Eurog gazed wide eyed at Almark. “Well, now… Color me surprised.” Rubbing his hand, Eurog informed Reiz that his son had astounding magical potential. “I have seen many a talented child in my years…but one with this much potential is a first.”
“Really?” Reiz asked, sincerely pleased.
He had no idea what magic talent entailed, but it was clear the old man acknowledged his son.
“I’m sure his gift for the sword will bloom before long. He would make a fine mercenary as well,” said Eurog.
“A gift for the sword doesn’t mean much,” Reiz replied instantly. “What a mercenary needs is a heart that’s tough enough to keep ’em going on their own. Strong or weak, that’s all secondary.” He mussed Almark’s hair. “And I don’t think my boy has a heart like that in him.”
“…Well, in that case.” Eurog nodded and gave Reiz a detailed explanation of how to get to the institute.
It was located on Norkh Island, in the seas south of the Garai Kingdom. For those living in the North, this was a terribly remote land, practically on the other side of the world.
Reiz flashed a dauntless smile, however. “He just needs to go there, aye? And that’s how he’ll become a mage.”
“Yes.” Eurog looked down at Almark, who was still clinging to his father’s leg. “Bring him to the institute when he turns nine years old. I promise I’ll make a fine mage out of your boy.”
“All right. I’ll make sure to take him there. Lucky you, Almark.”
Reiz hugged his son, who understood none of what was going on except for his sweat-drenched father’s embrace.
After that, Eurog traveled with them to the border and parted ways upon thanking Reiz multiple times.
True to Eurog’s prediction, Almark grew into a wise boy. Reiz never tried teaching him how to wield a sword, but Almark picked up one of his father’s spare adult-size blades and started training on his own. He was still taciturn and shy, but as he matured, his eyes shone with a hardened, insightful light.
Almark’s talent with the sword matured quickly, as if he were in a race against something. With each swing, his sword cut noisily through the wind, and Reiz gave him bits and pieces of advice.
One day, when Almark was eight, something astonishing happened. Most of the Black Wolves’ fighters left the main unit and headed to battle. They were up against a mercenary group called the Morris Knights, powerful opponents even the mighty Black Wolves couldn’t make light of. As such, the group’s women, children, and elderly were left behind in the main unit.
But then, two people broke into the main unit—vagrant mercenaries, and both strong warriors. They soon slayed five people in cold blood. As the women fled in a panic, Almark suddenly stepped up to oppose the intruders. He skillfully wielded one of his father’s longswords, a weapon too big for a child, and swiftly cut the two mercenaries down.
Reiz returned to the main unit wounded after battling the Morris Knights’ top fighter, Galkash the White Gale, to a draw. When the women told him what had happened, he frowned and grumbled under his breath. Jerus, the Black Wolves’ captain, slapped Reiz on the shoulder and suggested sending Almark to the front lines. If the boy could cut down two mercenaries, Jerus said, he was good enough for the battlefield.
Even in this land, where twelve was considered of age and therefore capable of fighting, Almark was extremely young at eight years old. But Reiz called Almark over, telling him he should try to go out on the battlefield come springtime. Almark agreed.
Winter passed, and Almark’s ninth spring came. This was the year Reiz had promised Eurog he’d send Almark to Norkh—however, political tensions in the North grew rapidly worse, and circumstances didn’t allow Reiz to leave the Black Wolf Riders for long. Instead of going to the Institute for Magic, Almark was sent out on his first real battle. He fought among the adults and killed four enemies. His father told him to join the next fight, too.
Almark’s second battle ended in defeat for the Black Wolves. Instead of studying in a classroom, he shed his own blood in the frigid northern lands.
Every day, small skirmishes broke out. Five major battles later, the season turned to summer. By then, Almark was a seasoned warrior. Rumors of the peculiarly strong kid in the Black Wolf Riders began spreading among the mercenaries of the North.
Nonetheless, Reiz had far from given up on sending his boy to the institute. On days with no fighting, he called Almark over and taught him as much as he could about scholarly pursuits: reading and writing, basic arithmetic, proper diction, survival skills, and even Reiz’s own personal philosophy. And Almark took it all in like a sponge, just as quickly as he had learned to wield a sword.
It was clear to everyone that he was an intelligent boy, but Almark still devoted the rest of his free time to practicing the sword. Reiz wasn’t happy with this, in truth, but he didn’t try to stop him, either. And so, Almark spent his ninth summer in a way Reiz found to be terribly wasteful.
One day, Almark nearly died in battle against Angol the Land Shark, the top fighter of the Garrett Heavy Infantry mercenary group. Angol had run his spear through Almark’s chest. By some miracle, Almark survived, but he remained bedridden for a month. This forced Reiz to make up his mind and accept that he needed to part ways with his son.
When Almark finally recovered, Reiz called him over and told him to pack his things and prepare for the journey south. Almark resisted at first, insisting he wanted to fight at his father’s side, but Reiz shouted at him.
“You fool! You’re just holding us back!”
Indeed, the Black Wolves were about to head into the Bastia Kingdom, one of the most violently contested areas in the North. And the fighting there wouldn’t be the only danger.
“I’ll get stronger,” Almark said.
Reiz scoffed at him. “Not fast enough, you won’t,” Reiz spat.
Almark went quiet, and Reiz carried on, his tone softening.
“Almark,” he began. “Go out there and become someone who truly matters.”
Almark looked up at his father, taken aback.
“Listen to me,” Reiz said. “No job pays off less than being a mercenary. There’s plenty of stories about guys who made a name for themselves and went on to become knights, but the truth is, they’re few and far between. Most just get taken advantage of and thrown to the wolves when their employers have no use for them anymore. You’ve seen it yourself—all those corpses of mercenaries littering the battlefield. That’s where we end up. And being good with a sword won’t be enough to save you from that fate. Use your head, Almark. Go find your path. One that’s right for you. Learn to think for yourself without relying on me. Study hard, be wise, and become someone who matters. Someone who can spur others to action.”
Almark remained silent for a moment before quietly replying, “Yes, Father.”
“Atta boy.” Reiz smiled. “Now, go say goodbye to everyone.”
Almark nodded and left the tent.
There were two other children around Almark’s age. One was Mary, a clever girl a year his junior who admired Almark like he was her real brother. She worked with the women, handling everything from cooking to cleaning. With a teary smile, Mary hugged Almark and asked him never to forget her.
Galba was the same age as Almark and the son of the master axe fighter Geizak the Black War Axe. He had yet to take part in his first battle, of course, but was a highly competitive boy who challenged Almark at every turn. Galba wished him well and swore to become a true warrior by the next time they met.
Almark then went around to the Black Wolf Riders who had helped him out in combat, starting with Captain Jerus. Then there was Molgard, as cool-headed as ever, followed by Gador, who had a foul mouth but was as skilled as they came, and Galba’s father, Geizak. They all patted Almark on the shoulder and bid him a safe journey.
He then went to see Derak, the veteran commander of a ten-man squad who had taken a liking to Almark in battle and treated him well. A forlorn smile made its way to the man’s tanned face.
“Don’t worry, boy. You’re your father’s son.” Derak’s low growl of a voice filled Almark’s heart. “Never forget that. Wherever you go, you’re bound to be successful,” Derak said with a grin.
The next morning, Almark departed. Reiz came to see him off.
“You’re already a fine warrior. I know I have nothing to worry about,” Reiz said, smiling. “But the world we live in, nothing is for sure.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a small, red pendant.
“This belonged to Shetina.” His deceased wife’s name. “It should keep you safe from whatever may come.”
“Thank you.” Almark put down his luggage and accepted the pendant with both hands. “I’ll be off, then… Take care, Father.”
“Aye.”
And so, father and son parted ways.
After a minute or two of walking, Almark turned around and saw Reiz was still watching him. Almark waved heartily, which Reiz met with a raised hand before returning to camp.
Farewell, Father.
Reiz was soon out of sight, and that was their final farewell. Almark never saw his father again.
To reach the Norkh Institute for Magic, Almark had to cross the dangerous northern lands, traverse the central plains at the heart of the continent, and finally trek through the southern regions. Even with his experience as a mercenary, Almark was still only a nine-year-old boy. Journeying through the North was far more grueling than he had ever imagined. And to make things worse, the season changed from autumn to winter.