The Bond of Blood

by Kody Boye

  “You’ve said you’re old,” Odin said, “but you’ve never said how old.”

  “Even I don’t know, Odin. I saw the birth of Ornala and its kingdom, but I was still an aged creature.”

  Ornala and its kingdom?

  Ornala had been established at least a thousand years ago, if not more. The number alone made him think of everything that could have happened during that time—how many battles could have been fought, how many men could have been knighted, how many treaties and laws had been passed. Even more, he wondered how many people had lived and died. He could have lived a dozen lives and not even see even a fraction of the kingdom’s lifespan.

  “I’m sorry,” Odin sighed. “It wasn’t right of me to bring something like that up.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Odin, and don’t feel regret for asking.”

  “I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Have you ever heard the legend of the silent man?”

  “What?”

  The question, as unexpected as it was, brought him to a standstill. He had, of course, heard the legend of the man who had stripped himself of his ability to speak, and he knew of its prevalence throughout the kingdom, but he’d never expected to have it brought up in adult conversation, much less by his knight master.

  “Yes,” Odin said, after pausing for one too many moments. “I know the legend.”

  “What happened to the silent man because he could not speak?”

  “He died when he lost his hands… if I remember right.”

  “After the silent man gave his voice to the gods, he learned to speak with his hands. Because of his disability, most learned to understand his needs and whim, but after a disease took his only voice away, how was he to ask for help?”

  In the silence that followed, Odin fought the urge to ask what the Elf wanted him to learn from the retelling of such an old legend.

  “Do you understand why it’s important to ask questions?” Miko asked when Odin didn’t speak.

  “Asking questions gives you the answer you want… or the things you need to survive.”

  “Now you understand why I encourage you to ask about the things you don’t understand. I’m here not only as your knight in arms, but also your teacher. We’ve had this talk before.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Miko reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Go—lie down. You need your rest.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before he moved back to his usual spot beside Nova, Odin bowed his head.

  “Goodnight,” Miko said.

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  With his final thanks said, Odin settled down beside his friend.

  The Elf remained sitting, watching things Odin could not see.

  For the next several days, Odin continued to watch the hills and the Kerma that followed them. Occasionally, in the latter parts of the day and when their presence was only revealed by the lapse of peaks in the hills, the group of five that seemed to have pursued them for the past while would stop as if they thought Odin had seen them, but would shortly start up again once they thought their presence had gone undetected. This normally occurred when they passed an oblong jut of ice, but seldom than not happened no more than when they disappeared down the curve of the slope, vanishing to the west and from view entirely. Despite being shrouded from view, however, nothing could keep them out of mind, so how blind could they be if they were ignorant enough to think that they couldn’t be seen?

  “What’re you looking at?” Nova asked, nudging Odin’s ribs with an elbow.

  “Nothing,” Odin said, turning his eyes away from the hills.

  So far, neither he nor Miko had told their friend of the small band of creatures that followed them. Miko, convinced that Nova’s temper and spur-of-the-moment actions might get them into a conflict, refused to say anything. He even went so far as to warn Odin not to. If you see them again, he had said earlier that morning, do not tell Nova. We don’t want to scare him.

  “We sure don’t,” he muttered.

  “What?” Nova asked.

  “I’m just talking to myself again. Sorry.”

  “Eh, don’t be.” The older man waved a hand in the air. “The best of us do it.”

  “All right.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”

  “I’m sure,” Odin said, hoping Nova wouldn’t catch the quiver in his voice.

  “You’d tell me if you did, right?”

  “Yes.”

  This time, Odin swallowed a lump in his throat. How he hated lying, especially to people he cared about.

  “I’m okay,” Odin smiled, brushing off the initial insecurity as if it were nothing more than snow upon his shoulders. “Just cold.”

  “Whatever,” Nova grunted.

  Heaving his pack higher up his shoulders, Nova stepped into pace with Miko, careful to stay close to his side to remain within the protective triangle surrounding them.

  Sighing, Odin stepped forward, knowing just how much he was gambling his relationship with Nova on for just one little lie.

  “They’re still following us, you know?” Odin asked.

  “Yes,” Miko said, “I know, but be quiet. You don’t want to wake Nova up.”

  “He’d freak if he knew those things were following us.”

  “Which is why I want you to scoot over by me and keep your voice low.”

  Sliding across the slick but magically-warmed ground, Odin settled down beside the Elf and drew his knees up to his chest. Tonight, they’d positioned their protective sphere against the eastern hills. The western ones, where Odin had seen the Kerma tribe, had been completely out of the question, as the creatures’ intentions appeared not in the least bit friendly.

  “What do they want?” Odin whispered.

  “I don’t know, Odin.”

  “You have to have an idea.”

  “No. I don’t have to have any kind of idea. That would be ludicrous.”

  “I’m sorry for being so nervous,” Odin sighed. “I just don’t like the way they’re following us.”

  “Neither do I, but we have nothing to worry about. They’re harmless in their state.”

  “Because of their disease?”

  “That, and their numbers. How many were up there? Half a dozen, if that?”

  “I’ve seen five at the most.”

  “See what I mean? Why would five Kerma—who, at the highest, are probably only five feet tall—try to attack a grown man, a squire of considerable build and an Elf who’s two feet taller than they are?”

  “I guess you’re right.” Sighing once more, Odin crossed his legs and set his hands in his lap, eyes set to the purple flame flickering in the center of the sphere. “I don’t think I’d be as comfortable with just a normal man as a knight master.”

  “A normal human man would have never brought you to Neline.”

  And he’s right again.

  Odin smirked.

  “It’s nice to see you smile,” Miko said.

  “I’m not smiling, sir.”

  “It’s close enough.” Miko reached over and set a hand on Odin’s upper back. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m taking care of both of you.”

  “I know,” Odin said. “You’re taking a lot better care of me than I thought you would.”

  “Some men don’t care for their squires,” the Elf nodded, “but I’m not like that. I try not to be, anyway.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Miko closed his eyes, then leaned back until he was lying flat on his back, legs spanning nearly the entirety of the sphere and resting directly beneath Nova’s outstretched feet. “Thank you for talking with me. I believe I’m going to get some sleep now.”

  “All right. Goodnight, sir.”

  “Goodnight, Odin.”

  Miko extended his arm.

  With little more than a passing thought, Odin reached out and gripped his knight master’s hand.

 
“What the hell was that?” Nova asked, spinning, gesturing madly at the hills and pointing to individual spots along the peaks. “I saw something.”

  “What was it?” Odin frowned, quick to play ignorance.

  “Five little things walking along the hills.”

  “They’re nothing to worry about,” Miko said. He, too, stopped to look at where Nova had pointed.

  “Nothing to worry about? Are you telling me you’ve seen them too?”

  “Yes, Nova. They’re called Kerma.”

  “I don’t care what they’re called! I just want to know why no one’s told me we’ve been being followed!”

  “We didn’t want you to worry,” Odin said.

  “You’ve seen them too?” Nova asked.

  Swallowing a lump in his throat, Odin nodded. “Yes,” he sighed.

  “I’d expect Miko to keep secrets from me, but not you, kid.”

  “I told him not to tell you,” Miko said.

  “I wasn’t talking to you!” Nova snapped.

  “Please stop,” Odin said, reaching out to touch Nova’s arm.

  “Don’t touch me, Odin!”

  “Stop, Nova,” Miko said. “There’s no need for this.”

  “Don’t you tell me to stop, Elf.”

  A flash of movement came from behind the hill.

  While Miko continued to try and calm Nova, a pursuit which seemed completely impossible in light of the recent revelation, Odin watched the area, eyes darting across the peaks that blanketed the western hills and heart fluttering rapidly in his chest.

  He said, Odin thought, then stopped.

  Hadn’t Nova said he’d seen the Kerma dotting the hillside?

  Before Odin think any further, and before Miko could even begin to calm Nova from his rampant tirade, they appeared from behind one of the highest peaks that dotted the hillside. Five in total, each carrying a walking stick, made their appearance from the heights of the icy despair and began, slowly, to point and maneuver their way into a single line.

  “This is bullshit!” Nova cried, pulling his scythe from the strap on his back.

  “There’s no need for violence,” Miko said.

  “I don’t care what you think, Miko! They’re following us and now they’re pointing at us.”

  “They’re coming,” Odin said.

  His hand strayed to his belt, toward his sword, as he watched the creatures descend the hill.

  Their movements, he thought, grimacing, freeing his sword of the clasp that held it in place and drawing it out but a breath.

  The way they were advancing reminded him of what he’d learned in his history textbook—of how, in order to surprise a target, the enemy would often come down the side of the hill and rush them in an advancing sweep meant to blindside their target. He briefly considered the notion that they could be flanked and turned his attention to the north and south, but found nothing in the distance that could spell further trouble for the three of them.

  Behind him, he found Miko’s hand near his side, where his sword lay hidden beneath the billows of his cloak. “Keep your distance!” the Elf warned.

  The head Kerma, slightly taller than the rest of the group and bearing upon its cloak a series of white designs that must have signified which tribe it came from, stopped and raised its hand, beckoning its group to stop. “You are not welcome!” the creature called back, voice deep and thick with rumble. “Humans brought the sickness to our land. They do not belong.”

  “We come in peace, kind Kerma. We mean you no harm.”

  “We do not believe you, creature behind the hood of its cloak. Turn around and we will not attack you.”

  Three more shapes appeared on the hill. Odin caught the shine of metal. “Bows,” he whispered. “Sir—”

  “We’ll be fine,” Miko said. Turning his attention away from Odin, he looked up at the Kerma. “We will not turn back!” he called. “There is nowhere for us to go!”

  “Return to your constructs that sail across the water. That is how you arrived on this land.”

  “We saw you,” another Kerma said. “We saw your creatures of wood.”

  “They are gone,” Miko said. “We seek passage to the Globe village. There is no need for us to fight.”

  “We will defend our home and families,” the head Kerma said. “Draw your weapons, friends.”

  From their sides the Kerma drew sickles and pickaxes. The weapons, curved and tipped with sharp blades and blunt edges, shone in the soft light that pierced through the miasma of cloud lingering overhead.

  “We ask you again, humans—leave our land and we will spare you the harm you will face in battle.”

  “We are not turning away!” Miko cried.

  The first arrow went soaring through the air, a constellation of battle sung by a drawstring from the harp of disgrace. Odin tackled Nova to the ground just before it could strike the two of them, the clang of his pauldron hitting the ice loud even in the deafening reality of battle. “Watch out!” he screamed. “Archers!”

  The next set of arrows flew at Nova as he stumbled to his feet and gripped his scythe in his hands. The first two missed, sailing through the air and embedding themselves into the ground. The next, however, was true. Glancing off the man’s unguarded shoulder, it slicked the snow with blood.

  The Kerma infantry—whom, at this point, had descended the hill and now stood on fair ground—advanced slowly, most likely attempting to catch them off guard in the wake of flying arrows.

  “Kill them!” Odin cried. “Miko! Miko!”

  The Elf said nothing, nor did he move.

  Nova growled, tightened his grip on his scythe, and screamed, “Come and get us, you furry little fucks! We’re not afraid of you!”

  Odin slung his sword free of its sheath.

  This will be the first time I’ve used you to fight, he thought.

  In that moment, he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the hilt of the weapon, knowing more than well that it would not be much longer before his first real battle began.

  The Kerma, now no more than a few feet away, stopped when the third barrage of arrows soared through the air.

  Odin cut the first shaft from the sky before it could hit him, then caught the second and third with his magic and threw them back with a flick of his wrist. The creatures on the hill had little time to react in the moments before the arrows buried themselves in their skulls.

  “Stay back!” Odin screamed. “I’ll kill you myself!”

  “You will try, child, but you will fail.”

  The head Kerma flew forward. Odin caught the head of the pickaxe with his sword just before it connected with his chest and briefly glimpsed Nova as he ran at the other group. Miko, too, charged, raising his magic-sparked hand.

  “Die, boy,” the Kerma growled.

  Odin flung his blade into the air to dislodge their weapons. The Kerma lunged, swung the blunt edge at Odin’s side, and almost managed to make a connecting blow before he ducked.

  With a twirl of his hand, Odin cut the flesh of the creature’s shoulder and sprayed blood into the air.

  They’re so small, he thought, panting, jumping back to avoid a thrust to his gut.

  While the difference in height would prove troublesome, especially because the creature stood at least a full foot shorter than him, Odin ignored it and instead threw three more blows. The Kerma blocked or dodged each one, pouncing through the air as if it were an animal, before it came forward and slashed at Odin’s thigh.

  Odin screamed as the blade parted the fabric of his pants and sliced his leg open.

  “You spill my blood, I’ll spill yours,” the Kerma breathed, rising, slamming the axe’s blunt edge into Odin’s hip.

  Both hits sent him staggering back.

  With a limp preventing him both from fighting and moving his best, he held his sword steady and began to reach into his magic.

  Is it fair, he thought, to use magic when no one else has it?

  “Stay back,” Odin
gasped, setting his free hand on fire. “I’ll use my magic on you.”

  “Try it, boy.”

  Odin threw the flame forward.

  A plume of steam parted the air as the fire met a barrier of ice before extinguishing.

  They have magic too.

  “Leave us alone!” Odin cried. Nova roared in the foreground and slammed his scythe into one of the Kerma’s back. Blood exploded form its torn spine as the man sliced the creature in half from groin to head. “We’re going to kill you if you don’t run!”

  “There’s no reason to live when we’re already dead.”

  The creature freed itself of its hood to reveal a maleficent image that, upon first glance, could not be truly comprehended. It seemed too impossible, too unreal for such a thing to be displayed upon the form of flesh, for when Odin stumbled back and looked directly at the creature’s head, he realized that this creature was really, truly dying. A patchwork of mange coated its skull, while its face was revealed in shades of pink and brown; its flesh—rotting, splitting and oozing pus—was cracked along its cheeks; and bone, the color of the moon, could be seen, and radiated with red scars that were either filled with blood or even exposed marrow. What might have been the most horrifying feature of this creature’s destruction, however, was a tumor the size of Odin’s hand. Pressed to its cheek, pulsing in tune to the raw, fleshy beat of its heart, it seemed to have only one eye—an eye that, unbeknownst to Odin, judged him with each passing moment.

  Unable to believe his eyes, Odin allowed his sword arm to dangle limply at his side, then screamed, “We didn’t do this to you!”

  “Humans destroyed us,” the Kerma said, thrusting its pickaxe forward as it advanced. “Humans deserve to be treated in kind.”

  “Odin!” Nova cried.

  The Kerma lashed out.

  Odin, just barely managing to catch the pickaxe on his sword, took his chance and snapped his blade up.

  He fell forward.

  The sword pierced the Kerma’s chest and killed it on impact.

  Lying in the snow, leg bleeding and hip throbbing, Odin prayed his friends had killed the rest of the Kerma, especially the final archer that stood atop the hill.