Chapter 3: The Birth of a Beast

  Let not it be taught that the Kahl’s lesson to Bardom was a punishment, for only the strongest steel is forged in the hottest fires. Woe to the man for his suffering, but the conditions for greatness are rarely comfortable. Slavery begot Bardom’s ascent far more than his princedom ever did.

  The people dispersed in a grief-stricken haze, the Lekkians letting them go. Bardom had expected them to take everyone as slaves, but they just let them go. They’d emasculated Katan-Bat in a matter of hours, what more humiliation did they need to inflict?

  Shoving his emotions somewhere he could not access, Bardom led his companions toward his father’s stronghold. His room housed several items he believed would help him. One was his knighthood seal, which would identify him as a nobleman anywhere on the continent. If he went north, he could use it to reunite with his distant cousins, whose own borders might be next for Rontisil’s savages. Because they did not know his face after years since their last meeting, the badge would be his lone identification to justify his word.

  “We should run,” Kent confided as they strode past the other soldiers. No one paid them any mind.

  “Soon,” Bardom said. “There is one more place we must go.”

  Wally shared a frustrated glance with Kent. “Sir Knight, we are an inch closer to death with every step we take here.”

  “And so shall we be for quite some time,” Bardom said with calm and cold resolve. “The only way we survive is by blending in.”

  “The dead ache for our vengeance,” Kent whispered in a tense tone. “What do you plot, old friend?”

  “Nothing sensible,” Bardom replied, shaking his head, and blinking away a tear. He could feel his mind going mad.

  The three entered the palace, holding their breath as they sidestepped the blood stains and corpses of honorable men and helpless house staff. The damage had all been done, not a sign of any living Katanese remained—except for them. Bardom led them towards the residence chambers. Inside the great stone building was a network of apartments for the nobility. As they snuck in, Bardom acted like a Lekkian as best he could, avoiding attention or suspicion in the halls.

  He kept hearing one name among the speaking soldiers—Vakin. How intriguing it was to learn that Bardom’s old adversary was now dead. The general and his whole army had been murdered on the march to Stet-Lek, but no one knew who’d done it. The most common answer he heard was that he was responsible for destroying Vakin and his army, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He didn’t even know Vakin was coming. Bardom barely had the mind to think much of it, beyond that it could become useful information. He was sharply focused on his mission.

  Stepping to a shortcut to the noble quarters, Bardom and his companions halted in their places. Bardom’s heart jumped at the sight of the main feasting hall, where a pile of Lekkian bodies stood with some men around them. These were the men of Vakin’s advance force sent to attack the L’Anis in their chambers, found dead. Conveniently too dead to ask questions about how their lord was killed…

  Did our men kill them in defense of the palace? Bardom wondered. He was going to investigate when he noticed two Lekkians surveying the bodies.

  The three retreated back around the doorway they came from before they could be seen, and Bardom listened in.

  “Unbelievable,” one Lekkian said. “They really got trapped in here?”

  “We found the doors barricaded,” another said. “They were supposed to go unseen, the only thing I can think of is the L’Ani guards finding them and forcing them into this room for a final stand.”

  “But there are no Katanese bodies among them,” the first one replied.

  “Yes, it’s quite curious,” the second said. “Kagarani will be very upset. Not one survivor to tell him what happened? Vakin’s death will make waves.”

  “For Kagarani?” the first one snickered. “Our dear general will not be making any waves. I bet you we will go straight back to Stet-Lek after this. He has to iron out his departure from the court.”

  “It’s all happening so fast.”

  “You’re right,” the first one said. “Ralu’s been pushing Kagarani out of favor for months. Ralu won’t get this fief, but he won’t have to worry about Kagarani anymore, either. He’ll be too busy administering Katan-Bat from afar to get in his way.”

  Bardom listened closely. So Kagarani would be given his home. He expected a warlord to take over this place, but why would he be going back to Stet-Lek? He probably has to follow Rontisil everywhere. Pathetic monsters.

  The second one nodded his agreement, “You’re right. Ralu’s ready to make waves. With Vakin and Kagarani out of the way, he’s the golden boy.”

  “Did you hear he took the Crown Prince’s wife, too?” the first one laughed. “He’ll make an honest Shavu out of her!”

  Atzulah’s wife! Adella… a captive to her husband’s murderers, now, he thought in anguish. I must find her!

  “Did they ever find the other prince?” the first one asked. “He’s the real Lekkian-Slayer. I want to get a good look at his fright before they cut his guts out.”

  “Nowhere to be found,” the second one said. “If he ran away, he’s a pathetic excuse for a knight.”

  “Kagarani seemed to think he was going to be the most dangerous man we faced today,” the first one noted. “I’d feel better if I knew where he was. He could be getting all the Knights of the Realm ready to kill us all, like the Great Leader warned. I’m glad we got these bastards before they could destroy our home.”

  Bardom felt his eyes lose focus as he looked upon the gray stone wall. He was right. I’m the most dangerous man in this castle.

  When they arrived at his own door, he saw it was already cracked open. He halted Kent and Wally.

  “Stay here.”

  “What if someone is inside?” Kent hissed.

  Bardom’s eyes made Kent shrink away, with the prince’s face mostly covered by the flat metal mask attached at the front of his helmet. Bardom then opened the door slowly, without a word.

  Inside, he saw a soldier donning his undergarments, his helmet and armor left on the side of the room, his sword in its sheath on the floor. The man laughed.

  “Time to go already?” he asked. “No sign of the other prince. Can’t decide if I’m going to tell Kagarani or not.”

  Bardom glanced to his left. On the floor he saw a dead woman, barely letting his eyes fox on it before looking away. He swallowed, peeked once more—then winced. His mother. By the look of it, she had been hiding under his bed.

  “Did you kill her?” Bardom growled.

  The man glanced to the side, frowning. “She didn’t fight back.”

  Bardom glanced at the blood staining the floor from her legs. He exhaled through his nose hard, clenching his jaw. The outrage…

  “Get my sword, will you?” the enemy said as a test.

  Bardom glanced at the weapon on the floor between them. “How can a human treat another like this?”

  The man snapped his neck toward him. “You dare disapprove, Shavu?”

  Bardom looked back at him then stepped forward. Putting his boot on the sword, he took his helmet and mask off, and nodded. “Where I come from, a human life is sacred.”

  The man frowned, then smiled smugly. “You must be the second son. I found you.”

  Bardom shook his head slowly. “No. I found you.”

  The Lekkian snorted. “Blending in as one of us was smart. No one knows what you look like. But the game is over now, boy. I can’t wait to cut your head off to show them all.”

  Bardom kicked the man’s sword to the door behind him, putting himself between him and it. He drew his own sword out. “Good luck trying.”

  Bardom finished beating the man, only when his face was an unrecognizable bloody mush. He listened to be sure he was still breathing, then wrapped him in the bedsheets tightly. Barely a thought processed through his mind as he doused the covered Lekkian in lantern oil. Bardom scoured the room for the rope he once used for exercising, then fastened it around the man's neck and tied the other end to the bedpost.

  “Do you regret it yet?” Bardom hissed to him. “Moan something you shit!”

  The man gurgled pathetically.

  Bardom dragged him toward the window as the man weakly struggled. “You’re getting off better than you deserve. When you get to hell, I hope it burns as badly as this!”

  He lit the lantern and pressed it against his face. The sheets caught fire and the man groaned in panicked agony. As the flames licked his fingers, Bardom shoved the man through the window. The bed jerked as his weight sunk downward, but it held without breaking. The image would be enough to convince everyone that Bardom had been executed horribly.

  He donned his helmet, then wrapped the extra bedsheets around his mother’s corpse and the dead man’s armor.

  Before leaving, he rummaged through the hidden drawer below his bed and found his knighthood—an ornate badge that signified he was a nobleman of Katan-Bat. Such a symbol would grant him hospitality anywhere on the continent, except for Stet-lek where it would expose him as a foreigner.

  He was just about to leave when he noticed another jar of lantern oil. Glancing at the taut rope leading out the window, he set down the armor bundle and grabbed it. With his mask on to conceal his face, he could see a large group of Lekkians and Katanese watching. He saw the flames burning away at the corpse and started pouring more oil slowly, and suddenly the flames burned larger. He dropped the whole jar, until the body was engulfed in flames. It would be too burnt to identify the body.

  He set the jar down, then let out a breath. He felt like he would vomit.

  Suddenly, Wally poked his head in. He gasped slightly. “Sir—“

  “Grab these,” he motioned to the tied bundles, swallowing and standing himself up.

  Kent entered behind Wally, and the two did so reluctantly. No Lekkian could fault another for stealing their booty, so they went out of the palace unbothered.

  They hurried back to Lya’s house, where the young lady no longer was. I hope she got on that ship, Bardom thought. No one had spotted the bodies from earlier, and the waning sunlight gave them an opportunity to bury them along with their bundles.

  Wally was a larger fellow, so he hauled two of the Lekkian bodies over his shoulders. Bardom took his mother’s corpse and the extra armor, while Kent carried the third Lekkian’s body. They found a good patch in the forest to the north of the city, digging for an hour before they dumped the bodies and the armor in the hole.

  It pained Bardom deeply to bury his mother beside these savages, but he needed them hidden. This deep into the forest, the dirt was easy to shovel, and time was now important for Bardom. He heard the Kagarani men in the city mention that they would be leaving the city. He couldn’t let them leave without him, no matter how tired he was.

  There was no more evidence of their crimes. The armor they wore was now theirs. Bardom was ready to chase his prey.

  Kent sat down and guzzled from his waterskin. “For goodness sake, Bardom,” he said, dropping the formality for the first time in months, “what the hell are we going to do?”

  Bardom sat as the darkness descended on the forest. His thoughts were with the dead, far away from the realm of men. Thoughts of revenge halted in favor of his grief.

  Wally put his solemn hand on Bardom’s shoulder. “We must find a way north.”

  Kent shifted into a more comfortable position, disliking the idea. “Why not find our way onto merchant ships and just go… anywhere but here?”

  “Nowhere south or west is safe,” Wally shook his head. “In the East Midlands, Bardom has kin—his maternal grandfather is still a legend there, even in his poor health.”

  “I am not going to the East Midlands,” Bardom said, his voice cold.

  The other two glanced at each other.

  “You can’t stay here,” Wally warned. “They’ll kill you, or enslave you, or who knows what else! We must flee.”

  “Did you hear them in the palace?” he glared back. “They took Adella. I will not run as my sister by law is made into a slave for their amusement.”

  “For all we know she may already be dead,” Kent said softly. “Adella and her children. Gone, just like their father. Don’t let yourself run to the same fate as our beloved Atzulah.”

  “Who says I’m running?” Bardom said, his eyes locked forward, his voice bitter. “I follow the Kahl’s path.” It was a bizarre thing for Bardom to say, he was not the most religious man.

  His friends studied him silently, surprised by his words.

  Wally sighed. “If we cannot agree, then this is the end of our fellowship.”

  Kent looked up in shock. “Wally!”

  “He’s right,” Bardom said. “My father’s kingdom is gone. Katan-Bat belongs to Jermaine Rontisil now. If we stay, we will surely die.” He looked bothered, like there was something stuck in his teeth, “My path takes me to Stet-lek. I would never ask you to join me there. So go north, or go to the ports. Either way, your service to me is finished. I am not a knight worthy of men to command anymore.”

  “Stet-lek is the most dangerous place in the world for a L’Ani!” Kent scolded him with his hands on his hips. “Why would you ever go there if you wish to live?”

  Bardom glanced up. “If it is death, then I will accept it. If it is justice, then I shall render it.”

  Kent knelt beside him. “If you wish to kill Rontisil, you’ll have to be smarter than him. You’ll have to be smarter than anyone you meet. I do not wish to offend, but you are not so cunning. You wear your heart on your sleeve, everyone knows it. You will be found out, and they will brutalize you. Please! Do not do this.”

  Bardom raised his eyes to Kent. “I am what you say no longer, Kent-ayu.” He crawled to his feet. “I am not a man, but a predator on the hunt. My prey is the most hazardous, so I must become like him.” He offered his hand to Kent.

  His friend shook it somberly. The two hugged, then he turned to Wally.

  “Should you become the same sort of monster,” Wally said, “take care that you don’t stay that way. There’s a good man in you, and you must not lose him.”

  Bardom shook his hand, troubled by Wally’s warning. “When we meet again,” he said, “it will be in the East Midlands.” He dug into his pocket and handed over his knighthood, the ornamental badge that represented his rank. “Take this, and show it to any man whom you require services of. Duty will compel them to assist you. I dub both of you my vassal knights, for whatever weight it may hold.”

  The two looked at him in humble surprise. Kent shook his head. “If you are to be our liege lord, then you must join us.”

  Bardom closed Kent’s hand around the badge. “Do not question my orders, Kent-ayu. Find my cousins, the Ma’tanis. They will provide you the refuge and hospitality you require in the desert.”

  The two did not leave.

  Bardom heaved a sigh. “This is where I leave you, but hear my final order now! I am dead. Bardom L’Ani, to whomever may ask, is a dead man, his corpse burnt beyond recognition. This is the truth you must believe in your mind, for the truth in your heart—that I am alive and scheming—must never be revealed. Not even to each other.”

  The two nodded reluctantly.

  Bardom observed them, then turned, grabbing his masked helm from the ground.

  “My liege?” Wally asked.

  Bardom halted briefly.

  “What should happen if the East Midlands are taken by the Demon King, too?”

  Bardom turned forward, again. “Then I will have outright failed to kill him, and those lands will be his too.”

  That was the last time they saw each other for a long while. Bardom prayed for the two to reach safety. Thinking much about anything else made his head spin with grief. As he came across Lord Kagarani’s army camp, he let his mind clear. He needed to stay focused on his mission.

  The summer sunset dimmed Kagarani’s camp, leaving Bardom to wade between groups of soldiers eating by their campfires. He forced a stiff posture as he trudged, until he found a group of soldiers with a space for him. The hilly countryside that Bardom once frolicked as a boy was covered with bonfires and tents, bearing the flag of a warlord Bardom did not know. As he settled in, the smell of seared meat hit his nostrils and, despite his grief and anger, he felt famished.

  One man sat off to the side, eating with a tired, disinterested look from the others. He had a sword beside him, but his uniform was shabby and tattered compared to Bardom’s. This was a different group from the polished and clean enemies he saw in the city and palace. They are the Shavuim, he thought. The slaves were where he’d be safest. They wouldn’t care who he was there.

  Looking for a seat, he stepped carefully toward the older man, avoiding the more talkative men.

  Bardom was met with a raised brow as the man chewed. “What d’you want, tolo?”

  “Just hungry,” he said, sitting and feeling his legs give from the weight of the worst day of his life.

  The man turned his head and made a sharp whistling sound toward the junior squire of the group. The masked lad held out a box.

  Bardom accepted it. He nearly thanked him, but all he mustered was a nod. The boy waited for further instruction.

  “Go’way, Pebble,” the grumpy man said. “If the man wanted something else, he’d’ve asked.”

  He had grayer hair and more wrinkles on his skin than the other men. His blue eyes and red, rough skin were uninviting, but something told Bardom he could be trusted.

  “Water,” Bardom said to the boy.

  The boy nodded, and found a skin for him.

  Bardom nodded once more and put his hand up to signal he was satisfied. Carefully, he took off his helmet to avoid suspicion.

  He cracked open the wooden box and looked at the man to see how he was eating it. Some rice. Some stewed meat. Some fruit. They ate with their hands.

  Bardom went to remove his glove, and saw the dried blood on it. His appetite died down.

  “Eat, tolo,” the man said. “I don’t know you, but I know you need to eat.”

  Bardom studied him carefully, then grumpily dug into his food. He regretted how tasty it was.

  “Where’s your unit?” the man grunted, looking at his face closer.

  “Dead.”

  The man’s head jerked toward him. He kept his voice low. “Dead?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who was your commander?”

  “Retelises,” he muttered.

  The man’s eyebrows narrowed seriously. A brief thought of fear came over him. What if this is a commander? Damn!

  “And your lord?”

  “Vakin,” Bardom grunted, trying to keep his prepared answers straight.

  “Vakin is dead.”

  That much Bardom knew was true. His larger force never arrived in the city. Something indeed had happened to General Vakin and his men—and it could not possibly have been a coincidence. This conspiracy stank like a decaying corpse. That’s all Vakin was now anyway.

  “He was a real monster,” the grumpy man said. “But less of a monster than most others. He had principles. He had rules. It is a tragic loss for the realm.”

  Bardom paused, glancing at the man suspiciously. “What was your name?”

  “Yashin,” he said, giving him an amused look. “You?”

  “Mitkazeh,” Bardom replied.

  Yashin grinned in amusement and set down his food box. “Come with me, tolo.”

  Bardom nearly protested but did not want to arouse suspicion. He took a swig of water, and joined Yashin. Once they were away from eavesdroppers, Yashin shook his head and snickered.

  “You are a foreigner,” Yashin bit into an apple.

  “What?”

  “Your accent is a giveaway.”

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  “Your accent isn’t Lekkian either,” Bardom said dismissively.

  “Aye,” Yashin said. “Neither is my name. I’m from Varah. Mitkazeh? That’s a Lekkian name. Terrible choice for a fake name.”

  “Fake?”

  “Aye,” Yashin said. “You’re a faker. And worse, you don’t remember that I’ve seen you before. I remember you from earlier, when you killed three men and let the fourth leave.”

  Bardom paled, feeling a wave of fear. Should he run? Should he attack him quickly?

  Yashin grinned, his teeth noticeably healthy for a slave, and made a sucking noise. “Relax, tolo.” He patted his shoulder. “I won’t hurt you. I’ve survived this life long enough to recognize a lost pup—and I know the value of a man when he’s loyal to you. Let me be your friend, sir knight..”

  “I’m not lost,” Bardom snapped. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mitkazeh,” Yashin laughed. “A horrible name for a Lekkian, even if you were able to fake the accent. If you want to be an obvious imposter, keep it. But honestly, your highness, do you really expect me to play along with your charade? You’d be found out in no time.”

  Bardom set his jaw. “I need to get to Stet-Lek.”

  “Why?” Yashin pressed. Suddenly, a look of doubt came upon him. “Are you not who I think you are?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “I know what your business is,” Yashin said, thinking for a moment. “You’re after Rontisil.”

  The two shared a silent look.

  “Part of me wants to help you,” Yashin said. “The other thinks you’re nothing but trouble for me.”

  “I won’t be trouble for you, sir.”

  “I think you’re the prince,” Yashin said. “I think that means you’ll be a very dangerous friend for me. Unless, you’re not him. Perhaps you’re someone else. Someone very close to Lord Vakin.”

  Bardom didn’t say anything. The night had come upon them now. It was dark, and they couldn’t be well-observed by the others.

  “Tell me now, I know Vakin had a son,” Yashin said. “Is your name L’Ani, or Vakin?”

  Bardom grabbed Yashin by the collar of his tunic and covered his mouth. “You will never say that name again. Do you understand me?”

  Yashin glowered, but nodded.

  “No one can know,” Bardom said.

  Yashin nodded in agreement.

  “Can I trust you?” Bardom asked.

  Yashin relaxed, then nodded.

  Bardom released him, then turned around, crossing his arms.

  Yashin straightened out his uniform and wiped his face off. “That was unnecessary.”

  Bardom said nothing for a moment, then said, “So Vakin had a son he kept secret. That could be very useful information to us.”

  Yashin let his eyes drift in sympathy for Bardom. “If you want to live, then listen to me—follow my rules. Do as I have done, and you’ll have a decent life.”

  I don’t intend to live, Bardom thought.

  “Fine,” he replied, despite his anger. It was like the Kahl spoke for him, as if the divine knew better than his tongue.

  Yashin let out a breath. “Good. It’s better than a life on the run. And who knows, maybe in time you’ll get what you’re after. For now, just focus on survival.”

  Bardom crossed his arms.

  “First,” Yashin appraised him, “I must pass you off for an actual Shavu. That means you need a given name.”

  “A slave name,” Bardom corrected.

  “No, I think not,” Yashin said with a plan coming to his lips. “Since we are choosing it, it can have meaning. I will never be your master, only your guide through this mess.” He crossed his arms then tapped his lip. “Ah. You will be Na’Vanad. A fitting name for a man seeking his way.”

  “And what way is that, Yashin?”

  “The way of the silent warrior,” he said. “Stick with me, and don’t say anything to get yourself killed. I’m claiming you as my Ker. You stand by me, you live.”

  Ker?

  “As long as I get to Stet-lek,” Bardom said.

  “Go eat. Go sleep. Cry if you must. But don’t scheme now. There isn’t anything you can do tonight.”

  Bardom frowned.

  “Yes, I can read your thoughts through your eyes,” Yashin smirked to himself. “Varan Magic. Do not scheme. Do not plot. There is only obedience here. If we disrupt, we die.” He tsked. “If you rebel, then what point do I have in helping you? I should turn you in now, then.”

  Bardom swallowed. “I won’t cause you trouble.” Not yet.

  The older man huffed. “You will anyway.” He seemed to decide something as he twisted his lips. “Tomorrow, we are returning to Stet-lek. When we do, you will follow me. If it comes up, you are solely my Shavu-Ker and have been for several days. There, we will meet the liege whom I serve. He can help get you what you want.”

  “And what is it I want?” Bardom tensed his brow.

  “Revenge,” Yashin squinted at him. “You’re going to die on that path. I’ve got a better plan.”

  * * *

  I shouldn’t have said I had a plan, Yashin thought on it as he watched Na’Vanad prepare for bed. He couldn’t do that until he was sure who his new companion was.

  Beneath his uniform, the man was scarless, and couldn’t have been much older than 20. Who was this man? Nay, this boy! Prince Bardom L’Ani… serving him? He didn’t even believe it, despite all he’d seen.

  Unlike most Shavuim, Yashin was educated in Varan fashion. The Varans were a shrewd people, despite having the simple lives of islanders and fishermen. Lord Kagarani took him so many years ago—sparing him with a simple wave of the hand and a look in the eyes when the Lekkians stormed his home. As Na’Vanad settled in, Yashin remembered that night for the first time in decades.

  Yashin was 22 years old then. Kagarani was 18. Since then, 30 long years passed. So many battles later, Yashin went from a mere foot soldier, to a bodyguard, and now to the highest rank a slave could have. Shavu-Kara-Nila Yashin was an advisor to Lord Kagarani and the commander of his Shavuim Battalions, which made up half of Kagarani’s forces. Yashin spent years learning how to navigate Lekkian politics as a slave, and now saw an opportunity in Na’Vanad…

  But still he ground his teeth in thought. He didn’t trust his new companion yet, although he felt he knew him deeply. Prince Bardom was never seen alive, then he was suddenly dead. Yashin remembered watching them lower the burnt corpse hanging outside the prince’s window. He remembered how the men just shrugged and declared Bardom L’Ani dead.

  Yashin considered what use he could be now. Na’Vanad couldn’t be Bardom anymore, but he could be someone else, if it suited Yashin’s own aims.

  Kagarani could use Na’Vanad well if they posed him as Lord Vakin’s son. A Knight of the Realm fighting with them would be an immense aid to their forces as well. Undoubtedly, Bardom’s presence could aid Kagarani, especially if it meant bringing down Ralu and Rontisil. Yashin would have to get around to pushing him in that direction…

  Oh, how I have become a monster! Yashin’s conscience cried.

  He turned to the lad, who scrubbed his hands and body with a wet cloth. The dried blood on his hands…

  “Look there, Yashin,” Kagarani said two years ago at Vakin’s invitation to the battle with the L’Anis. “No battalion fights more organized than Prince Bardom’s. No knight kills so beautifully. By the Kahl, if I could have that kid in my army, I’d never have to endure Ralu’s sneers again.”

  Now he gets his wish, Yashin thought.

  No Lekkian had ever laid eyes on Bardom L’Ani. The only Katanese royalty ever met in diplomatic meetings were Prince Atzulah, Lord Wahda, and some lower lords who no one cared about. The plan was safe, only if no one in Stet-Lek could recognize him.

  Yashin laid back with his eyes wide awake. Whatever the future held, it was clear Na’Vanad would be at the center of it. Men like him didn’t simply walk in without fuss. They brought the trouble with them wherever they went. Yashin felt a slight sense of satisfaction. For some reason, after all these years of survival, he wanted that.

  Laying in his sleeping sack, Bardom remembered his first and only war—the first Lekkian assault on Katan-Bat. It was a border skirmish, nothing more than a few battles, both sides testing the other. That didn’t stop Abban L’Ani from letting his youngest son take command. General Wahda had prepared Bardom to lead men on the field, so when Bardom was tasked with leading a battalion of 900 men, it felt like his years of training finally amounted to something.

  He remembered how ill-prepared the Lekkians were, their men barely trained… allegedly slaves who were forced to fight. Bardom quickly learned that he was fighting a warlord named Vakin—little did he know how Vakin’s name would become part of his story just a couple of years later.

  He remembered how strange it was how his life could go from eating sweets with his niece, to sharpening his sword for battle. The sword he hid when Katan-Bat was sacked was the one he used in that war. He remembered four distinct battles—each one more triumphant than the last. He remembered their camp, the way the hillside winds blew through his hair, refreshing him despite his filthy state and fatigue. Now, this same place—the border between Stet-Lek and Katan-Bat—was black and desolate, with the wind only kicking up the ashes blown from the farms, villages, and woods that the Lekkians burnt.

  Did losing make them so bitter that they had to return? Had Bardom not shown them enough mercy then? Why did Rontisil come there, and against any convention of civilized war, murder the ruling family and usurp their lands?

  There were ways of negotiating surrenders, humane means of earning victory. This was the first time Bardom realized that those teachings were worthless. There was no morality to govern war when both sides didn't agree on them. That’s why Rontisil was dangerous—he didn’t care about rules, he didn’t care about ethics. The world was his for the taking. Now, the rumors turned to action, and it made Bardom’s heart weep for his home. He knew he and his family failed to keep out this ruthless man and his savages. As the sole survivor, he felt all of that guilt.

  He felt naked, with no way to protect himself. His only protection was to become the slave he posed as—eyes distant, posture slouched. While Yashin led the breaking of the camp, he watched the slaves who did not perform well enough in the battle be whipped with their clothes taken from them. This was his new reality.

  Stay alert, he thought, dissociating from the moment, all of Vakin’s men are dead. I’m the only survivor. I am the only survivor.

  The story naturally became his. His grief was a perfect mask for a slave. Who could tell the difference between an exiled prince, and a slave soldier with nothing?

  As the morning dragged him along, Bardom was terribly tired. He slept fitfully that night, only lulling to sleep after he forced his mind to think of Lya’s face. He wondered about her. It troubled him that she was not in her simple home, but it was smart for her to run. He wished his family could have escaped as well, but they were not destined for the same fate as Lya. Being able to bury his mother was a small consolation, but knowing his brother and father never received that rite made him sick. His thoughts then drifted to his niece and nephew, Aviva and Zeev-ahu.

  Damn! Bardom thought. If only I ordered Kent and Wally to protect them! They would have had help!

  And all these thoughts tormented him over the night. He slept for however long he slept, then woke up to his new unit preparing to leave the camp.

  Yashin was answering questions from the younger soldiers, who seemed to see him as a leader. He wrapped up a mat made of reeds as he noticed Bardom stirring.

  Bardom rose to his feet with his new pack, and began making his way to Yashin—only to find something new to challenge his psyche. The morning was darker than the night.

  There is no more Bardom.

  WHIP!

  There is only Na’Vanad.

  SNAP!

  Should I ever be anything else but a slave, it will be as a Lekkian.

  “Get up!” the taskmaster bellowed to the slaves. “MOVE!”

  Bardom and Yashin walked toward the convoy, passing the unfortunate victims. Yashin mumbled to him. “Those are new slaves. For Shavuim, the first year is the hardest. You’re lucky. You’re skipping that part.”

  “Katanese?” Bardom asked.

  “Kagarani made a deal to leave all Katanese slaves in Katan-Bat,” Yashin said. “You’ll come to see he’s quite merciful.”

  In response, Bardom only turned his attention to the battalion of slaves being herded around like sheep. He was not ready to speak much yet—his grief was too strong. He watched the naked Shavuim run to the carriages and don rags. Yashin, at least had a uniform, albeit a shabby one. Lekkian officers, in comparison, wore polished armor with silver woven into their mahogany chest plates. The shoulders were silver, the vambraces too. Yashin’s faded and worn black gloves, his dusty armor, and his dirty boots were not signs of use alone, but of his status. Elegance was not ever meant for Shavuim. Bardom had standards of how to keep his gear, and would be unable to stop himself from maintaining them to stay sane. His boots would be scrubbed, his armor cleaned, and his sword kept sharp. He wondered if he would be beaten for even trying.

  He said none of this to Yashin. Dwelling on his memories of the past helped him forget the misery of the present. One day soon he would realize his misfortune, and not just his grief. Until then, he was pleased to be in a military camp. He enjoyed not being the prince, or the esteemed knight who had such high expectations. He relished being unknown, and that he was getting closer to his target.

  He looked back once more at the slaves. At least they’re not Katanese, he thought. I do not wish to ever see my people as slaves. They would still be slaves in their own homes, however, but it was a sort of relief. They wouldn’t be stolen from their lands.

  “Dream of something nice, tolo?”

  Bardom stared into space as he let his mind regain its presence. “Yes, actually.” He remembered seeing Lya’s smile. She was a good person.

  Yashin sucked air through his lips so they made a squeaking noise. “Savor it while you can.”

  “Who’s this?” a bald stranger asked—he was a young man with a stubbly beard and average size.

  “My Shavu-Ker,” Yashin gave him an impatient look. “Did he take your hair in the night?”

  He flared his nostrils. “Very funny, old man. Why should a Shavu himself require a Shavu?”

  “I ought to clock you in the head, dibku,” Yashin admonished him. “Have you forgotten your place in this regiment?”

  “I forget nothing,” he smirked. “Keep your Shavu on a leash, slave.”

  Yashin rolled his eyes. “That’s Eris. A real pompous Lekkian. Devout to our Great Leader.”

  “Isn't everyone here Lekkian?” Bardom asked.

  “No, tolo,” he said with a slight grin. “Hardly anyone is. Our liege lord has built his company half of Shavuim, those of us who have graduated beyond the realm of simple obedience. It is a mix of the hardest strongmen stolen from foreign villages, and men who simply want a good life beyond labor and hardship. War is a better life for Shavuim than anything else in Stet-Lek.”

  “In every lord’s army?”

  “At least in Kagarani’s,” Yashin replied. “Everyone here came to be fed and satisfied with life—selected personally by Kagarani and his lieutenants.”

  “But we are all warriors,” Bardom noted, glancing at the other bearded men nearby, stronger and clothed unlike the first-year Shavuim.

  “Good, you said ‘we’,” Yashin replied. “Best you don’t get into any scraps. You’ll get me in trouble if you kill a Shavu.”

  “What makes you think I’m not a peaceful man?” Bardom asked casually.

  Yashin scoffed, and set down his reed mat, rolling it up tighter. “How many did you kill yesterday beyond the one I saw, tolo?”

  The look on Bardom’s face darkened with memory. He took in the forest air. “What’s it matter? They’re dead now.”

  Yashin’s pleasant demeanor turned. “I do wonder how many of my friends you’ve killed.”

  “And how many of mine did you kill?” Bardom stared into his eyes bitterly. He sighed and gave in. It didn’t matter. “I’m starting to believe that there are no sides… at least none I can rely on.”

  Yashin frowned, then shoved the reeds into Bardom’s arms. Speaking discreetly, but with a bite, he said, “I don’t care who you killed to get the armor, tolo—you play by my rules now. I don’t care about your philosophical crisis—just stay out of trouble! Don’t speak about anything until we arrive in Stet-lek. I can’t risk you exposing yourself.” He started walking away.

  “And if someone wishes to speak with me?” Bardom asked, looking around the camp uncomfortably.

  “Then you say I forbade it!” he shouted back.

  In line with his state of affairs, Bardom was assigned to latrine duty first, where the stench of shit made him gag. After that, he was tasked with helping hoist the siege equipment back onto carriages for the convoy, which required immense strength to do. A remarkable amount of the contraptions were going back to Stet-Lek, which provoked a new thought while Bardom tired his arms and legs. They are planning for more war elsewhere.

  Unfortunately, slavery didn’t come with the comforts he was used to. His legs ached, his shoulders were stiff, and he was sweating unendingly. He followed the lead of the other Shavuim, who guzzled down their water flasks, and ate heavily when food was presented to them. Kagarani treated the slaves better than he’d thought, but it was far from comfortable.

  After a morning of labor, they left Katan-Bat to go west. Carriages pulled scores of Lekkian men along the dirt roads, with officers riding their horses and some others who won their new mounts on the campaign following behind them. Staring off at the end of his long wagon, Bardom contemplated the ways he would kill the Demon King like a fantasy. His silence was eventually noticed by the others after a few hours of travel. They would make Stet-lek by supper time, but that was too long to go unnoticed. His new unit took an interest in him.

  “Na’Vanad, yeah?” the burly man to his side nudged him. He could not tell if he was plump from fat or muscle underneath his armor. He had very thin wisps of hair on his head, some of it blocking around in the breeze.

  Bardom nodded, studying him cautiously

  “Why don’t you speak?”

  Bardom hesitated.

  “Shavuim can speak,” he said. “I don’t care where you're from, so long as you believe in our Great Leader.”

  Bardom nodded.

  The man sighed. “I’m Deckel.” He extended his hand for Bardom to shake.

  Bardom stared at the hand, indignation flaring in his ears like high-pitched ringing.

  “Come on,” Deckel said. “If we’re gonna fight alongside each other, the least you can do is shake my hand.”

  Bardom obliged, feeling the rage swell in his chest. He’s not given me a reason to hate him yet, he admonished himself. Be fair.

  “How’d you come under Yashin’s command?”

  Bardom felt that he would never be silent. “He chose me.”

  “So you don’t know why,” Deckel said, leaning against the carriage. “I suppose that’s how we all end up in General Kagarani’s service. He finds those in need of redemption, in need of purpose.”

  “I’m not in need of any redemption.”

  “Sure you are,” Deckel said, “you just don’t know how yet. Anyway, Yashin’s is a good unit for a man like you—brooding and guilt-ridden.”

  Bardom looked around at the sorry lot around him. Yashin’s unit was the most elite among the Shavuim Battalions.

  “You expect me to believe this group of men is guilt-ridden?” he said. “Is that the sort who can stomach mass murder?”

  “Someone said you came from a different unit,” Deckel muttered. “Look, we do things by the letter of Lord Kagarani’s rules. The Great Leader says we can take our liberties, so many of us do—however, our liege lord decrees that we only kill those who rise to meet us at arms. Women and children are free from our blades.”

  “But they’re not free from slavery,” Bardom nodded mockingly. “It is encouraging to see such dignity when humiliating your lord’s enemies. Perhaps this unit will become the example to the thousands of others who ignore your liege lord’s decree.”

  “He’s your lord, too,” he said. “General Kagarani will want to meet you, for sure. You’re fiery.”

  “Deck!” someone called over to him from down the carriage. “You got the mute to talk?”

  “He’s saying something,” Deckel shrugged. “Don’t think he liked what he saw in Katan-Bat.”

  “First deployment?” the man called. Bardom later learned his name was Strillin. He was another southern islander, like Yashin.

  Bardom said nothing.

  Deckel crossed his arms. “It gets easier, I think. The first one is the hardest, but that one was a big deal. Without Katan-Bat to lord power over us, we’ll be the sole power of the south. Time to go north soon. All that glory—“ Deckel smiled at the others on the carriage, “—and it’s ours to deliver. General Kagarani will be lauded for our efforts.”

  North? Bardom thought. He desired for his journey to end at Stet-lek. He did not intend on surviving past the end of this mission.

  The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon by the time they arrived at Stet-lek’s borders. Bardom noticed how whole villages watched the convoy cross the wide highways. They’d prepared mightily for the invasion of Katan-Bat by donating their food and men—a disgusting reminder that Bardom and his family were blind to what was happening to the west. While the crowds bunched outside of their villages along the main road, applauding them, the Shavuim joked about the free peasants being poorer than them. It all made Bardom sick.

  Miles later, they came to the city-state of Stet-Lek. The city itself was regretfully magnificent, with stunning towers and domed buildings. The spires ascended high in the sky, with balconies on every story, the city varying its builds from brown clay bricks to limestone and graystone bricks—a sign that different architects built up the place over many generations. It appeared threatening to Bardom’s L’Ani eyes. While he took it in, Yashin pointed out the different quarters of the city, each belonging to a lord under the Demon King. They headed through a portion of the city belonging to a lord called Erdoegi, where thick crowds of ordinary, free peasants packed the streets.

  Admittedly, Katan-Bat was less elegant, less strict in its layout. Knowing how much this country had changed made Bardom feel sad for the people. This was once a society predicated on science, engineering, and literature—not war and fanaticism. It was stunning how a generation could change things, and how their people lived in overwhelming poverty. Why would they just accept that?

  He knew the answer. It’s for the same reason they’re celebrating now. Fanaticism.

  Naturally, the people celebrated and paraded in the streets. Apparently, General Kagarani’s men had come back later than General Ralu.

  “Do you know what a holy war looks like, tolo?” Yashin asked.

  “Did I not just see?” Bardom replied in mild annoyance.

  Yashin jutted his chin toward the center of the parade. “No, that was only half, tolo. A holy war is in the hearts and minds of the people fighting, at home and on the battlefield. Where they believe so much that they are right—that they would do the unspeakable, believing they had absolute justification to do so.”

  Bardom frowned, and tried to determine what Yashin was looking at.

  “Are they dancing with a dead animal?” he frowned.

  “Two,” Yashin corrected with a sigh. “To them they see animals, but those are Prince Atzulah’s two children. At least, they were.”

  Reality shrunk around Bardom, suffocating him. He felt the air fleeting around him, as his rage flared like flames on oil. His hand gravitated to his sword hilt and he marched forward.

  Yashin grumbled something, but Bardom was already storming forward.

  “MAKE WAY!” he bellowed through the streets, his mask headbutting confused, riled civilians.

  After shoving his way through, he found the two corpses, who were being thrown around by several young men, barely adults.

  “Let go of them!” Bardom snarled, baring his steel.

  “But they are our gifts from the Great Leader!” one protested, while his friends stared at the sword with wide, fear-filled eyes.

  Bardom felt the gaze of hundreds on his back. He mimicked the accent of his new compatriots.

  “Did you spill the blood of Katan-Bat, boy?” he said with a bite. “Did you risk your life for your people?”

  The boy hesitated, then set the body to the ground. It was Aviva. He restrained his agony, putting away the sword in its scabbard just enough that some of the steel was still visible. He turned his attention to another two boys, who held Zeev’s lifeless corpse.

  “I suppose then,” he tilted his head forward as a threat, “that you are ready to die for your country!”

  The boys dropped the corpse and ran away, pushing through the crowd. Bardom released his sword, and stepped toward the children. He wished to check their pulses, but he knew they were gone. It was a heartbreak he had never fathomed he could feel. The weight in his chest crushed his heart, but still he had to sell this moment.

  “BEHOLD!” he roared at the crowd, the children in his arms. “I am Na’Vanad! Shavu to the great, victorious Loran Kagarani! It was my hand that killed Bardom L’Ani! His kin are now my responsibility.” He spat on the ground to his left—a gesture that wished retribution from the divine in the west. “Defy me, and meet my steel.”

  No one budged. After a few moments, someone said. “Lo’dai.”

  Then the whole crowd joined in, bowing their heads and pointing their palms at him. “Lo’dai. Lo’dai. Lo’dai.”

  He inhaled sharply through his nose, and nestled the children into his neck. The hair on the back of his neck stood up in shock as he felt their cold skin. He held them tight as he turned around, seeing Yashin and his whole unit watching him in wide-eyed surprise. He ignored them and pushed past the crowd who made way for him. He went on until he was outside of the city walls. Lo’dai meant “prophet of judgement” in the western tradition, the one who would bring about the people’s reckoning. Rontisil had tried very hard to tamp out the ways of the Kahlists.

  “You have odd burial customs, tolo,” Yashin said as he watched Bardom. “Now I’ll have to explain to Kagarani that I delayed because my Shavu had to cause a scene. Remember when I said ‘don’t speak about anything until we arrive in Stet-lek?’ You’re asking to get yourself hanged.”

  Bardom stuck his shovel in the loose dirt. “We’d already arrived.”

  Yashin scowled, “Don’t mock me, boy. The whole unit heard you. Claiming to have killed Bardom L’Ani! Are you mad?”

  “I did,” Bardom replied. “That man will never be seen again.”

  “You expect them to believe you burned him and hanged him out of his own window?” Yashin rolled his eyes. “Such a heartless act yet you seem to have a heart now.” He gestured to the two graves. “Besides, claiming to have killed yourself draws too much attention to your identity—which is a mystery to everyone else. We must keep the attention away from the truth.”

  Bardom looked at the patch of turned over dirt. He stared too long.

  Yashin took a swig from his waterskin, and said his words carefully. “If I had half a brain, I’d say they already figured out you’re Bardom L’Ani.”

  Bardom reached for his sword instinctively, expecting an ambush about to arrive.

  Yashin swatted the air. “No one knows, and they won’t if you’re careful. I’m trying to make a point.”

  Bardom scanned the area, but no one was there. It was hard to trust Yashin so quickly.

  Yashin sighed. “They took me from my family almost 25 years ago. You at least chose to come. I’m the only person in this country who won’t kill you for knowing your true name. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  Bardom held his hand on his sword for comfort, but still no ambush came. “Who are you, Yashin?”

  Yashin frowned, then gave an apathetic shrug. “I was the fifth son of a nobleman who died the day the Lekkians invaded my home. Undoubtedly, the Great Leader intends to have noble blood in his ranks to help subdue his future conquests, but I wasn’t lucky enough to have that fortune. I’m just a slave now.”

  “When were you taken?” Bardom asked, releasing his sword. “You are old for a man taken as a slave so long ago. Rontisil only seized power 10 years ago.”

  “Is that what they say in Katan-Bat?” Yashin rolled his eyes. “No wonder it was so easy to cut through. The Great Leader was a warlord for far longer than that. He’d taken allies like Kagarani for decades, and Kagarani has quite liked me for the last 30 years. It was a violent affair, taming this country. It took many, many years of war—ruining it, rebuilding it, ruining it again, and now ruling it. For 30 years I have been a slave-soldier. And never once have I met someone as stupid as you.”

  Bardom looked around again for an ambush.

  “They took your brother’s wife hostage,” Yashin said. “You might want revenge, I did for a long while, but instead you might think of how you can help her without getting either of you killed. Do you know what they do to the wives of conquered lords?”

  Bardom remembered the horrific sight he saw of his mother—the sight he wished he could erase from his memory, for it broke him every time he recalled it. “What do they do?”

  Yashin sighed. “A pleasure-slave is a hard life. You’d be wise to curry favor with Kagarani for her ownership. If you were a more seasoned soldier, you might become a vassal knight and buy her yourself, the same way I own you.”

  Bardom narrowed his eyebrows.

  “Only a technicality of course,” Yashin added. “For your cover story.”

  Bardom wasn’t in the mood to laugh at Yashin’s nervousness.

  “But, she belongs to Lord Aya Ralu, not Kagarani,” Yashin said, watching Bardom’s eyes calculate what to do. “A troublesome wrinkle the conscience causes.”

  “You’re the one with the conscience, Yashin,” Bardom said. “Warning me, compelling me to act…I told you—Bardom L’Ani is dead. I am only Na’Vanad, the Shavu.”

  “Hm,” Yashin nodded in concession.

  “Be careful how much you stir my heart, Yashin,” Bardom declared, grabbing his helmet. “If you’re not, you’ll find that trouble you were so worried about. Now let’s go meet Kagarani.”