The Chimaera Regiment Read Online Free PDF Page B

Drystan will make recompense for his crimes.” Turning to Cyrus, he continued, “And yes, milord, my brother Drystan has turned against us. But we are not without hope. Within your own tribe flows holy blood, the Fylscem blood.”
    Cyrus frowned, as if remembering a tale from long ago. “The Fylscem… the old empire?” he asked, his expression far away.
    Aneirin bowed his head. “Yes, milord. The boy Hector is heir to that empire.”
    “Hector?” Draus spat with a laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
    “I must confess, my lord,” Brynjar added, “I met Hector in the street by chance. He was weak, timid, and disrespectful. I do not think he is a wise choice.”
    Draus sneered. “The boy is useless.”
    Aneirin looked at Draus again. The proud warrior withered under the Guardian’s silver glare. “That boy,” Aneirin said harshly, “is our only chance to defeat the Leonites, and their allies, before we are all enslaved or killed.” He looked at Brynjar. “There is no choice in this matter, Lord Brynjar. Hector has talent, and he has trained well, but he needs to be honed. He needs guidance. He needs a mentor.” Brynjar bowed his apology.
    Aneirin continued, “Hector must travel east, to find the Blessed Blades of the Emperor. Only then can he defeat Derek and save our people. And a warrior must go with him.”
    Cyrus nodded slowly. He knew better than to argue with the Guardian. “I will send my finest,” he said agreeably. He gestured to Draus.
    “Actually,” Aneirin interrupted the act, “I want Lord Brynjar to go.”
    “Me?” demanded the man. “But I belong here, with the army, fighting the Leonites. I have seen them fight before. You will need me.”
    Aneirin shook his head. “No, Lord, Hector needs you. You are a wise woodsman, and an excellent swordsman. He needs your will and your strength. You must keep him safe, and train him with the blade.”
    Brynjar took a deep breath and sighed. “As you wish, my lord,” he answered reluctantly.
    *

    The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
    The third of the month of Anthemen
    Late in the ninth hour

    Several hours later, Aneirin returned to Rhoda’s house with Brynjar in tow. The good woman directed the lords to Hector’s room, where the boy was finalizing his rucksack. He was alone.
    “Hector,” Aneirin addressed him, “I believe you have already met Lord Brynjar.”
    Brynjar bowed, though he still doubted Hector’s respectability. Hector looked up from his packing and bowed in return. He was hesitant, and a sour look crept across his features.
    The foreigner saved him the trouble of objecting. “Lord Aneirin believes,” Brynjar said, “that you would be best suited to my tutelage in matters of woodcraft and swordsmanship. He is adamant.” Using his right hand, he swore an oath. Placing his open palm against his hip, he raised his hand until it bisected his face vertically; he paused briefly, then lowered his hand sharply to his left breast, palm inward and fingers pointing to his left. It was the sign of Ariane, and any oath sworn by it was only broken under penalty of condemnation. “I pledge that I will do all in my power to train you and protect you on your journey, Lord Hector,” Brynjar swore.
    “May Astor give you this strength,” Hector responded according to rote. Even without a tribal Storyteller, the responses of oaths, along with the rest of the Code of Lords, were drilled into Alkimite children from their first word. Hector knew what Brynjar’s pledge meant: he could only be released from it by Hector’s word, or by death. It was not a responsibility that the boy took lightly.
    “Are you almost ready?” Aneirin asked, providing a welcome change of subject. “The four of you should depart as soon as possible.”
    Hector nodded, glancing at his rucksack as if its fabric would warn him that he had forgotten something. “Doc and Bronwyn said they should be ready by the eighth hour.”
    Aneirin smiled, replying, “Excellent. You