Blood Bond

We rode at the head of a column of steel plate, a river of shimmering, reflected sunlight amidst waves of blue tint. Stonehand led the way, his large, imposing form casting a long, cooling shadow over us. I was sitting, side-saddle with Meris at my back just like before. Kael had his own steed now, and hovered a few paces back. The rhythmic clatter of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, and the low murmur of the men formed a monotonous, martial hymn that marked our slow progress down the wide main road toward the keep.

Our path wound through an idyllic countryside, bursting with the full flower of spring. Which I reluctantly had to admit was kind of nice.

I had once again pleaded with Stonehand about the urgency of the situation, only to be met with a gruff dismissal about the 'rubbish' awaiting us at the keep. Now, every leisurely hoofbeat felt like a personal insult—a grinding reminder of my own powerlessness.

Despite my frustration, lush green fields stretched out on all sides, dotted with vibrant splashes of wildflowers. The air was thick with the sweet scent of blossoms and damp earth. I had only ever seen this part of my kingdom as a fleeting, blurred tapestry of green and gold from the crystal windows of the royal hover carriage. But the servants in the keep often spoke of it with a wistful longing, describing the lush beauty of the land in springtime. Seeing it now, truly experiencing it for the first time, a sharp ache settled in my chest. This is the home I should be yearning to save, and yet, I have only now experienced it.

A horse drew level with ours, the rhythmic clop of its hooves pulling me from my thoughts. It was the ash-haired officer with the scar. He grinned at me again, but then also offered a respectful dip of his head. "A fine day, Your Highness. Good for riding."

Looking at him properly for the first time, I noticed his build, while strong, was lean. It was then that I truly saw the men around me. I had expected that Stonehand's men would be built like him, dwarves. But only half had his stature and build—their frames thick and stocky, their shoulders so broad they made other men look scrawny—though none were quite as towering as their Lord. The other half of the force, composed of normal humans, looked scrawny in comparison.

The questions dried up in my mouth. I would have spoken no more, except that nagging image of Kyle popped up in my head, him posturing and flexing—communicate, talk, connect. I shook my head, not quite believing that I was doing this. "So, what's your name... commander?"

The ash-haired man raised an eyebrow, but then his grin twisted up more in one corner. "It's Roderic, Your Highness. And I'm a lieutenant, just an aide to our Lord."

"What's it like serving under him?"

That earned a dry laugh from Roderic. "You see him. Don't take any bullshit, don't miss nuthing. But he's fair when you do right by him. I don't have any high blood in me, but here I am." He jerked his head toward the column behind us. "He cares about his boys, and in turn we'd storm the abyss for him."

"Impressive," I murmured, as I looked back over to Stonehand's massive back. I suppose there was a certain stateliness to his figure, a solidity that went beyond mere size.

As the column crested a hill, the idyllic scene gave way to a chaotic mass of organized misery. Soldiers in Rodinar gold were herding able-bodied men into crude wagons; they shuffled along, their heads bent low. There were the screams of children being torn from their fathers and the desperate cries of their clinging wives. And yet, a short distance away, another group of soldiers was tending a fire under a large pot. They seemed to be passing out soup and bread to another shambling line of women, the elderly, and children.

Roderic followed my gaze. "It ain't pretty," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "But Marshal Quintus is at least putting order to the chaos. Here, they get food in one place instead of roaming around like a mob."

The logic was cold, military, and I couldn't entirely refute it. But then my eyes caught on the children in that line. They were so thin, their faces smudged with dirt, their gazes wide and hungry. Several of them saw me, their grimy, skeletal hands reaching out as we passed. I felt compelled to reach out and give them something. But I had no bread, no coins. And even if I did, what good would a single loaf do for a sea of so many? The gesture would be a hollow, meaningless, almost insulting—a Marie Antoinette offer of cake. I can't answer their desperation with empty gestures, I have to do something real. I looked away from them, my hand closing into a fist.

It took a while for my fist to unclench. I felt steady enough to ask Roderic questions again, about their past campaigns, of the grim sights that haunted their memories. It was a view into a much bleaker landscape of harsher, grittier fairy tales. A few of the other men seemed to have found me approachable now, rode up to me and started talking.

They were actually a pretty lively bunch, which I should've known given the way they gossiped before. One of them was a dwarf named Gondo who, despite being actually short, still had a massive frame. Wistfully, he'd recount to me his days shepherding goats up in the mountains, the way he'd sit by himself up on the rocks and look over the expanse below. Another man with dark curls and tanned skin introduced himself as Tanner. He told me about his days adventuring in the dungeons before joining up with this brigade. There are dungeons and adventurers in this world?!

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

After talking with them, I noticed that all of them had been marked in some way by battle—a missing finger, a cut above the eyes, a patch of discolored flesh from a long faded burn. The faded etching of maimed flesh spoke in the backdrop of each of their stories.

As the sun began its long, slow descent, the landscape transformed. The road widened, and the trickle of traffic became a steady stream. We passed merchants in rumbling carts, laden with cloth and jewelry. Farmers drove ox pulled wagons piled high with spring vegetables and grains. Peddlers with colorful trinkets displayed on handcarts tried to catch the eye of passing travelers. They called out to us and the soldiers waved back. This was the pull of the keep—a giant, unseen heart drawing the lifeblood of the kingdom toward it.

Ahead, we rode past a horse drawn cart with children jumping around in its cargo bed and other colorfully dressed figures walking alongside it. My breath hitched, their ears were sharp—elves. But these were just normal peddlers, dressed in simple, if brightly colored pastel clothing, with no masks around their faces.

One of them, a boy huddled beside his father on the driver's seat, popped up. He looked at me, and his ghostly, pale blue eyes went wide, the same eyes as the elf I had killed. I jerked back, and Meris's arm caught me like a steel bar.

—

As twilight began to bleed purple into the edges of the sky, we broke formation and set up camp along the side of the road. It was a relief to be finally getting out of the position I had been holding for so long. The grumbling and stretching from the others as they rolled off their mounts seemed to agree with me.

The camp was a small bubble of warmth and light carved out of the encroaching darkness. A large bonfire sat at its heart, spitting sparks into the night sky and painting the weary faces of the men in flickering shades of orange and red. Food was served, our own food, cooked by the men. Meris tried to grab some for me, but I insisted on lining up with the men. Dollops of dark meat stew and a slice of dried bread on a tin plate. It wasn't much, but it felt safe as I took a seat on a log and sank into the sea of rowdy chatter by the fire.

It was then that Tanner pulled out a wooden, well-worn lyre from his pack. He sat on a lone rock, cradling the instrument, and a chorus of cheers and raised flagons welcomed him. Tanner strummed a hoppy, light-hearted melody.

His voice, when he began to sing, was surprisingly clear and crisp, but it was soon joined by a cacophony of rough and grating voices. Everyone seemed to know the song. It was a tale of a farm boy who rose to become a knight, and then won the heart of a princess.

The music, the voices were nothing compared to polished, near-perfect performances of court minstrels, but this was raw, loud, and alive. I found myself being buoyed by the voices and the joy of everyone around me. It tugged at me, and soon I was singing along about how the boy slew a monster—I was never allowed to take singing lessons.

The next line was about him lifting the princess's skirt, and I nearly choked on the words as I sang them. No one else seemed to notice as the singing flowed on, but I found Meris looking at me with narrowed eyes. I had to cover the rebellious smile forming on my lips with the back of my hand.

The notes of the lyre eventually calmed, shifting to the melody of a different song, one a little more somber. It sounded familiar, like a hymn I once heard. My gaze followed the embers rising from the fire. All around us, giant tree trunks stretched up to the darkness above. They looked like columns rising to vaulted, dark ceilings. I was reminded of the time when Mom brought us to mass in the big church in the city. There were the massive stone columns, the arched ceiling, the stained-glass windows. Organs flooded the hall with deep, tremoring notes, while a chorus sang in light, undulating voices. Mom crossed her heart and did her Hail Mary, then she clasped her hands together in prayer. Her hands and eyes were closed so very tightly. I tried my best to pray as well. Maya just stared, wide-eyed up at the cross and the statue above.

We were walking down the hallway of the main temple, it too was lined with giant stone columns reaching up to a vaulted ceiling. Dignitaries and nobles packed the seats to either side of us, and our steps were upon a long carpet stretching to the main altar where the open sarcophagus of my grandfather lay waiting. My mother walked beside me while my father walked ahead, and all I could see was the back of his broad shoulders listing from side to side.

A lone voice was singing in the temple, hauntingly, to the very same melody that the lyre was now playing. It rippled and tugged at me, the notes pulling at my throat as I stared into the night sky above.

When I come to depart upon the river,

Deep chords slowly gathered and pooled around me as I watched my father lurch forward and sink down on one knee before the altar, his body racked with sobs.

Will you be there to take my hand,

The melody rose and crashed like a wave, and there was my mother, her hands clasped tight in silent prayer.

To guide my soul toward the final land,

Fingers plucked fast and rhythmic on the strings as waves of emotion rose up and down. Flashes of both my worlds collided within me: of my father sobbing, of my mom praying, of the elf I had killed, and the mercenary boy whose life I had also taken. Of the hospital bed, and the beating Wardstone, of kids staring at me with hungry eyes.

Where the light of my memories will burn forever.

The music stopped. My hand clasped over my mouth as I realized that I had been singing, alone. Not only that, but I had butchered—no, massacred—the Death Hymn with my made-up words, because that was what the melody was from.

A heavy silence fell over the fire.

All the men were sitting, still as statues, their eyes staring at the crackling flames. All except for Kael, whose brown eyes were piercing through me, and Meris, who was watching me as always.

Finally, Stonehand raised a cup and emptied its contents into the flames, which roared back in response. "Here's to those that fell before us." He moved his cup to the side, and Roderic refilled it. Then Stonehand raised the cup again. "To the will of Iron!"

"To Iron!" The men replied as one, echoes of their shout reverberating through the forest.

I looked up one last time toward the darkened horizon. Out there, beyond the trees, must loom the spires of Aethelgard. What awaits me there?