Heir of the Gods

Ch. 41: Strength and Weakness

Mornings in an army camp were never quiet. 

Calix lay on his bed—his bed, not a cot—staring up at the ceiling of his tent. His tent that he didn't have to share with seven other men. His tent that had three other rooms and rugs on the floor to help keep out the cold. 

A general's tent.

With a sigh, Calix pushed himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed at his eyes, something like dread welling in his chest.

He was supposed to inspect the troops today. 

His troops.

Calix pushed himself to his feet, getting dressed as quickly as he could. He shoved his feet roughly into his boots, buckling on his sword-belt as he pushed through the flaps to the main room of the tent. 

He had only been centurion for a grand total of ten days before he'd been called to the capital. He was a disgraced son who had been stripped of his nobility until a few months ago. Why in the gods' name would the king make him a general?

As soon as he thought the question, he knew the answer.

Calix swore, fighting with the tail of his belt when a bone-rattling growl made him freeze. Slowly, moving nothing but his eyes, he looked up. There in the main room of the tent, a massive, pale wolf stood. Eyes like chips of blue ice were narrowed at him, lips peeled back to reveal black gums and vicious white teeth.

The wolf bristled, hackles raised.

Calix didn't dare to breathe. He'd never be able to draw his sword fast enough.

"Bellos!"

The wolf flinched at the deep voice before he laid down, ears flattened in a lupine sulk. Calix breathed a sigh of relief. Shaking his head, he scowled at the animal which bared its teeth in return before he looked toward the eastern wall of the tent.

Behind a rough-hewn table stood a tall man with a lean, neat frame. The low flames from the brazier and a single oil lamp threw light on a ragged scar that disappeared beneath a black eyepatch. His remaining eye was a piercing hazel, more green than brown, and it was fixed keenly on the sword at Calix's side.

Calix crossed his arms, glaring at the animal which, upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be only half wolf. "You know that beast hates me."

"He hates everyone, boy," the man replied dryly, gaze sliding up to Calix's face. "He'd be no use to me if he didn't."

Calix's mouth twitched, but he resisted the temptation, keeping his face absolutely expressionless. A small staring match ensued before the man barked a sudden laugh. Calix couldn't stop the smile then.

"You were riding a fine stallion the first time I saw you, too," Arcturus said, striding across the room to sweep Calix into a rib-crushing hug. His voice was heavy with all the years of memory between them.

Calix tried not to cling to him like a child to his father as the familiar, comforting scent of smoke and steel enveloped him. Arcturus patted him roughly on the back before he stepped away, sweeping another discerning gaze over him.

"Yes," Calix agreed. "But this time he's mine. And I am an officer."

He nearly choked on the word. No one but Arcturus or Tarquin would have noticed. The older man gave him a sympathetic grimace. When he shook his head, the lamplight glinted off the few silver hairs beginning to crop up in the dark hair at his temples.

"That monster's a far finer beast than the one you stole from Lord Julianus, I'll wager," Arcturus said before he headed back toward the table, hooking a foot behind the leg of a nearby chair to draw it closer. He sank into it, then gestured toward the chair on the other side.