The Weight of Honor

Alec stared at a vendor selling the largest red fruits he had ever seen, and he reached into his pocket to buy one – when he felt his shoulder bumped hard from the side.

He spun to see a large man, older, towering over him, with a black scruffy beard, scowling down. He had a foreign face which Alec could not recognize, and he cursed in a language Alec did not understand. The man then shoved him, sending Alec, to his surprise, flying backwards into a stall, crashing down to the street.

“There’s no need for that,” Marco said, stepping forward and putting out a hand to stop the man.

But Alec, normally passive, felt a new sense of rage. It was an unfamiliar feeling, a rage smoldering inside him ever since the death of his family, a rage which needed an outlet. He could not control himself. He jumped to his feet and lunged forward, and, with a strength he didn’t know he had, punched the man in the face, knocking him back, sending him crashing over another stall.

Alec stood there, amazed that he had knocked down the much bigger man, while Marco stood beside him, wide-eyed, too.

A commotion erupted in the marketplace as the man’s oafish friends began to run over, while a group of Pandesian soldiers came running over from the other side of the square. Marco looked panicked, and Alec knew they were in a precarious position.

“This way!” Marco urged, grabbing Alec and yanking him roughly.

As the oaf gained his feet and the Pandesians closed in, Alec and Marco ran through the streets, Alec following his friend as he navigated this city he knew so well, taking shortcuts, weaving in and out between stalls and making sharp turns down alleyways. Alec could barely keep up with all the sharp zigzags. Yet when he turned and looked over his shoulder, he saw the large group closing in and knew they had a fight on their hands they could not win.

“Here!” Marco yelled.

Alec watched Marco jump off the edge of the canal, and without thinking he followed him, expecting to land in water.

He was surprised, though, not to hear a splash, and to instead find himself landing on a small stone ledge down at the bottom, one he had not detected from above. Marco, breathing hard, knocked four times on an anonymous wood door, built into the stone, beneath the street – and a second later the door opened and Alec and Marco were pulled into the blackness, the door slamming behind them. Before it did, Alec saw men running toward the edge of the canal, questioning, unable to see below as the door closed.

Alec found himself underground, in a dark, subterranean canal, and he ran, baffled, splashing in water up to his ankles. They twisted and turned, and soon there came sunlight again.

Alec saw they were in a large stone room, beneath the city streets, sunlight filtering in from grates high above, and he looked over in amazement to see himself surrounded by several boys their age, all with faces covered in dirt and smiling back good-naturedly. They all stopped, breathing hard, and Marco smiled and greeted his friends.

“Marco,” they said, embracing him.

“Jun, Saro, Bagi,” Marco replied.

They each stepped forward and he embraced each one, grinning, these men clearly like brothers to him. They were each about their age, as tall as Marco, broad-shouldered, with tough faces and the looks of boys who had managed to survive their whole lives on the streets. They were boys who, clearly, had had to make a way for themselves.

Marco pulled Alec forward.

“This,” he announced, “is Alec. He is one of us now.”

One of us. Alec liked the sound of that. It felt good to belong somewhere.

They each clasped forearms with him, and one of them, the tallest, Bagi, shook his head and grinned.

“So you are the one who started all that excitement?” he asked with a smile.

Alec smiled sheepishly back.

“The guy pushed me,” Alec said.

The others all laughed.

“Good enough a reason as any to risk our lives on this day,” Saro replied, sincere.

“You’re in a city now, country boy,” Jun said sternly, unsmiling, unlike the others. “You could have got us all killed. That was stupid. Here, people don’t care – they’ll shove you – and a whole lot worse. Keep your head down and watch where you’re going. If someone bumps you, turn away or you may find a dagger in your back. You got lucky this time. This is Ur. You never know who’s crossing the street, and people here will cut you for any reason – and some, for no reason at all.”

His newfound friends suddenly turned and headed off, deeper into the cavernous tunnels, and Alec hurried to catch up as Marco joined them. They all seemed to know this place by heart, even in the dim light, twisting and turning with ease through the underground chambers, water dripping and echoing all around them. They all had clearly grown up here. It made Alec feel inadequate, having grown up in Soli, seeing this place which was so worldly, these boys who were so street smart. They had all clearly suffered trials and hardships which Alec could never imagine. They were a rough lot, having clearly been in more than a few altercations, and above all, they appeared to be survivors.

After turning down a series of alleys, the boys ascended a steep metal ladder, and soon Alec found himself back above ground, on the streets, in a different part of Ur, emerging into another bustling crowd. Alec spun and looked around, seeing a big town square with a copper fountain in its center, not recognizing it, barely able to keep track of all the neighborhoods of this sprawling city.

The boys stopped before a low, squat, anonymous building made of stone, similar to all the others, with its low, slanted red-tiled roof. Bagi knocked twice and a moment later the anonymous rusted door opened. They all quickly filed inside, then it slammed closed behind them.

Alec found himself in a dim room, lit only by the sunlight streaming in through windows high above, and he turned as he recognized the sound of hammers striking anvils, and surveyed the room with interest. He heard the hiss of a forge, saw the familiar clouds of steam, and he immediately felt at home. He did not have to look around to know he was in a forge, and that it was filled with smiths working on weapons. His heart lifted with excitement.

A tall, thin man with a short beard, perhaps in his forties, face blackened from soot, wiped his hands on his apron and approached. He nodded at Marco’s friends with a look of respect, and they nodded back.

“Fervil,” Marco said.

Fervil turned and saw Marco, and his face lit up. He stepped forward and embraced him.

“I thought you’d gone to The Flames,” he said.

Marco grinned back.

“Not anymore,” he replied.

“You boys ready to work?” he added. Then he looked over at Alec. “And who do we have here?”

“My friend,” Marco replied. “Alec. A fine smith, and eager to join our cause.”

“Is he now?” Fervil asked skeptically.

He surveyed Alec with harsh eyes, looking him up and down as if he were useless.

“I doubt that,” he replied, “from the looks of him. Looks awful young to me. But we can put him to work collecting our scraps. Take this,” he said, reaching over and handing Alec a bucket full of metal scrap. “I’ll let you know if I need more from you.”

Alec reddened, indignant. He did not know why this man had taken such a dislike to him – perhaps he was threatened. He could sense the forge grow quiet, could sense the other boys watching. In many ways, this man reminded him of his father, and that only increased Alec’s anger.

Still, he fumed inside, no longer willing, since the death of his family, to tolerate anything he had before.

As the others turned to walk away, Alec dropped the bucket of metal and it clanged loudly on the stone floor. The others all turned around, stunned, and the forge grew quiet, as the other boys stopped to watch the confrontation.

“Get the hell out of my shop!” Fervil snarled.

Alec ignored him; instead, he stepped past him, to the closest table, picked up a long sword, held it out straight, and examined it.

“This your handiwork?” Alec asked.

“And who are you to be asking questions of me?” Fervil demanded.

“Is it?” Marco pressed, sticking up for his friend.

“It is,” Fervil answered defensively.

Alec nodded.

“It’s junk,” he concluded.

There came a gasp in the room.

Fervil stood to his full height and scowled back, livid.

“You boys can leave now,” he snarled. “All of you. I have enough smiths in here.”

Alec stood his ground.

“And none worth a damn,” he countered.

Fervil turned red and stepped forward threateningly, and Marco put a hand between them.

“We’ll leave,” Marco said.

Alec suddenly lowered the sword’s tip to the ground, raised his foot high, and with one clean kick, shattered it in two.

Shards flew everywhere, stunning the room.

“Should a good sword do that?” Alec asked with a wry smile.

Fervil shouted and charged Alec – and as he neared, Alec held out the jagged end of the broken blade, and Fervil stopped in his tracks.

The other boys, seeing the confrontation, drew swords and rushed forward to defend Fervil, while Marco and his friends drew theirs around Alec. All the boys stood there, facing off with each other in a tense standoff.

“What are you doing?” Marco asked Alec. “We all share the same cause. This is madness.”

“And that is why I cannot let them fight with junk,” Alec replied.

Alec threw down the broken sword, reached over, and slowly drew a long sword from his belt.

“Here is my handiwork,” Alec said loudly. “I crafted it myself in my father’s forge. A finer work you will never find.”

Alec suddenly turned the sword, grabbed the blade, and held it out, hilt first, to Fervil.

In the tense silence, Fervil looked down, clearly not expecting this. He snatched the hilt, leaving Alec defenseless, and for a moment he seemed to contemplate stabbing Alec with it.

Yet Alec stood there proudly, unafraid.

Slowly, Fervil’s face softened, clearly realizing Alec had left himself defenseless, and looking at him with more respect. He looked down and examined the sword. He weighed it in his hand and held it up to the light, and finally, after a long time, he looked back at Alec, impressed.

“Your work?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

Alec nodded.

“And I can forge many more,” he replied.

He stepped forward and looked at Fervil, intensity in his eyes.

“I want to kill Pandesians,” Alec replied. “And I want to do it with real weapons.”

A long, thick silence lingered over the room, until finally Fervil slowly shook his head and smiled.

He lowered the sword and held out an arm, and Alec clasped it. Slowly, all the boys lowered their weapons.

“I suppose,” Fervil said, his grin broadening, “we can find a spot for you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Aidan trekked down the lonely forest road, as far from anywhere as he’d ever been, feeling utterly alone in the world. If it were not for his Wood Dog beside him he would be forlorn, hopeless; but White gave him strength, even as grievously wounded as he was, as Aidan ran his hand along his short, white fur. They both limped, each wounded from their encounters with that savage cart driver, every step they took painful as the sky grew dark. With each limping step Aidan took, he vowed that if he ever laid eyes on that man again, he’d kill him with his own hands.

White whined beside him, and Aidan reached over and stroked his head, the dog nearly as tall as him, more wild beast than dog. Aidan was grateful not only for his companionship but for the fact that he had saved his life. He had rescued White because something inside him would not let him turn away – and yet he had received the reward of his life in return. He would do it all over again, even if he knew it would mean his being dumped out here, in the midst of nowhere, on a certain course with starvation and death. It was still worth it.

White whined again, and Aidan shared his hunger pains.

“I know, White,” Aidan said. “I’m hungry, too.”

Aidan looked down at White’s wounds, still seeping blood, and shook his head, feeling awful and helpless.

“I would do anything to help you,” Aidan said. “I wish I knew how.”

Aidan leaned over and kissed him on the head, his fur soft, and White leaned his head back into Aidan’s. It was the embrace of two people on a death walk together. The sounds of wild creatures rose up in a symphony in the darkening forest, and Aidan felt his little legs burning, felt they couldn’t go on much further, that they would die out here. They were still days from anywhere, and with night falling, they were vulnerable. White, as powerful as he was, was in no shape to fight off anything, and Aidan, weaponless, wounded, was no better. No carts had come by for hours, and none would, he suspected, for days.

Aidan thought of his father, out there somewhere, and felt he had let him down. If he were to die, Aidan wished he could have at least died at his father’s side somewhere, fighting some great cause, or at home, in the comfort of Volis. Not here, alone in middle of nowhere. Each step seemed to drag him closer to death.

Aidan reflected on his short life thus far, pondering all the people he had known and loved, his father and brothers, and most of all, his sister, Kyra. He wondered about her, wondered where she was right now, if she had crossed Escalon, if she had survived the journey to Ur. He wondered if she ever thought of him, if she would be proud of him now, trying as he was to follow in her footsteps, trying to cross Escalon, too, in his own way, to help their father and the cause. He wondered if he would ever have lived to become a great warrior, and felt deeply saddened that he would never see her again.

Aidan felt himself sinking with each step he took, and there wasn’t anything much he could do now except give in to his wounds and exhaustion. Going slower and slower, he looked over at White and saw him dragging his legs, too. Soon they would have to lie down and rest right here on this road, come what may. It was a frightful proposition.

Aidan thought he heard something, faint at first. He stopped and listened intently as White stopped, too, looking questioningly up at him. Aidan hoped, prayed. Had he been hearing things?

Then it came again. He was sure this time. A squeak of wheels. Of wood. Of iron. It was a cart.

Aidan spun around, his heart skipping a beat as he squinted into the fading light. At first he saw nothing. But then slowly, surely, he saw something come into view. A cart. Several carts.

Aidan’s heart pounded in his throat, barely able to contain his excitement as he felt the rumble, heard the horses, and watched the caravan head his way. But then his excitement tempered as he wondered if they could be hostile. After all, who else would be traveling this long stretch of barren road, so far from anywhere? He could not fight and White, snarling half-heartedly, did not have much fight left in him, either. They were at the mercy of whoever was approaching. It was a scary thought.

The sound grew deafening as the carts neared, and Aidan stood boldly in the center of the road, realizing he could not hide. He had to take his chances. Aidan thought he heard music as they neared, and it deepened his curiosity. They gained speed, and for a moment he wondered if they would run him over.

Then, suddenly, the entire caravan slowed and stopped before him, as he blocked the road. They stared down at him, the dust settling all around them, a large group, perhaps fifty people, and Aidan blinked up in surprise to see they were not soldiers. They did not appear to be hostile, either, he realized with a sigh of relief. He noticed the wagons filled with all sorts of people, men and women of all different ages. One appeared to be filled with musicians, holding various musical instruments; another was filled with men who appeared to be jugglers or comedians, their faces painted in bright colors and wearing brightly colored tights and tunics; another cart seemed to be filled with actors, men holding scrolls, clearly rehearsing scripts, dressed in dramatic costumes; while another was filled with women – barely clothed, their faces painted with too much makeup.

Aidan blushed and looked away, knowing he was too young to gape at such things.

“You, boy!” a voice called out. It was a man with a very long beard, bright red, down to his waist, a peculiar-looking man, with a friendly smile.

“Is this your road?” he asked in jest.

Laughter erupted from all the carts, and Aidan blushed.

“Who are you?” Aidan asked, baffled.

“I think the better question,” he called back, “is who are you?” They looked down in fear at White as he snarled. “And what on earth are you doing with a Wood Dog? Don’t you know they’ll kill you?” they asked, fear in their voices.

“Not this one,” Aidan replied. “Are you all…entertainers?” he asked, still curious, wondering what they were all doing out here.

“A kind word for it!” someone called from a cart, to raucous laughter.

“We are actors and players and jugglers and gamblers and musicians and clowns!” another man yelled.

“And liars and scoundrels and whores!” called out a woman, and they all laughed again.

Someone strummed on a harp, as the laughter increased, and Aidan blushed. A memory came rushing back of when he had once met such people, when he was younger and living in Andros. He recalled watching all the entertainers stream into the capital, entertaining the King; he remembered their brightly colored faces; their juggling knives; a man eating fur; a woman singing songs; and a bard reciting poems from memory that seemed to last for hours. He remembered being puzzled as to why anyone would choose such a life path, and not that of a warrior.

His eyes lit up as he suddenly realized.

“Andros!” Aidan called out. “You’re going to Andros!”

A man jumped off one of the carts and came toward him. He was a large man, perhaps in his forties, with a big belly, an unkempt brown beard, shaggy hair to match, and a warm and friendly smile. He walked over to Aidan and put a fatherly arm around his shoulder.

“You’re too young to be out here,” the man said. “I’d say you’re lost – but from the wounds on you and that dog of yours, I’m guessing it’s something more. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble and found yourself in too deep – and I’d guess,” he concluded, examining White warily, “that it had something to do with your helping this beast.”

Aidan remained quiet, not knowing how much to say, while White came over and licked the man’s hand, to Aidan’s surprise.

“Motley’s what I call myself,” the man added, reaching out a hand.

Aidan looked back warily, not shaking his hand but nodding back.

“Aidan is my name,” he replied.

“You two can stay out here and starve to death,” Motley continued, “but that’s not a very fun way to die. Me personally, I’d want to at least have a good meal first, then die some other way.”

The group broke into laughter, while Motley continued holding out his hand, looking at Aidan with kindness and compassion.

“I expect you two, wounded as you are, need a hand,” he added.

Aidan stood there proudly, not wanting to show weakness, as his father had taught him.

“We were doing just fine as we were,” Aidan said.

Motley led the group in a fresh round of laughter.

“Of course you were,” he replied.

Aidan looked suspiciously at the man’s hand.

“I am going to Andros,” Aidan said.

Motley smiled.

“As are we,” he replied. “And as luck would have it, the city is big enough to hold more than just us.”

Aidan hesitated.

“You’d be doing us a favor,” Motley added. “We can use the extra weight.”

“And the extra mouth to feed!” called out a fool from another crowd, to laughter.

Aidan looked back warily, too proud to accept, but finding a way to save face.

“Well….” Aidan said. “If I’d be doing you a favor…”

Aidan took Motley’s hand, and found himself pulled into his cart. He was stronger than Aidan expected, given that, from the way he dressed, he seemed to be a court fool; his hand, beefy and warm, was twice the size of Aidan’s.

Motley then reached over, hoisted White, and placed him gently in the back of the cart, beside Aidan. White curled up beside Aidan in the hay, head in his lap, eyes half-closed in exhaustion and pain. Aidan understood the feeling too well.

Motley jumped in and the driver cracked the whip, and the caravan took off, all of them cheering as music played again. It was a jolly song, men and women plucking harps, playing flutes and cymbals, and several of the people, to Aidan’s surprise, danced in the moving carts.

Aidan had never seen such a happy group of people in his life. His whole life had been spent in the gloom and silence of a fort filled with warriors, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all this. How could anyone be so happy? His father had always taught him that life was a serious thing. Was this all not trivial?

As they proceeded down the bumpy road, White whined out in pain, while Aidan stroked his head. Motley came over and, to Aidan’s surprise, knelt by the dog’s side and applied a compress to his wounds, covered in a green salve. Slowly, White quieted, and Aidan felt grateful for his help.

“Who are you?” Aidan asked.

“Well, I’ve worn many names,” Motley replied. “The best was ‘actor.’ Then there was ‘rogue’, ‘fool,’ ‘jester’…the list goes on. Call me as you will.”

“You are no warrior, then,” Aidan realized, disappointed.

Motley leaned back and roared with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks; Aidan could not understand what was so funny.

“Warrior,” Motley repeated, shaking his head in wonder. “Now that is one thing I’ve never been called. Nor is it something I have ever wished to be called.”

Aidan furrowed his brow, not comprehending.

“I come from a line of warriors,” Aidan said proudly, sticking his chest out as he sat, despite his pain. “My father is a great warrior.”

“I’m very sorry for you then,” Motley said, still laughing.

Aidan was confused.

“Sorry? Why?”

“That is a sentence,” Motley replied.

“A sentence?” Aidan echoed. “There is nothing greater in life than to be a warrior. It is all I have ever dreamed of.”

“Is it?” Motley asked, amused. “Then I feel doubly sorry for you. I think feasting and laughing and sleeping with beautiful women is about as great a thing as there is – far better than parading around the countryside and hoping to stick a sword in another man’s belly.”

Aidan reddened, frustrated; he had never heard a man speak of battle in such a sense, and he took offense. He had never met anyone remotely like this man.

“Where is the honor in your life?” Aidan asked, puzzled.

“Honor?” Motley asked, seemingly genuinely surprised. “That is not a word I have heard for years – and it’s too a big word for such a young boy.” Motley sighed. “I do not think honor exists – at least, I have never seen it. I thought of being honorable once – it got me nowhere. Besides, I’ve seen too many honorable men fall prey to devious women,” he concluded, and others in their cart laughed.

Aidan looked around, saw all these people dancing and singing and drinking the day away, and he had mixed feelings about riding with this crowd. They were men who were kind but who did not strive to lead the warrior’s life, who were not devoted to valor. He knew he should be grateful for the ride, and he was, but he did not know how to feel about riding with them. They were certainly not the sort of men his father would associate with.

“I shall ride with you,” Aidan finally concluded. “We shall be traveling companions. But I cannot consider myself your brother-in-arms.”

Motley’s eyes opened wide, shocked, silent for a good ten seconds, as if he didn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, he burst into laughter that lasted way too long, echoed by all those around him. Aidan did not understand this man, and he did not think he ever would.

“I think I shall enjoy your company, boy,” Motley finally said, wiping away a tear. “Yes, I think I shall enjoy it very much.”

CHAPTER NINE

Duncan, flanked by his men, marched through the capital of Andros, behind him the footsteps of thousands of his soldiers, victorious, triumphant, their armor clanging as they paraded through this liberated city. Everywhere they went, they were met by the triumphant cheers of citizens, men and women, old and young, all dressed in the fancy garments of the capital, all rushing forward on the cobblestone streets and throwing flowers and delicacies his way. Everyone proudly waved the banners of Escalon. Duncan felt triumphant to see the colors of his homeland waving again, to see all these people, just the day before so oppressed, now so jubilant, so free. It was an image he would never forget, an image that made all of it worth it.