Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  “Because he is an envious, treacherous leech who has always wanted that which he cannot have: the right of the firstborn,” Kent said.

  “I will gladly expound, Father,” Fane said.

  “No,” Kent nearly shouted. “There is nothing to expound upon. Father, I have never given you any reason to doubt my commitment and loyalty. You personally trained me and guided me and taught me how to care for our holdings and reputation over the last thirty-five years. This family means everything to me. I would never do anything to jeopardize us.”

  Fane started again. “Father, if I may—”

  “No, you may not.” Kent pointed at him, then he quickly pulled his hand back to his side. The tingling had spread to his entire hand.

  This cannot be happening. I must regain control.

  But how? Kent could storm out, perhaps. But while that would serve to conceal his secret, it would show a measure of weakness and instability.

  His father was ready to pass his title on to Kent, and now that Fane had sown a measure of doubt into the process, Kent didn’t want to foster its growth any further.

  No, Kent needed to stay and fight for what was rightfully his. He worked to still his breathing and to quell the flux of magic in his fingers.

  “Fane,” Father said, “the accusation you are bringing against your brother is of the utmost seriousness. Without evidence, it appears as though you merely desire to usurp him and claim his place as Lord Etheridge. Your aspirations to my title are well-known to many, not least of all your brother and me.”

  “Father, I would not make such a claim without absolute certainty.” Fane stepped closer to father, and it irked Kent all the more. “I am not trying to usurp his claim. I am trying to protect this family—”

  “That is a blatant lie.”

  “—from the influence of our enemies—”

  “Our enemies hold no sway over me whatsoever.” Kent moved his hands behind his back, hidden carefully by his cape. He couldn’t be certain, but at the level of tingling they’d reached, they would likely begin to glow soon, if they weren’t already.

  “—and those who would seek to do us harm.”

  “He is conjuring false rumors without any proof,” Kent said. “He is and always has been a jealous little boy. He has always opposed me, and now, on the most important day of my life, he opposes me yet again.”

  Father shook his head. “I know all of this, but I cannot allow an accusation of this magnitude to go untested and unanswered. The truth must be known before we proceed, one way or another.”

  “I have told you the truth,” Kent replied. “I have never done anything to adversely affect our family. He has yet to share any evidence to the contrary.”

  “You want proof?” Fane gave Kent a wicked grin and looked at Kent’s waist—or perhaps at his hands, hidden under his cape. “It is in this very room.”

  Kent swallowed. Impossible. I’ve hidden the curse so well—from everyone. No one knows. How could he possibly…

  “Show us your hands, dear brother.” Fane’s eyebrows arched down, but his wicked grin remained.

  He knew. Kent didn’t know how, but somehow Fane knew. He’d found out about Kent’s magical affliction and now meant to use it against him.

  “What do his hands have to do with anything?” Father asked.

  “Even the smallest child in Muroth knows that our fair country has been at war with the wicked Inoth for a hundred years,” Fane said. “And House Etheridge has long since defended Muroth’s southern border against Inothian incursions.

  “Their use of magic is an abomination, a curse from the gods, which is why such practices are forbidden here. Anyone caught practicing magic of any kind in Muroth is subject to judgment and, ultimately, execution.”

  Kent swallowed again. Fane had the advantage now, without question.

  Father leaned forward. “What do Kent’s hands have to do with any of this?”

  “If he would only show them to us, I will explain.” Fane turned toward Kent.

  Kent looked at Father. “This is preposterous.”

  “Please, Kent,” Father said more than asked. “Show us your hands.”

  Kent steeled himself, clenched his fists hard, and inhaled a long, shaky breath. He now regretted not having stormed out when he’d had the chance.

  But he complied, slowly pulling his tingling hands from behind his back and holding them, palms up, toward his father and Fane.

  They weren’t glowing.

  Kent exhaled a silent sigh. “What have you to say now, brother?”

  Fane grinned that same wicked grin again. “I do not need to say anything else. Instead, I will show you.”

  Fane pulled a green crystal from within his coat and placed it in Kent’s open palms.

  Then Kent’s hands ignited with blue flames.

  Chapter Two

  Kent dropped the crystal to the floor and recoiled. But painless blue fire still enveloped his hands.

  How had he not seen that coming?

  The crystal was scorallite, a type of mineral Murothians used to identify Inothian mages. His own men, soldiers who guarded the border and interrogated those trying to pass into Murothian lands, used scorallite crystals to identify those cursed with magic.

  And Fane had set one in Kent’s hand. Such a simple tactic, yet profoundly effective.

  “Your eldest son is cursed, Father,” Fane said.

  Kent closed his eyes and willed the flames to depart and the tingling to subside. His concentration paid off, as both diminished to nothing.

  Father gasped. “By the gods…”

  “Father, allow me to explain,” Kent said.

  “There is no explaining this,” Fane countered. He squared himself with Kent and stared at him with cold blue eyes. “You are anathema to our people, cursed, and eternally damned. As such, you may not succeed our father as Lord Etheridge, and you are condemned to die.”

  “Wait, Fane,” Father said.

  Fane turned back. “Father, you know the law. You’ve been enforcing it for three quarters of a century.”

  “Fane, stand down,” Father ordered. “I will speak with my son, and you will remain silent.”

  Fane stepped aside in silence, but his triumphant expression did not change.

  Kent started to speak. “Father, I—”

  “Be silent, Kent.” Father didn’t say it loudly, but he said it firmly. “I will speak, and you will listen. There will be no explanations, no excuses. You will only speak if I grant you permission to do so. Do you understand?”

  Kent’s insides shuddered, but he stood tall and nodded.

  “You are my eldest son. You are the successor to my title, my lands, and my responsibilities.”

  “Father?” Fane stared at him in disbelief.

  “Quiet, Fane,” Father snapped. “I will not warn you again.”

  A sliver of hope parted the dismay in Kent’s gut.

  “Kent, you are what you are, and I cannot change that. No one can, unless the gods see fit to emerge from their realms to remove this curse from you.”

  Tears welled in Kent’s eyes. He believed in the gods as much as the next Murothian, but he knew they’d never care enough for the affairs of men to intervene in such a way.

  “Regrettably, your brother is right. The law is the law, and I must enforce it in my role as a Lord of the Realm of Muroth.” Father’s old, blue eyes met Kent’s once more. “As such, I strip from you all of the rights and privileges associated with your name, as I strip the name Etheridge itself from you.”

  “Father, no!” Kent begged.

  “And I hereby banish you from all of Muroth under penalty of death.”

  Kent gasped. Everything he’d done over the last thirty-five years—every preparation he’d applied, every scrap of education and training he’d received, every sacrifice he’d made, every risk he’d taken—none of it mattered anymore. None of it could ransom him from his fate.

  “Banishment?” Fane spat. “
You are merely banishing him?”

  Kent and Father looked toward Fane.

  “The Murothian penalty for being a magic-user is death, and death alone. He must be executed. You have seen the proof with your own eyes.”

  Kent’s fingers began to tingle again. He clenched his fists to stave it off.

  Things were already bad enough.

  “And as Lord of House Etheridge and protector of our southern borders, I am granting him the only mercy I can,” Father fired back. “Your brother may no longer call himself an Etheridge, nor may he reside in this realm. But I refuse to execute him.”

  “Then you refuse to see that Murothian justice is served!” Fane shouted.

  “Control yourself, Fane.” Father pointed a gnarled finger at him. “I am Murothian justice in this province, or have you forgotten your studies?”

  Fane hissed, “You are nothing but an old man who lacks the resolve to do what must be done.”

  “How dare you!” Father growled. “Your impudence is reprehensible. Your talk is bordering on treason. Be silent, for I do not wish to lose two sons today.”

  Fane shook his head and glowered at Father. “You already have.”

  The silver glint of a dagger flashed into Fane’s hand, and then it disappeared again, driven through Father’s chest.

  Kent recoiled in horror. “No!”

  Father gasped, staggered back a half-step, and clutched at his chest. Fane released his grip on the dagger, and Father slumped into the leather chair near the hearth, wheezing with wide, sunken eyes and covered in blood.

  “Father, no!” Kent shoved past Fane and rushed to Father’s side. For magic being a curse, he’d seen and heard of its extraordinary properties, not the least of which was its ability to mend broken bones, torn flesh, and even brutal wounds.

  But Kent had no knowledge of such uses. His entire life, he’d been taught to hate magic and to oppress, kill, or report anyone found using it. So he’d never learned anything about how to use it. He had only fought to repress it within himself, to hide it.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

  Kent pressed his hands on either side of the dagger as his father stared up at him in shock and disbelief. Kent’s hands ignited with blue light again, and he willed the magic flowing through him to somehow heal his father.

  “Guards!” Fane shouted from behind him.

  At that moment, Kent looked down at the dagger lodged in his father’s chest. He recognized it.

  Father had given it to him two years prior as a gift for a victory Kent achieved in battle against an incursion of Inothian warriors, powerful magic-users who’d threatened the Etheridge fortress in the southeastern quadrant of the province.

  The doors burst open, and two guards clad in bronze armor and wielding swords barreled inside.

  “He murdered Lord Etheridge!” Fane shouted.

  Fane had stabbed Father with Kent’s own blade, and Kent was trying to use magic to save him. And now the guards’ first impressions were of Kent standing over his dying father with glowing blue hands.

  It was a setup. A perfect setup.

  And suddenly, Fane’s remark about thanking Kent only when he could instead succeed Father as Lord Etheridge made perfect sense.

  The guards rushed toward Kent.

  He was unarmed, but he’d faced two armed men many times before, and oftentimes more. It was never easy, but he knew how to prevail. He’d trained relentlessly for most of his life to overcome situations like this and far worse.

  The first guard swung his sword laterally, and Kent stepped into his swing with his arms up. He blocked the guard’s arm from moving forward and got a grip on it. Then stepped across the guard’s body, bent at his knees, and flipped the guard over his shoulder.

  The back piece of the guard’s breastplate smacked hard on the marble floor, and Kent easily pulled the sword from his hand. He spun back and met the second guard’s blade with his own.

  Kent’s hands still glowed with blue light, but blue flames no longer emanated from them. As he exchanged blows with the second guard, the glow continued to fade to nothing.

  The guard proved a proficient fighter, probably one of the more capable soldiers in the province. It made sense; highly skilled soldiers were assigned to protect that which mattered most—the Etheridges themselves.

  But Kent was better. He parried a swing, stepped in, and drove his elbow into the soldier’s face instead of simply running him through. He was, after all, just being a loyal soldier, and he didn’t deserve to die for Fane’s sins.

  The guard staggered back, but he didn’t go down, so Kent stepped in again and planted his left foot behind the guard’s right foot, and he shoved hard with his arms and pulled with his leg.

  The guard dropped back, and his helmet slammed against the marble floor. He wasn’t moving.

  Kent whirled back toward the first guard, who’d recovered but no longer held a weapon. Kent started toward him, full of confidence and rage while Fane looked on.

  “Guards!” Fane called again. “More guards!”

  The guard dove for Kent’s knees, and Kent sprawled out to stop his advance. He used his body weight to smash the guard’s helmet, face-first, against the floor. Then he sprung to his feet and started toward Fane.

  But Fane was ready for him with a pair of long knives, one from each of his boots. The morning sunlight from the huge windows behind him lit up his green cape and his matching waistcoat and trousers.

  “You murdering bastard,” Kent growled. “I will kill you for this.”

  “Not if we kill you first, you cursed scum.” Fane’s gaze flitted past Kent toward the doors, and the telltale clanking of metal and shuffling of leather- soled boots announced the approach of several more guards.

  Kent kept a safe distance between himself and Fane’s knives and assessed his predicament. The room had one set of doors, seemingly the only exit.

  But any of the massive windows behind Fane would afford Kent a reasonable escape. Those options aside, only the chimney leading up from the fireplace remained, but with the fire burning in the hearth, Kent doubted his chances.

  And escape was the only option now. He wouldn’t have time to kill Fane and the two unconscious guards he’d left on the floor before the rest of the guards arrived.

  They’d still accuse Kent of murdering Father, and they’d kill him for being cursed once the other guards woke up and spoke of what they’d seen.

  Kent tried to reposition himself so as to get a better angle on approaching the windows, but Fane matched his movements, cutting him off from the easier escape.

  Like Kent, Fane had trained in the art of combat since childhood. Getting past him would come at a cost, either to one of them or perhaps to both of them.

  The guards appeared in the doorway and began filtering into the room toward Fane and Kent.

  “He murdered Lord Etheridge and used magic to dispatch those guards,” Fane called to them. “His dagger is in Lord Etheridge’s chest.”

  The guards wouldn’t normally have trusted Fane’s word over Kent’s, but given the look of the room and the fact that Kent was holding one of the guards’ swords, they didn’t argue. Instead, they moved to encircle him.

  If Kent didn’t go now, he’d be pushing past not just Fane but also whatever guards would reach the windows in the next few precious seconds.

  So he went for it.

  He charged Fane, his eyes keen on the blade in Fane’s right hand but aware of the one in his left as well.

  Fane braced himself and tensed, ready.

  Kent swung his sword, and Fane shifted under it, over to Kent’s right side. Fane lashed his knife blade toward Kent’s torso, but he no longer stood between Kent and the windows.

  Kent didn’t stop his momentum. He swung the sword back the other way as he leaped at the window.

  Fire lit up Kent’s hip. His sword hit something on its backswing, and the glass shattered against his body as he plowed through it and onto
the manse’s lawn.

  Somewhere behind him, Fane screamed.

  Kent hit the ground, rolled, and sprung up to his feet. Pain seared his hip, and he glanced down as he ran. He’d been cut, probably when Fane had sliced at him. The blade had carved through Kent’s wool clothing, but he couldn’t tell how deep the wound was.

  It hurt to run—but not enough to stop. His breath puffed out as mist in the cold winter air.

  Stately walls formed an sturdy perimeter around the Etheridge manse, and more elite soldiers clad in bronze armor stood guard in watchtowers placed at strategic points.

  Getting through the gate would prove challenging, but not by any means impossible; none of these soldiers knew what had happened, or even that anything was happening.

  He ran across the lawn, jumped over flowerbeds, and dodged ornamental stones and trees until he reached the front gate.

  The soldiers manning the gate stared at him in confusion, but he didn’t care. Near the gate, one soldier was tending to a white horse with small, sporadic black spots. It was already saddled.

  At least something is going right today.

  “Open the gate!” Kent shouted as he ran.

  The soldiers looked at each other, but no one moved. “Open the gate!” Kent yelled again.

  Still no action. One of them shouted back, “We’re under orders from your brother to keep it shut.”

  “I am overruling him!” Kent winced as he ran. Every step spiked his hip, but he’d gained a substantial lead ahead of the guards who now inevitably pursued him. Even so, he didn’t look back.

  “My lord…” Another soldier looked him up and down. “Are you bleeding?”

  “I am fine,” Kent snapped. “Open the damned gate, or I’ll have you all executed.”

  The soldiers rushed to comply, and the gate inched open.

  “You, there.” Kent pointed toward the soldier tending the horse and tucked his sword in his belt without a sheath. It would have to do for now. “I am taking that horse.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The soldier bowed and then stood by to steady the horse while Kent mounted it. Then he handed Kent the reins.