Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 24

It all started with an axe and a broken arm.

Sixteen year old Farren kneeled on the dusty ground, clutching her arm and staring at the parched yellow grasses. Sweat fell in heavy drops and seeped into the dust. The inside of her head felt as though about to burst open, her throat dry and chest heaving.

Audryn, drill sergeant of that time, was shouting at the top of her lungs, her words jumbling together in Farren's exhausted mind.

"On your feet, lass."

No response.

"Soldier! Answer when I speak to you!"

She made no signs of getting up-- because she couldn't. Hot tears now joined the sweat upon the dust as Farren cradled her injured arm, which Audryn had shattered a minute ago with a blow from the flat of her axe. The strike had not been intentional; merely a part of training. She was supposed to parry the attack, but instead of it hitting her blade, it had slammed into her arm.

Audryn came over, and took her by her good arm. Her voice softened. "Come. Let's get you to a healer. Then we resume practice."

"No!" Farren wrenched her arm out of her grip and scurried away. Her good arm pressed against her mouth, she broke out in muffled sobs. "No more healing magic, I beg you!"

The same routine, every single day. Train with Audryn, get hurt, get healed, then again more training-- only to come back injured. Healing hurt, but so did broken bones, split lips and sprained muscles. Farren could take no more of that godforsaken healing magic. The pain would drive her insane.

Audryn sighed heavily, then sat down on the grass, wiping sweat from her brows. "How would you become a warrior if you shed tears so easily, lass?"

Farren wondered that too. No other recruit was so much of a mess as she was. They clenched their teeth and endured it all. They were so much stronger, braver. Even after everything she'd been through she still remained...useless.

In truth, she wanted none of this. Farren yearned to go back to Fallmead, to Finnian and Gran. Back home.

After Sir Troth was done dealing with the city guard who had arrested her-- sending him away to some distant coal mine, the nobleman had dragged her out from behind the bars-- not out of kindness, but to ensure she didn't reveal anything of his involvement with the trade at Silver Knife Square. She hadn't said a thing, much to his relief.

In fact, no coherent words had escaped her down at the dungeon. She only remembered the golden embers that flew from the branding iron, then shortly after, the red hot mark pressed up against her arm-- cruel and burning and blistering.

But despite all, it had ensured her release from the clutches of the gang in Silver Knife and that was all that mattered.

Until the man approached her with the offer.

Farren had looked up to see an officer of the Midaelian army. A man from the Brihurst Isles, he was gaunt with graying hair. The insignia on his cloak identified him as a lieutenant. She observed him with a squint, wiping blood from her nose.

"I saw you fighting the guards back there," he'd said, then grinned. "Weren't you the one with a metal pipe?"

She was.

That was the first thing that came to hand when the city guards surrounded her, a particularly feisty one on their lead. Farren had to put on a show of resistance, lest the gang should see right through her trick of getting captured intentionally.

And being Farren, she'd gone overboard with her acting when the leader of the guards challenged her for real.

The lieutenant kneeled to face her where she crouched on a sidewalk, where Sir Troth had left her after sorting things out. He observed her for a moment, then handed her a piece of parchment-- a notice about the Midaelian forces taking recruits.