Gods Of Blood And Fire (Book 1) (2 page)

Blood dripped from the tip of his sword. He had never killed before. Now three men lay dead at his feet. Their blood soaked into the dust of the dry road making a gruesome muck. Kian looked down at his grim work. Two of the brigands lay headless, the third had been pierced through the heart. He hadn’t wanted to kill them, but they had given him little choice; they had tried to waylay him for the few copper coins in his pouch. Even after he had even given them the little coin he carried, they still wanted to kill him for his cloak. Kian knew even if he had given them the cloak, the men still would have most likely found a reason to murder him.

He had dealt with thieves and cutpurses many times in his childhood—robbery and murder were a way of life for many of the residents of Thieves Port. He was no child now cowering before the ruffians of a crime-ridden city. He had trained his mind and body for forty years in the Blue Dagger Mountains with his master Gildor. So many years, it was almost half a human lifetime, but then he wasn’t human.

This was the first time he had drawn his sword to truly defend himself. It had been fast. His body just seemed to move on its own. Gildor had told him when the fighting started he would become his blade, and he had. Kian had walked the path of steel for forty years. He had honed his skills until they were second nature to him. The sword would forever be part of his life. Part of who he was. Gildor had taught him well. The lost techniques of the ancient Elven warriors were his now, but his master had never taught him how to feel after killing a man.

Kian cleaned the blood from his sword on one of the dead men’s shirts and sheathed it in its scabbard. He would oil the blade later. The Elven sword he carried was the most precious thing he owned. The blade had been polished to a high sheen. The hilt and pommel were both inlayed with silver and gold. Forged when the Elven race still ruled the world, he would be hard pressed to ever find its equal. It had been a gift from Gildor, so he always took time to care for it properly.

Kian wanted to bury the bodies. But having nothing to dig with, he dragged them off the road into some high grass so anyone that passed by would not have to look upon the gory scene. He retrieved his pouch from the dead man’s pocket and concealed the bodies as best he could. Then the Half Elf headed on down the dirt road, trying to digest what had just happened.

He remembered what his old master had told him. “You are the blade, boy—strong, flexible and sharp. When you kill to defend yourself or another, the blade has no regret nor should you.” He felt little remorse for the dead brigands; he knew if he hadn’t killed them he would be lying dead in the dusty road. If he was going to live the life of a warrior, he would have to temper his heart for the barbarity of combat. Gildor’s words echoed in his mind again. “You have too much empathy for your opponents, Kian, and a trusting nature—two things a warrior does not need.” He had spent many years trying to harden his heart, but it was one lesson he had failed to master.

He walked quickly from the scene of the fight; he wanted to cover as much ground as he could before it got dark. Kian hadn’t been out of the mountains for nearly forty years, he was very curious to find out what the world was truly like and he wanted to go home.

He hadn’t gone far down the road when he heard a horse whinny; the sound snapped his head around. A boy stood in a small stand of trees holding the reins of three horses; he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. A wave of guilt hit the swordsman: the boy had to belong to the men he had just killed. He walked towards the boy with his hands up, trying to show he meant no harm. Kian could see the boy was unkempt, his brown hair was a tangled mess and he was dressed in homespun clothing that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a very long time.

Tears began to well up in the boy’s eyes and his lip quivered as Kian approached. He could tell the boy was scared, but to the young man’s credit he did not run away. “They won’t be back for the horses.”

The lad said nothing.

“They tried to kill me even after I gave them the coin.” Again the boy didn’t respond.

Kian reached out and took the reins of the horses out of his shaking hand; the boy offered him no resistance.

“What is your name?” Kian asked.

“Julian,” the boy answered quietly.

“Did you know the men well, Julian?”

Tears rolled down his red-chapped cheeks. “They were my family, my uncle and cousins.” Julian wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “Are you going to kill me now?”

Kian felt disheartened, the boy thought he was nothing more than a common criminal or brigand. “No, Julian, I would never harm a defenseless boy, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Kian left the boy standing there, chest heaving, his tears coming now like a hard spring rain. The swordsman couldn’t tell if they were tears of relief, because he hadn’t been killed or tears for his slain family.

He walked the three horses away and tied their reins to one of the trees in the tiny grove where the boy was hiding, and he set to work building a small fire. This would be as good a place to camp as any. Trees and cover were meager in this part of Trimenia. The winter snows had only melted a few weeks ago and the night would be cold.

He watched Julian out of his peripherals as he made camp. The boy had sat down with his back to a tree, head down his arms wrapped around his legs. He would give the boy time when night came and he grew hungry and cold. Julian would come closer to the fire, and he could offer him food and water. Kian had no intention of leaving the boy out in the middle of nowhere to freeze or starve to death; he would try to see him safely to a town or village if the child would allow it. The warrior sat down and leaned back against a small oak tree and put his hands behind his head and waited.

As night crept closer, Julian began to get cold. He had started crying when he realized the swordsman was not going to kill him. Most of his tears had been because he was scared. Very few were for his dead relatives; he remembered all the times his uncle and cousins had been cruel to him. Nonetheless, the fact was, bad or not, they were all he had and now he didn’t know what he would do. Trimenia was a grim land in which a boy his age wouldn’t last long on his own.

He looked at the stranger. The man sat with the long sword he carried across his knees rubbing it with an oily rag. The traveler must be a great warrior, the young man thought, he had easily killed his uncle and cousins and they were the toughest men Julian knew.

His father and Uncle Raul had been farmers once, until their land was taken by Baron Serban. Serban was the nobleman that governed the land where his family had once lived. He had killed Julian’s father and taken his mother away. After she was taken to the Baron’s castle, Julian never saw his mother again. That’s when he had moved in with his uncle. The Baron had taken his uncle’s lands a few months later, and his uncle had blamed Julian for it. That’s when they all had become bandits. Julian didn’t want to be a bandit, but his uncle said there was no choice if he wanted to eat. His uncle had grown mean and bitter after that. When he was drunk, he beat Julian and treated him little better than a dog. His cousins were no better. They too took their frustrations out on Julian. The boy realized that he wasn’t really sad his cousins and uncle were dead; he was sad because now he was alone.

The sun was going down. Julian knew there were many wolves in the Kingdom of Trimenia and the Warrior’s fire looked very inviting. He got up and slowly walked over to get warm. Julian thought if the man was going to hurt him, he already would have. Besides this, Kian had said he meant him no harm. And he had spoken with such certainty that Julian knew it was the truth.

Kian watched the boy come towards the fire. He stopped and stood just inside the ring of light the flame cast. “Come sit down, Julian. I have a little food you can have.” The boy sat down; he was starving since he hadn’t eaten at all today. He held his hands out to the small blaze the swordsman had built. The evening air was so cold Julian could see his breath.

The fire felt good, its heat making his face almost hot. Without its warmth, the night would have been miserable for him.

Kian leaned over for the small pack and water-skin he carried. His long black hair swung forward and parted exposing his ear. He heard Julian gasp.

“Your ear, it’s pointed,” the boy stammered.

Kian sighed. “Yes, I guess they are slightly pointed.”

“Are you an Elf?” the boy asked wide-eyed.

The swordsman shook his head. “No, I’m not an Elf.”

The boy seemed almost disappointed. “I have never seen an Elf before. The priest in our village said they are nasty creatures and God has no place for them in his heart.”

Kian threw an apple from his pack to the boy. “I’m not an Elf, but my mother was.”

Julian pointed his finger at Kian. “You’re a half-breed, the priest of our church talked about them too. He said that’s even worse than being an Elf. He said it was an abomination before God for a human to breed with an Elf.”

Kian looked at the boy and saw the wonder in his eyes. Kian was a rarity, something not meant to exist, according to the Holy Tome of the human Church; he knew all too well what the world thought of his kind. What the boy had said didn’t anger him; he had heard it all before. Besides Julian didn’t seem malicious just genuinely curious. “Your priest is wrong. I’m just like any other man. No better no worse.”

“I heard all the Elves were gone from the world, except the ones that lived in Sylonia. What are you doing here in Trimenia? What is your name?”

The half-breed smiled in spite of himself. The boy seemed full of questions. “My name is Kian, and what I’m doing here is a very long story.”

“I love stories,” Julian said. “My father would tell us stories every night when I was little.”

He marveled at the boy’s resilience; a few hours ago he had killed his uncle and two cousins, now he wanted Kian to tell him a story. Maybe he hadn’t been that close to them, the swordsman thought, or maybe he was just amazed to see something as unique as a Half Elf. There were very few of his kind in the world, even Kian only knew of one other and that was his twin brother, Tavantis.

“What happened to all the Elves, Kian? My father told me once there were huge numbers of them and they had their own Kingdoms, is that true?” Julian asked scooting a little closer to the half-breed.

Kian took a drink from his water-skin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can only tell you what my mother and my master Gildor told me. It was the God of Death, the Reaper, that destroyed the Elven race. No one ever knew why he despised the Elven nation; some said it was a grudge he carried from the dawn of time, others said it was because the Elves would not worship at his altar. Whatever the cause, he wanted to destroy my mother’s people. The Reaper caused the humans of the world to hate the Elves, and he taught mankind the ways of battle. The Death God organized them into a mighty army, the Army of Desolation. He and the humans waged war against the Elven nations for millennia. The Reaper was not content to just defeat the Elves; he wanted to eliminate the entire race.”

“The Elves however were not without great warriors of their own and mages of immense power. They fought back with unheard of courage and valor.”

“Did they win?” Julian asked hopefully.

Kian paused and looked out into the night, then he shrugged. “In the end, who can stand against Death?” Kian rubbed the stubble on his face. He didn’t like talking about the Elven race’s fate, but the boy had asked. “After the Elves were defeated, humans dominated the world and the fearsome God of Death returned to hell. Very few Elves still remained in the world. Without the Reaper to fuel the humans’ hearts with hate, even mankind tired of the bloodshed. Only the Reaper’s personal guard, the Horsemen of the Red Hand, still hunted the Elves. A few years later when finally the Red Hand vanished from the world, the Elves that remained were driven into what is now known as the March of Sylonia. What remains of my mother’s people are there.”

Julian shifted uncomfortable at the horrible story. “Why do they stay there?” The boy asked, “If the Death God is gone can’t they return to their lands?”

“The Elves are few now and their lands belong to humans. The Elven race is still hated by most of mankind. A few strike out on their own, some even live outside Sylonia, like my mother. They try to dwell among men, but most of them just live in the poverty and misery of the March shunned and despised by mankind.”

“Why is it you don’t live in Sylonia, Kian? Then you could be with people that don’t hate you.” The boy’s eyes went wide, and he held his hands out to the swordsman. Kian could see Julian thought he had said the wrong thing.

“I don’t hate you. I was talking about other people.” Julian corrected himself.

Kian wrapped his black cloak tighter around himself; the night air had grown colder. “I cannot. The Elves hate those of us with human blood more than your church does, Julian. Those of us you call “half-breeds” have no home. We aren’t wanted by the humans or the Elves. Both races look on us with contempt.” Kian didn’t want to talk about his heritage anymore, so he decided to change the subject. “That is enough stories for one night. I think you should rest now and try to sleep. You can travel with me tomorrow if you wish. I will see you get safely to a village or town.”

Julian yawned. “I am tired, and I will go with you in the morning, Kian.” The swordsman pulled a small blanket from his pack and gave it to the boy. Julian curled up on the ground near the fire. In the distance, a wolf howled. “Kian, do you think the Reaper will ever come back from hell?”