The Chimaera Regiment Read Free

He pounced, dragging Hector to the ground and pinning him. Lippus and Jarn were not far behind. As Affet pummeled Hector with punches, the other two kicked him wherever they found an opening. Hector tried to shield himself from the blows with his arms, but to no avail.
    Suddenly, Affet was hauled off his quarry. He yelled his objections, but they were tossed aside by the interloper. As Affet crashed into a nearby crate, Lippus and Jarn fell silent. Hector heard scrambling as the three bullies pitter-pattered their escape. When all was quiet, Hector slowly stretched out his aching limbs to see what had happened.
    A man was standing over him. He had dark hair, like charcoal, and a full beard. There were two swords sheathed on his belt, one on each thigh. His brown eyes glinted in the noonday sun as he furrowed his brow. He knelt by Hector, causing his leather raiment to creak. He held out a hand to help the boy off the ground. “You alright?” he asked, his voice deep and hoarse.
    Hector glanced from the man’s haggard face to his scarred hand. Frowning at himself, he reached out and grasped the proffered help. The man pulled him to his feet sharply. “Thanks,” Hector mumbled. He felt his face and noted several new knots and bruises. His ribs ached, his arms were sore, and his legs begged for him to lie down once more, but he ignored them. He looked again at his rescuer.
    The man raised an eyebrow at him. He seemed displeased at the boy’s attitude, but he let it pass. At last, he said, “My name is Brynjar. What’s yours?”
    Hector swallowed. He tasted blood. “Hector,” he answered. “I am Hector.” Brynjar nodded, smiling broadly. He had the look of a seasoned warrior. But something about him turned Hector’s stomach. The boy saw in this stranger everything he lacked in himself, and it infuriated him. He had always wanted to be someone bristling with strength and confidence, but instead, he had gotten himself pounded by a few whelps.
    The foreign warrior glanced around as if examining his surroundings for the first time. “Tell me, Hector,” he said, “Where is Lord Aneirin?”
    Hector frowned. “He doesn’t live here. I don’t think he’s been here since I was born.” He snorted and added, “I’d be surprised if he was even still alive.”
    Brynjar glowered at the boy’s response, but again, he let it pass. After a moment, he asked, “Where can I find the lord of your people, then?”
    Hector gestured. “The north end of the village. Past the marketplace,” he directed. “Need anything else?” Hector recognized the annoyance in his voice. He was trying to be helpful, especially since Brynjar had just shortened his beating, but he felt more jealousy than gratitude.
    Brynjar, though, did not seem to notice this time. He thanked the boy and started off north, leaving Hector to continue trudging toward the marketplace with his face downcast.
    *

    The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
    The third of the month of Anthemen
    Early in the seventh hour

    Two hours later, Lord Aneirin was only a few minutes from arriving in the village of the Alkimites. Brynjar was waiting impatiently to meet with Lord Cyrus. Hector, meanwhile, was no longer selling produce with Caradoc. He and his friend had retired to the other side of the market. Hector had told of his fight with Affet and the others, and of the arrival of Brynjar, the mysterious stranger who had half the town whispering.
    But Hector was done telling stories. As the two boys sat chewing on saccharum, Hector stared at Bronwyn. The young woman was one year Hector’s senior, and she was two years older than her brother, Caradoc. She had taken over the vegetable stand a quarter-hour earlier, as she often did. She and her brother had always been close, especially after their parents had died two years prior. She had been happy to extend that friendship to Hector, as well. Hector had always admired her, even adored her, but in spite of her amiable manner, he