Deron, Captain of Prince Damian’s
personal guard
The sky was clear as I wandered
through the groups of young soldiers, all split into pairs with their
commanding officers looking on as they sparred. I didn’t like clear skies. It
usually meant the inevitable storms to come would only be that much worse when
they finally blotted out the sun and unleashed their fury. But for now the
ground I walked across was firm and dry and the slight wind that listlessly
stirred the oppressive heat was free of moisture.
I’d come to see if the rumors were
true, to witness for myself if the boys I’d been told about were as good as
everyone claimed. There’d been another attack on the palace—on Prince Damian.
The assassins had been swift and ruthless. It was the worst way to be woken up:
the pounding on the door and the shocked grief on Asher’s face when he told me
that they’d stopped the assassins from reaching Prince Damian, but four guards
had died in the effort. Four. We’d never lost so many at once. The
weight of their deaths was heavier even than the heat that pressed in on me as
I paced across the packed earth, pausing to watch one pair with keen eyes.
My contact in the barracks who
watched the soldiers and reported back to me had said there were some young,
talented soldiers he’d be willing to allow to try out for positions on the
prince’s guard, if I agreed to let them.
Gerund, my contact, stood a few
paces away and nodded when I lifted my eyebrows with a slight nod toward the
soldiers I’d been watching. The pair of boys looked similar, brothers perhaps.
One was slightly taller and more filled in, his arms more muscular and his
chest broader. He was probably in his early twenties, definitely older than the
other who looked to be no more than seventeen. But they both had the same light
brown skin—obviously of mixed heritage—and they both moved with ease as they
sparred, fighting each other with obvious skill.
“Rylan,” Gerund said quietly, as he
stepped over to where I had halted, indicating the taller of the two. “And that
one’s his brother Jude.”
I grunted. As I watched, Rylan
lunged toward his brother, a sharp, fast jab that Jude barely avoided. But then
Jude took the offensive and it was Rylan who had to avoid the next swing of
their wooden swords. They fought for a few more minutes before Rylan pressed
his advantage and finally landed a hit on Jude’s lungs, effectively winning the
sparring match.
“Orphans or volunteers?”
“Orphans,” Gerund confirmed. “The
other two I wanted you to see are as well.”
I would have preferred volunteers,
as orphans often had little loyalty to the royal family since they’d been
forced into the army. But we were down four men; the prince was in grave danger
if we didn’t fill those positions as quickly as possible. If these boys beat
the competition out, I would question them and feel out their dedication—their
willingness to risk their lives for a prince they very likely despised. “Tell
Rylan and Jude to come and try out for the guard. They’re young but skilled.” I
turned away before they caught me watching them. “And where are the others?” I
asked.
“This way,” Gerund said, walking
past a few other pairs of boys. “If you thought that was impressive, wait until
you see these two.”
Despite his recommendations and the
fact that he’d been right about Rylan and Jude, I was still skeptical of the
praise he continued to heap upon this next pair of boys. Until we rounded a
corner and came upon them, sparring in a ring, with a whole group of soldiers
standing in a circle, watching them.
They were obviously twins—the same
nearly-black hair, the same smooth, olive skin. There was no doubt Blevonese
blood ran through their veins, but again, they were obviously of mixed
heritage. Both boys were of average height, almost bordering on small for men.
One was slightly thinner than the other, but they both moved with a speed and
agility that was fascinating to watch—almost intoxicating. They were strangely
graceful, even though their movements were strong and lethal. It was almost like
a dance. A beautiful deadly dance.
“As you can see, they’re both very
skilled.”
I barely heard Gerund’s words as I
pushed through the group of soldiers watching the fight to get closer. The two
boys in the ring had delicate features, and as I got closer, I realized just
how small they were, nearly a head shorter than me. But what they lacked in
size or muscle, they more than made up for with skill.
I’d never seen such young boys—nor
many older ones, for that matter —fight with such speed. Whoever their parents
had been, they’d been trained well. Their swords whistled through the air,
their bodies twisting and spinning, as each fought for the upper hand. They
were both extremely proficient, but the slightly smaller one soon showed
himself to be even a step above his brother.
“That one is Alex.” Gerund had
elbowed his way up to stand next to me, the other soldiers quickly stiffening
to alertness and backing off when they realized the captain of Prince Damian’s
guard and a commanding officer were in their midst. “And his brother Marcel.”
Alex, the smaller, better one,
suddenly threw himself into the offensive with renewed vigor, almost as if he’d
been waiting, wearing down his brother’s energy. He was a sudden flurry of
movement, his practice sword a blur as he slashed and jabbed and twisted,
hitting Marcel on the arm, then the leg as Marcel frantically tried to hold off
his brother’s attack. But Alex was too fast, too good. In less than thirty
seconds, he knocked the sword out of Marcel’s hand and jabbed his own wooden
weapon into Marcel’s chest so hard that he landed hard on the ground with a
thud and a pained groan.
Their audience burst into applause
and Alex turned with a grin to face his fellow comrades, but when he saw me and
Gerund standing there, the smile wavered and he quickly stiffened into
attention, dropping his eyes to the ground.
“More orphans, huh?” I murmured to
Gerund and he nodded. A curl of guilt squirmed through me, knowing that their
misfortune had led them to me. But this was war, and I needed the best soldiers
available to me for the guard.
“Alex, right?” I called out and he
nodded, lifting his eyes to meet mine once more. His lashes were long, almost
giving him a feminine look. If I hadn’t just seen him fight, I never would have
believed such a pretty boy could have the abilities that he obviously
possessed. “I expect to see you and your brother at the tryouts for the open
positions on Prince Damian’s personal guard tonight.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he
quickly nodded, pressing his right fist to his left shoulder and bowing
slightly. “Yes, sir!”
His brother, Marcel, scrambled to
his feet, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. But he, too, echoed the words,
“Yes, sir!”
“Good.” Without another word, I
turned and left the twins behind me.
Four new positions meant four bodies
for which I had to prepare funeral pyres. My steps were heavy as I marched away
from the practicing soldiers and the two sets of brothers I hoped would soon
join the guard beside me.
Perhaps these four were skilled
enough to keep me from needing to prepare any more pyres. It was a desperate
but burning hope.
