Metal and Flesh (The Rohvim, Book 1)

1.3 Bleak

“Hey, what say we get back. If my mom finds that I’m gone, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Aeden replaced the list, and thought of the reason why his mother would never let him hear the end of it.

Cyrus, his brother. If Cyrus were still here, he’d be in the twenty-six plus bracket, most likely expert. But the men who snatched the boy those many years ago effectively ended both the chance that Lady Rossam would ever let her younger son out of her sight, and Cyrus’s swordsmanship career. And probably his life.

“You stuffed clothes under your bed sheets, right?”

“Yeah, but she could always go in there with a candle and see that I’m not there. And if that happens, I’ll never leave the house until I’m a hundred and twenty,” he said with a chuckle, remembering that his own parents were around one hundred themselves. They weren’t so old as to feel the call to give up their mortal affairs and walk east, over wind and zouree, to the deathless lands, but they certainly weren’t as spry as when they were in their eighties.

His grandparents on the other hand, they must be nearing one hundred and seventy or so, and would feel the call any year now. But they’d retired west to the seashore and Aeden hadn’t heard from them in years. Good thing, too, he thought. Grandfather was worse than father, from everything the servants had told him.

Noises from the hallway made them realize they’d overstayed their welcome. The sounds were different this time—urgent tones and stomping boots. Someone had realized the barracks had been breached.

“I told you you damaged the lock! Someone saw it!” Aeden hissed.

“It wasn’t my fault! You said you’d bring a key! You said you could steal your father’s!”

“Shh!” Aeden waved at the torch in Priam’s hand, indicating for him to extinguish it. With the room bathed in darkness once more, the acrid smell of the still smoldering torch bit into Aeden’s nose.

“They’ll smell that if they open the door and look in. We’ve got to get out of here. Follow me.”

They waited at the door until the noises sounded somewhat more distant, and crept out into the dark hallway, this time with more urgency than before. Holding his hand out to his left he felt for the opening that would indicate the hallway that would lead to the exit, and beyond that, freedom. Or at least a warm bed.

Torchlight, and shouting from ahead of them changed his mind. Grabbing Priam’s cloak in one fist, he turned and ran back down the hallway the direction they had come from with the other boy in tow. Passing the door to the swordmaster’s office, they raced around the curved hallway, which Aeden knew would eventually meet up with where they had just been—forming a loop that comprised the center of the building. Other minor hallways and offices jutted off from that loop, but if they could just avoid detection until they had completed the loop, all would be well.

Flickering light ahead of them forced Aeden to reconsider his plan yet again. He stopped suddenly, and Priam jostled into him, causing his sword to clatter onto the floor again. Stooping to pick it up, he noticed a door off to their left. Voices from ahead of them mixed with the voices behind, and Aeden knew that their only way lie through that door. He darted over, pulling Priam behind him, grabbed the handle, swung the door wide and slipped inside.

The room was lit.

And occupied.

“Well, I see that young Lord Rossam has graced us with his presence. To what do we owe the honor?” A young man, perhaps thirty, stood in the center of the room, flanked by two guardsman. His clothing and demeanor suggested a man of rank and arrogance, and the way his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword suggested he was itching for a fight.

“Lord….” Aeden began, looking at the other man questioningly.

“Bleak.” Came the cold reply. And Aeden recognized the source of the attitude. The elder Lord Bleak was the twentieth Duke of Elbeth, and was quite advanced in age, probably no more than five years away from feeling the call to the east. This was probably one of his youngest grandsons. Or great-grandsons. Aeden smirked inwardly—the career prospects from the man before him looked grim.