Glass no Kamen: The Legend of Shadow

 

 

 

Written by Ed Duarte ([email protected])

 

Prologue

 

                She was running.

                However, they were gaining on her with every step. She had not the physical endurance to bear escaping like this, but her will kept her going when it felt like her legs would fail her. Even though it seemed beyond hope, she would not give up.

               

                She was of noble blood, from Doma. Her name was Leyla Teresa Delano, from a family line of the Protectors of the Kingdom, along with select few noble families, such as BloodBane and Garamonde. The only woman of her family, Leyla knew that she was destined to marry a person of equally noble blood, the only thing that a woman of her kind was “capable of”. The rigid system of Doma, that had survived for centuries in the past, would not allow any other option. Still, that did not keep Leyla from her dreams of being a Knight...  and by no means was this woman a blushing, modest maiden, no matter how she had been brought up. There was a fire in her eyes every time she was angry, and her heart raced not at the sight of noblemen, but at her daydreams of being a Knight, the first female Knight of Doma. Warrior’s Spirit, it was said that she had within her. A spirit that would thrive no matter what the gender of the carrier.

                It was this spirit, and nothing else, that kept Leyla Delano running from her captors.

               

                Leyla could hear the running footsteps of the gang of brigands behind her advance nearer, ever so slowly. Though she had the proper training of weaponry that was required of all citizens of Doma, regardless of gender or status, she had only one dagger. And it was only a last resort option. If she happened to be unable to run anymore, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

                The brigands had attacked the escorted carriage that she was in, one that was leading her from the port city of Nikeah back to her home in Doma. The caravan was guarded by two Knights, both new recruits yet efficient. But no one had been expecting a raid of this magnitude. There were at least ten bandits when the carriage was attacked, minus two or four when the Knights stepped in. But the Knights had been killed by the overwhelming numbers, despite their training. And that left only Leyla.

 

                “There she is! C’mon, lads! We’ve gots us some fine pickings tonight!” yelled a rough voice, coming from behind. A chorus of hoots and jeers followed, and the sound of cold steel could be heard being drawn from a scabbard. Leyla tried her best to ignore what was happening and only concentrated on getting ahead. Her escape had led her to a forest, where she thought that she would find sufficient cover. The trees cast dark shadows that contrasted the bright daylight, and it would been easier to obscure her tracks than it would be on the tall grass of the plain that she was treading upon. Taking a deep breath, Leyla plunged into the dark forest.

                She could still hear the voices of the bandits behind her, faintly, as she ran. Her elegant dress was catching on to the nearby bushes and tree branches, leaving shreds of brightly colored cloth in her wake. Leyla looked back at the trail of clothing, stopping to take a breather. She did not hear the bandits; they must have either given up or have decided to wait on the outskirts of the forest until she came out. Either way, she was safe. She knew how to take care of herself.

                “Agh! Damn...” Leyla muttered as her dress yet again caught onto a tree branch. There was a rip, and another piece of cloth stuck to the branch. She was leaving a trail, one that the bandits could easily follow if they ventured into the forest. This will not do, thought Leyla. She removed her dirk from one of her leather boots, footwear that her parents had not wanted her to use. “Man’s clothing”, they had called it. But Leyla did not care. She despised and detested the rigid society of Doma, with their ancient ways. She had ventured outside of the kingdom, unbeknownst to her parents, and found a whole new world. A world of machinery and technology, of free towns and bustling ports. Of night skies without the walls of Doma castle always in view, of places where a woman was considered a man’s equal, or of an even higher status. The world had captured Leyla’s heart, and from that moment on she had vowed to escape the prison of Doma and go wherever she pleased, a free spirit at last.

                I wonder what my parents would think of me now, thought Leyla, as she looked down at her dirty and tattered dress, the scratches on her face from branches that grazed her face as she ran from the bandits. She gave a slight grin, the answer to her question all too clear. Leyla grasped the hilt of the dagger firmly, bringing it to her arms, the blade ripping through the thin cloth, tearing the sleeves of her dress off. Sequined cloth fell to the ground, mingling with the other strips of clothing torn off by nature. Next, she took the blade and ripped her flowing dress off, revealing a pair of short leather breeches she had concealed beneath. They fit snugly, and offered her legs more freedom than the restricting dress did. Yet another garment that her family would have frowned upon.

                With that done, Leyla put the dirk back into her boot, and then undid the ribbon keeping her hair in a ponytail. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders in a wave, shimmering as did her jade-green eyes. Her exhaustion passed, she decided that it would be best for her to move on. Doma was out of the question: she would not go back there even if it was her only way to be safe. No, it would be best to try out one of the nearby towns. Mobliz was a good choice, it being the nearest one. She would have to pass through the Veldt, with it’s fierce creatures and wastelands, but she was not worried. She had survived a brigand attack and escaped them when pursued, and was still in one piece. Before she left, Leyla had hidden all of her torn clothing in a bush, in order to keep the bandits off her tail.

                The forest seemed endless, just a mass of trees and vegetation. The only light was from the canopy, which was so dense that it allowed only a few rays of sunlight to penetrate through it. The light was sufficient enough to see, however. Leyla crept through the woods, barely making a noise as she stealthily crept. She had a nagging sense of dread that would simply not abandon her. She wanted to make it out of the forest before nightfall, for it would be harder to see then. Plus, she had heard stories from different people. Ones that are laughed at and viewed with humor on the spot, but once in the situation, come back to haunt you. Stories of the dead that walk, of ghosts and flesh-eating ghouls that roam the forests at night, spirits of ones who had passed away ages ago. Leyla tried to keep such thoughts out of her mind as she crept on, removing her dirk from her boot and gripping it tightly in her right hand.

                Time had passed, and still Leyla Delano was in the dark forest, growing darker as the day passed on. She was lost, and she knew it. Still, she did not whimper like a simpering girl; she kept a straight face, however much her fears plagued her, and moved on.

                There was a noise. Almost like... a moan of some sort. Following it were the clanking of chains, echoing through the twilight of the forest. Leyla paused, not making a sound, every muscle in her firm body tensed like a spring. She waited for the noise to be heard again, for her fears to at least be tangible, able to be related with. But there was nothing. The forest was silent as it had been when Leyla had entered it.

                She gasped. The forest had been silent... No forest is silent. There are at least a few birds chirping, deer and small mammals about. And always there was the sound of insects tending to their daily chores. But there were no sounds in this forest. No bird sang, nor insect buzzed. It was almost completely silent, except for the wind rustling through the trees, and for Leyla’s own heartbeat, which she could hear as clearly as it were a gong. The silence was unearthly, almost like a tomb...

                There was the noise again. The moan was more feverish, high pitched. The clanking of chains grew louder, and Leyla could hear more. Whispering voices floated by her ear, too quiet to be heard, but sounding deadly. Leyla, for the first time since she was a child, felt cold fear. Suddenly the stories told to her were real, as real as the ground she was walking on, or as the blood which pumped fast through her veins. There was a silhouette of an object in the distance, a large object but not visible enough in the darkness.

                Leyla’s breathing quickened, and against her will, she whimpered softly in the cold darkness. A whispering voice slid past her, adding to her fears, and the clanking of chains could be heard, getting louder every moment. She could not move, paralyzed by fear, shivering and curled up in a ball in the woods. Through a haze of tears, the object in the distance seemed to become clearer, almost as if the fear was enhancing her vision somewhat. It was a train. And suddenly, Leyla Teresa Delano knew where she was.

                “Flesh...”
                The whisper was heard with complete clarity as it slid by her once again. The moaning sound was not heard, but the sound of chains was definitely audible, getting closer every minute. Dark shapes, pitch black even against the shadows in which they dwelled, stirred. Cold wind blew through the trees, and suddenly the forest was silent no more.

                The Phantom Forest, where the dead walked at night. The Phantom Forest, where the souls of the departed were brought to the “other side”. Where no one who entered at night lived to see the light of day. The Phantom Forest...

                “...warmth... we remember...”

                A hideous sight appeared in Leyla’s vision. Out of the shadows appeared a spectre. The apparition was dressed in rotting linen, its hair pure white, its flesh drawn tightly across its prominent cheekbones. On the Spectre’s wrists were rusted and corroded iron shackles, long rusted chains attached to them, dragging across the ground as the spectre floated nearer, creating the sound which had haunted her for the past hour...

                Without a scream, Leyla bolted away from the floating spirit, using every ounce of courage within her to get her moving, temporarily banishing the fear within her in order for her to escape. If there was only one thing in the world that frightened Leyla, it was the living dead. Leyla knew what happened to those who encountered such apparitions or living corpses, and she would rather die a thousand deaths by the sword than have that happen to her. Dimly, she remembered a quote from a mercenary she had heard in the bar of Nikeah: “I’ll fight the living any day, but not the dead!”

                The angry moan of the spectre followed Leyla as she ran, growing fainter and fainter as she ran further. The disembodies voices whispered curses and damnations into her ears, and it was only through her Warrior’s Spirit and her will to live that she was able to run. The darkness was pierced, and the pale light of the moon could be seen in the distance, the trees bending over the exit as if to block it, to keep her in this world of living death forever. With a sob, Leyla hurled herself out of the Phantom Forest, landing hard on the grassy ground, safe from the undead which were confined to the forest. She lay there for a few minutes, gasping, trying to force back memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life. The moon was full in the dark blue night sky, illuminating the countryside with pale white light. Leyla pushed herself to her feet, determined to get to Mobliz before her disappearance from Doma would attract unwanted attention. She was south of the forest, Barren Falls being a short distance away. Leyla had heard of people using the waterfalls to get them to the Veldt, where Mobliz was. It was an isolated town, untouched by the rest of the world. From what she heard, they still used carrier pidgeons as a means of communication. Perfect.

                Leyla started walking, nearing the waterfalls in the distance. There was no forest, but there were a few trees that dotted the countryside. It was on one of these trees that Leyla slumped against, exhausted. She would rest briefly, for even on the plains there were creatures to be reckoned with, ones that would see a lone traveler as easy food. She ran a hand through her hair, working out knots and tangles in it.

                There was a thump upon the grass. Leyla got up quickly, ready for anything. A bandit, one of the same who had dispatched her escorts, stood in front of her, leering. He snapped his fingers, and from various trees five other brigands lept down. The lead one chuckled, brandishing a sword slick with blood.

                “Well, girlie, seems we got ya at last.” he said in a deep voice, grinning. The other bandits slowly closed in on her, blades drawn. The leader, sword extended blade-first toward Leyla, started advancing up to her. The tip of his blade touched her throat, and she flinched briefly but made no other gesture of weakness. She adopted a proud and defiant gaze, staring the leader in the eye, challenging Death.

                “Kill me if you wish,” Leyla whispered harshly, speaking in what seemed to be the first time during the bandit attack. “but I will not yield.”

                The leader laughed, a sound echoed by his cohorts. “Kill?” he said, bemused. “Yeah, I suppose we’ll eventually do that...” he grabbed her by the collar of her dress (what was left of it) on her neck, and tugged fiercely. “...but not before we ‘ave a bit ‘o fun, eh lads?” The dress ripped, revealing enough milky skin to whip the thieves in a frenzy. The leader leaned closer to her, whispering.

                “Been a long while since I’ve been with a woman,” he said, motioning to his comrades to grab her arms behind her. “I know you know what I want, girlie...” he said hoarsely, placing leather-gloved hands on her head, forcing her down to a kneeling position. He grinned down at her, fumbling with the straps to his leather breeches. In one hand, he still held the sword. “I feel teeth, and yer brains get impaled on this.” he said.

                Leyla already had an escape plan in mind. Luckily, due to her kneeling position, she could still reach back into her boot for her dirk. She had no intention in carrying out this man’s filthy intentions. However, she knew just how to act in order to distract them.

                “Certainly.” she said in a husky voice, feigning lust. The other bandits hooted and jeered, all anxious for their own turn. While they were preoccupied, Leyla slowly reached back into her boot, holding the handle of her dagger in two fingers. She playfully (feeling extreme disgust, however) nibbled on the man’s fingers, still in their leather gloves, as she secretly gripped the blade with one hand. The bandit was already in a frenzy of lust, waiting for what he thought to be the inevitable. Leyla looked him in the eye... then plunged her dirk upward. The bandit’s scream echoed throughout the night, and with that distraction Leyla was able to break free from her captors, bloody dagger in her hand, running away from the scene. Behind her, the bandit leader clutched his bleeding abdomen, moaning and slumping to the ground. Leyla ran as fast as she could, trying to make it to Barren Falls before they caught up with her...

                Twang! Pain shot up through Leyla’s leg, and she fell to the ground, biting her tongue to keep her from crying in pain. There was a crossbow bolt buried deep in her calf, blood running freely down her ankle. She could not run like this. Leyla cursed, chastising herself, wincing in pain. Stupid of me to think they didn’t have any expert marksmen...

                Several of the remaining bandits were already at her side, the rest tending to their dying leader. One of them, hate in his gaze, kicked her hard in the chest. Leyla yelped involuntarily. Two of the other bandits took their revenge as well, one kicking her in the gut, while the other grabbed her and punched her in the face. Through a haze of blood, she could barely see what was happening. Her head was spinning, and pain exploded throughout her body. Dimly, she could hear their fragmented curses.

                “...ckin’ wench...”

                “get you for our boss...”

                “..deserve to die!...”

                “...gonna kill you!...”

                The bandits had now stopped their assault on Leyla. She coughed, spitting out blood, stinging pain coming from a cut on her lip. Her gut and chest hurt too much when she moved, and it felt like one of her ribs were broken. One of the bandits that had held her back now walked right in front of her, anger in his gaze. He then chuckled.

                “Howzit feel, girl?”

                Leyla, despite her pain, spit on the man’s face in hatred. He seemed as if he would kill her right then, but merely chuckled again, wiping bloody spittle from his face.

                “Well, you’re pretty messed up, girlie,” he said, squatting down to look her in the eye. “but that still doesn’t mean we can’t have any fun!” with that, the other bandits cheered. One of them kicked the dagger from Leyla’s hand, sending it flying through the air where it landed blade-first into the soft earth. Leyla couldn’t move: she couldn’t fight back even if she had the dagger. Defiant to the end, she squirmed and kicked, hissing and spitting like a rabid animal. The bandit chuckled, pushing his sweaty body against hers, grabbing her jaw with a gloved hand, forcing it open and gagging her with a dirty rag. He took hold of her leather breeches and forcibly began to remove them.

                “Gonna have some fun tonight, boys!” he said triumphantly when he was done. The other bandits cheered as he straddled her battered body. Leyla tried to fight back, but she was too weary. She closed her mind to what was happening to her, and blacked out.

 

                Renner was a ranger.

                Not related to the forest folk, but he had taken a liking to them, nonetheless. He was a tall man, with flaming red hair and brown eyes, bird feathers and beads woven into his hair. He had acquaintances with the druids and dryads, and knew exactly how to get by in the forests of the world. He had ventured into the Phantom Forest, and came out intact, although some of the sights he witnessed stuck with him for the rest of his life. Still, that did not stop Renner.

                On this particular morning he had been out gathering plant roots and stalking wild game. He had bagged himself a nice, healthy deer. The arrow he used was razor sharp, and the beast didn’t even feel it as it punctured its heart. The deer was at his cabin in the woods, waiting to be cleaned and skinned. None of the magnificent beast would go to waste. Renner had been thinking of the food that awaited him as he picked out some fibery roots of certain plants, until he heard the moan.

                It was a woman’s voice, however dry and hoarse. His ears pricked up, and he sniffed the air. The coppery tang of blood, very faint, could be smelt coming from the north. Renner ran as fast as he could to where the scent was coming from. After a distance shorter than a mile, he came across the person he had heard.

                It was a woman. Her clothes were in tatters, and she lay on the ground curled up in a ball, whimpering softly. Blood caked her thigh, where it looked as if an arrow or bolt had been hastily removed. There were bruises all over her arms and exposed chest, and her leather breeches bore telltale marks of sword slashes, looking as if they had been harshly removed then placed back on. Renner was instantly at the woman’s side, gently stroking her face, to get a response out of her that she was indeed alive. The woman turned her head ever so slowly, looking at him with a face that bore marks of slaps and beatings. A tear slid down her cheek as she cringed at his touch. Renner cursed. Must have been some brigands that did this to her. Damn them! 

                “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you” the ranger said softly as he gently picked up the woman. “I’ll take you to a friend of mine. She’s a druid, and she can help you. So just bear with me, okay? I promise I won’t hurt you.” the girl made only the smallest sound of complaint as Renner lifted her up. He began walking in the direction of his cabin, in a nearby forest.

 

                Jasla hummed to herself as she collected holly berries from a nearby plant. She was a dryad, a female druid. Or at least she used to be one, until she met Renner, her fiancee. Still, she retained her old skills. Herb lore, knowledge of runes and of druidic ceremonies. Her hair was shimmering green, like grass wet with dew. Her eyes were hazel-brown, like the wood of the ancient trees. She wore a robe of gray cloth that she had spun herself, and she had also helped Renner build this cabin. By no means was she a weakling.

                Jasla, or “Jaz” as she was called by her lover, was near the cabin, and Renner would be home soon. He had brought by a deer which he had felled recently, and placed it in his basement, saying that he would be back soon. She sighed. Jasla made a small prayer to the gods of the forest to guide the deer’s departed soul to the Other Side, then gathered up the holly berries and entered the cabin. Her lover would be home shortly. Jasla understood the desire for her fiancee to be in the outdoors for long periods of the day, however much she missed him when he was gone. But he would be back. He always came back.

                The door of the cabin was kicked open, and Renner entered, bearing a bruised and battered female in his arms. He gently placed her on a soft couch, making sure that she was comfortable. He motioned for his fiancee to come nearer, worry etched in his face. Jasla immediately rushed to his side, looking at the girl whom Renner had brought in.

                “Bandits?” she said worriedly, her hand brushing aside a lock of green hair. Renner nodded, frowning.

                “Those bastards...” he muttered darkly.

                Jasla needed no further explanation. Bandit raids were not uncommon in these parts, and the two had helped others who had crossed the brigands before. Hurriedly, she began to prepare a potion from foul-smelling leaves, one that would ease the girl’s pain. The wounds looked serious, and there might not be much time left to save her. She brought the concoction in a bowl near the girl, who looked very weak.

                “Please, drink this.” said Jasla, in a soothing voice. “It will help ease your pain...” she looked sadly at the young woman, bruised and battered. She turned toward her fiancee. “Please, give me a few moments alone with her.”

                Renner nodded. He understood why, and did not question his lover. He got up and exited the cabin, waiting outside. Once outside, he shook his head. He had doubts that this girl would live long, she was beaten badly. He would have to contact her family, and break the news to them... who ever she was, it did not matter. He and Jasla always helped people besieged by cutthroats.

                The cabin’s door opened slightly, a signal that Renner could come back in now. He entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. On the couch the girl still lay, though most of her wounds have been cleaned and her clothes removed and replaced with linen sheets. Jasla steadfastly stood by her side, spoon feeding her the potion, preparing a poultice in order to help mend the wounds. The girl seemed a little better now, in fact she was struggling, trying to sit herself up.

                    Jasla gently placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders, easing her down. “You mustn’t move,” she said softly. The girl either didn’t hear that or she ignored it. She tried to get up again, but to no avail. Pain in her ribs forced her to lie back down, coughing.

                Renner stepped in. “What is your... your family name?” he asked kindly. “So we may contact them, so that they know what had happened...”

                The girl looked at him, opened her mouth to speak, and hissed in pain from the stinging cut in her lip. She licked her dry lips and spoke.

                “Leyla... Te...Teresa Delano. From Doma...” but that was all that the girl could say, for she fell back upon the makeshift bed, exhausted.

 

Chapter One: The Outcast

 

                Lord Mendoza Delano anxiously paced around his room, abstractly noting that he had circled the walls of the room almost one hundred times. He cursed, sweeping away a lock of platinum hair that fell in front of his face, the same color as his long mustache. Four days. It had been four days, and still no sign of Leyla. His daughter had been gone for more than a week. This was expected of her, of course, after a diplomatic meeting (as Leyla described it) at Nikeah. She had, again and again (though Mendoza seemed not to notice the number of times) told her father that she would be back in a week  Now, a week had already passed and four days as well, and still no sign of Leyla.

                Mendoza ended his pacing, walking over to the round table in the center of his room and seating himself in the largest chair there, his own. Once seated, he brooded. I shouldn’t have let her go by herself, he thought. Yes, she had an escort of two knights, but still! Oh, that child! Worrying me to death like this...

                There was a loud knock on the door of Mendoza’s chamber, echoing though out the hollow chamber. He looked at the door in irritation; he has specifically given instructions to his servants not to disturb him.

                “What is it?” asked the nobleman irritably, not bothering to get up from the table. The door opened slowly, and a young servant made his way into the chamber, the seal of Doma etched onto his tunic.

                “L-Lord Mendoza Delano,” the youth began, stuttering. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, against your orders, but I have dire news that you migh--”

                Mendoza slammed his massive fist down on the oaken table, rattling it. The servant flinched. “Well, you just disturbed me anyway, you simpleton!” he bellowed, making the young servant cringe again. “What is it that is so important?” he said, now more softly, his anger subsiding. The servant sighed in relief and spoke.

                “It’s your daughter, sir. We have recieved word of where she is.”

                At this, Lord Mendoza Delano literally lept up from the table. “Leyla? Is she all right? Where is she?” he asked without a pause. The servant seemed at a loss for words, removing a scroll, tightly rolled up and sealed with wax, and handing it toward his liege. Mendoza snatched the scroll away from the servant, breaking the seal and unrolling it. He began to read:

 

“Lord Mendoza Delano of Doma,

We regret to inform you that you daughter, Leyla Teresa Delano, is injured badly. Fear not, she is still alive. A strong one, she is. I had found her four days ago, wounded and left to die in the open. I brought her back to my domain, and with much help from my wife-to-be, nursed her the best that we could. Leyla, though alive, bears signs of a great trauma. Jasla, my fiancee, believes that she was.... raped by a gang of brigands. I implore you to come to my dwelling and take your daughter--there is nothing more that we can do for her--and see to it that she receives immediate medical attention. Come as quickly as possible. Directions are at the bottom of this scroll.

                                                                                                                                Renner O’ Gladius

 

                Mendoza, his face somber, rolled the scroll back up and placed it on the wooden table. His face was ashen, lines of sorrow creased in it. He looked at the servant, steeling himself, bottling his emotions inside of him.

                “Patrick,” he said.

                The servant looked up, amazed that his liege actually used his real name. “Yes, milord?”

                Mendoza handed him the scroll, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I want you to muster up two knights I have personally hand-picked: my son, Tristan, and Marcello Garamonde. They are to be escorted by a regiment of heavily-armed footmen. Give my son the scroll and tell him what I had said. They are to leave as soon as possible.” he firmly gripped Patrick’s shoulder, then turned around, facing his back toward the servant.

                The boy knelt down, thumping his breast as a salute. “I will not fail you, milord.” And with that, he got up and ran out of the room, his footsteps echoing throughout the chamber and the hall leading to it.

                The room was silent once again. Mendoza Delano folded his hands behind his back, looking out of the door to his chamber.

                “Godspeed,” he said. He then collapsed into an empty chair of the table, his head in his hands.

                “Leyla...”

 

                Tristan Cervientes Delano rode the lead horse, his newly-crafted steel plate armor gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. A proud man, Tristan made no qualms about flaunting himself. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he sported an elegantly trimmed mustache. Usually he rode with a straight back, a determined look in his eye. Now, his face was somber, his mind set. His twin sister had been hurt, or worse, possibly raped. The psychic bond that all twins share manifested itself in Tristan as pain, sadness, and despair, not hurting him since it was not his pain, but hurting him because he knew that his sister was experiencing it. It was his duty to retrieve her and bring her back to Doma, where she would be cared for.

                At Tristan’s side was a colleague of his, Marcello Vinci Garamonde. The two, though not exactly best friends, had trained at the same academy. Their test of might and valor, the one required of all squires aspiring to be knights, had been taken at the same time. Marcello and Tristan had met the day before their testing, and in letting out some of their fears and doubts during various conversations, became fast friends after they had both passed the testing successfully. Marcello had no mustache, nor any facial hair for that matter. His hair, following the basic Doman style, was shoulder length and brown, tied back by a leather strap. His features were finely chiseled and angular, and he spoke with an unmistakably thick, melodious accent. Marcello was not entirely “old fashioned”, but he did like to stick to some of the old ways of Doma. Also, while Tristan and most of the other knights preferred the long, straight broadsword, Marcello, along with the rest of the Garamonde bloodline, preferred the long, curved blades of the east (we would see them as katana or wakizashi).

                “What manner of daft fool lives south of the Phantom Forest?” wondered Tristan aloud as he scrutinized the directions to Renner’s cabin, written on the scroll. He angrily rolled it up. “Well have to go around it. Not a single knight that had ever ventured into that forest had come out alive. Well have to travel at a faster pace since going around the forest takes longer.”

                Marcello looked at his friend and colleague. Tristan kept an angry visage, looking straight ahead and not bothering to soften his features. Under that mask, however, he was silently weeping. Marcello shook his head. He had lost his father when he was a child, so he could sympathize. At least Leyla was alive, if the letter was true.

                “Thou art strong, and so is thy sister,” said Marcello in his melodious accent and archaic tongue. Tristan used to bug him about his form of speech; teasings that remained even to this day. But not now.

                “I hope so,” said Tristan. He bowed his head as his horse trotted on at a slow pace. The ranks of footmen marched in a phalanx-like form behind the knights, treading dust in their wake, their clanking armor breaking the silence as they traveled on the outskirts of the Phantom Forest.

 

                Leyla, as Marcello Vinci Garamonde had said, definitely was strong, in her will to live if not in physical strength. She was inside the cabin of Renner and Jasla, trying to see if she could walk yet. Even now, as she was standing, the wound on her thigh throbbed painfully, and she coughed, her mending ribs aching. To step put pressure on her leg wound and the rest of her body, and she only managed a few steps before she had to lean against a windowsill. She angrily threw her fist against the glass window, cracking it and causing her knuckles to bleed. She knelt down, dropping her head in her arms, sobbing quietly. The bandits had beaten her senseless--some of her wounds, both physical and psychological, might never heal. Leyla cursed in anger and sorrow, at the people who had battered her body, and worse, torn her virginity from her. And now she was going back to Doma. Back to the place where her status, more so due to her health condition, would be lowered as society’s tightening chauvinistic grip took hold. She would probably never again venture outside of Doman walls, never see the world which she so longed to see.

                “Leyla?” came a soft voice. The girl from Doma turned her head around to see Jasla at her bed, wearing her gray robes and holding a bowl of broth. The dryad had taken good care of Leyla during the past four days, using natural medicine as well as steadfast prayers to her Gods.

                Jasla placed the bowl on a nearby table and walked up beside Leyla, leaning on the wall, in order not to tower above her. She placed a hand on Leyla’s shoulder.

                “They will be here soon, Leyla. Do not worry. Rest, for you are still in bad condition.”

                Leyla kept her head bowed down. Jasla, wanting to speak to the girl again, gently lifted her chin with her hand. Tears were streaming down Leyla’s beautiful face, still youthful despite the bruises and cuts.

                “Do not cry, child.” said Jasla. “Soon you will be back home...”

                “That’s just it, Jaz!” yelled Leyla. “I don’t want to go home!” she said between sobs. “All of my life, I was never able to do what I truly wanted, thanks to where I lived. I was second-class, unable to make my own choices in life. Then one day, I ventured out of the city walls, and found a whole new world...” she sniffed. “And now I’ll never be able to go back. They’ll keep me in Doma for the rest of my life...”

                Jasla stroked the girl’s auburn hair softly. She truly felt sorry for Leyla, who’s native Doman society made woman an entire lower class. But she must go back, thought Jaz. She will be healed, and continue her life, and...

                Jaz knew that Leyla had been raped right when she was brought in by Renner four days ago. The curse of beauty had guaranteed that. Even now, Jaz could feel the beginnings of a life stirring within Leyla’s womb. Her abilities as dryad confirmed that as a fact. The poor girl is going to bear a child, she thought. An illegitimate one, at that. What would they do at Doma? Would they exile Leyla? That might be a blessing in disguise, thought Jasla. Or worse, will they simply kill the child...?

                “I’m pregnant,” whispered Leyla, as if she had read the dryad’s thoughts. “Aren’t I?”

                Jasla knew not how Leyla knew this, nor did she attempt to find out how. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of sadness and joy: sadness that the child was the product of violence, joy that the girl would be bringing life into the world.

                “Yes...” said the dryad softly, stroking the girl’s hair again. Leyla sniffed, wiping her tears on her arm.

                “Jaz--Jasla?” she said haltingly. “I... I know that I am going to give birth to a child. I’m... I’m afraid. I know that it will hurt, and that my family will frown upon me and the child for the rest of their lives.” Leyla stopped crying, bravely facing Jasla. “I think that it would be better if I took my life. That way, the child would not have to grow up with the eternal label as being illegitimate. He would not have people making fun of him, loathing him...” the girl gazed in the distance, as if seeing something only she could see alone. “and I... I will finally be free.”

                Jasla clutched the girl’s shoulders, lightly shaking her. “You mustn’t!” she said. “You mustn’t throw away your life like that! Think of how much your family will miss you! Even now, they get nearer and nearer to here in order to care for you. Think of the child, the potential life you carry within you...” it was then that Jasla realized that Leyla had referred to her child as “he”. She paused, her brow furrowed in confusion.

                Leyla seemed not to notice. She limped back to her makeshift bed, settling down before she talked again. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. The girl no longer wept, her tears dried on her face. “Only time will tell.”

 

                It was still early morning when Tristan Cervientes Delano, his friend, and the troop of footmen arrived at Renner’s cabin. Leyla’s brother dismounted his horse with speed and grace, marching to the cabin door. He was followed by Marcello Vinci Garamonde, walking beside his friend. The footmen stayed in their phalanx formation a few yards away, ready for action if need be.

                Tristan reached the door immediately and pounded on it hard several times. After a few seconds, there was still no answer. He pounded again.

                “Come forth, damn you!” he yelled with clenched teeth. It looked as if he would cut down the door with his sword, if not for Marcello’s intervention.

                “Patience, friend. Haste will do thee no good now.” he said. The door in front of them began to shake, as if someone were undoing various locks on it from the inside. “See? Even now they come to bring us inside.”

                The door opened, and before them was a towering man, red-haired and red-bearded, clothed in leather woodland gear. Feathers and beads were woven into his hair, and he had small braids on the sides of his hair that fell over his cheeks. Tristan opened his mouth to utter something--something unkind, judging by his face--but was halted by the more calm, controlled Marcello.

                “Renner ‘O Gladius?” said Marcello, pronouncing the “r” as “rr” due to his accent.

                The ranger nodded once, and stepped aside, his face grim. “Come inside, please.” he said, and the two knights entered the warm cabin. The inside was lit by candles and oil lamps, and various woven rugs covered the hard, wooden floor (Renner did not use animal hide for anything besides clothing). Around the middle of the main room was Leyla, sitting up weakly on a couch that served also as a bed, wearing her now mended and cleaned clothes that she was wearing the day she left. She was paler than usual, and bore some marks of her ordeal: various small scars and bruises that would remain for a long time.

                “Leyla, my sister..” Tristan was at her side swiftly, holding her hand in his large ones. “What had happened?”

                “She was assaulted and raped by a group of bandits.” came a female voice from behind the couch. Tristan saw a youthful looking, green-haired woman in gray robes, bearing a plate of food, obviously meant for Leyla, who had eaten half of it.

                Marcello was the next to speak. “How hath she fared, in the past few days?”

                The dryad lowered her head. “She is getting better,” she said. “When she came in, she was badly hurt and traumatized by the incident. But now, she is eating more, and can walk now without too much pain.” she then looked Tristan in the eye, placing the plate of food down on a nearby table. “She must not move around too much for several weeks. Make sure she is well fed and tended for, and soon she will be able to take care of herself. I understand that you are her brother. Take especially good care of her.”

                Tristan nodded, his attention still focused on Leyla. She had a calm face, not marred by sadness or pain as he imagined she would. He softly spoke to her.

                “Are you ready to go home now?”

                Leyla nodded, not looking toward him. She got up, with her brother supporting her, and started walking with him and Marcello to the outside. Tristan, however, stopped abruptly and asked the dryad another question.

                “You said that she was... raped.” he said with some difficulty. “Is she.. um, that is, will she...?”

                “Yes.” said the dryad softly, her head still bowed. “I am a dryad, and am able to tell such things. She will bear a child when the time comes. There is nothing I can do about that.”

                Tristan nodded, a look of sadness and bitterness on his face. “I see,” he said. “We must be off now. Thank you for your help, and may you live long.” and with that, he walked outside the cabin with his sister and friend. The door was shut behind them.

                Jasla went near her lover, holding on to his arm. “I hope she fares well...” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. Renner, somber as always, nodded, stroking her green hair.

                “I too, as well.” he said, staring at the door. The two did that for a long time, until dawn was past and the sun was shining brightly in the late morning sky.

 

                Mendoza was inside his personal quarters, as he had been for the past day. He was too worried to attend to his daily business, and had spent the past day pacing about, gazing outside the glass window of his room, only eating because his servant, Patrick, kept insisting that he eat. Now he was too tired to pace, and just sat at his round table, his head on the table, a bottle of spirits in a hand, half empty. 

                There was a knock on the door.

                Mendoza looked up, slowly lifting his head, his eyes red and showing signs of insomnia and drunkenness. “What is it?” he growled after a moment. Sure enough, it was Patrick once again, peeking his head inside the room.

                “Uh, my lord? I have--”

                “I thought I told you not to disturb me!” growled Mendoza Delano through clenched teeth. He did not look up at the servant boy while he took another swig from the bottle. The servant boy looked nervously at his master.

                “Yes, but it’s important, sir. Your son and Leyla have came back--”

                Mendoza lept to his feet, sending the bottle of spirits crashing down to the floor, where it shattered, leaving sticky drops of amber-colored fluid everywhere among shards of glass.

                “Leyla! Where is she?” Mendoza asked frantically. Patrick opened the door completely, revealing his son, Tristan, and his daughter Leyla. Marcello Vinci Garamonde was behind the two of them, bowing his head in respect to the lord. Leyla kept her head down and said nothing. Mendoza rushed up to her side, his hand stroking her face. “Leyla, oh my daughter, are you all right...?”

                Tristan spoke. “Father, she was... raped.” the word came with some difficulty. “It was only through the efforts of the ranger and his dryad consort that she was able to be nursed back to health.”

                Mendoza Delano cursed bitterly. “And a fine job you did of protecting her!” he spat. “Where were you when my daughter was assaulted? Off in the tavern, no doubt. If you were with her, this could have been prevented!”

                Tristan displayed a shocked, betrayed look on his face. “Father, I was summoned to train the footmen, as you instructed me...”

                “Shut up!” Mendoza growled, his breath reeking of whiskey. “I hold you reshponsible for this, you ungrateful cur!” he cuffed his son across the face. Tristan did not flinch, though his eyes bore a mixture of guilt and anger. He kept a straight face and stalked out of the room. Mendoza, in his drunken stupor, didn’t allow it to end so quickly, however.

                “Don’t turn your back on me, boy!” and growled, staggering toward him. He grabbed his son’s shoulder and turned him around, bringing his fist back for another cuff across the face. Tristan stood there, awaiting punishment, not daring to disobey his father. As Mendoza’s fist sailed in towards his son’s face, it was caught behind him, hard.

                “What the devil?” cursed Mendoza, bleary eyed. He turned around to see Marcello Garamonde holding his fist, meant to strike Tristan.

                “Thou mayst be my friend’s father,” he said, “but I cannot allow you in your drunken rage to do him any more harm.” Marcello let go of the grip on Mendoza’s fist, and the lord staggered back a few steps, holding his throbbing wrist.

                “You bashtards!” he slurred, pointing accusing fingers at Marcello and Tristan. “To hell with th’ lot of ye! You offered my daughter no protectshon, you, you...” he held his head in his hands, groaning, then slowly walked out of his quarters, his moans echoing down the hallway.

                Leyla had stood by the door during the entire spectacle, saying nothing. Now, however, she looked up at her brother, her eyes full of sadness, though she did not cry.

                “It’s my fault,” she said quietly, her eyes closed. “I knew this would bring father back to his drinking habits.” She leaned against the wall, looking out of the window into the streets of Doma. Her brother went and gave her a hug, holding her in a grip that made her feel to him like she was a bundle of straw.

                “Leyla, it wasn’t your fault... it couldn’t be prevented.” he said softly. Leyla returned his hug, her grip on him weak. How strong she used to be, thought Tristan, and now she is reduced to a mere shell... it’s all my fault...

                Tristan’s twin sister looked him in the eye, as if reading his thoughts. “No, Tristan. Do not blame yourself.” Her brother gave her a look of awe, trying to hide the tears that threatened to burst out of him. She absently played with a lock of her brother’s black hair, a habit she had picked up from childhood. “What’s done is done.”

                Tristan swallowed. “You... you’re going to have a child?” Leyla did not share his fright, she seemed calm, at peace with herself.

                “Yes.”

                Tristan hugged his sister close again. “I’m so sorry...”

                Leyla held him near, being more of a emotional support to Tristan than he was to her. “Don’t be,” she said softly. “Don’t be...”

 

                Every time Leyla let out another cry of agony, Tristan Delano could not help but to wince, as if it was being inflicted upon himself. She was giving birth.

                Nine months have passed since his sister had been raped, and Tristan had become more and more attached to her as he felt her life ebbing away slowly. He hoped to the Gods that she would not die, that she would remain whole. But her fate was not in his hands.

                Tristan’s good friend, Marcello Garamonde, stood against the wall, watching Tristan pace back and forth in front of the door leading to the room where Leyla was. Garamonde’s heart went out to his friend, who being a twin with his sister, had more of an attachment to her than a regular sibling. True, this was not always so. Marcello had seen twins quarrel, fight, and even murder each other. But these two, he thought, are unlike the others. The love and care he feels for her is genuine. How much better the world would be if all twins were this way... but I fear for him. The loss of his sister could affect him deeply, and I hope that if it does, he can come out unscathed...

                There was another scream from the room as Leyla was giving birth. Tristan could not bear it any longer. He ran for the door, hoping to get in and comfort her. He did not put his faith in the nursemaids, no matter how many children they had helped come into the world. As his fist closed around the doorknob, another one, gentle yet unyielding, stopped him from opening the door.

                “Marcello, leave me be!” Tristan screamed. “I must get to my sister! I must help her!” he struggled, but in vain.

                Marcello’s grey eyes were filled with sadness. “Tristan, my friend. Thou hast a kind and loving heart. But you must not enter. The nursemaids know what they are doing. Do not worry. Leyla will be all right.”

                Another moan of agony from the room defied his words. Soon, the sound of a baby crying was heard as well, along with the voices of the nursemaids.

                “It’s a boy...!”

                “There, there Leyla, it’s all over...”

                “He’s a healthy one! Strong as his mother’s will...”

                Tristan calmed himself down. it was over. His sister was still alive... wasn’t she? He knocked on the door and stood there waiting. It was opened by a servant girl, who ushered them inside only after making sure that it was all right with her mistress, Leyla.

                Leyla lay on the bed, sweat droplets on her forehead, exhausted. Tristan was instantly at her side, clutching her hand, begging her to be alive. When his sister turned her head toward him and smiled weakly, he felt truly relieved. A nursemaid came and removed bloody linen sheets from the bed, replacing them with clean ones, tending to Leyla. Another held the child, cleaned and wrapped in a soft blanket.

                Leyla held her arms out toward her child. “May I see him...?”

                The nursemaid carefully handed her the child. “Of course! He is your son, after all.”

                Leyla held the child in her arms, rocking it back and forth gently, humming a tune to herself that she was not aware that she knew. Tristan swallowed before he spoke in a nervous tone.

                “Leyla, I’m sorry about father. I didn’t know that this would be so hard on him.”

                Marcello cut in before Leyla could reply. “Your father acted boorish,” he snapped. “He had no right to strike you, Tristan. Nor was it his right to tell mistress Leyla that her child would be a bastard, even if it was true.”

                Leyla’s face darkened. “Not only did he say that, he said that the child would be better off dead! Father or not, I could not tolerate that. Let him drink his days away in his room, I care not.” the baby began to cry, and Leyla stopped talking, holding the child near. “You don’t condone such acts, do you Tristan?” she said softly.

                Tristan seemed as if he were in the midst of a personal struggle. “No, Leyla, I cannot,” he said after some difficulty. “But I dare not rise against him. He is my father, boorish or not, and I owe him an amount of respect. Besides, it is part of the Knights Code, to honor your parents.”

                Marcello interjected. “But it is not right for thy father to treat thee like trash. He, as well, owes YOU a certain amount of respect as well, as you do him. He had no right to strike you that time nor the other times. The man even went as far as saying you were a son of a whore. How can you respect a man like that?”

                Tristan sighed. “I... I can’t say that I approve of father’s acts,” he said. “Even if he did strike me, even if he did call me... that, deep inside I know that he is still my father. Those acts were only a result of his drunkenness. I know that deep inside him, he still cares about me.”

                “Brother, how can you be so spineless?” said Leyla, the baby sleeping in her arms peacefully. “Even if you are a knight, and honor demands you to respect your father, it is simply not right for him to treat you like that! Nor to say what he said about my child...” she kissed the baby’s forehead, and it stirred in its sleep.

                “Thy sister is right, Tristan. Thou must be strong, and brave. Just tell Lord Mendoza that he is acting foolish. Tell him to stop his habit of drinking, for it leads him to more foolishness. And if you are not brave enough to do so, Tristan, then I shall do so myself!” Marcello said harshly. Tristan stood up and faced off his friend.

                “Why must you be such a rebel, Marcello? He is my father, and I cannot deny that! You probably wouldn’t understand... you’ve been given everything, taken it all for granted...”

                Marcello’s lip twitched. “Do not speak of matters you do not know of,” he said darkly. “You know nothing of my family! I was not given every opportunity, as you have said! I...! I...” he hesitated, seeing his friend’s look, one of sadness. “I am sorry, my friend. Thou speakest true. He is thy father, drunken fool or not. Just please, at least tell him what he said was wrong. At least do that much.”

                Tristan smiled weakly. “I will, Marcello. I’m sorry that I overreacted as well.” The two friends clasped hands, shaking them. Tristan then looked back at his sister. “I have not asked you this yet, but what are you going to call the child, Leyla?”

                Leyla looked up from where she lay. She smiled, giving a glance to her child, who was still sleeping contentedly, exhausted as she was. “His name shall be Clyde.” she said.

                “Clyde,” mused Marcello. “He will not doubt be branded as an outcast, as an outsider. Sad to say, his future might not be very bright.”

                Leyla looked at her twin brother. “Promise me,” she said, “that you will look after him. I fear that father might do something rash to him sometime in his life. And I know that he will be the constant recipient of insults and worse. I ask that you look after Clyde, Tristan, and make sure that his future will be a bright one.”

                Tristan knelt before his sister. “On my honor as a knight, I swear it! Even if...” he cleared his throat. “Even if I have to go against father’s wishes, I swear that I will look after Clyde.” he clasped the hand of his sister that was free from holding the child. “I will not fail you, Leyla.”

                Marcello Garamonde stood still, looking down at Tristan and his twin sister. Now, more than ever, the resemblance between the two was uncanny. This, he thought, is what the world is sadly lacking. Caring, love, sympathy... I still fear of Clyde’s future. His will be a rough life, if not a hard one. Good luck, Tristan my friend, and to you, Clyde...

                Clyde gurgled contentedly, oblivious to the others, oblivious to the harsh life of his ahead, sleeping in peace.

 

 

Chapter Two: Kindred Spirits

 

            There comes a time in one’s life when they meet a kindred spirit. This person and the other may not be exactly equal... in fact, they might in some aspects not be the same at all! However, there is always a strong bond between them, a bond of trust and understanding. They sympathize with each other, and usually end up being friends for life. Nothing in the world can break that bond.

                More strong is this bond if both of the people are outcasts, despised by others and loved by few, if any. They can end up relying on each other for comfort and for support, a sort of symbiotic relationship that can, sadly, be the cause of their downfall if they cannot learn to find peace within both of themselves. Even more traumatizing is if one of the friends happens to meet a tragic end, by betrayal or otherwise. It is said that the friend left behind will never be the same, will never feel the way they did again...

 

                  A group of children were in a group in the grassy, tree-filled park of Doma’s town. Back in the days before the War, the war that split Doma in two, the war that laid waste to the lovely town and left Doma’s castle the only area of its glorious past remaining from the once great kingdom... Doma was a mighty and benevolent kingdom, one of a castle surrounded by a great walled city, a constitutional monarchy ruled by a council, and not a king. Doma’s city stretched out like a large wheel, protected by the walls and by the elite guards that protected the city from invasion. In the center, the heart of the city, was the castle in all of its glory. Surrounding the castle was a large park, filled with lush grass and cherry blossom trees that bloomed only once a year, the beautiful pink blossoms filling the air around the castle, giving a sense of peace and tranquillity. Sakura, they were called in the lands to the east. Yes, Doma was one of the centers of civilization and benevolence in the days gone by, before the dark ages... before the War... and before the Empire...

                But I speak of ages long since gone. We cannot bring back the past, we can only learn from it and hope not to repeat the previous mistakes. Where was I? Ah yes, the children...

                “Hey, Clyde!” yelled one of the kids. “Coming your way...!” there was a loud thump of a leather ball being kicked, and the ball sailed through the air. Its destination was a tall, gangly youth for his age, one who stood out in the group of children. The boy, though scrawny and long-fingered, was suprisingly agile and strong. Eight years of age, he seemed more like ten. Thus, he was teased about his size and frame; friendly teasings, they seemed, but he knew better.

                Clyde Delano, though agile, was not agile enough to dodge the incoming ball. He only realized that it was coming for him when it was too late. The leather ball smacked him in the shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. There were several good-natured laughs, particularly from the person who hit him with the ball. Clyde got up and dusted himself off, grinning boorishly for the benefit of the audience.

                “Sorry about that,” the kid who kicked the ball apologized, chuckling. “Couldn’t be helped!”

                Clyde said nothing, only smirked. He did not talk much. Besides being tall and gangly, his skin was a tanner, bronzed color than most of the other fair-skinned girls and boys. His cheekbones were prominent, as if he was malnourished, and he had delicate, feminine features. His eyes were almond shaped, reminiscent of the people that lived in the East (or so he’d been told), and were a deep brown color. His hair was jet black, and combed back from his head, with a stubborn strand or two falling before his face.

                Clyde was shy, talking little to most people, indicating most of his words with gestures. When he spoke, it was a soft, whispering voice that disturbed even himself. Often the other had asked him why he looked different. The truth was, he did not know. He had asked his mother why, but she would always avert her gaze and change the subject. Thus, he preferred not to answer any of the kids’ probing questions.

                SMACK! The ball sailed by and hit a tree next to Clyde, shaking cherry blossoms and bark on the ground, jolting him back to reality. He gave a look of annoyance in the general direction of the person who kicked it, the same person who had hit him in the shoulder with it. The other boy simply shrugged his shoulders and feigned ignorance. Clyde said nothing, getting up to walk around elsewhere. The other children huddled in a circle, discussing the events, unheard to Clyde.

                “Did ya see that? If only you aimed for his head!”

                “Yeah! What an imbecile! He’s too stupid to figure it out.”

                “Who cares? Ignorance is bliss, so they say, and as long as he doesn’t know, we can keep it up!”

                Clyde did not hear the children’s’ biting remarks, but one other person did. He stood by a cherry tree, looking in the general direction of the kids, curling his lip in a sneer. Why does he bother to be around them? the man thought. Can’t he understand what they are insinuating?

                Marcello Vinci Garamonde folded his arms, his brows a dark line of anger. He was not wearing his armor today, as it was his break from the duties of knighthood. He wore a simple outfit that was “not becoming” of his status, but he did not care what other people thought. The long, curved blade of his family’s making (from the far East) hung by his hip in a scabbard, enough to distinguish his status without the armor.

                Tristan was preoccupied at the moment with guard duty, and he had asked his friend Marcello to look after Clyde. His friend agreed, feeling obliged as Tristan did to look after young Clyde. The boy had been begotten by violence, and it was up to Marcello and Tristan to make sure that Clyde’s life did not become one of violence. Right now, the boy was walking out of the park, hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed in thought. Marcello took the opportunity to speak to the boy, walking from his resting place under the cherry tree.

                “Clyde! How hath it fare for you this day?” he said, clapping the child on the back when he came near enough. Clyde looked up at him, and gave a smirk.

                “Fine.” came the soft, grating voice.

                Simple, short. Clyde seemed only to speak in ways described by those two words.

                “Er, shall we be off?” came Marcello’s confused voice. Clyde simply nodded wordlessly, trailing behind the big man as they walked away from the park. The boy was silent and secluded, and it seemed that the only reason that he had been around the other children was because he had to (which was the truth, as Marcello would find out; indeed, it was Lord Mendoza, the boy’s unwilling grandfather, who sent him to the park everyday).

                “My boy--”

                “I am not your boy.” said Clyde with a deadly calm. Marcello swallowed the rest of his words, to the effect that he nearly choked on them. Coughing, he patted the boy on the shoulder.

                “I am sorry, young one.” said Marcello after he was able to regain his composure. “I... you remind me of my baby brother. His name is Cyan. Hast thou met him yet?”

                Clyde shook his head.

                The knight sighed. “Well, I suppose that we’d better get you back home. Thy mother shall surely be waiting for you.” he walked briskly, making sure Clyde was with him, away from the park.

                “I’m sorry, Uncle Marcy.” Clyde said, using the nickname for his big brother’s friend. “I just don’t feel good today.”

                Is there any time when you do feel good, thought Marcello. When you aren’t so downcast, when you aren’t thinking so much? When you will find a person who will accept you for who you are...?

                “’Tis not a problem,” said the knight with a somewhat cheerful voice. “I shall escort you home now to thy mother.”

                At the mention of his mother, Clyde’s usually somber expression lifted, revealing the child within. His mood brightened, and he was able to carry out a relatively normal conversation with Uncle “Marcy” about certain topics.

                “Yes lad, I believe that soon you will receive training in the use of weaponry.” Marcello answered the boy’s previous question. “But you must be patient. Thy time shall soon come. Shall you learn the Art of the Sword?”

                Clyde’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t like swords,” he said. “Just the regular ones. I still like the way yours is shaped.” he added hastily, but with meaning. “I think the shape of it makes it more efficient.”

                “Do you, lad? I am glad for that.”

                Clyde continued on, at peace with himself and willing to share his feelings. “I like it a lot, but I think I’d like it even more if it were shorter. Yes, I know that a sword is supposed to have a long blade, but I’d feel more comfortable if I could have something that I could... conceal, I guess. Something that I could use in self-defense, to be hidden from my enemies.”

                Marcello raised am eyebrow. “Like a dagger?”

                The boy smiled, a rare thing for him. “Yes, something like that.”

                Marcello, to himself, shook his head. Daggers were, as the boy had said, used for self-defense, and also as a last resort. But they were frowned upon as a weapon of choice. They had a bad reputation as the weapon of choice for thieves and footpads. Like Clyde said, they could be hidden, but the knights of Doma viewed this as cowardly. The boy didn’t seem to mind or care about the weapon’s reputation, however.

                “Must be inherited from his mother,” Marcello said softly under his breath. Leyla had been known to prefer the dagger or dirk as well.

                “What did you say?”

                Marcello’s face flushed. He had forgotten the boy’s exceptional hearing abilities.

                “Er, I said.. Ah! Here is thy mother!” the knight managed to squeeze in, seeing Leyla Teresa Delano at the front of family estate, waiting for her son.

                “Mom!” Clyde shouted, and ran toward the only parent that he knew, that he loved. Leyla apparently saw or heard him coming, for she ran to him as well, with a slight limp in her leg, a limp she would not answer to how she had acquired, to her son.

                “Mother...” Clyde said, in his mother’s embrace. Leyla had to kneel down to hug her son, but it was clear that he was almost her size, and soon he would be the one bending down to embrace her. Leyla, a young mother for her age (she was eighteen years old when she gave birth), smoothed her sons hair and said his name as well.

                “Where have you been, child?” she asked kindly.

                Clyde smiled. “Oh, I was at the park again, but Uncle Marcy bailed me out.” he motioned a few meters away toward Marcello Garamonde, who waved and smiled and recieved both in return from Leyla.

                “The other children, did they... talk about you, again?” Leyla said this with some reluctance, her beautiful face serious.

                Clyde Delano shrugged, dismissed all the previous insults with the shrug. “Oh, of course they did. But they’re ignorant. I do not care what they think.”

                Leyla smiled, held her son close, happy that he was able to handle what she thought he would not be able to. But despite this, she could still tell that her son was sad. Why? Clyde said--and Leyla knew that he was telling the truth--that the other children did not bother him. Yet something was gnawing at him... and at her. She should be glad that her son can handle himself, but she grew worried over what looked like arrogance beginning to mask him...

                “My lady, I shall be off to fetch thy brother. I believe that he is finished with his duty and would be pleased to see Clyde, as well as you. Fare thee well!” Marcello, not wanting to be any more of an interruption in mother and son’s affections, bowed low and turned around, walking away in the direction of the Knight’s Barracks.

                Clyde chuckled. “Isn’t Marcy so old fashioned?”

                His mother nodded, but she was secretly glad that she had two people to depend on raising her son rightly.

                “Big brother’s coming soon, son.” Leyla said, kissing the boy’s forehead. “Why don’t you go inside and wash up?”

                “’Kay” came the reply, and the boy ran inside of the house to wash his face, grimy as was most all children’s’ faces. Finding a communal water bucket in a waiting room for guests, Clyde doused his face and hands with the cold water, wiping himself with a towel than hung nearby as well. Dried and refreshed, he was going to run back to see his older brother when he stopped dead in his tracks.

                Lord Mendoza Delano was standing in the entrance to the waiting room.

                “Child! Back so early from your play at the park, I suppose?” said Clyde’s surrogate grandfather in a soft voice. The boy could not help but to detect a note of dread in that voice, however. Mendoza Delano walked with a cane, due to an accident from his drinking days, which had come to an abrupt--if not pleasant--end after Leyla’s son was a year or two old. Since then, he had to walk with a cane. He would not admit this even to himself, but Mendoza knew that it was Leyla that had caused his accident. He was administering a beating to his son, Tristan, even though the man was a foot taller than his father. Leyla had heard the drunken ramblings quite well while she was nursing her son:

               

                “Father, stop! I have done nothing! What’s done is done, and Leyla is back to good health. I look over her and young Clyde all the time now--”

                A smack of a hand upon flesh. Tristan shut himself up, a purple welt upon his face, his jaw set, not daring to attack his father.

                “I’ll bet you do, you ninny,” came the liquor-muddled voice of Mendoza. “You are a disgrace.” his voice raised a notch. “Goddamned pup. I’ll make you take your medicine. Every last drop. Now, by the gods!”

                The sound of a baby crying. Mendoza’s ears pricked, his squinting eyes narrowed. His platinum hair, once finely kept, was now a mess, as was the lord himself.

                “That boy,” Mendoza said softly. “that boy is even more of a disgrace than you. A bastard child with no honor, bestowed wrongly upon my daughter because of the whims of some brigand scum! I shall put an end to that, then I will come back to you, Tristan...” with his hunched gait, Tristan’s father hobbled to the room where Leyla was. Luckily, Leyla’s twin brother had, after hearing his father’s shocking remark, rushed after him. But it seemed that he didn’t need to help his twin sister, after all.

                “Leyla! What the devil are you doing? This is for your own good! Stop--” the man was interrupted, and there was a thunking sound, followed by a cry of pain. When Tristan arrived, he saw Mendoza on the floor, clutching his leg, a gash on his forehead. Leyla stood protectively in front of the baby’s cot, an iron poker from the fireplace in her hands. Tristan, for the first time in his life, ignored his cursing father and rushed to his sister.

                “Leyla! Oh gods,” he nearly wept. “I’m so sorry... I should have been there...”

                Tristan’s twin sister hugged him, her tears flowing down her lovely face into his black hair, dyed black, involuntarily hiding an aspect of the twins’ similarity.

                “No, it is all right, brother,” said Leyla, still with her arms around Tristan, one hand still fiercely clutching the poker. “I was able to defend myself. It is not your fault.” she released herself from the embrace, stared down at the blubbering person who was her father on the floor with a gaze of such malevolence and hatred that Tristan, who thought that he knew almost everything about his twin, stopped to consider that he didn’t know even half of what tempest raged within Leyla.

                “That was inexcusable,” Tristan found himself saying. “I understand it now, sister. He nearly killed young Clyde there.” he looked at the child with a sympathetic gaze, the baby staring back at him with wide-eyed wonder, not knowing the dreadful event that just took place. “I will not let my father ever overstep his boundaries again.”

                Leyla was silent for a moment, then tears of joy, not sadness, wet her eyes once again.

                “Tristan, thank you!” she said in a soft voice. “You finally did it, finally broke free from.. from him.” she did not bother to even give the man who was her father the slightest respect with his name. Tristan smiled, though it seemed that he had just passed through a terrifying ordeal in which he emerged triumphant, but battle-scarred.

                “Urgh,” came Mendoza’s somewhat sobered voice. “Leyla, you hurt me...”

                She didn’t even spare her father a look. “Good. You deserved it.”

                Mendoza shook his head. “No, Leyla my dear, you were just not well at the moment. I forgive you. But my son,” he said with a deadly edge to his voice, looking at Tristan. “my prodigal, ungrateful bastard son, I will make him take his medicine. Boy has to obey his father, has to have respect. Bastard whelp. Not now, but soon, oh so soon, he said, and in his thoughts, he added “you and that illegitimate grandson of mine...” with a grunt, Mendoza got up and limped back to his quarters.

 

                That had been seven years ago, when Clyde was but a babe. Since then, Mendoza had stopped his ramblings. He stopped the drinking, too, but whether that boded good or ill was yet to be seen. Because of the accident, he had to walk with a cane. Leyla always made sure she, her brother, and her son were always out of the way of the cane’s reach. However, Mendoza had not said anything of the incident. It was as if it never happened. He greeted both his son and daughter with smiles, which caused Leyla to wonder if she had been a little too harsh with him. He cleaned himself and retained his reputable air. Mendoza, to those around him, had changed.

                Except to Clyde.

                “Back early?” said Mendoza, looking at young Clyde with interest. “Ah well. One must come home sooner or later, I suppose.” said the boy’s surrogate grandfather. “Be off, grandson. Your older brother approaches.” with a tap of his cane, Mendoza left as mysteriously as he had just appeared there.

                Clyde was perplexed. His grandpa acted nice to him all the time, but he could feel... something within the man, something that any astute observer would notice. The cold expressions, the unwarm smiles, the subliminal messages pouring out with every word.

                Shaking his head full of thoughts, Clyde dispelled them and rushed out to meet his big brother.

 

* * * * *  

 

                Doma, thought an old fashioned city, was active and alive at night. Shops were opened until the late hours, and even past then there were taverns open, and past then the inns were always open, and even past those there were the brothels and gambling houses. Even places like Doma contained the reek of corruption in them, if only in a small area. Nowhere escapes it.

                Clyde walked along, generally in good spirits but at the moment brooding over something. Tristan, who was accompanying his little brother, was confused over this. It seemed that no one, not even Leyla, fully understood the troubled boy.

                Catching Tristan’s worried glance, Clyde dispelled the thoughts to another region of his mind and gave his big brother a smile. Tristan, his anxiety curbed, decided to spark up some conversation.

                “Is there anywhere I can take you, Clyde?”

                The raven-haired boy paused in thought, but not the thought that Tristan was thinking of. Clyde’s almond shaped eyes darted from left to right. Though it pained him to think so, he was looking for a place to--kindly--dump his brother off. Clyde wanted to look at a certain smithy’s shop, one that specialized in daggers and shorter weapons.

                “Certainly, brother. Ah, look!” he cried, pointing. “There’s a restaurant. Could you reserve a table for us, big brother?” he asked meekly. Tristan nodded good naturedly, said that he would. He told Clyde, in a solemn voice, to stay put and wait for him. Clyde naturally obliged, and watched as his brother, dressed casually with his sword at his hip, walk across the cobblestone road and into a restaurant that was so conveniently placed there.

                The boy, not without a pang of regret, walked briskly away from the spot where he was supposed to wait for his brother, walking down the lively streets of Doma.

                Doma’s streets ran in between the bustling shops that lined the sidewalks. Knights off duty could be seen, at ease but still solemn as ever, the only marker of their status being the swords at their hips or on their backs, as well as a family crest on their tunic. Families. Yes, that was another important part of the Doma of old, before it was split in two. The terrible days... family houses formed two separate groups, not obeying any authority, not even the council. It was their feud, brought on by a seemingly insignificant argument, that sparked the War. The War that killed off most of Doma’s population, the first time ever in the city’s history that they used modern weaponry. But that is not to come until much, much later. Now, let us take a look back at the boy who was once named Clyde Delano...

                The shops soon gave way to taverns, which gave away to low quality taverns, giving away to areas of less modesty. Down the “food chain” of Doman society. Clyde passed areas where drunks spent their days away, places where people gambled away their money and their lives (Clyde still could not understand the concept of gambling), and places where beautiful (and ugly), barely-clothed women regarded the child with bemused looks (none the most bemused as Clyde, who couldn’t figure out for the life of him why these women stood outside in the cold wearing next to nothing).

                The shop shouldn’t be much farther, thought Clyde. He knew, from discreet inquiries with weapon merchants, that a store known as The Dirk (Oh, how original, the boy thought) was located in this area. The Dirk was the only store in Doma that specialized solely in shorter weapons. Daggers and such did not have a well reputation in Doma, seen as the brand of choice for thieves and other scum. Clyde, though, had no such limitations and openly expressed his like for shorter weapons. Why have a longer ranged sword, he thought, when you can simply throw a knife, and use a shorter, more sturdier weapon than a flimsy sword to engage the enemy at close range? Poor Marcello Garamonde had nearly choked at the comment, and gave young Clyde a long, boring speech about honor and something that amounted to “not stabbing your enemies in the back.”

                “But I never said anything of the sort,” Clyde would say, clearly amused at Marcello’s reaction. “I simply see the logic in the use of a dagger.”

                “As a last resort, yes,” said Marcello solemnly, “But not as thy weapon. It simply... it isn’t... well, empowering enough. It is like saluting thine enemy, who is armed with a great battle-axe, with a meat cleaver. It just doesn’t work!”

                Clyde smiled inwardly to himself as he had openly then. Marcello, with his ancient, anachronistic ways, was a means of amusement to the troubled boy. He thought of this as he came upon his destination, The Dirk, wedged between a tavern and some other building that Clyde did not care to find out the identity of. The Dirk was still open, of course, and light from candles as well as from the light reflecting off of the metal weapons of the store’s namesake shone out into the street, inviting.

                A silver bell by the door jingled merrily as Clyde pushed open the double doors of the store and made his way inside. The Dirk was not a sinister-looking store like most people thought of it as. In fact, it looked about as sinister as the local swordsmith’s, when Clyde thought about it. The floor was hard packed dirt, presumably because the store was not a major franchise and could not afford tiled floors. Candles and oil lamps hung on the walls or on display cases to light up the area at night. The display cases themselves were, strangely enough due to the reputation of the store, impressive, wrought of wood with steel frames, with finely-blown glass panels placed in to allow a good view of the merchandise without having anyone reach out and grab it. Along the back wall as well there were impressive pieces of handiwork that hung on wooden pegs driven into the wall, which was made of hardened clay. All in all, a well-to-do, not very strange store.

                Clyde had all of this go through his mind in less than a second, and decided to take a look around until he heard a booming voice and came across the strangest part of the entire store: the store owner himself.

                “Well, decided to jander in here, didn’t we lad? What be a young laddie like you doing here at this time of night?”

                The store owner was a short man, about Clyde’s height, but with girth to make up for the loss of height. Clyde had heard about the man from the people he asked about the shop, that he was a short man. Various other bits of information had been thrown in as well; he was a man who could hold his liquor well, he was an outsider not from Doma, and probably the most strangest, that the man was not a man, but a dwarf (or a descendant of the dwarves). Rumor had it that whenever that aspect of his life was brought up, the shopkeeper shrugged it off immediately, and pretended not to hear the people when they pressed him for information about that. Indeed, the man looked very much like a dwarf from children’s and bard tales of old. Short, rotund but strong, even with the long beard. But (presumably) that was all that they were, simply children’s and bard tales.

                The shopkeeper not being like anyone he had seen before, Clyde was momentarily speechless. It was not until the man asked the question again that Clyde came to his senses.

                “I said what be a lad like you doing here at a time like this?”

                The boy spoke in a voice that, he hoped, was not one of a sniveling child. “I had come to take a look at your wares, sir. I have heard from various sources that you craft fine short weapons, and I am interested in purchasing one.”

                The shopkeeper laughed heartily. “Well, your sources are correct, lad. I make the finest daggers you can come across from here to Jidoor.” he said in a deep, thickly accented voice that Clyde could not recognize. “But you look like a well-to-do young boy. What would a person like you be doing here, and at this time of night?”

                Clyde kept his jaw firm, kept himself from lashing out with a rude remark. “That is none of your business, sir.”

                The shopkeeper leaned himself over the display cases as well as he could. “Listen, laddie. Though you don’t have to tell me the rest, I like to know who I conduct business with.”

                “And I like to know who is conducting business with me, as well.” came the reply.

                The dwarf-like man (or man-like dwarf) grunted, in approval or disapproval, then shrugged his shoulders.

                “Very well. My name is Denkhrzahn, but you may call me Denkh, if you wish. Easier to remember, for most people. What is your name, lad?”

                The boy leaned against a display case that was conveniently his height. “My name is Clyde.”

                “Aye, but I’ll need a family name to go along with it.”

                Biting his lip, after a moment of inner struggle Clyde managed to spit out his family surname.

                Denkhrzahn raised a thick eyebrow. “Ah, Delano? Heard of your family, of course. Especially about the poor lass who bore a child.” he said, wiping away a tear that seemed to spontaneously roll down his face. “But, thank Woden, she’s all right now.”

                Touched by the dwarf’s kindness, Clyde seemed more open. “I am the son of Leyla, whom you speak of.” The man/dwarf seemed not too suprised by that.

                “Aye, lad? I’m not suprised! Young Leyla used to frequent this place more than often, and she was damn good with a dagger.” he said, nodding to himself with a solemn face. “Ah well. ‘talent be inherited’, as my people used to say.” (That remark causing Clyde to think twice about dwarves being bard tales).

                Clyde was very suprised by that. “You knew my mother?”

                “Aye, lad. A noble woman with a courageous heart. And I don’t mean noble in the sense of the uppity bastards that refer to themselves by that term. Yes, she was good person. I’m sorry to hear what happened to her.”

                Denhkrzahn’s comment, though not intended as mean, caused Clyde to flush in embarrassment. He had heard what had happened to his mother, and though he was not too clear on what it meant, he knew that it somehow had something to do with him. Denkhrzahn, seeing the boy’s reaction and knowing well that Clyde was the result in what happened to Leyla, offered an apology.

                “I’m sorry, laddie. Didn’t mean to tread upon such ground. Take a look around, see what you like.”

                Which was exactly what Clyde decided to do, except at regular intervals he could sense the shopkeeper’s eyes upon him whenever the man thought he wasn’t looking. Not being able to concentrate, Clyde finally looked up in exasperation, about to say something, when he noticed something as interesting as the dwarf/man himself. Denkhrzahn had his arms folded across his massive chest, but that did not hide that strange symbol upon the leather apron that he wore. Nor did it conceal at all the same symbol tattooed with vivid clarity upon his arm. The symbol was the image of a spear, a magnificent work of weaponry crafted entirely of shining metal, surrounded by a red circle. So strange and captivating was the symbol that Clyde could not help but to inquire about it.

                “Oh, this?” replied Denkhrzahn, spreading his arms wide to reveal the symbol upon his apron. “Ah. Listen well, lad, and you will learn something. This symbol is of the ancient faith me and my kin follow. It is of our god, Woden.”

                Clyde was immediately interested. “Woden? I haven’t ever heard of him, but I believe you had mentioned his name earlier.”

                “Aye, lad. Woden, or Odin as he is known to your people,” the reference to ‘your people’ making Clyde seriously consider the possibility of Denkhrzahn actually being a dwarf. “is our god, the god who created us specifically, who guides us from beyond and has been known to take avatar form as one of us. Even though he has not been frequently seen since the War of the Magi, we still believe in him.”

                Clyde was as attentive as an apprentice learning the tricks of the trade from his master. “Odin? Yes, I believe that I had heard of him.” he had, in fact, heard of Odin, often referred to as a god, but also by another term, one that Clyde could not remember... something that sound like ‘Jester’. Whatever the word was, he could not find meaning for it. At the moment, Clyde wished that he had payed more attention to his lessons given to him by his older brother. He had, however, heard of the War of the Magi. The war that took place millennia ago, and had set mankind back a thousand years in development. A time when magic and technology were rampant, had fused together to form an ultimate power. Now, it seemed that neither were rampant anymore, especially magic. That was itself a legend now, more unbelievable than the tales of sentient machines and incredible war technology there was back then. That aspect of history fascinated young Clyde, who constantly pressed his older brother to tell him more tales of that age, which Tristan, who was not an expert in the subject, simply could not. He had heard that this Odin and many others of stranger names and forms involved in the War of the Magi, but that was all that he knew on the subject.

                “Yes, lad,” came Denkhrzahn’s booming voice. “but Odin is his impure name. Woden is the way you are supposed to pronounce it. Woden, the Great One, wielder of Gungnir.”

                “Gungnir?” came the confused response.

                Denkhrzahn nodded. “Yes, Gungnir! The mighty spear that Woden carried, the one he crafted with his bare hands. Shaft and blades of solid mithril, must’ve weighed a ton. But great Woden carried it as if it were but a twig of those cherry trees you see in the park. A truly magnificent weapon,” the dwarf/man sighed, “It could cut through anything. When thrown, it never, and I mean never, missed its mark. Gungnir...” Denkhrzahn said dreamily, staring into nothing. He was awakened by Clyde clearing his throat.

                “I assume that this ‘Gungnir’ is the spear in the symbol you wear?”

                Denkhrzahn snorted, flustered. “Of course, lad! Anyone with the brains of an imp could figure that out!” he thumped upon the symbol on his chest with pride. “I could tell you the entire tale of Woden, how he came across Gungnir, of his eight-legged horse, Slepnir, of the two crows that are his faithful servants...” taking a look at a water-clock on the wall, the shopkeeper nodded to himself. “But I won’t bother taking up your time. It’s getting late, laddie. I suppose you’d better make up your mind about finding a knife.”

                Clyde, who had been extremely interested in the story of Woden, was disappointed to hear the man end it. He supposed that he better find a dirk or dagger, anyway. But Clyde need not have looked very much. On the back wall, hanging on a wooden peg, was a long, ornamented dagger, one of the most beautiful pieces of work Clyde had ever seen. It was larger and longer than most of its kind by at least a few inches, the blade curved in a sensuous way, resembling a fang or a claw. Embroidered on the maroon leather than covered the hilt was a dragon, breathtaking in all its splendor, even if it was just an image. The blade of the dagger held the same image, as well. The fingerguard resembled more of a claw than did the blade, and was just as sharp on the side opposite of the finger. Clyde could not help but to stare at it, wide-eyed in wonder, like a child. A chuckle from the shopkeeper brought his face back to the mask that he kept it in before.

                “I see you’ve been admiring my handiwork, lad.” said Denkhrzahn. “Yes, that is a beautiful blade, one I made especially by myself, with no help from others. At least no help in the crafting of it. For what you see is a blade of wyrm origin, that I have dubbed Dragon Fang. The reason? Lad, this blade is forged of no earthly metal, but of the actual fang of a metallic dragon.”

                Clyde was awed beyond imagining. “A real dragon fang?”

                “Yes! See how the metal has a strange bluish tint to it? This is common to mithril, of course, but mithril is more of a grayish-blue, while this is a bluish-white. It is what we mortals call Dragonsilver, a very, very rare element. A metal not of the earth, but of the most magnificent beings to ever inhabit this world, dragons.” he sighed, wiping away another spontaneous tear. Clyde simply listened, entranced.

                “Dragonsilver is so rare because it is a product of the dragon’s body itself. In a whole, adult dragon about seventy feet long and almost as large as Doma castle, you could only harness about little more than a pound of Dragonsilver. Now, if one happens to find a metallic dragon, whose numbers are almost as few as the amount of the precious material within the dragons, one could find an abundance of Dragonsilver. Luckily, great Woden and the other gods decided to make little of Dragonsilver and even less of the metallic dragons, in order to keep us from wiping ourselves our with greed and indestructible weapons. Still, we are able to create some things of the wondrous metal.”

                The boy had listened to every single word that Denkhrzahn had said, and they would remain in his memory forever.

                “I would give anything,” Clyde said. “almost anything for that wondrous weapon!”

                The dwarf/man nodded, smiling sadly. “Yes, I know. I almost gave my life crafting the weapon. Dragonsilver causes an immense longing for it in the hearts of mortals. Luckily, I have managed to gain an immunity to it after being around it for so many years. But I will not sell the Dragon Fang to anyone. It is meant to be given, not sold, for not price in the world could be put upon the metal that this dagger is forged of. I will give it to the person who is worthy of it, and who can master the weapon, and not let the weapon master themselves.” looking at the dagger, Denkhrzahn gave a tight lipped grin. “I await that day when the person worthy of Dragon Fang will claim it.”

                “Oh...” Clyde seemed to jolt back to reality from his visions of himself wielding Dragon Fang. “Perhaps it is better that way.”

                “Yes, laddie, it is.” the shopkeeper said. “But you’d better get going now. Streets aren’t safe for a young man to be roaming.” Clyde thanked whoever was out there for not letting him tell his true age to the shopkeeper, who would probably have a fit if he knew.

                “Would you like me to escort you to your house, lad?”

                Clyde thought of himself marching home in the company of the dwarf-like man (vise versa), and though he admired the shopkeeper, he would not let himself be walked home like a child.

                “No thank you, sir, I am able walk home myself.”

                The dwarf-like man chuckled, but with a concerned face. “Very well, son of Leyla. Go to your home where you will be safe. May Woden guide and protect you.” with a second thought, he added, “And you don’t need to call me ‘sir’. Call me Denkhrzahn, or Denkh if it is easier.”

                Clyde politely bowed to the man. “I will call you Denkhrzahn, your full name.”

                The dwarf bowed his head in respect. “Thank you, Clyde Delano. Now go, for it is very late.”

                The boy was making his way out of the shop when a nagging question, one that had been nagging him since he met the shopkeeper, made itself remembered.

                “Um, Denkhrzahn?” came the boy’s voice. “A-are you what the people call a dwarf?”

                There was a suprised, almost afraid look to the shopkeeper’s face, but it was replaced with a look of mirth.

                “Lad, people have asked me the same question, and I have given the same answer: What do you think?”

                Without an answer, Clyde made his way quickly out of The Dirk and back into the dark streets of Doma. From then on, Clyde knew this: he would not refer to Denkhrzahn as dwarf/man, or dwarf-like man, or even as a man. It would always be dwarf. And with that, Clyde walked down the streets to get to his house, where he would probably be scolded by Tristan for leaving his big brother alone, or worried over by Leyla, who loved her only son dearly. But it mattered him not.

                Unknown to the boy, the figures of two other people that were probably older children noted his departure from The Dirk, and silently followed him in the shadows.

 

* * * * *

 

                It was, as the dwarf had said, very late. When Clyde had gone out with his older brother, it was around mid evening. Now it was more close to midnight. The streets were lighted, but mostly empty, the people of Doma having gone to their beds or to take watch over the gates or the castle. Once or twice a lone guard would come up to ask why the devil a young boy was out at this time at night. Clyde would simply reply that he had just run an errand for House Delano, whom he was a member of, and was just returning now. The guards recognized the boy, and let him off, though not without asking if he would like them to accompany him, which Clyde refused. His pride was too strong for that.

                However, now Clyde began to have second thoughts about having an escort. The streets were silent and dark, and once or twice Clyde thought that he saw several shadows within the darkness following him, watching him, but he dismissed those as panicky thoughts. Still, the boy quickened his pace and kept making nervous glances behind him. So fast was he walking that he did not notice the person walking across the road until he had run into the figure, causing them both to fall to the ground.

                “Watch where you’re going,” said Clyde in his harsh, soft voice, not in the mood for politeness, especially at a time like this.

                The figure was of a male, an inch or so shorter than Clyde, wearing a grubby cloak and clothes that had seen better days. He lifted his head up, and Clyde could see the boy’s face. Remarkably, it was one almost like his own. Lighter skin, but with almond-shaped eyes as well that were green. Clyde could only make out those two features, which caused him to stare.

                “I might tell you the same thing,” said the person, in a strong voice, who was obviously a beggar from his looks. “And stop staring at me. It’s impolite.”

                Clyde was confused and angry. “Impolite? Why you...” something made him swallow the incoming remark he was about to say. Sighing, he said, “oh well, I have to get going anyway.” but as he was about to leave, the grubby boy’s hand grasped Clyde’s arm.

                “Spare a coin or two for the poor?” said the beggar, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

                Clyde had brought along some money that he had been given, money he had intended to use to by a fine dagger at the shop. But the sight of the Dragon Fang had filled him with such desire for the weapon that he did not buy anything at all. Feeling sudden sympathy for this poor person, Clyde dug out three silver coins from his pouch, which he dropped in the beggar’s open hands.

                “Thankee, friend. I am in your debt. Go now, and godspeed.” the beggar clutched the coins as if they were solid gold, and hobbled down the street.

                The moon had reached its zenith in the night sky, indicating that it was midnight. Clyde was now beginning to think that he shouldn’t have stopped by the dwarf’s shop and spent all the time there. But he had learned so much from that small experience that he told himself that it was worth walking home in the dead of night. Brushing aside a stubborn strand of black hair, Clyde started walking back to his home.

                He did not hear the two figures creeping upon him until it was too late.

                He felt a foot kick him in the back. Pain followed when Clyde hit the ground, and when another booted foot kicked him solidly in the stomach. He coughed and spat, frantically trying to turn around to get a glimpse of his attackers. Two boys, one elder and one younger, dressed in clothing that showed their high status, were standing over him.

                “Ah, so you’re Clyde,” said the elder, a short-haired boy. “I’ve hard much of ye from my little friend, here.” he pointed to the younger boy, who Clyde recognized as the boy who had hit him with a leather ball at the park earlier in the day.

                “Yeah, that’s him!” cried the younger one. “He tried to hurt me!”

                Hurt him? It was the other way around, Clyde thought, but telling them that would do now good. They would believe whatever they wanted to believe.

                “I did nothing of the sort,” hissed Clyde in his menacing tone. “You are obviously mistake,. Leave me in peace.”

                The elder boy laughed, an annoying sound. “Leave you in peace? Sure, I’ll do that after I get you back for trying to hurt my little friend, here!” with that, he grabbed Clyde by the collar of his shirt and cuffed him solidly across the face. Clyde tasted blood, felt his jaw throb in pain. He felt hatred, a great hatred, the first time in his life. He wanted to reach for the boy’s neck and tear his throat out and watch him die slowly. He wanted to crack the younger boy’s neck and watch his head dangle lifelessly on his shoulders, his sightless eyes staring in horror that would never end.

                Appalled by such thoughts, but secretly reveling in them as well, Clyde looked up at the older boy in anger and spat bloody phlegm in his face.

                The elder kid grimaced, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Okay, you little shit, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll make sure you get what you want!” another punch to Clyde’s jaw. A kick to the chest, followed by a solid punch to the gut, caused Clyde to fall to the ground, coughing, whimpering against his will in pain.

                The elder boy laughed again, standing over Clyde’s form. He raised up his foot to stomp on the boy’s head...

                ...and a whistle of steel slicing through air soon became steel slicing through flesh. The elder boy looked, shocked, at the deep gash on his unprotected arm. Blood trickled out slowly, falling onto the street below. Another whistle of steel, and the next instant, a slender throwing knife was sticking out of the elder boy’s boot.

                Finally, the older boy cried out in pain, collapsing next to Clyde, blubbering as if he were a child himself. The younger boy who had tormented Clyde earlier looked at his older friend in horror, and ran down the street, crying, back to his own house probably.

                Looking in the direction where the knives were thrown, Clyde, in his blurred vision of pain, could make out a grubby, cloaked figure, the same one whom he had run into earlier. The beggar walked up to the blubbering older boy, and swiftly pulled the knife out of his boot, causing the tormentor to whimper in pain. He reached out with a dirty arm and picked up the young man, pushing him when he stood up.

                “Get out.”

                The older boy, in fear, ran down the street in the general direction that his little friend went, snuffling as he ran along. The beggar then knelt down to Clyde, lifted up his delicate chin with a strong hand.

                “Kid, kid, can you hear me?”

                Clyde nodded groggily, coughing and spitting out a loose tooth. He managed to squeeze out a few words of gratitude, which the beggar took with a quiet laugh.

                “No need to thank me. I told you I was in your debt, right? Plus I hate to see the weak impose themselves upon the weaker.” said the beggar, his face grim. The hood to his dirty cloak fell down, and Clyde could see a tangle of dirty blond hair fall across the beggar’s face, which he brushed away. The beggar looked about Clyde’s age, but had a more... mature look to his face, as if he had seen things that he was not supposed to have seen.

                “I thank you all the same,” Clyde spoke softly, sitting himself up. He looked again at the beggar strangely. “You called me kid. You aren’t much more than a kid yourself, I wager.”

                The beggar snorted. “Actually, I am ten years old. You look my age, but I can tell you are a little younger. How old are you?’

                Clyde gritted his teeth in anger, but remembered that this was the person who had saved him. “I am eight years of age, sir.”

                The beggar laughed out loud. “Eight? Damn, son, you look more like eleven!” seeing Clyde’s angry expression, the beggar calmed down, still chuckling softly. “I’m sorry, you just look a little older than you are. But that’s no problem. What the real problem is,” he said. “is that you can’t defend yourself. I mean, shit, look what that guy did to you! And he wasn’t much taller than you, either! Tell you what. I’m going to take you to your house. Free of charge.” he added with a smile. “Can’t have you roaming these streets at night. By the way, what’s your name?”

                “Clyde.” said the boy, not willing to impart his surname. “Share and share alike, our names. What is yours?”

                The beggar grinned from ear to ear. “You can call me Baram.”

                Clyde grunted, lifting himself up. “Very well. I accept your offer. I will let you accompany me home.”

                “Sure, kid.” said Baram, chuckling to himself. “You’re not a bastard like the rest o’ them, that much I can tell. How about I teach you to fight, to keep yourself from getting jumped again?”

                The idea was tempting to Clyde, even though he felt like a weakling from that comment.

                “I am in debt to you. Yes, I would like you to teach me to fight so that there may come a day that I can defend you instead.” he said, giving a half smile. “Thank you, Baram.”

                Baram clapped Clyde on the back, laughed, nodded his head. “Anytime, Clyde! Anytime! You’ll have to meet me around here tomorrow, but now I can give you the basics. You see, when one of those blokes comes running to you...”

                The two walked down the silent streets, looking our for each other. In that moment, a kinship was born. It would flower in the later days of Clyde’s life, when things got rough, and the two would become inseparable. Now, they were content to walk with each other in the night, fast friends.

 

                And so, the kindred spirits meet. Their lives will not be treating them well later on, but their friendship will pierce through that darkness, and keep them going in the roughest of times. When Clyde’s mother is gone, with her twin brother, and Marcello cannot help young Clyde, Baram would always be there for him, offering advice and comfort. The bond will never break. But should one of the two die under tragic circumstances, then the future of the other becomes bleak and filled with anger and hate, or even worse, emotionlessness... like an automaton. A pair of killing hands is all that he will be then...

 

 

Chapter Three:

 

                It was already dark.

                Doma was alive at dark, if in a sort of catatonic state. True, the streets were much less lively and more quiet, and the alleys were pools of inkly black shadows that spilled onto the cobbled street, but in that inky darkness life thrived. The taverns were the only source of light besides the flaming torches set on the sides of the street to guide people to where they needed to go. The creatures of the night would sometimes seek refuge in the ale-houses, but most of the time walked in the areas most suited for their kind: the shadows.

                Clyde Delano was not afraid of the night creatures. He leaned against the side of a building, chewing on a piece of straw, arms folded, head down. A flaming torch on a metal holder above illuminated him somewhat, though his finely chisled features cast shadows upon his face. His fine night-black hair was growing longer, causing more strands to fall in front of his face. Clyde impatiently brushed the stubborn strands aside. He was waiting for Baram.

                Two years had passed since he had first met his new friend. Already, the two were almost inseperable. Seeing the two walking down the streets, one would think that they were brothers. After all, the two seemed to share a common trait as far as their appearance. Still, Clyde had not introduced Baram to his family. He remembered that night when Baram had led him home, and how his family reacted:

 

                “Clyde! Where the devil have you gone? I spent hours searching for you! I was worried... and so was your mother.” Tristan angrily spoke. Clyde felt a pang of regret for causing his mother and brother so much worry, and hung his head. But, oh, what a night! The Dragon-Fang dagger, the stories told to him by Denkhrzahn, and a newfound friend. During the walk to Clyde’s home, Baram had taught him the basics of street fighting, starting with what was Clyde’s greatest asset: agility. The two had promised to meet at the same place where they first met the next night, and already a friendship was born.

                “I am sorry,” Clyde said solemnly, lowering his head in meek apology. “I.. went to the blacksmith’s to look at some swords. I didn’t mean any harm.”

                Tristan took this all in with an angry air about him and he was about to say something else when Leyla put her hand on his shoulder. Something about the way she did that made Tristan stop and move aside, letting his sister pass by him to Clyde.

                “It’s all right,” she said softly, kneeling down to kiss her son on the forehead. “I was worried, but you are now safe...

 

                Since then, Clyde had met his new friend Baram at this same spot every evening. For some reason, Baram would only agree to meet Clyde at night, when the passerby were few and the shadows concealed them.

                “Why do you do this, Baram?” Clyde would ask him.

                “I do not want to be seen like this,” he would reply.

                Baram resembled Clyde in some ways. They both had the same shaped eyes, they both were agile and preferred speed and wit rather to brute strength. But most of all, they both longed to leave Doma and to explore the world outside. This is what the both of them were waiting for, until they were old enough to venture outside of the city. Like most children, they did not think too much of the future and its problems, and instead focused on that goal that seemed out of their grasp.

                There was a very soft sound of feet garbed in soft leather tabi landing on the ground in the dark alley next to the building Clyde was leaning against. He knew it was Baram, and did not start or look behind him. He had gotten used to his friend’s stealthy appearances. Baram used to think that Clyde could not hear him, but his friend had an excellent sense of hearing, and always knew when Baram had shown up.

                “Baram,” Clyde said, his standard greeting to his friend. He heard a curse behind him, and then a muffled chuckle.

                “Why do I even bother?” came the reply. “Hey, Clyde. Looks like your ears are gettin’ sharper.”

                “Thanks to you,” Clyde said. “However, I wonder when I’ll actually be able to use what you’ve taught me constructively.”

                Baram grinned from ear to ear, which could mean something good or something bad. “Actually, that is what I came to let you know. You’re gonna have a chance to use the stuff I taught ya tonight.”

                Clyde raised a thin eyebrow, crossing his legs as he leaned against the alley wall, himself clothed in rather common clothes (as he had been told of them).

                “It wouldn’t have anything to do with these clothes you told me to wear, would it?” Clyde said, gesturing to the plain, drab peasant-like shirt and pants he wore. He was more accustomed to wearing black, and most of the clothes in his “aresenal” were fine ones, since he lived with nobles. He did not object to them, but wore them because he had nothing else. However, he was able to scrounge up some of the clothes Baram had asked for earlier.

                “It does,” said Baram, his almond-shaped eyes wide and almost feverish. “Tonight, we use all of the skills that I have taught you. For tonight,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “we will need them for sure. We are to pilfer a certain nameless lord’s house while he is gone out of the city.”