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Steel clashed against steel, the clatter of blades ringing together in the air, accompanied by the whisper of heavy breaths and the murmur of hissed curses. Again the swords swung together, withdrew, struck again. No matter the angle, no matter what trick the wielders tried to pull, the blades kissed each and every time, with neither gaining any ground on the other. Eventually, amidst a mirrored pair of frustrated cries, the swordsmen lowered their blades.
"This is useless." One of them hissed.
The boy was tall, his shoulders broad and strong, his arms powerful. His hair, dark and wild, fell to his back, half tied back from his face to prevent it falling into his eyes. A brush of dark stubble lined his jaw, a little thin and patchy in places, as if new to his face. His expression was twisted into a scowl, brows furrowed over sharp eyes.
"We have fought together too often. We can easily predict each other's moves." He huffed out a breath. "Perhaps it is time we trained with others."
"But we have always trained together!" The other was shorter and leaner, his face softer, with only the faintest hint of shadow on his upper lip. His hair – just as dark, just as wild – was loose, falling in gentle waves to his shoulders. With a scoff, he twirled the sword in his hand. "I think you are just making excuses for not being able to best me. You might as well face it. I am simply a better swordsman than you."
It was the taller boy's turn to scoff. "Unlikely. I am older and more experienced. You have just memorised all of my moves."
"If you say so."
"I do." He sheathed his blade. "Well, since there is no challenge here, we are wasting our time. We will hardly become great warriors if we cannot truly test our skill."
"I think you are just tired of me. You have wanted to shake me off for years, admit it!"
The elder sighed. "That is not true. I simply want to be the best I can be, and I cannot achieve that training with you. I am sorry, Glock, but you are no longer a worthy opponent."
As his brother turned and strode away, Glock threw down his sword with barely restrained anger. He would show him a worthy opponent. One day, he would prove that he was better.
Glock sat upon the hill above the training fields, arms folded atop his knees as he watched the figures below. His eyes followed every movement of the sparring pair, keenly taking in every detail. He scoffed. It had been three years since he'd stopped training with his brother, but Gers had barely improved. He was still just as predictable.
Gers was everything their father wanted in a son. He was brave to the point of fearless, and bold with it, too. He had grown into a strong and powerful young man, so far unbeatable in a fighting ring. He had all the potential to be a truly great warrior. Everyone seemed to have praise for him and, in Glock's opinion, treated him far better than they treated him.
Gers would always be favoured as the first-born, of course. He couldn't compete with that. But Glock desperately wanted to make their father proud, just once. He wanted to be the one praised by the people, admired by the younger boys. He wanted his peers to chant his name in victory as they did his brother's. Yet he remained trapped in his brother's shadow, ignored, and neglected. Doomed forever to be the little brother.
It would be easy to hate Gers for that reason. There had been a brief period not so long ago where he had actually tried, but he couldn't summon even the slightest scrap of resentment. Gers was never cruel to him, never teased him in the way he had seen other siblings tease, where they pretended to laugh with you but were really laughing at you. If his words ever stung it was only because he was being honest, and Glock could not fault him for that. It wasn't his fault that he was born first, that he was a skilled fighter, that the people admired and adored him. He wasn't deliberately trying to shadow his brother out of spite.
No, Glock didn't hate his brother. He loved him. Gers was his idol, the one he respected more than anyone else. Gers was the image he tried to shape himself into. Gers was the kind of man he aspired to be. He might pretend to hate him from time to time, might groan and complain at his displays of affection, and tell his friends he didn't care for him, but it was all for show.
They had grown apart during the last few years, but once they had been inseparable. Gers had looked after him a lot when they were young, so they had never been far from each other's side. Gers had helped him learn to read and write, had taught him all manner of things, and had helped him with his training when their father had been too busy for him. They had done everything together.
But no longer. If Gers wasn't training, he was spending time with his friends in Jaliad. Even though there was only a year or so between them in age, he seemed so much older now, so much further away. He didn't have time for his little brother anymore, it seemed. And never would again, most likely. After all, it wouldn't be long before he would find a wife, begin a new life with his own family. There would be no more room for Glock.
With a deep breath, he rose to his feet. He couldn't sit around doing nothing all day. He had made himself an oath that he would become a better warrior than Gers, to prove himself a worthy opponent. If he wanted to make that happen, he needed to train harder.
The sky was dark when Glock woke, roused by the sounds of battle. He was out of his bed and armed with a blade in moments, blood pumping and heart racing. He burst into the street to a scene of chaos. The men and women of Jaliad were fighting for their lives, swords and axes flashing, spears jabbing. Bodies dotted the ground, dead or unconscious Glock couldn't tell. The stones beneath his feet were already awash with blood.
A piercing, blood-chilling shriek split the air and he looked up as a shadow fell across him. An almighty flying beast, like some monstrous vulture, swept down over his head. It rose again, two fighters clutched in its talons. It released them in the air. Glock flinched as they hit the cold, unforgiving stones below.
Something whistled through the air and, instinctively, he ducked. The projectile struck the wall behind him and immediately burst open, splattering some kind of substance over the brick. From the look – and the smell – of it, Glock knew he didn't want that touching his skin.
Whirling around, he sought his attacker. A man – or what he assumed was a man – stood several paces away, dressed entirely in grey. In one hand he wielded a sling, which no doubt had been used to hurl the odd projectile. Looking past him, he saw several other men in grey, all of them wielding slings, all of them identical in appearance.
He didn't know who they were, but he could guess at where they might have come from. Anger boiled under his skin, clenched his teeth, tightened his grip on his sword. The Shadow Lord would regret this attempt to take Jaliad. He would make sure of it.
With a roar of fury he ran at the grey man, deftly dodging another projectile. The grey man had no time to reload his sling again before Glock was upon him. It took only one strike to bring him down. Spurred on by rage he ran to the next grey man, and the next, cleaving a path through them as he charged down the street.
He was a Jalis, a born warrior. This was what he lived for. It was in his blood. Jaliad would not fall as long as he lived, and if he died in its defence, then it would be an honourable death.
The deadly projectiles flew past him as he ducked and dodged, weaving around the Jalis locked in combat with their foes. He watched some of them fall, screaming, as projectiles burst like blisters against them, the substance within burning at their skin. It only incited his rage further, and the red haze descended.
He turned a corner and found himself facing three of the grey men. Two of them had loaded slings, whilst the third stood triumphantly over the fallen body of a Jalis woman. He bent, grabbing her by the wrists, barking a command. Her head lolled forward, one leg twitching faintly. Alive – she was alive! He started forward just as one of the three finally spotted him.
The one holding the woman sneered, tossing her down at the feet of his fellow. "Put her with the others." He ordered. "We will deal with this one."
As two of them blocked his way, the third hauled the woman up over his shoulder, and began carrying her away down the street. He would have to take these two out quickly if he wanted to help her.
The next minute went by in a blur of action. In close quarters, the grey men could not use their slings and so were forced to use swords instead. That suited Glock well, for he prided himself on being one of the best swordsmen of Jaliad. One grey man fell, then the next. He leapt over their fallen forms, his eyes fixed on the one still within his sight, carrying his prisoner.
"Glock!"
The cry had him faltering and he turned just in time to see another grey man emerging, unseen, from a nearby alley. The loaded sling was lifting, ready to strike. With a flash of steel, the arm wielding the sling fell, and the grey man crumpled into a heap on the ground.
Gers stood over him, blood streaking his face, hair wild about him. He lifted his gaze and flashed a grin at Glock. "You must be slipping, Glock. This one almost had you."
"I would have seen him." He growled back.
"Save your pride for our victory, brother." Gers crossed to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "This fight is not won, yet. There are hundreds of these grey men. Cut one down and five more take his place. They are taking the people, Glock. Those they do not kill, they capture."
Glock whirled around, remembering the woman he had seen being carried away. The street ahead was empty, the grey man having made his escape with the distraction. He cursed loudly and spat on the ground in his direction.
"They think they can take Jaliad." He hissed. "I will show them their mistake."
"No, brother." Gers shook his head. When Glock turned to him, he saw a matching fire in his brother's eyes. "We will show them. We will show them what true Jalis warriors are made of."
With matching battle cries, they charged into the heart of the battle, side by side – just as it should be.
Glock stirred.
His head was pounding, his bones ached, and pain radiated all along his left side. With some degree of effort he opened his eyes, wincing at the light that momentarily blinded him. He could taste the copper tang of blood, the scent of it clogging his nostrils, alongside something burnt and smoky. When his vision cleared, he realised he was lying on his side in the street, the stones brown beneath him.
No, not brown. Red. A very dark red. Blood. He was lying in blood.
Wincing with the movement, he pushed himself over onto his back. Fresh pain blossomed from his ribs, his stomach. Blindly, he felt with one hand. His fingers touched the ridges of a wound, the blood already dried. The blood on the ground was his own, then. How much had he lost? Not enough to kill him, it seemed.
How long had he been lying there? It was no longer dark, he noticed. The sky looked odd, not the blue he had expected, but a smoky grey blended with hues of red and orange. That burnt, smoky scent seemed stronger, and he could taste ash as well as blood on his tongue.
He forced himself upright, hissing through gritted teeth as the movement strained at his wounds, and looked around.
Jaliad was burning. The sky was filled with smoke and ash, the last of the fires still burning tinting it orange. Empty shells of houses lined the street, many still smoking, windows shattered, and bricks blackened. All about him were the fallen. He saw many of the grey men, their bodies oddly disfigured and misshapen. Amongst them were the Jalis.
All dead.
As he struggled to his feet, his gaze casting about for his sword, Glock tried to recall the last thing he remembered.
He remembered waking in the night, finding the city in the midst of an invasion. He remembered fighting. He remembered the grey men with their deadly blisters, and he remembered his brother saving his life. He remembered charging into battle at his side-
With sudden panic, Glock searched the faces of the fallen around him. He began to shuffle forward, his legs stiff, peering at body after body, dreading but also hoping to see his brother's face, for he remembered that the grey men had been taking people away, too. He didn't know where they were being taken or for what purpose, but if the Shadow Lord was behind it, he knew he would rather Gers was dead. That would be kinder.
He searched and searched, but his brother was not amongst the dead. He saw friends and neighbours. He found his father's body at the gates of Jaliad, no doubt amongst the first to fight, and the first to fall. Had he made his father proud? He would never know.
It was a slow, painful realisation that struck him then, as he stood at the broken gates of the city. Jaliad had fallen. The people were gone. Those who were not killed had been taken, never to return. He didn't think for a moment that any of the Jalis had escaped. They would all have died before they abandoned the city, abandoned their people.
He was the only survivor. The last of the Jalis.
Shame and sorrow claimed him then. He should have died with his people. He remembered his boyhood oath with bitterness, for how could he be a great Jalis warrior now? He had failed. He had failed his people, his city. He had failed his brother.
He allowed himself to shed only a few tears for his brother's memory. Then he locked his grief away and swore a new oath. He would take revenge for the fall of Jaliad. He would free the Jalis slaves and bring them home. And, if his brother still lived, maybe that would make up for his failings.
And if he didn't, Glock knew he would always be at his side, if only in spirit – because they were brothers, and their bond went beyond life and death.
Jostled along in the back of a wagon, trapped behind bars, and weighed down with chains, Gers lifted his head as a shiver of something passed through him.
He couldn't tell how far they were from Jaliad, as the grey men kept the wagons covered so not even a sliver of sky could be seen, nor did he know how long he had been unconscious before he woke in darkness, surrounded by many of his fellows. What he did know was that the city had fallen, the people killed or captured, and that they were surely being transported to the Shadowlands.
And his brother was dead.
He had saved him once, but he had not been quick enough the second time. He had seen Glock fall, had seen the blood upon the grey man's blade, and then he had seen red. His grief had blinded him, and he had dropped his guard, made mistakes that had landed him here, in chains, awaiting an uncertain but surely unpleasant fate.
He wished then that he had not allowed himself to drift so far from Glock's side, but he was glad that he had been there for him when he'd needed him. It was an older brother's duty to protect the younger, and for a while at least, he'd succeeded in that. In the end, though, he had not been good enough. All of his training, all of his hard work, and he still couldn't be what Glock needed him to be.
Well, he would fix that. He would escape his chains one day and break free from the Shadow Lord. He would lead the Jalis to their freedom, and they would take back Jaliad.
And Glock would be with him, in his heart.