The Weight of Honor. Morgan Rice

his ground.

      “And none worth a damn,” he countered.

      Fervil turned red and stepped forward threateningly, and Marco put a hand between them.

      “We’ll leave,” Marco said.

      Alec suddenly lowered the sword’s tip to the ground, raised his foot high, and with one clean kick, shattered it in two.

      Shards flew everywhere, stunning the room.

      “Should a good sword do that?” Alec asked with a wry smile.

      Fervil shouted and charged Alec – and as he neared, Alec held out the jagged end of the broken blade, and Fervil stopped in his tracks.

      The other boys, seeing the confrontation, drew swords and rushed forward to defend Fervil, while Marco and his friends drew theirs around Alec. All the boys stood there, facing off with each other in a tense standoff.

      “What are you doing?” Marco asked Alec. “We all share the same cause. This is madness.”

      “And that is why I cannot let them fight with junk,” Alec replied.

      Alec threw down the broken sword, reached over, and slowly drew a long sword from his belt.

      “Here is my handiwork,” Alec said loudly. “I crafted it myself in my father’s forge. A finer work you will never find.”

      Alec suddenly turned the sword, grabbed the blade, and held it out, hilt first, to Fervil.

      In the tense silence, Fervil looked down, clearly not expecting this. He snatched the hilt, leaving Alec defenseless, and for a moment he seemed to contemplate stabbing Alec with it.

      Yet Alec stood there proudly, unafraid.

      Slowly, Fervil’s face softened, clearly realizing Alec had left himself defenseless, and looking at him with more respect. He looked down and examined the sword. He weighed it in his hand and held it up to the light, and finally, after a long time, he looked back at Alec, impressed.

      “Your work?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

      Alec nodded.

      “And I can forge many more,” he replied.

      He stepped forward and looked at Fervil, intensity in his eyes.

      “I want to kill Pandesians,” Alec replied. “And I want to do it with real weapons.”

      A long, thick silence lingered over the room, until finally Fervil slowly shook his head and smiled.

      He lowered the sword and held out an arm, and Alec clasped it. Slowly, all the boys lowered their weapons.

      “I suppose,” Fervil said, his grin broadening, “we can find a spot for you.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      Aidan trekked down the lonely forest road, as far from anywhere as he’d ever been, feeling utterly alone in the world. If it were not for his Wood Dog beside him he would be forlorn, hopeless; but White gave him strength, even as grievously wounded as he was, as Aidan ran his hand along his short, white fur. They both limped, each wounded from their encounters with that savage cart driver, every step they took painful as the sky grew dark. With each limping step Aidan took, he vowed that if he ever laid eyes on that man again, he’d kill him with his own hands.

      White whined beside him, and Aidan reached over and stroked his head, the dog nearly as tall as him, more wild beast than dog. Aidan was grateful not only for his companionship but for the fact that he had saved his life. He had rescued White because something inside him would not let him turn away – and yet he had received the reward of his life in return. He would do it all over again, even if he knew it would mean his being dumped out here, in the midst of nowhere, on a certain course with starvation and death. It was still worth it.

      White whined again, and Aidan shared his hunger pains.

      “I know, White,” Aidan said. “I’m hungry, too.”

      Aidan looked down at White’s wounds, still seeping blood, and shook his head, feeling awful and helpless.

      “I would do anything to help you,” Aidan said. “I wish I knew how.”

      Aidan leaned over and kissed him on the head, his fur soft, and White leaned his head back into Aidan’s. It was the embrace of two people on a death walk together. The sounds of wild creatures rose up in a symphony in the darkening forest, and Aidan felt his little legs burning, felt they couldn’t go on much further, that they would die out here. They were still days from anywhere, and with night falling, they were vulnerable. White, as powerful as he was, was in no shape to fight off anything, and Aidan, weaponless, wounded, was no better. No carts had come by for hours, and none would, he suspected, for days.

      Aidan thought of his father, out there somewhere, and felt he had let him down. If he were to die, Aidan wished he could have at least died at his father’s side somewhere, fighting some great cause, or at home, in the comfort of Volis. Not here, alone in middle of nowhere. Each step seemed to drag him closer to death.

      Aidan reflected on his short life thus far, pondering all the people he had known and loved, his father and brothers, and most of all, his sister, Kyra. He wondered about her, wondered where she was right now, if she had crossed Escalon, if she had survived the journey to Ur. He wondered if she ever thought of him, if she would be proud of him now, trying as he was to follow in her footsteps, trying to cross Escalon, too, in his own way, to help their father and the cause. He wondered if he would ever have lived to become a great warrior, and felt deeply saddened that he would never see her again.

      Aidan felt himself sinking with each step he took, and there wasn’t anything much he could do now except give in to his wounds and exhaustion. Going slower and slower, he looked over at White and saw him dragging his legs, too. Soon they would have to lie down and rest right here on this road, come what may. It was a frightful proposition.

      Aidan thought he heard something, faint at first. He stopped and listened intently as White stopped, too, looking questioningly up at him. Aidan hoped, prayed. Had he been hearing things?

      Then it came again. He was sure this time. A squeak of wheels. Of wood. Of iron. It was a cart.

      Aidan spun around, his heart skipping a beat as he squinted into the fading light. At first he saw nothing. But then slowly, surely, he saw something come into view. A cart. Several carts.

      Aidan’s heart pounded in his throat, barely able to contain his excitement as he felt the rumble, heard the horses, and watched the caravan head his way. But then his excitement tempered as he wondered if they could be hostile. After all, who else would be traveling this long stretch of barren road, so far from anywhere? He could not fight and White, snarling half-heartedly, did not have much fight left in him, either. They were at the mercy of whoever was approaching. It was a scary thought.

      The sound grew deafening as the carts neared, and Aidan stood boldly in the center of the road, realizing he could not hide. He had to take his chances. Aidan thought he heard music as they neared, and it deepened his curiosity. They gained speed, and for a moment he wondered if they would run him over.

      Then, suddenly, the entire caravan slowed and stopped before him, as he blocked the road. They stared down at him, the dust settling all around them, a large group, perhaps fifty people, and Aidan blinked up in surprise to see they were not soldiers. They did not appear to be hostile, either, he realized with a sigh of relief. He noticed the wagons filled with all sorts of people, men and women of all different ages. One appeared to be filled with musicians, holding various musical instruments; another was filled with men who appeared to be jugglers or comedians, their faces painted in bright colors and wearing brightly colored tights and tunics; another cart seemed to be filled with actors, men holding scrolls, clearly rehearsing scripts, dressed in dramatic costumes; while another was filled with women – barely clothed, their faces painted with too much makeup.

      Aidan blushed and looked away, knowing he was too young to gape at such things.

      “You, boy!” a voice called out. It was a man with a very long beard, bright red, down to his waist, a peculiar-looking man, with a friendly