Chapter 1: Acting Foolish

Xavier's story begins on the wrong foot as he returns home from his first solo assignment, a bit weakened.

Xavier halted, panting as he peered back the way he came, tensing his right arm should he need to challenge his pursuer. Moments passed and no one emerged on the other side of the bridge, the heavy sound of footsteps gone, and silence once more conquering the area. He relaxed, the tip of his sword grazing the cobblestone that marked the edge of the pathway, catching his breath. For nearly an hour, chased by brigands, he had maneuvered- or rather stumbled and fought- his way through thick brambles and dense woods, desperately trying to flee without stressing the gaping wound in his side. He examined it now, bringing his free hand to it, and saw bright red blood cover his palm; he needed to return home.

The moment flashed through his eyes, the burly bandit punching him in the jaw, knocking him back before slicing his axe horizontally, hoping to slit Xavier in two. As he did in the past, Xavier had his speed to thank, as he was able to move himself nearly out of range, softening the blow to the deep cut he now had to address.

            “Better than being dead,” Xavier muttered to himself, gritting his teeth at the pain. How could he have been so foolish? Three brigands, he thought he could fight. Father had barely allowed him to make this journey, and he had warned specifically against uneven confrontations! The only good news was that, with his injury, father may not add additional punishment; he often thought lessons were best learnt through individual experience. Besides, he had good reason for attacking the thieves: he had just come across Herthwood, the northern village he was meant to bring a message to, when he spotted the trio setting fire to a house on the outskirts, having finished their looting. Xavier could barely remember the moments after spotting them, next he knew he was leaping at them, his sword raised and poised to strike the closest one. That was his nature; he acted without thought; whenever the opportunity arose Xavier tried to prove himself. It was only up close that he saw the immense size of the bandits, and the great strength that rested in their axes, which they swung effortlessly. They were not ordinary bandits; these men were superior to the common thief, though Xavier could not see why, as their appearance was that of any other bandit; heavy looking and dull, with a sort of thickness to them. He had retreated after receiving the slight blow, but unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for the village, had attracted their attention, and they made chase. Relentless they are, Xavier had thought briefly to himself while fleeing, after about an hour’s half had passed and his pursuers were still within earshot. Yes, father would understand, he may even praise Xavier for his efforts, assuming Xavier phrased it favorably, which he had a knack of doing.

            His breathing was slowly becoming raspy, and Xavier realized he had to set off, or be left to endure the danger of nightfall. Wandering between villages without direction was beyond reason, and the most common deaths came from those that were unable to return home while the sun still shone. Philitica, his village, or barracks rather, was still a ways off, just within the time he had left in the day, and so, he set off down the dirt path that led away east from the bridge. His gash impaired his ability to walk normally without pain, and so Xavier resulted to an awkward, slower pace, slightly bent over his left side, his sword now placed back into the sheath that was slung across his back. It was heavy, his sword, and weighed him down greatly, and he cursed himself for choosing a steel one. Father had insisted he keep his iron sword, yet he, Xavier, always wanting to prove his strength, snuck a steel sword from the weaponry in the early hours when he set off. It was the extra weight that undoubtedly reduced his speed, resulting in the injury, and Xavier once more cursed himself, now picturing the smug look his comrades would flash him after making the same connection he had. They would mock him, tell him he could not handle an advanced weapon, and then they would keep the steel swords from him, instructing him to train harder before attempting to improve. Xavier already knew that he had to constantly improve, or risk being left behind, forced to pick up extra duties around the barracks, while the other soldiers defended the region, fighting bandits and becoming stronger each day. That was why he had taken the steel sword, in hopes of strengthening his right arm and becoming adapted to the increased weight, imagining himself using it regularly in combat, as his father often did.

            As he continued down the road, Xavier recalled the rare time he saw his father in combat; the grace with which he arced his sword before bringing it crashing down on the enemy. It had been effortless, the swing his father used on the foe that committed the fatal mistake of crossing blades with him, and Xavier remembered the determination that flowed through him in the weeks that followed, his desire now to maneuver in battle with as much ease as his father had displayed; it was the same determination that continued to push him today. He knew of his father’s legacy, it had plagued him his entire life: born a poor peasant, Xavier’s father, Doreius, began his training as a child, using sharpened sticks for swords against imaginary foes, and once they grew up, his two younger brothers. Enlisting in the royal army at the age of eighteen, he fought valiantly for a dozen years, serving the Kingdom of Aldonya with his bravery, swordsman skills, and surprising wisdom at such a young age. Lord Alastor, the ruler of Aldonya, had insisted he stay and become commander of East Aldonya, but Doreius had refused, stating he preferred defending local citizens from bandits, which had become less of a nuisance and more a serious threat in recent years. Nevertheless, he was awarded the honorary title by Lord Alastor, recognized across the land as a decorated and fearsome soldier. Building his barracks in Philitica, Doreius had served the village, and the ones neighboring him, as well as ones that would not necessarily be considered neighbors but requested his aid often, brilliantly, ridding most of the bandits from the area. At first, he had worked alone, relying only on his intuition and incredible combination of speed and power to win. Slowly, other mercenaries had joined his barracks, some simply in need of work, others itching to fight constantly, and still some just to serve under the famous Doreius, for his name was known throughout Aldonya. It was this story that Xavier often heard, this reputation that he was expected to uphold and exceed, although many that knew him doubted his abilities, and Xavier could not blame them. He often made mistakes, his poor judgment costing the barracks time and effort from other soldiers, and for that he had become unpopular.

            “Yes, and this doesn’t help,” Xavier muttered to himself again. “Why cannot you be more like your father?” He said aloud, repeating the mocking questions others had asked him. “You should try to pay more attention to his teachings; try to be like him in every way, or else you’ll never get any better.” “It’s disappointing, seeing a man like Doreius’s son being so inadequate.” There had been more like those, all jeering at him and weighing him down far more than all the steel swords in the barrack’s weaponry could. He was trying, surely his father, if nobody else, could see that. Xavier laughed, almost pitifully, for he knew even his father had given up on him; he had practically said as much during their last training session.

            “Raise your sword higher when you’re not attacking, Xavier, or else the enemy will seize your relaxation as their moment to strike!” his father shouted at him, before rushing once more. Battered and fatigued, Xavier had tried to raise his sword, only to swept off his feet by his father’s tackling blow, crashing to the ground in absolute exhaustion, unable to rise. He had been left there, his father turning without a word and returning to the barracks, leaving Xavier as he always left him, embarrassed and bitter, angry at himself more than at his father, for being unable to hold up at all.

            The night had fallen by the time Xavier rounded the final corner that led to the barracks. It was a great structure, resting twenty yards from a constantly flowing river, the village scattered around it into the hills that lay behind it. Approaching quietly, hoping to slip in and sleep before the bombardment of questions and discipline he would receive from the other mercenaries and his father, Xavier moved towards the barrack’s entrance. He swore silently to himself upon seeing the gate closed and locked; he would have to sound Wilt to let him in, which likely would wake the rest of the troops, for they all slept lightly; in their line of work one could not afford to fall too deep in slumber. Perhaps Wilt could sneak him in; after all, he was the nicest to Xavier, always offering to train him extra, regardless of the hour Xavier requested, and there to defend him, to some extent, when the others ridiculed him. Yes, Wilt would help him get in; he just had to be careful with his signal. Sighing heavily, Xavier continued the last stretch of road leading to the barracks, his energy completely drained and his only wish now to rest.

            Tossing a handful of pebbles up over the gate, Xavier winced as the rocks cracked against the stone pathway that ran upon the top of the four barracks walls.

            “Come on, Wilt,” Xavier whispered. Surely he had to have heard that; Wilt had the sharpest eyes and most sensitive ears of all the soldiers. Just as Xavier bent to gather more pebbles, the faint light of a torch appeared, and moments later, Wilt’s head peered over the edge of the wall, an arrow drawn in his bow, pointing down at Xavier.

            “Who are you?” Wilt asked quietly, peering at the shadowy figure standing below him. “Is that you Xavier?”

            “Yes Wilt, open the gate please,” Xavier whispered. “Quietly!” he added. The light faded as Wilt withdrew the arrow and seized the torch before heading towards the ladder that lay against the wall. Xavier waited outside, approaching the gate and pausing, listening for Wilt’s movements, which, to no surprise, he didn’t hear. Wilt’s was often called Silence by the other soldiers, for he was a master of the art. When he first joined the Philitica barracks, he snuck clear past the guards, into the main hall, through two adjoining rooms and into Doreius’s chambers to speak to him personally. Upon being questioned, and after Wilt revealed how he had managed to arrive in front of him, Doreius had granted Wilt acceptance then and there, despite his Captain Murtelo’s objection. Surprising the doubters, Wilt had proven he was a great addition, identifying enemies from trees far before the group encountered them and picking off the stray bandits whilst confusing the rest. That was a while ago, just when Xavier was beginning his basic training, and due to their joint status as newcomers, and despite Wilt’s superiority over Xavier, the two had become as close to friends as Xavier was with anyone.

            And now he is saving me from trouble once more, Xavier thought to himself, as the gate rattled slightly and was drawn open, the tall figure of Wilt standing in front of him. He was not a large man, but he was lanky, looming over Xavier with ease, despite only being a few years older. Wilt had short, brown hair, cut close to his head, and very serious eyes that gave nothing away; he had complete control over his emotions. Xavier knew nothing of Wilt’s past, but given the way Wilt never spoke of it, even when he inquired, Xavier guessed it was dark and chose to let it be. Besides, it didn’t affect the way he treated Xavier. Wilt had already, on numerous occasions, rescued Xavier from being caught doing something stupid or that would earn him ridicule, and yet he stood there now, no sense of judgment or annoyance on his face, but rather a slight expression of worry and perplexity. He didn’t speak, but seeing Xavier’s rugged appearance, tired eyes, and relatively fresh wound, motioned him inside and sealed the gate once more. In fact, he never spoke a word to Xavier the entire time, through addressing him wound, bandaging it, and assisting him to his bed, although Xavier did attempt to explain himself.

            “Wilt, I’m sorry. It was not my fault,” Xavier had begun, only to stop as Wilt’s eyes darted to his, sending the simple signal: Later. And so Xavier had sat there silent, as his wound was wrapped and he was helped to bed, the soft fur bedding a welcomed pleasure as he quickly slipped into a deep, complete slumber. Wilt remained hovering over him for a few minutes, gazing at the boy, for Xavier was still a young child. Too young, Wilt often thought to himself, for as tough a place as this barracks. However, Wilt knew his place; this was Doreius’ son, and regardless of what Doreius decided whether it be for Xavier to continue training or not, Wilt would remain silent, for that was not only his nickname, but his preference. Furrowing his brow briefly in pity for the punishment that awaited Xavier the next morning, Wilt turned and left the room, returning to his post, leaving the small, too young boy to rest.

Author's Note

I'll post a new chapter every few days, assuming people like it!

Reviews

[Lennan]

Good start to a potential great story! But you need to be consistent with your tenses. You begin with "Xavier halted, panting as he peered back the way he came, tensing his right arm should he need to challenge his pursuer." Here and all through the chapter you are mixing past and present tenses. People usually write fiction in the past tense. There are many articles online about tenses. Watch out for passive writing. You used:"was awarded". "was known" "was expected" and a few more. I know you can change these to active sentences. Overall, you have a great hook and it the rest kept me reading and had a good page turner at the end. Congrats! You're a writer and with some editing you'll be a great writer! Lennan

[prymore]

very interesting story so far you should definitely post more.