Kid grumbled under his breath as the door to his barracks creaked open, waking him from a deep sleep. Similar disgruntled voices rose from the surrounding bunks as several pairs of boots strode into the room with purpose. Kid blinked bleary eyes, turning to see what the commotion was.

Rough hands grabbed him, and he yelped in fright as they flipped him over on the bed, shoving a sackcloth bag over his head. Kid gasped, thrashing as several pairs of hands held him down and bound his hands. Something cold touched his throat and he froze.

The room was silent save for the rasping of the rope being knotted around his wrists. That no shouts of alarm were being raised told him that he was being taken by other Sons. His mind raced, trying to figure out what he had done. Was this because he followed Billy last night? Did it have something to do with the man Billy had spoken to in Melna’s home? Did Marc think he’d betrayed them in some way?

He yelped as he was roughly dragged to his feet and sent stumbling through the barracks. Hands like iron vises steadied him and forced him forward.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, struggling to keep the panic from his voice. No reply came as they entered the hallway.

There had to be a half dozen men marching around him. He could hear the clinking of the iron links of their armor and weapons as they pressed onward. He had to almost jog to keep up with their long strides. They winded down several halls and he could hear the curious whispers of passers-by fade as they marched at a break-neck speed.

The air was growing mustier, and it told him they were nearing the catacombs. His suspicions were confirmed as they came to a halt, and he heard one of the reinforced doors being unbarred. It groaned on its hinges as it opened, and they were on the move once more.

Kid had soon lost track of the turns they made in the warrens of the catacombs but, in the distance, he could hear men chanting rhythmically. They grew in intensity as he drew nearer and as he knew they couldn’t be more than a few dozen paces away, they fell silent and the hands holding him fell away.

Kid’s heart pounded and he didn’t dare move. He could sense the presence of dozens of men around him, hear them shifting. Someone in the room was crying, and Kid was reasonably sure that it wasn’t him. Not yet at least.

Bootsteps sounded, growing closer to him. Kid clenched his teeth in anticipation. The sack on his head shifted then disappeared, revealing a huge stone chamber filled with firelight. Dozens of Sons stood in a ring around him, faces hidden behind their ceremonial masks and all holding torches. On the far end of the circle was a southern boy, maybe a few years older than Kid. A flimsy beard grew on his face, damp with the tears that flowed from his eyes. His hands were bound and a pair of Sons held him to knees.

Marc stood above Kid, tossing the sack to the side. His eyes drifted across the assembled Sons. He grinned wolfishly. “Brothers, today is a glorious day because today we add another to our ranks. Kid of the Outwalls. He may look like a scrawny little shit, but believe me when I tell you he has more courage in him than most grown men I’ve met.”

Marc paused in his speech to place a hand on Kid’s shoulder as he hesitantly rose to his feet. Kid met Marc’s eyes. “He surprised me, and I’m not afraid to say I’m proud of him.”

Kid felt a stirring in his breast and looked away, unable to meet Marc’s gaze a moment longer.

Marc continued, unabated. “One thing that every one of our brothers and sisters must come to understand is that we must pick up the sword if we are to have any hope of one day putting it down. The blood we spill today will nurture the pastures of our grandchildren and the sacrifices we make will ensure their freedom.”

He turned to face Kid and addressed him directly for the first time. “Kid, do you know the Seven Sorrows?”

Kid hesitated then shook his head.

Marc’s voice rose as he addressed the crowd once more. “What clearer sign of oppression than the fact that our children don’t recall the birth of the Rills?”

The Sons roared in outrage at Marc’s words. After a moment, Marc raised his hands to calm them and turned to face Kid. A solemn silence fell over the room, broken only by the sniveling of the prisoner.

“There was once an Empire that stretched the length of our continent from Boreal in the west to Tara in the east. Millions lived under its rule, and they made Venar’s rule seem a paradise in comparison.”

“The first sorrow they inflicted upon our people was the sorrow of feast. When winters grew harsh, they would cut our supply of grain. Brother ate brother and sister ate sister.”

Marc grinned, his teeth shining like fangs in the firelight.

“The second sorrow was that of birth. For sport, they’d toss newborns from cliffs just to hear them land. The third sorrow lay in the gallows for men who would speak truth.”

As Marc spoke, the men around them began to hum rhythmically, the sound reverberating in the chamber.

Marc’s voice raised. “The fourth sorrow was forged in the fires where our people were burned for magic they did not possess. The fifth’s secrets are held by the sea where our people were drowned, stones tied to their legs.”

The humming grew in intensity and Marc was now nearly yelling as he paced before Kid.

“The sixth was the sorrow of betrayal, where our own brothers turned their backs on us inflicting the sorrows on their kin.” Marc spat on the cave floor in disgust.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The humming was reaching a crescendo, the air seeming to reverberate around Kid. Then, as one, the men fell silent. The cavern descended into an unsettling quiet. Eyes bored into him, and Kid met Marc’s gaze.

“And the last sorrow, Kid, was when our people’s children were given their wings. From their pain, their blood, and our prayers- our lady Reaper was born into this world.”

Marc nodded to somebody behind Kid. Rough hands grabbed him a moment later and he felt a knife sawing through the bindings around his hands. Kid rubbed at his wrists as his hands came free. The entire room seemed to be watching him in anticipation, though for what reason- he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

The Son who’d freed him stepped to his right and held out a bronze dagger to him. The metal shined in the torchlight, the same blade he’d used to kill his first man. He shuddered at the memory of metal grinding against bone. He met the Son’s eyes, an unspoken question hanging between them. The man looked across the room and Kid followed his gaze to the southern boy kneeling at the far end of the chamber.

Kid felt his fingers wrap around the hilt of the blade, a numb feeling suffusing his body. he looked at the armed men ringing him and suspected he had little choice but to do what was expected of him.

Marc grinned and gestured to the southerner. “Every man among us is bound by purpose in a brotherhood forged in blood. Show us you mean it, Kid. Carve your name into our people’s history.”

Kid looked from the dagger in his hand to the man before him. His heart began to beat faster. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Marc stepped close to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Kid, blood is but water and men will drown. Prove to me that you are more than a child from the gutters. Prove to me that you have the strength to do what needs to be done. Prove to me that you are a man.”

The men around Kid began to chant, yelling in time and rhythmically beating their weapons against their shields. Kid stood in the center of a maelstrom of sound, completely petrified. The chanting grew louder around him, and men cheered him on. He began to shake. The southerner moaned but the sound was lost in the clamor.

Marc knelt next to him. “Every southerner is a threat to the people we love. Would you let him hurt Lissa?”

Tears filled Kid’s eyes. “No,” he whispered.

“Then show me.”

Kid’s grip tightened on the dagger as he thought of the crosses by the gate and Imagined Lissa’s small arms unnaturally bent into a mockery of wings. Her lifeless eyes- Kid shrieked and rushed forward, closing the distance across the room. He plunged the dagger into the southerner’s gut. The man shrieked in pain as blood welled from the wound and dripped from his mouth. Kid stared, mesmerized by the sight.

“Again.”

Kid obeyed, finding the second time easier and the third easier still. Soon he lost track of how many times he plunged the blade into soft flesh. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was now just stabbing a corpse, but the voices cheered him on, told him to keep going. He could barely see through the tears in his eyes and his voice was hoarse from shrieking. Blood coated his arms, and its warmth was splattered across his face. He stopped only when Marc caught his arm.

Kid blinked away his tears as Marc held a mask in the shape of a wolf to him. Kid grasped the intricately carved wood and took it from Marc. It looked different than the other masks. The color was off. It lacked the reddish hue. Understanding filled him a moment later. Kid knew what he had to do. He knelt to the ground, placing his hand into the growing pool of blood and smeared it across his mask.

Marc smiled down at him in approval as Kid set to the grisly work. Cheers sounded all around Kid as he finished. The Sons broke ranks and gathered around him, patting him on the back, clasping his arm like a man, congratulating on his kill. Through it all Kid didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

***

Billy grunted with the effort of dragging the corpse through the catacombs beneath the city. A trail of blood leaked from where one of Marc’s newest recruits had ripped the man’s guts opened. They’d taken a few hundred prisoners in the battle above ground and Marc was using many of them to blood some of his newer recruits. The offer had been extended to Billy, but he’d declined saying he’d had more than his fill of blood over the past day.

His entire body still ached from the fighting, not recovering as quickly as it had in his youth. He paused in the cavernous depths, letting the shoulders of the corpse fall to the ground. His guide turned to face him, torchlight spilling over the dead man’s face and fully illuminating the horror painted across it.

“What’s the hold up?” his companion asked.

“My back, you prick,” Billy grumbled, wincing as his shoulders cracked when he rolled them.

“I’ll carry him a while.”

Billy shrugged, more than happy to take the offered torch and lead the way. Blackened skulls stared at him from the walls. He knew every one of the dead bastards was probably smiling as they looked upon the day’s work. He’d lost track of how many southern bodies they’d dragged through the halls. In the distance he could hear the muffled screams of their destination.

It’d been a long time since he’d carried out the sorrows.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, leading the way.

The younger man behind him grunted as he heaved the corpse onward. “This fucker is heavy.”

Billy snorted. “Side-effect of being well-fed.”

The Son spat his agreement on the stone floor and they set off down the tunnel. It wasn’t much further and after a few turns in the winding corridor, they reached a breach in the catacombs that led to a freshly mined tunnel. As they moved through the breach, freshly mortared walls came into view to their left. To their right, a dozen prisoners were huddled against the far wall, arms bound and overseen by a half dozen Sons.

Billy nodded to them, and they returned the half-hearted greeting, looking as if they were dreading the manual labor soon to come. Billy could hardly blame them as he glanced toward the bricks and mortar stored in the corner of the room. They’d been through this song and dance nearly twenty times today.

He sighed as he put the torch in a nearby sconce and hefted the legs of the corpse, helping his companion maneuver it into a small cubby built into the masonry. Just large enough for two men to squeeze into with a little breathing room. An iron hook stuck from the far wall

A panicked scream sounded as the guards on the far side of the room grabbed one of the prisoners and hauled him toward the cubby. Billy sighed, already tired, as he turned to regard the southerner. A younghish man- maybe seen twenty-five or so summers. Probably a wife and kid somewhere back in his homeland.

Not that any of that mattered.

Billy barely registered his pleading as he was thrown on the ground before him. There was nothing the man could say that he hadn’t heard before. The Sons held him down as he thrashed in his bindings. With all his strength, Billy stomped on the man’s right shoulder. Bone snapped beneath his boot and the pleas faded into pained screaming.

“Haul him in,” Billy commanded.

The Sons obeyed immediately, dragging the screaming man toward the cubby and shoving him in atop the corpse. They looped his bindings onto the iron hook, securing him in place. The Venaran struggled against his restraints. They weren’t terribly well secured, but they would hold more than long enough for the mortar to settle on his tomb.

As the first bricks were laid before him, the man’s screaming faded into pained whimpering. He knew his fate was sealed. No doubt he could feel the vibrations behind him as his comrades pounded against the walls confining them. Billy met the man’s gaze. The fear had turned into acceptance and that acceptance was falling to hate.

Billy wondered how long it’d be before he started eating the corpse of his cellmate- the sorrow of feast. He pulled the flask from the pocket of his jacket and took a long draw. The day’s work was far from over.