The Brotherhood: Blood

by Kody Boye

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Odin whispered, trailing his eyes to the forest beyond.

  It would be foolish to stray away from the group. With bandits, wild animals and other, lesser-known creatures stalking the countryside and surrounding woods, there was any guess as to what would happen were even a grown man to wander away on his own. Here, so far south of any civilization, one was bound to be attacked if they separated themselves from the group.

  Before them, the men whose horses had bucked or caused them any significant amount of distress remounted and secured their harnesses to the cart pulling supplies. Odin’s father, whom had been tasked to lead the group, bellowed for them to continue down the path in spite of the storm that was brewing overhead.

  “It’s cold,” Odin whispered, brushing his arms and drawing his cloak tighter around his body.

  “We won’t be going much longer.”

  Of course we won’t, Odin sighed. That’s why we’ve been going for the past four hours.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, readjusting his hood across his head. “I—”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  After a moment, Odin chose to relinquish himself to silence and instead concentrated on the path in front of him. None of the other boys had complained—had not, in the least, spoken up to admit their discomfort to the fathers or men who tended them. Did that make him weaker than the others, despite the fact that he had persevered for far too long?

  When a hand strayed to his back, Odin jumped in his saddle, but relaxed after realizing it was only his father.

  Just him.

  The cold burrowing into his skin, taking shelter up along his bones and chilling his veins almost to an unbearable temperature, he drew his cloak as tightly around him as he could, bowed his head, then closed his eyes.

  Maybe, he thought, then stopped before he could continue.

  No. He couldn’t. There would be no way in the human world that he would be able to do such a thing without his father noticing.

  But what if I only warm myself?

  Either way, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he warmed only himself with the Gift he so recklessly knew how to control, his father would likely sense the tingle in the air that he had described so many years ago—when, upon a midafternoon sparring session, he had blown a practice dummy to the sky without even trying.

  Rather than think about the situation beforehand or the white flame that occasionally tickled his hand, Odin concentrated on the road that would eventually lead them to the shining capital of their Golden Country. Ornala—centerplace of the Ornalan territory, a shining icon to the testament of human prowess and strength—would soon be rising above them within the following days. Once, as a child, his father had told him about the castle and that its impressive structure had been carved out of something many considered to be gold and silver. Then, to complete its magnificence, they had polished it in the gel of melted pearls. He’d also told of its size and how, from even so vast a distance, it could be seen rising into the sky. How such a marvel had been made Odin couldn’t be sure, but in that moment, he didn’t particularly care.

  In but a few days’ time, the boy in him would be stripped away to be replaced by the man he could eventually become.

  A warrior, he thought, pride swelling in his heart. A pure, iron-blooded warrior.

  “Listen up!” his father called, immediately drawing Odin’s mind from his thoughts and signaling his return to the physical realm. Above, the sky churned overhead, growling with thunder. “We’re cutting off the path and into the forest for the rest of the night! Make camp beneath the trees!”

  The men whooped and cheered.

  The boys cried out in joy.

  “Come, Odin,” Ectris said. “Let’s set up the tent.”

  Despite the howling wind and the biting rain that showered down upon them, they managed to construct and raise their tent without much trouble.

  While Odin lay beneath its folds, per his father’s request both to stay out of the way and to rest after a long day’s worth of travel, Ectris Karussa stood outside, barking orders to the men he commanded and beckoning them with mad gestures to secure the supplies in the clearing that they managed to stumble across.

  While dozing in between the realms of consciousness, eyes clouded over and head ready to dwell off into sleep, Odin noticed a tiny tear in the ceiling, one of which could seriously hinder their comfort come tonight.

  What would he say? Odin thought.

  The itch started in his middle finger, then extended up his hand and into his arm, where it snaked up his appendage until it met his shoulder. Once there, it blossomed within his chest into a flame of desire that beckoned to be touched, but could not ever be reached in the physical sense.

  Maybe, just maybe, if he were quick enough, he could mend the fabric before his father managed to return to the tent.

  Lifting his finger, he concentrated on the jagged tear and willed the tent to mend itself of its own accord.

  One moment passed, then two.

  Nothing happened.

  Slowly, as if done by its own accord, the fabric that made up the upper flaps of the tent began to sew themselves together, each individual thread twisting and curling beneath the will of his magic to form one greater, finer instrument.

  In light of his newfound discovery, Odin couldn’t help but smile.

  I did it, he thought. I did it!

  The tent flap parted.

  Odin’s breath caught in his chest.

  His father—whom, up until that moment, had been ignorant to his activities—stepped in, mouth agape in horror and eyes alit in rage. “NO!” he roared.

  Immediately, Odin allowed his hand to fall to his side.

  Maybe he didn’t notice, his conscience whispered, begging him to play the liar’s fool and watch the adult man as he stepped forward and into the tent. Maybe if you don’t say anything, he won’t think you did something.

  That, of course, would not happen. He knew better than that, even knew that he’d been caught red-handed as if he were stealing a sweet from the cookie jar. That, however, did not lessen the fear of punishment any, so when he simply stared at his father and asked, in as calm a voice as possible, “What?” he felt the strings of unease begin to play across his heart, a choir in the greatest hall of punishment.

  “I don’t want you using that,” the man said, mouth snarled in rage. “You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Dammit, boy! You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Odin.”

  The growl that followed raised the hairs on the back of Odin’s neck.

  Knowing that there was no point in trying to trick his father, he sighed, then bowed his head, only to have his jaw turned up within the next moment.

  Within his father’s eyes, he found nothing more than rage.

  “You nearly blew yourself up when you were little,” the man said, tightening his hold on Odin’s jaw to an almost-unbearable pressure. “Don’t be cocky with me, boy. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “Father—”

  “Do not use magic any more. Do you hear me?”

  “You can’t keep me from using it!” Odin cried, disengaging himself from the man’s grasp.

  With each step back he took his father reciprocated with a forward advance of his own. Trembling, Odin knew he would be seriously punished, possibly even beaten, but in his father’s face he couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be something more there—something that, while not overtly visible, led him to believe that a bit of fear, even unease rested in the hollows of his eyes and the curves of his snarled lips.

  “Father—”

  “Come here, Odin. Looks like I need to teach you another lesson in manners.”

  “I thought you wanted me to fix it!”

  “That damn magic is going to kill you if you keep using it. You don’t know how to control it!�
�

  “They’re going to teach me. The castle, they have to have mages, they’ll know what to do, they—”

  His father slapped him across the face.

  A throb of pain bloomed in his cheekbone.

  Odin grimaced, almost unable to believe that his father had actually physically struck him.

  He’s never hit me, he thought, panicking, his heart beating a thousand times and more in his chest and his lungs contracting as if they could not absorb the life-giving air within the tent. He’s never—

  “Don’t you disrespect me boy,” Ectris said, grabbing Odin’s chin and tilting his head up so they could once more look into one another’s eyes. “You hear?”

  “I… you—”

  “I what, son?”

  “You can’t keep me from learning how to use it.”

  “Oh really?” Ectris laughed. “What makes you think that?”

  “The king values soldiers who can use magic. They’re stronger fighters.”

  “They are? Since when? You think that the king wants boys who can set things on fire or blow things up? Do you honestly believe that he wants his men killing each other because they can’t control their own powers?”

  “The mages will teach me!” he cried. “Why can’t you just open your eyes and see—”

  Ectris reared his hand back and struck him a second time. “You will not fight me on this!” he roared. “I’ll turn us both around and take you back to Felnon if you’re going to disrespect me.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Odin said, chest filling with weight. “You… you want me to—”

  “Just because I said I would help you doesn’t mean I won’t turn you around. A boy never talks back to his father, especially about something as selfish as using magic.”

  Near tears and unable to control the shakes that consumed his body, Odin wrapped his arms around himself and tore his eyes away from his father’s stare.

  The man turned, preparing to make his way out the tent. He stopped before he could do so. “Get in bed,” Ectris Karussa said. “Don’t argue with me.”

  “Sir—”

  “One more word and I’ll take you home.”

  The man left the tent without taking another look back.

  Odin lay awake after his father went to bed thinking about what his he’d been told. Struck twice and threatened with his entire future, there seemed to be little not to panic about, considering the fact that he now lay beneath a tent that seemed damaged but not by physical means. Beside him, his father slept soundly, his chest rising and falling almost as if there was not a thing in the world to bother him, but Odin knew better. No. He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that his father was attempting to prevent him from controlling the one thing he knew set him apart from all the others.

  I can’t let him do this to me, he thought, chords of unease playing in his chest and forcing tears of rage down his face. What if he tries to get some special treatment for me? What if he tells them he doesn’t want me to use my magic?

  Could, he wondered, a parent request that their child not be taught something, especially if that something fell within the line of magical arts? He imagined not, considering that men who served under the king were specifically trained to exploit each and every opportunity possible, but were he to really think about it, he couldn’t help but wonder if his father would put in a request to the highest source—the king, possibly, or even a high mage—to forbid them from teaching his son magic.

  Why does he hate something that’s going to help me?

  Men with magic were always the ones told of in legend—the ones who, somehow, someway, always managed to survive the most gruesome of situations and the most horrendous of wars. What of Arc, who had traveled the Crystal Deserts killing the last of the hideous giants, or even Baelra whom, in her day and age, had saved a separatist group of outcast women that had bore the Gift also? Both figures were regarded in history—were, of course, highly revered as well—and both had used magic in order to make their world a better, safer place. Why was he to be denied such a privilege if he had the opportunity to use it?

  This is it, he thought, sitting up, then running a hand through his hair. This is where I decide what I’m going to do.

  It took only one look at his father to show that the man had been asleep for a very long time.

  Sliding out of his bedroll, Odin began to pack as swiftly and quietly as possible—first the sword, which his father had given him at thirteen, went to his belt, secured on his right for easy access, then his bedroll and his saddle came next, both of which fell under either of his arms. While he carried a heavy load, he managed to slide out of the tent without making so much as even a whisper of noise.

  Be quiet, he thought, grimacing at each and every step he took across the campground. You don’t want to wake anyone up.

  In these weather conditions, there was little chance of anyone hearing but a few footsteps, as beneath his feet the only sound made was the squeak of mud beneath his boots. Were one to be awake, however, that would be an entirely different question. A figure stalking across the campsite could surely be seen as a threat and the entire party would be woken, only to find poor Odin Karussa sneaking off in the night after being punished by his father. What a sight that would be.

  When he came to the line of mares and stallions situated on the outer edges of the campground, Odin gestured them to be quiet with a simple wave of his hand, then broached the area where his own mare had been situated. Gainea, as had been named by the Goddess of Life, stood on the outer edges of the campsite snorting and flipping water from her mane.

  “There were go,” Odin said, securing his saddle atop her back before maneuvering under her stomach in order to clip the harness in place. “We’re going to leave now, ok?”

  She nudged his chest with her snout shortly after he climbed out from beneath her.

  “Yeah,” he whispered, disengaging the rope that held her to the tree with a simple cut from his sword and gesturing her out of the campsite.

  When he left the perimeter of the line of tents, horses and carts that made up the caravan, Odin began to make his way through the forest and toward the road that led through the forest, but stopped before he could get there.

  In lieu of his feelings, Gainea bowed her head and sneezed.

  Odin turned his attention back to the campground.

  Goodbye, he thought, closing his eyes and trying desperately to fight swarms of emotions from overwhelming him. I’m sorry it had to be this way.

  With a kick of his foot, he pushed Gainea into a trot.

  He would forge his own destiny.

  The rain startled shortly after he left. Cold, foreboding, grueling, whispering of a hard trip and not in the least bit pleasant, it showered down around him as if he were being punished for his choice and gestured him to turn around, almost as if it were the ghost of his father raging in his sleep.

  I’ll turn us both around and take you back to Felnon if you disrespect me.

  If any an action were to disrespect his father, this one would be it.

  You can’t think about it, Odin sighed, his thoughts soon falling back to the men at the camp. You’ve got bigger things to worry about.

  If anything were to hinder his progress other than the rain, it would be a man having recently awoken to find one of the horses gone. There would, he knew, be a search party, after which they realized young Odin Karussa had disappeared. Along with that, his father would likely pursue him up the road on his giant black stallion in a full-out gallop. If that were to happen, there would be no way for him to possibly escape the persecution he so desperately deserved.

  Bracing himself for the worst that could possibly happen, Odin turned his head up and watched the trees and surrounding forest.

  Under the dark, barely-moonlit sky, almost anyone or anything could be watching him. An animal, a bandit, a werecreature, perhaps even a Marsh Walker, an amphibious creature known not so far north but for travelling long distances
to hunt prey—practically anything could be watching him within this forest at this given time. To think that he’d only thought of all the troubles a man could run into while alone just a few hours ago seemed to only solidify the notion that he would not be safe until he broke out through the northern road that eventually led to the capital itself.

  “And here I am,” he laughed, “doing just what my father told me not to.”

  So far away from the group and beneath the oppressing shriek of the rain, no one would hear him scream.

  Shaking his head, he pulled his cloak tighter around his body and ran his hand along the horse’s neck, sliding his fingers through the slick hair beneath his fingertips and giving her but a moment’s notice before making her take off into a fevered push.

  He continued on for the next long while without feeling any sort of dread or worry. Observing the forest, taking into account the creatures of the night which played or hunted upon another and allowing his eyes to stray to the road in front of him, he watched a pair of raccoons run across the road and heard an owl hooting in the woods in front of him. Things seemed fine—even peaceful, considering the light of his current situation—but it wasn’t until that moment, when taking into consideration his situation and how tired he was, that he realized something was horribly, horribly wrong.

  Odin pulled his horse to a stop.

  For a moment, he couldn’t discern just what it was he felt. A short moment later, however, the realization came to a stunning climax.

  No.

  It took less than a breath’s worth of time for him to realize they were being watched.

  Beneath his weight, and beneath the oppressing tide of nature, Gainea shifted her body to and fro while waiting for Odin’s next command and snorted, as if disapproving of the situation or the fact that there seemed to be a horrible omen hovering in the air. In response to this, Odin placed a hand against her neck and gently tapped her sides with his heels, urging her forward in but a moment’s notice.