The Bond of Blood

by Kody Boye

  “So,” Daughtry said, seating himself in his chair. “What might you be here for, Odin? And my apologies for not arranging study time between the two of us—I’ve been awfully busy trying to figure out just what and where I should start teaching you.”

  “It’s all right, sir. My problem is… well… more about someone than about something.”

  “Pardon?”

  Sighing, Odin dug his fingers into the plush armrests and leaned forward. With a bit of a tremble in his voice, he said, “I got into a fight with a boy the other day.”

  “You did?” Daughtry asked, waiting for Odin to nod before he continued. “For what, might I ask?”

  “For… well… him hitting me in the nose so hard it bled and getting in trouble because of it. That’s not all, sir. He… he tried to drown me.” Odin paused and took a deep breath.

  “Drown you?” the mage asked, the stricken look on his face one of pure horror and outrage. “Who did this, Odin?”

  “I’m not a tattler, sir.”

  “That doesn’t matter. What he did was attempted murder.”

  “I haven’t finished my story.”

  Daughtry paused, waiting for him to continue.

  All right, he thought. How am I going to tell him this?

  Rather than dwell on the specifics, Odin took another deep breath, expelled it, then said, “My magic went off.”

  “In a fit of fear, I take it?”

  “I guess. All I know is that just when I thought I would drown, the boy let go of me and I swam up to the surface to find the middle of the pond erupting in a geyser.”

  “That’s some pretty impressive spell casting there, young man—though I must say, that sort of uncontrolled magic can be extremely dangerous, especially since you have no control over your emotions.”

  “I know,” Odin sighed. “I shouldn’t have done it—”

  “You couldn’t control it.”

  “But I was convinced he was going to drown me. What else what I was supposed to do?”

  “You did what you believed was the right thing,” Daughtry replied, “and that, I believe, is the only thing you could have done. Boys trying to drown boys… that’s absolutely ridiculous, Odin, and I wish you’d tell me who did it, though I do have to say you’re quite a valiant man for sticking to your morals.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll arrange for us to start magic practice as soon as possible. You should return to your class, while the day is still young. Thank you for coming and speaking with me though. It’s much appreciated.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Odin reached out, shook the man’s hand, then rose and left the room.

  The whole while he walked the halls, he couldn’t help but wonder just whether or not his future would continue safely.

  The moment Odin returned to class, all eyes were on him, as if he had committed a heinous crime which could not be justified. Nervous, unsure and even more unwilling to admit difference to the young men around him, he took his seat, bowed his head, then crossed his arms over his chest, unable to meet the professor’s gaze or the eyes of those around him.

  His thoughts jumbled within his head, his concentration set on things other than the history being explained before them, Odin tore his attention away from the professor and attempted to read the fine lines of scrawled text within his book, but found even that seemed impossible to do.

  Come on, he thought. You can do this. You know you can.

  Rather than try on focus on the things that were plaguing him, he turned his attention back to Artlock and found once more that almost every eye in the in the room was upon him.

  “Odin?” Artlock asked.

  “Sorry,” he replied, bowing his head.

  “You need to listen, Mr. Karussa. I won’t explain things more than once.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Great. Now you’re going to get punished for not paying attention.

  He couldn’t necessarily blame himself though, considering the conversation he’d just had with Daughtry. He assumed that Artlock, judging from his personality, would possibly leave him alone, as he’d always been good in class before, but without any knowledge of the professor’s behavior he couldn’t be sure. In response, he turned his attention on the board of text set into the wall before them and tried to concentrate, if only to keep out of trouble.

  When the afternoon classes came to a close and the pages were ushered down the hall, Odin found himself longing for home.

  To think that he had come all this way only to have thoughts of going back was ridiculous.

  It’s all right, he thought. Everything’s going to be fine.

  Inside his and the other year-one pages’ room, he lay in bed with his eyes set toward the ceiling and tried to sleep despite the fact that many of his peers were doing their best to thwart those attempts. Fighting, talking, some punching and kicking each other during arguments—Odin found himself drawn to the thoughts of what he and Daughtry had spoken of earlier and how such fickle emotions were able to take hold of him.

  You can’t help it.

  Even so, the fact that he couldn’t control his magic scared him to no end. What if, in a fit of emotion, he happened to hurt or even kill someone? What then, he wondered, would happen, if not life in prison for murder? What did they do to mages in the current day and age? Surely, they didn’t burn them, as such witch-hunting had long since died out, especially in the old kingdom, but was there a punishment equal for men and women who killed others with powers of the Will?

  Not knowing how to react, Odin pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his attention on the doorway at the other side or the room, which was cracked and slowly being pushed open.

  A short moment later, a guard appeared. “Odin Karussa?” he asked.

  All activity in the room stopped. Once more, all eyes were on him.

  “Yes?” Odin asked, perturbed at the fact that awkward situations were becoming a staple in his life.

  “You’ve been requested to come down to the courier’s office. You’ve been sent something.”

  Sent something? he thought. But who—

  The idea that his father had sent him a package alight in his mind, he thrust himself off his bed, then to the guard’s side, who instantly turned and began to lead him down the hall.

  Things, it seemed, were beginning to look up.

  Maybe everything would be just fine.

  “This is… curious,” the courier said, raising his narrowed eyes from the obviously sword-shaped package before him.

  “Why?” Odin frowned.

  “Pages aren’t normally sent packages, especially not weapons.”

  “Who does it say it’s from?”

  “That’s the thing—no one. It’s only addressed to you.”

  Stepping forward, Odin pressed the flat of his hand against the obvious hilt of the sword and fingered the packing parchment beneath his fingers, almost unable to believe that a weapon delivered to him had been allowed inside the walls. Considering the situation with Germa and the fact that a war seemed ready to break out at any given moment, one would think that no weaponry at all would be allowed within the First, Second and Third inner-gate districts, let alone so close to the castle.

  Who could have—

  Before he could finish, his eyes fell to a single piece of smaller parchment that lay just beneath his fingers.

  “May I?” Odin asked.

  The courier gave no response further than a nod.

  Reaching forward, Odin pulled the piece of parchment free from the packing paper, then unfurled the note.

  You may not know who I am, the piece of parchment began, but I know who you are. Please, accept this gift and put it to good use. He will need a friend in the years to come.

  “A friend?” Odin asked, turning his eyes on the sword. “Can I open it, sir?”

  “You may.” The courier gestured the guards forward. “Just don’t try anything with it.”

&
nbsp; “I won’t.”

  Odin tangled his hands in the parchment and began to pull the weapon free of its confines.

  A blade forged in the blackest metals shined in the light piercing through the window and created the impression of a dark night that could not have been anything more than horrific. The hilt—wrapped in dark red leather—ended in a cross, upon which were a series of pentagons. The first black, the second silver, the third red, they stacked atop each other as if they were pieces of coin until adorned on the topmost surface appeared the shape of a spear and two drinking horns.

  “Is that,” one of the guards began to say, but stopped before he could continue.

  The courier narrowed his eyes.

  What? Odin dared to ask, the tension so thick in the air he thought something terrible would slice through the atmosphere and end his life.

  “I believe so,” the courier finally replied.

  Every hair on Odin’s neck stood on end.

  “What?” he asked, shivering, as if a cold wind had suddenly developed somewhere within the mailing office. “What is it? Tell me. Tell me!”

  Stepping forward, the guards took Odin’s arms and began to pull him toward the door.

  “Wait!” Odin cried. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You are being placed in the fifth tower for conspiracy against the kingdom,” one of the guards said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what happens when you bring Draethel weaponry into the castle.”

  Odin’s heart stopped beating in his chest.

  Draethel?

  The horrible, the evil, the malevolent, the things that had, at one point, used dark and forbidden magics in order to try and overthrow the Elven kingdom—it was no wonder that the guards were pulling him along, through the grounds and toward the entrance of the castle, then through the halls and toward a single spiraling staircase that could only lead to the top walls. To think that such a thing had been sent to him was madness, considering the light of his current situation, but in that moment, while being pulled along behind the guards, it appeared as though the entire world had just been set against him, as if he had just done something illegal in spite of the fact that he had done nothing at all.

  No.

  “No!” Odin screamed, flailing in the guard’s arms and crying out in pain when his muscles screamed in agony. “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “You’ll be released when we get to the tower.”

  “I want to see the king! Dammit! Dammit! I’m a person! I have rights! GODDAMMIT! Let me go you rotten bast—”

  The back of a fist met his face.

  Blood exploded from his nose.

  Stunned, Odin turned his eyes up to look at the ever-lingering surface of the fifth tower that rose from the very center of the castle.

  “Let me go,” he said, trembling. “I didn’t do anything to you!”

  “Maybe not,” one of the guards said, “but that doesn’t mean you weren’t planning on it.”

  When they reached the entrance of the fifth tower, which stood lone and foreboding as if it were a creature of its own, a series of mechanisms were pushed and pulled in and out of place. First the guards slid aside a number of metal beams that were inlaid into the surface of the door, then a group of keys were pressed into a circular lock that, with the last key in place, created a complete circle. The process took several long moments, resulting in a form of mental torture Odin found almost unbearable, before the meticulously-crafted security system was disengaged by a twist of a handle.

  The door opened.

  It took but a moment for the guards to release hold on his arms and push him into the tower.

  Shortly thereafter, the door slammed shut.

  The sound of each lock and beam being slammed into place echoed within the claustrophobic confines of the small space.

  When he scanned the room to find only a single, dirtied mattress—which likely stank of sweat and tears and even blood—Odin crossed the distance between him and it, settled down atop its surface, then stared at the door and began to cry.

  How could such a thing—such a small, unexpected gift—have landed him into one of the most frightening situations anyone could possibly imagine?

  Although no answers lay in easy reach, and while the single barred window set into the tower at his side seemed to shine light on his very situation, Odin could only bow his head.

  It couldn’t be—it just couldn’t.

  After coming all this way, was this really what his life would amount to—imprisonment, isolation, and, for all he could describe, arrest?

  I didn’t do it, he thought, tears spilling down his cheeks and revealing rivers of flesh through the mess of blood and snot on the lower half of his face. I didn’t do anything! I didn’t… I…

  Rather than continue on with his thoughts, he reared back his head and screamed.

  Not a sound, he imagined, could be heard in the outside world.

  Part 2

  1

  Long, hot, miserable, painstakingly-brutal in its efforts to push him down even further than he already was—the man raised his eyes to look at his fellow companions in the field and found himself dreaming of home and the sweet bed that would rest beneath him.

  Ah, he thought, sighing as a cool wind blew in from the northern highlands and gently whispered across his arms. Yeah. That’s it.

  The sun began to set in the western part of the sky and slowly the men in the fields began to pack up their belongings and leave. In response to this sudden migration, much like birds when flying from the north to south, Novalos Eternity set his garden hoe over his shoulder, stepped out of the near-waist-deep trenches, then began to make his way back into town—toward where his house lay on the far hill, content and alone away from most everyone in the village.

  While he walked, making his way along the road and toward the place he called home, he took notice of the humanity as he passed by families and children greeting the men who had toiled in the sun-soaked fields all day. Women, kissing their husbands; children, grabbing their father’s pantlegs; dogs, barking and dancing beneath their master’s feet—it would have appeared as though this entire community was driven by nothing more than family, a fact that, while pleasant to see, made him feel even lonelier than he had in the past year.

  Father, he thought.

  The old man’s death had not come as a surprise, but with its violent ferocity and sudden implication within his life it had taken more strength and willpower than he could possibly imagine to make it through the past year. Even remaining in that house, old and simple, seemed to stir harsh memories from the grave, almost as if his father were returning from the dead to haunt him each and every night.

  From the corner of the street, a woman lifted her head and offered a simple smile, though made no move to wave.

  Nova bowed his head.

  You’ll be okay, in the long run, he thought, hoping what the other men of the village had told him was true. You’ll find someone, someday.

  Sometimes, he couldn’t stand waiting.

  On those long, hard days in the field, ‘someday’ seemed too far away.

  He wanted a wife more than anything—desired, above all else, to hold a woman in his arms and whisper to her that things would be fine: that the world, as horrible and violent as it was, would not open up and swallow the both of them whole. It was for this reason that when he arrived at home and began to disrobe he fell into the blankets before the fireplace and curled around himself his sheets as tightly as he could, already knowing in his heart and mind that tonight would be much colder than it had been in a very, very long time.

  Will it rain, he wondered, or will it just be cold?

  Either way, he couldn’t allow his conflicted emotions to control him, lest he succumb to a horrible fit of anxiety that was likely to make him cry himself to sleep.

  Nervous, unsure and even more frightened for the fact that he seemed so ready to cave to his emotions, Nova found himself
looking toward the far right wall—where, upon its surface, his most prized possession lay. A scythe, propped up on three prongs, lay directly beneath the window. Three rubies inlaid within the blade caught the last bit of the sun’s fading light and cast it across the room in brilliant shades of scarlet.

  Once upon a time, his adoptive father had taken his three most honorable pieces of jewelry and created that very weapon. While only a year had passed from that date, and while his father’s death seemed all the more present in his life, Nova couldn’t help but help but think, in a moment’s notice, that the man would walk in from tending to the outside chores and greet him as he always had when he returned home from work.

  Tears burned at the corners of his eyes.

  Nova sighed.

  “I miss you,” he said, a stray tear sliding from the corner of his eye. “Even though you weren’t my real father, you were the next best thing I could ever had.”

  Resigning himself to his tears, Nova bowed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.

  In that moment, he prepared for the fate of sleep, hoping it would come sooner rather than later and pull him into the depths of nothing.

  Early the next morning, he woke to an aching back and muscles that screamed whenever he used them. Rising, stretching, groaning and moaning over the aches in his body, he thanked the Gods that he did not have to work in the field today and gathered his dirty clothes from around him before making his way to the door—where, around the back of his home, he would settle himself into the pool of water and bathe to cleanse himself of the dirt and sweat from the day before.

  After letting himself outside, he took a moment to consider his surroundings and let out a deep breath of air.

  So early in the morning—before dawn, and at a time where the only light in the sky existed in hues of blue and gray—not a soul would be awake, giving him the sanctity and privacy he would need to bathe.

  Rounding the house, pausing every few moments to consider his surroundings and the rocks that bordered the hill, Nova stepped up to the pool, pressed his big toe into the water, then watched a series of ripples extend toward the far side of the water until, eventually, they all but disappeared beneath the rocks that branched over the watering hole.