by Kody Boye
“Goodnight,” the little boy said.
Ectris watched his son walk down the hall with an iron ball of hurt inside his chest.
“Go on, Odin! Hit it like that. Slash, thrust, stab, kick! Watch out for the sword!”
His son picked up the routine faster than Ectris had expected. Grinning, almost unable to control the happiness that pulsated within his chest, he corrected his son when necessary and told him to adjust the positioning of his feet in order not to stumble or trip when jumping back or lunging forward. In that moment, it seemed, Odin appeared all the more capable than he had yesterday—when, after a day’s worth of training, he struck the dummy with such force that Ectris thought the potato sacks filled with sand would break open and spill their nonessential guts.
I can’t believe it, he thought, watching Odin’s intricate thrusts, stabs, twirls and kicks. This is my son I’m watching.
In the heat of the mock battle taking place before him, Ectris explained that, by attacking an enemy’s torso, they would attempt to raise their sword or shield and deflect the blows set toward them. He then said, after a moment’s pause, to target the legs that, though covered with armor, would be one of the enemy’s most crucial weak points.
“Go for the knees!” Ectris cried. “Kick! Kick!”
His son lunged forward and struck the pole directly where the enemy’s crotch would have been.
“Goddamn!” he cried, thrusting his hand into the air. “Go Odin, go!”
You’re training him well, he thought, nodding, pushing himself to his feet and broaching the end of the practice ring, taking extra care to make sure his son was not leaving himself open in any form. He’ll be serving the king someday.
That lone instinct sent flutters of emotion throughout his ribcage.
“Concentrate!” Ectris cried, his heart beating faster and faster as he continued to circle the ring. “Hit it, Odin! Hit it! Goddammit, son! It’s going to get you if you don’t hit its weak points! Go for its head, its shoulders, its knees, its fucking balls and crotch! Hit it with all you’ve got! Hit it! HIT IT!”
The little boy let out a battle cry so loud and fierce Ectris thought for a moment it had come from a much stronger figure.
A burst of white light flew from the child’s palm and collided with the dummy.
For one brief moment, Ectris believed nothing had happened—that this light, as surreal and mystical as it happened to be, was simply a trick of the sun playing off the little boy’s sword.
I didn’t, he began.
Before he could finish, the dummy exploded into a plume of white flame.
It took him several long moments to realize what had happened. His heart dead within his chest, his breath caught within his lungs, he watched the remnants of the construct fall around them. First the pole, which had shot straight into the air upon being struck, landed in the clearing, splintering and cracking in two whilst burning from the center, while the sand that had made up the torso and head showered around them like hail from a thunderstorm. Some struck Ectris, momentarily stunning him, while the rest fell around Odin as if he were some holy figure being blessed in the light of God Himself.
Shining in the clearing, as if he had just committed an act so saintly it deserved immediate recognition, Odin simply watched as, slowly, one of the two potato sacks fluttered to the ground and landed at his feet, the tail end burning and its companion all but ash in the wind.
No, Ectris thought. It can’t—
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. There was no way in Heaven, Hell, the earth or even the cosmos beyond that this could be happening to him—that this thing, regardless of its merit, had happened to his son, the child whom he had raised himself. But how, he wondered, if such a thing had not happened, had the dummy exploded, then shot into the air before returning to the earth?
Horrified beyond belief and unable to believe his eyes, Ectris pulled his son away from the burning stalk of wood, which lay in the clearing before them in almost two completely different places.
“Father,” Odin whispered. “I—”
“Go to your room,” Ectris said, tightening his hands around the boy’s shoulders.
“But—”
“I said go, dammit! Go!
Odin turned and disappeared into the house almost immediately, casting his sword to the ground in the process.
Ectris closed his eyes, bowed his head, then began to tremble.
After all these years—in which he had believed his child no different than the other boys and girls—his son had been blessed with the Gift.
In the aftermath of the terrific explosion, Ectris turned his head up and looked at the remnants of the practice dummy before him.
His heart began to pound.
A brief thought occurred to him when he stepped forward and began to gather sand into his palms.
How would he raise a child whom could destroy him at any moment?
With no answers set before him, Ectris stepped forward and prepared to extinguish the fire burning in the clearing, all the while wondering just how he would continue through everyday life without ever knowing if he would be safe again.
In but one brief moment, he came to a conclusion.
His son, as Gifted as he seemed to be, could not use his magic. If he did, he might not only destroy his father, but himself as well.
Part 1
1
A god struck his anvil in the sky.
The horses protested. Some bucked, knocking their masters off their saddles, while others whinnied and screamed. As if being lashed with burning whips and forced to do what they did not wish to do, they tossed their heads to and fro and bared their teeth to the world like monsters from an ethereal plane. Most of the men and boys, however, managed to coach their mounts down with kicks and a simple tug of their reins, but some struggled even more, raging and screaming as the storm overhead began to grow even more ferocious.
Throughout all this activity, in which the world seemed to have been turned upside down and they were meant to stand on their own two feet, one young man whispered to his mount in soft, almost inaudible words. He said to be calm and still—that regardless of the situation around them, there was no need to be afraid, for he would let nothing happen to her even if it appeared as though others were being mistreated.
Be calm, this young man said. There is nothing wrong.
When the horse finally calmed, the young man turned his eyes up and surveyed the caravan.
A pair of red eyes dilated.
Odin focused on the men and boys currently tending to their mounts before him.
At his side, his father’s horse snorted and kicked up the mud, feigning disinterest despite the fact that all around them, his equine companions seemed not in the least bit willing to cooperate with their situation or their masters.
“Stay by me,” Ectris Karussa said, drawing close to Odin’s side while tugging at his horse’s reins with a single hand. “I don’t want you getting lost.”
“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 no telling what could 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 separated from the group.
Before them, the men whose horses had bucked or caused them 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 hi
s 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 so long?
When a hand strayed to his back, Odin jumped in his saddle, but relaxed after realizing it was only his father.
Just him.
With the cold burrowing into his skin and taking shelter along his bones, 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 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, his father would likely sense the tingle in the air that he had described so many years ago—when, during a mid-afternoon sparring session, he had blown a practice dummy to the sky without even trying.
Rather than think about the situation at hand or the white flame that occasionally tickled his palm, Odin concentrated on the road that would eventually lead them to the shining capital of their Golden Country. Ornala—center-place of the Ornalan territory, a shining icon to the testament of human prowess and strength—would be rising above them within the following days. Once, as a child, his father had told him stories about the castle and how, in legend, its impressive structure had supposedly been carved from 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 from his thoughts. Above, the sky churned, 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 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 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 they’d managed to stumble across.
While dozing between the realms of consciousness, eyes clouded and mind ready to drift into sleep, Odin noticed a tiny tear in the ceiling, one which could seriously hinder their comfort.
What would he say? Odin thought.
The itch started in his middle finger, then extended from 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.
Then, slowly, as if 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 lit 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 fool and watch the adult man as he stepped 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. “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 step 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 struck him.
He’s never hit me, he thought, panicking, his heart beating 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 thinking about what he’d been told. Struck twice and threatened with his entire future, there seemed to be little not to panic about. 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 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.
