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  The Bond of Blood

  The Banished Legend - Book 1

  Kody Boye

  The Bond of Blood

  Book 1 in The Banished Legend

  By Kody Boye

  Copyright 2012 - 2019. All Rights Reserved.

  This book was originally published as Blood in 2012 and as A Brotherhood of Men in 2019.

  Cover art and design by

  Edited by Tim Marquitz

  Interior formatting by Kody Boye

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Part 9

  Part 10

  About the Author

  For my family, whose unwavering support has kept me writing.

  In memory of

  Grandpa Jim, Grandpa Larry,

  Grandma Betty, and Grandma Shirley

  Prologue

  1

  The cloaked figure ran. Darting around trees, jumping over bushes, ducking under branches that seemed to reach out in a feeble attempt to catch him—it could have been described as something akin to madness, given the rain that was pouring down from the sky and the hellfire that currently pumped through his veins, but in that moment, nothing mattered. No. To think anything mattered other than what he currently held within his grasp was to deny the fact that no more than a few moments ago, a child had been born.

  Fingers curled to prevent his long nails from hurting the baby, head down-turned and arm shrouding the infant in his cloak, the immense hulk of the creature stopped to examine his surroundings. Thin nostrils flaring, hidden eyes searching, and dark lips pursed into a twisted sense of confusion, he looked upon the clearing he stood within and tried to remember what had happened no more than earlier that night.

  No, he thought.

  It couldn’t be.

  How long ago, he wondered, had he run, since the woman impregnated with his seed had given birth to what some would deem a monster? It seemed no more than but a few scant moments ago, after which his hands had been stained with blood and his mouth placated with the taste of dying flesh. He’d severed the umbilical cord with his teeth in a dire attempt to free his son from his mother’s dying body, and while placenta had warped his hands, the rain had disguised all, shielding both time and essence with its hellacious wrath.

  Right now, he knew, time didn’t matter.

  At that very moment, he needed a man—a surrogate father to whom he could leave his orphaned son.

  “Shh,” he whispered, voice rumbling up from his wide chest. “Don’t cry.”

  The baby, still tangled within his cloak, uttered a slight sob, and pawed at his chest with its tiny hands.

  Until that moment, he hadn’t considered that his voice could have been the cause for his baby’s distress. At this, he took a slow, deep breath, then closed his eyes.

  He hadn’t cried in such a long time. Why now?

  Still your thoughts. Find a father.

  Finding a man he deemed appropriate to raise his son would be no easy task. How was he to know whether his beneficiary toiled in poverty or brewed in madness? It would take more than just a simple look to discern the information, to take into account the idea that so many things could be happening at any given time, but how was he to know whether his son would grow into the man he was supposed to become with a simple woodcutter for a father?

  No. Let fate take its course.

  Of so many children he had sired throughout his entire life, why did this one have to be so different? Of all the sons and daughters that had come into the world, why did this boy, this infant child, seem so special?

  “Because you are.”

  Once again, the baby cried.

  Be silent, he thought, pressing a palm to the child’s chest. You are not in danger.

  Purple-pink light the color of stark magenta pulsed from his hand and into the baby’s chest. The child, whose eyes had not yet opened, squirmed, though whether his antics were in pleasure or discomfort he could not know.

  If anything was obvious, he knew he had to get the child out of the rain.

  Lifting his head, he set his eyes on the small village of Felnon, crested just below the highest hill he stood upon, and trembled before the distant marshlands. If he so wanted, he could take the child there, but where, if not there, would he go? Could he leave the baby with a traveling caravan in the hopes that a trader would take care of him?

  No. My son is not meant to be with traders.

  “Guide me, Mother,” he whispered. “Guide me.”

  The figure came to a small house at the bottom of the hill and sensed within his body an urgency that led him to believe that this was where the baby would go. Heart faltering, breath silent but chest heaving, he stepped toward the door but paused mid-stride, only to look upon the child that he carried within his arms.

  “You’re here,” he whispered, bowing to set the baby on the porch. “Goodbye.”

  Before he could fully crouch, the door opened.

  Hurling himself back, taking the child to his chest, he tore his cloak around his body and shielded the baby from the human who stood directly in front of him.

  No, he thought. I couldn’t have—

  Panicked, instantly, by the idea that he had harmed the baby with his nails, he searched the infant for wounds while the occupant of the home stared.

  “Who are you?” the human man asked. “If you have no purpose here, leave.”

  “No.” His voice, though a mere whisper, rumbled throughout his chest and deepened the sound to a more audible pitch. “My child—”

  “I want nothing to do with something I cannot see.”

  That was easily understandable. Here he was—a giant in a cape with only the pale skin of his chest exposed—before a man whom could see nothing of the figure who stood upon his doorstep. He had to look strange, even frightening in a way. Humans feared what they could not see—those in the dark, the ones in the woods, the things that landed on the mountains and screamed on full moon nights. Had he expected any different, especially from an ignorant human man?

  “Please,” he said, stepping closer. The human tensed almost instantly, then reached for something at his side. The idea that the man could possibly have a weapon forced him to halt his advance. “I can’t promise you fortune or goodwill. The mother… she died.”

  “By your hand?”

  “NO!” The baby whimpered at such an outburst. The figure cooed to it, drawing his cloak around his body to shield it from the cold, before turning his eyes back up at the man standing in the doorway. “She died during childbirth. Please, good man—there was nothing I could do. Would you let an innocent child freeze in the cold?”

  The human said nothing.

  When the figure sensed that the man would say no more, he took one step forward.

  Unlike before, the human made no move to draw any concealed weapon he might be holding.

  “Will you?” he asked once more.

  In response to his statement, the human examined him with eyes so dark they could
barely be seen within their sockets, likely trying to gauge just what it was that stood on his doorstep. By nature, a human’s eyes could deceive them immensely on several different levels, so to think that this man could be seeing several different versions of what he happened to be was no understatement. Did he see a monster, a fool, a pathetic creature who stood in the rain offering up a baby no more than a few hours old, or did he simply see something in trouble—a creature that, by all respects, was asking for help he could not give himself?

  The human man took another step forward.

  The figure opened his arms. “Thank you,” he said, ready to offer the child.

  Just before the human could reach forward to take the baby into his arms, the figure stopped.

  Bending forward, he pressed his lips to the baby’s forehead, then whispered, “You’ll find me again, Odin.”

  A spark of pink light shined between the child’s brow, then disappeared.

  When the mortal man accepted a baby whose origins he could not be sure of, the figure turned and fled into the woods, forever disappearing from sight.

  2

  “Odin,” the human man by the name of Ectris Karussa said, looking down at the pale, translucent-skinned child.

  After the figure had mysteriously disappeared into the woods, he had taken his place at the kitchen table and wrapped the baby in a fire-warmed blanket to combat the chill dwelling within his body. Eyes downcast, lips pursed in confusion and heart still fluttering in his chest, he pressed a hand against the blanket the baby was wrapped within and tried to imagine just how such a young child could have survived outside the womb without its mother.

  Does it matter? he thought.

  Though knowing in his heart that it truly didn’t, he couldn’t help but ponder over the reality of the situation.

  The baby, who’d been quiet for the last little while, began to cry.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, drawing his hand along the baby’s face.

  The moment he offered a finger, the baby’s eyes opened.

  Panicked, Ectris attempted to draw himself away from the child, but stopped before he could do so.

  It’s all right, he thought, staring into the baby’s harsh, blood-colored eyes. It’s just… odd.

  He’d heard of such children before—when, while seated beside his grandfather when he was still alive, he’d been told that they had once been denounced as monsters and oftentimes killed for that very reason. Only the intervention of mages had saved them in the long run.

  Mages.

  Shivering at the idea, he allowed the baby to suck on his thumb and tried to imagine just what the creature had done when he’d pressed his lips to the baby’s brow. He’d sensed, within the air, the all-too-familiar signs of magic—a static which, when met with skin, could send the hairs on one’s arms on end. What the creature had done he couldn’t know, but the fact that he knew magic, much less was capable of using it on his own son, was unsettling in the least.

  What could he have done?

  Not willing to dwell on the idea that this child could have been instilled with something that could harm him come time when he eventually learned to walk on his own two feet, Ectris looked up at the rain before bowing his head back to the baby lying beneath him.

  Later, once the rain calmed, he could go to the young farmer and ask for a warm bottle of milk. He wouldn’t let this baby go hungry.

  “Here,” Ectris said, voice soft and calm. “Odin.”

  The baby’s eyes focused, dilated, then watched him.

  Such an unruly stare from a child so young made the hairs on his neck rise on end.

  It’s all right. He’s just different.

  Without so much as another word, he took the baby in his arms, offered his thumb once more, then watched the young child suckle his digit before turning and making his way toward the door.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered, closing his eyes when the child once again started whimpering. “We’ll go get you some milk.”

  Outside, the rain turned into a fine mist.

  The baby whimpered.

  Ectris reached for his cloak, pulled it tight around his body, then made his way toward the door.

  He’d go and get milk, if only for the baby.

  The baby close to his chest, Ectris walked down the road in the faint sheen of rain and tried to ignore the protests coming from the child wrapped within his arms. The crying fit much worse now that he’d stepped back into the cold, his limbs protesting beneath the bundled blanket, Ectris could do no more than shroud the baby within his cloak in order to protect him from the rain.

  Will Joseph have it? he dared to think.

  Of course the young farmer would—the cows in his enclosure numbered aplenty. They produced more than enough milk for the man himself and the neighbors who lived around him. Surely, he could spare enough for a baby.

  After what seemed like an eternity of walking through the rain, he came to the young farmer’s front door.

  “Here goes nothing,” he whispered.

  Knocking, he kicked the mud off his shoes, stepped up onto the first two stairs, then waited, occasionally whispering to the baby in an attempt to calm him down.

  Shortly after it seemed as though Odin’s wails would not calm down, the door opened, revealing the blonde-haired, stubble-bearded farmer. “Ectris?” Joseph frowned. “What’s wrong? What are you doing out in the rain?”

  “I’ve become… a caretaker.”

  Joseph’s eyes fell to the lump at Ectris’ breast. “A baby?” he asked.

  “The man said he couldn’t care for it.”

  “So you said you would?”

  Ectris sighed, but nodded. “I need milk,” he said. “He’s been crying for the past while.”

  Joseph said nothing. Instead, he watched Ectris with calm, cautious eyes before waving his hand. “Come on in.”

  Inside, Ectris slid out of his muddied boots, followed Joseph into the kitchen, then stared at the pail of milk he knew the farmer would have.

  “Sit,” Joseph said. “Let me heat it up.”

  “You know how to make it, right? I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “It’s a boy?”

  Ectris nodded. He pulled the baby out from under the cloak and showed him to Joseph, careful to keep the child a fair distance away for fear of revulsion.

  “He’s got red eyes,” the young farmer said.

  “I’m not judging him for that. We know he’s not wrong.”

  “Do we?”

  Ectris said nothing. Instead, he settled himself into a chair, pulled his cloak off, then gave the baby his thumb. “The milk, please.”

  While Joseph busied himself with the task, Ectris took into consideration the fact that his interactions with the farmer had been few and far between. He knew, however, that the boy was good for his word. If he said he’d offer milk, he would offer milk.

  “It’s supposed to be lukewarm,” Joseph explained, stoking the fire, and hanging the pail over the flames. “Not hot enough to burn you, but cool enough to make your fingers tingle.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s not hard. I had a child too, once.”

  Ectris chose to remain silent. It was no secret that Joseph’s betrothed had run off with the baby shortly after its birth.

  Though Joseph offered no word in addition to his comment, he occasionally dipped his finger into the milk and tested its warmth. After several long, painstaking moments of waiting, he pulled the pail from the fireplace and retrieved a glass bottle from one of his cupboards. It took him much longer to locate a nipple, but he soon found one and filled the bottle with milk. “There,” he said, even managing a smile despite the awkward situation. “I’ll let you take that home with you. You’ll be feeding him for the next long while.”

  “What about the milk?”

  “It’ll be good for a few days, but I imagine the little one will be drinking most of the pail. All you have to do is come to me if you need milk.
” Joseph paused. “Well… actually, wait. You’ll be busy with the baby and your own housework, so I’ll bring the pail over.”

  “You’re much too kind.”

  “I’m not kind. Just helpful.”

  Ectris lifted the bottle and put it to Odin’s lips.

  The baby drank.

  He fell into a routine within the next few days. Rising early in the morning, changing the child’s diaper, feeding him milk, and, occasionally, if willing, a vegetable ground to mush—he’d spend much of the early hours of his day managing the baby before he fell in line with his own chores in and around the house. Always he stayed close, allowing himself the chance to hear the baby’s cries, and when night came, he’d feed, burp, change, then rock him until he fell asleep before settling him down into bed beside him. With this he took precaution. His greatest fear was that he would roll over in the middle of the night and crush the baby. To remedy that he created a cradle out of spare blankets and pillows, but took extra care to make sure that the child wouldn’t roll over and smother himself to death.

  One morning, before he rose from bed, he woke to a pounding at the front door.

  After crawling out of bed, pulling a pair of shoes onto his feet and checking to make sure that the baby was still asleep, he walked from the room, down the hallway, then into the living room, where he crossed the brief distance between the fireplace and the window before looking out to make sure no one unwarranted had arrived.

  Outside, Joseph stood on the porch in full winter attire—shivering, arms over his chest, and with a cradle standing on its twin legs nearby.

  He didn’t, Ectris thought.

  He unlocked and opened the door before leaning out and looking at the farmer.