The Brotherhood: Blood

by Kody Boye

  Shortly after the guards beside them gave those that stood in front of them a nod, they opened the door to reveal the courtroom.

  Odin almost couldn’t believe his eyes.

  He gasped, letting lose the breath of air contained within his body.

  It began as a single red carpet leading up the throne room. Rich, intricate, with a depiction of the country’s official white flag with twin swords embroidered halfway up the path and the walls flanked on both sides by windows that allowed the light to stream in through intricate brown and gold curtains—Odin found his eyes drawn first from the scope of the room to the very throne upon which the man who ruled the country sat: whom, from his perspective, appeared to be all the more confident in his position, eyes set ahead and staring straight toward him, as if he could see each and every false pretense and unease that lay within Odin’s very hard.

  Is that…

  He needed no further explanation.

  When he, Daughtry and Anna stepped forward, flanked by guards on either sides and directly behind them, Odin realized that the man seated directly before them was the king.

  As they advanced, growing dangerously closer with each and every step they took, Odin took in the figure that ruled their country with a sense of awe and desperation that felt to him like asking a parent for something they clearly could not provide. The king—tall, at least six feet, with long legs and a torso that, even beneath his shirt, appeared well-muscled and trained—did not appear to have the standard, flush-white skin that most of their country had, and instead resembled somewhat of a light olive tone that could only be found in gardens maintained and kept to the utmost degree. His eyes, dark brown and nearly black in hue, rested beneath a pair of straight, well-defined brows, while his harsh jaw appeared to have been cut from the finest stone, his lips thin but his smile and temper radiant and strong. Odin found himself trembling in the face of such a fine man, who remained seated even though they approached, and would have turned and ran the opposite direction had it not been for the guards directly behind them.

  Don’t be nervous, he thought. This must happen all the time.

  If so, then why, of all the young men standing in the field, was he the one who stood here? He was not royal—was not, in the least, a boy of money or fortune—and could not claim to have been born from the blood of monarchy. It was that reason that forced him to stand still when finally Daughtry and Anna stopped in place, and in looking upon the king’s eyes, he found himself almost trembling in spite of the calm, demure temper that was experienced in the man before him.

  “Heh-Hello,” Odin said.

  The king merely nodded and gestured the guards forward, to stand by his side while he reclined in his seat and braced his hands along the balls of his throne. “Hello,” the king replied, his voice deep, but even enough to where it didn’t sound as though it’d just been forced up a long and dark tunnel.

  Odin stood there for several long moments, waiting for Daughtry to make any further response, before he fell to his knee and bowed before his king.

  “My lord,” Odin said.

  “You must be the boy that Daughtry has been talking about,” the king of Ornala said, his voice drawing closer as if he was stepping forward, but his feet remaining on the peripheral of Odin’s vision. “Tell me, young sir—why is it you have come to Ornala?”

  “To enlist in your military.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Odin Karussa.”

  “Stand, please.”

  Odin did as asked, but made sure to place his feet together and lace his hands behind his back.

  With a simple flush of the hand, Ournul gestured Daughtry to the side.

  A slight tingle escaped into the air.

  The hairs on Odin’s neck stood on end.

  What the—

  A shield of blue light surrounded him on all sides almost immediately.

  “What is this?” Odin asked, reaching out to touch the surface but finding almost immediately it was physical in nature. “Daughtry? My lord?”

  “I would like to see you perform any magical talent you have,” Ournul said, standing, as if ready to applaud the greatest opera or musical performance of his life. “To determine whether or not you’re eligible or important enough for me to bypass normal royalty concerns, I need to see if you’re capable with your gift.”

  “I… I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Try.”

  Odin extended his palm.

  Just what, he wondered, could he do?

  Is this safe? he thought, pressing his hand to the blue barrier of magic around him. His eyes sought out Daughtry to his side, who gave him a slight nod and wink to encourage him to continue. Will I hurt someone if I try to use my magic?

  Standing directly beneath her father, Anna offered a slight smile that, to Odin, felt like the greatest compliment in the world.

  You can do it! the little girl’s face seemed to say.

  Nodding, Odin stepped back, braced himself in the middle of the sphere, then closed his eyes.

  From his heart, his mind, his soul and his body, he summoned the most horrible feelings he had ever experienced—as a child, when no one would play with him; as a teenager, unsure of just who or what he was; as a mortal, living in the world with a power he could not control; as a runaway son, whom had abandoned his father and left him to his own devices. From these emotions he pulled his pain, his agony, his frustration, his fear, his consequence, his desire and, most importantly, his joy, and in these emotions he ground himself in reality—in, what many considered to be, the supernatural. A flame of passion rose within his chest and began to channel down his left arm, slowly but surely extending into his fingers and alighting his palm in white, and when that passion turned into a strong fire upon the surface of his hand, he raised it to his own eye level, then thrust it into the air: where, above him, it burst into life and raged a firestorm directly above his head.

  The king, whom had remained placid up until this point, openly displayed his awe, mouth dropping open and eyes alight with excitement.

  At his side, Daughtry began to clap.

  Below him, Anna danced, thrusting her hands into the air and swirling as if she were being taken to the wind by a dust-devil.

  When, above, the firestorm began to die down, the barrier of magic faded and the king raised his hands to clap.

  Odin, swollen with pride, bowed his head to keep from looking directly at his king.

  Did I do it? he thought, trembling, arm tingling from the aftermath of the magic and heart quivering within his chest. Did I have what it took to impress my king?

  He should have known from Ournul’s expression that he displayed an uncanny ability with the Gift of Will—an ability that, while unpracticed, could be nurtured into something great and wonderful. A tree was not grown without a seed, a seed was not grown without soil, and soil was not fertilized without water. It was in this logic that, standing before his king, Odin was able to turn his eyes up and look at the one man who mattered more than anyone else in the world.

  Odin took a deep breath.

  The king smiled. His teeth seemed to shine and bright up the entire room. “Mr. Karussa,” he said, his voice strong and his mouth aplenty, “I would formally like to invite you into the chivalric knighthood of the Ornalan kingdom.”

  Odiun could’ve fainted. How he didn’t, he couldn’t be sure, but when the king stepped forward and pressed both hands to his shoulders, he felt as though his entire future had just opened up before him.

  Bowing his head, Odin accepted but one simple embrace from the man who ruled his country.

  In no more than a few moments, he would leave this throne room and begin the next step in his life.

  He was assigned to a room with twenty other pages ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen and was expected to live with them for the duration of his career as a page. Tired, drained, and with a headache so vast and horrible it threatened to cave the entirety of his mind,
Odin pressed himself to the cool, well-made bed and closed his eyes in the hopes of lying down to aid the pain that so desperately wished to control him.

  He thought for one, brief moment that he would only rest for what seemed like moments.

  Hours later, he opened his eyes to the sound of a bell ringing and the chorus of boys making their way out and into the hall.

  Is it time? he thought, frowning, pushing himself from the bed and straightening his clothes out along his body. He reached for his sword only to find it missing, then in a moment of clarity remembered that it had been taken away from him moments after he had filled out the brief amount of paperwork that would bind him to the castle for the entirety of his time here.

  With a short sigh, he pushed himself out into the hall, then fell into place beside his many peers, all of which nearly dwarfed him in size alone.

  As they walked down the halls, navigated by a series of guards who stood both behind and in front of them, Odin took notice of the flames spouting from the torch scones, which licked out and away from the walls as if in a desperate attempt to reach the ceiling and the tapestries that lay no more than a few feet away. Odin entertained himself with this notion but for a few moments, then turned down the hall and began to make his way to a section of the castle completely foreign.

  Around him, boys whispered of the dinner they would soon be devouring.

  Thankful, as his stomach growled and threatened to flip, Odin raised his head to look at the back of the boys and men before him, then tilted his head up when the light from a distant chandelier came into view.

  Woah, he thought.

  The dining room bloomed before him in a few short moments. Flushed with color, lit by chandeliers with dangling beads of glass, filled with benches so many and wide they could fit dozen upon dozens of boys and overseen by a long table that was placed at the tail end of the room—the smell of fresh food, of rich meats and steamed vegetables, entered his nose and made the beast within his bowels gnaw at his intestines as if threatening to rip them away.

  When the boys began to seat themselves in any given position, Odin took his place at the very end of one table, then looked down at the food piled upon platters before him.

  Knowing that this would be the first meal he would eat within the castle, he turned his attention to the plate set before him, then began to gather food onto its surface.

  At the distant end of the room, near where the long table stood and where men and women sat behind it, Odin trailed his eyes over the series of robed individuals until he came to the center—where, upon an upraised table as if to give himself notice above all others, the king sat, placid in his behavior and watching the room before him with his hands laced together and his eyes darkened by shadow.

  What could he be thinking, Odin wondered, looking at all of us?

  He likely considered them nothing more than meat fodder for the blade and blunt-edged weapon that was likely to arise within the foreseeable future. That notion made Odin feel insignificant, much like an ant standing before a mighty molehill, but when he considered his position within the castle and realized just who and what he was and why he was here, a flush of pride rose in his chest and sparked within his mind a series of dull, glowing orbs that affixed themselves to the insides of his skull and pumped happiness throughout his every core.

  Bowing his head, he began to eat, relishing the fact that he sat in this very dining room with hundreds upon hundreds of royal boys.

  To think that only the day before he had been nothing more than a commoner with no bearing on the royal throne astounded him to no end.

  If only my father could see this, he thought, sighing.

  His appetite sated at the very thought of the man he abandoned, Odin bowed his eyes down first at his food, then at his glass filled with what appeared to be some kind of fruit solution, only to look up at the young men around him a short moment later, who turned their eyes up to examine his facial features no sooner than the moment he gave them their attention.

  “Hello,” Odin managed.

  “Who are you?” one of the boys asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Neither have I,” another added.

  “My name’s Odin Karussa.”

  “What family is that?”

  “Umm… the Karussa family?” Odin asked, not sure what to say.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Felnon.”

  “Felnon?” The boy’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Wait a minute… you’re not royalty.”

  “I’m a mage,” Odin said.

  Almost immediately, each and every boy scooted away from him.

  Frowning, Odin gave each of the three around him a look—one of which they seemed to ignore, as they cast their eyes down and returned to their food instantaneously—then sighed before standing and making his way toward the door.

  It seemed, in that moment, that not only the entire world, but its populace was currently against him.

  What’s wrong with being a mage? he sighed.

  Rather than think about it any further, he continued down the hall, toward the room and the bed that would beckon him without any question.

  Days later, after a point in time which he began to realize that things would not be as clear-cut for him as he’d initially imagined, Odin stood in line with a group of pages examining a weapon master who paced back and forth between them. Wooden sword in his hand, the flat-edged blade slamming down onto his palm every few paces, he cast his eyes across each and every one of them from head to toe before moving on to the next boy in line. This process, as unnecessary and unwarranted as it was, seemed to be a mental test of endurance, that of which would determine their strength in the emotional sense when faced with the reality of judgment from a higher official.

  This can’t go on forever, Odin thought, trying his best not to stare at the man, but failing significantly.

  Surely the weapon master couldn’t continue this sort of behavior forever. He’d already paced back and forth before them twice, if not three times already. He’d have to stop eventually.

  Or so you know.

  “All right,” the man said, moving back to the circle he had been standing in just moments before. “I’ve just looked each and every one of you over.”

  None of the pages stirred.

  “And,” the man continued, allowing his sword-hand to fall at his side, “I’ve come to the conclusion that the majority of you will die in the event of war.”

  How can he know that?

  Though Odin said nothing, his thoughts must have betrayed his facial expression, as the weapon master’s eyes fell upon him almost immediately.

  “Do you have something to say mister…”

  “Karussa,” Odin said, bowing his head. “Odin Karussa.”

  “I’ve not heard of that name before. Just where do you come from?”

  “Felnon.”

  “Felnon?” the man laughed. “You are nothing but dirt, boy—why in God’s great name are you here?”

  “I’m more than what you think I am,” Odin mumbled.

  At this, the line of boys gasped in ‘oohs’ and ‘awws.’

  “Excuse me?” the weapon master asked, stepping forward and tilting Odin’s head up with but a flick of his wrist. “What did you say to me?”

  “King Ournul has asked that I specifically train with you.”

  “You must be something special then,” the man said, casting Odin into the ring with but one shove of his hand. “Grab yourself a weapon. You’ll be our class project.”

  “What?”

  The man shot Odin a nasty look that instantly beckoned him to draw one of the wooden swords from the line near the far edge of the sparring sphere.

  “All right,” the instructor said. “I want you to fight me, boy.”

  “You, sir?”

  “Did I ask you to pick flowers and eat candy? I said, Fight me, boy.”

  “But I—”

  “Surely you must kno
w how to use a weapon if you’re here in this row.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “Never what?”

  “Spuh-Sparred against someone before.”

  The boys’ giggling near the wall waged war inside Odin’s heart.

  “Well then,” the weapons master said. “I guess this will be a learning experience for both of us, won’t it?”

  Stepping into the sphere, Odin took queue at the northern side of the sparring ring, then bent his knees and arms, just as his father had taught him all those years ago.

  If you don’t bend your arm, Ectris Karussa had once said, it’ll be easy to cut it off.

  Though he knew more than well that there would not be limb amputation in but a simple mock battle, he couldn’t deny the fact that were he not careful, the tides could turn against him.

  The weapons master threw a hit at him.

  Odin dodged the first blow and caught the weapon master’s sword on his own blade a short moment later.

  “See this?” the man asked the other boys, bearing as much pressure down upon Odin’s blocked stance as he possibly could. “Watch and learn, young men. You’ll need to know how to block hits and return them if you want to kill an opponent in battle. If you don’t act quick, you’ll have your enemy’s sword in your gut.”

  When the weapons disengaged from one another, Odin lashed out, spinning his sword to distract the weapons master and create a false front in order to reveal a weakness that was likely to come. The man’s eyes darting from sword to figure, then back again, Odin took notice of an exposed weakness under the man’s arm and around his ribcage and noticed that his stance, though awkward, seemed to reveal a natural weakness that could easily be exploited were he to use his size and his speed correctly.