Sword of Destiny

“What are you doing here, you little shit?”

He hadn’t been expecting friendly in the Fields, but this? This was just plain aggression.

“I was told to come.” And regretting it too. He looked at the heir, a man standing on the other side of the open courtyard, prancing. The prince was a colonel already, despite his clearly inadequate learning. Military science was a mystery to the man, and yet here he was. Lord of an army. It was ludicrous. He, meanwhile, was little more than a learned tramp, and for that apparent inadequacy, he was being drenched in the spittle of a disciplinarian. It appeared that the disciplinarian had a real problem with his own poor looks and revelled in his aggression towards others. The sergeant turned to the cluster of officers, and then switched back. His eyes were narrowed menacingly.

“Told or ordered? Either way, you have some sense at least.”

What was he supposed to say to that? “Thank you.”

The ugly bastard flared up. “Or maybe not! Did I ask you to speak?”

This was going to be tough. He had been obedient to no-one at any point in his life. He’d even floored his mountain of a father, and this frankly scrawny sergeant could not dampen the fire in his gut. His edge was alert, but he wouldn’t need it yet. He would handle this the proper way if he was able. It would not serve to make enemies so soon; there was plenty of time for that. He gulped down his discontent.

The sergeant straightened up. “Good. When to shut up and when to whimper are important lessons. We’ll beat that into you.”

He nodded, unsure whether this was a moment for silence or squeaky submission. He almost sniggered, which would definitely have been the wrong option. He hid it by scrunching up his face and itching his nose.

“You don’t have anything to say?”

He’d got it wrong. Of course he had. He looked at the prince, but the young colonel’s face didn’t break. And why would he? There was no other option; he was on his own. What to say? What to say?

“No.”

“No what?” The spittle was flying again. His face was drenched, and it turned out that this sergeant also had an oral hygiene problem. His breath was disgraceful.

“No Sir.”

The sergeant was riled, but that was clearly the correct etiquette and the reprimand ceased. The whole of the Fields – so named because it was the only open stretch in Triosec, save for the gardens about the Senate – had come to a halt. The fact that his sponsor was present was reassuring in part, but no-one else seemed to be expecting him. He didn’t even know what he should ask.

Actually, of course he did. What other reason was there to be here?

“What are you doing here, you shit?” Not a little shit anymore. Was that progress?

“I’ve come to join the Royal Guard.” It came out with a questioning inflection at the end, which raised eyebrows. There was silence for a moment, but not for long.

“And why is that, little boy of the Lost?”

He shrugged. “It seems to me that the promotion opportunities are better here than they are on the streets.”

The sergeant’s eye twitched. What was he expecting? He had no idea. He balled his fists in preparation, waiting.

And then it came. The laughter rolled through the open space, and the petty sergeant’s guffaw was taken up by all and sundry. And looking about, he judged that there was more than a sprinkling of sundry. This was supposed to be the finest that Delfinia had to offer, but they certainly didn’t look the part. No wonder the invaders still held Ahan.

“Think you can fight, I s’pose?”

“I’ve had my moments.” He’d forgotten to say sir, but he didn’t care.

“Corporal Sluuger! Come and show this shit what’s required of the Royal Guard.”

His interrogator walked off – only that – and a hulking bastard stepped into the space before him. He gulped.

He looked at the prince, who was still gazing intently. At least his sponsor seemed interested in his performance. That was something at least. He was offered the slightest nod, though he had no idea what it meant. Was he a piece in some predetermined game? He looked around at all the unfriendly faces and shuddered. What was he doing here?

“You little shit.”

He looked up at his adversary, and then it didn’t matter. This was a question of pride and survival.

The hulking git recognised him, and it was two-way. Beef stood before him, now a full-grown adult, but none the wiser for it. He hauled a brutish lump of metal from his side, and grinned. His teeth were rotting. Perhaps that was a requirement of the Royal Guard? If anything, Beef’s breath was worse.

“Chick never moved again. You left him a vegetable, you little shit.”

“Well my arse has never been the same again, so call it evens?”

Beef lurched, but he reacted instinctively. He would have the better of this encounter. He sidled past Beef and jabbed at the exposed neck, but his old bully span deftly out of the way. Where did that speed come from? The git came again, and he dropped onto his bullied arse and exhaled.

“Ha. Arse of a girl; technique of a woman. You’re no Guardsman. You’re dead meat.”

It turned out that Beef was actually quite quick. That was surprising given his considerable bulk. He danced deftly out of Beef’s line of pain, ducking and swerving his old bully’s swiping and jabbing. It was a stalemate, of sorts, but the moment was approaching. It always did.

And there it was. With the prince looking on, he urged the moment, holding onto the future that might be his. The future that the prince would give him. Maybe. Here he was fighting for a future that had been ripped away once already. His past would not catch up with him again.

He squatted under a wide arc from Beef, the blade grazing his head, and he rammed his shoulder into the man’s stomach. He screamed and then stood, and Beef went backwards. His old bully lay on the dusty ground, eyes wide and brow furrowed. And then the lumbering idiot came again.

He screamed. And then with abrupt acceleration, he snapped the corporal’s arm into a painful angle, and levered the dull steel from the bully’s grip. When those eyes – ghosts from his past – looked upon him, little Jossie slapped the side of Beef’s head with heavy metal. He gazed at the blood trickling over the sand without a pinch of remorse. It had been a while since he’d done that.

And this time there were witnesses. A lot of witnesses.

“You sneaky shit. Give that here.”

The tendons in his wrists flexed, his anger focussed at the approaching sergeant. He was on the verge of starting a chain of carnage – and how much would he enjoy that! – but there was the tiniest shake of a head from the corner of the Fields. Such a small gesture, yet such a huge effect. He dropped the poor lump of metal.

The sergeant took him by his shirt, knuckles white, and he whimpered. The bastard knew it was fake, so he smiled too.

“You bastard. I will―”

“Sergeant, you will find a place for him. I suspect he will prove useful.”

The eyes of the man told him everything. That was true hatred, right there. But a colonel’s word, and the Prince of Delfinia no less, outweighed any personal intentions. Authority smothered the temper of the sergeant, and he was given back his ability to breathe.

“Yes, I’m sure we can. You can clean the mess. Now!”

He walked past his sponsor, nodding subtly. But also glaring. After all, it was the prince’s fault he was here in the first place. Then again, without that man, his temper would probably have got him killed. He had to be grateful for the intervention at least. It was almost like the prince was looking out for him.

A flash of light distracted him, and he turned to his sabre being shown off. The bastard. Even if they did share a goal, they wouldn’t share that sword. The chasm was just too big, and he was on the wrong side.