Clack! Clack! Clack!

A rapid staccato of impacts reverberates around the courtyard as my friend Gan intercepts the strikes of my wooden training sword against his wooden shield. But my mind isn’t on training today instead drifting to memories from my past. It’s something that has been happening more and more as I get closer to my coming of age day. The memory today is of when I was five and shortly after my mother passed away from disease.

“Time for bed, Bakus,” my father says in a tired voice.

I was too young to realize it at the time but he was still mourning his wife, my mother. I don’t recall her sickness and only when I was older did I ask my father about it. He said it mattered not what it was, only that she didn’t suffer.

“Papa, when will mother return?” the foolish question of a child slipping from my lips and spearing my father through his already wounded heart.

With a sad smile, my father sits on the bed next to me. “Your mother has gone to be with the spirits, like your grans.”

“Oh,” was my only response at the time, not knowing this meant she had died. “Can you read me a bedtime story?”

“Very well, but after you will go to sleep. Yes?”

My younger self nodded enthusiastically and was met by a quiet snort of disbelief from my father but he still smiled for me. “Very well, how about… Cordis’s book on trade and finance?”

I pouted and shook my head.

“Oh, not that one? Hmm… how about… Livestock rearing by Fas?”

I stuck out my tongue, eliciting another faint smile from my father. “Well, aren’t you a picky little boy? Well, what would you like me to read?”

Without even having to think, my younger self immediately replied, “tell me the story of the first Chosen!”

My father chuckled at the time but I now saw how the request pained him. But like a dutiful father, he acquiesced to my request, “very well.”

He wasn’t surprised by my choice as it had been my favorite story since I had first heard it, he didn’t even need the book anymore, reciting the story by heart.

I still recalled parts of the book. The fall of Gun-Ling, a city so steeped in vice and depravity that the Mother bestowed Pyron on her first Chosen, Lou Shin, to cleanse the city of its wicked ways.

Lou Shin was the most well-known of the first Chosen, but I still recalled the other two. The Saintess of Virtue, Amy Pond. A woman of such benevolence that she was said to walk in the Mother's arms and said to wield Aquon like born of it.

Then there was Mgumba Duwun, the great defender and champion of Terrani. A man of unrivaled strength and generosity. With one hand he was said to topple mountains, and on the other, halt landslides.

How could my young mind not be enthralled by these tales? They were meant to entertain and capture young minds. They also weren’t just stories but recounts of actual events from the past.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

Gan and I circled in the dry dusty courtyard as we continued practicing and I tried to slip my training blade past his shield. Sweat dripped down my shaved head to fall to the ground where it was greedily soaked up by the dry dirt.

As we turned, I spotted the lean figure of my father from the corner of my eye. He was glowering in the covered portion of the yard and my mind went to another memory.

“Father, I want to become a Chosen,” I enthusiastically stated. Even though years had passed, I still held firm to the image of Chosen as mighty heroes, and what boy didn’t want to play the hero. I was only ten at the time and couldn’t have anticipated his angry response or the years to follow.

“No! Absolutely not.” Without waiting for me to rationalize my thoughts, my father got up from his chair and refused to talk to me for an entire week after that.

At the time, I was surprised by his outburst, but not deterred. That was when I learned just how stubborn of a man my father was. He wouldn’t budge on the matter and eventually, I stopped bringing it up. At least directly. But I was just as stubborn and pigheaded as he was, I was just more circumspect about employing it. As I grew older, my reasoning for wanting to become a Chosen changed as life taught me a few important lessons but not my drive to become Chosen.

I convinced my father to hire me a swordplay tutor for my eleventh birthday using the excuse that I should be able to defend myself. He reluctantly agreed, probably due to the fact that he was gone most of the time and I was being bullied by the older children in the village. That was one of my life lessons. This had a drastic change on my mindset and how I now saw the Chosen as defenders of the weak and downtrodden.

Surprisingly my argument worked and some unknown man from the south came to train me. I can’t say I enjoyed the training much or if I learned much from it. The man was only concerned about getting paid and did the bare minimum to show me how to wield a sword. The training only lasted a month and I was far from proficient by the time the man left. My father called it a bad investment but it was enough to keep my burning passion alive. This was funny, because if my father hadn’t been so set against my choice, I may have completely forgotten about it within a year as kids normally do.

After the instructor was gone, I recruited my friend Gan’s help. Together we trained an hour a day, five days a week. I may not have had the instructions of a dedicated tutor but I made up for it with passion and commitment. Slowly but surely I was able to eke out my own style.

Clack, clack… my sword finally slipped past Gan’s guard and my friend let out a pained grunt. “Ow, that hurt, Bakus,” he took a few steps back and dropped his guard to rub at the spot by his clavicle where my training sword struck.

I winced, the goal of the practice was to slip the sword past the shield but not actually hit him. Accuracy was an important aspect of sword fighting. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted today,” I replied with chagrin.

“You don’t say,” he replied, glancing over at my father. “Perhaps I should go, are we still on for later?”

I checked my coin pouch and gave it a little bounce, wincing at the lack of noise from the plates clinking together. “It appears I will need to pass, my purse is on the light side.”

He shrugged, “I will speak with you in the morning then, have a good night.”

I nodded, watching my friend walk away. My mind flitted to another memory involving my friend but those feelings were in the past and another painful life lesson I learned. It was also an awkward memory. Made more so by the fact that Gan of the time seemed amenable with his actions but his eyes said differently. I didn’t want to lose my friend over it so we laughed it off.

I eventually figured his parents put him up to it as a way to get closer to my family. His family owned the local press mill and my father was the premier merchant in the town.

Thankfully, my childhood indiscretions didn’t taint our friendship. It didn’t stop me from thinking about what may have been.

I cleared my throat and a servant brought me a warm washcloth that I ran across my darkly tanned and bald head. I didn’t understand why more people didn’t shave their heads. It made living in this blast furnace of a territory so much easier. No need to worry about sweaty or greasy hair all day long.

“Ahem…”

I sighed inwardly, realizing my father wasn’t going to let me drag my feet any longer before speaking with him.

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“Father, what brings you by today?” my brusk reply making him frown. I knew he hated watching me train so him being here was unusual. Not because he didn’t want me to become skilled with a sword but because he knew what I wanted to do when I was skilled enough. I was prepared for his daily attempt to coerce me into changing my mind but I was my father’s son. Stubbornness was ingrained into my being.

“I don’t suppose you will listen to reason today and I can talk you out of this foolish plan?”

And there it was, not even a hello or how are you. My face soured at his question. But he surprised me with his next statement.

“Didn’t think so.” He sighed, “where did I go wrong,” he mumbled.

The statement made me feel like I was some petulant child acting out. I was almost fifteen and soon I would be considered an adult so I needed to start acting like one. I took a calming breath. “You didn’t go wrong, father, this is something I feel I must do. The life of a merchant just isn’t for me.” And hasn’t been since I was a child, but I didn’t say that. I also didn’t add to it that I thought his entire line of work was only one step removed from outright robbery.

“See, that’s what I don’t understand. You could have any number of beautiful women… or men, to wait on you, hand and foot, yet you would toss it all away to become some vagabond hero?” I always wondered why my father held such scorn for the Chosen. I figured it was because the Chosen were considered to be selfless, whereas my father was a self-made man. Doing something for free was anathema to him.

I rolled my eyes at his offer, bribing me with a harem was one of his favorite tactics. “I like women, father, and my tryst with Gan was just youthful exuberance that I got over long ago.” Or that’s what I kept telling myself.

My father held his hands out in supplication, “I am not here to judge on matters of the heart. I only wish I could talk you out of this foolish choice of yours. You are turning fifteen soon and will be a legal adult. I had hoped you would take over the business before I grew too old, and without another heir, what is an old man to do?” Old? The man was hardly old, not even forty, and was more fit than most people half his age.

Here it was, his bribe failed to elicit the desired response so now it was the guilt trip to try and get me to stay. I was getting increasingly upset with his attempts to manipulate me and couldn’t suppress a glare as I turned to the rack to store my training gear. I slammed the sword into the bin with more force than necessary before I grabbed my actual sword belt and strapped it on. I didn’t need the weapon for physical protection but just wearing it made me feel better and helped calm my mind.

He was manipulating my emotions and I fell for it again. You would think after four years of enduring him trying to change my mind I would have grown immune to his tricks, but I guess that was wishful thinking on my part.

I was careful not to knock the ceramic blade or the dark lacquered wooden scabbard into anything too hard. The blade had a deadly fine edge and had cost me a considerable amount of plates to purchase but it was fragile if handled incorrectly. The weapon was a necessary expense for what I had planned after my birthday. “I am not discussing this again, father.”

He huffed. “Fine, I’m sorry for bringing it up, but I thought you might see reason this time.” The man’s tone changed faster than the weather. He clapped his hands lightly and another servant came in holding an ornately polished wooden box.

A gift? No, another bribe, but I was still curious due to the ornate decorations on the outside of the box.

Good wood was sparse around here so using it for something as fanciful as a gift box was a wasteful luxury. Wood was rare enough that most houses were built primarily out of the ubiquitous sandstone blocks or the heavy clay bricks – making the town sort of blend into the landscape – with only a few logs used to hold up the flat roofs and the occasional second floor. The drab nature of the town didn’t appeal to me at all and wouldn’t be something I missed.

“I wanted to wait for your birthday celebration to give you this, but I have to leave on business and will not be able to attend.”

I wasn’t surprised by his statement. Since my mother had passed away, I think he had only been around for two or three birthdays and maybe a third of the time in general. If he had been adamant about me not becoming a Chosen, he should have made more of an effort to be here for me instead of trying to grow his business. No, it wouldn’t have changed my mind.

It was easy to see why he stayed away and it wasn’t just my stubborn refusal to follow in his footsteps. I had too many features of my mother’s and every time he looked at me I could see the deep pain hidden in his eyes. My dark tan skin as opposed to my father's lighter brown complexion, my hazel eyes, and my height – which at the age of fourteen only made me lanky – all came together to make me look like a male version of my mother. I only knew this from an old family painting that hung in the main room. The only thing I inherited from my father was his nose and jawline, and maybe his stubbornness.

My gangly frame was always an annoyance to me and I hoped I grew into it. I would prefer the lean frame like my father over the willow thin frame of my mother.

My father retrieved the box from the servant and ordered them all out of the courtyard. “While I still wished you would reconsider… I would be remiss as a parent if you weren’t as prepared as possible.” The pause to give me time to reconsider irked me but I stayed silent.

I had been ready to argue with him again but my thoughts froze as I realized he was supporting my decision for the first time. Well, not supporting it but at least not opposing it. I was instantly suspicious of his actions. He set the box down gently and ran his hand across the lacquered and decorative surface.

“You can either wait until your birthday or open it now. I won’t force you to open it now but I would like to see if my gift is acceptable.”

Quirking an eyebrow as I looked at my father, I reached for the leather tie that held the box closed.

“It isn’t much but it should keep you safe, just keep it out of sight and take good care of it.”

When the lid opened, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Inside was a small throwing knife, not much longer than my hand. I had practiced with similar ceramic knives but one wrong toss and they shattered, much as my sword would if I fought like a fool. Which made the blades a bad investment. But the iron blade – or maybe it was even steel – inside this box would not suffer that issue.

“The price,” I mumbled.

My father snorted. “Yes, it was significant but it is hardly worth mentioning considering how absent of a father I have been.”

I didn’t refute his words. Part of that was due to me being petty but the other was my attention was solely focused on the blade.

I gently lifted the bone-handled knife from the box and touched the cold surface, marveling at the weight and feel. I had questions. Like how did my father acquire enough iron to have this blade forged in the first place? Sure we had money and were decently well off but even iron coins were hard to come by. Most of the time if you had enough wealth to equal the value of an iron coin you were given a ceramic writ that had the value stamped upon it instead. And fat chance of ever seeing a copper or gold equivalent. Those might as well be fairy tales. It's also why everyone just called the coins plates instead as they looked like tiny dinner plates and were made from ceramic instead of metal.

So to see an iron blade and even hold it was something most people would never experience. Sure I had seen iron before, but that was pig iron and even that was used only when no other material was suitable for the task. Even then it was a brittle metal that was only produced in a select few cities where true smiths lived.

When I turned to look at my father he was beaming with pride. “So much like your mother… even her smile lives on in you.”

My anger at his antics faded away and I couldn’t help it, I pulled my father in for a hug, one many years overdue. I didn’t hate my father, it just annoyed me that he thought I couldn’t succeed on my own. I felt I needed to prove him wrong which forced me to dig in like a tick on any disagreement we had.

“Ok, my boy,” he said, clapping me on the back. “While the hug was much appreciated, you are still all sweaty. Go wash up and come down to dinner. The man I bought this from explained how to care for it and I will show you after we eat.”

I simply nodded, cradling the gift for a minute before I set it back in the box. Only now did I notice that the box contained a few other items. I decided to leave those for later.

I quickly washed and we ate in companionable silence in the modest dining room. My father was never one to mince words unless it came to making a sale. The room was plain as was everything in our house. Decorating for the sake of impressing others was not on my father's list of priorities. Our food reflected that same sentiment but not because my father didn’t enjoy good food, it was just that getting certain things out here was hard. Unless you wanted the hearty root vegetables that grew in the arid soil.

They were fine and edible but left a lot to be desired on taste. I still missed the sweet fruits of my home country. If asked to describe the taste of those fruits, I would be at a loss since we moved from there when I was three. But the subtle memory still remained.

After dinner, my father sat me down in his office. When he opened the box, he tsked. When I looked to see what the problem was, my face went bright red in shame. I was thankful for my dark skin to hide my embarrassment.

“The smith said even fingerprints would cause rust but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly. You will have to be extra diligent in the care.” I also heard him mutter something about the Father and Mother being too greedy but I chose to ignore his blasphemy.

Over the next twenty minutes, my father showed me how to buff away the rust and using the supplied items within the box, protect it from rusting further. The protective oil had a strong scent that made my eyes water and I had to turn my head. Thankfully it quickly dissipated.

“The blade is sharp but not as sharp as that sword you insist on carrying,” my father said, pointing to my scabbard and the shortsword tucked inside. “You should purchase a shield, even a small ceramic buckler will make an opponent think twice about attacking you.”

I nodded in agreement, having saved up money for that exact purpose, but ceramic defensive weapons were expensive and heavy.

“I know I can’t stop you from going,” my father sighed, “but promise me you will not take any undue risks. I am not deaf to the stories surrounding the fallen city.”

“I will do my best to stay safe,” I couldn’t promise any more because I wasn’t leaving that city without getting what I came for. While my father had heard the stories, I had sought them out. I knew if I failed on my first attempt, any further attempt was likely going to be much harder and much more dangerous. If it was easy, everyone would go in and claim a calling.