The Chimaera Regiment (3 page)

She looked at him with an expression that ridiculed his repetition. “You have said that before, milord, many times. My husband was a good man, and I mourn his loss, but I do not blame you. He knew what he was doing.”

They were passing the town guard barracks. In the yard, six men were training with swords, slaying the air. Rhoda continued, “Hector, however, does not. He practiced a great deal to enter the town guard, but he was never dedicated to it. I fear that he is not ready for a real fight.”

Aneirin nodded. “I know. That is why I am not sending him alone. I will have Lord Cyrus order one of the guard with him, a wise man with great skill. He will train Hector along the journey.”

Rhoda smiled. “Thank you, milord,” she said genuinely. She stopped as they reached the foot of a hill. At its crest stood the house belonging to the lord of the Alkimites. Rhoda bowed to the Guardian. “At your leave, milord,” she requested.

Aneirin bowed in return. “Of course, Lady Rhoda,” he answered. “Aulus with you.”

“And with you, milord.”

When Rhoda was gone, Aneirin turned and began to climb the steps leading up to Cyrus’ home. The large house doubled as the Alkimites’ center of government, so there were guards coming and going alongside suppliants and couriers. It seemed Cyrus was having a busy day—but his other business would have to wait.

As Aneirin entered the house, he was immediately accosted by a dark-haired man in a warrior’s leather raiment. “Lord Aneirin,” the man called, “I must speak with you.”

“Another time, soldier,” Aneirin replied, “I have urgent business with Lord Cyrus.”

“I assure you, milord, you need to hear what I have to say,” the man persisted, “Lord Bayl sent me to find you. It’s about the invader, Derek.”

Bayl’s name caught Aneirin’s attention. He turned to look more closely at the strange man. He was no Alkimite, Aneirin recognized. He reprimanded himself for not seeing it sooner. “What is your name, man?” the Guardian asked.

“Brynjar,” the dark-haired man replied, “My name is Brynjar.”

“Of the Drengari.” It was not a question.

Brynjar acknowledged, “Yes, milord.”

Aneirin nodded, a smile drawing at his lips. “Come with me, Lord Brynjar,” he said, “We have much to discuss.”

They climbed a half-dozen steps and passed through a wide threshold. Three guards stood at attention on their left and on their right as they entered the court of Lord Cyrus. The graying chieftain seemed haggard, beleaguered. He set his hoary face upon one hand, that elbow leaning heavily on the armrest of his chair. He was flanked by a tall warrior, who had a long sword belted to his side. The warrior stepped forward; Aneirin recognized him as Cyrus’ chief bodyguard, a brave and righteous man called Draus.

Draus called out, “Who enters the court unannounced?”

Cyrus waved his free arm wearily. “Quiet down, Draus!” he exclaimed. The hand holding up his jaw shifted to massage his forehead. “Whoever it is can speak. I am tired of standing on ceremony today.”

“Lord Cyrus,” Aneirin addressed him boldly.

The Guardian’s unmistakable voice snapped Cyrus to attention. The lord straightened his back and adjusted his posture. “Lord Aneirin!” he responded, a false smile spreading across his face. “I was not expecting you.” He stood, gesturing at the table behind him. On it were several platters of meat, some cattle, some fowl. “Please,” Cyrus entreated, “Help yourself, milord, and rest from your travels.”

Aneirin smiled. “You do well, milord, for as they say, from Kyros are all strangers and beggars—and, a man ought to treat a guest and a suppliant as though he were his own brother.” His tone hinted at his displeasure to find Brynjar, a foreign suppliant, unmet and untended, but he did not reprimand the Alkimite lord. After the cold destroyed so many crops, his folk were in the midst of hard days—with more yet to come. Aneirin bowed his head slightly. “But I am not here to feast, milord.”

Cyrus sat back down awkwardly. “Of—of course, milord,” he stammered. Glancing at Brynjar, he gestured again. “Perhaps you, milord?” he offered.

Brynjar looked to Aneirin, who nodded. The Drengar hurried to the table and tore into a makeshift meal. The warrior was famished from his own journey, but Cyrus had not seen to his needs. The gods would not be pleased; but Aneirin hoped to assuage their ire before their displeasure cost the Alkimites everything.

Cyrus turned back to Aneirin, believing his duties as host fulfilled. “How can I help you, sire?”

Aneirin spoke softly. “Have you heard of the advance of the Leonites?” he inquired.

Cyrus nodded slowly. “Yes, milord, I have heard some passersby speak of wars to the south. Do you fear they are approaching the Valley?”

Aneirin nodded once. “They are, Lord Cyrus. The Alkimites are in grave danger, and they cannot stand alone. It is essential that we raise an army from these lands to stand against Derek and his soldiers.”

Draus was a proud warrior. He interrupted, “If these Leonites dare attack our Valley, we will defend it to our last breath!”

Cyrus gestured for the warrior to calm himself, but Aneirin addressed the fellow directly. “That is precisely what I fear, man. You will fight to the death, and it will be your death. Then Derek will lay waste to your village, ravage your women, and steal whatever remains. Is that truly your wish?” He glared evenly at the warrior. “Or would you prefer victory?”

Draus scowled. His injured pride sought vainly for strength. “The Pass of Anthea will slow his forces. We shall ambush them in the Valley, and we shall crush them.”

Brynjar interrupted around the leg of a turkey. “My people, the Drengari, we believed as you do,” he said, his voice echoing the pain that his memory wrought. “Lord Bayl was convinced that we could defeat the Leonites with our cleverness and our mastery of blade and bow. But the Leonites do not march alone.”

Cyrus’ interest was piqued. “Do you mean the gods walk with them?” he asked.

Brynjar shook his head. “Not the gods, but the gods would not do them much better.” He returned the turkey leg to the table unceremoniously. “They have united with a tribe called the Ferites, fierce warriors, and brave. The Ferites do not fear any man, and they have no reason to. There are no warriors in all the lands that can stand against them.”

“Let us pray you are mistaken, Lord Brynjar,” Aneirin said pointedly. He did not think any man worthy of the claims of gods.

“There is more, Lord Aneirin,” Brynjar said sharply, unaware that the Guardian already knew the strength of Derek’s forces. “Standing with the Leonites and the Ferites, in every battle, is a Guardian lord, like yourself.”

“A Guardian lord?” echoed Cyrus, his voice cracked with astonishment. “Lord Aneirin, can this be? Are we betrayed by your own brethren?”

“Do not ask him, Lord Cyrus!” Brynjar snapped, his temper besting him. He stormed across the court to shout his anger into the faces of the gathered lords. “I have seen it with my own eyes! The Guardian of the Leonites slew Lord Bayl, my master and mentor! He was as a father to me, and the Traitor cut him down like a mongrel!”

“Brynjar,” interjected Aneirin, “calm yourself.”

“I want my vengeance!” the warrior roared.

“You will have it!” Aneirin countered. “One way or another, Drystan will make recompense for his crimes.” Turning to Cyrus, he continued, “And yes, milord, my brother Drystan has turned against us. But we are not without hope. Within your own tribe flows holy blood, the Fylscem blood.”

Cyrus frowned, as if remembering a tale from long ago. “The Fylscem… the old empire?” he asked, his expression far away.

Aneirin bowed his head. “Yes, milord. The boy Hector is heir to that empire.”

“Hector?” Draus spat with a laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

“I must confess, my lord,” Brynjar added, “I met Hector in the street by chance. He was weak, timid, and disrespectful. I do not think he is a wise choice.”

Draus sneered. “The boy is useless.”

Aneirin looked at Draus again. The proud warrior withered under the Guardian’s silver glare. “That boy,” Aneirin said harshly, “is our only chance to defeat the Leonites, and their allies, before we are all enslaved or killed.” He looked at Brynjar. “There is no choice in this matter, Lord Brynjar. Hector has talent, and he has trained well, but he needs to be honed. He needs guidance. He needs a mentor.” Brynjar bowed his apology.

Aneirin continued, “Hector must travel east, to find the Blessed Blades of the Emperor. Only then can he defeat Derek and save our people. And a warrior must go with him.”

Cyrus nodded slowly. He knew better than to argue with the Guardian. “I will send my finest,” he said agreeably. He gestured to Draus.

“Actually,” Aneirin interrupted the act, “I want Lord Brynjar to go.”

“Me?” demanded the man. “But I belong here, with the army, fighting the Leonites. I have seen them fight before. You will need me.”

Aneirin shook his head. “No, Lord, Hector needs you. You are a wise woodsman, and an excellent swordsman. He needs your will and your strength. You must keep him safe, and train him with the blade.”

Brynjar took a deep breath and sighed. “As you wish, my lord,” he answered reluctantly.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Anthemen

Late in the ninth hour

Several hours later, Aneirin returned to Rhoda’s house with Brynjar in tow. The good woman directed the lords to Hector’s room, where the boy was finalizing his rucksack. He was alone.

“Hector,” Aneirin addressed him, “I believe you have already met Lord Brynjar.”

Brynjar bowed, though he still doubted Hector’s respectability. Hector looked up from his packing and bowed in return. He was hesitant, and a sour look crept across his features.

The foreigner saved him the trouble of objecting. “Lord Aneirin believes,” Brynjar said, “that you would be best suited to my tutelage in matters of woodcraft and swordsmanship. He is adamant.” Using his right hand, he swore an oath. Placing his open palm against his hip, he raised his hand until it bisected his face vertically; he paused briefly, then lowered his hand sharply to his left breast, palm inward and fingers pointing to his left. It was the sign of Ariane, and any oath sworn by it was only broken under penalty of condemnation. “I pledge that I will do all in my power to train you and protect you on your journey, Lord Hector,” Brynjar swore.

“May Astor give you this strength,” Hector responded according to rote. Even without a tribal Storyteller, the responses of oaths, along with the rest of the Code of Lords, were drilled into Alkimite children from their first word. Hector knew what Brynjar’s pledge meant: he could only be released from it by Hector’s word, or by death. It was not a responsibility that the boy took lightly.

“Are you almost ready?” Aneirin asked, providing a welcome change of subject. “The four of you should depart as soon as possible.”

Hector nodded, glancing at his rucksack as if its fabric would warn him that he had forgotten something. “Doc and Bronwyn said they should be ready by the eighth hour.”

Aneirin smiled, replying, “Excellent. You should be able to reach the forests by nightfall. That will leave you two days’ good march from the eastern pass.”

Hector nodded absentmindedly. He was not listening, and the Guardian noticed. “Is something wrong, Hector?”

The boy frowned. “Hmm?” he asked before the question sank in. “Oh,” he said, “No, not really. But—could I ask you one more question, Lord Aneirin?”

“Of course,” he answered, though he noticed chagrin in Brynjar’s expression. The warrior was eager to begin the journey; the memory of Derek’s extermination of the Drengari was still fresh in Brynjar’s mind.

“Why did the Divines choose me?” Hector asked. “Why not someone like my cousin Gregory, who’s never lost a fight in his life, or Lord Brynjar, who seems perfectly capable? Why would I be chosen as the heir of the Fylscem Empire?” His frown had spread to the rest of his face, causing his eyebrows to droop and his skin to wrinkle anxiously.

Aneirin shook his head wryly. “It’s not about merits, Hector. The gods chose you by virtue of your blood; they know you, and they know better than any of us what you are capable of. You will make a great Emperor, Hector, because the gods grant you their favor. Trust them; our blood defines who we are, and our experiences make us into that ideal. Now go: be who you were made to be.”

Hector nodded, forcing a smile he did not quite feel. “Farewell, milord.”

“And to you—both of you.”

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Anthemen

Early in the tenth hour

“We don’t have time for this.”

For the first time, Hector appreciated Brynjar’s presence. Bronwyn was insisting that she tell Gregory goodbye before their departure, but Brynjar was equally insistent that they leave immediately. They had already wasted time, he had argued, meeting together at Hector’s home, instead of along their route.

“It won’t take much time!” she retorted. She saw the anger in Brynjar’s eyes. For a moment, she nearly wilted under his gaze, but her instinct to love was stronger. She stood a little taller and declared, “Gregory is my friend, and I am going to bid him farewell.” Turning, she marched defiantly into town.

Brynjar watched her leave before commenting softly, “Then I suppose we shall leave without you.”

“No, we won’t!” Hector snapped. He stepped in front of Brynjar, blocking his path. He glared at the foreigner, and he tried with all of his might to look taller than he was. “We’re not going anywhere without her.”

Brynjar sneered in exasperation. Seizing Hector by his collar, he hauled the boy up to the tips of his toes. “Look!” he said, “I don’t care about your pointless infatuation. I have a task to do, and I mean to do it. Now—we’re leaving. Is that understood?”

Doc interjected, “No, it’s not.”

Brynjar sighed and released Hector. He turned to glower at the younger boy. “What was that?”

Doc did not hesitate for a moment. “Bronwyn is my sister, and we’re not going anywhere without her. If you want to argue about it, take it up with Lord Aneirin. He’s the one who ordered us to go with Hector.”

A long moment of tension passed. At last, Brynjar threw up his hands. “Fine,” he answered, “Let’s go say ‘goodbye’ to this Gregory, and be gone.” He strode after Bronwyn, followed by Doc, who was smiling at his victory.

Hector’s face, on the other hand, was twisted in surprised agony that he had inadvertently defended Bronwyn’s choice. He did not want her to see Gregory; his cousin might convince her to stay with the Alkimites. He was still standing there in frustration when his mother placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Glancing at her, he fumbled, “I—I’d best get going, Mom. Lord Brynjar’s not in a very good mood.”

“He’ll get over it eventually,” she commented, “Warriors always do.” Tugging on his shoulder, she turned Hector to face her. Her eyes were wet with tears. Hector did not think he had ever seen her so sad.

“It’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure her, “The Divines will protect us.”

She nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I know, Hector,” she said, “but I want you to have something.” She stepped into the house they had shared in solitude for six years and retrieved something. Exiting again, she handed it to him.

He recognized it as his father’s hunting dagger. It was a simple blade, but it was the only weapon his family possessed. He took a deep breath, swelling with pride to hold it in his hands. His own eyes filled with tears as he looked up from the blade to his mother’s kindly face.

She silenced her motherly instinct to protect him from the weapon. Gnawing at her lip, she took the scabbard and fixed it to Hector’s belt. “There,” she said softly. She watched him sheathe the blade. She swallowed her sobs again. “Always use it to help,” she said, choking on the advice. She forced a bittersweet smile, proud of her son, but aggrieved at his departure.

He nodded, smiling to prevent his weeping. “Thanks, Mom,” he answered.

They embraced. Rhoda held him tight, kissing fervently at his forehead. At last, he pried himself away and bowed his head. Crying openly now, she let him go. “Aulus with you,” she finally said past the knot in her throat.

“And with you,” he mumbled, working hard to contain his own tears. Breaking away, he hurried after his friends.

He caught up to Bronwyn, Doc, and Brynjar outside Lord Cyrus’ house. Bronwyn stood at the door, demanding entrance from the guard. “I shall be leaving soon,” she was saying, “and I want to tell him goodbye.”

“Sorry, miss,” the guard said impassively, his apology sounding hollow. “I’m under strict orders not to let anyone in.”

“But I simply must see him,” she pled, “Will you tell him that Bronwyn wants to speak to him?”

The guard’s emotionless façade weakened. “If I tell him,” he offered, with no small amount of irritation, “and he refuses to see you, will you go away?” When she nodded, the guard turned and entered the house.

About a minute later, Gregory stood in the doorway. He looked tired. His jocularity and self-assurance had left him, and he seemed to Hector entirely too old for his years.

“Gregory!” Bronwyn exclaimed, “I’m so glad you came!”

“Let’s make this quick, Bronwyn,” Gregory said curtly.

She continued undeterred, “Hector, Doc, and I are going on a trip.”

“I know,” he answered sharply, “Lord Aneirin told me.”

A frown tugged at her lips. “Well, I,” she began, faltering, “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Okay,” he replied evenly, “Aulus with you.”

He turned away, but Bronwyn caught his arm. “Gregory, wait!” she burst out, “I won’t break my promise. I’ll come back to—”

“Forget it,” he interrupted. She was dumb-struck. Her jaw fell open in surprise, and she could not find the words to argue. “You should go,” Gregory continued emphatically, “Lord Aneirin would not want you to wait any longer than you already have.” Then he left.

Bronwyn started to protest, but the door guard stopped her. “Alright, miss,” he said, “You’ve said your goodbyes. Now move along. We need to keep this area clear.” When she did not move immediately, the guard persisted, “Let’s go, miss! Time to leave!”

Hector and Caradoc seized her by her shoulders, pulling her along with them. Brynjar led the way as they began walking east. Letting Doc take Bronwyn, Hector glanced back at the lord’s house.

Gregory was standing at a window on the second storey. His expression was filled with resolve as he watched Doc lead Bronwyn away, but Hector thought he might have seen a hint of regret. Their eyes met; Gregory nodded once to his cousin. Hector had heard stories of warriors who, unable to protect those they loved, entrusted their defense to another with a glance and a nod. The young man realized that Gregory was ordering him to protect Bronwyn. Setting his jaw, Hector nodded back, promising to obey.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The eighth of the month of Anthemen

Late in the second hour

Hector looked back at the path that he and his three companions had taken over the past five days. Most recently, they had crossed the rocky foothills beyond the mountain range enclosing the Valley of Kyros. That journey, taking most of the previous day, had been relatively simple, aside from the occasional pile of shale. The prior morning had been spent crossing the pass Aneirin had described for them. It had been smaller than Hector had expected, allowing only one of them abreast. The pass had been high in the snow-capped mountains, where frigid gusts had threatened to cast them down into the abyss. But by the grace of the gods, they had made it through.

Before they had reached the mountains, when they had been walking peacefully by Clerisauk Lake and through idyllic forests, he had not yet realized the seriousness of their situation. He, Bronwyn, and Doc had been joking and laughing most of the way; only Brynjar had shown the solemnity appropriate to the dangers they faced. Those dangers were made manifest to Hector late on the third day of their journey. As they climbed the mountains, they passed the remains of some wild animal, killed by the cold or a disease, left to wither in the elements. As he looked at the bundle of broken bones, mangy fur, torn flesh, he felt an affinity for the grisly sight and sickening smell. Under different circumstances, that might as well have been him, rotting in the snow. That recognition had dampened his spirits as they crossed the mountains, and none of them had smiled in the past several days.

The morning sun promised a clear day and easy going. Hector shouldered his pack and set his face to the east.

Brynjar seized the pack, tugging it back off. “Not just yet,” the foreigner told him.

“What?” Hector demanded, “Why?”

Brynjar dropped the pack carelessly. He drew the sword from his right thigh and handed it to Hector. It was a
gladius
, altogether as long as Hector’s arm. The boy hefted the weapon, testing its weight. He had used a sword like this before, training to join the tribal guard, but it had been three harvests since then.

“How does it feel?” Brynjar asked as he drew the second sword, which was identical to the first. He gave it a few practice swings.

“Heavier than I remember,” Hector answered. Imitating Brynjar, he swung the sword, cleaving the air in front of him.

“Do you remember how to use it?” the Drengar asked, his tone tinted with disdain.

Hector clenched his jaw as he glared at Brynjar. Of course he remembered, he told himself; if he had been wielding a sword, Brynjar would not have needed to rescue him from Affet in the first place. “Try me,” he challenged the warrior.

Brynjar took three measured steps away from Hector, then rolled his shoulders to stretch the muscles there. Holding the sword in his right hand, he led with that side, keeping the blade between him and Hector. “At your leave,” he offered.

Hector relished the thought of proving his worth to Brynjar. Since his arrival, the foreigner had become a symbol of everything Hector had ever wanted to be. But instead of inspiring awe or admiration, Brynjar only served as a reminder to Hector of his many failures. Victory in single combat would show that he was worthy of the honors Aneirin had promised him, that he was a warrior, even an emperor.

He charged, yelling an incoherent war cry. He swung hard, over the shoulder, toward Brynjar’s neck.

He struck empty space. Unimpeded, his momentum carried him for four paces before his lack of balance tipped him into the dirt with a grunt. He sighed, blowing dust away from his face in a thick, swirling cloud.

“What happened?” Brynjar asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened?’” Hector replied angrily. “I fell.”

“Is that all?”

Pushing off the ground, Hector rolled over. Brynjar was standing over him, his sword point in the ground as he leaned gently against it. He looked unconcerned, even carefree.

“You cheated.”

For the first time Hector had seen, Brynjar smiled. Hector thought it was an arrogant smile. “What makes you say that?”

Hector stared at the ground around him, as if it would provide the answers to Brynjar’s incessant questions. “I attacked you. You didn’t fight back.”

Brynjar nodded slowly. “Technically accurate. What did I do instead?”

“You,” Hector said, pausing to collect enough disdain for his reply, “dodged.”

Brynjar nodded again, more sharply. “And why might I have done that?”

“To make me look foolish?”

When Brynjar did not reply, Hector glanced up at him again. The other man was not amused. Hector sighed. “Because,” he answered, searching for a satisfactory response, “blocking would have occupied your weapon. By dodging, you had an opportunity to strike me in the back.”

“Yes,” Brynjar said. “Why else?”

“I don’t know!” Hector replied hotly, “Why don’t you quit playing games and just tell me why?”

“A lesson is better learned if you learn it for yourself.”

“Well, thanks, I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Sarcasm does not suit you.”

Hector glared up at him, but by chance noticed Bronwyn and Doc watching from the remains of their camp. He immediately wiped the anger from his face and climbed to his feet.

Brynjar followed the boy’s gaze, turning to look at Hector’s two friends. Facing his pupil again, he said, “They cannot help you here. No amount of well-wishing makes up for a lack of proper training.”

Hector scowled. “At least they give me a reason to fight.”

“No,” Brynjar retorted, “They give you a reason to die. If you want a reason to fight, you need a reason to survive. Saving their lives isn’t good enough. You must want to save your own.”

“And if I have to choose?” Hector asked crossly.

Brynjar shrugged. “Then I suppose you’ll have to decide who gets to be lonely for the rest of their lives: you or your friends.” Taking the same three, measured steps back, he set his sword toward Hector and summoned the boy with his left hand. “Again.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The eleventh of the month of Anthemen

Halfway through the ninth hour

The next three days passed in much the same way. The four companions spent most of their time crossing the foothills of the Valley’s eastern mountains. Occasionally, Brynjar would give Bronwyn and Caradoc a break, which meant another training session for Hector.

But as the eighth day of their journey drew to a close, they passed out of the foothills and onto an open plain. They heard the river before they saw it, sloshing and crashing in its course to the sea. Hector sniffed the telling aroma of moisture in the air; it reminded him of evenings at Clerisauk Lake, fishing and playing make-believe with Doc when they were very small. Soon, the river came into view, blue and white and filled with fish in endless migration.