Traitorous Kin

Now, Winthrey stepped back from the door and lit one of the lamps that were spread out in his room. He ran over to his closet and started tearing garments out by the dozens until he found the darkest cloak he owned. It was composed of shiny black silk(something Ellie had made for him), and it had a warrior emblem in gold sewn onto the chest. Next, he moved across to the corner of his room, to the rack which held his sword.

Holding it in your hand, one could tell that it was no ordinary sword. It had been forged far in the east by the men who made the weapons for the Samurais. His father had told him that it had taken over two generations of hammering and moldering before it was finished, and that this was the standard time period it took to make blades for those eastern warriors. Helix owned a scar across his chest that was caused by a Samurai, and he said it had been the only fight he had ever lost.

Winthrey had come by this sword on his 13th birthday, when he used it to behead a condemned man. It was a royal ceremony of sorts, one carried out for as long as anybody could remember. The person had been sentenced to die because of treason to his country, and his execution date had been held off until Winthrey’s birthday. Thousands of people had crowded around the blood stained stage to watch the carnage the royal family had been waiting for since he had been born.

He had been led by chains up the ramp, and as he was passing Winthrey’s father, he had attempted to spit a big glob of saliva into the King’s face. But Helix, who had the reflexes of a cat, had reached out his hand and caught it in mid-air, saving his leader from any humiliation he might have suffered. The haggard, pale traitor was dragged to the center of the stage, where the official sentence was to be carried out. One of his father’s nobles stepped forward and read from a role of parchment his execution speech, to get the crowd riled up and crying for blood.

His father had taken him aside before the execution, and explained to him that this wasn’t the most civilized of ceremonies, and certainly not the most honorable, but it was what had to be done. " Be brave, be cunning, and be aware of the crowd. They follow confidence. They follow order and tradition. Do what you’re supposed to do, and if you do it right, they will follow you."

So he had unsheathed his shiny new sword and did what had to be done, and the crowd loved him for it. He had looked down at the disembodied head and saw it blink at him once before all the life drained out of it. Later that night he had puked until his throat was screaming in agony, but he had cleaned up his own mess and kept it to himself, for honor’s sake.

Now, he held it up to the light, and ran his fingers over the intricate designs inscribed in the handle and the blade. He knew how to use this weapon, he had been taught by the very best. It was very possible that this was when he would have to test those skills.

Sheathing it back into its holder, he blew out the lamps and slipped out of the safety of his bedroom.