Chapter 1
Copyright Luke A. Wildman
Weapons crossed with the thwack
of striking wood. Kale’s thoughts sprung to the present.
A man
stood in the street before him. His stance was perfect, and he
could strike at any part of Kale’s body from the position he held his axe. He’d
interrupted Kale in the middle of a practice form, knocking his weapon against
Kale’s own. A clear challenge.
Good.
It’d been a while since there’d been challenges.
Kale
drove his axe’s blade towards the man’s side, adjusting feet and shifting
weight instinctively. The opposing haft leapt to intervene. The weapons bounced
off each other angrily.
The
pair of axes flew through the motions of training-forms. Then the man increased
his speed. Faster and faster, until the tempo of wood knocking wood became
desperate. Kale struggled to fend each blow, but the attacker had no
difficulties. His weight was perfectly behind every motion, body sensing the
patterns of the fight while his mind analyzed. Fighting is never a dance. It is
a brutal flurry of blows and counterblows as you try to outthink and overpower
your opponent.
Then
Kale’s legs were swept from under him.
Training was a ritual. Every
evening he came here, on the street outside his house, and drilled in the forms
he’d been shown by the guards. And on rare nights such as this one, Rayne came
out and put Kale in his place, which was generally the cobblestones.
“You’re better than most lads
playing with wooden sticks, but you’re too impetuous.” The retired soldier
winked amiably. “You know, that brings to mind another boy I knew from a
nomadic tribe, back when King Renaden’s father still reigned and was sending
expeditions into the desert. Our captain was an imbecile of a man who’d gotten
us thoroughly lost, and we’d just run out of water and food when the tribe
stumbled onto us. They were hospitable – hospitality is very important to the
tribes, you know – and kindly provided us shelter and provisions. Of course,
it’s traditional for tribesmen to show off before strangers their feats of
athleticism, and so they held foot-races, wrestling-matches, and javelin-throws.
And in the middle of all the men, I see this boy, no older than you are now….”
Kale suppressed a smile. Far from
the stereotype of tightlipped warriors, Rayne always had soldiering stories to
share. He was friendly and talkative and an eternal favorite with the children
of their street, who gathered on his porch to hear of his adventures. As a boy,
Kale had listened enraptured for hours. The stories had been new ten years ago,
but when a tale grew old there were always more. And despite the added years,
Rayne could knock a wooden axe from Kale’s hands as easily today as he had
then. It was humbling.
Rayne finished the familiar recounting
with a fond chuckle, exactly the same ending he always gave it. “Well, I should
get these old bones fed and bed. In certain mountain ranges to the north, anything
moving outside after dark doesn’t live long unless it’s very large and
dangerous. You keep training hard. When did you say the testing is?”
Tension knotted in Kale’s gut. The
day he’d longed for, so close. . . .
“Tomorrow night.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. I recall my
first testing. Of course, I wanted to be an officer in the army, not a city guard.
To this day I don’t know what addled my brain. They faced me against a big bear
of a fellow, and I could hardly move the next day for the thrashing he gave me.
I had to wait another year, and then I avoided the testing by joining as a
regular soldier. Only officers and guards endure the testing, of course,” Rayne
reminisced fondly. “When I did become an officer five years later, then I was
ready for it. Well, good evening to you, and I wish you all the best, though it
might be better if you didn’t pass at all. The life isn’t for everyone.”
The retired soldier sauntered away.
Kale hoisted his wooden axe and swung it a few times in the well-learned
patterns. Advancement: a glorious freedom of their city. It was never easy to
improve stations, but it was possible. Anywhere else, a servant would never dream
to become a guard of the court he’d formerly scrubbed. But Telenine was
different.
“You make us proud, son, whether or
not you ever become a guard.”
Kale turned. “Thank you, father.”
Norn nodded vigorously, fuzzy
mustache bouncing. “You’re a hard worker, you’re generous, and you’ve learned
to serve, not only in the court but in life. Now come inside. Mother has
prepared her delicious stew. If the King knew what a feast we’re having, he’d
join us tonight instead of supping with his nobles tomorrow!”
Even in a city as prosperous as
Telenine, tax collectors are hated. Honest or crooked makes little difference.
Norn was a rare exception. He collected the King’s coin for their neighborhood,
but he was always fair, and was even known to help families who couldn’t make
payments from a little reserve he’d squirrelled away. The expressions of
gratitude were everything from cups of grain – courtesy of the miller – to free
boot-repairs from the cobbler’s shop. Tonight, large hunks of meat floated in
their stew, and Kale remembered that his father had recently assisted the
butcher down the road, who’d run into hard luck.
Of course, some did suspect Norn of
dipping into the taxes he collected. They reasoned that there was no other way
he could afford to help others as easily as he did. But they didn’t know that
it wasn’t always easy. True, droughts or bad harvests had less impact on his
living, but rainfall and good harvests did nothing to improve it, and so he was
no wealthier than other men. His family had suffered tight stomachs in hard
times, but Norn was educated and wise with his money, and they never starved.
He did what he could for others, and he’d taught his family to take pride in acting
the same.
And if he’d believed in gods, then
he’d have had no complaints to make before them, for his family was happy. There
was laughter around the table, hot stew in the bowls, and fire licking at the
grate.
“And then,” Norn gasped between
chokes of laughter, “the man turned to me and said, ‘They don’t usually come
out like that!’” The family roared their approval for Norn’s hilarious
recounting of collecting taxes from a shepherd and unexpectedly end up helping
him birth a sheep.
Kale wiped tears from his eyes and
blew on a spoonful of soup. Then he remembered something and turned to his
sister.
“Alna, will you braid my hair for
the feast tomorrow?”
“Seems like a waste! You’ll just
undue it after the testing.”
“That’s only if I succeed.”
Vis thrust his spoon in the air
excitedly. “Of course you will! You always win when we practice!” Kale’s little
brother was just beginning to round out, taking after his father.
“Right. So if only they match me
against a boy of ten summers, I’ll do fine.”
“Kale, be nice to your brother,”
his mother chided. Vis suddenly realize that he had a right to sulk, which he
promptly did.
“Come on then,” Alna said. “Bring
that stool over by the fire and I’ll braid your hair for you.” They both looked
to their parents, gestured at empty stew bowls, and then scampered away upon receiving
a nod. Vis was forced to remain until he finished his heel of bread.
An hour later, Kale lay on the
straw mattress he shared with Vis. Sleeping wasn’t easy with excitement gnawing
him. There was also fear. Tomorrow was the day he’d wanted for years, and Kale
wasn’t certain he was ready. But it was an odd comfort knowing that by tomorrow
at this time, lying in this place, he would know.
For all his anxiety and anticipation,
there was one thought that Kale very intentionally did not dwell on. It was the
same thought that his family had carefully guarded from entering their
conversation all evening.
The
stone idol of a god had uttered human words.
The family did not speak about
this. They refused to accept it. Because if gods were real, then all of them were doomed by the sins of their past.
