Exile

         Before you begin this, let me say that this is a very early draft of this particular moment. I need all the help I can get. Make the story bleed, just don't be rude or inconsiderate in your reviews.

D.E. Alexander

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         Davrin held the sword tightly, studying each aspect of the blade with a master’s eye. It was perfectly proportioned, well-balanced, and exceptionally crafted.
         This is the culmination if the blacksmith’s work, a masterpiece of art, Davrin thought as sunlight was captured by the steel of the weapon.
         His art would reveal the weapon’s fullest potential and greatest beauty in the midst of battle. Years of strenuous training would now be put to the ultimate test. As Davrin thought of one of the many spells he knew, the edges of the blade began to glow with a blue hue.
         Davrin felt the power of the witchcraft coursing through his veins. A combination of focus and heat caused sweat to form on his brow. His senses and perceptions were enhanced by the surge of adrenaline and excitement of the action. What a feeling!
         “Easy, boy,” Davrin’s father, Lord Godia, growled from beside him. The man gripped Davrin’s shoulder with a large, firm hand. Reluctantly, and with great disappointment, Davrin dissipated the half-formed lightning spell.
         “Your eagerness is understandable, boy, but save it for the battle. Do not waste your energy on showing-off; keep it for when you swing your sword toward your enemy. Let them feel your want for them to die.”
         Davrin nodded as he studied the enemy army amassed across the green meadow. They numbered perhaps fifteen thousand, a large army meant for a rout of the eighteen hundred Gadonians. Something so spectacular would not occur. Three dala of archers and fifteen of swordmages would be more than enough to annihilate the cocksure enemy.
         Some wondered how Gadon was able to achieve such dominance. Davrin knew they questioned the superiority of the Gadonian warriors. If they were ignorant of Gadon’s ways, then they could live in that ignorance.
         Gadon, Davrin had been told since infancy, was not some ninny who trained when attack was imminent. Gadon bred their men and horses for battle and crafted only the best weapons and armor. Any shoddy piece of work, be it man, beast, or sword, was disposed of quickly.
         Davrin had once helped to rid the world of one such person. His name was Azander, and he had been Davrin’s brother. When the younger boy had been deemed deaf and mute, Davrin had been more than happy to do the honorable thing: he’d sent Azander’s soul back to Hudshan to be reborn in a better, more perfect body.
         Davrin smiled inwardly. How he longed to deliver such mercy to many others!
         Kill the fools who oppose us, he thought, and when they return to this world, they are Gadonian. Such a thought was savored for but a moment and then pushed aside. He had better things to concentrate on.
         All of a sudden, Davrin felt chill. It was odd, to be sure, for the sun shone brightly overhead. He looked at the soldiers nearest him. Each one looked grim.
         Stillness and an eerie silence had fallen over the two armies as if death had washed over them. Not a pony stirred, not a man took a breath. How frightening could waiting be!
         Across the field, the enemy ranks began their charge. Lord Godia raised his hand, saying, “Archers: ready!”
         As one, three hundred bowmen lifted their longbows and nocked arrows, awaiting the next command. For a few moments, all was tense and deadly silent but for thundering hooves as the enemy closed distance.
         “Are you ready, boy?” Lord Godia inquired.
         Davrin found himself unable to speak so merely nodded in answer to his father.
         “You’ve had the best training in Gadon. Make me proud.” Davrin nodded again, swallowing. He would try to – no, he would live up to his father’s expectations.
         Davrin watched eagerly as the enemy horses came within range of the longbows. Lord Godia’s hand came down with a loud, “Loose!”
         The twang of bows and the whoosh of three hundred arrows filled Davrin’s ears. He turned his eyes skyward and felt awe at the numerous shafts flying overhead. They reminded him of a horde of hungry locusts blocking out the sun. Following their trajectory, Davrin watched as the missiles fell into the enemy ranks.
         Man and horse alike screamed as iron bit into flesh. A thrill of excitement ran up the length of Davrin’s spine as he witnessed the carnage before him. This was honor and glory to a warrior: death in the name of your country and death to protect those you loved.
         The enemy army was still not close enough to engage hand to hand. Seeing this, Lord Godia yelled, “Archers: at your will!” Round after round of arrows fell into the men across the meadow. The ground was dyed crimson red as the stench of death rose into the air.
         One horseman made it through the slaughter and charged for Lord Godia. The king of Gadon made to kill the man but Davrin stopped him.
         “Allow me, Father!” he pleaded. Lord Godia nodded in acquiescence.
         David quickly fell into form, his sword held vertically with one hand while the other hand was curled into a fist but for two fingers held erect. He said a spell under his breath, the words mumbled so softly even he could hardly hear them. A yellow tint appeared at the edge of the blade.
         The incantation complete and the spell ready, Davrin raced toward his intended victim. “Slicing winds!” he screamed, swinging his sword. A minute cyclone appeared around the horseman. When the storm dispersed, man and horse fell in gore-covered, lifeless bits to the ground.
         “Good, boy!” Lord Godia yelled from somewhere behind him. Davrin had barely registered the praise when a group of horsemen surrounded him.
         “The little swordsboy kilt one o’ us, did he?” one of the men said, laughing. “How ‘bout twelve?”
         Fools! Davrin chuckled to himself. How deliciously arrogant! As they charged him, he thrust the sword into the ground, muttering another spell. Great chunks of earth ripped themselves from the ground and soared above the twelve foes. “Earthen strike!” The pieces of earth dropped from the sky, crushing the imbeciles.
         Fools! Davrin thought again, a savage smile on his face. He turned and rushed towards another group of enemy soldiers and quickly dispatched them with only his sword.
         Davrin ran through the field hacking and slashing at every enemy. Each man he came to fell under his blade. Adrenaline had taken over his body. He ran faster and swung harder, delighting in the savagery he took part in.
         “Enemy archers!” someone yelled. Davrin thought he knew the voice and heeded the call. He scanned the battlefield and quickly spotted. On a hill overlooking the battle stood half a dala of men. He was positive they were the enemy.
         Davrin charged towards them, trying to think of an appropriate spell to use against them. When he stood three dala-lengths from them, he dropped to his knees and once again plunged his blade straight into the ground.
         “Unleash the pit!” he screamed with all the fury he could muster. A small crack formed in the earth in front of him. It snaked its way toward the archers, growing larger and larger all the while.
         The enemy soldiers fired a few arrows at Davrin then abandoned their weapons. They could run but they would not escape. Very suddenly, each archer was swallowed by the earth.
         Davrin stood and swung his sword at the arrows racing towards him. One made it through his defense and struck his eye. Davrin fell to the ground.

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         Cold water hit Davrin’s face, forcing him awake. Groaning, he felt as though his head might split in two. He tried to look around but darkness permeated all. David strained his ears but could hear no sounds of battle.
         “Light the candle,” a voice, hard to recognize, whispered gruffly. A small light flared to reveal Lord Godia’s face, as grim as Davrin had ever seen it.
         Davrin turned away from the light, his head pounding.
         “Do you know what has been done?” Lord Godia asked gravely.
         “No, Father,” Davrin answered weakly.
         “You… You have… been maimed.” The words were hesitant and quavering. Something was very wrong. “Look at me, Davrin.”
         Lord Godia had never called his son “Davrin”. The young man turned towards his father, such was the effect of the simple phrase. Davrin’s vision was a little… odd.
         “What’s happened, Father?” he asked, his voice cracking.
         “You have lost an eye, Davrin. You will no longer be of Gadon.”
         “What?!”
         “I cannot lose a second son, Davrin. I banish you from Gadon. Even if you are not here, at least I may know you are alive.”
         “But Father!”
         “No!”
         “Father! Please reconsider!”
         “DO! NOT! BEG!” Lord Godia yelled in rage. “Begging is for the weak!”
         “Yes, Father,” Davrin said meekly.
         “Leave Gadon and never return.” Lord Godia snuffed the candle and disappeared into the darkness.
         Davrin could only whimper as his new life, his exile, began.