The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  “I was a child.”

  “Yes, you were,” The man acknowledged, “but so were they.”

  Arin bit his lip; always, the man saw too much. He knew Kelmunir didn’t believe his explanation. He was but an infant before him. How did this man of grey hair and crooked stature command such respect, such strength? For a man in his seventies, the man possessed strength that almost rivaled Arin’s own. Yet despite the raw strength Arin possessed, and his undeniable skill in battle, not once had he beaten Elder Kelmunir in single combat. Not even after years of practice. But this year… this year he would.

  You couldn’t join the fight as a Sword if you didn’t pass the test.

  “So, how does your training fare?”

  Arin eyes widened in a surprise. “My… training?”

  The man shook his head. “You’re a man grown now, brother Arin. You are almost ready for your vows.”

  Yes, the vows. Arin bit his lip. He didn’t have the heart to tell the man he had no intention of becoming a Shield. Yes, protecting the village was a respectable task. But Arin wanted to fight. He had not trained day and night to guard the village. He wanted to take the fight to the enemy. To become a Sword of the Order. To fight their ancient enemy.

  He still remembered well the day four years ago when he announced his plan to Elder Kelmunir. By the Kun’urin, he had never seen the man so furious. He had forbidden it, telling him never to speak of this again. But why? Why would he deny him the right to fight the enemy? It denied logic.

  Could he tell the Elder he was about to take the trial, and without his blessing?

  “The training is going well, Elder.” He had not the heart to tell the old man… not yet. The time wasn’t right.

  “Good,” Elder Kelmunir smiled warmly. “I’m proud of you, Arin.”

  “Thank you,” Arin whispered. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes.

  “The book that you were looking for… tell me, does this have something to do with brother Nijakim?”

  The words of the Kun’urin are false.

  Those words flooded back into his mind. He hated keeping secrets from Kelmunir, but he wouldn’t give up his brother. Not without confronting him first.

  Elder Kelmunir frowned. “I sense something is amiss in your heart. What is it, child? I sense… hesitation.”

  Arin pursed his lips, his hands gripping tightly against the thick furs he was wearing atop his robes. “No, Elder. Nothing is amiss. I am prepared to fulfill my duty. I had a disagreement with brother Nijakim about his… interpretation of the words, and I came here to study the teachings myself.”

  Elder Kelmunir gazed deep into Arin’s eyes. He had to force himself not to look away. Kelmunir didn’t know of Nijakim’s words, did he?

  Finally, the man nodded. “I understand. Oh, how I miss youth, the passion. Still, it’s best you settle things with him, don’t you think? I would hate for your friendship to sour over words written a millennium past. You have known each other for so long I can remember, and a friendship like that—nay, a bond—should not be wasted. I know the boy cares deeply for you.”

  “I know. Your words are wise, Elder.”

  Arin bowed deeply again, waiting for Kelmunir to leave the library. He needed to confront Nijakim, but he found that he couldn’t. Not yet. He was angry at him. Angry at the position his brother had put him in. And most of all, angry at himself for lying to Kelmunir.

  Arin needed a way to vent his anger, and he knew of no better way of doing that except in the ring.

  ***

  Arin swung his sword in a wide arc, the dulled blade howling as it cut through the air, striking his opponent’s leather vest head on. The boy’s ribs would feel the blow the next morning. Arin smirked as his opponent’s hasty counterattack came; he dodged it with ease by rolling underneath the blade just as the steel was about to connect with his body. The boy had been trained, yes, but he didn’t possess the sheer skill Arin did.

  Time seemed to stand still every time he battled. Every move, every thought easily predictable from the way his opponent moved his body. All he needed was to watch their eyes—to see into their soul—a trick Elder Kelmunir himself had taught him early on. It gave him an unfair advantage over the boys his age. His mentor was one of the finest swordsmen of the order—a matter other trainees didn’t let Arin forget. And most of his brothers never mastered the skill to anticipate instead of reacting. One day, should they become Swords of the Order, it would cost them their lives. And Arin was sure as hell not going to make that mistake. He would become the best fighter their order had known.

  His gift in the blade was also one of the reasons Arin had little to no friends amongst these trainees. He could see admiration in their eyes—but also resentment, envy, disgust. Even now, more than fifteen years later, they considered him an outsider.

  Arin kicked at his opponent’s fingers, hoping his grip would loosen enough to send the blade flying. But this time he had made a mistake; the blow was weak and poorly aimed. The boy winced at the pain, but his grip held. With a red, fuming face he brought his blade back and went for a sudden stab. With these dulled blades, a stab was nothing. But Arin had spent the last few months practicing with real, sharp swords, and by instinct, he brought his blade back for a parry—just in time for their blades to lock. Sparks flew, and the sound of metal brushing metal echoed throughout the otherwise silent training chamber—a large hut in the middle of the upper village.

  The two fighters grunted, cursed. In the blink of an eye, the match had turned from that of skill to a test of brute strength. Arin bared his teeth as he struggled to push back this opponent of his, a boy head taller than him and a body more muscular. He was unparalleled with the blade, yes, but he looked like a child in comparison to this giant.

  Arin pushed at boy with all his strength. Then, without a warning, Arin let go of his blade, using the surprise and the momentum to make the boy lose his balance. He fell, crashing into the ground with a painful-looking somersault, losing his weapon in the process. Arin picked up his own sword and pointed it at his opponent’s throat. The boy looked at Arin with disgust and open hostility. He was fuming.

  The match had over, and Arin had won.

  The crowd stood silent, none dared applaud. Then, a lone voice filled the air, as Master Nazek walked past the sitting trainees, towards Arin. “Well fought, brothers!” he shouted with a slightly amused tone.

  “That was dirty, Master,” the boy complained, flexing his fingers, wincing at the effort. “Arin could have broken my fingers.”

  Arin shrugged. “Anything is allowed in a battle. And I didn’t break them, did I?”

  “Brother Arin is right,” Master Nazek admitted, nodding. “But so is brother Emmet. This wasn’t a real battle—which you well know. Outside this hall, there are no rules, but in these halls, my rule is the law. And there is no worse waste than to cripple a brother-in-training before he even has the chance to join the fight. The world needs us—now more than ever. And I expect you to know better than this, brother Arin.”

  “I know, Master. My apologies,” Arin muttered, biting his lip. He knew he had control over the situation. At worse, his hand will hurt for a day or two. But he knew better than to argue against this man he admired so.

  Master Nazek was one of the living legends of his order. His skill with blade was undeniable, almost legendary. This was a man who had fought against their ancient enemy for more than two decades and returned.

  Arin remembered well the first day he had started his training here, almost a decade from this day. To the surprise of everyone, including the elders, Master Nazek had returned to the village. His return had shocked the elders—the Swords who joined the battle below almost never returned, especially alive. On that day, he had witnessed Elder Kelmunir and Master Nazek fight. The reason behind the duel remained unclear to this day, but he knew it had to be grave for the calm and composed Elder to lose his cool so.

  The next day, the two men fought, and the entire O
rder watched. Their strikes were a blur to Arin’s eyes, their bodies twisting in ways he thought impossible. They both moved with speed and agility almost inhuman. And in the end, Master Nazek had beaten Elder Kelmunir—but only because of Master Nazek’s superior stamina. Arin had watched in horror, thinking Elder Kelmunir, who was like a father to him, invincible. How could he lose to this man who had only just returned to the Three Peaks? This was what the true Swords of the Order could do. These men were true warriors. And since that day, Arin had strived day after day to become like him, to one day wield the blade as formidably as to make it look like he was dancing. Arin held nothing but the highest respect for his master-of-arms.

  “We both know you are unmatched in the art of the blade, brother Arin. But you must learn to show constraint. It is hubris to humiliate your opponent so. It can quickly lead to resentment, even disobedience. And that will lead to defeat—or death—in the field of battle. If you are to lead men one day, then you must learn to behave and act like a leader.”

  “Elder Kelmunir doesn’t want me to become a Sword, Master. He doesn’t let me become one. He has always pushed me towards the Shield.”

  Nazek’s face remained immobile, emotionless. “I am aware. We have discussed this in length. The duty of the Shield is a noble one. Should our enemy come for us one day, the Shields are the only ones that can hold them at bay.”

  Arin pursed his lips, feeling the rage swelling up inside of him. “And when has that ever happened, Master? You and I both know the real glory is found in the battle against our enemy. Not protecting empty houses and frail men and women.”

  The Shields of the Order were nothing but glorified bodyguards. He knew it was a worthy duty—protecting the two villages and the people in them, but it was not enough for him. Their lives were boring, uneventful. It was not what he wanted. He wanted to do something that mattered. Year after year, he had watched other boys of the order become men, become Swords. They left the mountain to fight the Daemoni. They scoured the world, fought to save it, like their order had for a millennium or more. Why couldn’t he? It was also the only way he could find out what his true heritage was, his true parents. He was always bullied for it—his ever so slightly darker skin tone, his hair. He was not pure, and the other children had hated him for it—especially since he had shown superior skill to most.

  The rest of the trainees had vacated the building, leaving the two of them alone. Arin could see Emmet leaving the room, looking humiliated. He had made another enemy for himself again. Arin didn’t mind the resentment himself. Solitude had suited him always. Perhaps that was why he had befriended Nijakim all those years ago? They both felt like they didn’t belong.

  The master-of-arms lowered his voice. “You are still young, brother Arin. Do you truly not see the reason why I push you so? Becoming a Shield now does not bound you forever. There will come a time when Elder Kelmunir is no longer among us. After that, you can make your own choices.”

  Arin gasped, shocked of the master’s words. How could he be so… blunt? Arin had always known Elder Kelmunir’s age, but had he truly understood it? Old men died, often without reason. Their bodies were old, wearied, frail. The thought made his throat tighten with emotion. How could he live without the man’s guidance? His wisdom? He had no one in his life except for him and Nijakim—and Nijakim’s parents, of course. They had always treated him well, almost like he was their son, too. But he dreaded a world without the Elder’s wisdom. He was not ready for it. He calmed his racing heart with slow, deep breaths, praying for tranquility. “I understand, Master. Thank you for your wisdom.”

  Now that Arin was alone again, his mind couldn’t help but return to his brother’s words.

  Nijakim’s words.

  Arin needed to confront him. There must have been a reason why he said those things to him. He had come here to vent his anger, not to hone his skills. And his anger had nearly caused a brother to get injured. No. Running would not do; it solved nothing. This time, he would face the turmoil he felt in his heart.

  ***

  Arin entered his friend’s quarters after hearing faint mumbling coming from the inside. He snorted after seeing his friend lost in his thoughts, savoring no doubt yet another book written by a man in some distant past, long buried. Ever since becoming a full-fledged scholar of the order, he had lived in the dormitory with all the other scholars, leaving his parents in the lower village to themselves. They were a lovely couple, Nijakim’s parents, for they always treated Arin with respect and kindness, never once showing apprehension at his unknown past.

  The room was almost pitch-black, and only a lone, half-burned candle near a bed in the corner illuminated the room. Nijakim was absorbed by whatever it was that he was reading, squinting through the ill-fitting spectacles he had been wearing for years now. More than once Arin had felt sorry for the man; how cruel can fate be to curse a scholar with poor sight? Despite the difficulty, it did not extinguish the thirst of knowledge the man no doubt felt. He truly was the personification of a scholar. How did two men who were so different from each other become the best of friends? A scholar or a warrior—it didn’t matter; they both felt like they didn’t belong, Arin supposed. And perhaps that was their bond.

  “Brother Arin,” Nijakim said, putting aside the book, smiling.

  How could the man smile every time they met? His cheeks slightly reddened once he saw Arin enter his room, no doubt ashamed for Arin seeing him reading yet another book. It was something Arin had always teased him about—playfully, of course. While he held no passion for the words of dead men and women, he respected the fact that Nijakim did.

  Nijakim had a face that radiated nothing but warmth and kindness. This was a man who meant no harm to anyone. A man Arin felt he should protect. Not once had he seen Nijakim lose his cool—yet another difference in them. The pursuit of knowledge requires an open mind and patience, something Arin found himself lacking often enough. Nijakim had taught him the Tac’achi—a meditation technique passed down from generation to generation amongst their order, but it had little to no effect on him. His mind was like a raging current, impossible to hold back without being swept away. His master-in-arms had scolded also for not mastering the technique, too. Men who couldn’t keep their heart calm in the middle of a battle would not live very long, he had said.

  “We need to talk.”

  “It’s about my words, isn’t it?”

  Arin nodded. Of course, he knew the reason Arin had come here today. He always could anticipate what Arin was thinking, often before even he did. Once, Nijakim had told that Arin’s face was like an open book. He wasn’t sure if it was a praise or an insult. All men have things they are good at. Arin’s talents lied in war, and Nijakim’s in words and logic.

  The words of the Kun’urin are false.

  Nijakim smiled, adjusting his spectacles with his right index finger. “Ask away.”

  “What did you mean by those words? You know I must swear my vows soon. So why speak those words to me and cast doubt into my mind? Why now?”

  Nijakim sighed, his weak, untrained shoulders drooping. He did not push his body to the extreme like Arin did—a scholar didn’t need to. And it showed. They both wore the same robes. Their heads were shaved clean, and their beards were both thick and dark. But as for their bodies, it was like staring at a boy and a man. Still, looks could be deceptive; they had sparred in the ring when they younger many a time, and Nijakim had always stood his ground.

  “That was not my intention. I wanted to make you think—that’s all. To use the mind instead of your heart. I would hate to see you leave the village to fight a war with questionable motivations. I could not bear you die like so many of our Swords undoubtedly do in some faraway country, and for me to hear from it years—decades—later.

  Arin flinched at the man’s words. “What falsehood?” he replied, voice soft.

  “I would prefer to investigate the matter more, for I do not know the full story yet.”

&n
bsp; “Just show me what you’ve found out, please Nijakim. You owe me that.”

  Nijakim nodded gravely. Arin could see the man’s lips tremble. At that moment Arin understood that the man did not intend to hurt him. This belief, this secret Nijakim thought he had uncovered, it pained him, too—likely even more than it pained Arin.

  “I stumbled upon an ancient tome in a part of the library that had burned down, likely decades before either of us was born.” the man begun, motioning for Arin to sit by him on his bed. “It was written in a language I had no knowledge of. I was confused, so naturally I asked one the elders. And do you know what he did?”

  Arin frowned. How would he know?

  “He took the book from my hands, and he told me to forget it. I tried, Arin, I did. But the truth has a way of resurfacing even if buried. Months later, I stumbled upon a book not unlike the first one in a part of the library that had been all but forgotten. The books there had been so poorly maintained, Arin, that it made me almost physically ill. But this one had endured the test of ages, and it was written in the same language! This time, I chose to withhold the knowledge of this book. Instead, I studied the language, and many a sleepless night later, I finally cracked its logic.”

  “What was it about?”

  Nijakim lowered his voice, leaning forward towards Arin. In his ear, he whispered: “It was about a troubled man, a king of some long-forgotten kingdom, sharing tales from his youth. His mistakes. His doubts and fears. It was diary of sorts. But you must understand, Arin, the language is not unlike our own, but in a way, it couldn’t be more different. Its structure resembles that of poetry, while ours is based on logic and precise rules to follow.”

  “And?”

  “At first, I thought the book a tale of sorts—fiction. Or perhaps even poetry. But the more I studied, the more and more I begun to believe that King Juriel vers Arens that wrote this epoch I have translated as ‘The Way of the Lost’, describes meeting two gods. Two… brothers.”