“More than fair,” the boy agreed, tucking the purse back into his tunic.
“Do you have a name, lad?” Janis managed to ask.
“Khollo, sir,” the thief said.
“And I’m Janis,” the warrior replied. “Now, let’s get going before the city guard shows up. I don’t want to have to explain this.” Already, one of the downed guards was stirring.
“This way,” Khollo said, turning towards an alley. “Nobody will find us here.”
“Always nice to have a companion who knows his way around,” Janis muttered. “Stick by me Khollo and we’ll come out all right.”
The boy turned and flashed a quick grin, eyes dancing. Looking into them for the second time, Janis confirmed what he had initially suspected. He told himself that this was a good idea, that he wouldn’t live to regret it.
The boy would bear watching, Janis thought with a prickle of unease. If he read the signs right, there was something else at work here. There was more to his new friend than met the eye.
A touch of destiny.
Chapter 1
“Dismissed, cadets!”
As Sergeant Wilkes’ voice boomed across the training field, Khollo stumbled out of the fourteen-man formation, nearly tripping over his own two feet. He almost regained his balance, then gasped in pain as something hard and heavy clouted him across the shoulders. The walls of the West Bank fortress and the field Khollo stood on spun in a dizzying blur of gray stone, green grass, and flashes of clouded skies. When everything had settled, he was sprawled on the ground. Khollo rolled over slowly, spitting out dirt and grass. Genal, he thought bitterly. It was always Genal, or one of his cronies.
Sure enough, looming over Khollo was Genal, an impressive specimen of stature, muscle, cruelty, and lack of intelligence. Genal was the son of a noble from Narne, with an ego to match.
“Get moving, street rat,” he growled. “Bad enough I have to share a barracks with your kind. The least you could do is stay out of the way.”
“Sorry,” Khollo muttered.
Khollo made to rise, but Genal shoved him flat and leaned in close. “Why don’t you just leave?” he asked. “Permanently. You don’t belong here. You’re a disgrace to this fortress and our squad.”
“And to you, more importantly,” Khollo muttered.
Genal smiled grimly. “Precisely. Now – ”
“Something the matter, Genal?”
Genal spun around quickly. Khollo turned his head and recognized his best, and only, friend, Sermas. He was standing, drill sword in hand, leaning forward slightly, ready for a fight.
“Sermas,” Genal said evenly. “This isn’t your business.”
“Then I’ll make it my business.” Sermas leapt forward and leveled his wooden blade at Genal. “Move away from him.”
“You can’t be serious – ”
“Now.”
Genal scowled, then raised his hands and backed away, shooting a furtive look at Khollo. “This isn’t the end of this, street rat. You’ve had your last warning.”
“And you’ve had yours,” Sermas replied. “Get lost.”
Genal stalked away angrily, still shooting angry glances over his shoulder. Sermas watched him go while Khollo got to his feet.
“You do realize he’ll kill you one of these days, right?”
“He will try,” Khollo replied, dusting himself off.
“Um, I hate to bring it up, but you just had your seventy-third consecutive loss in today’s practice bouts. I’m not positive, but I think it’s a record.”
“Thanks, Sermas. How can you even remember that, anyways?”
Sermas shrugged. “Counting’s easy. All I have to do is remember how many fights we had in a day, then add that to the old number and remember the new one.”
Khollo rolled his eyes and turned away in disgust. “I would have been better off still on the streets,” he muttered darkly. “I have no place here.”
“If you’d stayed on the streets, you’d be dead,” Sermas said flatly. “That life requires a ruthless attitude you don’t have.”
“And some fighting skills,” Khollo added. “Which I also don’t have.”
Sermas shook his head, his short-cut blond hair flashing in the evening light. “You’ll get there. Just wait. Lord Kurkan wouldn’t have chosen you as his squire otherwise. He must see potential in you.”
“Then he’s a delusional drunk, just like everyone says,” Khollo muttered. “That’s why he was sent here, wasn’t it?”
“All right, I give up,” Sermas said, grinning. “You’re determined to be miserable. If you need any help with that, let me know.”
Khollo took a halfhearted swing at his friend. His only friend. Another sign that his life was seriously messed up. Sermas was younger than Khollo by three years, but he was just as tall, heavier, and athletically gifted. The best swordsman in their band of fourteen cadets. And for some reason Khollo would never understand, Sermas had chosen to befriend the moodiest, clumsiest, most graceless, and most useless cadet to ever live.
Meaning Khollo.
They walked in silence for a few paces, making for the keep or, more accurately, the kitchens within the keep. The perfect place for a quiet evening meal away from the other cadets and the people of the West Bank.
“You know, it could be worse,” Sermas continued cheerfully. “I hear at the East Bank they don’t even have a decent cook.” The East Bank was the West Bank fortress’ twin, halfway to the Furnier River. In the absence of any real enemies in the last decade, an intense rivalry bordering on hatred had sprung up between the two garrisons.
Khollo snorted. “Sermas, why am I here? I’m not cut out to be a warrior.”
Sermas frowned, pretending to study Khollo’s small, compact frame and lean body. “Hmm. Now that you mention it, you’re not built like most warriors. Better give up now.”
“Knock it off,” Khollo growled, knowing the younger boy was mocking him.
“If you want
