Into a Dark Realm (13 page)

“Perhaps we get uniforms,” said Zane.

“No,” said Tad. “Really?”

Jommy winced slightly as he pulled off his tunic, and by the time Brother Timothy returned, carrying three wooden boxes in a stack that threatened to overbalance with each step he took, the boys stood naked.

Tad said, “Here, Brother, let me help you,” as he grabbed the topmost box.

“That’s fine,” said the monk. “You each take one.” When they each stood holding a box—inside which were tunics, trousers, hats, and boots, as well as white linen smallclothes—he said, “Well, don’t just stand there like fools, get dressed. If something’s too big or too small, we’ll sort it out.”

It took only a minute to realize the uniform handed to Jommy was too small and the one Zane had far too large. They swapped and discovered both had decent fits. The boots were a different matter and it took the diminutive monk several trips to the rear of the storage room to find boots that fitted them. But in the end each of them stood wearing the identical costume they had seen the others wearing.

Tad suddenly laughed, and Jommy said, “What?”

“I’m sorry, Jommy, but…”

“You look ridiculous,” finished Zane.

“Well, neither of you look as if you’ll be impressing the girls around that fountain in Kesh where I met you any time soon.”

Tad laughed even more.

“Girls,” said Brother Timothy. “Can’t be talking about girls, now. It’s not allowed.”

All three stopped laughing and Tad said, “No girls?”

“No,” said the monk. “We know how young boys are, yes we do. Just because we’re a celibate order doesn’t mean we don’t remember, though it’s not a good thing to remember too much. Why, when I was a lad, before I got the calling…” He let the thought finish itself. “No, no girls. You must study, yes, study, and practice, practice a great deal. Yes, but no girls.”

The odd little monk seemed to have reached the point of utter confusion on the subject, and Jommy said, “Brother, what next?”

“Next?” asked the monk.

“What do we do next?” Jommy elaborated.

“Oh, what do you do next!” said the monk, returning to the amused state the boys had found him in. “Why, you study, and you practice.”

Tad rolled his eyes, while Zane decided to clear things up. “He means, what do we do right now; are we finished here?”

“Yes, yes. You come here when you need supplies, and if you tear a garment or need new boots—though the Father doesn’t like it if you wear out boots.”

“What sort of supplies?” asked Tad.

“Oh, supplies!” exclaimed the little monk and he was off to the back of the room once more. A moment later he returned with three of the odd leather pouches they had seen all the other students carrying. “Here are your supplies. These are student purses. Look inside!”

The boys discovered that the purses were basically two soft leather skins sewn together, one bigger than the other so it created a flap which folded over, keeping the bag’s contents inside. Inside they found a small knife, a small squat jar with a stopper, a half-dozen quills, and a sheaf of paper. There were other items wrapped in paper that was treated with some sort of oil or wax, as well as a small box.

Jommy started to extract the box, but Brother Timothy said, “Later. You can look later. I just wanted to make certain I didn’t give you an empty purse. Now, learn to write small.”

“Small?” asked Zane.

“Makes the paper last longer,” replied Timothy.

“Where do we go now, Brother?” asked Jommy.

“Go to the hall of residence. Ask for Brother Stephen; he is the Proctor.” With a wave of his hand, he said, “Now, go away!”

“Brother,” asked Tad as they moved toward the door, “where is the hall of residence?”

“The residences are in the other wing of this building. Go back
down the hall to the right and at the last door on the left you’ll find Brother Stephen. He will see to your needs.”

They left the room and went back down the hall. At the end of the hall they came to a room with no door. It was an immense hall, and along each wall a row of beds jutted out. At the foot of each a wooden chest rested.

Walking down the aisle between the chests was another monk, this one with no beard. “You are the new boys.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” answered Zane, quickly adding, “Brother.”

“I am Brother Stephen, the Proctor. I am in charge of all the students when they are not at class, prayer, or otherwise tasked by another monk or priest. Follow me.” He turned and led them to the farthest end of the hall. He pointed to a single bed on the right, and said, “One of you will sleep here.” He then pointed to two beds on the left side of the room. “Two of you will sleep there.”

The boys quickly looked at one another, shrugged, and Tad and Jommy went to the left, while Zane took the right-hand bed. As Zane started to sit down on it, the monk said, “Do not sit!”

Zane snapped upright. “Sorry, Brother.”

“Look inside the chest.”

They did and in each chest they found a boot brush, a comb, and a large coarse linen cloth, as well as a razor and a cake of hard soap. Zane started to reach into the chest to examine the comb, and the monk said, “Touch nothing!”

Zane’s expression was one of pain. “Sorry, Brother…again.”

“Look at how each item is arranged. Each morning you will rise and make your bed, and go to the bathroom. There you will bathe, clean your hair, shave your face, and afterward give your towel to a servant who will give you a dry one. You will then return here. Your clothing will have been folded the night before and placed in the chest. You will get dressed, then replace the other items exactly as you see them. If any item is incorrectly replaced, you will receive five strokes of the cane. If any item is missing, twenty strokes. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Brother.”

“You may not sit on your bed until after the evening prayers, for one hour, before you sleep. If you are found sitting on a bed before then, you will receive five strokes of the cane.” He looked at the three and said, “Now, find the Provost and he will further instruct you. His office is on the other side of the entrance.”

Zane lingered for a moment, staring down into the chest, then he lowered the lid. As he turned to leave, Brother Stephen said, “Which of you struck Servan?”

Jommy turned with a look of regret. “It was me, Brother.”

Brother Stephen just looked at Jommy for a long moment, said, “Hmmm,” then turned and walked away.

As they left the dormitory, Tad said, “Zane, what were you staring at?”

“I was trying to memorize where everything went. I have no appetite for that cane.”

“You get used to it,” said Jommy. “Besides, you’ll have an hour before we sleep tonight to stand and stare down into it.”

“Oh, right,” said Zane unenthusiastically.

The three boys wondered what it was that their foster father had got them into.

V
alko readied himself for violence.

The warrior who faced him was old, his scars looking like badges of honor, and his bearing revealed he was no elder waiting for a son to dispatch him to the Dark God’s final service. There were many battles left in this man.

He stood in the center of a large room, laid out in identical fashion to the fighting floor in the Hall of Testing in Valko’s father’s castle, but many times larger. Five hundred riders could sit in the gallery and a dozen combats could be waged at the same time. Valko glanced right, then left, and saw other Dasati youth also ready to fight.

The old warrior was dressed in the armor of the Scourge, almost identical to that worn by the Sadharin: a dark grey open-faced helm, breast plate, bracers and
greaves, but rather than the tall plume sported by the Sadharin, his helmet was topped by a spike trailing two long ribbons of blood-orange cloth. He spoke and his voice was commanding, though he did not raise it. “You are going to die.” Several of the other youths tensed and a few hands gripped their swords. “But not today.”

He walked slowly before the sixteen young warriors who stood in a semicircle, looking each in the eye as he spoke. “You come to me, here, because you have survived your first testing. Survival is good. You cannot serve the TeKarana if you are dead. You cannot father strong sons and clever daughters unless you survive. And you want strong sons who will someday stand here to begin their training, and clever daughters who will hide your grandsons until they are ready for their testing.

“Such is the way of the Dasati.”

“Such is the way,” the young warriors repeated ritually.

“The second most glorious thing you can do is to die bravely for the Empire, when all else has failed. The most glorious thing you can do is make the Empire’s enemies die for us. Any fool can die stupidly. Stupidity is weakness. There is no glory in dying a fool.

“Such is the way of the Dasati.”

“Such is the way.”

The old warrior continued. “I am Hirea, a Rider of the Scourge. Some of you are sons of the Scourge.”

Several of the young warriors shouted.

“No longer,” said Hirea, his voice rising just enough to communicate his displeasure at the display. “You are no longer Scourge. You are not sons of the Sadharin. You are neither Kalmak, nor Black Thunder; no Darkrider, Bloodtide, or Remalu stand here. Whatever you thought you were when you arrived is past. You are mine now, until I judge you fit to return to your fathers, or you lie dead on the sand beneath your feet.” He pointed to the sand for emphasis. “Here you may claim your heritage as true Deathknights, serving your fathers or the Dark God. I will send you to either with equal pleasure.” He looked from face to face. “Each of you will be paired
with another. You will share quarters. From this moment, that warrior will be your brother. You will gladly give your life for him, and he for you. If your fathers are enemies, it does not matter. He is your brother. That is your first lesson.

“Now.” He pointed quickly to the two young warriors at each end of the semicircle. “You and you, step forward.” They did so and he pointed to each. “Your name!”

Each warrior stated his name and Hirea said, “You are now brothers until you leave this place. After that you may feel free to kill one another, but until then you will die for one another.” He motioned over his shoulder. “Stand behind me.”

He repeated this with the next two youths, and the two after that, until he came to Valko. He was paired with a son of the Remalu, by the name of Seeleth, son of Silthe, Lord of the Rianta. Valko said nothing as the remaining warriors were paired up, but he was dubious about his new “brother.” The Remalu were known throughout Kosridi as fanatics. Many of their youth gave up the way of the sword to become Deathpriests. To serve the Dark God was an honor, and no one would say otherwise, but many felt it a less manly path. Priests died of old age and had no sons they could acknowledge. Any son of a priest was doomed to be a Lesser. Any warrior would prefer death to having a child survive to become a Lesser. Let the Lessers breed their own kind.

Rumor also told that they counted many among the Order of Deathmages. They were related to powerful lords on other worlds, and were kin to advisers to the TeKarana himself. Among the families on Kosridi the Remalu were most hated, as well as the most feared and distrusted.

Seeleth whispered, “Many of these will die soon, my brother.”

Valko said nothing, returning only a single curt nod.

When eight pairs of brothers stood before him, Hirea nodded and pointed at the first pair, then let his hand sweep in an arc as he addressed all of them. “Each of you has been given a room with two beds,” said Hirea. “Those of you who were on my left when I called
you out, move your belongings to the room your brother occupies. Dine at the zenith, then return here for your first training combat. Go!”

The young warriors moved in orderly fashion and soon Valko found himself alone in his quarters watching Seeleth put his few belongings in a chest at the foot of the second bed. Valko noted these contained quite a few mystic items, the sort given to a son by a worried mother. Perhaps Seeleth’s mother had come out of the Hiding to take a place of honor in his father’s court, or had given them to him before he left the Hiding. But a few of the items looked to be of much darker aspect than mere trinkets and had the feel of magic to them. Wards? Charms for good fortune?

Seeleth grinned at Valko as he sat on his bed. To Valko he resembled a hungry zarkis—the feared night hunter of the plains. “We are going to do great things, Valko,” Seeleth whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Trust no one, my brother.”

Valko nodded, once.
If that is the case,
he thought,
why should one trust a “brother” who will only be that until we leave?
Seeleth was apparently a peculiar type. The more he thought about it, the more Valko thought he might be the sort to become a Deathpriest. “Let us go to the zenith meal,” said Valko, rising.

Seeleth stood as well, but stepped close and looked his new “brother” squarely in the eyes. This was either an act of confidence or a challenge. As no weapons were drawn, Valko assumed Seeleth was confiding in him. “We shall do great things,” he whispered. “Perhaps we shall be the ones to find and destroy the White.”

“The White are a myth,” shot back Valko. “To imagine such beings is…madness!”

Seeleth laughed. “Such distress over a myth!”

Valko felt his anger rising. “We are here to train,
brother.
I care not for the ambition of a son of the Remalu, nor do I waste time in fanciful visions of glory quests; they are for children playing in the Hiding.

“My father commanded me to be here, so I am here. Hirea instructs me to call you ‘brother,’ and to die for you if needed. I obey. But don’t vex me with your mind games,
brother,
for I will kill you.”

Seeleth laughed again. “You answer as would any proper Dasati warrior,” he said, then left the room in the direction of the eating hall. Valko stood perplexed for a long moment, wondering what the purpose of all that had been. The White was an obscene concept, a blasphemy even, something not spoken of by anyone who wished to survive the harsh reality of Dasati life. To admit that the White might exist was to admit the Dark One was not omnipotent. Yet, if such a thing did exist, and if somehow one could be the warrior to end it, greatness would surely follow. But how could the White exist unless the Dark God was not supreme? The very question was an affront to logic. Was it offensive enough that he could justify taking Seeleth’s head without having to defend himself against Hirea? To kill a Remalu would earn him standing with his father. He pondered it but an instant, then pushed aside the question and followed Seeleth to the zenith meal.

It had been a tiny mistake, but one that left a young warrior lying on the sand with his blood flowing unceasingly through the fingers that clutched his wound.

Hirea strode over and looked down at the wounded youth. His training opponent looked down as well, his face an unreadable mask. Hirea turned to the victor in the match and said, “Go stand over there.” He pointed to a spot at the edge of the training floor.

Hirea was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What do you need?”

The wounded young warrior could barely speak as he lay curled on the floor, clutching his stomach. Finally he said, “End it.”

Hirea’s hand shot to the hilt of his sword, and before the other young warriors could even fully comprehend the motion, the sword came down and ended the young man’s life. Then several of them started to laugh at his misfortune; Valko and Seeleth were not among
them. Looking up at those laughing, Hirea said, “He was weak! But not so weak as to ask for an Attender.” He glanced down. “This is not funny. It is not worthy of regret, but it is not funny.” He motioned with his free hand for the boy’s body to be removed, and the two Lessers standing nearby hurried to pick up the now-lifeless thing and carry it away to the Death Room, where the Renders would take apart the corpse and harvest all that was useful. The rest would be mixed in with the livestock feed. In that tiny way he would still serve.

“Does anyone here not understand?” When no one spoke, Hirea said, “It is permitted to ask a question; you will not learn if you stay silent.”

A warrior on the other side of the room said, “Hirea, what would you have done had he asked for an Attender?”

Hirea put up his sword. “I would have watched him bleed to death slowly. His suffering would have been reward for his further weakness.”

Seeleth said, “Now, that would have been funny.”

Hirea overheard him and turned. “Yes, that would have been.” He gave out a single laugh, a harsh barking sound, then shouted, “Return to your places!” To the opponent of the dead man, he said, “I shall be your partner in the drill until another dies, then he who makes the kill will be your new brother.” He faced off against the youth who had just mortally wounded his brother and said, “Good kill.”

The youth nodded, not venturing a smile, and his nervous expression showed that he now wondered if he would survive the rest of the day’s training.

The young warriors were roused in the dead of night by the servants. The Lessers were cautious in rousing the warriors, entering each room quietly, whispering to the young men then prudently stepping away lest a suddenly awakened young warrior vent his ire on the nearest target. Yet the message was heeded:
Hirea says to be ready to ride at once
.

The warriors slept in dark nightshirts in Dasati fashion, but with
their weapons at hand. Quickly servants returned to each room to aid the young fighters, stripping off the nightshirts, helping them to don a simple loincloth, foot and ankle wraps, and a light undershirt. Then came padded pants and a light jacket, then armor. Each warrior who survived training would find a complete wardrobe of garments suitable for every occasion when he returned home, but during training this was the sum of their wardrobes: battle dress and a nightshirt.

The young fighters hurried to the stable where lackeys had already saddled the waiting varnins. The mounts pawed the ground and snorted in anticipation of a hunt. Valko went to his mount, a young female that had not yet bred, and patted it hard on the neck before springing into the saddle. The varnin’s massive head bobbed slightly in acknowledgment that its rider was there then it snorted as he took the reins, yanking once, hard, to let it know he was in command. Varnins were stupid animals, and one had to remind them constantly who was in control. Great riders chose males for their aggressiveness, but most riders were on geldings and young females.

Valko waited while the remaining warriors mounted—ten in all from the original sixteen. The six who died all deserved their fate, Valko knew, but something about the death of the last, a youth named Malka, troubled him. He had been sparring with Seeleth and had suffered a minor wound, merely a cut to the fleshy part of the forearm, and hadn’t even dropped his sword. As with such wounds, he was permitted the opportunity to dress it himself. Valko had seen him signal to Seeleth for a pause, and Seeleth had stepped away, acknowledging the cessation. Malka began to shift his sword from right hand to left and Seeleth had waited, then when Malka was least able to defend himself, the son of the Remalu had struck, a single blow to the neck which killed him instantly.

Nothing had been said. Valko could not imagine Hirea hadn’t seen the kill, for nothing escaped the old warrior’s sight. Yet he had done nothing. Valko had expected Seeleth to be chastised, even killed, by the old teacher for breaking the rules of combat, but Hirea had merely turned his back as if he had seen nothing.

Valko was troubled, but not enough to ask a question. Questions when they were not expected were dangerous; too many questions meant a warrior was unsure of himself. Lack of certainty was weakness. Weakness was death.

Still, he remained troubled; rules were not followed, yet no punishment was forthcoming. What could be the lesson here? Valko wondered. That victory negated rules?

Hirea stood up in the stirrups on the back of an old male, as veteran and battle-scarred as he was. He signaled and the riders left the stabling area and reined in at the portal of the stabling yard. Hirea held up his hand for order and then spoke. “A warrior must be ready to answer the call at any moment of the day or night. Now we ride!”

The young warriors followed their instructor as he led them down the long winding road from the old fortress that was now their training home. In ages past the fortress had belonged to a chieftain of an ancient tribe, its name now known only to archivists. The shifting sands that were the foundations of Dasati society had swallowed up another family. Perhaps a group of families had switched allegiances, abandoning an allied family to a harsh fate while seeking a more powerful patron. Perhaps a patron had been deserted by clients who sought more power by forming new alliances.