The Forsaken

STORIES OF PAST - TYR’S TALE

On an open road, a caravan travels transporting merchandise. Merchandise of children. Young boys and girls wearing tattered rags sit in silence with hands bound by visible ropes and invisible fear. Too scared to cry and too scared not to. In the darkness, a boy extends his hand trying to grasp a beam of light shining through the cracks. The caravan stops.

“Out!” a loud voice commands.

The children obey as they exit one by one. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the light.

In front of them lies a castle surrounded by high stone walls. The entrance of the castle opens. A man clad in black armor approaches with two older boys in black clothes by his side. The armored man raises his finger at the fresh recruits as the two older boys run to the newcomers.

“Form a line you maggots!” one of the boys yells. Those who don’t listen to words listen to their fists. There is no mercy even to the youngest.

They round them up in a well-organized line as shepherd dogs to sheep.

“All of you are unwanted. Sold and abandoned by your family you have no value,” the man in black armor says. The harsh words draw tears here and there.

“Rejoice! You are given a grand opportunity. An opportunity to train in the glorious black knights. Those who succeed will attain the right to join. Those who fail will die Your training starts tomorrow. Fight for yourselves and your right to live,” the man in black armor says as he nods to the older boys.

“Follow us, worms, to your new quarters,” one of the older boys says as they hurry the children.

The quarter’s compromise of a large room filled with beds. There is no privacy. Simple and disciplined. This is their new home.

“Take one bed and remember it. It will be your home,” one of the older boys yells.

“In the chest beside each bed, there is a set of trainee clothes. Change now and throw your old ones in here,” the other boy commands as four other apprentices rush in with empty baskets in their hands.

The children look at each other with hesitation and shame.

“Hurry!” the older boy yells as a young girl approaches him.

“Excuse me, but how are we to change if...” she gets cut off with a swift slap on the face as it knocks her to the ground.

“I will not repeat myself,” the older boy commands.

Discipline! There must be discipline. Shame, individuality, uniqueness have no place amongst the black knights.

Tomorrow dawns as their training begins. On a training course filled with obstacles the children run.

“A black knight is strong,” an instructor yells at the struggling children.

They drill this into their bones as sweat and blood are payments for an ever-increasing physical regiment. Running. Running with weights. Running further with more weights. Body exercise. More and more until the body breaks; until the mind breaks. So much more until they begin to hate it; until the point, they cannot live without it. Repetition to develop the habit.

“A black knight is disciplined,” another instructor yells.

They follow commands. Sleeping and eating as they are told. There is no free will, only the chain of command. Those who do not adhere to the rules are punished with whips and chains. It is hard to endure the whip even for an adult. A young boy closes his teary eyes as an instructor whips his back.

“A black knight is one part of the machine,” a different instructor yells.

Their names are taken away. Individuality is a weakness. Working as one, eating, and fighting as one. A black knight must work as a unit.

“When your training is complete, you will always seek companionship for a black knight must work in a team. If the bond is strong, the unit is stronger,” the instructor adds.

They are taught to bond to form a more powerful unit; if they depend on companionship, they will remain where it lies. Most importantly, they will not desert.

“A black knight must be skilled in the martial arts,” an instructor yells.

They train with weapons and fists as sparing with instructors and older trainees. Their bodies are broken but they show no pain. Special conditioning gives them control over it; whips and beatings.

Pain is weakness. A black knight must have no weakness.

“Black knights crave battle. The greater the fight, the greater the honor and joy. You will hate it, you will love it, but most importantly you shall covet it,” the instructor yells.

They are forced to drink mysterious liquids and attend sessions by cloaked men who use unholy means to change their very nature; there is no choice apart from enduring it. The eyes of innocence turn to those of a beast the longer they live. Becoming stronger and... less human.

Those who fail are discarded in their deaths. Carts take them away with the other trash. They watch as their friends die; they watch as the last of their humanity fades away. There is no display of emotion at the deceased.

Only the strong remain for a black knight must be strong.

Hardship separates the able from the unable.

“A black knight must know death,” an instructor yells.

Bounded prisoners are brought to their feet as the young ones stand, weapon in hand, near them.

“This is also a part of your training. These people are traitors. Kill them,” the instructor commands as he passes over the fear-stricken men and women.

One prisoner per recruit, one sword on the recruit, and one life for a life. Fear glows in those awaiting execution; they would run, but their legs are broken. Beaten and bruised, they silently wait for the finishing blow.

“Don’t do it!” a bound woman beckons.

“I have a family!” a bound man beckons.

They plead for their lives. They die as swords pierce them.

There is no mercy. Kill to live! Kill to save yourself! Reborn in blood, their innocence dies. Rinse and repeat for years.

***

Night falls as the trainees return to their quarters. Stronger, older, and broken. A young boy looks around as he remembers the day he arrived here four years ago. The quarters were filled with children, but now there are barely a dozen left. He closes his eyes as he sleeps until a new day.

Elsewhere in the camp.

“How are the recruits looking this year,” a black-armored man asks.

“Twelve of them survived the beginner course. Half of them should survive the advanced course,” another black-armored man says.

“Send them in tomorrow. This project better succeed. There is a lot of resources pulled into it,” the black-armored man says.

“Yes. Amassing the children is becoming a problem,” the other black-armored man says.

“Who was talking about the children?” the black-armored man adds.

The next day comes as the graduates of the training enter a caravan to begin their journey. An all too familiar experience. The boy looks at the light passing through the cracks as he extends his hand to grasp it like before. They travel and travel until, finally, they reach their destination.

“Out!” a voice yells as it yelled all those years ago. Nostalgic.

The recruits obey as they exit one by one in a well-organized line.

In front of them lies a grand black castle. The atmosphere differs vastly from their first destination. It feels thick. Smoke rises from the black castle as squads of armed men pass by. It feels as the ground is quaking from heavy footsteps. A black-armored man with a helmet bearing the number 9 approaches them.

“Welcome to your real training,” the black-armored man says.

Born with hope to live;

as we take and give;

slowly our innocence kills;

as the darkness it fills;

we wither in amazing speed;

while our souls slowly bleed;

never to catch the glimpse of light;

for we lie in blight.