with his face. Through squinted vision, Rydel held onto that image of the warm glow from the windows. Each step like lead, Rydel found the last bit of his energy: in an exhausted voice that hitched from the bitter cold, he rallied Hadrian, “Quickly, bro-brother. We-we’re almost there.” Frozen as icicles themselves, they reached the door just as Trinaden opened it.
“Le-let us in,” Rydel demanded. “He’s near frozen. H-he needs a healer and a fire or he’ll die.”
Master Trinaden didn’t move. He stood coolly, his wide shoulders brushing the doorframe. His long fall of blond hair fell into his eyes as he stared down at Rydel. Rydel had grown over the years, but Trinaden still towered over him. His heart thumped, feeling the weight of the elf’s stare. “You disobeyed my orders.”
“He would die,” Rydel said, teeth still chattering. “And he still might if you don’t get out of our way.”
Still, Trinaden remained motionless, blocking their path.
Rydel grit his teeth, his anger festered, taking control. He felt his body shake with rage, overpowering his cold body. “Why? Why train us, why do all this work if you’re just going to let us die!”
Master Trinaden smacked Rydel across the face, hard enough that blood splayed from his mouth and he felt a tooth loosen. The blow had been too fast to see. Hadrian and the frozen Dryan collapsed. Sluggish from the cold, Hadrian tried to rush to Rydel’s side but a metallic ring cut him short. Master Trinaden pointed his blade to Hadrian’s throat, then turned it to Rydel. “You don’t understand yet, do you?”
Rydel tasted blood as he stared daggers at his master.
“You will kill, and you will face conditions far worse than this,” he said, pointing to the snowstorm. “I’m training you to withstand. One day, not long from now, you will be forced to walk into Drymaus Forest. When that day comes, every ounce of strength and hardship you have garnered will be needed. If Dryan is weak, he will die. That is the way of life and the Hidden’s first code. But he’s not your responsibility. If you coddle him, he will only show weakness later and get you or others killed then.” Rydel looked at Master Trinaden. For the first time in his life, he felt true hatred for the man. He didn’t understand him. Trinaden waved a hand of dismissal and stalked inside, but left the door open.
Later that night after the healer had left, Rydel came to Trinaden who sat in his chair staring into the fire. “How is he?” Master Trinaden asked, gazing into the snapping flames.
“He’s alive,” Rydel said, and couldn’t help but add, “barely. The healer said if he’d been out another minute, he’d be dead.”
Without asking permission, Rydel turned to leave when—
“Rydel,” Trinaden spoke. Then he was silent for a long time, staring at the petulant flames until finally, “Your lives are no longer your lives. If you survive this, you’ll be able to change the course of history. Dryan needs to know that this isn’t about you. It isn’t about me. If you survive, you may very likely save us all.”
“What if I don’t want to save anyone, what if I just want to go back?” Rydel asked and looked away. “What if I want this all to end and to live a normal life?”
Master Trinaden smiled and finally looked at him. He thought the elf would be mad but instead, he replied, “You will never be normal, Rydel. Even if I or you wished it, you will always be different. You have what I fear Dryan will never have.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Master Trinaden shook his head. “Dryan… Something eats at the boy’s soul that I cannot shave away.”
“If he has any darkness,” Rydel replied. “It will be your fault. You made him that way tonight.”
Trinaden shook his head, “No, boy. No one can make someone evil. Everything is a choice in this world, but some darkness can be born within. Dryan is strong, weaker than you as he stands, but he has the potential to be the strongest of all, though not where it counts.”
Dryan, the strongest of all? Was it true? But he asked, “What do you mean where it counts?”
Trinaden’s next words were a mere whisper, “The third and final code.” And his eyes blazed with the fire’s light, “To be a Hidden, above all else means to sacrifice yourself, but never your soul for the greater good. What you did today proved that. You saved your brother despite the pain you knew it would cause you. But you can’t lose your soul just to save the world, or the world isn’t worth saving.” Then something happened that Rydel couldn’t quite comprehend. In the flickering firelight, he saw a glistening drop on Trinaden’s face. A tear? Trinaden was weeping?
The image stuck with him, even as Rydel went to bed that night. But the next day—training resumed as normal. Dryan recovered slowly, and as he did, something seemed left behind. He lost part of his ear from the black rot of cold but had gained a strange dark gleam in his eyes. When he looked to Master Trinaden, Rydel saw a low terrible rage in his brother’s gaze, darker than ever before. It was as if the rot eating at his flesh that night, now ate at his soul. Still, Rydel wasn’t sure Trinaden was right. He could hardly blame Dryan. At night, when they had all gone to bed and Dryan thought no one else could hear, Rydel could hear Dryan’s low, spiteful curses. His life had almost been taken for nothing more than a missed arrow. Still, Master Trinaden’s words had left their mark as well—they lingered in his mind, even louder. What did he mean, ‘we’re going to save the world’? And what was all that about sacrifice?
One morning, Master had left on an errand and in his absence, a rumor grew. The three sat at the t
able, hunched over their breakfast of gruel. It was a sticky mass of nutrients ground into a glue-like paste, something that would stick to their stomachs and give them energy for the day’s training.
Usually, they talked little, but over the days and years, they had formed a bond of mutual respect. They had fought and nearly died. Now, with Master gone for the day in Eldas, they were giddy with the absence of his watchful eyes. They chatted in low tones in the green wood hut, “Do you think… do you think it’s today?” Dryan asked. “Swords, real swords! I saw them in the glade. Metal blades.” For all their hard work, for all they’d learned—they had still yet to train with a sword that wasn’t wooden. Rydel’s heart, his whole essence, yearned to touch the leafblade that hung above the mantle. The metal blades they had seen as well would be a poor but willing substitute until that day. Rydel kept his thoughts to himself, however, as he was half-heartedly reading from a book while the other two gossiped.
“Today is different. Today we will to train with the Terma,” Hadrian announced with a gleam in his eyes.
“You’re lying,” Dryan said.
“Am not—it’s the truth,” Hadrian said firmly.
Rydel put his book down, unable to concentrate and eyed Hadrian. “What makes you say that? What do you know that we don’t oh-wise-one?”
Hadrian slurped the ground root-based gruel from a bowl and gestured with his wooden spoon, wearing a mischievous smirk, “Because I heard it. From him.”
“Master said so?” Dryan asked dubiously.
“From the elf’s own mouth. Told the Healers that came yesterday.”
“Why?” Rydel asked. “How did you hear this?”
Hadrian shrugged innocently. “Was reading a book behind the woodpile. Master didn’t know I was there.”