The Soldier's Tale (5 page)

The blade struck the crown of the Mhorite’s
head, sending the warrior sprawling to die beneath the hooves of my
horse.

I turned my mount, seeking new foes, but
the battle was already over.

It hadn’t been that long, but a battle
always felt like an eternity. Most of the Mhorites had been slain
or crippled in the fury of our charge, and the dwarves had burst
from their formation, killing with every step. The surviving
Mhorites fled to the west as fast as their legs could carry them,
and a few bands of our veterans were hunting them down at leisure.
I sought for any wounded. The Mhorite wounded were too dangerous to
leave alive, and we would dispatch them with a quick slash to the
throat. I didn’t see any our men wounded, which surprised me. There
were always causalities in battle, no matter how well things
went…

My frown deepened.

Romilius lay sprawled upon the ground,
twitching a little as he stared at the sky. His horse wandered a
few yards away. An axe blow had penetrated his armor, carving a
hideous gash down his chest and into his side. His innards hadn’t
quite fallen out, but if he moved, he would likely die.

“Mallister!” I shouted. “Wounded!”

Mallister galloped over, took one look at
Romilius, and grimaced.

My headache pulsed and throbbed behind my
eyes.

“Can you heal him?” I said.

“No,” said Mallister, his voice grim. “The
wound is too severe. It is beyond my skill. One of the masters of
the Magistri could perhaps manage it…but I fear I cannot. I am
sorry.”

The headache thundered through my
skull.

I dropped from my saddle, looking down at
the dying young man. He was awake, but I don’t think he was
completely conscious. That, at least, was a small mercy. He was an
orphan, so I wouldn’t have to write a letter to his mother and
father. I suppose the monks of St. Matthew would need to know…

His hideous wounds seemed to burn before my
eyes.

The pain in my head was indescribable. Like
fire welling up inside of my skull.

“Camorak?” said Mallister. “Camorak, are
you wounded?”

“I…I don’t think so,” I said. “God, the
fire…”

I shook my head, which was a bad idea,
since that made it hurt worse. The fire in my blood seemed to
intensify further.

Mallister’s eyes got wide. “Camorak! My
God! What are you…”

I fell to my knees next to Romilius, and
the fire in my blood seemed to burst from my skin. The wounds in
the boy’s torso called to the fire, and I focused upon it,
directing the fire towards it.

And I pulled his wound into me.

I screamed as pain erupted through me, as I
felt the axe blow rip my chest open. I wanted to push the pain
away, to shove it back into Romilius and let him die. Instead I
gritted my teeth and held on, forcing the pain to remain in my
flesh as the fire poured into Romilius.

And then all the pain vanished, and my
headache disappeared with it.

“By the Dominus Christus,” whispered
Mallister.

Romilius’s wounds had vanished. He sat up,
looking bewildered.

“Optio?” he said. “What…happened?”

“Oh, good. I think my headache went away,”
I said.

I fell over and passed out.

###

“The magic of the Well of Tarlion has
manifested within you,” said Mallister.

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense.
I’m not…I’m not a Magistrius.”

“I’m afraid,” said Mallister, “that you’ll
have to be.”

We stood on the road with Sir Primus as the
men went about their work. The dwarves tended to their wounded, and
the men-at-arms prepared to escort the taalvar and his warriors to
Castra Durius.

“It is the law of the High King,” said
Mallister. “All those who manifest magical ability must be taken to
Tarlion to be trained in the ways of the Order of the
Magistri.”

“I’m twenty-seven years old,” I said. “I
thought only children were trained as Magistri.”

“Sometimes the power manifests at a later
age,” said Mallister. “As it did for you. Look at it this way,
Camorak. You saved Romilius. Perhaps now you will have a chance to
save others.”

“I am a soldier,” I said. “A man-at-arms in
service to the Dux of Durandis.”

“Optio Camorak,” said Primus. “I think the
time has come to give you my final order. Go to Tarlion with
Mallister, and train to become a Magistrius.”

I sighed. “As you command, sir.”

It seemed my time as a soldier was
finished, yet that did not trouble me as much as I thought.

I thought of Romilius, of the leader and
knight he would one day be because he had not died from the axe
wound.

My duty as a soldier was over, but perhaps
it was time for a different duty.

THE END

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***

In the Year of Our Lord 1469, the court of
the Dux Gareth Licinius celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection
in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.

Ridmark Arban walked across the hall, his
boots clicking against the black and white tiles of the floor. He
wore his finest tunic and mantle, both crimson with gold trim. A
sword belt of black leather encircled his waist, the soulblade
Heartwarden resting in its scabbard there. He felt the sword’s
magic, his link to its power. He had felt it ever since he had
become a Swordbearer, ever since he had spent the night in vigil in
the Chamber of the Well within High King’s citadel of Tarlion.

But now the sword’s magic was quiet.

For today was not a day of battle, but a
day of celebration.

The gates of the Castra had been thrown
wide, and townsmen and freeholders from the nearby farms filled the
courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus
Christus’s resurrection and the Dux’s generosity. Ridmark thought
it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in
the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of
Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the
Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the
freeholders.

But here in the Northerland, life was
harder and more dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had
been cleansed of creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the
urdmordar and the Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more
dangerous. Urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things haunted the hills.
Pagan orcs raided out of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged
victims into the darkness of the Deeps.

Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often
had to fight side by side.

And so they feasted together to celebrate
the end of winter and the end of Lent.

Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood
together near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky,
with curly red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and
lean, with olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen
years old, Ridmark’s age, while the boy was still sixteen, but
neither one of them were Swordbearers.

Few men carried a soulblade at the age of
nineteen.

But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar
at the age of eighteen.

Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had
earned great renown for that victory, but he did not want to think
about Gothalinzur now.

Nor of the disturbing things she had told
him.

“Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the
shorter of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already
slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine.
“A pity the tournament is not today.”

The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned.
“Today is a holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not
fight, but dwell in peace.”

“Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we
must be vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect
holy days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn
come out of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A
knight of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”

Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the
tournament to prepare for battle?”

“Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand,
sir. Indeed, you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at
eighteen? Ha!” He slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have
your pick of the ladies, I’m sure.”

“Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand
will likely pick his wife,” said Constantine.

Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the
Dux of Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of
Victrix pick his own wife.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.

“Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the
man who earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has
his mind made up.”

He looked across the hall, and Ridmark
followed his gaze.

The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth
Licinius, stood upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and
mantle. Like Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his
black hair had long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent
from Septimius Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old
Earth, and Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and
commanding. His older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and
Comites of renown, stood near him.

Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her
father as he spoke.

She resembled both her father and her
brothers, with the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she
was beautiful, radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt
whenever he looked at her. He had learned to distrust beauty after
he had learned how the urdmordar and their daughters could
shapeshift into forms of stunning loveliness.

Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in
her body. She had taken over much of the household management of
Castra Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that
no one in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick
and orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.

She saw him looking, smiled, and then
looked down. Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and
scowled.

“Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the
shoulder again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”

Ridmark expected Constantine to protest,
but the squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would
make a worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of
her other suitors.”

Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by
that?”

“It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say,
sir,” said Constantine, and then fell silent.

The man Constantine meant walked towards
them, his followers trailing after.

Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge
to reach for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall,
lean man about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a
neatly trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several
other knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the
pack.

They stared at each other, waiting for the
other to speak.

“Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at
last.

“Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.

They had never gotten along, from the day
both had arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later
Ridmark had tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the
eldest son of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the Dux
himself. If he was arrogant and proud, that was no different from
the children of many other lords and knights, and perhaps Tarrabus
would grow out of it.

But while he could not deny Tarrabus’s
courage or skill with a blade, Ridmark’s dislike of the man had
only grown. He was brutal and merciless to anyone in his way. If a
freeholder or a townsman annoyed him, he sent his followers to
harass and torment the unfortunate man. Once, when they had gotten
drunk together with the other squires, he had told Ridmark that he
thought of the peasants as cattle, as beasts to be shaped and used
as their lords wished.

Ridmark had given up trying to make peace
with Tarrabus after that, and would have preferred to ignore
him.

But Tarrabus wanted to wed Aelia, and
Tarrabus would one day be the Dux of Caerdracon.

“A blessed Festival of the Resurrection to
you, Swordbearer,” said Tarrabus. He was always polite. Ridmark had
heard that Tarrabus had once killed a man, and then bid his
children a pleasant day before departing.

“And you, sir knight,” said Ridmark. “I did
not see you at the mass this morning.”

The knights behind him laughed, but
Tarrabus lifted a hand and they fell silent at once.

“I attended private masses in the chapel at
dawn,” said Tarrabus, “as is proper for a man of noble birth,
rather than attending the church of the ignorant rabble in the
town. I sometimes think the teachings of the church are useful for
the commoners, to teach them how best to spend their insignificant
lives, but are useless for men of power and rank.”

“That borders upon blasphemy,” said
Constantine.

Tarrabus spread his hands. “Have I denied
God or his Dominus Christus? I have not. God has given us, the
lords of Andomhaim, power over lesser men. We must use it as we see
fit.”

“We must use it for the defense and welfare
of the realm,” said Ridmark, “not to glorify ourselves.”