Pendr glanced over his shoulder. Among those behind him, he spotted Danla staring at him. He nodded at her, and she responded with an uneasy smile. He chided himself for not seeking her out last night. They were friends, after all. With the future uncertain, he realized it was not a matter of when he would see her again, but rather if. These thoughts weighed on him as he, along with the other young men from Logs Pond, began to follow Sir Fueron toward the next phase of his life—however long that might be.
Chapter 5
If any of the Masters found the dead vermin the next morning, they did not speak of it around Wyjec. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the Masters were acting differently—more pompous. It could be due to the visitors who were to arrive today. Any who visited the Masters’ palace always cowed, even the captains of the army.
Wyjec placed the morning meal in front of one of the Masters, and the fat man sighed as if he had been waiting for an exorbitant amount of time. The chardi never knew the Masters’ real names. Each of them demanded to be called “Master,” though, in Wyjec’s mind, he named this particular Master “Glutton.” As the heaviest of the Masters, he ate more than the others. Wyjec learned that if Glutton was well fed, he tended to be less disagreeable.
“That will be all, chardi,” Glutton said.
Wyjec bowed and backed away from the long table without speaking. His responsibilities this morning were to feed the Masters, and Glutton was the last of them. When the sun reached its highest point, Wyjec was to report to the Master he had dubbed “Cruel”—the one who had stepped on his hand a few days previous. That meant he had some free time, a luxury, one which would be taken away if any of the Masters spotted him resting or relaxing. Fortunately, Wyjec knew a place he could go.
The palace had seven levels, the bottom of which was the main hall where meals were eaten and where the Masters held their meetings. Where the first and second levels connected, a half-door opened to a small walkway that spanned over the main hall. It was used to access the large candle-lit chandeliers. The morning sunshine streaming through the colored, plate glass windows and light from the fires burning in the hearths was enough to illuminate the room, so the chandeliers remained unlit.
Careful not to make any noise, Wyjec climbed to the second floor, opened the half-door, and then crawled out onto the walkway. Why are the Masters acting so differently? It had to be the visitors coming today. The only people Wyjec had seen in the palace aside from the Masters were the captains of the army and those of the village bringing chardi. At any given time, between ten and twenty chardi served the masters, starting as young as five winters. None of the chardi had lived to see eighteen winters, at least none Wyjec had known.
Wyjec was one of the older chardi. He had seen sixteen winters, according to the Masters. Actually, with the beheading of the other chardi four days previous, Wyjec realized he was the oldest chardi—not a good position to hold. The older chardi were usually the ones the Masters sacrificed. With a sickening realization, Wyjec understood for the first time the reason there were no chardi who had seen at least eighteen winters. Perhaps the Masters feared the chardi when they got older.
If only Wyjec could control his ability to grasp and use the trickles: red, blue, and yellow, the Masters would fear him, and not the other way around. Anger seemed to be the key to tapping into the trickles, but could he make himself angry at will? His thoughts on how to make that happen were interrupted when he heard one of the Masters speak.
“King Viskum is a fool.” Glutton burped loudly. “He will not respond in kind. Sending troops south would incite further conflict. He should recognize that Iredell is ours by right. We did not capture the town. We liberated it.”
“You are the fool,” another Master said. Wyjec recognized the voice. He was the smallest of the Masters with a bushy, white mustache that reminded Wyjec of whiskers. Naturally, Wyjec had dubbed him “Mouse.”
“Viskum will certainly try to retake Iredell,” Mouse continued. “It is a manner of honor. A king who cannot protect his kingdom will not remain on the throne for long.”
“The captains will want reassurances,” another Master said. This one was who Wyjec called Cruel. “I, for one, say any who question us should go on the front lines to oversee Iredell personally.”
“Agreed,” said several other voices at the same time. Wyjec imagined it was the rest of the seven masters, including Glutton.
“Phhh,” Glutton said. “At the very least, the captains need to see a sacrifice.”
“I will arrange it,” Cruel said. “The captains will get their show of our power, and the chardi will learn their place once again.”
“Which one will it be?” one of the Masters asked. Wyjec was not sure who had spoken.
“Wyjec,” Cruel answered. “He is getting too old, too strong.”
Me? No! I will not allow it! Wyjec felt his heart start to pound violently in his chest. With that came the awareness of the red and blue trickles. The red trickle seemed to call out to him, and Wyjec responded by grabbing a hold of it as hard as he could. When he did, he felt dominant; he was the one in control. Unlike using the blue trickle, Wyjec felt more alive when accessing the red. The yellow trickle was not present, though Wyjec could not say why. Unlike when he held the vermin, no threads appeared between Wyjec and the Masters. Odd, but that is something for another day.
No longer caring if the Masters might spot him on the walkway, Wyjec leaned over to view the men below him. As before, he could see the red trickles flowing through them, some stronger than others. For each of them, the amber glow was focused on the food and drink in front of them.
Each of the Masters went to take a mouthful of food now that they decided who would be sacrificed. As they brought the food to their mouths, Wyjec could see the amber glow shifted to their stomachs. Their intention is to swallow the food. Glutton was the first to try to swallow. What if I were to change the focus of their intention as they ate? He imagined he could get the Masters to spit out their food, but that would not be enough to stop them. He watched as each of the Masters ate, and each time the amber glow moved from their mouths, down their necks and chests and into their bellies. An idea came to Wyjec. This could work!
When Glutton took his next bite, Wyjec watched as the larger man began to swallow. As the food passed through the Master’s neck, Wyjec pushed with the red trickle causing the amber glow to go neither up nor down, but to the sides. The result triggered the Master to begin to choke.
Before the rest of the Masters noticed, Wyjec did the same to two others. He would have done more, but he could only manipulate them one at a time. The remaining four Masters stood to help.
The one closest to Glutton reached out to help the fat man. Wyjec sensed his amber glow and redirected it toward one of the hearths where a fire blazed to ward off the chill of the morning. Another Master was directed to the large room’s other hearth.
Three of the Masters were choking now—Glutton’s face an ugly shade of purple. Two of the others had placed their heads in the fires. They were screaming in pain, yet they did not move away from the flames.
The last two remaining Masters remained in place, seemingly frightened into inaction.
“What is this?” Mouse shouted. He reached for a long, sharp knife used for cutting meat.
The other Master who remained, a bald man with a pockmarked face, also grabbed a knife. They’re trying to defend themselves. Wyjec watched as each of the last two men’s amber glows flitted around the room, searching for a target on which to use their knives.
Wyjec eagerly assisted their search by directing their amber glows toward each other. Again, he could only manipulate one at a time, but he managed to do both rather quickly. The last two Masters came together and began to stab each other wildly. Neither tried to defend themselves.
Screams of pain faded to whimpers and then to silence. Fascinated, Wyjec watched as his tormenters died horrific deaths. He should feel vindicated, but there was something
missing. Part of him wanted more. What am I missing? I just killed those who had tormented me. They were going to kill me! What more could he want than this?
And then he understood. It was not enough to kill them; he wanted the Masters to know it was him, Wyjec, who brought them down. They had died, yes, but they did not know why or who had done it. It was a victory, but a hollow one.
Next time I kill someone, I will stand over them and see understanding in their dying eyes.
Chapter 6
Sir Lokan’s hair thinned on top, but the back was long and pulled into a braid. The knight stood in front of the young men from Logs Pond, muscular arms folded and a scowl displayed prominently on his face.
“This is all?” he asked. “You aren’t much to look at.” His eyes scanned through the group, and Pendr thought they remained on him the longest.
None of Pendr’s fellow town members spoke, not even Tikan, standing to Pendr’s right, who rarely was at a loss for words.
Lokan began to walk back and forth in front of them, clasping his hands behind his back. The soldiers stood on the edge of a field that once had knee-high grass spread across it. Now, all the vegetation lay flat upon the ground, trampled, from what Pendr could tell. On the far side of the field were hundreds of young men. They stood in groups of roughly fourteen each, forming a circle. Inside the circles, some type of action was happening, but from where Pendr stood, he could not exactly see what the other young men were doing.
“For those of you who want to see your families again, you will take this training seriously. A casual soldier is a dead soldier,” Sir Lokan said. “For the rest of the day, I’m going to separate you into groups of fourteen, hereafter to be known as a squad.”
“What about our mid-day meal?” a voice called out from behind Pendr.
Lokan stopped mid-stride and faced the young men from Logs Pond, his face stoic. “Those of you wise enough to have brought something with you may eat quickly while I create the groups. For those who didn’t, you’ve learned your first lesson in preparedness.”
In his tanned leather backpack, a gift from Danla’s father, Pendr had some hard cheese, a bladder of water, and some jerked meat. No one had told him to pack the items; it seemed like common sense. While Sir Lokan walked to the other end of the group, Pendr unshouldered his backpack.
“Did you bring something?” Tikan asked Pendr just loudly enough for him to hear.
Pendr nodded in response. “You didn’t?”
“I wasn’t thinking very clearly this morning.”
After unwrapping a corner of the cheese, Pendr broke off a couple of small chunks. He popped one in his mouth and handed the other to Tikan. While chewing, Pendr ripped off a couple of pieces of the jerked meat.
“Next time, think ahead,” Pendr told his friend as he handed him the food. “And don’t have as much to drink the night before.”
They had only enough time to finish the small meal when Lokan approached them. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” Lokan counted, pointing to the conscripts as he walked, ending with Tikan. “This squad will go over there.” The knight pointed to a clear area toward the west. “As a squad, you will decide who will be your leader. It can be by common consent or a competition of your choosing. How you choose will tell me as much about your group as who is chosen.”
Pendr headed to the area Lokan had indicated, realizing that everyone else was following him. Once they arrived, he looked around. He knew all of them, some better than others. Tikan, of course, was a friend, but so were Wescro, Ayab, and Rilam. Wescro worked with Tikan at the stables, though they were not directly related. Ayab and Rilam were brothers, Ayab being the oldest, who worked on a sheep farm with their father. Pendr had wondered on more than one occasion if Ayab and Rilam’s family were drawn to sheep farming because they all had curly hair that mimicked sheep’s wool. Rilam tended to be less serious than his older brother. For whatever reason, Rilam and Danla almost always got into a heated discussion whenever they were around each other. Perhaps because Danla takes everything so seriously.
And then there was Lunz, son of Mayor Lonz. Like his father, Lunz was wide-shouldered and had a reputation of always having to be right—even when it was obvious to Pendr that sometimes Lunz was in error.
It was Lunz who spoke first. “It’s clear to me that as the son of the mayor, I am the natural choice to be the leader.”
Pendr noticed Tikan bristle at the statement. “Just because your father is in charge of the town doesn’t mean you should be in charge here,” Tikan said.
Lunz took a step towards Tikan, hands balled into fists. “Who then should be the leader? You, stable boy?”
“Yeah, why not? At least I don’t sit inside all day. I know how to work.” Tikan tensed up, looking like he was going to spring at Lunz if he got close enough.
The rest of the boys in the squad watched in anticipation. Pendr found the situation ridiculous. He stepped forward and stood between Lunz and Tikan. “Enough. We already have one war we’re fighting. We don’t need another.”
Undaunted, Lunz kept coming toward Tikan. Sensing the situation beginning to escalate, Pendr intercepted Lunz, grabbing his fine cloth jerkin by his chest. “We won’t fight amongst ourselves,” Pendr said, not raising his voice.
Lunz used both of his hands to grab Pendr’s wrist which held him into place. Though Pendr did not like to flaunt his strength, earned through hard work at the smithy, it was moments like these that it was useful.
“Back off, Lunz,” a boy from the group called out.
“You’re no match for Pendr,” another said.
A third boy said, “Pendr should lead us.”
With that statement, several others chimed in their agreement.
Surprised, Pendr wondered if he could do what they expected. Unlike Lunz, Pendr preferred to let his actions speak for him. Do I have what it takes?
“What do you say, Pendr?” Ayab asked.
Pendr considered it. Most of those in his squad were younger. They needed someone to help them through this difficult time. “I will do my best,” he heard himself say.
Lunz mumbled something under his voice but did not outwardly disagree.
Later, when Sir Lokan approached the group, they all stood quietly in a circle. The knight appeared surprised. “Is it decided then?”
Pendr took a step forward. “Yes, Sir. I have been selected.”
For the first time since they had met Sir Lokan, the knight smiled.
Chapter 7
The captains arrived at the Masters’ palace at mid-day. Three in all, each dressed in dark plate mail with a crescent moon emblazed on their dark blue cloaks, stood in stunned silence. The Masters were dead; their bodies remained where they died. The three who choked to death lay next to the table. Two were several steps away, each sporting numerous knife wounds and laying in pools of blood. Though the fires in the hearths no longer burned, the charred heads of the last two Masters lay on pillows of ashes.
“What darkness is this?” one of the captains said. He was thicker than the other two, with three stars embroidered on each shoulder of his cloak.
“It couldn’t have been King Viskum,” another of the captains said. His close-cropped golden hair contrasted against his uniform. “We would have known of forces this far into our territory.”
“Then who?” the third captain asked, the youngest of the three and based on the single star on his shoulder, the lowest in rank.
“Me.”
The three captains turned toward a darkened corner of the room. Wyjec stepped from the dark shadows and into the colored light created by the stained-glass windows.
“You? A chardi? You claim to have done this?”
Wyjec realized his appearance marked him as a chardi. The plain, roughspun tunic and breeches, along with his bare feet certainly did not inspire awe like the uniforms which the captains wore. That’s something I’ll have to remedy in the future.
“I do not claim it,” Wyjec said. �
��I state it as fact.”
“Nonsense,” the captain with three stars said. “Such insolence from a chardi. Kishul, bring me his head.”
The golden-haired man nodded as he unsheathed his long sword. Instead of running, Wyjec felt a rush of anger surge through him. He considered his options. Both the red and blue trickles were at his use. The amber glow emanating from the approaching captain was centered solely on Wyjec, specifically his neck. Pushing the amber glow toward another captain may cause them to fight among themselves. But to what end? Wyjec did not want just the ability to kill; he wanted what the Masters had had: fear and respect that came with power.
What else will cause the captains to fear me? Kishul was almost to him now, lifting his blade. Instinctively, Wyjec took hold of the blue trickle, tighter than he had ever before. Instead of focusing only on his neck, he covered his whole body in protection. The draining effect on his physique nearly caused him to black out, but he fought against the darkness. He stood, unflinching as Kishul swung the blade at his neck.
The sword connected solidly—and bounced away leaving not even the slightest of marks. Wyjec felt the pressure of the blow. It was enough to make him stagger to the side two steps, though his shielding absorbed much of the force. A blow like that should have removed his head from his shoulders.
Kishul stared at his sword in disbelief, and then at Wyjec. “Captain Avadi! He wields the myelur.”
Myelur was not a word Wyjec had heard before, yet the sound of it pleased his ears. There was strength in the word as if it encapsulated how he felt when he touched the trickle. No. Not trickle. He was touching the myelur. Unsure how he knew, Wyjec realized that myelur was the proper word given to what he had sensed as trickles.
While being able to block the attack with the blue myelur was impressive, Wyjec needed to show them he was even more powerful. He seized the red myelur, and then directing his attention to Kishul’s hand, caused the captain to drop his sword.
Darker the Shadow (The Howler King Trilogy Book 1) Page 3