Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) (3 page)

“Agreed,” Hugh said, “though we should send Merry as well. She will not be happy away from Rordan, and he will be safer with his wife there to fight at his back instead of worrying what mischief she is making on shore.”

Merry couldn’t contain a small giggle over Hugh’s apt assessment, and turned, shyly, into her husband’s loving arms. 

A dozen warriors were chosen to go to the caves with the children and the elderly. Even the aged of Maj remembered their training well, and they would be invaluable, should the Breken find the caves where the children would be hidden.

The remaining warriors in the room would lead individual groups in the defense of Maj. Their task would be to meet the Breken where they came ashore, keep them engaged in battle, and prevent them from pushing inland. They would attempt to force the Breken back to their ships allowing them to plunder as little as possible. If the loss of Breken troops grew too steep, the enemy would no longer see the gain in additional fighting, and they would leave. They would take with them what spoils they could, and destroy whatever was left as they retreated. The Maj accepted this; fields could be replanted and homes rebuilt as they had been in the past.

With their plans in place, everyone scattered to make ready. Dearra remained with her father in the now silent hall, and moved to sit beside him. Gently, she reached for his hand in an attempt to offer hope and comfort. She missed her mother. Her quiet strength and calm would have soothed everyone, but now that she was gone, Dearra did what she could to fill her mother’s shoes, and found herself sadly lacking.

Hugh looked at his daughter’s small and calloused hand, and closed his own, large fingers around hers. “You have been the best of daughters, Dearra.”

Her father sounded so serious, but Dearra couldn’t contain a burst of laughter.

“We both know that isn’t true, Father. My temper is forever getting the better of me, I don’t listen as well as I should, and I am not always obedient to you.”

Hugh laughed. “Well, then, in that, I would guess you are much like any other child. Isn’t that right, Phillip?”

Startled, Dearra looked up and saw her brother emerge from his hiding place near the hearth.

“I was just curious, Father,” Phillip said, with no sign of remorse. “I wanted to know what part I would play in the upcoming fight.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Phillip trotted to his father’s side as Dearra scowled at him.

“You, my son, have the heart of a warrior like your sister, but unfortunately, not yet the body to match. You will go to the caves with the other children where you will be able to assist in keeping the little ones quiet and out of sight.”

“The caves!” Phillip almost spat the words in disgust. “With the babies? But Father, I—”

“The caves, Pip.” Hugh, Lord of Maj, had spoken, and that was the end of it.

“Come on, Pip,” Dearra said, taking her brother’s hand. “You can come with me to Daniel’s room and help me prepare my weapon.”

Somewhat appeased by his sister’s offer to visit the private domain of the weapons master, Phillip followed somberly along.

Hugh flashed a quick wink at his daughter as she led the discouraged Pip from the hall.

Once out of sight of their father, Phillip’s pout turned to an impish grin. “Why can’t I fight, Dearra? I’m good! You’ve seen me with my mace. I could really help.”

“Pip, you heard what Father said as plainly as I did. The answer was no. Besides, do you realize how close you would need to get to the enemy to even strike at him? I wager you would wet your pants at the site of a Breken.”

“I would not!” shouted Pip, but Dearra noticed the tremble that ran through her brother’s frame when she spoke the word Breken.

They entered the weapons room, and Dearra removed the sword from her side to begin honing the fine blade.

Daniel came in a moment later, saw Pip eyeing the wooden box he had left on the table, and quickly scooped it up and deposited it behind a screen in the corner of the room. Daniel knew that his strange behavior only served to elevate Pip’s curiosity, but he ignored the little boy and made his way back to the whet stone to begin work on his own weapon.

Dearra silently passed her blade to her brother, allowing him to begin the meticulous ritual of removing any burrs in the keen edge. It was good practice for him, though Dearra knew she would spend twice as much time later, correcting everything he had “fixed” for her.

It was so quiet in the room that her mind had time to wander, and as usual, it took a path quite different from the one she would have wished. She would have preferred to be planning strategy and weapons tactics in her mind while Daniel and Pip worked in silence. Instead, her mind turned unexpectedly to the memory of a giggle—a giggle and the sight of Merry shyly turning her head into her husband’s shoulder as his arm came protectively up around her. Merry was only two years older than Dearra, and had been joined with Rordan for a year already. She was a fine fighter, though not quite as dedicated as Dearra was. Merry preferred to have a home and family, enjoying needle point as much as sword play. From all the evidence, kisses were far superior to strategic planning, as far as Merry was concerned.

Why should it be, Dearra wondered, that she never seemed interested in any of the men she knew? She was quite fond of many of the boys and men she practiced with daily, and she had noticed the appreciative glances sent her way as the coltish lines of youth gave way to the curves of womanhood, but as far as she was concerned, their attention to her was never more than flattering, and she looked at them as just brothers in arms.

And the curves! Oh, what a nuisance they had been. How long had she worked and struggled to relearn the balance of her own sword as her body betrayed her with what seemed like daily and constant changes? If only her mother still lived.

A small sigh escaped her lips.

Daniel looked up from his task at the sound of Dearra’s sigh, but seeing she was lost in thought, he returned to his chore and said nothing.

Dearra’s mother, Alanna, had truly been the shining star of Maj. Forever patient and kind, she was loved by all. She had blue eyes that Dearra had inherited, though Alanna’s had lacked the glorious golden ring around the edge. Her hair was long and wavy like Dearra’s as well, though it was the much more common, soft brown of the people of this area. She had died shortly after Dearra’s seventh birthday. Phillip’s birth had not gone well. Though every prayer had been offered and every treatment tried, Alanna had slipped quietly away from her family. Holding her new son in her arms, she had smiled at Dearra, then turned to her husband to gaze into his eyes for the last time, and spoke only a single word, filled with all the love she had felt for him: “Forever.” Her lids had drifted shut, and she was gone. It was the only time Dearra had seen her father really cry.

Pip’s voice broke into her memories as he trilled, “Tell us a story, Daniel.”

“Keep your mind on your work, Phillip,” Daniel said. 

“Aw, come on, Daniel. You tell the best stories, and it makes the time pass quicker. Working the blade may be necessary, but it’s so boring!”

The gruff weapons master was not immune to Pip’s subtle charm. The little boy had an impish face and the looks of his mother, which pretty much guaranteed him his way in most things.

“Well, then, what will it be, Pip? I swear, you’ve heard them all so many times, you should be telling me the stories.”

“Tell me the one about Cyrus!”

“Oh, Phillip! Not again!” groaned Dearra, though it was with a gleam in her eye that told Daniel she was more interested than she let on.

“The Legend of Cyrus it is. It’s funny you should pick that particular story today, Pip. I…” Daniel’s voice trailed off as he stared toward the screen in the corner of the room.

“Daniel?” Pip asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” He sighed, and began to speak.

Daniel’s voice was no more than a whisper as he began, forcing Dearra and Pip to lean forward to hear. This was, of course, precisely the effect he wanted.

“In the days of Majin, when magic was common and people prayed to the spirits of wood, and stone, and metal, there came a stranger out of a far land. His name was Cyrus. We don’t know much about how he looked, but he was supposed to have been quite tall, with deep black hair, and he was considered to be quite handsome. His skill with sword and shield was said to be unrivaled.

“Lord Majin was the first Lord of Maj. He was a proud and arrogant man who did not seek advice often, and when he did, he usually asked only those he knew would agree with him. He had been granted the king’s favor and trust to hold this land against our enemies, and to be protector of Mirin Tor. For him, the stranger was not a blessing as some saw him, but a rival for his power. Cyrus desired nothing for himself but that he be granted a place among the people of Maj; a place to call home. He would never speak of where he came from, or any part of his past, but only shook his head sadly when someone asked, and walked away. After a time, he became one of the Maj. He fought bravely against the raiders that came from the south, and savagely battled the winter wolves that came frequently in those days to attack the people. Though each person did what they could, they had little skill, and they struggled to protect themselves. Cyrus urged the lord to better train his people, to make sure they were well armed, and ready for battle at all times.

“In their old lives, most of these people had been farmers, or tenders of herds on the mainland. There were few threats on Mirin Tor, and most people did not train with weapons. When word spread that the island would be settled and set up as a kind of guard on the sea, a few brave souls and their families volunteered to join Majin. It was a little scary, but it was exciting, too. It was a chance to be a part of a new beginning. 

“Cyrus was relentless in his insistence that the people be trained. They were, after all, the protectors of Mirin Tor, and they should be ready to defend her. Even the women, he said, could be trained to wield a small sword or knife in defense of their home.

“‘The women!’ Majin had scoffed. ‘Next you’ll be training the winter wolves to aid in our cause!’

“Majin’s laughter echoed through to Cyrus’s heart, but he reined in his temper, and he tried to persuade Majin to listen to reason.

“‘Lord,’ Cyrus said, ‘we would be stronger if we worked as one. A single twig may be broken easily, but hold many in your hands together, and they do not bend so readily.’

“This time, there was no laughter in his voice as Majin said, ‘There is one Lord of Maj, Cyrus. You would be wise to remember who that is.’ Majin changed to a lighter tone when he spoke again. ‘Come now, Cyrus. My men are more than enough to protect us here, and your own good arm adds to our strength. Stop now with your worries, and let us go to dinner.’

“Cyrus held silent, but in his heart he knew of a terror that was beyond the skill of the warriors of Maj, and it worried him, because he had come to love these people and this place.

“The people of Maj had learned to trust Cyrus, and to see the stubbornness and pride of their lord. So, though he did not seek it, the people began to come to Cyrus to solve minor disputes or for advice, and after a time, to learn to fight. They knew they were vulnerable to attack when Majin’s forces were away, and they could see that even learning to swing a club was better than watching helplessly as another child was taken by wolves. Cyrus knew this was the people’s only hope for what was coming, and though it was against the wishes of his lord, he began to train them, men and women alike.

“In late summer, when the leaves hung thick from the gnarn trees, a strange sight was seen. At first it went unnoticed. After all, ships were often seen upon the great sea, and this ship, though unusual, was not the design typically used by raiders. It was large, almost cumbersome, a great, broad, hulking beast that lumbered and swayed on the waves. The creaking and groaning it made as it approached Maj was eerie, and it sounded in the wind like the screams and moans of the dying. Surely it was too slow to be a war ship? Gradually it dawned on the people that this vessel had come from the east. Nothing came from the east. As far as anyone knew, there
was
nothing to the east, and no one had ever approached from that direction before. Perhaps it was a new people come to trade? But that ship that swayed and cried out on the sea and left one’s heart feeling cold…that couldn’t be right.

“Quickly, a small group made their way to the Great Hall to see what Lord Majin knew of such things. As they burst through the entry way into the hall, Majin looked up in surprise. Even though the doors to the Great Hall were always open to the people of Maj, it was unusual, if not rude, to burst in unannounced. Around Majin stood ten of his warriors, Cyrus among them. Majin’s eyes took in the fear and confusion of the villager’s faces, and his back stiffened in anticipation.

“‘Raiders?’ Majin asked in an almost bored tone, wanting to show that he was firmly in control. 

“Answers of ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘I don’t know, Lord.’ assaulted him, as five people began to speak at once.

“‘Peace! Peace!’ Majin said sternly. ‘One at a time, or not at all!’

“One voice spoke then, as the others stood with wide eyes in growing agitation. ‘Lord, there is a strange ship approaching. One like we have never seen before. All black, it is, and large, and slow. And Lord, it comes from the east!’

“The villagers were upset and frightened, and they watched the face of Cyrus turn to a mask of twisted rage and hatred. His jaw clenched in fierce determination, and his eyes blazed like fire.

“‘The east?’ Majin spoke quietly. The tension in the room was a living thing now, and Majin felt it pressing in on him from all sides. ‘Who could be coming from the east?’

“Everyone turned to Cyrus as he growled a word that had never been heard before. ‘Breken!’

“And with that word, Cyrus sprinted from the room, calling as he went, ‘Arm the men, Lord Majin!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘the women as well.’

“The look on Cyrus’s face was enough to get the attention of even proud Majin, and he did not question the instruction, but quickly set to work organizing his people for battle.

“Cyrus ran with heart pounding speed into the forest, sprinting deeper and deeper with each passing moment. The light faded to a dusky twilight. Small birds went silent on their branches. Cyrus noticed even the chattering of squirrels was missing as he flew through the wood. The branches of the gnarn trees were so thick and intertwined that they blocked much of the sun’s rays, looking every bit like ancient and gnarled fingers laced together in prayer. Cyrus’s pace slowed as he neared a tree that was different than the others. It was only a few years old, for Cyrus had planted the seed himself when he had first come to Maj to mark this very spot. In this place that was all golden gnarn trees, it stood out like a beacon, and the people who passed this way often commented on the pretty little tree that grew in the woods surrounded by its giant, golden cousins. Its needles were long and soft and held onto the color of springtime and life, even when the winter winds covered everything in a blanket of white.

“The time had come to dig up what he had buried so many years ago. Quickly, though he worked without the aid of tools, Cyrus clawed and dug into the hard soil at the base of the tree. His fingers were torn and bloodied when he finally came to the object he sought, but his hands remained steady as he drew forth the treasure he had uncovered. The legends do not tell us from where it came or how it came into Cyrus’s possession, but when the people saw him emerge once more from the forest with the great sword in his hand, a ripple of excitement and tentative hope spread through them. Hope dimmed quickly, however, with the approach of the black ships.

“Majin had gathered the people and opened the armory doors wide to get them equipped as quickly as possible, though to his surprise, many of them arrived already armed, holding their weapons of choice with familiarity. Grateful for anything that offered hope, it didn’t occur to him to be irritated or angry with them.

“The closer the ship got to Maj, the greater the horror seemed. The once distant moans and screams of the creaking timbers grew louder until they devoured all other sounds.

“Cyrus stood on the beach a bit apart from the others speaking to himself from time to time. Such behavior was unusual, even for him, and caused some people to look upon their friend with expressions of worry. He seemed to be murmuring calming words to himself, and even once, an angry hiss, as if he had heard something that annoyed or displeased him.

“The flat bottom of the Breken ship allowed them to anchor close to shore, closer than any deep drafted raiding vessel, which would have forced the invaders to come to shore in small boats. And when the lumbering, ship had come in as far as the low tide would allow, an opening appeared in the side, and a wooden ramp was lowered. Plunging from the belly of the beast came riders on horseback. They hit the great waves and surged ahead. The horses were as black as the ships they had come in, enormous and powerfully built, like the men who rode them. Their manes were braided with the teeth of defeated enemies wound within them like gruesome war jewels. Their eyes rolled white with panic as they splashed and lurched toward the shore, hooves striking blindly, trying to find solid footing where none existed. The riders clung to the necks of their mounts, screaming war cries in a foreign, guttural language as they rode, flinging their heads high to keep clear of the briny water as they worked their way steadily toward shore. Still more of the enemy swarmed over the sides of their ship and into the choppy waters. It took but a dozen or so strokes for them to be able to gain their footing, and when they did, they drew their swords free.

“The Breken warriors rode and ran at the Maj like men possessed, beautiful and terrible to behold at once. Looking at the Breken, and looking at Cyrus, the people could not ignore the similarities. Both were tall and powerfully built. Their skin was varying shades of copper and bronze. Perhaps Cyrus had come from a similar land, or was a neighbor to these riders of death. Unlike Cyrus, the eyes of these warriors were not colorful and warm, but black as pitch, cold and cruel. They were eyes to make men shudder and children shrink into their mother’s skirts in fear. On the face of each Breken warrior there were designs, both stunning and strange. Some were ornate, covering almost the whole face, while others were simple and ran along a single cheek in a thin and delicate row.

“The clash of steel on steel rang out as the brave people of Maj fought for their home, their honor and the lives of loved ones. Back to back, in some cases, they fought off their attackers. Though the people of Maj outnumbered the Breken, they feared they could not win this fight. Cyrus had trained them as best he could, but with too little time. Cudgels and clubs were no match for these brutal monsters who cut down one villager, and as they pulled the blade free from that victim, swung back on the next.

“Majin fought tirelessly to protect his people. His heart filled with pride at the sight of the villagers as they battled beside him. Perhaps Cyrus’s way had merit after all, for the women fought as well as many of the men. Majin realized he had underestimated the protective nature of a mother’s love for her child, and how she might draw upon it to gain awesome power and strength in a fight. He had forgotten the she-wolf, or the mother bear in her den. It was a mistake he would not make again.

Though they fought with courage, the people of Maj continued to fall about him until, at last, only half of them remained. Mothers and fathers called out words of love to their children who were hiding in the woods, when it seemed certain that all would be lost. “Cyrus knew that if he was going to act, it had to be now. To give up the love of his new home would be hard, harder than anything he had had to endure in all his years of exile, but to run now and have this place and these people cease to exist, was more than he could bear. He could have escaped. To slip away would have been so easy. He was more than a match for any Breken warrior, or even three, that he might come across in his flight, but his heart was here, and these were his people now. 

“He ran to the center of the fray and called out to the people of Maj. ‘Drop! Drop, now!’

“Such was their faith in Cyrus that, as his sword arm thrust into the air, they all dropped like stones to the sand. A tremendous shout rent the air around them as Cyrus spoke a single, magical word of power, and a brilliant, golden light erupted from the blade.

“Stunned and dazed, it took some time for the people of Maj to return to their senses. And when they did, they saw that around them lay the smoking bodies of the Breken.

The few who remained staggered and stumbled back to their ships, and the Maj let them go, too full of grief and the pains of their own wounds to even think of doing otherwise.

“Majin looked for days for any sign of Cyrus, for no body had been found. There was, in fact, no trace whatsoever of the friend who had saved them all. The sword of Cyrus had been found after the battle. It had remained perfect and untouched, with no mark upon the blade.

“When Majin gently lifted the sword from the sand, it was hot to the touch, as if the power of the spell still burned inside of it.

“A month later, he called the remaining people of Maj together and spoke to them in the once joyous Great Hall.