by Evren, S. K.
His instructors had been ignorant in the extreme concerning death. Death now was his companion. He had never before met this Death. This Death was a stranger.
He had killed in his time of service. In truth, he had killed his first man before he had even finished training. He had been sparring with another boy, another student under the same master of swords. Their weapons had dull edges and rounded points. The combatants’ bodies had been armored and padded for sparring. They had taken the practice field with the other students in their class, fifteen pairs of boys dueling with blunted weapons. Most mechanically repeated the actions they had learned, stroke parried by counter-stroke. The clashing of metal acquired a cacophonous rhythm, the measured beats of fourteen pairs of boys leading and following one another.
The fifteenth pair had no semblance of rhythm. Troseth faced off against Trarg, the boy considered to be the prodigy of their class.
Trarg was a big, strapping lad, several inches taller than Troseth or any of the other boys. He had been powerfully built even before any of the boys had taken to exercising under their master’s regimen. This natural development gave Trarg’s body a thickness and weight that would have taken two of the other boys together to even approach. He had declared himself the head of their class, the leader of their all-male pack. The master of swords had watched Trarg with glowing eyes, encouraging him to use his natural talents to bend the other boys to his will.
Troseth had always resented Trarg. While he and the other boys were held to a strict adherence of the master’s rules, Trarg was often allowed, even encouraged, to blur the lines. Trarg lorded his natural gifts of size and weight over the other boys with malicious glee, enjoying the secret looks of hatred he engendered. He spent so much time inflicting misery, that he found little for the exercise and practice that had consumed the rest of his class—and Troseth, in particular.
While Trarg worked to solidify his reign of psychological terror, Troseth spent his time working with weights or slashing his practice weapon on wooden dummies. When Trarg turned his attentions to bullying Troseth, the smaller boy would stand his ground. Troseth would not openly confront Trarg, knowing it would cost him two beatings—the first from Trarg himself, and the second as punishment from his master. Instead, Troseth would simply refuse to bow or yield, waiting for Trarg to shove him out of the way or pummel him into the ground. Each instance, however, fuelled his hatred of Trarg and gave him a measure of his adversary’s strength versus his own.
In the beginning, Trarg had thrashed him handily. As the months progressed, Troseth realized that he was becoming harder to shove, more resilient to the pummeling. He came to enjoy the encounters, savoring the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Other boys in his class whispered and wondered about the glow that seemed to light in Troseth’s eyes after each beating, wondering if he had lost his mind. Even Trarg, slow as he was, realized something more was happening than he understood. He shrugged his realizations off and just hit Troseth all the harder. Troseth bided his time, watching and waiting.
The master often divided the boys into pairs for sparring. On one such occasion, he paired Trarg with Troseth. Troseth was certain that the master was giving his favorite student the opportunity to openly thrash his enemy. Trarg, in truth, thought little of Troseth, seeing in him no more or less concern than in any of the other boys. Troseth, however, saw it as a chance to exact revenge. The sparring began, and Troseth allowed Trarg to swing his attacks, gauging the bigger boy’s style and skill.
Trarg fought as he always did, forgoing the lessons of the master in favor of his strength and size. Troseth defended himself easily, deflecting the crude blows of his partner. Trarg furrowed his brow, anger smoldering in his belly. No matter how hard he hit at Troseth, he never managed to strike a solid blow. He overextended himself constantly, staggering to regain his own posture. Troseth watched, measuring and waiting. Others of the sparring boys began to take notice of the arrhythmic clash, pointing it out to their partners. Trarg, enraged, took no notice of the spectators.
Troseth had noticed. He had also measured the extent of his enemy’s abilities. He gave up his defensive posture as he deflected another of Trarg’s blows and lashed the bully across the face. The sword hadn’t been sharp, but the hit was hard and solid. Blood streamed from the cut on his cheek and Trarg felt his own blood cool in the morning air. The other boys who had been sparring stopped. Many of them had already been blooded that morning, but none had ever seen anyone open Trarg. Excited murmurings ran through the field.
Trarg had never been blooded before, not by any of his classmates. He raised his hand to his cheek and stared at the blood in shocked amazement. His eyes widened at first, with wonder, and then narrowed, pig-like, with a consuming hatred. He turned and raised his weapon against Troseth, but the smaller boy had been waiting. He jabbed his weapon against Trarg’s midsection. Trarg, his arms upraised to attack, was unable to parry the blow. Wind rushed out of his mouth and he gasped for air. Unaccustomed to taking blows, devoid of all discipline, Trarg’s hands fell to cradle his belly. Troseth took the opportunity to lash again at Trarg’s face, striking in attack and recovery. Trarg looked up at his opponent in pain and surprise. Hatred and contempt stared back, boring deeply into his eyes.
Trarg began to recover his breath. His classmates watched him raise his weapon in defense for the first time since they had met him. Troseth slapped contemptuously at his opponent’s blade. He limited his attacks to what Trarg could accept, giving his opponent what he expected. The class watched as light returned to Trarg’s eyes. They watched him fend off the simple blows, wondering what Troseth was doing. He had had the bigger boy at his mercy, why allow him to recover, and why was he attacking with such simple strokes? Troseth watched his opponent’s eyes.
Trarg became confident enough to attempt another attack. He abandoned his defense and struck out toward Troseth once more. Troseth parried the blow, spinning his body in the same direction of the attack. As he revolved, he sapped the energy of Trarg’s strike and added momentum to his own. He spun quickly and lashed his blunted weapon against the back of Trarg’s neck. The bigger boy arched his back and neck, howling in pain. Something cracked, and the class heard it. They watched pain flash across the bigger boy’s eyes. The pain shifted and changed, chased from his eyes by a look of fear. Trarg turned quickly, instinct taking over to force him to face his attacker. His eyes widened once just before his brow was smashed in by Troseth’s whistling blade.
Troseth felt the satisfying crunch of his weapon as it broke into the ridge of Trarg’s nose and shattered his forehead. Blood fountained forth, spraying from the initial impact before running freely from the wound. Troseth wrenched his weapon from Trarg’s skull and kicked the limp body backward as it fell. No one could see the look on Trarg’s eyes; they were covered in blood, his face shattered. All other eyes, however, focused on the toppling figure. No one spoke. Amazement filled the air. Troseth looked down at the fallen boy, contempt clearly showing in the set of his mouth. Moments passed. The master approached.
A wide opening formed around Troseth as the other students backed away. The master looked down at the bleeding form of his favorite student and then up at Troseth. Without saying a word, the master crooked a finger at Troseth, ordering him to follow. He took the boy away from the others. When the master was certain they could be neither seen nor heard, he spoke.
“Well done, Troseth,” he said seriously. Troseth didn’t trust himself to speak. He was certain he would be thrashed, if not killed on the spot. Hatred, however, lingered in his eyes. Proud victory struggled inside him against fear and obedience. His master looked deeply into his eyes and nodded his head.
“In truth, Troseth, I hadn’t expected you to kill the boy, but these things happen. I’ll deal with his parents. I’m certain they’ll be shamed by his failure. They have another son coming up in a year or two, hopefully, he’ll fare better.” The master seemed to calculate something in his head before he retur
ned to Troseth.
“Trarg never bothered to learn what he was taught. He sought to reign over you boys with strength and fear. That worked for a while, but as you see, your training and determination won out. This is the lesson I want you to take away from today.”
Troseth nodded, still shocked by what he had done. His master studied him, guessing at Troseth’s doubts. “Death is your companion, my boy,” he said, clapping Troseth on the shoulder, “Embrace it.”
His master told him other things before he was allowed to return to the practice field. The other students were shocked to see Troseth return without so much as a blackened eye or bleeding head. They watched him warily as he stood once more over Trarg. The body had turned slightly pale as its blood ran black into the dirt of the field. Trarg looked smaller in death, less threatening. Troseth looked in wonder at the boy he had just killed. The boy was dead. Trarg was dead. Troseth shook his head again in wonder. He was amazed by the expedience of the act. He turned to face the remainder of the class.
The students looked back at Troseth. Something new seemed to light behind his eyes. They looked back and forth between the body at his feet and his eyes. Some looked in fear, some looked in wonder. All of them tried to guess at what he was feeling. All of them considered how they might feel, themselves, in his place. Troseth looked back at them all then turned and left the field. He went back to his room to consider something new. For the first time in his life, he considered Death.
He knew what he had done had been excessive. He knew what he had done had, truthfully, been wrong. He could feel something inside his very chest writhe with a chill dishonesty. He had lost something, though what it was he couldn’t name. He relived the duel over and over in his mind, focusing on his last two strokes. He felt twin fires of victory and loss boiling the thoughts in his head. He had won. He had killed. He hadn’t fallen. He was a killer. He had learned. He had learned to be a killer.
He had come to this school to learn about weapons. He had come here to learn how to kill. He had fought a duel with an enemy, and that enemy had fallen. It hadn’t been necessary to kill, he told himself. What difference did it make, he shot back in response. Trarg had been a worthless fighter. He hadn’t even tried to learn what they were being taught. He had failed, just as the master had said. If I hadn’t have killed him, he thought to himself, someone else would have. Bullying wouldn’t work with a true enemy; all it had done was earn him one before his time. Trarg was dead, so what? Now the class could focus on study, they could learn without the interference of that worthless mass of flesh.
He hadn’t meant to kill Trarg, he knew that. He had lost control of himself, killed, murdered even, an inferior opponent. Trarg was dead. Would Trarg have cared if Troseth had been the one to die? As inept as he was, Trarg had been strong. If even one of the heavy, overhand blows Trarg had swung had connected with Troseth’s head, he knew Trarg would have been the one to watch a fellow student die. Would Trarg have wondered if that blow had been excessive?
There was a tentative knocking at Troseth’s door. Slowly, he got up to see who it was. There were several students in the hallway, their heads staring down at their shuffling feet.
“Yes?” he asked them, clearly unhappy about being disturbed. The boys looked quickly at his face then back down to the floor. They looked around and started pushing at each other’s shoulders. Finally, one boy was shoved out in front to face Troseth. He looked back at the others and scowled.
“We, uh,” he started, “well, we, um, wanted to, uh, say… ‘Thank you.’”
“What?” Shock flashed across Troseth’s face.
“Thank you,” the boy said again, gaining a little more confidence as he caught the amazement on Troseth’s face. “You got rid of Trarg,” the boy explained, showing a few bruises on his arms and a large bump on his forehead. Troseth looked at what the boy showed him without understanding. The boy nodded his head.
“Trarg gave me these, worse to some of the others. You, um, well, you sort of finished that. We, uh, we just wanted to thank you is all.”
“I killed him,” Troseth said in a neutral voice. Were they actually thanking him for killing Trarg?
“Yeah,” the boy said in an excited tone of voice, “what was it like?” Troseth’s face flushed red as he looked at the eagerness in the boy’s eyes. The other boys in the hallway were also staring at him, nodding their heads and hungry to hear his story. They really want to hear, he thought to himself. He turned to the side and extended his arm, inviting the boys into his room. They filed in past him as he reached to close his door. Just before the door shut, he saw his master walking down the hall. He thought he caught an approving look and a nod, then turned to tell his tale.
He had killed many people since Trarg. He knew that some of the very corpses shuffling themselves eastward had been delivered up by his own hand. It had seemed so unnatural at first. Now, however, it all seemed to fit. Death had not actually been his companion in youth. Death was not his companion now. Death was a tool used to obtain a goal. His new Master would turn Death into an army that would feed itself on its own victories.
Troseth hoped that Death could provide him with something he had lost, something he had lost unjustly. He had never had the chance to face her openly in life, though he had loved her from the time he had first seen her. She had stood with her family as her father accepted Troseth into service.
Until that time, Troseth had never considered any life other than that of the soldier. He was struck by her beauty. He almost forgot to offer the ritual response which sealed his service to the family. He had hoped to speak with her at the dinner afterward, but seating for the meal had been arranged by rank. He watched her from across the room and began to understand the gulf that could exist between a master and a servant.
As a student, he had been close to his masters. They taught the students as a class, but his efforts had always earned him a personal attention. Even the killing of Trarg had solidified his position with his master. Staring at the distance between his place at dinner and the position of this radiant girl, he realized he would have to truly shine to be brought closer to his goal.
Other women found Troseth attractive, even others of noble birth. Years of training and exercise had given him a powerful body. His features were distinctive, as if chiseled from some ancient stock of humanity. The image his face presented was one of strength and courage. His eyes were bright blue, highlighted, it had been said, by glory and conviction. Black hair hung just over his shoulders, thickly covering his head and contrasting against the pale skin of his unblemished face.
Young ladies-in-waiting and the ladies they served whispered and giggled as they eyed him surreptitiously. He never paid any attention to such occurrences, his mind and his desire always centered on the one girl, the girl who had awoken his heart. Some of the less than noble ladies of the court had forgone the proprieties of the time and offered him whatever he could imagine or desire. He was always taken aback by such offers, surprised that they came at all. He could not understand how some women found him so seemingly desirable while one individual hardly noticed his existence. How, he wondered, how could it be?
He never spoke of his silent love. He prided himself on his ability to keep his feelings to himself. He had heard the pining of other soldiers as they lamented their lost or faraway loves. He listened as they groaned and watched as they wrung their hands. He would never be that way, he had decided. What would come would come.
Yet when he saw her, he felt a powerful connection, as if their lives had been bonded. He could recognize her instantly, even at a distance, He could sort her voice out of a crowd or choir. When he focused on her features, he felt as if his chest were filling, expanding, as if he might burst with affection and emotion. At such times, he would force himself to look slowly away to make certain that no one would discover his hidden passion. When there was no possibility of discovery, however, he would drink her in like a man dying of thirst.
&nbs
p; The young women of the court whispered to each other about “Troseth’s lost love.” They made up stories of a woman far away that held his devotion. In some of the stories she was a peasant of unearthly grace and beauty. In other tales, there was a woman of high birth who had devoted herself to a life of chastity and religion. The stories were so wide spread that they had reached the very master Troseth served.
Troseth was known throughout the entire command to be a man of extremes. His skill as a commander was almost legendary. His loyalty had been beyond any possibility of question. He presented the perfect picture of a soldier. A picture matched only by the temperance of his life.
Soldiers were known far and wide for their capacity to drink alcohol and bed women. The young men who offered their own lives in service of others lived, themselves, as if each day would be their last. If blood and rations were the soldier’s fare in the field, spirits and sex were their home cooked meals.
Troseth, however, had been known for neither. From the time of his studies, throughout his military service in the west, he had never taken a drop of alcohol. Soldiers who had never served with him were fearful of their chances under such a leader. They believed that a man who couldn’t hold his liquor could not fend off Death. Older soldiers tried to explain the impossible to the new men, but none could believe until they had fought alongside him. Returning to their barracks safely, they would shake their heads, amazed by their own victories.
That he took no drink was one matter; that he did not chase after the women constantly presenting themselves was beyond explanation. Young men slapped their heads in wonder that so many good looking women slavered after their commander while he cared not a whit. How could this be, they wondered. They each speculated on what they would do had they been given the same gifts the Maker had presented to their leader.