Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) by Kameron A. Williams
Authors: Kameron A. Williams
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measured his distance perfectly and kept agile, and never wasted energy. He only moved to strike when he was sure of an opening. His dance was fluid and strong, more than a little graceful, and above all—dangerous.
“What have I told you?” said the prince, stepping back from the men with his sword still stretched out in front of him. “My father cares not if I’m hurt, so don’t hold back!”
“We don’t hold back, my prince,” Krin insisted. A bead of sweat trickled between his brows and rolled down the bridge of his nose.
Banas and Krin had always claimed that they never held back when dueling with the prince, and Tharid believed them. He had threatened to beat them, expel them from service, starve them, and in some cases kill them if he found they were taking it easy on him during practice. But he believed they fought their best, for in the past he had been injured more than a few times for failing to block one of their blades. Months ago, he had been completely stunned and had the wind knocked out of him when Banas’s dull blade had struck him hard in his stomach, and some years ago he was unable to use his right hand for a month when his wrist had been smashed by Krin the same way. He was grateful for every injury.
The men swung their weapons with enough force to break bone, but Tharid deflected their blows at the perfect angle, or shuffled his feet until he was just out of reach. He had become something of a master at measuring distance, knowing to not move too far out of the way when evading, but just out of reach, so that with barely a step in he was in perfect range for his counter. Everything was perfectly calculated—and quick. He was a master of the dance, outsmarting the men with his footwork, and luring them in to his perfectly placed and perfectly measured blows.
They dueled until he had tired both men out, and Tharid looked up to his mother’s chamber window to see the woman smiling. He had not been bested even one time today, and his mother had seen it all.
5
“They must be alive and untainted ,” the shadow’s words echoed, “And they must be beautiful. Are you able to discern this?”
What a foolish question from the Condor. Why wouldn’t he know the face of beauty? After all, he had lain with many beautiful women—albeit, not by their choice. He was a savage indeed, but still a man. It was true he didn’t live by the rules—rules of men nor rules of gods—only the rule of Ozgan that said he could do what he wanted and kill anyone who didn’t like it. Even so, he was no stranger to beauty. In fact, he admired it. As for wickedness he believed all men had the intent for it, though only some had the means to carry it out. He was just more honest than the rest of them—and a lot more capable. Nothing more.
The woman was terribly afraid, and he could feel it. How he enjoyed that feeling. Fear wafted from her body like a burning fire, crippling her every movement, causing her body to shake, her eyes to shoot wide and glaze over. She was consumed with it.
Her hand trembled as she clumsily pulled an arrow from her shoulder quiver and knocked it. She shot it as fast as she could, but he was more than ready for it. He turned his cleaver flat and blocked it with the broad blade. The woman drew again as he marched her down, and Ozgan blocked the shot just as easily as the first. Her time was up.
She turned to run. The side of the cleaver’s blade struck hard against her head, knocking her into the grass. For a moment he forgot exactly why he was trying to catch her, and raised his heavy weapon to strike her again. Just before he brought his weapon down he remembered his instructions for the job. He remembered why he couldn’t kill this woman, why he couldn’t rape her after. “Must be alive and untainted,” he reminded himself aloud. “Alive and untainted.”
The brute smiled after she had been completely bound. “Must be alive and untainted,” he
“What have I told you?” said the prince, stepping back from the men with his sword still stretched out in front of him. “My father cares not if I’m hurt, so don’t hold back!”
“We don’t hold back, my prince,” Krin insisted. A bead of sweat trickled between his brows and rolled down the bridge of his nose.
Banas and Krin had always claimed that they never held back when dueling with the prince, and Tharid believed them. He had threatened to beat them, expel them from service, starve them, and in some cases kill them if he found they were taking it easy on him during practice. But he believed they fought their best, for in the past he had been injured more than a few times for failing to block one of their blades. Months ago, he had been completely stunned and had the wind knocked out of him when Banas’s dull blade had struck him hard in his stomach, and some years ago he was unable to use his right hand for a month when his wrist had been smashed by Krin the same way. He was grateful for every injury.
The men swung their weapons with enough force to break bone, but Tharid deflected their blows at the perfect angle, or shuffled his feet until he was just out of reach. He had become something of a master at measuring distance, knowing to not move too far out of the way when evading, but just out of reach, so that with barely a step in he was in perfect range for his counter. Everything was perfectly calculated—and quick. He was a master of the dance, outsmarting the men with his footwork, and luring them in to his perfectly placed and perfectly measured blows.
They dueled until he had tired both men out, and Tharid looked up to his mother’s chamber window to see the woman smiling. He had not been bested even one time today, and his mother had seen it all.
5
“They must be alive and untainted ,” the shadow’s words echoed, “And they must be beautiful. Are you able to discern this?”
What a foolish question from the Condor. Why wouldn’t he know the face of beauty? After all, he had lain with many beautiful women—albeit, not by their choice. He was a savage indeed, but still a man. It was true he didn’t live by the rules—rules of men nor rules of gods—only the rule of Ozgan that said he could do what he wanted and kill anyone who didn’t like it. Even so, he was no stranger to beauty. In fact, he admired it. As for wickedness he believed all men had the intent for it, though only some had the means to carry it out. He was just more honest than the rest of them—and a lot more capable. Nothing more.
The woman was terribly afraid, and he could feel it. How he enjoyed that feeling. Fear wafted from her body like a burning fire, crippling her every movement, causing her body to shake, her eyes to shoot wide and glaze over. She was consumed with it.
Her hand trembled as she clumsily pulled an arrow from her shoulder quiver and knocked it. She shot it as fast as she could, but he was more than ready for it. He turned his cleaver flat and blocked it with the broad blade. The woman drew again as he marched her down, and Ozgan blocked the shot just as easily as the first. Her time was up.
She turned to run. The side of the cleaver’s blade struck hard against her head, knocking her into the grass. For a moment he forgot exactly why he was trying to catch her, and raised his heavy weapon to strike her again. Just before he brought his weapon down he remembered his instructions for the job. He remembered why he couldn’t kill this woman, why he couldn’t rape her after. “Must be alive and untainted,” he reminded himself aloud. “Alive and untainted.”
The brute smiled after she had been completely bound. “Must be alive and untainted,” he