The Brotherhood: Blood

by Kody Boye

  Here goes nothing.

  Lunging forward, Odin ducked under the man’s forward slash, then rolled forward, the brunt of his weight landing at the curve of his upper back and propelling him directly behind the weapons master.

  The man, so stunned by the reciprocating action, had little chance to turn around just as Odin pressed the tip of the blade into the weapon master’s back.

  “See?” the weapons master asked. “That is how your swordfight, gentlemen.”

  In the moments following his defeat, the instructor gestured Odin forward, set an arm around his shoulders, then turned his attention to the young men situated against the far wall. “I’m going to pair you up in groups of two,” the man explained. “I want you to practice striking and blocking your opponent. This is the first thing you’ll need to learn. Develop your own style. Watch the way your enemy moves, examine their stance or fighting for weaknesses that you can exploit. When you ‘kill’ your sparring partner in the resulting duel, you’ll switch with another boy who’s won his own spar. The two that were beaten will fight each other in order to gain experience on their weaknesses. Winners will go on one side, the losers—the dead—on the other. From there, we’ll switch teams until we have enough for a small skirmish. Understand?”

  “Yes sir!” the boys cried, all in unison.

  Odin stood next to his weapon’s master, unsure what to do in light of his recent win. He made a move to walk toward what would be the ‘winning’ side before the man stopped him.

  “Sir?” Odin frowned. “What are you—”

  “Call me Master Jordan,” the man grunted. “That was quite impressive, young man.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “My father taught me well.”

  “You’re but a commoner. Tell me—was your father enlisted in the military?”

  Gradually, over the course of several undeterminable moments, Odin mustered up the courage to shake his head, knowing full than well that his father, whom bore no humility, would not care about the declaration. Since when did one need a knight or a military figure whom had learned through accomplishment and consequence to be a valiant man?

  “Very well,” Master Jordan said. “Not everyone needs to be in the military to know their way around a sword.”

  Truth be told, Odin nodded.

  The weapon’s master slapped Odin’s back one last time before proceeding to bark encouragement and insults to the other boys.

  A few short moments later, a massive boy whom had to be some five-and-a-half feet tall felled a quite smaller one with a hard hit to the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back with a violent thud.

  “There’s no need to be rough, Mr. Monvich,” Master Jordan said, stepping forward to assist the fallen boy to his feet. “You don’t need to through your opponent into the dirt.”

  “Why?” the hulk of boy asked. “It’s not like anyone’s going to treat you with respect on the battlefield. He’ll kill you before he decides to let you live.”

  “Very well, Herald, but here, in this castle, we’re not out to kill anyone, especially our sparring partners.” Jordan sighed and shook his head. “You know what to do.”

  “Guess I fight you then,” the boy named Monvich smirked, running the back of his wrist across his mouth to reveal a wisp of hair curving across his upper lip.

  “I… guess,” Odin said, taking notice of both himself, then the other boy, whose shoulders were nearly as broad as Odin’s torso and whose muscles had begun to show. His face, though harsh, also bore a manly distinction that set him apart from the baby-faced, fat-cheeked boys around them—a strong jaw, a squared chin, and that undeniably-manly whisper of hair atop his lip.

  Smirking, Herald stretched his sword arm out, then bent his knees.

  There was no forewarning before he lunged forward.

  Odin raised his sword just in time to block a hit.

  “You might think you can get around me with your height,” the bigger boy said, throwing a few more blows in his direction, “but I’m bigger and stronger than you.”

  Like that matters, Odin thought.

  The swords began to soar through the air as though they were birds making their way toward their migratory patterns. Monvich’s blade hard, unruly; Odin’s quick, unmerciful—the wooden swords, though as safely-protected as they were, began to strike one another in ways that began to make them splinter shortly after their use. It would, Odin knew, take but a single hit from the Monvich boy’s sword to severely hurt him in its current state, as it seemed serrated now instead of sanded-down and protected by natural papers. At one point, Odin realized that a crowd had developed around the circle and that people were watching them, but only glanced at the group briefly for fear that should he distract himself, the bigger boy would find the opening he’d need.

  “That’s it!” Master Jordan said. “See, boys? This is how a swordfight should be.”

  Monvich’s sword slid up along Odin’s blade and nearly hit his shoulder. In response, Odin swung his sword to the side, then ducked when the bigger boy put both his hands on the practice weapon’s hilt and swung it down like a hammer.

  “I’ll get you,” the bigger boy panted, chest heaving, cords in his neck bulging and face sparked red.

  Soon enough, Odin knew, Monvich would be much too worn out to continue.

  They always said the bigger you are the harder you fall.

  The weapons master moved away from the boys and began to walk the sphere the two of them stood in. He circled them, eyes alert, movements swift and precise. His body appeared to say, Don’t pay attention to what I’m doing. It seemed a far-cry of distraction, for even Odin had trouble maintaining concentration on the battle beforehand as Herald’s blade continued to swing forward and down upon him, much like the hammer he’d recently thought of that only a brutish man’s ample shoulders could weild.

  In but a moment, Odin realized just what he’d have to do.

  Ducking, he lunged forward, then threw himself back.

  Master Jordan stood no more than a few feet behind him.

  Monvich’s eyes darted to the man.

  There!

  Odin lunged.

  Before he could even begin to raise his sword to deliver the ‘killing’ hit, Monvich struck out—not with his sword, but his fist.

  Blood spurting from his nose, body flailing through the air, Odin collapsed to the ground with blood covering his chest and pain screaming throughout his body.

  “Hey! Hey!” Master Jordan cried, running forward to grab the bigger boy’s shoulders before he could get any closer. “That’s enough! That’s enough!”

  “I won!” Monvich laughed, looking down at his bloodied fist. “I fucking won!”

  “I suppose you did, but I never told you to use your fist.”

  “You told us to ‘kill’ our sparring partner.”

  Rather than speak in response, Jordan looked down at Odin, then back up to Monvich before saying, “I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear.”

  When the Monvich boy stepped to the other side of the ring and joined in with the group deemed ‘the living,’ Jordan looked at the group, sighed, then said, “All right, boys. Put your practice weapons away and head over to the lake. You need to wash the sweat off before you head in to your afternoon lessons.”

  While the other boys put their weapons away, dusted themselves off and walked off to the lake, Odin pushed himself into a sitting position and pinched the end of his nose to still the flow of blood, which rushed forward continuously without any pause.

  “Are you all right?” the weapon master asked, crouching down at Odin’s side.

  “Fine,” Odin grimaced. “I thought you weren’t supposed to care about us.”

  “I don’t,” the man said, “but the smaller boys who fight Herald Monvich are always easy pickings.”

  “I thought we were supposed to fight our opponents like they were going to kill us?”

  “You are, but there’s no reason to unintentionally h
urt or injure someone you don’t have to.” The man sighed, then turned his attention up at the fleeting images of the boys. “That young man has a wild spirit, son. He may be a bully, but he’ll make one hell of a knight someday.”

  Though Odin couldn’t respond without betraying his hurt or anger, he managed to nod, then removed his hand from his nose. “I think it stopped,” he said.

  “Good,” the man replied. “Go bathe. You’ve got a while before the first bell rings. Get yourself cleaned off, then head inside for your lesson.”

  Odin stood, looked toward the pond in the distance, and sighed.

  Hopefully nothing would come of this.

  Dozens of boys played and swam without a care in the world. Some stayed to the side, nursing fingers that could be sprained of broke. Others fingered cuts and scrapes caused by the rough edge of the wooden swords. It would have seemed, to anyone looking upon this small group, that they were only children—young, unafraid, and all the less ashamed of their naked bodies. Many could have been staring, silently taking note, and not a single one of them would have cared, for they played and splashed and cavorted with one another as if there was nothing wrong with these open displays of emotions.

  He thought it some kind of passage, this nudity and this endeavor. Most every boy had a partner he splashed or waded with. Some discussed the first day of weapons practice and how well it may or may not have been; others pondered over smaller things, particularly the maidens that took refuge at the castle alongside them, tending the livestock in the areas beyond the castle or learning prayers from convent nuns. Some even boasted of their progress with the sword, taking into account that they, unlike the others, were far superior to anyone.

  It wasn’t until that moment that Odin had any trouble or embarrassment bathing with other boys. It was, in the end, all skin—surely what did he have to worry about? However, here and now, worry started to get the best of him, as the boys, though young, showed signs of maturing. Stubble, hair under the arms, around the areolas and down by the groin were only a few of the things he noticed.

  You’re going to have to bathe eventually, he finally decided. Just ignore the difference and act like you’re just like them.

  Though he knew in truth and sympathy that he was not like any of these royal children, he could push those differences aside and make his way into their midst.

  After pulling his shirt off, he bent to unlace his shoes, then slid down his trousers and loincloth before wading into the water.

  Hardly any of the boys took notice. Some, curious or interested, glanced at or watched him, but their eyes didn’t stay for long. Their whispers, however, outnumbered any other physical acknowledgement, for it seemed as Odin waded deeper and deeper into the water that he was taken notice of even though he was nothing more than a commoner given a higher degree. It made him feel special, in a way. He’d never had any boyhood friends. Maybe now that he’d grown up a little he could make some.

  Just when he thought someone would begin to approach him, they returned to their own conversation, to the friends they already knew.

  Odin sighed.

  Amidst all these young man with muscles and stubbles, with structures and care and hair in places he hadn’t, he couldn’t help but feel like the ugly duckling of the dest.

  “Hey,” the boy named Herald Monvich said, taking notice of him almost immediately before wading through the water and toward him. “You stirred up a lot of shit over the way I took you out.”

  Dumbfounded and unsure what to say, Odin merely stood there, watching the bigger boy with eyes clouded and a bit dazed.

  “Are you going to answer me,” the bigger boy growled, “or are you too little to do that to?”

  The majority of the boys chuckled. Odin’s eyes darted over them, calculating their motives. He could see the greed in their eyes, the desire that willed them to fight and spill blood in water otherwise clean. Any sort of physical conversation would have surely satisfied them.

  “I didn’t stir anything up,” Odin said, keeping his hands at his side to be as nonthreatening as possible. “You beat me fair.”

  “Yeah,” Herald smirked, “I did, but Master Jordan didn’t think so.”

  Odin stepped back. Herald stepped you forward.

  “I got you good,” the boy said. “Hitting your nose so hard it bled.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Shut up! I’m not going to listen to some boy.”

  “You’re younger than I am!”

  “At least I’ve got hair on my chest. By God, a girl has more hair down there than you do.”

  This sent the group of boys into fits of laughter. Some even stumbled and fell into the water, where they emerged to splash others as if no sort of violent confrontation was just about to happen. While the event set off their continued play, Odin and Herald merely stared at each other, eyes ablaze with hate so vast and strong it could have burned the world down.

  “You’re just a bully,” Odin said.

  The boys gasped at his sudden words.

  This time, it was Odin’s turn to smirk.

  Got you, he thought.

  “Bastard,” Herald growled.

  Monvich lashed out and grabbed Odin by the neck.

  When he tried to kick out and disarm the boy, Herald slapped the back of his neck, grabbed his long, untended hair, then forced his head underwater.

  Immediately, water shot up his nose and through his mouth.

  Gasping, trying to breath when he obviously couldn’t, water shot down Odin’s throat and into his lungs.

  “You like that?” the bigger boy roared, tossing Odin’s head back by his hair. “Want me to do it again?”

  “Leave me alone!” he cried.

  Herald repeated the gesture, but this time Odin managed to take a quick breath before the boy submerged him. He fought with all his might—tossing, turning, kicking and slapping the water as desperately as he could—but nothing seemed to come from it. Herald then straddled his hips and forced a knee into his lower back, pushing him deeper underwater.

  I’m going to drown, he thought, and would have possibly began to cry were he not submerged in the liquid his body would so willingly like to provide. I’m going to drown and no one’s going to know who did it.

  He tried to fight, but the strength had left his lungs, the aggression from his heart and the agony from his mind. He closed his eyes and continued to hold his breath for dear life.

  Come on, he whispered. Help me.

  Above, light shined down through the water and cast shards of color across the bed of the pond.

  A fish swam by.

  A group of minnows skirted just beneath his body.

  His fear, his anger, his hurt, pride, sorrow, tears—all strung together in but one single moment to create something so strong and fierce no mortal man would have ever been able to deal it.

  A flutter of movement crossed Odin’s chest and rushed down both his arms.

  The water exploded.

  Herald released him.

  Clawing his way to the surface, his breath all but lost and his eyes stung by pond water, Odin emerged just in time to see a geyser erupting out of the center of the pond, its height vast and its subsequent rain so heavy it surely would have trapped anyone beneath the water had they been there. Boys screamed, ran, grappled for their clothes as they rushed toward the castle and away from the obvious source of magic that had just occurred. Throughout all this, Odin struggled to push his way onto land and to all fours. He pounded his chest, coughed water from his lungs, then turned his head up just in time to see the tall, stocky form of Herald Monvich turning from his flight to face him.

  “This isn’t over!” the bigger boy screamed, naked and shivering in fear. “I’ll kill you for this, Karussa. I’ll kill you!”

  Water continued to spill from Odin’s lungs as the last of Herald’s taunts faded.

  For a brief moment, he thought he would simply pass out on the pond’s shore, left
to his own devices and possibly to the death that would soon follow.

  When the last of the water was expelled from his lungs, Odin took a long, deep breath, then turned his head to the sky.

  The sun seemed to be shining down from the heavens to mark his passage.

  Despite the pain in his chest that seemed to swell constantly like the flow of the ocean, Odin went to his afternoon lesson without a second thought. Seated upon a long, wooden bench in the back of the room, where a desk before him extended to the far wall to allow a multitude of boys to sit upon, he turned his attention down to the book before him and realized, with a nervous bout of pride, that he would actually be studying in a situation unlike that of the homeschooling his father had given him.

  This is different, he decided.

  Pursing his lips, he continued to watch the boys enter through the doorway and seat themselves along the benches, their hands pressed forward and their attentions set to the front of the room—where, behind a desk and almost unnoticed, a professor sat, his name declared as ‘Artlock’ in pure-white chalk that ran across the board.

  When the morning bell chimed for the third time that day, the professor rose to greet his audience.

  “Hello,” Professor Artlock said, pressing his hands behind his back as he turned his attention toward the still-skittering boys entering in through the doorway. “My name is Professor Artlock, and over the course of the next few weeks and months, I will be outlining a study program that will include all the basic teachings you need to know both as a knight and an individual schooled under the Ornalan study system, including but not limited to: History, Mathematics, the Written and Read word and, of course, basic survival instincts that you should be more than knowledgeable of when you enter the field with your knight master within the next few years.”