Prologue: A Childhood Lost

Wide eyes scanned the horizon, searching the rumbling sea for a movement beyond the rhythmic waves. Little feet poked at stray seashells washed upon the beach. A curious hand grasped the sun baked sand, stealing its warmth. An innocent smile curled, followed by a soft giggle as the cold water scurried up, tugging at the small body. The child began to jump back and forth, splashing water in all directions; a game she had enjoyed for years.

Then suddenly the gong sounded in the village bordering the sea. The on the child's face faded instantly into uncertainty then terror. Her legs seemed rooted in the sand, as the cries of the townspeople echoed towards her across the wind.

"Alemene!"

She heard the anguished call and began to run towards the voice of her mother. Her narrow body squeezed through the scattering people. The smell of death and fear crept into her nostrils, and panicked tears blurred eyes searching for her mother.

"Alemene!"

It came again, and the young girl rushed into the open arms of a bedraggled woman.

"Mother, why are all the sea birds leaving? Why are all the people crying, why-?"

"Hush." The mother found the child's hand and melded into the chaos of the streets. Alemene could see them now, the soldiers. In dark armor, the mercilessly swung their swords, cutting down any who found themselves too close. Screams of pain and cries of terror pursed the air, damp with fresh blood.

A gruff voice sounded above the chaos, "Keep the women! The King will want tokens of our conquest."

The girl grasped her mothers hand until both were white, as their path was blocked by several burly soldiers. The largest one brandished his sword menacingly, laughing wickedly as he seized the mothers arm and neck, pulling her toward him. The child cried out, only to be tossed aside onto the dry earth. She lay helplessly, hot tears streaming down her cheeks, trying to block out her mother's anguished cries. She whimpered loudly, cupping her ears with her small hands, until a heavy fist across her face filled her head with darkness. All of the sounds faded, her mind clouded, and her small frail body crumpled effortlessly to the ground…

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"You must always be vigilant, aware of your surroundings, aware of your opponent's feelings, movements. Move your feet! You must always remain on your toes; never let your guard down." He took a step forward extending his sword.

"Father, I'm tired. I want to get off my toes," pleaded the boy, as he lifted his sword to block his father's. He took a step back and dropped his weapon, which he could now just barely lift.

"Luk, pick it up."

"Father please, we've been at this for over an hour."

"Pick it up." The man hit the boy on the shoulder with his sword hard enough to bruise, but the boy stood steadfastly with pleading eyes. "Pick it up," repeated the man as he hit the boy again, "and defend yourself."

"Father, I-"

"Pick it up."

The boy just stood there, weary but stubborn, taking blow after blow. His shoulders and sides protested the growing pain, but he only swallowed and gritted his teeth, determined not to show any emotion. The beating continued for nearly ten minutes, until a blow to the legs caused the boy to fall to the grass. He could not meet his father's eyes, as the man look down at him reproachfully. Only when the man had reached the rocks that bordered the far side of the hill, did the boy let himself collapse entirely. Gritting back angry tears, his clenched his stomach and steadied his breath. He would not return to the palace until he was able to stand, so that he could face his father with a clear head.

Hours must have passed, for when the boy awoke the sun was nearly setting. He scrambled to his feet, lifting a hand to block the radiating light of the setting sun that danced over the hills in narrow streams. His body still ached, but he was used to such pain. Picking up his sword and brushing the dirt off of his tunic, he headed for the stone walls in the distance.

He stopped short, noticing that there were no guards at the front gate. His breath quickened as his hand gripped the sword tightly. He took the steps two at a time, into the main chamber of his father's home. He paused only momentarily when the stench of blood and fear hit him as forcefully as a slap to the face. He saw several guards lying on the floor in pools of blood. The ones from the gate, he thought. But where is everyone else. He darted down the corridor, listening intently for any sound. He heard a cry from the west end of the palace, and crept toward the noise, having to step over more dead bodies as he went. They were not all guards. The garments of several slaves were soaked through, the white now crimson, and there were many soldiers, some not his father's. The boy swallowed hard to keep his head from spinning, taking deep breaths through his mouth to try to block out the nauseating stench.

Hearing voices at the end of the hall, he stopped and peered around the corner. He nearly cried out as he saw his mother and two sisters, huddled against the wall with several other women. Regaining his composure he peered around the corner again. This time his attention game focused on his father. The man who he had feared, even hated sometimes, but always loved and revered, was on his knees in the middle of the room, head held up by the sword placed against his throat.

"When you took our land, I swore to you that I would make you suffer as much as I did," growled the man holding the sword. "And not even the Gods could stop me from keeping that promise now," he said. He glared at the king with hatred more intense than the boy had ever seen. He motioned to one of his men, who pushed several women aside and wrenched the younger of the boy's sisters from her mother's arms and threw her on the floor. The boy was shaking with fear and anger as he watched the soldier tear off the girl's clothes and force himself upon her. He knew there was nothing he could do, that he would be helpless against so many men, and that rushing into the room to defend his sister's virtue would only result in his death as well.

It took nearly all of the soldiers to hold back the boy's father, as he fought to rescue his daughter. The king's vehement curses faded into pleas for mercy. The thought that he had never seen his father display such submission and weakness weighed heavily upon the boy.

"That's enough," the commander said, and his soldier reluctantly obeyed, leaving the girl lying on the floor in crumpled heap.

Out of breath from struggling, the king gasped, "It was I who killed your people, not my family. By the gods, you have murdered my men and my slaves, and now you have taken my daughter. Have you not yet had your revenge?"

The commander lifted his sword, again placing it against the king's throat. "Not yet." He hissed, raising his sword. The boy's stomach tightened as he watched the blade take his father from him. The man wiped his sword against the king's tunic, cleaning the bloods from its blade, then turned on his heel.

"What should we do with the women," one of the soldiers asked.

The man paused. "Kill them all."

As the man came toward him, the boy forced himself to stand and ran as fast as he could down the hallway. Pushing through the front gates he took off up into the hills until he could run no further. Why didn't I fight? Why didn't I fight! He kept asking himself, as he thrust his head between his knees. If only I had not been so stubborn with father, I would have-. He gripped the ground until all the blood left his hands. I would have been killed before I could even lift my sword. This time he didn't even try to hold back the tears, as the echoes of his sister's cries, and his father's pleas resounded over and over in his head…