Chapter Four: A Son of Dreya (Part 1)

The wind howled, but Charles had heard the voice from the far side of the stump all too clearly. It was the sort of voice that spoke to a soul of nobility and strength of spirit. A voice that reminded him of Father and Grandfather. A voice that was nothing like his own.

“Escape?” He spoke the word like he had never heard it in his life. Held it in his mind, a tiny flame fighting against harsh gusts from all sides. It seemed so fragile. One wrong breeze, and it would be snuffed out. “Escape from here? But...how?” He craned his head to speak over the stump’s rim. “How will you do it? This is the Spears’ camp. Their territory. There are dozens of them milling about, day and night. How could anyone escape without at least one noticing? They have eyes everywhere.”

“Aye, that much is true,” the hidden figure who called himself Jon Darr replied coolly. “Patrols at the perimeter. Scouts further out, I would guess. If one were to spot you, that would be that, wouldn’t it? You’ve already reasoned as much. But how closely have you watched? Have you noticed, boy, that there is an opening just after sunset, when the watchmen are changed for the evening?”

Charles did not reply. It may have been true that some part of him, a part still harboring a spark of defiance, did notice a gap in the Spear’s watch while he was being escorted around the previous night. But if such an observation had occurred, it had been swiftly subdued by his fears and doubts, then stowed away where it would not give him false hope or foolish notions.

“You see what I am driving at?” Darr said. “It is the chink in their armor. The time to leave this place will be then. If you have courage. You are a son of Dreya as well, yes? Your homeland cries out in agony. Do you not feel her suffering? We cannot stay, serving the very men who lay waste to our nation. Who slaughter its people and burn its towns to ash. What would our forefathers say if they saw us this way? Would they be proud? Do you not wish to do right by your name? Do you not wish to be free?”

“Of course I wish that,” Charles said. “But it’s one thing to wish and another to do. The plains and prairies here are too open to go unseen. I have been watching. They guard their horses jealously. You won’t be able to steal one without rousing half the camp.”

But the voice of Darr did not waver. “I need no horse,” it said. “I was once a courier, long ago. I can run farther in one night than most men can in three. That is why I still live. They run me this way and that, carrying supplies and letters without sleep until they think I am broken. But Dreya’s spirit endures. It cannot be shackled by pain or fear. Under the cover of darkness, I will break free of their influence and leave this evil behind. In time there will be a chance to recover and ply my strength against the empire, not in its servitude. If you are to reach freedom, you must do so very soon, before the Spears of Mercy leave this country. Once you are taken back to imperial lands, all hope will be lost to you. Surely you recognize that? The time for decisive action will not come later. It is now.”

You will serve the One Mercy as his replacement until we return to the Emperor. Then, I will convert you personally.

His words were a stone in a still pond. They pulled Charles from his sorrows, waking him to the plain reality that, if he so chose, he could defy every danger and try to walk right out of this camp. He could do it this very second. He was not chained or restrained. There was nothing physically keeping him here. He really truly leave this nightmare behind. Make a mad dash for the capital. For safety. For his family and a future that belonged to him alone.

It was a thought so taboo the mere idea that his captors would discover it filled him with terror. Instinct told him to flee to the Galley with his tail between his legs. Maybe if he was very quiet and hid under the cots, no one would figure out that he’d been thinking such things. Cardinal Thorne would probably be able to tell with a single glance. He remembered the way the hulking raider had exposed his back without any fear of being attacked from his blind side. It was outright dismissal. A weakling like Charles was no threat. Nothing to be concerned about. There was a reason they permitted him to walk around on his own. They viewed him as already broken. Powerless and timid. They weren’t concerned about him escaping because they did not think he was bold enough to try. And the painful part was that they were right. Yes...physically there was nothing keeping him from leaving, but through fear Charles was as much his own jailer as the Spears were. It was true for him, for Luet, and for anyone else unlucky enough to be dragged here. Or so he had thought...

He craned his head toward the stranger again. Fear is how they keep people in line. But it doesn’t work on everyone, does it? Some have spirit enough to resist. The Spears had power, yet too much power breeds arrogance. They had become blind to the possibility of defiant men like Darr.

But no matter how desperately Charles wanted to get out of this place, wanting alone would not change reality. “I cannot run,” he admitted in shame. “My leg limps, even at walking pace.”

“Then limp,” Jon Darr hissed. “Go. After my escape toward the west is discovered. When they are focused on me and their attention divided. Flee from the sun, toward the east. You have a duty to preserve the spirit of Dreya. Is it not more noble to die a man than live a slave? Is it not preferable to keep your dignity as a human at any cost?”

Charles had no answer.

“I will wait until the last light of dusk, and no longer,” Darr’s iron voice said. “You have until then to make your choice. Think of your nation. Think of your name. Think of what is noble and right. For now, you must go back. If you are away overlong, it will only raise suspicion.” Charles rose to his feet. Again, he craned his neck for a look at the man beyond the far side of the stump. To know even the shape of his face or the color of his eyes. Anything. But try as he might, he could not catch a single feature.

He saw only one sign. A flash of cloth from a fine cloak whipped by the wind. Green and gold. Beautifully ornate. It flicked into view for an instant, then disappeared. The young chef left the mysterious man by the stump, but it took a great deal longer to stop thinking of him and what he had said. He replayed the conversation again and again, and as he did he began to feel an admiration growing inside. Admiration mixed with self-loathing. As men, the gap between them couldn’t possibly run deeper. Darr was bold and brave and strong. He spoke like a hero pulled straight from a storybook. He did not question himself at every turn. Even surrounded by death and darkness, he kept cool, dwelling only on his objective and how best to achieve it. Charles kept a cool head when he was engrossed in cooking and at no other time. The instant he set down his chef’s knife, he stopped being anything extraordinary and turned back into his normal doubt-filled self. His self-confidence had no memory beyond the kitchen. He tried to imagine how the other man’s life might have played out before they met, and realized he had not actually learned a great deal about him. There had been mention of being a courier. Clearly Dreya was his birthplace, but had he traveled elsewhere, traversing distant lands and the strange, vague corners of the map? Surely he must have. Charles held no doubt Darr had lived a life of daring. A life of great deeds worthy of remembrance in history. Under pressures such as this, surely no ordinary man could keep their composure so well.

What would our forefathers say if they saw us this way? Would they be proud? Charles couldn’t help but think that if he were more like Jon Darr, he would not have to ask himself such questions so often.

A shadow flew across the sunlight. It left a quick-moving patch of darkness sailing over the surface of the grass ahead of the young chef’s feet. He glanced up and saw the passing form of something soaring high above. When he blocked the light with his hand, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a winged beast. Deep red scales, like ripened cherries. A long, whip-shaped tail, and a body that winded through the air like a kite. It was a crimson drake, an old symbol of the empire. By the size, Charles wagered it was very young, possibly even an infant. Full-grown drakes could blacken the sun when they opened their wings. Are you alone in the world for the first time as well? It circled the nearby skies with no real mission or hurry. For once, Charles’ first thought wasn’t what it would be like to cook a new creature.

He only hoped this wasn’t an ill omen.

By the time the fluttering walls of the Green Galley came into view, most of the Spears had been served, eaten their fill, and dispersed. Those who remained stood in tight rows while they waited to reach the front of their respective lines. There was no shoving or shouting. Almost no noise of any sort. Only perfect order. The man in front received his share of rations, turned ninety degrees, then advanced just as the raider behind him stepped into place. As finely tuned as cogs. Charles walked around them and pressed for the cots, passing through that invisible curtain of sweet and savory aromas. It was past time he got some rest. Filthy as those cots were, he felt exhausted enough to nod off the second his head touched canvas.

He hit a solid wall of flesh. For a moment, he was afraid he had accidentally rammed straight into one of the Spears. This body was certainly big enough. Wouldn’t that be a fitting way to start his second day of captivity? By knocking a coldblooded murderer’s breakfast across the dew-soaked grass. But when he looked up, he saw no soldier. This man carried no spear to impale him with. No armor covered his chest and shoulders. Charles saw he was entirely hairless. Not a single strand left on his cleanly shaven head. In place of the empires’ standard red metal, he wore light blue clothing that would offer no defense in battle. A tattoo of a two-handed spear, severed cleanly at the middle, flashed up his left bicep. Even without these details, it would have been obvious that there was something very bizarre about this person compared to the normal raiders. He was built like them. Muscled like marble. Broad and powerful. He even stood in the same rigidly upright way they did. But his face. So pale. His expression. So...empty. The man was drooling. Just slightly, from the right side of his mouth. A glob of it dribbled down to his chin. He made no move to wipe it away. He didn’t say anything acknowledging Charles’ presence or the fact that he had just been bumped into. He simply stared.

Ambiguity was part of what made the Spears of Mercy so terrifying. You could never be sure what they were thinking under those helms, and so never knew when violence might erupt. Charles wasn’t sure this man had any thoughts whatsoever. He was about to excuse himself and back away when the blue-clothed figure absently handed him a plate stacked with the cinnamon pancakes and salted bacon he himself had cooked.

“Uh…” Charles’ ingrained etiquette lessons took over. “Thank you very much.”

The man blinked. Then he turned away and continued serving the line. Only now did Charles notice the other blues. The many, many blues interspersed with the pool of reds. Roughly a dozen distributed food to the winding lines, while a second set of twelve stood gathered round the washing station, scrubbing cooking steel to a fine shine. Some, like the one he had just met, looked almost exactly like their red counterparts. Only their bald heads gave them away. That and their eyes, which were distant and lifeless. Others stood out more blatantly. One was far too short and was missing an arm. Another, his eyes. A few, like Charles, limped when they walked, or hobbled about on stunted, shriveled limbs. They stepped and shifted here and there, but did not stray from their assigned tasks. None spoke a single word.

“It’s impolite to gawk.”

Charles jumped. Magnus had materialized beside him like a ghost. “I didn’t! I mean, I wasn’t…”

Magnus was giving him that exasperated, tired look again. “I suppose for a newcomer it’s hard not to gawk,” he said. A few of the blues were eating now. Light, fluffy pancakes and bacon heated to an ideal blend of fatty and crispy disappeared from their plates, but if they were deriving any enjoyment from the food at all, Charles did not see it. They could just as soon be eating dirt from the ground. He nearly asked ‘what’s wrong with them?’ but changed his phrasing at the last second.

"What’s happened to them?" he said. “It’s like their souls have been ripped straight from their bodies." And I thought the red Spears were emotionless.

“The Spears’ training happened,” Magnus said bluntly. “No weapon turns out perfect every time it's forged, you know. Can’t you see it? You’ve been staring for some time now. Injuries that never healed. Minds marred beyond all hope of repair. It was at different points for each, but somewhere along their conditioning, it was decided they did not make the cut. Something too important to allow them to be the emperor’s crusaders broke for good. They were forced to trade their armor for those tunics. They've fallen from soldiers to mere servants." Magnus tore himself from the blues and turned to Charles. "So now you've met both sides of the coin. The difference may seem night and day, but really the only line between red and blue is their ability to hold everything in their heads together another day. They all live on the cusp of breaking apart. Though...if you ask me, it’s the reds who are truly broken. A blue's only crime is holding onto whatever lets them feel for living things.” It almost sounded as though Magnus pitied the blues, if only a little.

“They’re shattered spears,” Charles whispered. It was a chilling realization. “But...I don’t understand. If they're broken, why keep them here with the regular Spears? Why subject them to the front lines? Anyone could serve food and scrub pots. Why are they here?”

“To serve. In the only place that will accept them,” Magnus said with no small amount of disgust. “There’s nothing forcing them to stay, really. Once you fail to become a Spear, your oaths are considered forfeit. You’re free to leave...if you can live with the scars and the stigma.”

Charles looked to the Shattered again. He tried to imagine himself returning home to Lutz or Frandt in their state, fresh from the warfront. Hurt in ways that would never fully heal. Perhaps no longer himself. Perhaps another man entirely than the one they had bid farewell. It would be a rough going at best. Strangers would point and jeer, he knew. Some would be crueler still. But surely his own family would…

He paused. Surely...at least Mother and Nina would welcome him home as though nothing had changed. They would not treat him differently. They would be kind. And if he did not want to be pointed at, he did not have to go out in public. He could stay secluded and focus on honing his cooking. It would be alright...eventually. Wouldn’t it?

“You don’t play cards much, do you, Boulier?” Magnus said.

“No...why?”

“You wear your feelings too blatantly. I can tell you’re thinking something naive,” Magnus said. “You ought to learn to mask some things. For your own sake.”

Charles flushed. “I...I was just thinking it might be very hard. If there was no one willing to help take care of you, I mean,” he said.

“You’re viewing it through the eyes of a foreigner,” Magnus said. “See that tattoo on their upper arms? Whole Spears have a similar one. Theirs is unbroken. Back home, they have the emperor’s blessing to enter any home and use whatever they like. The emperor is the One Mercy’s voice in this world. No one is going to deny them. But they are not respected. Only feared. Spears are made for the battlefield. For war. When war steps inside your home, one is rarely glad to see it. If you want the truth, nobody likes having them around, but those grievances go unvoiced. For Shattered, it’s another story altogether. They have neither fear nor respect. They are reviled. If someone marked with that severed tattoo tried to return home, he’d be hard pressed to find anyone willing to give him a drink of water, let alone house and feed him.”

“No one? Not even a loved one?”

“Shattered have no loved ones. The One Mercy itself has rejected them, and so the very notion of love has rejected them. It’s the lowest kind of taboo. No imperial doctor would treat them, lest their reputation suffer. No barber would groom them. No chef would cook for them. This battalion is the only home they know. A place for the placeless, in its own way. That is why so many stay. It is harsh and cold, but at least here there is familiarity.” Charles felt ill. The idea of being stuck in this camp for life made him want to crawl into a hole and disappear. But would he choose to leave, if it was him in their stead? He pictured what it would be like to go back to a place where rejection was the norm. Where you were a pariah by default. To actually get kicked out of a restaurant? Right in front of everyone? The sheer shame of it. The way customers would sneer and gossip and judge. Charles wasn’t sure why, but even as a hypothetical he found the subject of the Shattered horribly unsettling.

“Are there any who feel differently?” he found himself asking. “What about you, Chef? If a blue walked into your restaurant, would you serve them or turn them away?” Magnus seemed taken aback. He closed his eyes, presumably to think on his answer, so he did not notice when one of the nearby Shattered lost their footing and began to stumble. It was the one-armed man Charles noted earlier. The left knee wavered and gave out. He pitched hard. At this angle, he was going to dash his head squarely against a cropping of jagged rocks. It was too late to correct himself. He was going to fall hard. Charles instinctively stood up to try and catch him, or at least slow him down enough to avoid serious injury, but a second pair of hands was quicker.

The Spear of Mercy had appeared from nowhere, swift and decisive as…

Well...as a thrust from a spear. The fall was deftly cut short. The red lifted his blue counterpart upright. Slowly. Delicately. He dusted the smaller man’s shoulders free of dirt and debris. Spear and Shattered leaned on one another to stay upright. They seemed to speak with no words at all. Then, to the young chef’s awe, the Spear rested his hand on the Shattered’s bare head and tostled hair that was not there. The blue smiled and laughed with an infantile joy. Even more shocking, the Spear smiled back. A quick upturn at the corners of his mouth. That was all, but it was there, clear as day.

There was a strange, surreal warmth to the moment.

Then the Spear turned. His sight honed on Charles. The teen realized he'd been openly gaping at the pair and tried to cover the lower half of his face, but the damage was done. The Spear's gentle warmth flared to fury, and he stormed straight at Charles with eyes that promised suffering.

Charles had been struck three times in his life. All for grievous errors in the kitchen. It was Father’s way of making clear the importance of avoiding future failures. The sting to his face would fade in minutes, but the gesture hurt his heart so badly he would struggle with all he had not to sniffle or weep, because men were not supposed to show their tears. Still...even a child can tell when a blow is half-hearted.

The Spear knocked him clean off his feet. He writhed in the grass, clutching his mouth in agony. The iron flavor of blood was on his tongue. Steel. It had been steel from an armored hand that smashed into tooth and gum, not a bare fist. His neck had jerked sharply at impact, sending him into a daze. His senses were scrambled. The world warped and blurred. From the ground, he tried to unravel his surroundings through the din of chaotic noise. His head rang. Rang as though there was a church bell inside his brain. The effort nearly made him vomit, but he managed to roll to his back. His vision cleared enough for him to make out just a little of what was happening. A crowd was gathering. A rough ring of men forming round him. They seemed to be waiting for some kind of confrontation. In his stupor, Charles couldn't help but find that darkly comical. If anyone was expecting him to just shake off that blow and start throwing punches, they would be sorely disappointed. It was then that he saw they weren't waiting on him. At some point in the confusion, Magnus had left his seat. He stood fuming in the Spear’s face, their noses inches apart. Both men looked as though they very much wished they could make the other drop dead with thought alone. The ringing began to fade, and in its place came a slew of unhinged ranting.

“And they call you shaft squeezers Spears!?” Magnus scoffed. “What a joke. You’ve got the brains of a prick on a stick, I’ll give you that much! I’ve seared tuna worth more than the pack of you red fucks combined! What brave warriors you are, cutting down little children and nuns in the dead of night! What’s the matter? Does the thought of fighting someone who’s ready for it make you piss yourself!? Best leave well enough alone. Leave the real battles to the real men!” It would have indeed taken two of Magnus mashed together to match a Spear pound for pound. However, he stood much taller than the average man. Tall enough to be looking down slightly while he unleashed his foulmouthed tirade. Charles was reminded of a proud sea serpent rising from the tides to meet a foolish vessel that had strayed too close to its territory. In the boat stood a group of seasoned seahunters, unmoved, their cruel harpoons at the ready. The raider's hand gave a squeeze, as though it longed to strangle the air around it. He had not uttered a single syllable in retaliation.

Magnus held his hand to his ear. “What’s that, then? Need an order before you can speak? Or is standing and talking at the same time too much for you to handle?” Another squeeze. Stronger this time. Whatever discipline restrained him from using that hand on the wrong person was starting to crack. All hope of a calm resolution seemed to be dangling by a thread.

“Your halfpenny whore of a mother wishes she had kept her legs closed when that group of drunken pigs offered to stick their spears in her. Did you know that!?” And the thread was gone. One flash, and the Spear held a dagger in hand. Two, and it sat poised at Magnus’ neck. A trickle of blood fell from where it nipped the flesh. Neither man flinched.

“Go ahead, then,” Magnus said. “Nothing’s ever stopped you before.”

The Spear stayed silent. The blade stayed steady.

“Having second thoughts?” Magnus seethed through gritted teeth, his volume building. He never broke eye contact, even as the trickle widened. “That’s wise. You might as well be holding this toy to your own throat, and you know it. You might as well be holding it to the throat of everyone here. You send me to the One Mercy, and within a few weeks I’ll be holding the door for you. You, your red pecker brothers, and these blues that decided they’d rather be people than whatever you turned into. I’ll be holding it for every one of you!” He made sure that the last part was heard clearly.

Massive steps, like the stomping of a bull, thundered their approach. The dagger withdrew, and the Spear retreated, smoothly merging into the rows of his brothers. Every blue scattered before the titanic form of Cardinal Thorne, taking whatever path best allowed them to blend into the background and escape his notice. Red helms lowered as one.

The leader of the Spears of Mercy came upon them like the onset of a summer storm. “What…,” he said, scouring the scene. “...is the meaning of this?” Every word dripped with the promise of dire consequence should he go unanswered. But, for a moment, no one dared speak. Thorne seemed to carry the innate ability to create silence with his presence alone. He loomed over the battered Charles. A slight lean, and his body cast a shadow that plunged the teen into darkness. “Why do you tremble on your back, Charles Boulier? Has a single night in the kitchen rendered you unable to stand?”

No! I’m fine. I can still be of use, he tried to say. He struggled to rise. His bad leg buckled. Get up. Get up! He only coughed blood on the grass.

Another spoke in his stead. “Tell your circus freaks to keep their hands off my cooks!” Magnus met Thorne’s gaze man to man, though he did soften his tone. “...Your Eminence. I...we need them in good condition. One injured hand or a wrong blow to the head, and your whole mission might be in jeopardy. Or have you suddenly gained the power to conjure able cooks from thin air?”

Thorne’s gaze passed over Charles’ mouth. Then Magnus’ neck. Finally, his men.

“Who was it, then?” For once, even Magnus had no sharp reply. He and Charles shared a glance. Both seemed to grasp the peril of the question as one. There was always the chance that unmasking one Spear could paint the cooking tent as a target for his many, many brothers. Thorne might be in charge, but he was one man with one eye. An injured hand, a blow to the head, and outright murder. Excluding acts that would keep a chef from performing his craft still left a great many unpleasantries the reds could inflict on them. They outnumbered the three cooks by an overwhelming margin, and their strength made numbers irrelevant. Who could say what they might do if they were certain they wouldn’t be caught in the act? Basically, whatever they feel like. Perhaps it was best not to press luck too far. Keeping their cards close to the chest seemed safer. At least then there would be less reason for revenge in the dark of night. The Spears would probably leave them be. But that left another glaring problem...

The lord hates liars, for dishonesty is the mark of the irredeemable. Thorne was as zealous as he was freakishly huge. And he did not suffer liars. If they hid the truth to appease the Spears, they risked his wrath instead. They had to pick the correct path. Who was the lesser danger? The commander? Or his men?

They were caught between the hangman and the headsman.

“Well...that is...,” Magnus said.

Thorne dismissed him. “I was not speaking to you,” he said. He addressed his red Spears, of which roughly twenty were present. Charles couldn’t help but notice how closely (and disturbingly) it mirrored a father giving unruly sons a ultimatum. “If the guilty man is not before me within five seconds, you will all be shattered and banished this very day.” Only a single second was necessary. A red stepped forward and knelt. Charles squinted. If he had to gamble his life on whether he was looking at the same person who hit him a minute ago, he would still not be certain. A strong jaw. Clean shaven. Fierce eyes. Dark hair. And, of course, red armor and helm. Features one would find on virtually any of the Spears. Was this man his attacker?

“Eritus,” the cardinal said. “You admit your guilt?

“Yes, Your Eminence,” the Spear said. “It was me alone.”

Cardinal Thorne sighed. A deep, genuine sigh. One with all the weariness of a disappointed teacher who only wants what is best for their pupils. Then he unsheathed the straight sword at his hip and killed the man named Eritus with a single devastating blow. Red flowed across the green. Charles risked a glance only once he was sure the worst was over.

“He knew his oaths,” Thorne said. The giant who led the Spears of Mercy did not shout, yet his voice boomed with power. “As do you all. He forgot his place. I trust you will remember yours. Any who harms a prisoner before their designated time acts in opposition to the One Mercy itself. Any who imperils the lives of his brothers by damaging our cooks will be forfeit.” He held out his sullied sword. A new Spear took it away, presumably to clean the red remains from it.

Thorne pointed. “You two.” A pair of Shattered cowered at the end of the cardinal’s outstretched finger. The first was the one-armed blue who had stumbled before; the second had scars across most of his neck and face. “Dispose of him.” With that, Thorne turned from what was once his Spear.

He addressed Charles next. No! Ten feet separated them. Then five. Get away! Don’t come near! Two feet. The cardinal reached. Don’t touch me! That mask stared down at him. The same mask that had watched the blade fall on a comrade’s neck without expression or sentiment. It drew so close now. And with it, the smell of slaughter. The eleve shut his eyes and waited.

A hand pressed into his blonde hair softly. The palm alone was the size of his entire head.

“I am sorry,” Cardinal Thorne said. “His actions were beneath the dignity of his station. It is not our role to inflict needless suffering. Can you rise?” Charles was rendered speechless for the second time in less than a day. Thorne guided him to his feet as effortlessly as one might lift an infant. He took up his share of rations (he did not bother waiting for the petrified blue to serve him) and made to leave, though not without a last word of parting: “The One Mercy works in ways beyond the meager understanding of men. Throughout history, its will has manifested through the most unlikely of sources. Sinners. Outsiders. Souls of low class and lower repute. Even the unrepentant heathen. It is no small coincidence, Charles Boulier, that I found you in the wilderness just when my need for a cook was at its greatest. Some might call our meeting an act of providence. I will be watching you very closely.”

With that, the pair of chefs were finally alone. The reds and blues had resumed their duties, and Cardinal Thorne was gone.

“Seems he’s taken an interest in you,” Magnus said.

Oh joy, Charles thought with numb terror. It seemed there was no need to decide between executioners after all. The headsman had made the choice for him.

His stomach growled.

Ah, that’s right. Food. Charles had been holding breakfast when that backhand came careening across his jaw. Now it lay forgotten, upturned in the dewey grass. The eleve groaned. Looks like the ground got its share of bacon after all. I just wish it hadn’t been mine. He would have to scrape together whatever leftovers remained.