The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 1

  “Coward! Coward!”

  The word stabbed at Aiden, like the point of a knife in his back. The mob of children had gathered at the edge of Alvarton’s market, where the uneven stone paths turned into a worn, grassy road. They chanted the word over and over, as if singing a verse in some cruel playground song. He walked away as stoically as he could manage with a beaten cloth sack slung over his shoulder and the hood of his worn, frayed red cloak pulled low over his face, hiding what everyone already knew to be there. He hated coming here for this very reason. If he could afford it, he would have sent someone else to pick up his food, but he barely had the money to feed himself. That meant he had no choice but to suffer through this lonely, humiliating ordeal every time his pantry emptied out. The kids would taunt him loudly, the adults would scorn him silently, and he would try to get through it all fast enough that none of the local toughs would think to provoke a fight.

  By now, the adults knew him on sight. His sturdy Sotheran build and the fact that he owned only one dingy old army cloak always gave him away to the locals. They rarely said anything to him, though, at least not to his face. As long as he had some spare coin to spread around, the merchants in Alvarton would take it. They’d wait until after he left to call him the Coward, or the Wolf Cub, or whatever new nickname had made the rounds in the pub. The children weren’t so forgiving.

  The fat, freckle-faced son of a woman hawking bread had recognized him, and it had taken only seconds before he’d scampered off to tell the other village children that the Coward was back. He only had time to buy bread, a small wheel of cheese and a cheap flagon of wine before they began congregating in the center of the market, pointing and laughing. As soon as he had left and moved onto the east road, they’d gathered at the edge of the town center, near the mile marker, taunting him.

  “Coward! Coward!”

  No matter how many times he heard that word, the sting never lessened, and neither did his fear that this would be his fate for eternity... to be mocked by children until he died of old age, worthless to his people and to his kingdom. Blood rushed to his face in shame, as it always did when he left this place, and the brand on his left cheek grew hot. He rubbed it absent-mindedly, a rough-edged 'C' burned onto the side of his face. He'd tried growing a beard to cover it up but that only made it more noticeable since the hair around the brand didn't grow. Not that it mattered. By now, everyone in this part of Caldera knew who he was and what he'd been. He ignored the sounds of thrown rocks landing harmlessly on the ground behind him, and trudged along the path, hoping only to get home without incident. The sun would be up for another two or three hours, which was roughly how long it would take to reach his small home in the hills. Once there, he could throw off his clothes, eat a meager dinner, drink some cheap wine, and try to forget about his fate for a few precious minutes before falling into a merciful, drunken stupor.

  Unfortunately, an incident seemed to be coming his way.

  Aiden saw it out of the corner of his eye - the smooth silhouette of a hooded bandit lurking in the thick woods to his right. Whoever he was, he was cocky, because he followed far too closely for someone who should value subtlety and stealth. Aiden kept his hood low and his gait steady, trying not to tip off his pursuer that he could see him darting from shadow to shadow. The bandit made no noise, which suggested some skill at stalking prey, but he apparently thought Aiden's hood blocked his vision because he was far too careless about keeping his profile low. Aiden gritted his teeth. It was only a matter of time before the bandit attacked, looking for an easy target on a secluded road, and Aiden had no weapon, and thus no way to defend himself. He’d taken to leaving his sword at home to avoid even more raised eyebrows when coming to town. Had he brought it, he could have taught this bandit a painful lesson about stalking a former armsman of the Sotheran Army. But with no sword, he’d be at the bandit's mercy if he didn't have a good plan.

  The clop of hoof beats caught his attention, and he turned to see two horse-drawn carts moving onto the road behind him. Merchants, leaving the Alvarton market for the day. They were catching up quickly, so he moved over to let them pass. The first one had an older man and woman up front. Brin, he thought, based on their style of dress. Probably refugees staying near the Silver Hills, like himself. The man held the reigns of his horse loosely, and a few empty sacks lay scattered in the back. The second cart was driven by a younger man, Artoran probably, with a woman and two small children in the back. A few sacks of food lined the back of the cart, either wares they hadn’t sold, or that they’d picked up for their own use. Aiden kept his head down and let them go their way, hoping none of them recognized him or cared to see his face. But he knew salvation when he saw it, and he picked up his pace to stay in sight of the merchants as long as possible.

  A surreptitious glance toward the woods revealed no sight of the bandit, who had likely decided to be cautious now, at least until the carts pulled away and left Aiden alone again. He wondered if he could hail them down and ask for a ride. In most cases they'd probably let him, but if he tried to hide his face from them they'd get suspicious. If he didn't... well, he couldn't take any more disapproving looks today. He decided he'd just walk faster, instead. The carts were already pulling away from him at a pace he couldn’t hope to match, but he could keep them in sight long enough to dissuade the bandit and send him back to Alvarton for easier prey. If he’d thought the Goddess still listened to his pleas, he’d have prayed for her help to keep them close. He only wanted to get home without trouble.

  Had he sent any prayers, they would have been answered. A man appeared from the edge of the woods ahead of the carts. He wore a black, hooded robe that hung to his feet and covered his face, like Aiden, only his was in far better shape, with a decorative blue and silver trim along the edges. He walked to the middle of the path and waited, facing the oncoming carts. For a moment Aiden thought this might be his mysterious bandit, but he seemed too tall, too broad, too menacing.

  The carts slowed as they approached the stranger.

  “You there. Step aside,” the older man in the lead cart called out, annoyed at having his trip home so blatantly interrupted. The stranger casually pulled back his hood and flung his cloak off his shoulders, revealing a man close to Aiden's own age, rugged looking, with tanned skin and long blond hair, and a short beard with braids in it. He wore drab gray clothing covered by well-worn chain mail, and he gripped a long-handled hammer in his right hand. Aiden caught his breath. This man was no resident of Caldera. This was a Bergsbor, an invader from the land of Bergmark, standing before them in full battle garb. A Warshield.

  He raised his hammer to the sky. Aiden instinctively reached for his belt, remembering with a silent curse that he still had no weapon.

  The Brin couple recognized the threat almost immediately. Anyone from the county of Brinwall knew the look of these Northmen, who’d ravaged their borders for years. The old woman screeched in terror, and the old man tried in vain to get his horse to turn around, all while the Warshield shouted an ancient chant to his gods. Without warning, a bolt of lightning crashed down into the front cart with a deafening crack, splintering it into two pieces and sending fragments of charred wood flying about the path. The Brins were thrown clear in opposite directions while the horse whinnied in panic, yanking at its collar. The mother in the second cart screamed, while her husband tried unsuccessfully to turn his horse around.

  This isn't possible, Aiden thought, his body frozen in shock. Warshields can’t summon lightning from the sky.

  The Bergsbor turned to the old man, holding his hammer out in front of him, both hands wrapped around the handle. Tiny bolts of blue lightning crackled dangerously around him. The Brin slowly lifted his head off the ground, blinking as if stunned, but conscious enough to realize the Northman was approaching him with murderous intent. He held his hand up, pleading for his life. The man's wife, who had recovered more quickly, also screamed out for him to stop. Both of their
pleas were ignored. The hammer came down, crashing into the Brin's shoulder and crushing his chest. The second blow followed immediately, caving in his head. The old woman wailed at the sight of her dead husband, and the Bergsbor turned to her and raised his hand. A smaller, thinner bolt of lightning arced outward from his palm, striking her, and knocking her flat to the ground where she writhed silently.

  “Alfrith! Here!” The Artoran woman in the second cart held a sword up to her husband, shouting at him to take it, while trying to scoop up her two children with her other hand. Alfrith struggled with his horse before reluctantly taking the sword, just as the Northman turned his attention to them.

  “Get out of here!” Alfrith yelled back to his family. He gave up trying to soothe his terrorized horse and stepped down from the cart to face the approaching Warshield. He held the sword like a stick, completely unsure of himself, and he shuffled his feet, backing up so he could keep his distance from the Northman. Alfrith’s wife jumped off the back of the cart, which rocked dangerously as the confused horse tried to pull free, and dragged the two children out. The Warshield, showing remarkable quickness, darted forward at Alfrith. One swing of his hammer was all it took. The weapons collided, knocking the sword out of Alfrith's hands, sending it skidding across the ground out of reach. The Northman followed with a roaring bellow that sent a shockwave radiating out from his body, kicking up dust and dirt in all directions and knocking Alfrith off his feet.

  Aiden took a step back without thinking, only now realizing that he’d watched the whole scene play out in front of him as if he were just a spectator. As if he were the coward everyone thought him to be. This was battle. This was what he wanted, what he'd been denied for two long years. But he hadn’t expected to be thrust into the middle of it, deep inside his own kingdom. He had no weapons or armor. He stood little chance against a fully armed Warshield, if that’s even what this enemy was. But he also knew that if he let this man slaughter everyone here today, then he deserved that coward's brand on his cheek. He deserved to be mocked and scorned.

  Coward... coward...

  Aiden squeezed his hands into fists, feeling a strength in his body that had been dormant for years. This wouldn't be the smartest decision he'd ever made, but he wasn't looking for smart. He was looking for brave.

  So he dropped his pack and charged.

  The Warshield stood over Alfrith and held his hammer high. He didn't seem content to smash the man's skull, however, because he began chanting his spell again, the one that destroyed the first cart, and would no doubt flay this poor man’s skin from his bones. Aiden ran at a full sprint toward the discarded sword lying on the ground, hoping to distract the Warshield long enough to save Alfrith. The Northman's eyes darted up, and he seemed to realize that the Calderan lying prone on the ground wasn't his immediate priority anymore. He turned toward this new threat, just as Aiden had hoped, and as he shouted the last words of his chant, Aiden changed direction in mid-stride and threw his large body at the Northman instead of the sword. He hit the Warshield in the stomach with his shoulder as lightning cracked loudly into the empty ground behind him.

  The two of them tumbled into the dirt, rolling over each other until the Warshield kicked up his knees, flinging Aiden away to his left. He followed that up by swinging his hammer sideways, but Aiden grabbed the handle, preventing the blow from having any real force. Aiden pushed off the hammer and rolled sideways into a crouch, then leapt toward the discarded sword, grabbing it with his right hand. He was back on his feet in an instant, facing off against his enemy, who’d also regained his footing, and held his own weapon menacingly. Aiden swung the sword, testing its weight and balance, and he knew right away it was junk. The edges were dull, the blade slightly crooked, and if hit in the wrong spot, it would likely snap in two. He might as well have been holding a blunt stick.

  Well, Aiden thought, if the sword couldn't handle parrying blows from a giant hammer, then the answer was simple – don't parry. Be aggressive. Aiden steadied his stance and his breathing, and took the fight to the Bergsbor. He swung carefully and deliberately at first, keeping his enemy at a distance while he thought of his next tactic, because now he worried the sword wouldn't even pierce the Northman’s chainmail armor. He never had a chance to find out, though. The Warshield grew tired of the duel, raised his hand to the heavens and let loose another small bolt, like the one he'd used on the old woman. The magic coursed through Aiden’s body, making his muscles twitch violently and then tense up until frozen in place. Aiden fell to the ground like a toppled statue, unable to do anything except stare up at the Warshield, who grunted at him in annoyance before heaving his hammer back and over his head. Aiden was trapped. He could feel the first sensations of his body loosening up, but it wasn’t fast enough. He wouldn't be able to avoid the crippling blow in time.

  He would die, painfully – that is, until an arrow clipped the Warshield’s ear.

  The Northman cried out angrily and grabbed the side of his head, looking around for the arrow’s source. Aiden used the extra seconds afforded to him to roll clumsily out of the way. He stood up awkwardly, fighting against his reluctantly loosening muscles, ready to fend off another attack. But the Warshield didn’t come for him. He was too busy scowling at something over Aiden's shoulder. Aiden followed his gaze, seeing a young man in a black cloak standing in the middle of the path holding a nocked bow, aimed right at him. The bandit. Aiden almost laughed before realizing he was in the way, so he ducked to the side. The bandit fired another arrow that glanced off the Warshield's left shoulder. It didn't penetrate the armor, but the Warshield narrowed his eyes at this new danger. He turned to Aiden and snarled, then ran into the woods along the side of the path. Aiden hesitated, wondering if he should chase after him with no reliable weapon. But his decision became moot when the Northman vanished. Once he reached the shadows of the trees, he disappeared into thin air.

  Aiden froze. That was impossible. He’d seen that ability before, but only from highly trained assassins. They called it fading, and it was their most closely guarded secret. And as far as Aiden knew, they hadn’t shared it with the people of Bergmark. He backed away, suddenly afraid for his life. He turned to the bandit, feeling the need to have an ally nearby, only to find him leaning over to pick something up off the ground. Aiden almost called out to warn him, before realizing what exactly the brigand had picked up. Aiden's pack. With his food, and his money, and his wine. The bandit threw it over his shoulder. He saw Aiden looking at him so he smiled back and gave a quick wave, then ran off into the woods where he vanished himself.

  Aiden stood there in disbelief. Both of them could fade. Both of them had assassin training. What had he stumbled into?

  He scanned the road around him. Alfrith and his family had escaped, running as fast as they could back to Alvarton, leaving their cart and horse behind. The old man from Brinwall was dead, and his wife lay still only a few paces away from her husband. The horse from their cart had pulled free of the wreckage and was galloping the other direction, dragging parts of the harness behind. Aiden was alone, and he knew he couldn't take that Warshield if he came back, not with this flimsy excuse for a sword. He squeezed the hilt in frustration. He knew this feeling, the rush and the wild uncertainty of battle, both of which he’d been so effective at harnessing. He laid out his options before him, and he found the one that made sense. He hefted the crooked blade in his hand and ran into the woods. The sword was useless against the Northman, so he wouldn’t use it on him. Instead, he'd find the arrogant little bandit who thought he could steal from a highly trained soldier. If he was lucky, he'd not only retrieve his pack, but maybe a little bit of his pride as well.