Shorn: Chapter 1
Shorn’s emotions were in a whirl after seeing Shakre. Speaking of his son had brought back old memories, memories he’d kept tightly locked away. There was a tightness in his chest caused by old grief. A great sadness washed over him, strong enough that tears would have come to his eyes, had he still had the ability to cry.
That was lost long ago. Military school at the place known as the Khivoz took care of that when he was five.
Shorn gritted his teeth and pushed on, walking faster, as if he could outpace the past and keep it from touching him.
It was no use. The memory of that terrible day would not be denied…
Shorn stood before the Glave. There were nine of them, seated on a raised dais in a semi-circle, looking down on him. Nine revered Themorian warriors who’d earned the right to sit in judgment.
The room’s sole light shone directly on Shorn, making it difficult to see. The judges were silhouettes. They wore long, unadorned black cloaks over their ceremonial lacquer armor and helms shaped like various beast heads.
There was no question of the verdict. What else could it be but guilty? His crime was clear. He’d made no attempt to deny it or minimize it.
Yet still it shook him when it came, a burning spear thrust into his chest.
“Prisoner is to be exiled to a primitive world, never to return.” The voice was heavy, ponderous, solemn, though there was a note of triumph in it. It came from the figure in the center, Mag Dogacz. The older man had always hated Shorn, ever since Shorn bested his son in the Trials—tests administered to young warriors in order to graduate from the Khivoz. Shorn hadn’t just bested him, he’d nearly killed him. Mag’s son had never walked right since.
“Prisoner’s name is to be stricken from every record. Prisoner is to be stripped of all wealth, lands and titles.”
There would be a hole where once there had been a man.
But there was more.
“Prisoner’s family name is hereby forfeit, removed from the past and the future.” Now the triumph in Mag’s voice was obvious.
That one hit hard. Shorn hadn’t expected his punishment to extend to his family. All the deeds and accomplishments of his ancestors were gone, just like that. But the worst was what it meant for his wife and son. Without family names, they were ruined. No honorable woman would marry his son. No warrior would marry his wife. They’d lost their home, everything they worked for. His son would never be a warrior, instead consigned to a life of menial labor. No person of standing would have them in their homes or do anything to help them. The same fate applied to any and all extended family who shared the name.
They would be little more than ghosts, dead to all who had known them.
Despite the shock, Shorn stood stoically, nothing he felt showing on his face or posture. He’d learned that at the Khivoz as well.
“Would you speak before your sentence is carried out?” the warrior at the right end of the table said.
Shorn remained impassive. What was there to say? He’d been branded a traitor and a coward. His words meant nothing now.
The warrior spoke again. “Are you sure? This is your last chance. Once sentence is passed, none will hear you ever again.”
There was no triumph in this warrior’s voice, only pain. His name was Aldu. He had been one of Shorn’s instructors at the Khivoz, and he had mentored Shorn in the years after his graduation. He’d been more of a father to him than Shorn’s blood father.
Still Shorn did not answer, was not even sure he could. The enormity of his loss precluded words.
The silence stretched on. Finally, Aldu sighed. “So be it.”
Mag Dogacz spoke again, leaning forward in his seat in his eagerness. “The Glave pronounces its verdict. The prisoner is to be taken to the ship at once and depart immediately.”
Two warriors in ceremonial lacquer armor, curved swords hanging at their hips, converged on Shorn, but they did not lay hands on him. Though he had been condemned, he was still Thunka’ Drozh, He Who Rode the Beast, the only one to do so in five hundred years. They had not forgotten that, nor his legendary rage and the killing that accompanied it. But Shorn offered no resistance.
They followed him outside the blocky granite and steel building housing the Glave. Snow was falling, swirling in the gusts of wind. Around them loomed the city of Kaldok, capital of Themor.
There was a line leading to the launch pad where waited the ship to carry him to exile. First in the line was his wife, Badmalu. She glared at him for a moment, then turned her back, her posture rigid, disgust radiating from her.
Next was his son, Aran, recently graduated from the Khivoz. Aran spat on the ground, his hands balled into fists. Shorn knew the boy would kill him if he could. Shorn had destroyed his life. Aran bared his teeth before turning his back.
Shorn’s mother, Tabin, shook her head slowly, the same disbelief in her eyes she’d had when she first heard what he did. First her husband, and now her son. Where had she gone wrong?
After that were the extended family members, aunts, uncles, cousins. Many of them would wish to kill him as well. If they rushed him, he would not have raised a hand in his own defense. He would have welcomed the quick death.
Last in the line were a score of his old comrades in arms. Some hated him and were there to witness his fall. Mixed in with them were a few he would have called friend once. All turned their backs as he approached.
He saw it all, and he saw none of it. He was already dead, only his body didn’t know it yet.
The last person in line was Grol. Grol was his only friend in the Khivoz, the only person he could have said he completely trusted. Before Grol turned away, he mouthed one word:
“Why?”
It was something Shorn had asked himself many times already, ever since the moment of that fateful decision. And still he had no answer.
The ship was small, only big enough for one passenger. It was designed to crash when it got to its destination, thus making escape impossible. If he died in the crash—well, no one worried much about that.
Shorn entered the craft. The door irised shut behind him, obscuring the last glimpse of home he would ever have.