Call of the Harn Read online

He was tall, for his age.

  A stocky child of the western hills, bred from unforgiving elements and a constant struggle for life, no doubt. His mop of dirty blonde hair partially covered his face, but there was no need to see anymore, Feilden already knew. The boy’s eyes reflected spirit, and an ultimate courage which showed in his straightened form and slightly raised chin.

  He certainly was not afraid. Bravery alone, though, was only a willingness to step from the edge. No, there was something else there.

  Ignorance.

  Naïve. The young man, though deceivingly large of stature, had not sprouted his wings. Still just a fledgling in a world of buzzards. They eat their own. Cannibals, in every sense of the word, and it was this that worried him the most.

  “How old are you, boy?” He probed. Not that he needed to know, as he could have guessed it as it was from the moment he was brought in. Similar situations, he’d seen them before.

  “Old enough.”

  Bold, but a lie. The kid had guts, to be sure. But what intrigued Feilden the most was the fact that the child understood very well that the man standing before him was not in dark. He knew very well of his pretended ruse. And yet…he stayed his course.

  Perhaps frightened of consequences to come, were he to admit his guilt? But no, eyeing him from head to toe revealed a lowly farm boy in peasant’s clothing, evidently a runaway. This ragged appearance screamed of a hatred for the lowly life, and a heart bent on achieving something great.

  Reminded him of someone he once knew.

  “And how are you with the blade?”

  The boy cocked his head to look at Feilden without moving his shoulders, as if to make some snide remark, and answered smartly, “As good as any man.”

  For some reason he was drawn to believe that this, by chance, might be true. If so, it was the one diamond among the rocks, and was all that had carried him this far.

  Who was he to let the boy in? Every responsibility rested on him to do as he had with all the rest. Some came for protection, others to seek out alleged fame and fortune. All in vain. All too young, and too ignorant to know that this fate was not the one that they had dreamed for. No, it could not be….

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  The statue broke from its stoned form as he glimpsed the door opening before him. Lips curling at the edges into a partial show of excitement. Feilden watched as the fire jumped from his pupils, and for a moment he thought the boy would erupt in emotion, fists loosening their iron grip of the air, the chest falling from its high position.

  But control regained its footing and the thickset youth snapped to attention.

  “Matthias, son of Arrimour of the household of Dras-En.”

  He would certainly make a good soldier. Feilden’s thoughts betrayed what he knew he must do, but how was he to refuse?

  “Death, Matthias, son of Arrimour, does not wait. Not for you, not for anyone. Are you prepared to stand in the face of it?”

  When he spoke of her, I was there.

  Listening.

  Almost without hesitation the boy drove his reply home, “Nur-es brathak tain!”

  Usage of the well known Elder Tongue phrase brought memories flooding back across Feilden’s mind. Memories long since buried beneath ash heaps of blood and gore.

  Immovable. I am immovable.

  There was no way back now.

  But no! He could not! Too much was at stake, and the consequences would go too far. Not this time….

  “No one will watch your back out here, mind you.”

  He couldn’t believe the words as the spilled from his mouth, helpless to halt their ushering out of his lips and slipping to the dry wind. And so he continued, “Every man’s life is his own, and you take ownership of it, today. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir!” His exuberance at this sudden ray of hope showed, but only for that second, and then his chin snapped back to its rigid station, eyes forward.

  The boy’s heavily tanned arms showed strength and raw determination as muscles flexed and toughened sinews pressed at the skin.

  Feilden exhaled hard, to mask his inward sigh. Underneath, he knew, was still just a young child.

  Only as old as you were. He shot to himself. Do not forget that. What was he to do? The remembrance of his own past weighed heavily on his conscience, bending his will and forcing his hand. For him, there was no other option.

  The boy would stay.