Chapter 1: The Second Prince of Katan-Bat

  What is the worst thing that could happen to you? Repeat it to yourself.

  Repeat it again. Never forget it.

  —The Slave Who Became King: The Biography of Bardom L’Ani. Original copy written by Adella L’Ani, published under the title “Na’Vanad: the Revenge of the L’Ani Blood Son”. This work was popularly referred to simply as “Blood Son”, which became a nickname for Bardom in his period of triumph over the Lekkians.

  On the eve of his death, Lord Wahda Ratzini asked the Knights of the Realm a question. Bardom stared at the older warrior. Lord Wahda was a giant among men, second only to Bardom’s father. Integrity, honor, bravery… what didn’t he have? For years Bardom tried to be just like him. Sometimes he succeeded, but he was prone to missing the mark. There was a reason Bardom’s father placed him under Lord Wahda’s mentorship. King Abban L’Ani’s Blood Son would be trained as a knight, thus he needed a teacher of the highest caliber. When Lord Wahda opened his lips, he puzzled Bardom with his words. He was usually so eloquent.

  “What is a L’Ani?” Wahda asked.

  Prince Bardom narrowed his eyebrows and looked to his brother Atzulah. He grinned, which Bardom felt was a misunderstanding of the subtly strange nature of the question. “There goes old Wahda again,” Atzulah snickered.

  Bardom glanced downward with a skeptical eye. “Yeah.”

  He turned back to the aging warrior, waiting for him to continue as the other conversations faded in the flame-lit hall. Servant girls handed the diners a fine cocktail made from anise liqueur. The drink was watered down and infused with blackberry syrup. As he drank the purple liquid, he smiled, its sweetness and licorice flavor dancing on his tongue. It took him briefly from his reservations over what Wahda was hiding beneath his words.

  The men customarily drained the cups, then placed an orange slice in their mouths. As Bardom chewed the fruit and set down the rind, he noticed Wahda smiling silently at the attendees.

  Is that pride on my old mentor’s lips? Bardom wondered. What’s gotten into him?

  “What makes us men of Katan-Bat so special?” Wahda held his hand to his side, referencing Bardom’s father. “Our king—whose wisdom is unending and resolve unbreakable—encourages us to find that old strength that brought us so many victories.”

  Some of the older knights nodded their agreement with mumbled reverence for those times. As they were recognized for their service, Bardom remembered his own victory, single though it was, as he inspected the empty cup in his hand. He was slightly jealous of those men and their greatness. Defeating Khev Vakin had meant everything to him. Those Lekkians were no match for him, then.

  “The word out there is that the Lekkians are comfortable in their conquests of nomads and farmers,” Wahda looked down, a slight look of trouble in his eyes. “What sort of cowards feed on the weakest, like this? They ought to come back here and see how they fare against real, prepared men!”

  This drew some jeers. “And a second time, at that,” Bardom grinned to Atzulah.

  The crown-prince grinned back, raising his glass to him. While Lord Wahda rose from his cheer to acknowledge the knights as he spoke. They found themselves laughing with the other knights, although a blanket of trepidation overlaid them. As they laughed, Bardom found his thoughts drifting from the hall.

  The Lekkian rumors were unsettling. Since their defeat against Bardom and his allies, their neighbors to the west had been posturing by becoming…profoundly evil. Two years of consolidating territory from island nations that had long been neutral between Stet-Lek and Bardom’s native Katan-Bat. Two years of stealing people from their homes to use as slaves for farming, labor, and, worst of all, their armies. Bardom found the Lekkians warlords vile, and their king even more so.

  The last 15 years were tumultuous in Stet-Lek, with a succession crisis, a civil war, and a warrior king taking power because of the mess. Jermaine Rontisil ruled Stet-Lek with an oppressive boot on its people, free and slave alike. To make his country rich, he traded in human beings and plundered his neighbors, then divided power amongst his warlords. It was a profitable business, making Stet-Lek the richest country on the continent.

  There was a time when this city-state was friendly, but that was many years ago when the old royals ruled before they were all killed. Now, the new Stet-Lek tested the borders of Katan-Bat, for a second time. It was a sign that their leader was unfinished with them. Their leader was a madman, who did not take defeat well.

  Rontisil fancied himself a god—all-powerful, demanding to be worshiped. Bardom thought about him often, since the stories about him were so unbelievable. Spies would report on him several times a week, while merchants would lament his tariffs. Katan-Bat ached for him to be cast aside, but Bardom’s father did not have that ability. It was unnerving how powerless they were over this rotten man and the system he created. Their best hope was a secure border.

  As the conversations around him resumed, Bardom sipped his ale, remembering the first time he defeated the Lekkians on the battlefield. General Vakin must have nightmares about me, he thought. Swords clashed in his mind as he relived it all. Despite that fear and excitement, he never once considered his defeat. He didn’t think it was possible, because it wasn’t how he was raised. L’Ani’s do not lose.

  “So then, Atzulah,” Lord Wahda clapped the crown prince’s shoulder. Prince Atzulah was happily married to Wahda’s daughter, so the two were particularly close. “What is a L’Ani?”

  The torches danced on the stone walls as the eldest prince let the room fall silent around him.

  Bardom noted their respect for his brother. He revered Atzulah, even if he did not earn his glory on the battlefield like Bardom had. Leadership is so much more than swords and shields, Atzulah once told him.

  Atzulah looked up from his contemplation. “It was not through years of comfort that the L’Ani’s made this land prosper, but with the strength in our bodies. This peace was hard-won, with many sacrifices. Yet, when peace is tested, it is not solely the strong, nor the wise, but the clever men that make the best leaders.” Atzulah locked eyes with every lord, knight, and officer in the flame-lit hall, grinning mischievously. “And we certainly are clever.”

  The men laughed at the comment.

  “It helps that our knights are the strongest!”

  “Oh-yay!”

  “The wisest!”

  “Oh-yay!”

  “And the cleverest!” Atzulah threw his cup above his head. “It’s because of you men that we have won this lofty position, the envy of men!”

  Bardom watched as Atzulah and his father-in-law drained their cups in an ale-chugging competition. The knights were raucous and Bardom joined them, pounding the table and cheering. They lounged in the Hall of Victory, King Abban’s newest completed building—the pleasant smell of fresh wood all around the,.

  Glancing toward his father, Bardom took a moment to admire him. He was a thick-bodied man, much different from Bardom’s lean, athletic build. The leader of Katan-Bat crushed his friends with his embraces, a lover and a fighter. Over the years, Abban L’Ani won pivotal wars and established crucial alliances, leading to a rule through a vastly peaceful period in Katanese history.

  But that didn’t mean he was afraid to fight again. Bardom revered his warlike instincts and the way he carried himself. When he spoke, everyone listened. It made Bardom jealous that Atzulah inherited that quality, but he apparently didn’t. It was not that Bardom couldn’t lead, it was that he was afraid to. It didn’t come naturally to him like Atzulah or his father. The inadequate feeling that came with that knowledge brought Bardom low. He’d never be quite like them. He’d always be the Blood Son.

  And is that so bad? Bardom could hear his mother’s religious undertones in his mind. They still need you. You were brought to this earth for a reason, Bardom.

  He heaved a sigh, and let the time pass. As the knights chattered, Bardom’s desire to drink faded. His thoughts turned to a woman instead, which made him smile, then rise to sneak out.

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  “Wahda is too fond of treats,” his father’s cool, elegant laugh washed over the noise of merrymaking. “Bardom, where are you going?”

  The young hero turned, caught trying to slip out of the magnificent hall. “Just, um—“

  “Seeking some warmth, I do think,” smirked his brother. Atzulah’s sleek black hair, strong muscular frame, and handsome tan face said everything about him. He was the heir that was desired. Bardom was meant to be… something else. The Blood Son.

  In a world-famous Katanese tradition, the second son was given the obligation of Blood Son—to preserve the honor of his house whenever it was challenged. Once, this meant standing in for duels, representing the family in legal proceedings, and training the children in the family for military service. Now, it meant that Bardom was to be a general in his father’s army, and serve his brother when Abban’s time ended.

  Lord Wahda was a blood son too, but he ascended highly in the world. That was why Bardom’s father had the wise lord train his second son, even before he had Atzulah marry Wahda’s daughter. The mentorship gave Bardom a purpose and direction, but it left him unsatisfied.

  As a young man, Bardom was still searching for more meaning in his life. He found glory on the battlefield, but ached for something more. In his quest to find out what that was, he found himself spending his nights with a lady named Lya. King Abban did not approve of her.

  “What warmth could be more hospitable than my hearth!'' His father’s voice could be so persuasive, his words drank up like water on dry soil.

  “I would not dream of insulting your hearth, father,” Bardom responded. “I’ve only eaten my fill, and drank enough to put a sailor out of work.”

  “Bah!” King Abban dismissed him. “And how many more of these nights do we all have together?”

  The room fell uncomfortably silent, smiles left hanging and drinks set down.

  “Indeed,” General Wahda said, only half-joking. “The boogeymen of the south are eagerly waiting for lordlings like yourself to wander away from drunken gatherings.”

  Wahda’s jokes earned some laughs. Bardom called him ‘Uncle’ oftentimes—the two shared a deep friendship after years of mentorship. No knight in Katan-Bat could claim to be as gallant as Lord Wahda, nor a general as wise. He was an excellent role model for the young blood son.

  Wahda Ratzini was supreme commander of Katanese forces, second only to Lord Abban and Lord Atzulah. He trained Bardom personally from squire to knight, but before that was a hero in many wars. Through the years, he won victory after victory alongside Lord Abban. Bardom held him in the highest regard, and treated him much as he did his own father.

  Lord Wahda’s daughter, Adella, was Atzulah’s wife, possessing her father’s wisdom. Bardom was grateful for Wahda’s contributions to Katan-Bat and L’Ani rule.

  Knowing Bardom so well, Lord Wahda shook his head at Bardom’s attempt to leave. “You ought to stay. Your fun is fleeting, but your family is forever.”

  “If true, uncle,” Bardom said, “then I will see you all again, and again. With love, I bid you all a good night.”

  His father and uncle shared a reserved look. The king cleared his throat for his son’s attention. “War Council tomorrow, lad.”

  The room fell grimly silent once again. War Councils always came from scout reports of Lekkian activity near the border. It had been six months since the last troop buildup, and then it was just a bluff. No clashes.

  Something in his father’s voice told him something was amiss. What has happened, father?

  Bardom stopped in the doorway, feeling his sword tugging at his side. The curved sheath was cold to the touch, making him want to shiver. “You jest.”

  “I prepare,” Lord Abban said, the joviality erased from his voice. “There will be guards with you tonight.”

  Feeling every eye upon him, Bardom said, “Good night, father,” hoping to appear the military leader he wished to be viewed as.

  “I love you, son,” he responded, seeing only his boy and not the knight.

  * * *

  Through the quiet gravel streets of Katan-Bat, Bardom walked with his old companions, Wally-ahu and Kent-ayu. He wasn’t too drunk, although the alcohol hit him harder as he walked. He laughed and joked, praising the great city his family ruled. His companions were accustomed to seeing him this way, unfortunately for his reputation.

  Lya waited for him by her door. “My lord!” Her beaming smile warmed his heart.

  “Lads,” he laughed as he insinuated that he’d be seeing them later.

  Bardom embraced her, the two kissing their hellos.

  A moment of clarity struck him, as his eyes fell on her bamboo wind chimes. The way they swayed made him remember his father’s parting words. Will there be war soon? he worried silently.

  “Hello, handsome,” she smiled

  “Hello Lya,” he replied, lazily kissing her cheek. “Shall we?”

  Lya glanced at the two guards remaining at the front of her darkly painted bungalow, wriggling free of his arms. She quickly gave them a couple of straw pillows to relax on. They’d take shifts through the night, without complaint. Wally and Kent were good men who fought alongside him against the Lekkians. Now they were bodyguards, which meant some late nights with Bardom.

  “You smell of wine,” Lya commented, returning to him.

  “And stronger things, too,” he answered with a grin.

  She took him into her bed-chamber, the scent of pine filling his lungs. The simplicity of her home was much of the allure. Grand things did not fit in Katan-Bat. The sturdy wooden houses his father built for the people were mocked as huts by their neighbors. Their people fished, farmed, and hunted game, laboring for their survival, not for luxury. Only the palace and Hall of Victory were anything close to grandeur.

  The L’Ani clan governed Katan-Bat, with the great Abban as its chief. Many outsiders said Abban was a poor leader now, or even weak since his last victory against the Lekkians. None of that was true. Bardom had seen him be harsh, had seen him be violent. Did any of that show him to be weak? It flew in the face of everything Bardom knew to be true. Weak men did not have such vast holds. The L’Ani clan held the greatest, most plentiful region on the continent. No seafarer came so far south without stopping by.

  Lord Abban was the king, selecting his vassals when he was appointed upon his father’s death. Katanese tradition had lords elect their kings, but only when a clear heir was not present. Abban was now the longest serving Lord of Katan-bat, serving for an unquestionably impressive 25 years this summer. How could such a man be weak? Bardom resented the thought. His father was the very image of a winner.

  As a prince, Bardom watched his father govern over his land while his vassals squabbled over fiefs and finances and knighthoods. Regretfully, it was dull, which perhaps made the warlike Abban’s reputation suffer in peace. Bardom ached for something to happen, but still peace endured. Meanwhile, Atzulah was being groomed for the royal title when their father became too old, becoming more popular as a prince than his royal father.

  Meanwhile, Bardom was an anointed Knight of the Realm. He was a war hero, with many soldiers under his command. However, since there was no war to fight, he ate, drank, and enjoyed the women of his father’s court. Peacetime was good for the land, and better for Bardom, even if the times were growing politically unstable for Abban.

  Could this instability truly be weakness? Should we have marched on Stet-Lek before they even thought of returning?

  As Bardom lay on Lya’s bed, his thoughts swam with thoughts of war, and what he should have done. He resolved to raise his father’s armies and march west the very next day. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands. It was time for him to make his mark on history, and liberate the slaves of Stet-Lek.

  And liberate Rontisil’s head from his neck, an eager part of his mind whispered.

  Everyone knew Bardom was an excellent swordsman and well-educated tactician. Bardom was named a knight seven years prior, at the young age of 16. He spent the time since the honor was bestowed trying to prove himself while others snickered about his seemingly symbolic knighthood. He felt nervous then, and that old feeling was returning now.

  The knighthood made his status as a second heir, and the family's Blood Son, more legitimate. It was an old tradition, from a time when war was more common, and dishonor of a family needed to be met with steel. Since he won his first victory against Vakin, he earned some respect, but it hadn’t been enough.

  He still carried himself with the countenance of a war leader, knowing himself to be serious and harsh like his father when the time called for it. But times just did not call for it. Without a war to fight, Bardom spent most of his time being fawned over by the maidens in the city. At 23, he was the most eligible bachelor in Katan-Bat with Atzulah married 10 years prior. It all felt like a distraction to him. Now that his father sensed a threat, it all seemed like such a shameful waste of his time.

  Curse myself for my complacency, he chided himself in his thoughts.

  “What’s wrong?” Lya asked him

  Despite his popularity among the ladies, Lya always ended up warming his bed, or he hers. “Nothing,” he replied.

  That night, the words he feared fell from her lips as the two cuddled in her bed, breathing against each other. “Would you wed me?

  He looked into her eyes, hiding how agitated he was by his father’s words of war. “You would ask me this tonight, of all nights?”

  “It tears me up, finding the courage to ask you,” she said, eyes drooping, “because I know you will reject it.”

  “That’s not it,” he sighed, sitting up. “Something really is distracting me tonight, sweet Lya.”

  “Let me ease it,” she wrapped her arm around his taut stomach, his chest soaking with the coldness of fright. His father’s War Council haunted him. Why? It’s just Lekkians!

  “You cannot,” he said, sitting up. “My father summons a war council in the morning.”

  Her hand retreated slowly as she sat up too. “We would not attack our neighbors.”

  “It is defense my father concerns himself with. He has no ambitions for conquest.”

  “And you?”

  “If I must fight, then I am prepared to,” he said. “Few men on this continent can beat me in honest combat. I am a knight with a feared name across the world.”

  “War is not honest combat,” she said, her voice dropping low. “It’s the most unkind thing men do.”

  He took her hand, the simple act a small comfort to his anxieties. “I will ask my father if I may wed you,” he said, “after the council has finished its meeting.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You will?”

  Bardom smiled at her and the two embraced. He did not know if he truly loved her, but he enjoyed her company enough to be content. His mother, as kind as she was, urged him to marry for status, so that one day he may be a high vassal to his brother. His father, on the other hand, told him to be free. He did not need to be second to anyone, least of all his own brother. Bardom already struggled with finding any purpose in his life. What meaning was there except that which was assigned to him at birth? Being Blood Son in peace was ceremonial and boring. Perhaps Lya would help him find what he was looking for.

  He knew enough about her to believe Lya’s presence in his life could only make him happier. So why not marry her?