Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  Kent stood, carefully folded the parchment, and tucked it back into his pocket. He’d be more careful with it from now on.

  He approached the bars and tried to look down the dim corridor.

  Before long, a pair of guards dragged a limp form past Kent’s cell and opened the door to the vacant cell next to his.

  Kent recognized Ronin’s brown-and-grey cloak first, but he didn’t recognize Ronin’s face at all.

  It was covered in blood.

  The guards tossed Ronin into the adjacent cell, and he collapsed into an unmoving heap on the floor with a wet smack. He lay on his side with his right arm pinned under his torso and with his back facing away from Kent.

  Part of Kent felt sorry for him, but the other part—a much, much larger part—didn’t care. Ronin had gotten what he’d deserved for turning Kent in. And had Ronin not tried to fight back, he wouldn’t be in the condition he was in now.

  The guards locked the door, cast cold looks at Kent, and then headed back out of the corridor.

  Kent waited for a few minutes after he heard the door shut before he removed the parchment from his pocket again. Then he took a seat on the rock protrusion and resumed his studying.

  He started by rehashing the handful of words he’d translated prior to Ronin’s arrival. Nearly an hour later, he’d ascertained the purpose of that page of parchment—if he was correct in his translating.

  Evidently, mages of incredible power could marshal enough concentration to go beyond simply manipulating the properties of elemental magic; they could actually take on the physical properties of the element they wished to wield.

  So a mage could become liquid, like water, or hard, like metal, or transparent, like air.

  He thought back to how he’d punched through the wall with his hand wreathed in stones from the street. If his translation was accurate, and if he could master the technique the page described, he might not have to wreathe his hands in rock to achieve such feats anymore.

  It was an ancient, wondrous power, known only to a few elite mages and archmages. And now that Kent knew it was possible, it put him closer to that select group. And that’s where he wanted to be.

  It’s where he needed to be, if he meant to fulfill his quest for revenge on Fane.

  Could a mage then learn to fly, if he were to take the essence of a bird? Kent wondered. Or would he become a bird instead?

  The latter possibility seemed less appealing.

  As Kent returned to his studying, a moan sounded from Ronin’s cell.

  Kent lowered the parchment and looked at him.

  Ronin rolled onto his stomach and pushed up to his hands and knees. He gingerly dabbed at his red face with his fingertips, and then he crawled over to the bars separating his cell from Kent’s and pulled himself up to his feet. He faced Kent.

  Both of Ronin’s eyes remained closed—his left eye was swollen shut, and dried blood had caked over his right eye. So far, Ronin hadn’t realized that Kent occupied the cell next door.

  Ronin winced, leaned his left shoulder against the bars, and started picking at the dried blood near his non-swollen eye. He bared his teeth and sucked air through his mouth as he gradually peeled the red-brown layer of film from his face.

  He exhaled a sharp breath and dropped the flecks of blood to the cell floor. He blinked his now-liberated right eye a few times, rubbed it, blinked again, and muttered curses. Then he turned toward the bars and saw Kent watching him. He cursed again and turned away.

  Kent just kept staring at him, silently. He carefully folded the parchment and tucked it in his pocket again.

  Ronin staggered over to his own rock protrusion, one much larger and longer than Kent’s. They should’ve put Kent in Ronin’s cell, and vice versa. Then Kent might’ve been able to stretch out a bit more.

  Ronin, five inches shorter, would’ve better fit the protrusion in Kent’s cell. He sat on the rocks and leaned against the wall, his single good eye fixed on Kent.

  Dried blood from his nose clung to his upper lip and chin, and more had caked on his forehead from a gash near his hairline. The blond hair on the right side of his head was now red-brown, and bruises colored his cheeks with purples and yellows.

  “Kent…” Ronin started. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  Kent didn’t move.

  “I—I got scared. Inothians hate Murothians.” Ronin shifted on the rocks. “If I didn’t turn you in, and they found me out, I would’ve been committing treason.”

  Kent continued staring at Ronin.

  “C’mon, man,” Ronin continued. “The notice said you were Murothian nobility. Switch it around. If a Murothian man didn’t turn in an Inothian when he had the chance, what would you, as a noble, have done to the Murothian?”

  He would have died a traitor’s death—far worse than what the Inothian would have gotten. Ronin had a point, but it didn’t excuse his choices.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything to me?” Ronin asked.

  Kent exhaled a calm breath through his nostrils.

  Ronin huffed and blinked slowly. “What would you have done?”

  “Were our positions reversed, I would have told you about the notice first,” Kent said. “Then I would have given you a choice: comply or run. And then I would have given you a head start while I went to report you as missing.”

  “You think that would’ve worked out for you, given how I look right now?”

  “I would have asked you to punch me to make it look more convincing.”

  “That only works in fables and fairytales.”

  “My point is,” Kent continued, “I would have valued our friendship over my own life.”

  “Garbage,” Ronin uttered.

  Kent leaned forward, surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. That’s garbage.” Ronin’s singular eye stared daggers at Kent. “If you had really valued our friendship, you would’ve told me who you really were when we first met.”

  Kent scoffed. “So you could have turned me in right then and there?”

  “You don’t know that I would have done.”

  “Yes, I do. If you were willing to turn me in after six months of building friendship and trust, you absolutely would have turned me in before.”

  “Then you should’ve told me at some point before this happened.”

  “I did not know this was going to happen.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Ronin said. “You know what I meant. If you really meant to build trust with me, you would’ve told me the truth about who you were.”

  Kent remained silent.

  “I should’ve known better anyway. Everything about you felt… off, especially when we got to talking. Your late magic awakening. Your Murothian accent. Your nice clothes. Not knowing the term ‘mage’ or anything about how magic worked.” Ronin leaned back farther and rubbed his forehead. “Now it all makes sense.”

  Silence hung in the wretched air between them for a long moment.

  “I am sorry I withheld the truth from you,” Kent said.

  Ronin looked at him again. “Well, like I said, I’m sorry I turned you in. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I cannot fault you for turning me in,” Kent admitted. “I understand the predicament you were in, and I forgive you for making the choice that you made.”

  Ronin nodded. “Thank you. I suppose I forgive you, too.”

  Kent cleared his throat. “I suppose I do not need to explain what a miscalculation it was on your part to try to fight that many Inothian soldiers.”

  “No.” Ronin moaned. “The last thing I need is another tactical lecture from you. Consider this one a lesson learned the hard way.”

  “Then I suppose it is best that we focus on finding a way out of this mess.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I am not very familiar with Inothian law. What will be done to us?”

  Ronin sighed. “Execution, most likely.”

  Kent frowned. Execut
ion meant he’d never be able to take his revenge upon Fane. There had to be another way.

  Ronin added, “We’ll get a trial before some sort of magistrate, but hardly any trials in exoneration. Usually the accusation is enough to bring forth some measure of justice. Or… punishment. That’s probably a better word.

  “And in our case, the evidence is clear. We’re both more or less guilty. You definitely are, obviously. I’ll be convicted of treason for being associated with you, because, well, I was associated with you. For six months.”

  “Will it help if I testify to your ignorance of my identity?” Kent asked.

  Ronin shook his swollen head. “I doubt it. But if you want to try, I won’t stop you. I need all the help I can get.”

  “How long until we can expect the trial?”

  “Could be an hour. Could be days.” Ronin shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

  “Then I have more studying to do.” Kent fished the parchment out of his pocket again. He couldn’t afford to keep doing that, as the parchment wore out exponentially faster every time he did so, even with the great care he took to preserve it.

  Ronin leaned forward. “You’re always studying something.”

  “I have a lifetime of catching up to do in learning to master my magic. Studying is the quickest way to better myself.”

  “I’d say you’ve caught on pretty quickly over the past six months. You have a knack for it. That’s for sure.” Ronin leaned back again, and then he shifted so he could lie down on the protrusion.

  Kent translated in silence, wishing he’d had the opportunity to write down his findings. Instead, he committed to memory what he could.

  Hours later, after translating, checking, re-translating, and committing the text to memory, he felt ready to try the technique. He inhaled a long breath, then he exhaled it slowly and pressed his hand against the brown rock that made up the back wall of the cell. He closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

  “Finally figured something out?” Ronin asked from his left side. Kent’s eyes opened, and he lowered his hand and turned toward him.

  “Possibly. I was just about to try it.”

  Ronin raised his hands. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  Kent faced the rock wall again and pressed his hand against the wall again, on a spot about level with his head.

  He resumed his concentration, closed his eyes again, and focused on the cool rock under his palm. He imagined his hand becoming one with the rock, melding to it, taking on its properties, and then he let his magic flow into the wall.

  With his eyes still closed, Kent stood there, motionless. He pumped more magic into the rock, cycling it through the wall and pulling it back into himself, slowly. Tediously. He opened his eyes for a look.

  “What in the third hell?” Ronin’s voice snapped Kent’s concentration.

  Kent jerked his hand away. Blue light flickered in his fingertips, then it faded to nothing. He growled at Ronin, “What is the matter? I was making progress!”

  Ronin nodded toward him, his gaze fixed on Kent’s hand. “Look.”

  Kent looked down at his hand.

  It had turned brown and bumpy, and the soft glow of torchlight glowed on its surface. It had turned to rock.

  Kent held his hand up, and the effect crept away from his wrist, along his palm, and up his fingers until it disappeared entirely, restoring his hand to normal.

  “Tell me you saw that?” Ronin grabbed the bars separating their cells.

  Kent gave him a smile. “I saw it. I just cannot believe it worked.”

  “Look at the wall.” Ronin pointed.

  Kent turned to look where he’d touched it. What had once been a rough wall of rock now bore a faint indentation roughly the shape of Kent’s hand. Very subtle—easily missed and certainly not clear to anyone but Kent in such low light.

  Then again, maybe it had been like that before, and he just hadn’t realized it?

  No. He’d seen his hand take on the properties of the rock. So had Ronin.

  It was unmistakable.

  He hadn’t been able to test what such a technique might do, but he’d achieved the technique itself. The parchment had been right.

  Kent pressed his hand against the rock again. Perhaps if he tried again, he might be able to maintain the technique for longer and—

  Clank. The familiar sound of the cellblock door opening halted the flow of Kent’s magic, and he pulled his hand down. He quickly folded the parchment and slipped it back into his pocket.

  Several sets of armored footsteps and jingling keys traipsed down the cellblock toward them. Kent met Ronin’s eyes, and neither of them said a word.

  Seven soldiers in Inoth’s standard-issue leather armor lined up outside of Kent’s cell and Ronin’s cell—three at each door.

  Kent recognized the extra soldier—notably by his perpetually grave expression—as one of the dungeon’s guards. He’d been the one to open the door both for Kent and when the soldiers had thrown Ronin into his cell.

  Now he unlocked Kent’s cell.

  The first soldier held a fiery torch. He reached into the torch with his right hand, and it ignited with flames that alternated orange and telltale magic-blue.

  The second soldier held a fistful of straw, and the straw on the floor around Kent’s feet trembled and wobbled as if ready to leap at him at any moment.

  Kent smirked. It was a sound, simple strategy—if Kent resisted, one soldier would rally the kindling around him, and the other would ignite it with the magic flames enveloping his hand. In such a small space, Kent couldn’t hope to fight back.

  The third soldier produced a familiar pair of blue shackles. He clasped them to Kent’s wrists as the grumpy dungeon guard opened Ronin’s cell next, and those three soldiers matched the approach of the ones in Kent’s cell.

  “What’s happening?” Ronin asked.

  The guards didn’t respond.

  Ronin stepped toward the one with the shackles. “I said, what’s—”

  “Get back!” the soldier with the shackles snapped.

  In Ronin’s cell, the fire around the soldier’s fist flared bright, and the straw on his floor lifted into the sky and began circling Ronin. The soldier with the flames drew his hand back, ready to hurl fire at Ronin.

  Chapter Eight

  Ronin slowly raised his hands, and the soldier with the shackles drew in close and shoved him back hard.

  Ronin landed on his rear-end on the rock protrusion. He braced his hands against the protrusion to steady himself, then he pressed his palms against his hips.

  Kent caught a glint of blue metal sliding into Ronin’s left sleeve, then he slowly raised his hands.

  “Sorry,” Ronin said. “Sorry.”

  As Ronin allowed the soldier to clamp the blue shackles on his wrists, Kent tried to make eye contact with him through the bars, but Ronin wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Had Ronin managed to get a key? If so, what did he plan to do with it?

  Whatever Ronin had in mind, Kent admired him for it. Snagging the key on its own was a bold move, and if it somehow led to their escape, Kent certainly wouldn’t complain.

  The six soldiers escorted Kent and Ronin out of the cellblock and back up to the barracks’ ground floor. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the barracks windows near the ceiling, reminding Kent that he hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  Apparently, rumors about Kent’s presence must’ve spread because every Inothian soldier along his path scowled at him as he passed by.

  Eight months ago, he would’ve sneered back at them, his sworn enemies, but now he’d virtually become one of them—a magic-using citizen living and working in Inoth.

  Kent couldn’t fault them for their disdain, though. He’d overseen the killings of countless numbers of their countrymen over the years, mostly by way of battles along the Murothian border.

  But he’d also led his fair share of raids into Inoth and presided over numerous executions of captured Inothian soldiers
. At the time, it had all made sense to him. It didn’t anymore.

  It was far too late to make recompense now, though. The soldiers were undoubtedly taking Ronin and Kent to trial, and soon after, he would pay for his old transgressions.

  As they walked, Kent’s attitude soured. If Inoth executed him, he wouldn’t get his vengeance on Fane. Perhaps even worse, he would die as a nobody, and then Fane would have truly won. The idea grated on him, and he resolved to fight for his life. He had too much to live for to give up now.

  At the end of the barracks, the soldiers escorted Kent and Ronin through a guard station separating the barracks from the palace proper instead of taking them back outside.

  Kent frowned. He would’ve liked to see the courtyard again, at least, before his inevitable execution.

  They traipsed through halls that grew more and more ornate the farther and higher into the palace they climbed.

  The raw utility of the barracks yielded to the regality of the palace corridors, rich with tapestries, art, and fine white marble walls. Doors made of dark wood, adorned with silver handles and keyholes punctuated the halls.

  This will certainly be a nice place to die. Kent sighed. Then he shook the thought away. He’d determined to fight, and fight he would. He couldn’t prematurely give in to defeat.

  The soldiers ushered them around a corner and toward a pair of comparably decadent doors, spread wide open to reveal a cavernous room inside.

  Its grandeur surpassed anything Kent had ever seen, yet it reminded him of the Temple of Laeri in many ways, namely how the room’s black interior walls closely matched the temple’s exterior.

  But as they headed inside, walking on a floor constructed of white-and- black marble in a tessellation of hexagonal tiles, the ceiling captured Kent’s attention.

  At its height, the ceiling had to reach several hundred feet above them. From Kent’s perspective, it likely fed into the palace’s central spire, visible from virtually anywhere in the city.

  Shafts of waning sunlight shined through the slim windows that stretched up at regular intervals as the ceiling ascended, and crystals lining the ceiling’s ascending walls shimmered gold like a sunset on the Tahn Sea.