Heirs of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  “My name is not Slug! It’s Sling!”

  “I don’t care what you call yourself. I’m here on my father’s business, so get out of my way.”

  “You know,” Sling said, his lips parting to reveal crooked yellow teeth, “I think it’s about time you learn what a man is really like, Sloane. Trust me, you’ll never forget my true name again. No, no… you’ll be singing the praises of the great Sling all night long.”

  Ryan had heard enough. He handed Silver’s leash to Sloane, then stepped between her and Sling. “The lady asked you to leave her alone,” he said, “and she meant it.”

  Sling’s face grew red in an instant, and he swung a ham-sized fist directly at Ryan’s head.

  Sloane screamed—but there was no need. Ryan’s years of martial arts training kicked in. He instinctively caught Sling’s wrist and pulled in the same direction as the swing, using the bully’s momentum against him. At the same time he swept Sling’s legs out from under him, and the oaf landed face-first in a mud puddle.

  Aaron burst into laughter, which only enraged the bully more. Sling rose from the mud, pulled the club from his belt, and swung it at Aaron’s head.

  What Sling didn’t know was that Ryan wasn’t the only Riverton to have trained in the fine art of fighting.

  Aaron blocked the bully’s club with one quick swipe of his hand, then slammed his fist into Sling’s nose. With a sharp crack, blood splattered in all directions. Sling staggered backward, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed into the mud once more.

  A few gawkers who’d gathered to see the conflict gasped—then cheered. Ryan wondered if they all knew this Sling, or if they were simply happy to root for the underdog and see the larger man go down in defeat.

  Sloane grabbed both brothers by the arms and yanked them away from the scene. She stopped in a back alley, her head swiveling from side to side as if checking to see if they’d been followed. Then she turned on the two boys.

  “I can’t believe what you two just did!”

  “I’m sorry,” Ryan began, “I just—”

  “No, I’m not angry—I’m glad! That oaf deserved everything he got. I was just afraid you were going to get hurt.”

  Ryan grinned. “Well, I had to do something, or the job would have fallen to Silver.”

  “You had to do something?” Aaron said. “Who delivered the final blow?”

  “Both of you, thank you,” Sloane said quickly, forestalling an argument.

  “I’m surprised anyone would treat you like that, given what you’ve told us about who your father is,” Ryan said. “Does he not know?”

  “Oh, he knows,” Sloane said, “he just doesn’t care. It’s probably because his father drinks too much and beats him. He takes it out on anyone he can.” Her smile returned. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Father about this.”

  Ryan and Aaron looked at each other nervously.

  “Is that okay?” Sloane said. “Should I not tell Father?”

  Ryan hesitated. “It’s just—Aaron and I were taught that we’re only supposed to fight to defend ourselves or our family. And you’re not family.”

  Sloane frowned. “Well, you did stay at our house last night. And will again tonight. I’d say I’m the closest thing to family you have here in Trimoria. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ryan considered this, then grinned. Aaron did too.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “I think that counts.”

  Their last stop of the day was at a stall where the vendor was pouring dried corn into bags.

  “Time to earn your keep, boys,” Sloane said after purchasing three sacks of chicken feed. “Help me carry these home.”

  Ryan picked up one of the large bags of feed, which was quite heavy. But of course Aaron not only picked up his bag quite easily, he waved away Sloane’s attempt to pick up the third bag, insisting he carry two bags all by himself. Sloane looked quite pleased, perhaps even impressed, which made Ryan fume.

  It had been a long day, and they walked back to the Lancaster property mostly in silence. But when they arrived, Sloane stopped and turned. “Do you guys like archery?”

  “I love archery!” Aaron said. “Dad takes us to the archery range all the time. I’m better at it than Ryan, of course.”

  “Are you delusional?” Ryan snapped. “Who always gets closest to the bull’s-eye? Me.”

  Sloane held out her hands. “Okay, boys, no need to always be so competitive. I just wanted to know if you’d like to practice a little.” She lowered her voice, even though no one was around. “Mother doesn’t know this, but Father’s been teaching me to defend myself with a knife and a bow. Mother definitely would not approve though, so please don’t say anything.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” Ryan said with a smile. He didn’t mention that her father had already told them about this. Maybe it wasn’t as much of a secret as Sloane thought.

  As the boys put down their heavy sacks, Sloane went to a shed and pulled out a bow, a quiver of arrows, and two scarecrows. She set up the scarecrows against two trees some distance away, then returned to the boys.

  “We are fifty paces away from the straw men.” She held out the bow to Ryan and grinned. “If you can hit a bull’s-eye as you have said, hitting a straw man in the chest should be easy.”

  Ryan took the bow reluctantly. “Uh…” He wished he hadn’t been boasting. “I guess, um… I guess I can give it a try.”

  His hands were shaking with nerves as he slid an arrow from the quiver and nocked it on the bow. Carefully, he took aim and pulled back the arrow. He concentrated on the target for a moment, then let the arrow fly.

  The arrow hissed through the air, slamming into the straw man’s knee.

  Aaron laughed. “Well, he’ll definitely be limping after that shot.”

  Ryan chuckled despite himself. “You think you can do better, hotshot?” He held the bow out to his brother. “Prove it!”

  Aaron took the bow and confidently nocked his arrow. He closed one eye, concentrated on the same scarecrow, drew back the arrow, and let it fly.

  It sailed a bit high and to the left, and penetrated one of the straw man’s arms.

  “Oooh, that’s just gonna make him mad,” Ryan quipped. “At least my guy can’t chase me.”

  Aaron laughed too, looking a little embarrassed.

  Sloane stepped forward. “Let me give it a try.”

  As she took the bow and assumed her stance opposite the targets, Aaron teased, “Are you sure you don’t want to get a little closer?”

  Sloane merely harrumphed in reply. She gracefully nocked an arrow, drew it to her cheek, and wasted little time in firing.

  The arrow struck the scarecrow in the center of his chest.

  Sloane shrieked and clapped her hands. “Ha! One less enemy straw man.”

  “Great shot, Sloane,” Ryan said.

  Aaron mumbled agreement.

  Sloane couldn’t stop smiling. “Well, I do have an advantage. My teacher is the best archer in town—I’m talking about Father, of course. And… well, I noticed a few things that I think might help you two, if you want to hear them.”

  “What was I doing wrong?” Aaron asked.

  “Actually, both of you made the same mistake. You aimed the arrow before drawing it back. Father taught me that it’s better to draw the arrow first. If you aim first, that aim will change a bit after you draw the arrow. So get in your stance, draw the arrow—always draw it all the way to your cheek—and then, once you can see down the arrow, you can aim properly. Of course, you need to adjust a little for the distance before you fire.”

  Sloane held the bow out to Ryan. “Try again?”

  Taking the bow, Ryan drew an arrow all the way back to his cheek before narrowing his gaze down the shaft. He lined up the target and adjusted a bit for the distance. Then he let it fly.

  The arrow hit its mark just a few inches above Sloane’s.

  “Woohoo!” Ryan hollered. “Another one bites the dust. Well,
the same one. But he’s twice as dead now.”

  “That was great!” Sloane said. “Now you try, Aaron.”

  Ryan handed the bow to his brother.

  “Just breathe in and out slowly,” Sloane advised. “And make sure you let go of the arrow between breaths—not while you’re inhaling or exhaling. Believe it or not, it makes a difference.”

  Aaron breathed calmly and slowly, in and out. He pulled the arrow back to his cheek, squinted, and moved the point of the arrow around a bit. Then he released his arrow. His shot buried just below Sloane’s.

  Aaron grinned from ear to ear.

  Sloane clapped in excitement. “What a great shot! See, guys? My father’s advice did help!”

  Aaron continued smiling. “Can we do that again?”

  With Silver lounging nearby, they spent the next hour practicing archery, Sloane giving the boys tips, the two boys eagerly absorbing them. By the end of the session, Ryan’s right shoulder was burning from exertion.

  Sloane saw him moving his arm in a circle to relieve the tension. “I hope you’re not too sore to pitch in with my chores tomorrow. With you boys helping me, we might finish early enough for us to come back here and practice a little more.”

  “I’m not sore at all,” Aaron proclaimed grandly. “I’ll help you with your chores.”

  “Then you can carry my sack of chicken feed again,” Sloane said, “and I’ll walk Silver home.” She grabbed the end of the big cat’s leash. “I think I’m getting used to having a swamp cat around.”

  “And I think I’m getting used to home-cooked food,” Aaron said. His eyes sparkled. “In fact, I think our mothers were working on pie crusts this morning.”

  Laughing alongside his brother and their new friend, Ryan marveled at just how much of the new life he was already getting used to. This magical place called Trimoria was already coming to feel like home.

  Unexpected Trouble

  The next morning, Ryan was in Throll’s study poring over some old books when his dad entered.

  “How’s your shoulder?” Dad asked.

  Ryan rubbed his shoulder. “It’s fine, just sore. Actually it’s feeling better already.” He’d told his dad about the archery practice, but the official story, for Gwen’s sake, was that he’d strained his shoulder carrying the bag of chicken feed. Ryan hated that story—especially since Aaron had carried two bags—but was willing to keep Sloane’s secret.

  “Good, because the delivery’s here,” his dad said. “It turns out that the smithy’s storage shed is being built, so a lot of stuff is coming here for storage. Anyway, it looks like Ezra was only able to spare one person to deliver the supplies. So since your brother is out doing chores with Sloane, you’re going to have to help unload the wagon.”

  Ryan rose dutifully. “Of course, Dad. Are you and Throll helping too?”

  “No, just you. Throll and I are meeting with the widow of the previous blacksmith to make arrangements for me to take over the smithy. Which brings me to your second task. When you unload the delivery, transfer as much of it as you can onto Throll’s hand cart, then bring it to the smithy. It’s on this same road, about ten minutes east. There’s a large painted anvil hanging from the side of the building, so you can’t miss it.”

  By the time Ryan got outside, his dad and Throll had already gone, and a stick-thin delivery man was waiting for him in front of a cart filled nearly to overflowing with coal and iron ore. It took over an hour of shoveling to create two neat piles in the Lancasters’ barn, and then more time to transfer some of each onto the small hand cart. When they’d finished, the delivery man bowed humbly to Ryan.

  “Thank you for your assistance. I was also instructed to tell you that Ezra sends his apologies. The bellows for the forge might be delayed in delivery, he sent me ahead with this stuff first.”

  Ryan thanked him for his help and for his honesty, though secretly he wished the heavy iron ore and coal had been delayed as well.

  After the man left, Ryan went to Throll’s push cart and gave it a shove—only to realize that it had been resting in mud all the while. No matter how hard he pushed, it remained stuck. How do I get myself into these situations?

  After pondering the problem, Ryan found a large, sturdy stick in the corner of the barn. He wedged it between the muddy ground and one of the cart’s wheels, creating a lever. When he put all his weight onto the lever, the wagon slowly started to shift, and in time, a loud sucking sound indicated that the wheel had been freed. With a smile, Ryan returned to the rear of the wagon and pushed again, maintaining momentum until the wagon was clear of the mud.

  Ryan hadn’t gotten far down the road before he heard a voice calling from behind him.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going with my cart?”

  Ryan looked back to see the bully from the day before—the one Sloane had called “Slug.” But this time he wasn’t alone. With him were three other rough-looking boys, all of them smaller than Slug but nevertheless at least as big as Ryan.

  Ryan groaned. This wasn’t going to end well.

  “You heard me, runt!” Slug bellowed. “Where are you going with my cart and my stuff?”

  Ryan sighed. “Listen Slu… uh, Sling. This is Throll Lancaster’s cart, and the stuff is for my father’s smithy. Both my father and Throll are expecting me.”

  Slug and his friends strode forward. Up close, Ryan could see that Slug’s nose was bruised and swollen from their encounter yesterday. Which might have been a mercy, as his companions smelled as if they hadn’t bathed since the last time they’d been caught in the rain, which was probably quite a long time ago. They were unarmed, but Slug held that same club in his hand.

  “I say this is my cart,” Slug said. “You say it belongs to Throll Lancaster.” He bent down, his broken nose settling near Ryan’s face. “So… are you calling me a liar?”

  Ryan said nothing, but he didn’t back away either, and he maintained eye contact.

  Slug stood up straight again. “Hey, Dominic,” he said, “is there anything that makes me madder than being called a liar?”

  Dominic answered with a heavy lisp. “Pretty thure you killed the latht perthon who lied to you. Didn’t he, Kendrick?”

  “Ya, Dom,” said Kendrick. “That’s exactly what he did.”

  It was clear these boys weren’t going to let Ryan just go on his way. But he remembered something his dad had told him. Nothing is worth giving up your life for. If these boys wanted to steal from him—and from Throll Lancaster—let them. Justice would eventually come.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I must have been given bad information. This must be yours. You can have it, Sling.”

  Slug sneered. “Too late, runt. Time to pay your dues.” The bully smacked his club into the palm of his hand.

  Ryan braced for the assault. He’d never trained to fight four people at once.

  The boy named Kendrick lunged at Ryan first. Ryan responded with a heavy kick to the side of the teen’s knee, which snapped audibly. Kendrick screamed and fell to the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

  The unnamed boy came in next, reaching for Ryan’s neck. Ryan grabbed the guy’s wrist, lowered himself, then swept his attacker’s legs out from under him. The boy tried bringing Ryan down with him, but Ryan smashed his palm into the arm that was holding him while pulling in the opposite direction on his attacker’s wrist. The arm popped, bending backward at the elbow.

  The boy howled in pain.

  Ryan jumped back, ready for the next attack. His heart was pounding, and sweat was dripping down his back, but the odds were much better now. Kendrick was out of the fight, and the other guy was already running away, holding his arm. That left only Slug and Dominic.

  But then Dominic pulled a knife from the back of his trousers.

  That changed the equation. Still, Ryan remained more concerned about Slug. He was the leader of his little group. He was the one who was out for revenge. Dominic was just following his boss’s lead.
>
  The two thugs circled Ryan, approaching with more caution than their friends had. And with more coordination. Both attacked at once.

  Ryan acted on reflex. He spun a back kick directly into Slug’s broken nose, which exploded in a mist of blood. The back kick left Ryan in perfect position to face Dominic, but he was a fraction of a second too late. Dominic’s knife sliced Ryan’s upper arm, and it was no minor cut. Blood poured profusely from the wound.

  “What’s going on here?” a voice shouted.

  Ryan turned to see another wagon trundling up the road. Beside him, Dominic and Slug took off, leaving their friend Kendrick behind, now unconscious on the ground.

  The driver of the wagon hopped down beside Ryan. “What happened here, boy? Are you hurt?”

  As Ryan explained what had happened, the man produced a long white strip of cloth from his pocket and wrapped it tightly around Ryan’s arm until the blood flow subsided.

  “If half of what you said is true, boy, you’re a much better fighter than you look. Still, I suppose this boy with the broken leg is proof enough.” He slung Ryan’s good arm over his shoulder and helped him onto his wagon. He then pulled the unconscious teen from the road and said, “I’ll come back for this one, but yours needs more immediate attention. Let me get you back to the Protector’s house. I would hazard to guess that Mrs. Lancaster is better with a needle and thread than I.”

  The adrenaline rush of the fight was fading, and as the man turned the wagon around to head back toward Throll’s house, Ryan grimaced at the burning pain of his wound. His arm felt weak, and it throbbed with every beat of his heart.

  “I’m awfully lucky you arrived when you did,” he said. “I hate to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “Sometimes we end up right where we need to be,” the man said curtly. “As it turns out, I was headed for the same place you were. My father asked me to deliver these bellows directly to the new smithy.” He hitched a thumb at a tarp-covered object in the back.

  “Your father? So you’re Ezra’s son?”