The Withering Sword

Chapter 43: Tyovadh Warriors

SILARON

Tyovato-feg, Gyoto

Silaron had always known that a time would come when it became harder to conceal the fact that he and his brother didn’t belong with the Tyovadh. He had heard stories of the Tyovadh, the legendary warriors who could take on ten or twenty normal soldiers apiece. Who could predict an enemy’s movements before he made them. Who did not hold back because of pain or exhaustion.

He didn’t know how much truth there was to the legends, but the Tyovadh had chosen their own recruits for centuries. Nerion and Silaron had been trained in the use of weapons since childhood, but they weren’t extraordinary fighters. The empress had forced the Tyovadh to recruit them, and sooner or later, the difference between them and the others would show.

One day, their training master pronounced a handful of trainees fit for the next stage of their training, Nerion, Silaron, Woyo, and Issol among them.

“I heard some of the others say that they could kick you out if you didn’t show enough promise in the second stage of training,” said Woyo as she and Silaron walked toward the dining hall that evening.

“They wouldn’t waste all this time training us and then discard us,” said Silaron. “Don’t worry.” He bit his lip.

Woyo giggled as they entered the dining hall. Silaron followed her line of sight and saw his brother slumped at one of the tables with his head cradled in his arms. She and Silaron sat on either side of Nerion.

“Nerion,” said Silaron, shaking his twin’s shoulder. “Go to bed. I’ll bring you some food.”

“Mm,” said Nerion, fighting to open his eyes and clamber up from the bench. Silaron watched him go.

An elbow in the ribs brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings, and he immediately saw what Woyo had tried to warn him about. Captain Dyomo approached them through the dining hall, her expression stern as usual.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked.

“He’s not feeling well,” said Silaron.

“Well, you can share my words with him later. Come with me.”

Silaron scrambled to his feet and hurried to follow the captain. He glanced back at Woyo, who looked worried, and gave her a reassuring smile.

Dyomo led him to her personal quarters. She opened the door and stood aside to let him in. In Miihing, when he was still a prince, Silaron would have taken this gesture as one of deference, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Dyomo merely wanted to put him off his guard. She closed the door behind them and pointed at a cushion on the floor next to the fire. Silaron sat.

“Your training master believes you are ready for your next stage,” said Dyomo, standing across the hearth from him. A low fire burned, little more than hot coals, but she didn’t try to revive it.

“Yes, Captain.” He felt like a child sitting on the floor in front of an angry adult who would soon punish him.

“You’ve done well so far. But physical prowess is not what sets us apart from other warriors. The second stage of our training involves looking inward to find the brightness. There is a legend―I’m sure you’ve heard it before.” Dyomo gazed at the dying fire. “That a warrior from long ago, the strongest and bravest and greatest of all warriors who ever lived, pierced his heart with a magial sword that split his soul into hundreds of pieces, and that one of those pieces rests within the heart of each Tyovadh warrior.”

“I hadn’t heard it, Captain.”

“No? I suppose it’s an age of growing pragmatism, and few people put stock in the old stories anymore. Most of the Tyovadh don’t even believe that legend, but there is a light inside each of us that guides us. Is it a piece of that warrior’s soul, the light of God, or our own selves? It doesn’t matter. It’s sacred. It’s not something that can change according to the whims of a ruler or the convenience of certain laws.”