It had been ten years since they had taken him from his parents' home. But now, he seldom thought of that old place in the city as his home. The training grounds, as they had all come to know it, was his new home now, and that is where he was happy.
The years had gone by quickly, and the routine of it all had become familiar. Hardly any of the boys fought anymore, and even if the group dynamics shifted and changed and the wars continued all the same, no one held a grudge. They couldn't truly hurt another anyway, and a large bruise or a deep cut was nothing to them since every injury healed so quickly.
For them, the world no longer seemed as scary as it did when they were children. Their bodies were stronger than they ever thought possible and more resilient too. But they had worked hard for their strength, and they all felt proud of the work they had done. The training square had become bigger, and they had even built new barracks for new boys who came to join the younger ranks every year.
In a way, the boys themselves had become the stewards for the place they lived, and they didn't mind it. A while ago, Oref and the other instructors had left. One day it was lessons as always, and then the next, they were simply gone. But they found that they didn't need them, and it didn't truly matter. They chopped the wood, tilled the soil, killed the chickens, and hunted for fresh game. Some of the men had even taken to teaching the younger kids and life went on.
But it wasn't as if they were all still there. Some boys had left throughout the years, but none were thought of often. Arthael was glad Benny and Karthas were still there because they had become his best friends.
Johnny, one of his older friends, had been taken away by Oref, and another girl named Kaitlyn had been too. But there hadn't seemed to be anything evil in Oref's eyes the day he had taken them, but kindness.
Johnny hadn't been able to keep up with them on the runs, and he had begun to get left behind, and Kaitlyn, while faster than Johnny, didn't seem to heal as fast as the rest of them, and a bruise to Arthael seemed to be frequent fractures or broken bones to Kaitlyn.
There had been many just like them, and Arthael surmised they would be put to some other duty within the church—and he saw that it made sense. They were where they were supposed to be, doing what they were trained to do.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
There were only twenty of them left now instead of some one hundred that had been taken, but the chores would still be done, and there was still enough to train and spar with, and that was that.
One day--a normal day just like any other, a man entered the training grounds wearing the blue and gold colors of the church. He was clad in a blue robe and a gold sash, which meant that he held more authority than a priest. Oref had taught them that. Rank was held by color, and a priest only held a white belt. Gold meant that he was a high priest, sent straight from the king.
Arthael met the man with Karthas, as they had long since cemented themselves as leaders of the others at the camp. The man was hawkish in features, with a long-pointed nose that had a slight curve to it, and beady eyes that measured them with a critical edge.
“It is time for the trainees of the year 1230--year of the sun to be tested. Those that pass and exhibit the strength the church needs will return to Mildor, and those that do not pass--” the man paused for a moment, then shrugged as if he didn’t care enough to explain it further, “will not return.”
Arthael bowed, but said nothing to the man. Something about the high priest itched at him, and he fought the urge to strike him. Perhaps they had been too alone together in the woods where disagreement was always solved quicker with force.
The priest smiled at them, pleased at the show of respect. “There is a new heretical sect that has sprung up in the desert. You will handle it.”
Arthael nodded to Karthas, and without a word, Karthas left at a brisk trot to gather the others. The high priest stepped close and put a hand on Arthael’s shoulder. He squeezed it and stepped even closer still. For a strange moment, Arthael thought the man might kiss him.
The man stank off the road, like sweat and dirt and horse. But beneath that, he smelt of old rotten flowers. Arthael fought the urge to turn away. He didn’t like the man, but he respected his rank.
“Don’t leave any alive.” The priest drew back and looked him in the eye. Arthael felt the man trying to gain the measure of him. If the man was looking for resolve and strength, then he had plenty of it. The man raised an eyebrow.
“As the church wills High Priest.” Arthael fought back a sudden urge to knock the man flat to the ground, and he ground his teeth.
The man stiffened at the anger in his voice. “Be careful with your tone, boy.” He handed over a map, then turned and got back on his horse. Before he rode away, the man gave him a long measured look.
Arthael glared at the man and clenched his fist. He watched him for some time as he continued away from their camp. He realized, after a long moment of watching the empty road, that he had gotten rather comfortable giving orders instead of taking them. The realization made his mouth feel sour, and he felt like he needed to spit out his disgust. And so, he did. But as he wandered back to his men, he couldn’t shake the feeling of irritation at being treated like a child.