Ascent of the Unwanted (The Chronicle of Unfortunate Heroes Book 1)

by Nathan T. Boyce

  “His colt is so much older than mine.” Erik said astounded.

  “These horses are all weanlings Erik. His horse is just large, astonishing because there are no bone or joint deformities. If the colt continues to grow at the pace it’s growing, he will match Gavin’s Koda in a year.”

  “You know that’s the first time I have heard his name.” Erik smiled. “You and Gavin have been so busy with me and Lawt that you haven’t even introduced us politely to your brothers.” The bond Erik was feeling with Ghost was giving him a newfound respect for these horses.

  “I am sorry. My brother Magnus will be most excited to see Ghost. In a way he is as much his foal as you are mine.” The smile on Istan’s face never left. If someone stepped up and punched him in the ribs he would still have the broad, stupid grin.

  After the throng of congratulators moved on the class was left standing in the pen with their sires and Rovan. Erik moved over to Lawt to look upon his friend and his new horse.

  “It seems that yours was the most impressive pick of the afternoon,” Erik said, looking down at Lawt’s horse. A dark mane framed a rich brown foal coat. Hints of red highlights peaked its way through from below. Erik still could not believe this horse was a weanling. He looked more than a year old.

  “Erik, this is amazing. Lawt has not felt such belonging. Titan is an amazing brother to have.” Lawt beamed.

  “Congratulations to all of you!” Rovan yelled to his class. “The first part of The Union of Brothers is complete. Let us step in to the stable and complete the union.”

  All the trainee’s sires began to move the newfound brothers into the stable. Istan and Gavin walked side by side boasting with Ghost and Titan flanking them. Erik and Lawt followed close behind. Inside the stable the group formed a semi-circle around a table. On the table sat a mortar and pestle for each trainee. The sires handed the care of the new mounts to the class and wordlessly moved to the table.

  Rovan placed himself behind the table, a pouch in each hand. “You have experienced the union of family with your brothers,” he said in rote, his voice echoing through the rafters. “Now you will undergo the union of the spirit.” Each sire picked up a mortar and pestle.

  Rovan reached into the first pouch and pulled out a handful of leaves. “These represent the bond of nature, a fragile piece of a grand encompassing whole.” The sires all knelt and held out their mortars for an offering and Rovan placed a leaf in each. His hand came out of the next pouch covered in writhing, yellow and green caterpillars. “These represent the will of man. Disgusting in its primitiveness but, allowing time to mature and grow, will become a beautiful part of nature.” He placed a squirming caterpillar in each bowl.

  The sires stood raising their pestles into the air. As one they smashed the smooth stone hard into their mixing bowls. The crunching of leaves and grubs filled the air. “We must now take essence from those who will be united.”

  Each sire turned and faced their foal drawing a blade. Istan’s face held no emotion when he grabbed Erik by the forearm. Before Erik could react Istan’s blade drew a crimson line down Erik’s arm. Erik bit his lip to keep from screaming. Blood poured out of the wound flowing in rivers down his arm and Istan caught the dripping blood with the bowl. The crimson liquid mixed with the paste of leaves and grub. When the small bowl was halfway filled Erik’s sire wrapped a white cloth on Erik’s arm.

  The sires all turned on the young horses. “Hold your brothers,” Rovan commanded.

  Erik knelt down by Ghost and grabbed his brother about the neck. The slash used to cut into Ghost’s leg was as quick as the one used on Erik. The stable erupted in screaming colts. Erik struggled to hold his brother close and comfort him. Squealing and jumping, Ghost’s hooves landed on Erik’s thigh crushing it. Again the blood flowed easily. Istan, this time, used the lip of the mortar to scrape against the horses leg to collect the blood. He handed Erik another white bandage.

  Looking over at Lawt Erik had to suppress a laugh. Gavin was performing the ritual exactly like Istan. When the large Cavalier had sliced Titan, the large horses bucking and screaming ceased with one of its hooves crushing Lawt’s hand. Instead of trying to extract his hand from below the large colt, Lawt was trying to bandage the horse with one hand, a painful expression on his face.

  The Cavaliers all gathered around the table again waiting upon Rovan to continue with the ritual. Rovan produced a small pewter flask. “This is the spirit united.” He spoke pouring one drop into the first bowl. Steam rose from the mixture and an acrid smell overran the normal smell of bedding and horse permeating the stable. Over each bowl he spoke those words, “This is the spirit united.” Each time only one drop entered each bowl.

  “You must feed Ghost first. The liquid placed into the mixture will fool the horse and make the blood palatable for him. Then you must partake.” Istan handed the bowl to Erik.

  Erik looked down into the gray stone bowl. Whatever Rovan had placed into the bowls had caused the mixture to bubble as if boiling. The red blood had turned black and every once in a while Erik could see bits of leaf or caterpillar roll over the top. The smell emanating from the bowl was too strong for Erik to keep under his face for long.

  He held the concoction under Ghost’s muzzle. The horse sniffed at the bowl. Gingerly his lips pressed against the inside of the bowl, his tongue probing into the liquid. The horses head shot up. The eyes opened wide and rolled back showing white more than color. The colts bucked and struggled to be free from whatever was holding them. “Let them go!” Rovan shouted.

  As one the young horses ran out of the stable into the open pen. Erik stood watching, stunned at what had occurred. “It is your turn,” Istan said to Erik.

  Erik looked back into the bowl. A swirling line of spittle was mixing itself into the black fluid. Holding his breath and closing his eyes Erik poured the foul brew into his mouth. The metallic taste of blood he expected hid behind a potent sweet, smoky taste. It burned. His tongue was on fire. The back of his mouth felt like a whole had melted in it. His nose was steaming and his eyes watered.

  A jolting sensation slammed into his head. He held his hands up to his temples to keep his brain from exploding. He was on his knees screaming while at the same time he was outside running, scared. His head pounded with pressure from two minds. He could feel how scared Ghost was. He was scared as well. The two minds seemed to be pitting their emotions against each other to see who was stronger, while at the same time feeding upon each other. Fear quickly became terror and still the emotions grew. The emotions were too much for him to contain. Erik stood and ran as hard as he could to escape the torturous struggle inside his head.

  A sharp blow struck him on the head. The union was so complete Erik was unsure which of them had been injured. Even the fact Erik was on his back did not clarify the situation for him. “Fight the union!” Istan yelled at him. “Separate yourself from your brother!”

  Erik thought he had been fighting the union. He tried to push his mind away from Ghost’s to no avail. He needed to change tactics. It was tough to think. His heart pounded hard in his chest. The terror consumed him framing his vision in crimson.

  An idea occurred to him. Istan told him to separate himself. Mentally he formed the image of a wall and wedged the image between the two consciences. Pushing the wall through was tedious but the partition snapped into place. The emotions no longer spurred each other. Without its rival emotion to egg on his the fear became manageable. Erik took a deep calming breath. He was in control. His head still hurt. It must have been him that hit his head. His hand felt a sensitive lump forming at his temple.

  With the war of dominance over Erik realized he knew exactly where Ghost was. Erik could point to Ghost with his eyes closed. His young brother was still scared and running in the pen trying to find a way out. “Excellent, Erik!” Istan yelled y. “Now help Ghost. Allow the calmness to flow toward him.”

  Erik pictured the feeling radiating from his conscience in waves, oozi
ng through the mental wall toward Ghost. Ghost’s fear reacted immediately. In his mind Erik could feel the horse slow from a fear induced sprint to a calming, rhythmic trot. The excitement abating Erik could hear other Cavaliers yelling directions to their respective foals. A Cavalier with long flowing red hair screamed directions peaking near hysteria.

  “You have to fight it, Grover!” the Cavalier screamed. The trainee was lying on the ground, knees curled up to his chin. He slammed his fists rapidly into the sides of his head. Blood flowed freely from his nose. A wild look of terror screamed from his eyes. The young trainee’s eyes clouded over. A spasm whipped through the trainee’s body, his back arcing his feet to his head. A quick shudder and the young man’s body went limp.

  “No!” The red haired Cavalier screamed grabbing at the body. Tears rolled down his face as he clutched the limp form in an anguished embrace. An impact hit the wall which separated the stable from the pen the colts ran through. The boards cracked where the collision occurred and the stable rocked with the force of the blow. Erik ran outside to see what hit the stable.

  A colt lay motionless against the wall, burying its head awkwardly beneath its body. “Grover’s brother,” Istan said, standing behind Erik again. “The amount of terror it carried and the sudden loss of the union blinded him beyond comprehension. It ran full force into the wall.”

  Erik staggered at the shock. It could have been him in the dead man’s place. Istan laid a comforting hand on Erik’s shoulder. “It happens occasionally. A mind too weak or unprepared succumbs to the potion. I warned you about the dangers of the training. I hope he was not one of Rovan’s five.”

  Chapter 7

  Hard Lessons

  It was tough to sleep the first night. Erik woke frequently with his heart pounding and an urge to run. He had slept little by morning, and the sleep he did have was haunted by nightmares and images of horses running to their death.

  The morning after the ritual dragged on miserably. Erik’s head felt like a sledgehammer had been taken to it. The lack of sleep made him tear up and his eyes burned whenever he yawned. He was hungry but nothing seemed appetizing. He sat quietly in the dining hall with his stomach gnawing into his back. He would be walking when his legs would decide to give out on him. He managed to catch himself most of the time but Lawt’s eye was blackened when he fell in the dining hall and caught the corner of a table.

  After breakfast Gavin and Istan approached followed by a skinny man with dark shaggy hair, wearing a blue tunic and black cloak. “I wanted you to meet Phayden before we left,” Istan said. “He is our surgeon, the last of our party. He has not been with us because he was cleaning up our little mess back in Armeston.”

  “It is good to finally meet you face to face. I have watched you so long it seems as if I already know you,” Phayden said with a smile. The man was one of the unfortunate few who looked better when they did not smile. His teeth, while white, ran in every direction but parallel and down.

  “You were there? I don‘t remember seeing you.” Erik was still trying to hold down the shock of hearing Gavin and Istan were leaving.

  “I would hope not. I don’t usually want to be seen. Of course, all three of us have been watching you since that dreadful night at the tavern.” Phayden said. “I must say Istan and Gavin have been beaming like proud fathers since I came in this morning.”

  “Really? About what?” Erik asked.

  “You know, I have been trying to figure that out myself. I have always found that new fathers are quite easily impressed with the day to day events that happen to their offspring.”

  Erik could see Istan and Gavin becoming uncomfortable with the man’s jokes but Erik still warmed to the skinny man.

  “So, you’re a surgeon?” He asked trying to change the subject.

  “Well yes, but a different type of surgeon I imagine than you’re referring to. A Roh’Darharim Surgeon is a Roh’Darharim just like these two, but his specialty is not with the horses and combat. His strength lies in… Well I guess the best way you could put it is fixing things. We work best in the background and the glory tends to be given to the hand that holds the sword, and rightly so!”

  “So you’re like a medic?” Erik said.

  “Yes, like a medic, but they just try and fix people,” Phayden said. “I can fix anything.”

  “Anything?” Erik asked amazed.

  “Well most things, and not as good as a specialist I admit but I can fix it well enough for it to pass muster or get it to a specialist for repairs. But I tell you, the mess that you boys left me in Armeston took me a good long while to get sorted out. It took more than a few greased palms for me to get the constabulary to accept it was merely a gang turf war. Yep, from wagons to wagers to wounds, I’m your man.” He finished with a bow.

  Erik found the man charming and disarming. He spoke quickly, but would pause to make an inside joke to Gavin or Istan, usually at their expense. Erik never understood the subtle jabs at the two men but had to laugh from the manner at which the jabs were delivered. It was sad and difficult when Istan and Gavin finally told them it was time for them to leave. Erik and Lawt followed them as far as the gates and watched as they rode over the hill out of view.

  Falling into the routine of class during the first month was easy. After waking the sparring classes began. Personal hygiene and breakfast was followed by scholastic studies. Reading, writing, and introductory mathematics would be followed by histories, laws, and tactical reviews. The rest of the day they spent getting familiar with the stables and running their mounts around the beginner’s arena. This time would later be used in mounted training. Rovan’s job was to watch and judge each trainee. He was the only person deciding who was worthy to move on to the next phase of testing.

  Erik was corrected early about terminology. The area the ceremony was held in was correctly called an arena, as were all the training areas fenced off into enclosures. A pen was an enclosed area to contain livestock.

  The main challenge in these sessions was to control the link. A strong link could hinder as well as help. Even well trained mounts felt fear in battle, and that channeled into the Roh’Darharim guaranteed failure. They needed the link to strengthen or decrease depending on the task assigned. The class would spend hours moving their brothers without speaking, trying to sense items through their link using their brother’s senses, and used various games to enhance their skills.

  Their instructor for training their horse was named Olarin. Olarin had simply outlived his mount. The top of his head shined with oily baldness while long stringy hair fell from the sides of his head well past his shoulders. His cheeks were deeply sunken and wrinkled. The four hairs he had left in each eyebrow were long wisps of gray silk that fell over his eyes. Despite his obvious age he walked smartly with his Cavalry’s garb of red and gold still giving him a commanding countenance.

  The simplest game which helped to decrease the link was also the hardest. Olarin would place everyday items around the arena. Each student let their mounts move around the arena to find an item. The task was to think about the item while decreasing the link. If they were successful their brother would not be able to determine which item the student was thinking about.

  On the first attempt all the mounts walked straight to the object each student had picked. They worked for weeks to dull down what the students had risked so much to receive, and this frustrated each trainee in unique ways. Most could keep the link down enough to keep the mount from finding it half the time. Arlif was never able to keep his brother Verity from finding his goal.

  “The first thing all of you need to understand from the beginning,” the old Roh’Darharim said, “is that your mounts may be your brothers, but they are still only animals. You can feel their emotions, yes? You have been linked with them all night and have sensed their wants and fears, but those are all guided by instinct and reactions. That is what makes your brothers different from you, and it is a big difference. Slugs too have instincts and r
eactions. But you…You have complex reasoning and logic. A horse’s thought processes are linear. Even a tame, highly trained horse still has the same thought processes as a wild savannah stallion. We have used the horse’s instinctive and reactive nature to mold him into a tool. The union is a tool as well. You must be able to control these tools. The tools must not be the ones controlling you. I only have to go back as far as last month to illustrate my point. It was not the drugs or the rituals that killed young Grover that night. The union and his mount killed him. The young man succumbed to the will of the horse. Once the horse had control his mind reacted the only way it could, violently.”

  With the old Roh’Darharim’s warning clearly painted into his students’ heads he began instructing them again on forming and maintaining a clear and distinct barrier between their mounts and themselves. For the rest of the afternoon, and into the evening, the trainees worked at maintaining this clear and distinct separation. The memory of Grover was enough to keep their minds on their work and the class made significant progress for the day. All except Arlif. He still was unable to keep his horse from finding his object.

  “Excellent work today!” Olarin said at the end of the session. “Tomorrow, bring the wool blankets you have slept under these past few days. These blankets carry your scent. We will use them to get the horse used to something that smells like you on its back.”

  Erik had been around horses. “Sir, aren’t these horses far too young to start to break?”

  Olarin smiled. “Who said anything about breaking? It will be years before you are even ready to think about riding but we want the scent of you on the horse as soon as possible. If the horse has your scent on his back after a while your scent mixed with his becomes second nature to him. Arlif, you will stay here