by Sohan Ahmad
“There was a sign in Jupos,” the wanderer replied. “If it’s true the Blood Wings offer food and shelter to their men, then I’m going into join.” Another youth with strawberry strands and sharp yellow eyes arrived, sharing a similar tale. An Isirian? The first wanderer wondered, hiding his face from the other.
The two sentries laughed until their bellies nearly burst. “Go home,” one of the guards answered. “Sell sword’s life'd devour two babes so fresh from their mothers’ bellies.”
“Did the sign speak truth?” the youths asked once more, shrugging aside the insult.
“Stupidity’s got its limits,” answered the taller, burlier guard whose blotchy beard sat as patches of dark and light hair, blended together by an uneven shave. “But you two’ll learn soon enough what it’s like in the Vulture’s Nest. Names now. Not that it’ll matter in a few minutes.”
“My name…” the first answered with a stutter, “is Bale.”
Upon hearing the name, the second glanced at the first with a raised brow. It was a fleeting thought that passed quickly before he returned a cold glare toward the pointed spears. “My name is not for two doormen. Move aside before I cut through you.”
The burly man thrust his spear tip under the second’s chin. “How dare a dirty Snake talk to me that way?”
“Easy, brother,” the burly man’s brother in arms reminded him of their code. “You know the Vulture’s law. Strength and skill is all a Blood Wing needs, even if the boy’s a southerner.”
“Fine!” the burly soldier allowed retreated his spear. No chance they survive the test. “Hope your sword’s as sharp as your tongues. Get out my sight.”
Both Bale and the nameless traveler ignored the warning, bleeding into a line of dozens who would be sell swords. “Attention, recruits!” an older man shouted from atop the nearby balcony. Clad in gold with a shiny Eagle pinned to the ivory mantle on his back, he twirled a mustache that was polished to a sheen. “If you wish to join our flock, you must first survive five minutes against a Falcon. Flee now if your heart is weak.”
Only a handful of already frightened young men retreated. One other attempted, but he tripped over a loose stone, exposing panicked eyes as big as blue moons. “Looks like you stumbled, friend.” Before the shame forced him to cower further, a hand reached out to him. “My name’s Bale.”
“You are right. “The embarrassment of fleeing a second time weighed even heavier than did his fear. “One of those cowards must have knocked me over when they ran,” he said loud enough for all to hear, while whispering the truth. “Thanks for noticing. My name’s Simon.”
Twenty would be recruits remained. The first was a slender young man with strands of golden hair that swooped across olive skin, concealing one eye as the second burned with a sapphire’s blue. “Must I use this wooden sword?” he grumbled.
“Only if you want to keep your life,” the Falcon that faced him answered. His grin growing wide and wicked as he took his stance. “Now stop wasting our time and step forward, runt.”
The golden haired young man obliged, caressing the timber blade between his grip as the signal was given to begin. As the Falcon swooped in, he released the widest yawn he could muster. Scratching the itch on his belly, he parried attacks from left, right, and center before boredom forced him to shatter the tester’s blade into splinters. “Wood can still kill,” the young man reminded.
“Lucky brat,” some of the beaten mercenary’s brothers in arms openly scoffed.
But Bale and his nameless companion were not among them, smiling instead with identical intrigue as their hearts raced and their hands twitched. How much more was he holding back?
The gold-plated Eagle ended the contest, pinching his finely waxed whiskers between thumbs and fore fingers. “You have promise, little Owl,” he smiled, summoning the golden haired swordsman to the chipped stone square beneath his perch. “We could use more men like you. What is your name?”
“Sebastian Dantes,” another answered from beyond sight, gazing down upon the Vulture’s Nest from the edge of a nearby hilltop. His soft yet raspy breath chilled the swirling winds to which he spoke. “Apologies, you called him Tyr. He has grown tall and strong since last we saw him,” the wanderer remarked, stroking the torn flesh of his chin with metal fingers. Suddenly, the winds began to twist in rage around his bull-hide cowl, but it did little to sway him. Instead, a wicked grin of white formed between his lips as the young swordsman’s image blinked within crimson eyes. “Worry not, my dear, dead friend, he shall never escape my sight.”
(THE END)