Chapter 13: Truth in Flame

  Bardom checked his bag, which would soon become his entire life’s possessions for several months. Laid out before the empty canvass sack, he evaluated his supplies.

  His knife—a modest dagger gifted by Yashin, the hilt etched with a design he liked. It felt good in his hand, excellent for stealthy operations, or when the necessity for close-quarters combat became too dire for a sword to serve him.

  He took his belt off, along with his sword and scabbard. This sword and scabbard were stolen from the first Lekkian he killed with Wally and Kent. Won felt a better term than stole to him. It did not look particularly special, but from his practice he knew that it was dependable. In his mind, good balance and a sturdy sharp edge was all he really needed from it. He’d handle the rest.

  Beside his main weapons were several extras that he had procured from connections on the training grounds. Three throwing knives, two smoke bombs, and a vial of poison—which he thought might become useful at some point.

  Next, his medical supplies were stuffed in a pouch. Bandages, alcohol, and several remedies that Adella instructed him to find. Some relieved pain, others nausea, and one was rumored to kill any infection of the body below the surface. Bardom had heard many stories of great men felled by disease. He did not intend to join them.

  For hygiene, he obtained a toothbrush from Sali, as well as two bars of soap. He had a razor for shaving, a towel, and a canteen for water. All of this came with dried fruits and nuts for emergency rations, in case they were cut off from supplies or adequate hunting.

  Lastly, he took his extra clothes. It was recommended that soldiers switched clothes every two days, washing them between uses. Bardom knew it would be inconvenient, but a rash on the battlefield would be dangerous. The slightest inhibitions could be a catastrophe to his plans, and his life.

  Some other supplies (some rope, wound sewing kit, and sleeping bag) sat out too. He packed it all except the rolled sleeping bag, and heaved a sigh. This was not how he imagined preparing for war. Part of him had hoped to never have to. However, times changed and now he was departing to fight someone else’s enemies.

  Two days later, Kagarani summoned his bulk force to march. The local garrison was to be manned by 1,000 men deemed unessential—either because they were too old, too short, or too rich to be put at risk. Having spent extensive time preparing Adella for his departure, Bardom said goodbye to the place he temporarily called home, and fell in with his unit. Deckel and he marched onto the troop transport wagon, throwing in their duffels. Bardom adjusted his armor as he watched the buildings they passed. The thin worker-Shavuim lined the streets staring at him, whispering.

  Suddenly, they each raised both of their hands and bowed their heads as his wagon passed.

  Deckel frowned. “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Yashin crumpled his lips in discomfort. “Thank the Great Leader we’re leaving.” He stood up and scanned the streets. More and more people lined up to watch their wagon among the procession of the passing transports. Glancing at Bardom, he grunted. “What in the world have you done?”

  Bardom tilted his head, then stood up. He waved to the spectators. Now, they bowed low as he passed. “I have no idea, Yashin. I’ve only helped them in my comings and goings.” He turned toward his superior and shrugged.

  “Sit down.”

  Bardom obliged, drawing the confused looks of the other soldiers in Yashin’s unit.

  “Listen up!” Yashin called once they finally reached the outer city, where the Shavuim did not live. “Who knows when we’ll return here? Prepare yourself for a long campaign. This won’t be as quick as Katan-Bat, we’ll need to take our time, and you’ll need to be tough enough to endure that. It’ll be colder. It’ll be harsher. It’s our burden to bear.

  “Everyone gets a partner starting now. Your job is to watch their back. Medical, mental, whatever. Always make sure your partner is still breathing! Every day! Pick your partners—don’t be children about it.”

  Deckel nudged Bardom. “What do you say, Na’Vanad? Care to make sure I’m well-fed?” He laughed heartily with squinted eyes.

  Always joyous, Deckel, Bardom thought.

  “So long as you’re sure to bathe once in a while,” he joked.

  The wagons chugged along for hours, the men passing the time with games involving dice and cards. Bardom had not experienced a caravan like this before. The scenery of the country, passing along the Dun Road as hilltop towns and cities by the rivers, came in and out of sight. There were wild deer and critters scrambling around, while birds flew overhead, above the trees lining the hills. The Dun Road grew more wooded as they approached the border with the West Midlands.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  They finally reached the border at dusk, where the advanced team had erected the perimeter of the camp. From there, they had an operating position for a steady advance to surround Leislay from the south and west. The timing of that would depend on General Ralu alone, for his artillery needed to be used to rout the opposition forces and penetrate their defenses. The Divine Message would be enough support to take tactical control of the southern region of the West Midlands first, but until Leislay was taken, a victory could not be claimed.

  “This place looks like a dump,” Eris complained.

  Bardom and the others looked around as they set down their gear. They laughed at the nobleman’s son. Eris huffed as he set to work on his tent with Dayro, his assigned partner.

  “Why is this brat here?” Deckel rolled his eyes as he dropped the chopped wood for the fire. “He’s not like us.”

  “Not like us?” Bardom frowned. “None of us are like each other. We’re all from somewhere else.”

  “Aye, but he’s no Shavu!”

  “So?”

  “So!” Deckel threw his hands up. “He intends to lord his status over the rest of us. He doesn’t know the first thing about survival at war. He’s a liability, and it’s all for his ego.”

  “You’re only saying that because I kicked his ass,” Bardom laughed, assembling the wood in a teepee for the fire. “You’d think his title would be worth fawning over otherwise.”

  “Ha!” Deckel laughed. “He’s too green. Greener than us.”

  If only he knew the truth, Bardom thought. How would he look at me if he knew my only war was against his side?

  “Was he not in Katan-Bat?” Bardom followed up.

  “He rode with the General,” Deckel exposed the truth. “He barely experienced a moment of discomfort.”

  “There are thousands of men camped with us,” Bardom said. “Legions of slaves. Why does one man bother you so much?”

  “Because when the swords meet, I don’t trust him to hold his nerve,” Deckel said. “Men like you, like me? We know how to fight—we know how to look death in the eye and laugh. He’s a coward with barely a single skill.”

  Bardom appraised the harshness in his friend’s voice. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Deckel craned his neck back at him.

  “Men show their true colors when their backs are against the wall,” Bardom said with a shrug. “If he shrinks from duty, then he’ll die. If not, we have another warrior.”

  Deckel rolled his eyes. “Maybe. Whatever.”

  The night came upon the troops, leaving the slave soldiers to eat their meals and retire. Bardom stayed by the fire, not solely to keep warm in the cool night, but to search for truth in the flames. He had to be like the fire now. They both lived futile lives, but when ignited, they could destroy what was around them. That thought gave him some direction on this precarious path—live or die, he’d leave his mark.

  The ever-changing flames danced on the charring wood, while memories of who he used to be haunted him. His mind sifted through images of his mother’s corpse, to Atzulah’s bulging eyes as he hanged—until it settled on the feeling of digging his sword into the enemy. His troubled eyes shifted away from the fire, onto the camp.

  I have hated these people, but now? Now I share a camp with them. What should I feel? Ought it be hate? Perhaps brotherly compassion? Perhaps it should be like a mentor’s concern for misguided pupils. Perhaps I can save them from their destructive ways. Perhaps I can be their teacher and their hero.

  But what do I want? Bardom thought. Is it possible for hatred to fade when all hope of a past life is lost? My life will never be the same. I will never have my family back. I will never be the care-free man I was—if ever I was care-free. Bardom seeks revenge, but this new man I am—what does he want?

  He rubbed his hands together, thinking about Laila, eyes lost in her memory. Na’Vanad’s desires cannot get in the way of Bardom’s plan, he told himself. A lapse in judgment could be the end.

  But her scent…

  Bardom shuddered, trying to shake away the thoughts of desire invading his mind. He looked again at the camp to think of the war instead.

  Inexplicably, the looming threat of war did not faze him. He expected to survive. He expected to succeed. Whether or not that was naive remained to be seen, but nonetheless his thoughts of the future pulled him along. He imagined being knighted, and all the spiteful glory it would bring. Then he would take Laila as his, for he believed she truly wanted him. He salivated at the thought of having Rontisil’s daughter, the indignity of a L’Ani bedding the Lekkian king’s own daughter right under his nose!

  How desperately he wanted to tear down the smug bastard…

  Bardom never believed in revenge, but now he craved it. The thought was distant a moment ago, his lonely heart thinking of the sweetness of a woman, but now his blood boiled with fury. The fire captured his eyes again as he fascinated over squeezing his true enemy’s neck until his cheeks turned blue. Rontisil deserved to suffer. His death was meant to be painful.

  Then the thoughts stopped, he sat breathing more and more calmly. The fire taught him a lesson about his mind, just there. His fury needed controlling—a fire made on kindling will burn bright and big for but a few moments. A stronger fuel will keep it burning steadily for a long while. He could not feel nothing, nor everything at once, if he hoped to destroy his enemies. He needed to be steady.

  I am the Blood Son, he thought to himself, my revenge is careful, but complete. It must not tarry, but it must be patient. Be calm. Be sturdy.

  As he laid down to sleep, he remembered the words Wahda had inspired in him. And I shall launch forth like a wolf on the hunt soon to be followed by a pack.