The Bond of Blood

by Kody Boye

  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 find that the field was actually physical. “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 of his life. “To determine whether or not you’re eligible 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.

  What could he do?

  Is this safe? he thought, pressing his hand to the blue barrier of magic around him. His eyes sought out Daughtry, who gave him a slight nod and wink. 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 body and soul, 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, desire and, most importantly, his joy, and in those 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 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 eye level, then thrust it into the air: where, above his head, it burst into life and raged into a firestorm.

  The king, whom had remained unamused 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 storm.

  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 Gift—an ability that, while unpracticed, could be nurtured into something great. A tree was not grown without a seed, a seed did not flourish without soil, and soil could not offer life without water. It was with 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 brighten the entire room. “Mr. Karussa,” he said, “I would formally like to invite you into the knighthood of the Ornalan kingdom.”

  Odin 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, Odin felt as though his entire future had 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.

  4

  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 horrible it threatened to cave 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 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 from him moments after he had filled out the paperwork that would bind him to the castle for his time here.

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

  As they walked down the halls, led by a series of guards who stood both behind and in front of them, Odin took notice of the flames spouting from the torch sconces, which licked away from the walls as if attempting to reach the ceiling. Odin entertained himself with this notion 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, 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 a raised 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.

  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 weapons that were 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.

  Bowing his head, he began to eat, relishing the fact that he sat in this very dining room with dozens 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.

  His appetite stunted at the thought of the man he’d abandoned, Odin bowed his eyes 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.

  “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, every boy scooted away from him.

  Frowning, Odin gave each of the three around him a look, 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 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 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 hand, the flat-edged blade slamming onto his palm every few paces, he cast his eyes across each one of them from head to toe before moving on to the next boy in line. This process, as unnecessary as it was, seemed to be a mental test of endurance, 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. He’d have to stop eventually.

  Or so you think.

  “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 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. “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 rack 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 know 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 his place 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 his limbs would not be amputated in 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. 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.

  Here goes nothing.

  Lunging forward, Odin ducked under the man’s forward slash, then rolled forward, the brunt of his weight landing at the curve of his upper back and propelling him directly behind the weapons master.

  The man, so stunned by the reciprocating action, had little chance to turn around just as Odin pressed the tip of the blade into the weapon master’s back.

  “See?” the weapons master asked. “That is how your swordfight, gentlemen.”

  In the moments following his defeat, the instructor gestured Odin forward, set an arm around his shoulders, then turned his attention to the young men situated against the far wall. “I’m going to pair you up in groups of two,” the man explained. “I want you to practice striking and blocking your opponent. This is the first thing you’ll need to learn. Develop your own style. Watch the way your enemy moves, examine their stance for weaknesses that you can exploit. When you ‘kill’ your sparring partner in the resulting duel, you’ll switch with another boy who’s won his own spar. The two that were beaten will fight each other in order to gain experience on their weaknesses. Winners will go on one side, the losers—the dead—on the other. From there, we’ll switch teams until we have enough for a small skirmish. Understand?”

  “Yes sir!” the boys cried, all in unison.

  Odin stood next to his weapon’s master, unsure what to do in light of his recent win. He made a move to walk toward what would be the ‘winning’ side before the man stopped him.

  “Sir?” Odin frowned. “What are you—”

  “Call me Master Jordan,” the man grunted. “That was quite impressive, young man.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “My father taught me well.”

  “You’re but a commoner. Tell me—was your father enlisted in the military?”

  Gradually, over the course of several indeterminable moments, Odin mustered up the courage to shake his head, knowing full than well that his father, whom bore no humility, would not care about the declaration. Since when did one need have been a knight or a military figure to be a valiant man?

  “Very well,” Master Jordan said. “Not everyone needs to be in the military to know their way around a sword.”

  Truth be told, Odin nodded.

  The weapon’s master slapped Odin’s back one last time before proceeding to bark encouragement and insults to the other boys.

  A few short moments later, a massive boy whom had to be some five-and-a-half feet tall felled another with a hard hit to the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back with a violent thud.

  “There’s no need to be rough, Mr. Monvich,” Master Jordan said, stepping forward to assist the fallen boy to his feet. “You don’t need to throw your opponent into the dirt.”

  “Why?” the hulk of boy asked. “It’s not like anyone’s going to treat you with respect on the battlefield. He’ll kill y
ou before he decides to let you live.”

  “Very well, Herald, but here, in this castle, we’re not out to kill anyone, especially our sparring partners.” Jordan sighed and shook his head. “You know what to do.”

  “Guess I fight you then,” the boy named Monvich smirked, running the back of his wrist across his mouth to reveal a wisp of hair curving across his upper lip.

  “I… guess,” Odin said, taking notice of both himself, then the other boy, whose shoulders were nearly as broad as Odin’s torso and whose muscles had begun to show. His face, though harsh, also bore a manly distinction that set him apart from the baby-faced, fat-cheeked boys around them—a strong jaw, a squared chin, and that undeniably-manly whisper of hair atop his lip.

  Smirking, Herald stretched his sword arm out, then bent his knees.

  There was no warning before he lunged forward.

  Odin raised his sword just in time to block a hit.

  “You might think you can get around me with your height,” the bigger boy said, throwing a few more blows in his direction, “but I’m bigger and stronger than you.”

  Like that matters, Odin thought.

  The swords began to soar through the air as though they were birds making their way through migratory patterns. Monvich’s blade hard, unruly; Odin’s quick, unmerciful—the wooden swords, as safe as they happened to be, began to strike one another in ways that began to make them splinter shortly after their use. It would, Odin knew, take but a single hit from the Monvich boy’s sword to severely hurt him in its current state, as it resembled a serrated blade now instead of one sanded-down by natural papers. At one point, Odin realized that a crowd had developed around the circle and that people were watching them, but only glanced at the group briefly for fear that, should he distract himself, the bigger boy would find the opening he’d need.

  “That’s it!” Master Jordan said. “See, boys? This is how a swordfight should be.”

  Monvich’s sword slid up along Odin’s blade and nearly hit his shoulder. In response, Odin swung his sword to the side, then ducked when the bigger boy put both his hands on the practice weapon’s hilt and swung it down like a hammer.