They traveled down the dirt track in silence. A mix of spruce and oak trees towered over both sides of the narrow road. Damien sighed beside her. Lane couldn’t believe she’d just watched him slaughter nine men and as far as she could tell it hadn’t fazed him in the least. She couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t force the image of those men being sliced apart out of her head.

Half an hour later, when Allentown was well behind them, Lane said, “I always knew the sorts of things sorcerers could do, but I’d never seen it before. You killed those men like I might step on a bug.”

“Same principle I guess. You step on the bugs so they don’t bite anyone else. Dealing with that bunch didn’t take any particular power. My sister could have done the same thing and she’s a warlord.”

Lane looked at him, eyes bulging, the blood drained out of her face. “How can you talk about it so casually? You just killed nine people. Aren’t you even a little upset?”

“It’s unfortunate they made me do it, but no, I’m not upset. Do you know anything about training at The Citadel?”

She blinked, not certain she understood. He was a sorcerer, not a warlord. “I thought sorcerers trained at Sorcery.”

“We do, but before I went to Sorcery I trained for almost three years at The Citadel. People tend to think fighting techniques and how to use internal soul force are the most important things you learn, but they’re wrong.”

Lane licked her lips, not certain she wanted to know. She took a breath and asked, “What is the most important thing?”

“To kill without hesitation or regret. Before we move on to the second year’s training, all first year cadets are thrown into a pit with a chained goblin. The goblin is armed with a club and the cadet is given a short sword. The masters don’t let you out until the goblin is dead.”

She put a trembling hand to her mouth. “That’s horrible.”

Damien shrugged. “Second year they throw you in with an unchained goblin and this time it has a sword and you have a dagger. You have to get up close to kill it. Get the blood on your hands. It spatters on your face.”

“Heaven’s mercy. They do this to children?”

“Eleven- and twelve-year-olds. Third years move on to killing men, prisoners in this case. You have to cut the throat of a condemned man. I had a head start. Dad threw me in with a chained goblin when I was ten, before my official training started.” Damien looked up at the sky, lost in thought, totally unaware of her growing horror. “On my tenth name day he gave me this beautiful sword and dagger set. I was so happy. It looked just like the sword he wore. That night after Jen went to sleep he woke me up and took me down to the pit. I didn’t realize yet what he intended.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. A part of her wanted him to go on. She felt an almost overwhelming need to understand this young man her mother had sent to protect her, this killer in a boy’s body.

Damien shook his head and continued on like she hadn’t spoken. “Dad said if I wanted to keep the sword I had to earn it. He threw me in with my precious new sword. He told me to kill the goblin and become a warrior. The goblin went crazy, thrashing and beating on its chain with a useless, blunt short sword. It was making the most shrill screeches.”

“What did you do?” Lane asked in a breathless voice, knowing the answer before she spoke.

“I killed it. I think as much to shut it up as anything. Dad lowered a rope, I climbed out, and he hugged me and said how proud he was. It was the last time he hugged me. I think it may have been the last time he was proud of me.” Damien locked his gaze on Lane and she went cold. “That’s what it means to be a warlord. I may use external soul force, but I was trained to be a warlord. To kill my enemies without hesitation or remorse. I don’t go out of my way to find people to kill, but if it becomes necessary…”

Lane shook her head and offered a weak smile. The horror of his childhood stunned her. “And I thought I had a difficult time growing up. You make me feel bad about complaining that some of Mom’s friends gave me condescending pats on the head. I’ve never had to kill anyone.”

Damien grinned, seeming to shake off his dark mood. “That’s why your mother sent me. If there’s ugly business to be done, let me handle it. My soul is so bloodstained a few more drops won’t matter.”

So young and so bitter. She wanted to hold him, give him the hugs his father withheld. Lane suspected it was too late for any number of hugs to do him much good. You don’t become a killer at ten without getting a permanent scar on your soul.

How many scars did Damien carry?