“Ay, right you are,” Affet remarked, “Let’s see if he can answer for his unkindness!”
As they advanced, Hector found somewhere within himself a burst of courage—or perhaps foolhardiness. He settled into a defensive stance reflexively and smirked.
The third one, a small, wiry fellow called Jarn, lunged. Hector slammed his palm into Jarn’s shoulder, twisting him in the midst of his charge. He fell to the dirt.
Lippus gave a hearty roar and attacked. Hector sidestepped. He threw his elbow into the other boy’s side. The blow never reached Lippus’ ribs because of his corpulence, but Hector still escaped him. Lippus stumbled over his downed compatriot. Affet sneered and settled into a fighting stance.
Hector had been denied entry to the warriors’ guild, but not from lack of trying. He was strong, and he was fast, but his technique was weak, unfocused. Affet, on the other hand, was one of the guild’s newest members; his admission had been unanimously supported. In a contest of strength and skill, Hector was at a severe disadvantage.
Affet moved fast. He took two steps forward and threw a jab with his left fist. Hector backpedaled, trying to dodge. Affet crossed with his right. Hector reached for Affet’s wrist, pushing it aside. Affet followed the momentum and brought his left forward. His fist collided with Hector’s cheek. The blow was jarring. Hector released his foe and stumbled.
Affet took advantage of Hector’s disarray. He pounced, dragging Hector to the ground and pinning him. Lippus and Jarn were not far behind. As Affet pummeled Hector with punches, the other two kicked him wherever they found an opening. Hector tried to shield himself from the blows with his arms, but to no avail.
Suddenly, Affet was hauled off his quarry. He yelled his objections, but they were tossed aside by the interloper. As Affet crashed into a nearby crate, Lippus and Jarn fell silent. Hector heard scrambling as the three bullies pitter-pattered their escape. When all was quiet, Hector slowly stretched out his aching limbs to see what had happened.
A man was standing over him. He had dark hair, like charcoal, and a full beard. There were two swords sheathed on his belt, one on each thigh. His brown eyes glinted in the noonday sun as he furrowed his brow. He knelt by Hector, causing his leather raiment to creak. He held out a hand to help the boy off the ground. “You alright?” he asked, his voice deep and hoarse.
Hector glanced from the man’s haggard face to his scarred hand. Frowning at himself, he reached out and grasped the proffered help. The man pulled him to his feet sharply. “Thanks,” Hector mumbled. He felt his face and noted several new knots and bruises. His ribs ached, his arms were sore, and his legs begged for him to lie down once more, but he ignored them. He looked again at his rescuer.
The man raised an eyebrow at him. He seemed displeased at the boy’s attitude, but he let it pass. At last, he said, “My name is Brynjar. What’s yours?”
Hector swallowed. He tasted blood. “Hector,” he answered. “I am Hector.” Brynjar nodded, smiling broadly. He had the look of a seasoned warrior. But something about him turned Hector’s stomach. The boy saw in this stranger everything he lacked in himself, and it infuriated him. He had always wanted to be someone bristling with strength and confidence, but instead, he had gotten himself pounded by a few whelps.
The foreign warrior glanced around as if examining his surroundings for the first time. “Tell me, Hector,” he said, “Where is Lord Aneirin?”
Hector frowned. “He doesn’t live here. I don’t think he’s been here since I was born.” He snorted and added, “I’d be surprised if he was even still alive.”
Brynjar glowered at the boy’s response, but again, he let it pass. After a moment, he asked, “Where can I find the lord of your people, then?”
Hector gestured. “The north end of the village. Past the marketplace,” he directed. “Need anything else?” Hector recognized the annoyance in his voice. He was trying to be helpful, especially since Brynjar had just shortened his beating, but he felt more jealousy than gratitude.
Brynjar, though, did not seem to notice this time. He thanked the boy and started off north, leaving Hector to continue trudging toward the marketplace with his face downcast.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Anthemen
Early in the seventh hour
Two hours later, Lord Aneirin was only a few minutes from arriving in the village of the Alkimites. Brynjar was waiting impatiently to meet with Lord Cyrus. Hector, meanwhile, was no longer selling produce with Caradoc. He and his friend had retired to the other side of the market. Hector had told of his fight with Affet and the others, and of the arrival of Brynjar, the mysterious stranger who had half the town whispering.
But Hector was done telling stories. As the two boys sat chewing on saccharum, Hector stared at Bronwyn. The young woman was one year Hector’s senior, and she was two years older than her brother, Caradoc. She had taken over the vegetable stand a quarter-hour earlier, as she often did. She and her brother had always been close, especially after their parents had died two years prior. She had been happy to extend that friendship to Hector, as well. Hector had always admired her, even adored her, but in spite of her amiable manner, he lacked the courage to say so.
Bronwyn’s auburn hair encircled her fair skin and fell, untamed, just past her shoulders. Her eyes, hazel with a hint of green, always seemed to hide a mischievous smile. Her femininity proved well through her lithe figure, and Hector longed to be close to her.
Of course, she blithely carried on their friendship, unaware of his longing. Hector wished she could see his hope without his exposing it. He wished he did not have to risk his heart in order to gain hers. On occasion, he would ask Caradoc whether his sister felt anything for him, to which his friend confessed ignorance.
Hector stayed his eyes upon her as she laughed at something. He did not hear what. The glint of the sun caught her hair. Hector’s smile, breaking free of his restraint, helped him squint against the gleam surrounding her as a crown.
When her resplendence faded, so did Hector’s delight. Gregory, Hector’s cousin on his mother’s side, was talking to her. Gregory was two years Hector’s senior, and he was a better swordsman and strategist by far. Already a member of the tribe’s meager guard, he was prized by the Alkimites in every respect; many suspected that Lord Cyrus was grooming the boy to be his successor. On the other hand, most of the tribe knew Hector as “Gregory’s cousin.” His only friends were Bronwyn and Caradoc, and Bronwyn was more enamored with Gregory than most Alkimite girls. Caradoc could relate, and he often tried to downplay his sister’s love-light for the young soldier.
As if on cue, the other boy spoke up to comfort him. “I’m sure Gregory just needs some vegetables for the barracks,” he suggested.
“I’m sure,” Hector repeated, unconvinced, as his eyes flitted between the two. He studied each smile and each gesture for signs of a deeper interest than a few carrots. As he watched, he began to grind his teeth in jealousy.
Caradoc patted his shoulder. The younger boy heard a crowd gathering to the west. “Hey, forget sis for a minute and c’m’ere,” he said.
For a moment, Hector stayed stubbornly put, but as the commotion grew louder, his curiosity bested him. Hector could not remember any event in the village that had gathered so much attention at once. He wondered if it had anything to do with Lord Aneirin. After denying his existence earlier that day, Hector had reminisced about the oft-told tales of the ancient warrior, and the chance to meet him was enough to pull his eyes from Bronwyn and Gregory.
Hector’s expectation proved true: Lord Aneirin was pressing through the prostrate crowd when the two boys approached. The Guardian’s eyes focused on the young heir, and his metallic face brooked a smile. Caradoc dropped to his knees, but Hector stood enamored by the lord’s attention. Aneirin worked his way through the throng to reach the boy. He greeted the youth with an outstretched arm, and clasped his shoulder warmly. “Ah, young Hector,” he said,
“We have much to discuss.” He glanced at the crowd, then added conspiratorially, “May I invite myself into your home?”
Hector was surprised, but elated. He grinned from ear to ear and exclaimed, “Of course!” With a gesture, he led Aneirin past the crowds and down the street toward his house. Caradoc rose and followed. The rest of the folk began to disperse, some back to their daily duties, others in pursuit of the Guardian lord and their curiosity.
On the western edge of the ruck, two men stood and watched the figures retreat down the street. Both were well-built and their garments—light brown with grey trim—signified their membership in the town’s militia.
One was slightly taller than the other, though he slouched until their eyes nearly met. He had ragged brown hair upon his head and face, and had no shortage of it anywhere else on his body. His green eyes, hooded by a bushy brow, were narrow, but quick and observant. His face was cast in a perpetual frown, and his head always seemed to droop, even when he stood at attention. He looked for all the world as if he were about to fall asleep while standing on his own two feet, and that gave him the edge of surprise in many conflicts.
The shorter man was older; his hair had greyed and his skin had wrinkled, but he was still a fit and capable warrior. His age did not take from his power, but only added experience. Unlike most of the militia, he had seen some genuine battles, and he knew tactics at least as well as Lord Cyrus. His experience notwithstanding, his impertinence and antisocial behavior kept him from responsibility. He did not complain: he was a warrior, and he had no intention of standing far from the clash when the foe came. His dark brown eyes were wider-set than his companion’s, and he could watch the whole field at a single glance. He, too, frowned constantly, not by the nature of his face, but because he simply disliked everything.
When the crowd had moved on, the shorter man said to the taller, “I tell you, Duncan, the way that man walks through here, you’d think he owned the place. And the people don’t help none, groveling and fawning like they do.”
“As I recall, Einar,” Duncan quipped with a smirk, “you was kneeling, too.”
Einar glared at him. He twisted his lips into an angry frown and retorted, “Don’t bother me with trivialities, Duncan!” His face thus contorted, he bridled his tongue until he was satisfied with Duncan’s submission. “Point is,” he continued at last, “I wasn’t waylaying him just to put my lips to his boots! If there’s something here he’s to do, then by Kyrou, let him do it!”
Duncan mused absentmindedly, “I’m not sure he has boots.”
Ignoring him, Einar resumed, “Though why he went to that useless imp, I’ve no idea.”
“Oh, wrack it!” Duncan interrupted, “Go easy on the boy. You know he lost his father a few seasons back. Mayhaps he’s yet struggling under the lot that’s been put on his shoulders.”
“It were six years back, Duncan! If the kid’s still weepy over that, he’s got more troubles than I thought!”
The two men turned away and resumed their patrol, still discussing the advent of the Guardian lord. Aneirin had long kept to himself; his arrival did not bode well for the continued peace of the Valley of Kyros.
Chapter Two
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Anthemen
Halfway through the seventh hour
Most tribes in the world then were nomadic, traveling from one land to another with flocks or cattle. The Alkimites were rare in this regard, for they had long established the Valley of Kyros as their permanent home. They had cobbled stones into roads for easy travel, but the rains of spring and the heat of summer had caused them to wither. The cottages that the Alkimites called home were similarly falling into disrepair. Only the lord’s manor was well-maintained; other houses were plagued by termites and rot. The meager house in which Hector lived with his mother, Rhoda, was no different.
Rhoda was standing near the door when Hector, Aneirin, and the crowd approached. Rhoda greeted them with a smile, “Hector, Lord Aneirin! So good to see you, milord!” She glanced past her visitor at the crowd, a meaning glint in her eyes. Reluctantly, the would-be eavesdroppers began to disperse. Only Caradoc remained behind, standing alone on the path. Rhoda invited Aneirin in; her guest smiled his thanks.
After they entered, Rhoda closed the door. “Would you like something to drink, milord?” she offered. As Aneirin and Hector settled into the family room, she walked to the kitchen, but held back a moment to hear his response.
“No, thank you, madam,” he answered politely, “I’m afraid I haven’t the time. Once I have spoken with Hector, I must again be on my way.” Rhoda nodded; she proceeded to the meager kitchen to prepare a cup of hot tea for herself. She often drank tea to soothe her nerves, Hector recalled. Yet he did not know why her nerves would need soothing now.
Aneirin turned to the boy and addressed him. At the sound of his name, Hector bowed his head reverently. The Guardian lord caught his chin and raised his face until their eyes met. “No, my boy, you mustn’t bow to me. I am just a worker, an agent of the Divines.” Hector frowned his confusion, but he did not bow again.
“Have you heard the tale of the old empire?” Aneirin continued. Hector shook his head silently; the Alkimites had not had a true Storyteller for three generations. “Then I shall tell you,” Aneirin declared, smiling warmly. “In ancient times, the tribes of men joined together to form a single government, a ruling power that was more glorious and more peaceful than anyone had ever seen. It had many names in those early years, but eventually, it came to be called the Fylscem Empire. From its capital, Fylscea, the Emperor and his councils ruled all the lands of men for six thousand years. But then, two thousand years ago, the empire collapsed. A few men came to believe that the power and wealth of the empire had corrupted mankind, so they brought about its ruin. Perhaps the most notable among them was my father.”
“Your father?” repeated Hector.
“He was called ‘the Eye,’” Aneirin explained, “They said he was so powerful that he could see everything that was happening throughout the empire. That was how he knew when to tear it down.
“Even so, he always knew that the Fylscem Empire would need to be rebuilt. That was why he prepared me and my brothers as Guardians, defenders of the Imperial bloodline. For seven heirs he made seven Guardians, each of us as unique as those we are built to protect. And for generations we have been successful in keeping those bloodlines safe… until four years ago.”
Aneirin paused and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression was solemn, his hands clasped. Hector could not help but ask, “What happened four years ago?”
The lord explained, “Drystan, one of my own brothers, betrayed us. Over the years, he had become corrupt. He was driven by greed and pride. He informed his charge, a young man named Derek, about his Imperial blood. Drystan and Derek began to conquer nearby tribes, and soon, their army numbered in the thousands. With these soldiers under his command, Derek hunted down his rivals. Now, five of the other six heirs lie dead, and two of my brethren were destroyed.” He smiled, but even Hector could see that it was not entirely genuine, not entirely confident. Aneirin stared at him for a few moments, as if he were searching for something in his eyes. “Hector,” he said, “Our foes will not stop until Derek is crowned Emperor over the lands of men.”
Hector took a deep breath, trying to calm his thumping heart. He looked at his mother, who hid her face with her tea. Did she know these things? he wondered. Turning back to the Guardian, he asked, “Milord, why tell me these things?” He sighed, furrowing his brow. His heart continued to thump, unabated. “What could I do about a warlord and his army?” He knew the answer, but he dared not imagine it to be true.
Aneirin hesitated again. “Hector,” he began slowly. "You are the last heir.” The thumping stopped. Hector’s heart seemed to stall at the revelation. He turned to look at his mother; Rhoda spun away, her face buried in her teacup, but Hector saw the tears
staining her cheeks. She set the cup down on the table, almost hard enough to break it, and rushed out the door.
As Hector looked back at his Guardian, he felt his hands trembling. It sounded incredible, but his gut told him that it was not a good thing. All the Imperial blood in the world meant nothing if a warlord spilled that blood on the ground. He wanted to speak, but he could not find his voice.
Aneirin continued, “I am sorry to push this on you, Hector. You are still very young, and I worry that you are not ready for this journey. If your father were still alive, it would be his responsibility, but… I think the gods have done things this way for a reason.” He paused again. He knew Hector would be struggling with all of this, but he did not have time to waste. “Hector,” the Guardian forged on, “you must travel east to the Library of the Ancients and retrieve the Blessed Blades of the Emperor.”
Hector was silent. He had questions, but he could not voice them. Where was the Library? What were the Blessed Blades? How could any of this stop Derek? He worked his mouth open and closed, trying to speak. Aneirin saved him the trouble. “You don’t know what any of this means, I know. But you must trust me. This is the only way to save your people.”
His people. The idea that he, Hector, son of Abram, had the power to save his people from a terrible warlord filled the young heir with pride. He took a deep breath, smiling at his Guardian. “What must I do, milord?” he managed at last.
“The Library of the Ancients is in the capital city of the Fylscem Empire, called Fylscea,” Aneirin explained, “That city is east of here, on the coast. But I have not been to the Library since it was sealed after the fall of the empire. I do not know the way in.”
Hector frowned. “But there is a way, right? You have directions, or a map, or something?” he asked. He was tense, afraid of trying to accomplish this great task without guidance, but he was also hopeful that Lord Aneirin could help him; and his voice shook like a reed in the wind.
The Chimaera Regiment Page 2
