The Chimaera Regiment Read Free Page A

lacked the courage to say so.
    Bronwyn’s auburn hair encircled her fair skin and fell, untamed, just past her shoulders. Her eyes, hazel with a hint of green, always seemed to hide a mischievous smile. Her femininity proved well through her lithe figure, and Hector longed to be close to her.
    Of course, she blithely carried on their friendship, unaware of his longing. Hector wished she could see his hope without his exposing it. He wished he did not have to risk his heart in order to gain hers. On occasion, he would ask Caradoc whether his sister felt anything for him, to which his friend confessed ignorance.
    Hector stayed his eyes upon her as she laughed at something. He did not hear what. The glint of the sun caught her hair. Hector’s smile, breaking free of his restraint, helped him squint against the gleam surrounding her as a crown.
    When her resplendence faded, so did Hector’s delight. Gregory, Hector’s cousin on his mother’s side, was talking to her. Gregory was two years Hector’s senior, and he was a better swordsman and strategist by far. Already a member of the tribe’s meager guard, he was prized by the Alkimites in every respect; many suspected that Lord Cyrus was grooming the boy to be his successor. On the other hand, most of the tribe knew Hector as “Gregory’s cousin.” His only friends were Bronwyn and Caradoc, and Bronwyn was more enamored with Gregory than most Alkimite girls. Caradoc could relate, and he often tried to downplay his sister’s love-light for the young soldier.
    As if on cue, the other boy spoke up to comfort him. “I’m sure Gregory just needs some vegetables for the barracks,” he suggested.
    “I’m sure,” Hector repeated, unconvinced, as his eyes flitted between the two. He studied each smile and each gesture for signs of a deeper interest than a few carrots. As he watched, he began to grind his teeth in jealousy.
    Caradoc patted his shoulder. The younger boy heard a crowd gathering to the west. “Hey, forget sis for a minute and c’m’ere,” he said.
    For a moment, Hector stayed stubbornly put, but as the commotion grew louder, his curiosity bested him. Hector could not remember any event in the village that had gathered so much attention at once. He wondered if it had anything to do with Lord Aneirin. After denying his existence earlier that day, Hector had reminisced about the oft-told tales of the ancient warrior, and the chance to meet him was enough to pull his eyes from Bronwyn and Gregory.
    Hector’s expectation proved true: Lord Aneirin was pressing through the prostrate crowd when the two boys approached. The Guardian’s eyes focused on the young heir, and his metallic face brooked a smile. Caradoc dropped to his knees, but Hector stood enamored by the lord’s attention. Aneirin worked his way through the throng to reach the boy. He greeted the youth with an outstretched arm, and clasped his shoulder warmly. “Ah, young Hector,” he said, “We have much to discuss.” He glanced at the crowd, then added conspiratorially, “May I invite myself into your home?”
    Hector was surprised, but elated. He grinned from ear to ear and exclaimed, “Of course!” With a gesture, he led Aneirin past the crowds and down the street toward his house. Caradoc rose and followed. The rest of the folk began to disperse, some back to their daily duties, others in pursuit of the Guardian lord and their curiosity.
    On the western edge of the ruck, two men stood and watched the figures retreat down the street. Both were well-built and their garments—light brown with grey trim—signified their membership in the town’s militia.
    One was slightly taller than the other, though he slouched until their eyes nearly met. He had ragged brown hair upon his head and face, and had no shortage of it anywhere else on his body. His green eyes, hooded by a bushy brow, were narrow, but quick and observant. His face was cast in a perpetual frown, and his head always seemed to