Khollo did not remember the first war, but he knew it had caused the shortages of food that had driven him onto the streets. He remembered those days of having to steal for a living very well, negotiating shares with sometimes accomplices, finding snug little holes to sleep in at night to avoid being betrayed by the same people he had worked with during the day. Life on the streets was cruel, but during the war it was the only way for the impoverished to survive.
I don’t want that to happen again, Khollo thought. He remembered the dirty, hollow-cheeked faces of younger street rats, the ones without the strength or wits to steal. The ones who were lucky if they ate three meals in a week, much less in a day. Khollo thought of the villagers of Holwey, too weak to defend themselves.
We fight for them, Khollo decided. More than land is at stake, more than a kingdom. More than a king. The people come first. Always.
Khollo turned and headed for the small gatehouse beside the main entrance to the fortress. There were messages to be sent, forces to be marshaled. All in time to gather as much help as possible before the enemy arrived.
The winter season came in earnest in the following days. Icicles formed on every eave and gale force winds rattled every window from dawn until dusk. The South was one of the worst places to winter, save for the very far north, where the season was continuous and totally inhospitable. Cadets traded their morning runs and strength exercises for turns around the battlements, shovels in hand, pitching loads of snow off the wall tops and into the wilderness. Within the fortress, fire rings were set up at strategic places to melt the worst of the snow, leaving only a thin layer of slushy ice. A half circle of damp brown grass marked the open entrance of the smithy, whose blazing furnaces were fighting valiantly to keep the chill of winter at bay. The sound of hammers on metal filled the air all day long, as well as the hiss of hot metal in water as pieces were quenched.
The days slid into weeks, with little news from the outside world. Khollo spent his mornings practicing archery and learning to care for Arle, his afternoons poring over what meager information there was about the vertaga, trying to find some crucial clue that he was sure was eluding him.
He also tried to work out what the old man from Holwey had been talking about.
Khollo did not share the precise words with Ondus or Janis, feeling they had been for him and him alone. Instead, he asked for information on the old Orell Kingdom, maps and histories and records from the war. He had learned much about their way of life and the people, but nothing to reveal an ancient history. Certainly not one Khollo was tied to.
That was another problem. It was hard for Khollo to find out if anything in the past had anything to do with his past, because he didn’t know anything about his own past. Not his parents’ names, what they’d done, how they’d died. For all he knew, he had brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles he had never heard of, a whole extended family. But Khollo had no place to start for that kind of information, so he continued researching long-ago kingdoms, hoping maybe he would feel a connection or come across some indisputable evidence.
Khollo was beginning to lose hope on that front as well though.
After a few weeks in his new role, Khollo was becoming a competent archer and a skilled rider. He had been gradually moving further and further from his targets, and could now stand off at fifty meters and group five arrows close enough that his hand would easily cover them all. He was no longer sore after a morning workout, whether it was with the bow or a long ride with Arle through the surrounding hills. The little horse had quickly become an integral part of Khollo’s life. Arle was patient and intelligent and obedient, and Khollo felt a strong affection for his sturdy mount. There was a connection between them that went deeper than a mere horse and rider. It was a respect and understanding that Khollo had difficulty describing, as though they were one mind in two very different bodies.
One bitterly cold winter morning, Khollo was hard at work with his bow when Janis stopped by to watch. Khollo had invented a new drill for himself, ranging hay bales all around at different angles and distances. Two were lying down sideways, a different sort of challenge due to the low profile.
Khollo fired off a dozen arrows, picking twelve different targets. The arrows found their mark each time, all in the center of the selected bales.
“You have some natural skill with the bow,” Janis observed as Khollo started retrieving his arrows. “Like my brother. He had a good teacher to help him though. I’m sorry I couldn’t find the same for you.”
“It’s fine,” Khollo said, shrugging. “It’s not your fault, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. I’ll just have to practice longer and harder.”
Janis smiled wryly. “Well, I admire your determination. But take the afternoon off. Rest your brain a bit and come back to it tomorrow. Sometimes, fresh eyes can find what dedicated ones cannot.”
Khollo nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Janis smiled again, then wandered off to his next task. As the lord of an embattled fortress, he was
