In the time of the river civilizations, a war was breaking out between two of the most powerful tribes: The Goreons of Babylonia and the Assyrians. The Goreons, led by a powerful, ruthless leader named Draicor, were barbarian cutthroats who would stop at nothing to take the last of the Assyrian lands from them. The Assyrian king had fled in fear, leaving his throne and his people with no government but the army.

Still, through all the war and sadness, a blessing was going on in a small village not far from where fighting was taking place. One of the ladies in the town, Ashira, had wanted a child for the longest time and she was finally giving birth to a son. On the day of his birth, the Ethiopian housemaid, a voodoo priestess named Banti, stood over the bed and admired the baby boy.

Right away the two could tell he was special. First, he was born with the most brilliant blue eyes they’d ever seen, a rarity in these times. He had an air of regality, even in infancy, and he rarely cried. If something were wrong he would make it known.

“He has the makings of a fine warrior,” said Banti when she gazed upon him. “He will grow to be strong and efficient in battle. He will restore order and be a fine teacher to his people. One day he could even be king of all the land.”

“My son?” asked Ashira. “What do I name a child like that?”

“Memnon,” Banti suggested. “It means teacher in my native language.” Ashira thought it over for a moment, then she beamed.

“Memnon,” she said, looking at her son. Thus he was named.

Memnon grew to be a charming, bright-eyed young man with a streak of darkness in him. Each day he grew more and more into the warrior Banti had prophesized he’d be. He was strong willed and independent. If there was a problem to be solved, he’d solve it, or forcibly resolve it. His mother watched him mature into a magnificent person who was strong, yet well mannered at the same. And it continued this way until one day, Ashira realized Memnon was no longer a child, and his time had come to venture out alone.

That fateful morning dawned and Memnon noted that the war was worsening. Memnon believed the war could be ended swiftly with the right tactics.

“What a lot of fools,” muttered Memnon. “They call themselves protectors of our freedom?” Ashira smiled gently at her son.

“Peace, Memnon.” she said. “They know not how to deal with these barbarians.”

“I do,” replied Memnon. “I’d tell them what they should do.”

“They would not listen to one soldier, dearest.”

“Then I would make them listen.” Memnon said with determination. And for a moment, Ashira saw her son as the graceful warrior he would grow to be. It was then that she knew her son’s destiny. A tear came to her eye and she brushed it away.

“You can be anything you want to, Memnon. You can be the greatest warrior in the world. But no matter what you do, I’ll love you, my only son.”

“Then I’ll join the army and fight these ingrates.” Memnon said firmly. Ashira looked ready to cry. “Don’t worry for me, mother,” said Memnon gently. “If I die fighting I will for the right cause, and I’ll carry your memory to my grave.” Ashira embraced her son tightly.

“If it is what you wish,” she said. “But be careful.”

“I will.”

“Look at him,” said one soldier in training to the one next to him as they watched young 19-year-old Memnon practicing his sword skills. “He’s flawless. He’s been here for only a year, and all of us for three, and he still has twice the skill that we have!”

“His flair sickens me,” muttered the other. “He will show us all up before all is said and done.” Suddenly another voice broke in the conversation.

“I’d advise you to respect Memnon.” It was the commander. “As of now, he is the most capable of all of you. He could one day lead you all.” The soldiers scoffed. They looked back at Memnon just as he made three incredibly quick strikes at his trainer and sent the sword flying from his hand and clanging to the floor. Applause erupted and Memnon smiled wanly.

At this moment, a battle weary young soldier entered from yet another failed practice. His name was Thorak, and he was most certainly not the sharpest nor bravest in training there. As he entered a few snickers were heard from the soldiers.

“Well, Thorak, did you finally figure out how to shoot a bow?”

“Pray tell, Thorak, did you fall flat on your face again?” Laughter erupted. Thorak glared at the collective group and slunk from the hall. Memnon gave him a sympathetic smile as he went. Then he sighed.

“As much as I’d like to stay and associate with you gentlemen I’m afraid I must go,” he said good-naturedly. “Excuse me.” He walked casually away, hearing many mumbles and a few quiet jeers. He was used to it now. It was known that the cadets either loved or hated him. There was no middle ground as far as he was concerned.

Memnon wandered out into the courtyard and sat down on a flat rock, observing the silence and reflecting on himself. He was the highest ranked in the entire troop and to date he had defeated the instructor 5 times in fencing. He felt he needed a bigger challenge. He was the best, but with it came the price of isolation. Jealousy made fools of even the biggest men. Even some of the captains tried to make Memnon look foolish by giving him difficult tasks to accomplish, like dual sword wielding or shooting an arrow with closed eyes, but every time they were made fools of by Memnon when he accomplished every feat. He was unbeatable.

He sighed. “Someday this will all be worth it,” he mumbled aloud. “Someday I’ll look back on all these people and laugh.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning found Memnon in the practice court, battling an invisible foe to work on his coordination and control. He found it easy to wield the blade no matter how his hand moved; it was as if the sword moved with him. Satisfied with himself, Memnon laid the practice sword down and stopped to catch his breath. He happened to glance over his shoulder and see Thorak wandering around by the bushes. Feeling a pang of pity, Memnon ventured over to him.

“Thorak? Are you all right? You seem dejected.” Thorak met Memnon’s eyes.

“What do you care?” he asked. “Why would you, the great Memnon, give me a second thought?” Memnon gave him a look of sympathy. “Stop doing that!” said Thorak.

“Sorry,” Memnon’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen how the others torment you. I do take offense. It’s not your fault you can’t do things from the first. They expect too much of you, Thorak. All you need is practice.”

“I practice and I fail,” said Thorak miserably. “I’m such a clumsy fool!”

“I was the same way!” declared Memnon. “I used to be so arrow-happy I’d shoot at the target without even looking. I killed a few birds and almost the captain a couple of times.” Thorak laughed.

“You’re funny,” he declared. “For some reason I always thought you arrogant, but I guess I was wrong.” He smiled. “You’re kind of nice.”

“Thanks,” Memnon smiled. “I’m sorry all the other cadets won’t stay off your case. I shall do something about that.” He smirked. “Well I’d better get back to my practices. I’ll never get any better by standing around socializing.”

“Can I watch?” asked Thorak. “Maybe some of your talent will rub off on me.”

“Why not?” Memnon replied with a smile. With that the two walked off.

The group met at high noon to practice marksmanship. Each of the soldiers was expected to shoot a target with a crossbow and hit at least somewhere on it. So far everyone had gone, and done it fairly successfully. Now it was down to Thorak and Memnon. Memnon took a crossbow and an arrow and aimed at the target. Memnon decided to take the liberty of helping Thorak out with his shooting.

“Okay, Thorak,” he said. “The idea is to align the point with the target.” He aimed at the bullseye. “Then keep it steady and release.” Memnon released the arrow and it flew home, landing directly in the center. There was quiet applause. “ Simple. Now you try.” Memnon smiled and handed Thorak the bow. Everyone moved back.

“Here goes,” Thorak took an arrow, aligned it and took vague aim. He shut his eyes and let go. The arrow hit a nearby tree and ricocheted off, then flew at full speed back toward the troop. There was a clamor as everyone hit the ground. Memnon looked up just in time to see the arrow flying straight for his head. His eyes widened. He knew he was dead for sure. Suddenly, before he knew what he was doing, his hand flew up and snatched the arrow from the air. He sighed and gave Thorak a look, while everyone else looked on, flabbergasted.

“Nice catch,” said Thorak sheepishly. Memnon gave Thorak a warning glance.

“Never shoot with your eyes closed.” He handed Thorak the arrow. Thorak blushed with embarrassment.

That night after dinner, the soldiers sat around the fire listening to the commander Graigor telling stories about the crazy Babylonians. Memnon sat off to the side away from everyone else and stared into the fire, lost in his own deep thought.

“That was some catch you made at the shooting range today Memnon,” came a scornful voice. Memnon looked up casually, only to see his worst enemy, Cyprius, who had supposedly been sent into exile in the city for trying to bribe a Goreon guard, standing before him. He scowled in disgust.

“Cyprius,” he said. “Why are you here? I thought they sent you to the capital.” Cyprius smirked.

“They sent me back,” he said. “I was too much trouble.”

“I believe that,” muttered Memnon. “So how are your aspirations these days? Do you still plan to take over the army when Graigor dies?”

“More than that,” sneered Cyprius. “I shall become king.” Memnon laughed.

“With the world in its state? You’d last 5 minutes. And then they’d kill you, for you would grow full of yourself and become a tyrant.”

“You’re right,” said Cyprius. “I would show the people who the ruler is.” He smirked slyly. “I wonder who I would have to betray to get a position of power?”

“Go away, Cyprius,” snapped Memnon. “If the others see you with me they will think me as treacherous as you and hang us both. I won‘t die for you.”

“As you wish,” Cyprius mocked Memnon. “I just thought I’d let you know of my safe return.”

“Yes, most unfortunate,” sneered Memnon. “Now leave me alone.” Cyprius got up and left, while Memnon glared holes into his back. Completely thrown off his equilibrium, Memnon decided to wander off to get away from everything for a while. The fact that Cyprius had returned was disturbing. Memnon could sense he was deceitful in some way. He was dangerous and underhanded, and he didn’t trust him one bit.

Suddenly, as Memnon ventured into a dark place under the trees by the gate, he heard someone approaching from behind. Instinctively he pulled his dagger and poised to strike, until he saw it was only Thorak following him. He sighed with relief and replaced his blade. “You startled me,” he admitted with a half laugh. “For some reason I thought you might be Cyprius.” He shuddered. “I dislike him. I hated him from the first.”

“As did I,” said Thorak. “And I’ve been here longer than you have.” He smiled. “It’s rather sad how I’ve been here almost five years and I’ve improved none, and you can just waltz right in and take the place by storm with no effort.” He sighed. “The only reason they’ve kept me here is because I’ve no place else to go, and my father was one of their best generals.”

“Lord Hebron was your father?” Memnon’s eyes widened. “Thorak! Why did you not tell me? I would bow at your feet!” He grinned. Thorak laughed.

“That’s not necessary,” he said humbly. “If anything I should bow to you. You are the most gifted of us all. You’re smarter than the generals themselves. They may not listen to you now, but they will when you become commander.”

“When?” Memnon raised an eyebrow. “You mean if.”

“When,” corrected Thorak. “And I’ll stand behind you to the end.” He gripped Memnon’s hand. Memnon smiled.

“That means a lot,” he admitted. “As for you, I think we could work on your skill. I could be your tutor.”

“I’m an apprentice to one as old as my youngest brother,” joked Thorak. “But if it’s your will, I‘ll take your expertise.” He smiled. “You’re a leader, Memnon, and I believe you can lead the people to order. First as commander, then perhaps as king.”

“If it comes to that it shall,” Memnon shrugged. “What will be will, and I can’t change it.” He smiled. “Thanks for being my friend, Thorak. I promise, no matter what greatness befalls me, I’ll always have a place for you beside me in the end.” And the two met each other’s eyes, the mastered youth and the striving soldier, and it was there that a bond was formed that would last the rest of their lives, through good and bad, until the very end.

The Next Morning…

When Memnon’s eyes opened and he woke from sleep, he immediately realized he’d overslept. The sun was already out and he could hear the chaos of mock battle going on in the training courts. Wearily he got out of bed and wandered to the washbasin outside to splash some water on his face. After perfecting his image as well as he saw fit, Memnon went out to join the others and see what was going on. As soon as he did, he was immediately met by one of Cyprius’ lackeys.

“Cyprius has asked the commander for permission to challenge you to a friendly duel to see which of you is the better swordsman. This will only take place if you decide to accept. If not, no regrets. Do you accept?”

“What makes you think I have effort to waste on that fool?” asked Memnon.

“All right, I’ll tell him that you are too cowardly to accept.”

“I never said I was afraid of him,” snapped Memnon. “I was only wondering what that turncoat has done lately to deserve a shot at me. Nevertheless, I will prove that I’m no coward, and I’m surely a better swordsman than Cyprius. Tell him I accept.”

“I’ll give him the word,” said the lackey. With a smirk, he left. Disgusted, Memnon rolled his eyes and went off to find the commander. On his way, he ran into Thorak.

“Did you accept the challenge?” Memnon’s eyes widened.

“How did you know about that?” he asked. “Were you in on this?”

“Of course not,” said Thorak quickly. “Everyone’s heard about it. Cyprius has spread the word all over camp. People are even betting that you‘ll crush him.”

“That’s comforting,” said Memnon. “And what of Graigor? Does he approve?”

“Rumor has it that he‘s putting some high stakes in favor of your victory,” said Thorak. Memnon laughed.

It’s amazing the amount of faith people can put in you,” he said. “Now I must go ask our good commander Graigor when I am to carry out this challenge.” He sighed and walked off in the direction of Graigor’s tent.

In Graigor’s Tent…

“Now?” demanded Memnon. “You want me to fight him now?!”

“What, prodigy? Do you need time to compose?” Memnon’s eyes narrowed.

“Whose side are you on?” he glared. “May I remind you that Cyprius was in exile? The only reason he’s here is because they sent him back.” Memnon lowered his voice. “He wishes to overthrow you. I know this.”

“I do not take his side, nor yours,” sneered Graigor. “Now, most high and mighty Memnon, if you wish to be my second in command in case the unthinkable passes, now is your chance to prove yourself to me.” Memnon’s eyes widened and a small smile passed across his face.

“Do you mean that?” he asked. “You would appoint me your second in command?”

“Well, it just so happens that I do need a successor, and I’ve had no other offers but from Cyprius,” said Graigor. “The only one I see fit for the job is you. If you wish to be my deputy, I suggest you prove yourself well.” Memnon nodded.

“It will be done.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cyprius and Memnon stood face to face in the circle. The spectators stood at a safe distance, because it was known that Memnon never was one for staying within bounds; he made his own. The circle fell quiet. Then, Graigor stepped forward with the swords, handing one first to Memnon and giving him a look, then to Cyprius.

“All right, here are the rules,” declared Graigor. “The two of you will have a straight out duel. No fighting dirty, no cheating, and no killing each other. This is purely competition, and if one of you kills the other, I’ll kill you. With that being said, you may begin when the gong is sounded.” There was a pause that seemed lasted eternities before Thorak struck the gong. The competition had begun. Memnon and Cyprius stared each other down.

“May the best man win,” sneered Cyprius. Memnon said nothing. Cyprius circled once, like a vulture, then he struck out at Memnon. Memnon quickly blocked with his sword, his aggression showing already, and in the same motion he struck at Cyprius, making him brace himself against his hit. He withdrew and they circled again, their eyes locked in the intensity of competition. Then Memnon attacked fiercely, slashing at Cyprius in his usual three quick hit system, then he leaped back and whirled around and made a move at Cyprius full force.

In return, Cyprius dodged and kicked at Memnon, trying to knock him off balance, but only succeeding in making the latter angry. Memnon kept his footing, graceful and flawless. In retaliation, Memnon delivered a swift, hard kick to Cyprius in the shoulder, making him stumble, then he lashed out at him with his blade with as strong of a hit as he could muster. The sword flew from Cyprius’ hand, and the force of Memnon’s blow sent him falling in the opposite direction. He hit the ground, stunned. The astonished onlookers burst into applause. Memnon wore a satisfied smirk.

Cyprius, trying to keep his manly dignity, stood up and brushed himself off, preparing to make as noble of an exit as humanly possible after having been defeated by his worst enemy. He smiled derisively at Memnon. “Good show,” he said. “Don’t think for a moment that it’s over between us. I shall prevail in the end.” He stalked off. Memnon could care less. He was already basking in his victory, and in the thought of being second in command of the army. He wondered if anyone else knew of that stipulation.

“Congratulations, Memnon!” Graigor clapped Memnon on the shoulder. “You’ve proven yourself worthy enough to be my second in command.” The soldiers were somewhat thrown off regardless of whether they had a pleased or displeased look on their faces. Either way, they knew they had to respect Memnon even more now. Anyone who’d want to step up and request leadership of an army that was on the verge of a losing battle was braver than anyone knew.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Days passed and the soldiers continued their training. With the news they’d been overhearing, it seemed they’d never get a chance to go into battle. Things were going downhill. By the time they got there and started to fight, the war would be over and lost. This was the morale, and none of them believed they’d ever go to war. The rest of the war would be one big fool-around session and they would never take part in it. Thus it was until that fateful evening when Graigor summoned all the soldiers to the meeting point with some urgent news concerning them all. Memnon, the newfound junior commander, took his place in front of the army as well, standing aside with a smirk on his face. In all honesty, in the front was where he belonged.

“Listen up, men,” he said. “I’ve called you all here because of some urgent news that has been sent to us by the troop stationed south of the capital.”

“What?” one soldier scoffed. “We’ve lost the war and we can finally go home?” At this a few laughed, and Memnon shot each of them a glare. They all shut up pronto.

“No,” said Graigor. “My messengers have sent me word that the last battalion has fallen to Lord Draicor’s troops The capital is the last stronghold they need to control us completely. We are the only battalion left standing. All the others are gone or captured.”

“So basically,” Memnon put in, “the outcome of this war relies on us.”

“Right,” said Graigor. “If we lose the war, we lose our liberty.”

“How can it come to this?” Memnon exploded, jumping up. “One moment we’re holding our own and the next we’re losing so badly that one battalion must determine the fate of the war? This is lunacy!” There was a clamor of agreement on Memnon’s behalf. “How many people have died?” demanded Memnon. “How many lives have been sacrificed in this losing battle? It could have been stopped!” Memnon’s eyes blazed with rage.

“Silence, Memnon!” ordered Graigor. “I’ll not have you riling my troops.”

“I will not be quiet!” Memnon was agitated. “How many people must die before this army figures out they’re doing things wrong?”

“Could you do better?” demanded Graigor, now fairly irate with the upstarting Memnon.

“Yes.” Memnon replied deftly. “Anyone with common sense could do so.”

“I shall not ask you again to be quiet.” warned Graigor.

“And I shall remain quiet at your request,” Memnon said coldly. “But do not attempt to relieve me of my right to speak.” He sat back. Graigor gave him a look.

“As I was saying,” he said, “we are the last battalion that can stop Draicor’s troops, or all will be lost. You mustn’t take this lightly, for your fate and that of the entire nation depend on you.” He noted the worried expressions on the faces of his men. “It’s planned that we’ll leave soon, the order could come at any time. Be prepared. That’s all, you’re dismissed.” The soldiers stood up and left, some more glumly than others. Their visions of a carefree rest of the war had been swiftly shattered. Memnon caught up with Thorak en route to the barracks.

“That was some meeting,” muttered Thorak. “Who knew that’s what was really going on out there all along?” Memnon shrugged, his blue eyes full of concern.

“They’ve been lying to us and telling us the war was going well when I knew it wasn’t,” he muttered. “If we can’t stop them…” He trailed off. “My mother lives in the capital,” he said quietly. “She’s the only family I have, and I swore I’d protect her when the time came. Now the time is come.” He sighed. They came to the barracks. “Good night, Thorak.” Memnon forced a smile. “Perhaps sleep will ease my mind.”

But Memnon lay down, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t sleep. With a frustrated sigh he got out of bed and went out into the cold, night desert air. The cool wind hit his bare chest and shoulders, making him shiver and draw his arms around himself. He chanced to look up at the gate, where the full moon hung, illuminating the camp with enough light for Memnon to see that someone was climbing over the gate and escaping. On close examination, Memnon realized it was Cyprius fleeing. Thinking nothing of it, and assuming the troop would be better off without him, Memnon went back inside to force himself to sleep.

The next morning, when the bugle sounded and the troop was called out into the courtyard, Memnon wasn’t surprised to hear the order that they were marching off into battle immediately. As the soldiers prepared to leave, packing their supplies and effects, Memnon approached Thorak, who looked scared to death. He placed a hand on Thorak’s shoulder and smiled. “We’re in this together,” he grinned. “For better or worse.” Thorak smiled.