The Brotherhood: Blood

by Kody Boye

  Rather than dwell upon the message any longer, Odin reached forward and slapped it away from the platter of food.

  Tomorrow, the note said, in indecent, obviously-rushed writing. Be ready.

  “For what?” he whispered.

  Odin looked up.

  The platter of food before him seemed all the more tempting.

  His stomach rumbled.

  A knot of pain began to claw within his chest.

  Just what could possibly be happening tomorrow for there to be such a notice from someone in the outside world?

  Whatever the reason, he couldn’t bother himself with it now.

  He reached forward and began to eat hi food.

  “Well,” Daughtry said, having arrived much earlier in the day than usual upon what he called an ‘unexpected visit’ in which to discuss with him the conditions of his magical classes. “I don’t really know if there’s a lot else I can teach you, Odin. You grasp the knowledge far better than some young mages do.”

  Odin guided the sphere of water he held in midair back above the wine glass poised between the two of them and allowed it to sweat its last beads of moisture before releasing his hold on it to dissipate entirely.

  “Daughtry?” Odin asked, turning his head up from the prone wine glass between them.

  “Yes?” the high mage asked.

  “Do you think someone will take me as their squire?”

  “Why, I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Given who you are and just what abilities you have, I’d be surprised if men weren’t scrambling to get their hands on you. By God, Odin—you’re exceptionally-fit for your age, which I believe we can both thank Master Jordan for, and by all things you’re a mage.” The older man paused. A frown painted his face in a somber light. “Why are you asking? You’re not worried, are you?”

  “Not… really. I’m just having doubts is all.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t, because you’re very talented. Hell—if you want me to let you in on a little secret, it’s every knight’s dream to have a squire who can cast magic.”

  It was without purpose that Odin knew this in the form of memory. Scars lined the walls where once, in fits of rage, he had attempted to consolidate his situation by sending into the stonework blasts of magic that, upon normal reaction, would surely have burst free. It was not, however, without regret that he had done this, for when in the original moments after his act nothing had happened, he’d felt more immature than anything. The walls, Daughtry had said soon after, when examining the black marks on the stone, are magicked. They are impervious to magic.

  For this reason, and more, Odin considered himself something of a prodigy—a young man whom, regardless of his situation, did, in fact, have a gift. Though not reassured in the least, he nodded and crossed him arms over his chest as from the outside world he heard the locks and the metal bars sliding in and out of place. The screech of such metal against stone created the impression that they didn’t want to be pushed aside, as if they wanted the person whom they’d been guarding for the last two years to remain behind and within their confines for the entire rest of time.

  I wouldn’t be surprised, he thought, but didn’t betray his emotions.

  The door opened to reveal weapons master Jordan—dressed, from head to toe, in fine colors of purple and red.

  “Professor Daughtry?” Jordan asked, ducking into the enclosed space and taking his first few steps forward. “You wouldn’t happen to be finished with Odin, would you?”

  “Yes your majesty. I am.”

  “Would you like to come and meet some of the knights, Odin?”

  Odin’s heart stopped beating within his chest.

  Did I, he began to think, but stopped before he could continue. His eyes had crossed with his weapons master’s and it seemed, in that moment, that the entirety of the world had fallen aside and only he and the much older man existed.

  “Are you… are you sure?” Odin asked, standing, bracing himself for whatever was to come as Daughtry began to gather his things before bidding the pair of them his goodbyes.

  “Of course I am.”

  “You have permission to let me out of the tower?”

  “Direct from the king itself,” Jordan said. As if to prove his point, he pulled from his belt a scrawl of parchment and unrolled it, revealing flush, ornate handwriting that had to have been trained for years on end by a practiced hand.

  “You mean… there’s no way I can be taken away and put back in this tower?”

  “You’ll have to return eventually, yes, after I’m done with you, but with this signed order from the king, I’m allowed to escort you through the grounds and introduce you to the number of knights who’ve arrived from the price of the kingdom. Why, there’s a few now whom I’ve specifically requested meet with you waiting right now.”

  “Ruh… Really?” Odin asked.

  He has to be joking, he thought, breathing, trying his best to maintain control of his sanity as he stood before Master Jordan and tried his hardest not to tremble. This has to be a joke.

  If it were what he believed it was, then this joke, as sick as it was, had to have been devised by a number of people—including, but not limited to, Jordan himself and the guards whom had obviously taken their fair share of blows in order to make sure his existence within the tower was as much a living hell as possible. While he didn’t necessarily believe that Jordan would ever do such a thing, it made Odin wonder just whether or not that writing was true—that the piece of parchment, as official as it seemed, had been drafted by someone with naturally-neat handwriting and not the king itself, and that the decalaration, as official as it seemed, was nothing more than spit upon a poor man’s tongue.

  Before him, Jordan offered a smile to reveal white, it somewhat-disjointed teeth.

  “This is no joke?” Odin asked, settling his arms at his side.

  “This is no joke,” Jordan replied. He gestured Odin forward with but a wave of his hand. “Come, Odin—we have people waiting for us.”

  With nothing else to do than to follow, Odin took his first few steps forward.

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  Outside, an alien world assaulted him. The colors, so warm and vibrant; the air, so fresh and clean; the stone beneath his feet, so hard and sturdy; the air, rich, filled with heat and slicking the back of his throat back as if it were a swab of cotton testing the inside of his body for any kind of infection—to say that stepping out and into the air for the first time in years was exciting would have been to diminish the act, for his glee seemed much too apparent and the angst in his heart seemed all the less there. Joyous, ecstatic, his heart in knots and his mind threatening to overwhelm himself just by the fact that he was finally out of the tower alone—he paced behind weapons master Jordan with his hands free at his sides and his eyes set out and toward the distant training field: where, beyond the eastern towers, boys sparred and trained while being instructed by another of the weapons masters on the grounds.

  “I’m sorry,” Jordan sighed, turning his head down as if to avoid persecution.

  “For what, sir?” Odin frowned.

  “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. Don’t, really.”

  Of course I don’t, Odin thought, clamping his jaw together to keep from speaking out. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  Choosing not to reply, Odin once more turned his attention to the group of pages after they passed the T-shaped entryway that led up to the fifth, forbidden tower, eyes scanning the battlefield as first they arranged themselves into groups of two, then barreled toward one another with swords and staffs at the ready. The visage alone was enough to make him tremble, as it seemed no more than yesterday that he had been dueling one of the boys with one of the very swords one of those pages now held.

  “Question,” Jordan said, drawing up beside Odin before pressing a hand against his upper back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you still know how to use a sword?”

  “Pro
bably,” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more over the past few years. I hope you haven’t lost your touch.”

  How desperately he wanted to say that one could not lose their art with the sword—that, like a quill on a piece of parchment, such an act was never forgotten, merely unpracticed—but decided to remain silent for fear of bringing up any further sentimental moments. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, watched as a page’s sword went flying into the air, then as the boy was pushed to the ground, symbolic of one’s testament to military life and the death that would eventually follow.

  “We should go,” Jordan said, patting his back one last time. “There’s men to be seen today. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  No, Odin thought, but said nothing in response. We don’t.

  The courtyard was bursting with activity. Squires rushing back and forth to carry supplies for knights; pages skirting through the crowds hoping to be noticed by the men they so believed were heroes; women, children and royal men making their way along the sides of the streets, some with heads bowed and others giving the men their full recognition—to look upon such a sight and try to dissect its intent from an initial perspective was enough to give Odin a headache, but his trifles were soon gone as Jordan beckoned him forward and into the slowly-growing crowd.

  “Don’t lose me,” the weapons master said. “I don’t want us to get separated.”

  “They’d throw me back in the tower,” Odin said, “wouldn’t they?”

  “There would be no stopping them without this official proclamation from the king.”

  As if testing his response, Jordan reached down and tapped the scroll of parchment at his side.

  This may be your only chance, Odin thought, nodding, pushing himself forward and up to Master Jordan’s side. You can’t blow it now.

  Were he to lose this opportunity, he may never be conscripted into a knight’s service as a squire. Only the tower would remain.

  Brushing the thoughts from his head as if it were mere dandruff on his shoulders, Odin continued to follow Jordan through the crowd, navigating the long streets lined with vendors and shopkeepers until, eventually, they began to make their way toward the furthest parts of the eastern expanse, where the stables stood in all their glory—tall, massive buildings that seemed to be equipped with each and every personal care device that could possibly be imagined.

  “Sir,” Odin said. “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve instructed a few of the men to wait by the stables so they could meet you.”

  “You… you personally recommended me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You’re about as sharp as they come, and besides—you are a mage after all.”

  But does that really give me special treatment?

  Without the knowledge on just how the men would respond to someone like him—he, a boy of only sixteen, locked in a tower and deprived of most, if not all of his weapons training but possessing an innate Gift of magic—he couldn’t necessarily be sure just how the men would react, thus forcing him into a slight panic attack that began with a heat in the chest and eventually spelled into a ringing within both of his ears.

  For a long while, it seemed as though that constant chiming within his head would never stop. However—shortly thereafter, all sound ceased to exist within not only his head, but in the world around him.

  Calm down, the voice in his head said. Everything will be just fine.

  The world, which had since blurred into a variety of grey and moody colors, returned to full focus.

  Directly before the two of them no more than a few feet away stood a series of men garbed in flush royal colors—including, but not limited to, men of different colors, but particularly Kadarians.

  At the sight of them, Odin froze in place.

  Instinctively, his hand fell to his side.

  “Odin,” Jordan said.

  “Sir,” he managed, swallowing a lump in his throat. “They’re… they’re Kadarians!”

  “They are as much members of our country as any of the other knights are.”

  “I don’t… I thought—”

  The situation in Germa had grown increasingly tense. Through the grapevine, and beyond the door in front of which guards often stood and discussed the daily happenings, he’d heard rumors, true or not, that the Germanian population was gathering near one of the other desert towns for what seemed like a grand meeting. It could not be determined from a vast distance whether or not this meeting was actually war, as Ornalan scouts pressed into the area could not actually force their way into such meeting halls, but for every reason possible it seemed as though something grand were about to happen. War, it seemed, lingered close, and for that alone a rumor had begun, between what Odin could only assume were the guards, that the draft would soon take place. They would obviously strike Bohren first, they said, for it was the closest to their bordering country itself, before spreading out and taking Sylina and eventually the farming down of Lianasa and military outpost Ke’Tarka, though whether or not that was true he couldn’t be sure. However, in staring at the black men beyond him, and in taking in each of their features from as vast a distance as he could imagine, Odin found himself trembling not in fear, but excitement.

  These are men who joined our country to liberate themselves from Germa, he thought, biting down upon, then slicking his lips.

  Could they possibly be the men who would take him from his petty existence and whisk him off into a grand adventure?

  No longer able to contain the excitement that lay dormant within his chest, Odin nodded, took a deep breath, then advanced forward with Jordan at his side.

  Almost immediately upon arriving, the men turned their heads up.

  “Hello gentlemen,” Jordan said, lacing his hands behind his back and assuming the straightest posture he could possibly bear. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with myself. This is the young man I’ve personally written to you about.”

  Personally? Odin frowned, then said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” hoping at the same time that his tone hadn’t sounded too condescending or immortal.

  The men said nothing, instead opting from silence. They glanced him up and down, from head to toe, before giving him indecisive looks of either appreciation or disdain. One of the Kadarians—a tall, somewhere-near six-and-a-half-foot man with an impressive physique and a pair of dark, nearly black eyes—stepped forward and lifted Odins arm, flexing the muscle and poking it with a forefinger. “He’s very well structured,” this man said, turning his eyes up and at Jordan. “Did you train him yourself?”

  “I oversaw his training while he was being kept in the fifth tower,” Jordan replied.

  “The fifth tower?” one of the lighter, olive-skinned men asked. “Why was he there?”

  “It’s a long story that isn’t necessary to go into.”

  “You,” the dark-skinned Kadarian said, instantly drawing Odin’s attention up with but the sound of his voice.

  “Yes?” Odin asked.

  “You’re a mage.”

  “Yes sir. I am.”

  “Are you practiced?”

  “Yes. I mean I’m—”

  “He’s very well-read,” Jordan added, cutting Odin off before he could finish. “He can also write quite well as from what I’ve understand.”

  “My only concern is that you might not be able to help me on my journeys to the deserts,” the Kadarian said.

  The deserts? Odin thought, casting a look in Jordan’s directions. But I—

  “Odin’s very strong,” Jordan added.

  “I can tell,” the black man said, pressing his hands atop Odin’s shoulders. “He’s very well-built, but I’m concerned for his size.”

  “That shouldn’t be—”

  “I will be handling giant horses, Sir Jordan. It doesn’t matter how strong a boy is if he can’t handle the reins.”

  When the black man stepped back and into the s
hort crowd of men, Odin gave the man a slight nod and a bow of his head to signify his thanks before falling back and at Jordan’s side.

  In the several moments that passed, those of which seemed all the crueler despite their intentions, Odin couldn’t help but feel as though the entire world was watching him.

  It’s ok. They’re just watching you.

  Watching him or not, each and every one of those eyes that lay upon him appeared to be sticks—harsh, jagged ones, meant only to harm instead of ultimately offer him something good.

  “Does anyone else here want to ask the young man any questions?” Jordan asked, setting an arm across Odin’s shoulders. “We’re in no rush.”

  As if struck by a cloud of silence, none of the men responded.

  “Odin,” Jordan said. “Could you please excuse us for a moment?”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “Thank you.”

  After giving the other men a nod of thanks, Odin turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, then made his way to the end of the road—where, at the corner, he settled down and crossed his legs before settling his arms over his chest.

  Immediately, the emotions began to flood in.

  Jordan brings me out of the tower and all I get are cold shoulders.