The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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 A
nthemen

  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.

  They stopped briefly for a drink from its cool, fresh waters, but Brynjar’s urging led them onward. Bronwyn took the lead, eagerly skipping out ahead of the group; the foreigner took his brisk, imperious strides apace; Hector and Caradoc, growing weary, lagged behind in commiseration. They followed the river northeast for almost half an hour when it wended sharply to the south around a grassy monticule.

  “It’s a house!”

  Bronwyn’s exclamation of the obvious brought Hector and Doc hurrying to catch up with her. As they rounded the bend in the river, they saw what was indeed a house beyond the hill, on the far side of the rushing naiad. Pressing on, they saw that it was walled with stones and mortar, unlike any house Hector had seen. It had a stone smokestack on its northern side, abutting the sloping thatched roof. It stood alone, but even so, Hector thought it looked homely and comfortable. On its eastern side, he saw a garden and orchard; he imagined a wide variety of fruits and vegetables sprouting there.

  “Can we get over there?” Hector wondered aloud, dreaming about biting into a juicy apple or sipping hot vegeta
ble stew.

  “Not likely,” Brynjar shattered his fancy.

  “Do you have to ruin everything?” Doc complained angrily. Apparently, he had been having a few daydreams of his own.

  “Don’t blame me,” the foreigner retorted. “That place would make perfect shelter for the evening, if it’s abandoned.” Gesturing at the river separating them from the house, he explained, “But whoever built that house knew what they were doing. Even a horse couldn’t ford the water here, and we certainly can’t swim it. We’d be swept away, and probably dashed on rocks downriver.”

  Bronwyn frowned. “It looks peaceful enough,” she said uncertainly.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Brynjar answered, “The current is fast here, and continues down this slope toward the sea. You may not see it, but we would all drown if we tried to cross it here.”

  “Can we cross somewhere else?” Hector asked hopefully, “Somewhere the current isn’t so strong?”

  Brynjar shook his head. “We can’t afford to waste any time looking for a good spot, and we have no idea how far down we would have to go. I don’t know this country; do you?” When all three teenagers returned downcast glances, he snorted. “I thought so. We’d best just keep moving.”

  Leading the way, Brynjar marched out boldly. The three youngsters ambled lazily behind him; their frustration was echoed in their lumbering footsteps as they wished dearly that they could cross the callous and careless flume. As they passed by the house, almost close enough to smell an imagined vegetable pot pie, Brynjar caught his foot on something and tumbled headfirst into the riverbank.

  His three companions burst out laughing. He rolled over and glared fiercely at them. They tried in vain to contain their jocularity, but after nearly a week of solemnity, the smiles creasing their faces were a great release. Brynjar did not look amused.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” someone yelled; his booming voice quivered with emotion. “Are you trying to wreck me ferry?” His speech was slurred and brutish, as though the winds of age and solitude had worn away the fine edges of a chiseled accent. Hector imagined that the man had been well educated and respected in an old life.