Takeo's Chronicles, page 129
“We don’t need him,” Qing snapped. “I told you, that rakshasa only went over to Katsu because Takeo ordered her to. She wanted to stay with us.”
“Not us,” Virote replied, shaking his head. “Him. She wanted to stay with him, and you don’t seem to understand what that means.”
Nicholas, now free of his chains, rubbed his ankles where the metal had bitten in roughly, then stood up to release Takeo. He had a much easier time, grabbing Takeo by the shin and lifting him one handed, then yanking the chain free with the other. He lowered the ronin slowly. Not once over the length of this ordeal did Takeo and Virote break eye contact.
“By the sound of it,” the lord said, “there’s a slim chance that the rakshasa won’t help Botan, or if she does, it will only be to help Takeo. If we were to kill Takeo, she’d be lost forever, either by helping our enemy or by fleeing his grasp, and then she might go over to the Nguyens. There are too many factors at play, too many uncertainties, but I do understand one thing. That rakshasa has grown an attachment to this odd group of humans, two of whom are on our side, and I intend to use that to our advantage.
“Remember, Takeo, what I said to our lady just now about us having sent a spy into the Katsu ranks? Be clever out there when you face down Botan and think upon the fact that what I said doesn’t have to be a lie.”
He left without another word, swiftly so as to cut off any response. Qing stepped aside and then followed.
Once more, Takeo was on thin ice, with everyone. All his previous accomplishments—from slaying Lady Xuan to blunting Botan’s assault to outsmarting Qadir—forgotten in one instant, thanks to an ex-knight who refused to see reason. That the two of them weren’t finished only made it worse. He would see Gavin again.
Hopefully.
“Well then,” Nicholas said. “What’s the plan now?”
The viking reached down a hand. Takeo, understanding its significance, took it.
“The only path to victory,” Takeo replied, taking a stand. “Lord Botan has stolen my sword, my knight, and my rakshasa. Even if he weren’t standing in the way of my destiny, I’d want him dead. I will make him pay—with his life.”
Epilogue
Cyrus waited in the bushes for an additional hour, just to be sure. He’d already been there all day, now into the night, after having spent the previous day sneaking up to this exact position just outside his werewolf clan’s camp, closest on the side where his mother and Ralph’s tent lay.
It hadn’t been easy, avoiding all the sentries and carefully lain traps about the camp. He hadn’t been back in a month, and Ralph had changed the layout of their defenses, probably to prevent him from doing this exact thing. Ralph hated it when Cyrus snuck home without him knowing, as Cyrus was supposed to be with the elves. Cyrus had told no one that the elves had banished him and that he really alternated months back and forth between the werewolf camp and the emptiness of the forest. His mother expected him to be training and learning, but he just couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. She’d sacrificed so much for him to be there. Besides, he wasn’t completely lying to her. He still met up with Ven when she could make it out to him.
He’d spent most of the past day thinking about their conversations and their training, both to pass the time and to give himself courage. He needed it.
“How is Phizeiros doing?” Cyrus remembered asking.
He always asked before they trained, even though he knew the answer.
“He’s walking now,” Ven had answered, “though he’s missing that chip on his shoulder. In time, it may grow back, but one can only hope maturity takes hold first. You know you don’t have to ask, right, Cyrus? He’s going to be okay.”
“I know. I just want to hear it, that’s all.”
“You’re not the monster they say you are,” Ven had pressed. “You didn’t kill anyone. Even Nathok vouched for you to stay. Not everyone wanted to see you go.”
“She did.”
Cyrus would never forget the way Glynynore had looked at him when he’d struck Phizeiros. It’d been different than the way she’d looked at Phizeiros when he’d struck her, and Cyrus had broken it down and analyzed it over and over and over in his head ever since.
When Phizeiros had hit her, Glynynore had been shocked and only a hair pained. She had been neither terrified nor even worried, really, as far as Cyrus could remember. Then he’d come to her aid, striking Phizeiros with all the pent-up rage he’d built up under the elf’s reign of terror. He’d struck with the strength of a werewolf—the so-called gift that Ven kept saying he had—and Phizeiros was laid out for an entire day. Not that Cyrus had known that, not immediately. He only remembered Glynynore’s face, that look of raw fear and disbelief, as if Cyrus weren’t just the enemy of herself, but the enemy of all living things. It was that wide-eyed stare that told him she’d never trust him. She’d never love him, not like he loved her, because he was a monster.
In a way, he was glad the elves had banished him. He never wanted to see that look again.
“Werewolves are strong, Cyrus,” Ven had reminded him, as always, “and you’ve somehow taken on their strength, even when human. That’s rare, that is, and you should think of it as a gift. Imagine all the good you could do with it.”
Cyrus had changed the subject then, as he always did, and Ven had let him, as she always did.
“You keep saying I have all this strength, but if that’s the case, then why do you always best me at swordplay? Where did you learn to fight like this? Most elves don’t use swords.”
Ven had smiled, knowingly, and Cyrus had realized she had been waiting for this question for some time.
“The art of the sword isn’t lost to the elves,” Ven had said. “It has simply fallen out of fashion. You know, there was once a time when the elves fought against humans, and dwarves, and other creatures. In times such as those, bows alone are insufficient. In every elven clan, the sword is taught among a few chosen individuals so that it can be passed down from generation to generation and will not be lost to the winds of time. If war ever returns, people like me can teach our entire clan the techniques that have been perfected over the ages.”
“Don’t you feel strange teaching me?” Cyrus had asked. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to be teaching only other elves or something?”
“Oh, don’t make me laugh. We aren’t as guarded with our swordplay as our archery. You’re not the first human I’ve taught.”
Cyrus had balked. “I’m not?”
Ven had flashed one of her carefree smiles then, one of those smiles that made Cyrus so envious. While missing one arm and being terribly disfigured from a near-death experience, Ven could smile with ease, and yet Cyrus struggled to do the same. And what had he suffered through? Insults? A few beatings here and there? He wished he could smile that easily.
“Not too long ago in our view of things, though a lifetime in yours, there was another human who came to visit us, a far flung traveler who’d wandered the world, learning the sword from every place he visited. By the time he reached our village, he’d learned quite a bit from sparring with vikings to knights, pirates to Kshatriyas. Honestly, he doubted there was much more I could teach him, yet I proved him wrong. Elven techniques are superior to all. In truth, he taught me a few things, too.”
Her smile had taken on a warmth Cyrus hadn’t quite understood. Ven had seemed to forget herself, lost in memory, then recovered and continued.
“When he left, I gave him a gift to remember me by: a sword made in the style of his homeland and a matching sheath made of treantwood.”
The story had been short, but something in the way Ven had recounted it made the words stick with Cyrus, even after he had left for the return home. Well, not home, per se. He didn’t really consider himself to have a home.
Cyrus shook free of his memories to focus on the present. He’d been lying still, hidden in the dark, for so long now that he was starting to doze off. Yet as the awaited moment approached, a sense of dread began to well in his stomach.
Everything had to be perfect, and it had been thus far. The full moon’s cycle was a few days behind them, and as expected, Ralph and his crew had gone off for what they called a hunt, though Cyrus knew they were really just scavenging what the werewolves had killed on their last rampage. Then they’d come back and gotten rotten drunk, celebrating all the lives they’d taken in the monstrous forms over which Cyrus knew they had no control. He was the only one who could control his form, though he knew not why. His mother wouldn’t tell him, and the elves wouldn’t either, but he knew it had something to do with when he was younger. Ralph always talked about it: how his mother had tried to send him away for a time because no one wanted him—not his mother, not his father, not the elves, not the camp, not anyone, ever, always.
Cyrus tried not to listen. He wished he had the evidence to disagree.
He couldn’t think about that now, though. He swallowed hard to push down the tears that were starting to well under his eyes. He cursed his sensitivity—or at least that’s what the elves always called it—and buried the pain down as deep as he could, which was never far enough.
As the sentries changed out for the night, Cyrus made his move, slipping into the camp as silent as he could, dashing from one place of cover to the next until he reached his mother’s tent. Inside, Ralph’s loud, deep snoring could be heard.
Cyrus’ flesh crawled.
He took a deep breath and then ducked inside.
It was pitch black within, but Cyrus had memorized the little tent several times over, planning and plotting for this exact moment. He stepped lightly lest he trip over something that had fallen on the ground, stopping when he reached his mother’s cot. Just an arm’s length away, Ralph’s snores were deafening, yet evenly paced. Cyrus waited until one was just about to go off and then shook his mother awake.
“Hm, huh, what?” She startled, and he put a hand over her mouth.
“Mother, shh, it’s me,” he said.
“Oh, Cyrus,” she whispered, pulling his hand away. “What are you doing sneaking in like that? You scared me half to death.”
“There’s no time to explain. Pack your things quietly. We need to leave, now.”
They both paused as another one of Ralph’s snores vibrated the tent.
“Cyrus, what’s going on?” Belen demanded.
“I’ll explain on the way,” he pleaded and gave her arm a tug. “Just pack your things. He won’t know you’re gone until at least halfway into tomorrow. That’s plenty of time.”
Belen pulled her hand away and sat up in the bed. She was just a shadowy outline in the dark, yet Cyrus could feel the sternness in her body.
“Leave?” she repeated, shaking her head. “Cyrus, why would we leave? You’re not making sense. Do you mean permanently? There’s no place for us to go.”
Ralph’s snores caught, and Cyrus tensed as the man snorted and smacked his lips. His heart froze, and raw fear pulsed through him, right up until Ralph’s snores continued. With a rush of relief, he knelt down beside his mother and grabbed her hand in both of his.
“I’ve made us a home, Mother,” he explained. “In the woods, far away from here. I’ve stocked it with food, and it’s hidden from centaurs. The other werewolves won’t be able to track us, either, not even by scent when I’m done. We can escape—escape from here, from him.”
Belen pulled her hand away, and Cyrus saw the shadowy outline of her head shake again. She touched his cheek.
“Cyrus, what are you talking about?” she asked. “You know I can’t leave.”
“Yes, yes, you can,” he pleaded.
“Cyrus, I’m a werewolf. This is where I belong. It’s the only place I’m safe.”
“No, that’s not true. I can watch you when you change. I change, too, and I can keep you in check. And we’re not safe here, no one is. We can leave him, Mother. He doesn’t have to hurt you anymore.”
“Cyrus, how many times do we have to talk about this?” she whispered, too loud for Cyrus’ liking. “Ralph doesn’t hurt me. We just get into arguments from time to time, that’s all. It’s normal. And so he has a bit of a temper, but it’s my fault for setting him off. You can’t blame him for that. I’m just difficult to deal with sometimes. He loves me, and us, and he takes care of us. He protects us.”
It was Cyrus’ turn to shake his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This didn’t sound right. This wasn’t a part of his plan. Never did he imagine that his mother wouldn’t come with him.
“No, he doesn’t,” Cyrus begged, and the tears started to well again. “Please, can we just go and talk about this later? We have to leave. We need to leave.”
“Cyrus, you need to stop this right now,” Belen pleaded. “If you wake him, he’ll be furious. You know how he gets. Please, just go and return in the morning. You can’t go sneaking about.”
“Don’t you see what you’re saying?” he whispered, frantic. “He’s bad. He is.”
“He means well,” Belen urged. “This is just how men are. You can’t blame him for that. It’s the werewolf in him, that’s all. Just give him a chance, Cyrus. You’ve never given him a chance.”
“A chance? Are you serious? A chance to what? Hit you again? No, Mother. No, please. Just come with me. Please.”
“Cyrus, leave, now, before he wakes.”
“I won’t leave without you.”
He fought to grab her arm and tried to pull her up, but she slipped from his grip and whispered “no” in return. In the frantic, short struggle, Cyrus didn’t notice how quiet everything had gone. Not until his mother’s hand evaded his grasp and it dawned on him that Ralph had stopped snoring.
Cyrus had just enough time for a pulse of terror to dart through him as he turned to see the large, shadowy figure bolting towards him.
It was too late.
Ralph roared as he slammed into Cyrus, his combined weight and speed knocking the tall boy out of the tent and into the camp’s poor excuse for a courtyard. They hit the ground hard, and Cyrus tried to scramble away, but Ralph caught him.
“Oh no you don’t,” the man yelled and slammed a fist into Cyrus’ face, then another and another.
Cyrus’ vision exploded, as did the tears hiding behind his eyes spring free to cloud his vision. He flung up his hands for protection, but Ralph’s pulled them down and hit him again. His mother screamed in the background, her voice rapidly approaching.
“Ralph, stop. Stop!” she yelled, and Cyrus could barely make out her smaller figure as she struggled to grab Ralph by the arm and pull him off. “It’s Cyrus!”
“I know,” Ralph shouted.
He swung back with the arm she’d grabbed, striking her and sending her to the ground. Belen gave a shout, and Cyrus roared and swung back, but it was a miss. Ralph pinned him down and struck again, banging Cyrus’ head into the ground. In the faint ringing that followed, he heard tent flaps flying open and some others yelling as they scrambled out to see what was happening. Then they saw, and the voices went silent, the tent flaps closed, and they were alone again.
Fresh tears flowed from Cyrus’ eyes.
“You think you can just run off, eh?” Ralph yelled. “Think you can take your mother and run, huh? We’re werewolves, Cyrus. Do you know what would happen to her out there? You selfish, good-for-nothing, bastard child. To think of everything I’ve done for you!”
Ralph’s fingers fastened around Cyrus’ neck, holding his head straight and choking him at the same time. With his free hand, he punched Cyrus again. Ringing temporarily obscured Belen’s faint cries for Ralph to stop. Cyrus swallowed a mouthful of blood.
“Where you going to go, huh?” Ralph said and squeezed Cyrus’ throat until he coughed.
“Nowhere,” Cyrus squeaked out.
Ralph struck him.
“Stop, please!” Belen cried. “He didn’t mean any harm!”
“Shut up!” Ralph yelled back at her. “This is all your fault! You’re the one who sent him away, over and over again. I told you what would happen. I told you. You did this, Belen. Now look at him. Look at him! You’ve done filled his head with thoughts that you can leave, and he thinks I’m the enemy. Me!”
“Ralph, please just stop. Let me explain to him.”
“You’ve been trying to explain to him since he was born. This boy doesn’t listen to words. He doesn’t see how I protect us, this whole clan. All the work I do to keep us safe and provide for this family. Didn’t I tell you how they all wanted to throw you out? Huh? Didn’t I tell you? You’d be dead were it not for me. Hunted down by centaurs or ripped to shreds by a bugbear. You’d think this boy would understand that, but no. Not thanks to you. When I’m done with him, I’m starting on you, woman. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
Ralph struck Cyrus’ again, and Belen’s soft tears faded. Cyrus pulled his hands free from under Ralph’s girth and clawed the man’s fingers, trying to pull them free of his neck. His face was wet and smelled of blood, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and he had to swallow to breathe, but none of that mattered in this instant. He pulled Ralph’s hand with all his strength, lifting the man’s fingers a hair away so he could suck in a breath.
“Don’t,” Cyrus struggled to speak through his efforts, “don’t you touch her.”
Ralph froze as he gazed in disbelief at Cyrus’ strength. Then he struck Cyrus again, and the boy faltered and dropped Ralph’s hand.
“Did I hear that right?” the man said, his voice a tad unsettled. “Little Cyrus thinks he can tell me what to do. He thinks he’s a man now, huh, doesn’t he? Huh, Cyrus? You want me to treat you like a man, eh? Don’t you? Don’t you!”
“Ralph, no!” Belen screamed.
“I told you to shut up!” Ralph yelled back.
He stood up and took one step toward her, but not another as Cyrus leapt from the ground and wrapped himself around the man’s leg.
“Leave her alone!” he yelled. “I’m the one you want!”
