by Sohan Ahmad
Cyrus, for his part, was forced to avoid his true desire. Instead, he took advantage of the temporary calm to teach Geno the fundamentals of servitude as they assisted the crew in their cleaning duties.
The day passed with little excitement, running to hide behind the shadow of a full moon, but as they neared the South, the darkness of night sank even deeper. It was an eerie feeling for those not familiar with southern twilight. Dozens of lanterns burned in a protective light, staving off the crew’s imaginary fears. Winds wailed like a banshee’s song, and creatures of the deep circled beneath the crimson skin of the Scarlet Sea.
Cyrus was one of few able to ignore the terrors of the mind as he lay in bed. Finally, everyone sleeps. This is my chance to return below, but I must move more quietly than silence. He crept on his toes like a thief’s cat, peeking back to ensure the prince still slumbered.
Marcus lay on his side with his back turned, still as the moon above. The young slave sighed in relief and sneaked through the wooden door just as the prince opened his eyes. Does my brother no longer trust me? Go and have your fun then, I will not stop you. Soon, we will be home, and these distractions will fade forever.
Bale welcomed the boy back into their fold as if he were one of their own. “We doubted your return. Care for another stick, or do your lungs yet burn?”
Cyrus raised a hand in refusal. “They cannot know I was here. Please continue with your story—I don’t have long.”
The gladiator took no offense and returned to his tale as the boy’s eyes burned brighter than any lantern above. “A handful of years passed, and my former life had become a distant memory. I was still young and had not seen battle or bloodshed since my mother’s death. Instead, my days were filled with training and sweat that left me too weary for regret or sorrow. However, that would soon change.
“I remember as if it were this morning. The Dragon’s Star was enraged, her roars echoed through the sky and shook the earth to its core. Clouds of black swallowed the sun whole, the only light came from bolts of lightning, and then our fourth and fifth squadrons returned to base with less than half their original number. What few survived were haggard, barely clinging to the saddles of their mounts. Many still had arrows hanging from the holes in their arms, while others limped on legs mangled by iron maces. The captain of the fourth remained conscious just long enough to speak of their mission.
“They hunted a vicious throng of murdering thieves known as the Creeping Trolls, famed throughout the eastern woodlands for their cunning and cruelty. Our men were ambushed in the darkness of the storm, picked apart like insects within the damp greens of the Warped Woods. Beyond the survivors, only twenty men remained at camp that day as our other brothers had already departed to fulfill their contracts. The only captain among us ordered retribution upon the Trolls. I remember feeling anxious and excited at the thought of finally proving myself as a warrior.
“Once the dead were buried, every able-bodied brother marched out into the damp dark. We searched the ambush site for tracks, but the constant downpour washed away any evidence of the attack into pools of soft mud. The vengeful fire in our hearts seemed destined to flicker, unquenched, until I spotted the faintest splatter of blood on a tree’s bark. The captain noticed similar markings on the surrounding trees, leading away from our camp. We followed the trail to a nearby village that we had often visited in the flowering season, but it was oddly quiet, even for a stormy night. Our scouts went ahead in search of lurking traps, but according to their reports, the houses were empty. So, we continued marching into this land of ghosts until we discovered a set of fresh tracks leading into a tunnel beneath the village elder’s home.
“The tunnel led us to a web of caves nearly as large as the town above. We proceeded with caution, and several minutes later, we discovered the missing villagers. The men were locked in cages like cattle while the women and children were chained into servitude. We had finally discovered the location of the Trolls’ hideout; it was a clever design for rapists, killers, and thieves.
“As we crept deeper, we found many of the bandits huddled besides a fire, drinking and celebrating with the spoils of our brothers’ corpses. An insatiable rage filled my brothers’ minds; they were ready to sacrifice their lives for the sake of vengeance. I shared in their passion, but not in their desire to die. Instead, I spoke out and urged patience. Arrogance and anger clouded their judgment; they would not listen to the words of a novice. However, our captain was no fool, requesting the logic of my strategy.
“I explained that the sky would soon vanish into the black. It was unlikely that the Trolls would depart the safety of their caves until the morning light shined. So, I proposed we return to base and gather as many bows and arrows as we could carry. The mongrels would be helpless against such a calculated assault.
“He found wisdom in my words and commanded their execution as a handful of brothers remained to monitor the Trolls’ movements. Upon our return, the hour of their demise came swiftly from the descending tips of one hundred arrows. Those that survived the storm were impaled on a fence of moon-steel spears, and thus the Creeping Trolls of the Mizraya region were wiped clean from existence. That night taught me about my strength; a talent for death, my brothers called it.”
Bale’s tone seemed odd to Cyrus. “Does that memory make you sad? I would think such actions could only inspire pride.”
The gladiator regained the calm in his voice. “Pride is the shame of weakness. Leave such useless emotions to the highborn.” A weary glaze washed over his eyes. “That is enough history for the night. Return to your bedding if you wish to retain the secrecy of your actions.” Cyrus desired to discover the source of his friend’s anguish, but he did not argue against his counsel.
The next morning brought with it an uncomfortable heat that made even the ship’s wooden deck ooze with sweat. Many of the passengers and crew remained within the shade of their chambers, while others lay lazily on the deck as their bodies drank in the humidity. Cyrus performed his duties no differently than on any other sunrise—Laziness is a luxury of the free.
Marcus, whose stamina seemed boundless, remained unhindered by the muggy temperature. Boredom was the more pressing concern, but his brother had no interest in entertaining him, as the long nights of Bale’s history had drained the young slave of his youthful reserves. Before the prince could take offense, Archonis summoned him into his father’s chambers.
The Cardinal dragged himself from sheets of linen to take his first steps in nearly two days. Isa held him by the arm as he limped over to the chipped wooden chair by the far wall. “That is all for now. Leave us; we have matters of state to discuss,” the Cardinal said to her.
She wiped the sweat from his brow and bowed to her masters before departing. “As you desire, Your Holiness.”
Ramses motioned for his son to come forward. “Upon our return to the castle, you will begin attending meetings of the Serpent Council by my side. Given recent events, it is time for you to sit at our table and learn what it means to be the head of the Snake.”
The Paladin saluted the boy. “Congratulations, My Prince. This is a great honor.”
Marcus could not believe it. Finally, the chance I have been waiting for! “Thank you, Father. I swear that I will make you proud.”
Ramses pulled the boy’s forehead to his. “Make sure that you do, my son. You are the past of our future. May it blaze brighter than the fiercest northern sun.” He kissed his son on the crown of his head and released his grip. “Grab a seat and open your ears, we must review the topics to discuss during the next meeting . . .” There was much to cover in such a short time, and so their conversation continued until the light burned to dusk.
One last cloudless day of sweltering heat passed as the Rusty Pelican slipped into Isirian waters. More than anything, Cyrus wished to lend his ear again to Bale’s tale before the vessel docked at Cairopa and the two parted ways. Anxiety boiled away what little patience remained, and when the se
a donned its deepest red cloak, he escaped to his brother in chains.
Upon their reunion, Bale insisted, “Share a seekar with me, little brother. Celebrate our last night together.”
Cyrus glanced over his shoulder. Apologies, Mother, he thought before his eyes returned to the jasmine scented stick. “I would be honored…Brother.”
“I am impressed. Your throat has shed its fear,” the gladiator remarked as a cloud of charred herbs swallowed Cyrus’s face whole.
Sharp blades of the night’s breeze slashed at the sails while the red sea danced like the feral firewater of Silonician dragon rocks. Bathed in the perfume of minted smoke, Bale recalled the events that stripped him of his father’s name. “There is but one tale left to share, I pray it offers the wisdom you seek. Several years faded as my once soft hands calloused into rough stone. I quickly surpassed the rank of captain and became the youngest commander in our hundred-year history, but as my power grew, so too did my greed. My goal was to transform the Crescent Glaives into the most feared sell swords in all of Colossea, greater even than the Blood Wings of Chronos. My men won endless battles and slaughtered countless brigands, but I constantly desired more. Ambition made me impatient and sloppy.
“At the peak of our fame, a lesser noble of the royal court approached with an opportunity draped in gold. He was an unsightly, dwarfish stump, round as he was tall with damp pale skin and the unsavory glow of swamp water in his eyes. Every breath of his perfume choked my lungs, the songs from his tongue burned my ears like viper venom, and his skin sagged like sludge from the bottom of a pig’s pit. Yet he carried the Empress’s seal. I could not refuse his request. We were to act as the noble’s sword against a rival lord suspected of stealing from the crown. This thief fortified himself within his keep with a force of two hundred sell swords from the Cerulean Tide. Formidable opponents to be sure, but no match for us . . . or so I thought.
“The enemy citadel was a sight to behold. A tower of polished cobalt stone stood erect in the center, its spire bathed in the purest silver. Outer walls were sculpted like the fanning wings of a dragon, long black spikes atop each corner. Alongside two dozen of my elite, I hid within the mist of the lake behind the fortress as the remainder of our forces awaited our signal outside the tall, curved gate of silver.
“Their defenses were poor; we scaled the walls with ease. As we scoured the grounds, we lay blade to each man at arms. There were far fewer than we expected and none armed with the sickle-shaped scimitars of the Cerulean Tide. Atop the spire, we entered the lord’s chambers and there we found him, slain beside his wife and son. His wounds matched those of the blades with which we expected to clash. It was too late, but I realized then that arrogance had corrupted my instincts. We fled the tower to the screams of our brothers at the gate. Once our feet returned to soil, the fortress burned to cinders as a ring of curved blades awaited us.
“Fewer than twenty of my men survived that night. The royal seal that purchased our lives was a fake used to sell our brothers’ souls to the inferno. Forced to hide like rats, we fled to the hills, living like the very rogues we hunted for years, discarding all pride in the flames that purged our brothers from the Earthly Mother. It was not long before soldiers of the Empress’s prized Dragoons were tasked with our capture. I had never before seen women so capable in combat. They were as fierce as they were elegant, more composed than any unit of men I’d ever fought with. We struggled on for a bit, but their numbers and tactics were too much for scattered mercenaries. Within days, they drove us from the shelter of trees and rock into the clamp of iron bracers.
“We were branded as criminals and murderers, traitors to the court while he was hailed as a hero. As we rot in our cells, word spread that the Betrayer had joined the Dragon Council and was given the title of general along with all of its blessings. Our blades could no longer reach his throat, and our thirst for vengeance would never be quenched. Not long after, our lives were weighed, and sentenced to death in the arena. In the east, once you’re branded a slave or a bastard, you lose your father’s name. Is it the same in the South?” Bale asked the young slave.
“Yes, but not just our father’s name,” Cyrus answered. “We lose our mother’s name as well.”
“My regrets. To you and your mother.”
“Gratitude,” the boy said, “but you’re not the one that put us in chains.”
At the time of Bale’s judgment, only six of his brothers remained, traveling with him to the Naked Isle of Minos, located just north of Chronos. After a year of life and death within the island’s meager arena, Bale and his surviving brothers were sold for greater coin and glory. “Tomorrow, after you and your people return home, we shall journey west to the Great Pits. I suppose I should be happy, for I have always desired to explore the world; fate is clever, if not cruel.”
Cyrus began to shed a tear, which stirred a chuckle in the gladiator’s throat. Do my fallen brothers laugh as well? Or were they weeping like the boy? “Do not forget, child. Whether bound in iron or silk, we are all slaves.” Bale paused for a moment, scratching his head. “Cyrus, there is one last thing I wish to tell you. There were whispers in Minos that the Betrayer’s greed forced him to flee the East, and he slithered his way into your crown’s court. Remember his name and avoid it at all costs: Lucivius Mammon.”
Cyrus could not believe his eyes. What kind of devil could make this hard man quake? “I will,” he said, slipping his slender hand between the bars of iron, open for embrace.
Bale brushed back his vibrant blue mane to reveal the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. His palm engulfed the boy’s hand as if it was a pebble. “Gratitude, little brother.” But he shook it as if Cyrus were a man. “Go now, return to your mother. You have no more need to bask in our doom.” The boy’s pupils glazed as he neared the steps, but before he vanished, Bale raised a fist. “Cyrus, I pray that I never see you again.”
Chapter 8: Drifting with the Wind
A brisk summer wind washed across their faces as Tyr marched alongside Zephyrus through the forest. The boy’s mind was an empty canvas, craving the nourishment to paint new memories. He asked his guardian many questions: “Where were you born? Do you have any children? Did you have a mother and father?”
Zephyrus answered, “No child bears my name.” The famed Sword Saint of Wind continued his steps without another word. Tyr’s feet rushed to keep pace and once he made it to the front, the Wind spoke once more. “You will meet my mother and father soon enough.”
Tyr stumbled through the unknown like a newborn. “How soon? Are they nice or are they like you?” His curiosity was insatiable.
In the early hours, there were many moments when the Wind lamented his decision. Perhaps I did not think this through. “Patience is a virtue, child. Hold your questions, the answers will come.”
The boy groaned, but when the moon’s dark light descended to earth and the embers of their campfire grooved through the sky, he noticed a lonely silence reflected in his guardian’s eyes. I wonder what he’s seen and what he sees now. He scares and calms me at the same time. Eventually, Tyr succumbed to the tranquility of the cool night air, nestled by the warm glow of flame.
The Wind sat as still as a mighty oak in the gentle breeze, watching the child sleep his first sleep as Tyr. What would my father do with a child? I can hardly remember. He found his eyes fixed on the boy’s slumber. I pray you find in your dreams the peace that was taken from you in life.
When the soft, comforting sun awoke above its pillow of floating clouds, they departed the woodland refuge for the swordsman’s home. The unpaved roads led them just west of the Timeless City, and by the hour’s end they came upon a small town that was ablaze with frenzy. Men barred windows with enough strips of lumber to blot out the sun’s light while large wooden spikes grew from the perimeter like a row of bear claws.
Tyr salivated with an inquisitive appetite, running his small fingers over the coarse, sturdy bark sprouting from the freshly ti
lled soil. “Careful, boy,” A local man said, noticing Tyr’s peculiar behavior. “That’s no toy you play with.” Sweat trickled from his brow, and the wooden grip of a stone hammer sat firmly in hand as his gaze approached the Wind. “Hello, traveler. Name’s Balek Smyth. I’m protector of this humble town.” He advised, the grasp on his hammer tightening ever so slightly. “What’s your name, then?”
The Wind’s tongue remained caged within his mouth. Balek’s hammer squeezed within his grip. “If you’re one of those crop-stealing southerners, you’d best leave,” he whispered. “We’ve no food to spare for Snakes.”
Without warning, the boy jumped in between them. “My name is Tyr, and I am the God of Battle!” Ignorant of the hatred that coiled around the man’s tightly gripped hammer, he spoke his name as if it was a new toy to share with the world.
Balek burst into laughter. “Forgive my ignorance, young god. I’m but a simple mortal.” All anxiety faded into the wind.
“You are pardoned,” Tyr answered. “Tell me, Balek Smyth, has something happened? Why is everyone acting so strangely.”
Balek wiped the dripping wet from his forehead before answering. “Seems strange during such peaceful times, doesn’t it? But we’ve been hearing a concerning rumor these last few nights. A storm of sand and metal blows from the west.”
Before Tyr could question the meaning, Zephyrus broke his silence. “The Radink.”
“That’s right,” Balek confirmed. “We hear they mean to make good on all those years of empty threats.”
Who or what is the Radink? Tyr wondered. Why are these villagers so scared? He looked to his elders for answers, but that would have to wait.
“Everyone come quick,” a nearby voice called out, “it’s Sir Lenalo from the capital!”
“Where?” Balek called out, hardly willing to believe his ears. All fingers pointed toward the boy’s companion. “Sir, is it true? Are you the legendary God of Wind?” The hammer that squeezed so tightly dropped like feather as he begged, “Please forgive any insults.”