Chapter One

Lionel

The reflection in the newly gleaming sword was of a man who had shed his boyhood nine years ago, when he had first listened to the callings of war. Dark hair framed the eyes that seemed to project more troubles than should have been present at that age.

“Lionel, old chap!” roared my father, Ostrio Smithson. He strode over jovially, giving me a slap in the back as his greeting. “Oho! Admiring your good looks, are ye, my boy? Come along, boyo! The customer’s here!”

I ripped my eyes away from my reflection, smiling sheepishly at the soldier who stood in the doorway, waiting impatiently for the weapon I had fixed for him. He did not smile back.

“Sorry, sir,” I mumbled, shuffling over to the soldier and presenting the sword hilt first. He took it without a word and slid it into his scabbard. He gave a curt nod to Father and marched out.

“They never acknowledge me,” I remarked lightly to Father, looking into the glowing coals of the forge.

“Ah well, chap, they’re busy, you know,” called Father from the other side of the smithy, taking the list of customer’s down from a shelf. He took a bit of chalk and ticked off the soldier’s name and then looked down at the next person on the list. “Aye, Lionel! It’s Mr. Scole next. Aha! And it’s his sword ye must fix, chap.”

Father handed me a beautifully crafted sword, fine golden trimming dancing perfectly along the blade. It really was well-made, with just enough fancy metals to state his wealth, but it also functioned like a normal sword. Sometimes, I like to think that that’s like my family: we have just enough trimmings to keep us happy, but we aren’t snobbish.

“’Tis tragic, ain’t it, lad?” called my father as he sauntered over to the tool shelf.

“What do you mean?” I asked quickly, running my fingers along a nick in the blade.

“About Theodore Scole, of course!” Father turned to look at me, surprised. “You mean – ye never knew?”

“No!” I stared at Father, stunned beyond disbelief. I felt the inside of my stomach turn cold with shock. “Mr. Scole is…dead?”

“Aye lad,” replied Father grimly, his hand quickly alighting upon his needed tool. “He was battling ’gainst them evils, that he was!”

I let out a long, shuddering sigh, trying to absorb this news.

“Ah, Lionel lad, sorry, I forgot: you don’t like that term, do ye?” Father had mistaken my sigh for a sign of my dislike for the term “evils” for Galaheenians.

“Well, yes,” I admitted, “but also…I just never thought that Mr. Scole would die out on the battlefield! Father, when is the funeral?”

“In two days time, boyo,” he informed me. “He died yesterday, that he did. ’Twas sad, boyo, ’twas sad.”

“I imagine so!”

“An evil – sorry, I mean a Galaheen – came upon him and they fought furiously. Mr. Scole was knocked to the ground and his sword flung from him. The evil took his sword and drove it right through Mr. Scole’s heart; that he did!”

I almost dropped the sword, feeling as though it was something sordid and loathsome. My father and I had made this sword for Mr. Scole. It was two years ago that I had pulled it from the forge, the blade glimmering red with the kiss of the hot coals. Father beamed with pride: this was one of the first swords I had made mainly by myself, and it looked wonderful. Mr. Scole had taken it and smiled warmly, thanking me profusely and showering me with compliments.

“Wh-wh-why are we fixing it, Father?” I asked, feeling a bit faint. “He has no sons to pass this on to…”

“’Tis to be buried with him, my lad,” answered Father. “Ah, only the Scoles can afford that, only the Scoles!”

I nodded, the feeling of numbness still spreading throughout my entire body. Ever since the war between Festrin and Galaheen had begun, I had been in horrible conflict. As the blacksmith’s son, it was my duty to make most of the weaponry and armor for the soldiers. I needed to work to live; however, my work entailed making the objects of murder. I ended other people’s lives so that mine could continue. Truly, could there be a more worthless existence?

“Yes,” I whispered, “only the Scoles.”

The Smithsons and the Scoles had been close for a very long time. My mother had known Mrs. Scole for a very long time, before either of them had married.

“I should go see them,” I murmured. “Father, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You were asleep when I got the news, you see,” explained Father, a guilty flush spreading across his cheeks. “I’m sorry, boyo; truly, I am. If ye want to see the Scoles, ye may. I give ye leave.”

“Thank you, Father.” I gladly handed over the sword to him, and he got straight to work at fixing it. I brushed my hands off on my breeches, trying to rid myself of the stench of murder. I hurried upstairs to my bedroom, changed out of my leather apron and into a fresh tunic, descended the stairs, and then walked outside and began beating the familiar pathway to the Scole household.

As I strolled along, my mind flew to ten years ago, before any of the warring started. I probably would be racing down the pathway with my dog, meeting halfway with the Scole daughters. We would laugh and play, daring each other to step beyond the city walls. Once, I had stuck one foot into the Yasandri River and, most unfortunately, my mother had spied me and slapped me right across the face, forbidding me to ever go beyond the town gates again. I obeyed her word, but two years later I began wandering outside in secret.

I don’t know how it happened. Sometimes, I blame myself. Other times, I’m full of a burning hatred for the Galaheenians. But there is somebody at fault, someone who let this happened, and I plan to know who. When I find out, they’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

One day, eight years ago, my dog went missing. Father, Mother, and I spent the whole night looking for him. Nobody had seen him. Three days later, he was found outside of the city gates. His throat had been slit. He was dead.

To this day, I still don’t know why someone would go to such terrible lengths as to kill the pet of the enemy. My dog had never done anything to any Galaheenian, and he was nothing but kind and loyal. Even though I hate war and violence, I’m going to find the man who slew my dog. That dog was my best friend, and it’s only right for me to seek revenge.

When I reached the Scole household, I returned to reality and knocked on the door. A few moments later, a young, beautiful woman, a year my junior, opened the door. Her face was rosy and her eyes shimmering, threatening to let loose the flood of emotions that she tried to keep inside.

“Lucia…” I whispered softly. “I’m so, so sorry. I just heard the news today. I came over as soon as I found out…”

Lucia Scole nodded mournfully. I felt a terrible rush of emotion burst within me. There was nothing I could do for Lucia. All I was doing was standing there awkwardly, wishing that the war had never happened.

“Where’s Deanna?” I asked. “And your mother?”

“Deanna’s at her house,” replied Lucia. “She was here a few hours ago.”

Theodore and Leslie Scole had two daughters: Deanna and Lucia. Deanna was twenty-three-years-old and pregnant with her first child. Lucia, however, was eighteen, unmarried, but everyone knew that she was supposed to be betrothed soon.

It was expected for two children, friends since birth, to become married. Before Lucia’s twentieth birthday, I had to propose to her and the wedding had to take place. I thought this was a great deal, because Lucia and I had so many things in common. What could go wrong?

“Mother is in the kitchen,” continued Lucia. “Would you like to come in…?”

I nodded, following Lucia into the small cottage. It was plain, but normally very welcoming, always with the smell of cooking spices in the air. However, the whole place seemed diminished today. There was very little light; the furniture was faded; even Mrs. Scole was pale with shock.

“I offer my deepest sympathies,” I told her as soon as I entered the room. “Truly. No words can justify what a tragedy this is.”

Mrs. Scole nodded slowly. Her grief and shock seemed to have robbed her of words, of tears. She could do nothing except stand there, just as I had before. Except she was allowed to cry. She was allowed to show emotions.

After a few more minutes of worthless small talk, I took my leave of them and headed home. As I went along the pathway, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I broke out into a run, trying to escape yet another home destroyed by war.

6