Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

The Great Hall

The doors creaked as they swung open; a familiar, homely sound. Beyond, I could see from the spectacle that the time I had been kept waiting had been used well.

Nearest to the entrance, on either side, the staff had been called to bear witness. Still in the attire of their duties: maids, cooks, pages, stableboys and other households servants. Their too familiar eyes were wide with doubtful recognition at the sight of me, hushed murmurs barely heard.

Beyond them, in gold and blue livery, the swords at their sides unmistakeable, there stood arrayed the men-at-arms of the castle. Each was at disciplined attention, faced to his fore, eyes locked upon his opposite number.

And at the far end, on the dais, three familiar figures sat. My father, enthroned, resplendent in his finery. My mother to his left, a picture of ageing beauty. To the right, my old place, my brother Errilar sat in shining mail. No fourth chair was laid out, obviously.

The herald to my right stood forward, and fulfilled his duty.

"Your Excellency and Consort; My Lord. I present Ameris Santraeger, Novice of the Adorned of Ilmater."

"Approach." came the Count's voice, commanding, cold.

We walked between the lines of servants and soldiers; familiar eyes looked with surprise at my grey robe, my simple sandles, my tonsured hair. The most intimate of the household were arranged nearest the family: Jalamir, the master at arms; Faroy, seneschal; Mulmar, the steward; Olera, the countess' maid. The great figures of my childhood. I kept my eyes on the dais at the back, gaze first meeting that of my father, then my mother, then my brother...imperious, contemptuous, hiding pain.

Count Ardepan's voice carried throughout the hall, a voice of authority. "Two years of silence and you come back a beggar. Explain yourself."

"I return as your son still." I answered. I remember being surprised how stung I was at his tone.

"My son knew pride and duty. Answer me."

"I am proud. Proud of my new service in the Lord on the Rack; and proud of the duty he sets before all the Adorned, to share the suffering of those who stumble."

My father watched me, silent. I filled that silence.

"We have always served, that is what good rule is. We are the shield between the people and the cruelties of the world. The Broken God would honour this, but he cannot honour immutable justice. Firm duty without mercy just breeds suffering. We will rule better looking to the Lord on the Rack..."

My mother looked away. Errilar looked straight ahead. My father shifted in his seat, leaning forward, eyes boring into me, hissing a low utterance.

"You swore to serve your Count; the Duke; the King, the County. Not a peasant god. Not to weep, instead of doing your duty. Not to stand passive while chaos reigned."

I pressed on, dauntless, heedless of the weakness of my hand; or not caring. "It was our own steel which bred that chaos. We squeezed too hard, left men and women desperate; they only have the choice to suffer and obey, or resist; obligations between servant and master becoming chains of slaves...the laws of Alemander are wrong."

"I'll hear no more of this gibberish, this apology for rebels and traitors! This...mandate for bandits!" A harsh tone in the Count's voice, raised.

"It is righteous wisdom..." my own voice rising to match, a fire in my eyes.

"Enough!" Count Ardepan roared, standing. "I will not be questioned in this hall!"

"He's fallen so far." the Countess muttered. Only the most loyal, near the dais, would hear this. "Enough of this Ardepan. Make an example." Again, the flash of pain this gave me was a shock.

Justice was swift. "Seize him." Booted feet on the stones around me, strong hands on my arms...

...it came, all of a sudden; that weakness of faith that plagues me still. I snarled, an elbow smashing back into a soft nose with a crunch...

"Unhand me!"

The Count, however, did not rescind his order, and more hands came, firm, grasping me; held fast by warriors I had once ridden beside, bled with; led. Led to wickedness.

My father's voice was low, now, bitter words carrying only to those nearby, meant only for me. "Even when serving a peasant's god of tears; you are still wild."

Then, in a voice to fill the hall.

"In the name of the King, Alemander, the fourth of his name; in fee to his Eminence the Duke of Ithmong; and mindful of the new Ordnances of the King as to the maintenance of the good order; I, his excellency Count Ardepan Santraeger of Suldaskar, do hereby pronounce Ameris Santraeger in breach of his oaths to the people of County Suldaskar. I pronounce him in breach of his oaths as my anointed heir..."

I glared up at my father, struggling in their hold, every breath failure.

"...and through them, in breach of his oaths to his Eminence the Duke, and to the Lion Dynasty itself. I pronounce him guilty of sedition and incitement against the lawful ordnances of the good King Alemander."

My voice was a snarl. "You are the breakers of oaths! We are meant to keep them safe, not hang them on high! We should protect against tyrants, not serve them!"

There were murmurs from the assembled servants now, shocked, yet quiet. This was for them.

My mother looked upon me with icy contempt once more, a tut that few could hear. Errilar looked shocked; at the words of his father or his brother, I do not know.

"For his breach of oaths I strip him of his rank, his name and his entitlements and cast him from this family. So adjudged commoner, and guilty of sedition and incitement, I pronounce his exile from the lands of the Lion Dynasty without right of appeal."

The murmurs had grown in volume now. My father's voice cut through them though, the harshness cowing even those furthest from the dais.

"For his failure in duty to the people, he will receive the punishment of a common solider. The Comrade's Reproach. In the name of Helm, and the King, let it be done."

I was wrenched around. Jalamir's face appeared before me, sad brown eyes above a grey beard. So familiar from my youth. The most senior soldier in our service; the first to strike. This was his burden.

"Begin."

After a brief pause, Jalamir hit me. A backhanded blow across my mouth. Dazing me; a split lip. My eyes found Errilar's. A look of horror in his young eyes.

Faroy next. His lean, pinched face showed little more than duty. He struck me with a left handed blow, a mirror of Jalamir's, my head lolling as the next soldier stepped forward, a veteran called Istur. I barely saw him before he cuffed me round the head. And the next; planting a fist into my gut; and the next; and the next. This was for them.

My vision glazed, my eyes caught Errilar's again. I saw the horror was gone, as my father murmured to him. I saw the change. I saw him forged in steel. I saw him stand to descend from the dais; take his place in the line of soldiery waiting to render violence.

I passed out long before they were done.


Humiliation.

[One word, then followed by others further down]



Perhaps I should not tease and call you lord my dear.

Though you do call me lady at times. Perhaps I do still have that right.

The priestess spoke true, "you don't need to rush to an end."

I wish you would have brought those words with you, in Triel.

*written neatly and precisely*

Armour

The sun's first rays crept through the window, but the sky was still black. She turned, fixing her charcoal hair up into a tidy knot. The image of a demure maidservant ready for the day's duties; apart from the wicked smile. Her first few steps in a dress were always a give-away, though, there was not much use for long skirts in the muddy gutter she was born into. I never learned much of the journey between there, and here, service to our household; what I did learn suggests that it was masks and thieves' blades once she outgrew the rags. And masks and thieves' blades she had fled from.

"See? Quicker than you."

I smiled up to her with a wry expression as I tied my boots.

"Its not something to be proud of."

She laughed, lightly. "I'll take what pride I can." Her eyes bright.

I stood and moved towards her. Our lips met briefly; with warm familiarity and a gentle touch of fingers on cheek.

I moved to don my doublet, a fine piece of attire in navy, a golden lion over the right breast. "We overslept." I said, lacing it up over my tunic. "Hide in a guest room. I'll make a fuss about an early breakfast and keep them busy."

She sighed. "Don't worry, I'll be careful." Then she spoke with a smile, chiding. "You shouldn't have brought wine."

I checked myself in the long mirror; resplendent, the young lord. My armour on now.

I was matter of fact, not quite curt. "Hurry. I have more to lose than you."

I heard her footsteps stride across the room behind me, the rustle of skirts. I turned, quickly, and reached to grasp her arm, stopping her at the door. Her eyes were black in the dim light, but burned like hot coals, never cowed.

"Let go."

The rage cooled, though, when she saw my expression.

"I am sorry."

We kissed a second time, with the edge of parting, if just for a day. Once more our eyes met. Hers were warm, but there was fear there. Fear of the warmth. I imagine mine were the same.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*in a shaking hand now, written later*

A severed horror, dead eyes of accusation. A wickedness from my greed. It cannot be real. It was not real. It was dream of shadow.

But I must know.



I understand now, that she was dear to you. How much, walking away meant.

Bindings

I heard tale of heathens from the Shaar, who executed the worst criminals by tying a rope to each wrist, and to each ankle, and affixing each rope to wild horses. The horses were made to gallop; the sinner torn apart.

I begin to understand the pain.

Duty to those who Suffer

The Lord on the Rack has my service; I must look to the weak, the pained, the broken wherever they may be. My service could be discharged in the temple, or going out to places where one of the Adorned is needed. No matter the danger; trusting in the regard even the inquitous have for the Broken God. Trusting in Him; doing His work, knowing He will provide; not turning away any who suffer. Going where no other will go.

The cost: it is the cost of being reckless, foolish, naive by act of faith. It is being used, and knowing it, and shouldering that burden; for the seed it plants.


The seed, it must be worth it...?

I used you and harmed you. Yet your words carried with me, and they grew.

Not turning away any who suffer. Going where no other will go.

I see now where your resolve comes from.

Why you never gave up and why you would stand against any who would seek me harm now.


Duty to the Weak

I played at knighthood; I say that often. But was I playing? My ancestors always saw themselves as defending the weak, and their swords were sharp in order to protect others. I see that I am no different, even if faith guides my hand. A crusader dragonknight [The word has been struck through by someone else, another written above], standing along with others in the fight; the fight to destroy evil.

The cost: it is the cost of my role as one of the Adorned. A bloody sword wins little trust; strident words mark one out; and it draws much ire. This I discover. And it is such temptation to my old self. Resolve problems by removing them; bask in self righteousness; the easy path that brings accolade.


Raise a blade when no one other will, but question why you raise it.

Is it really for others, the people? Or for yourself and the twisted views of those around.


Many times, I have been grateful for the sharpness of your blade and your skill in using it.

Often times, I am simply thankful, it is there by your side, sheathed but ready to be drawn if need be.

There is a comfort that steel can bring, against others who would seek harm.


Duty to the Harp

I play the Harp; badly. But I play it. A dance of intrigue, dangerously close to lies, even if I leave that to others. The goal is freedom for all, peace; things my Lord treasures. Even if it is only a voice I can use, it is still of use, to build bonds and remove fear of the Tyrant's yoke.

The cost: I learn now of the purity of the Adorned even as I am tainted away from it. Why my Lord's followers are rare among those who harp. It is no small thing, to consider now how I must pass suffering by, as anything I do will be considered the playing of music, not the duty of the Adorned. It is an impiety.


You are a priest first.

No... you are Ameris.



I always thought of you more as poet than a musician.


Duty to the Mission

I asked my Lord to use me as he will; set me a task. Use all of me, not just my learned healing, or my counsel. I had meant the sword; not this. Not this silken knot. I still question why he chose me for this task. A punishment and a reward in both! Those wiser than me say that no other could act as I. So if not me, who?

The cost: Fear of death; for if I die, this will be undone. Fear for another, that attachment that the Adorned so often eschew, as our duty is to all; More secrets, a dance I find a temptation.

Not just fear of death; fear of death at the hands of friends; colleagues, those who I can only hope will see what is right.

This task a fetter to all others; for it renders me unfree.


Do not fear death.

It embraces us all, sooner or later.

But.... do not be reckless.

"You do not need to rush to an end".

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

But it is what he set before me.

The ideal.


Standing with me, it pulls you in different directions as well, does it not?

I do not know what way. But I do not wish to see you suffer.

The bond we share, it does not make you free.

Yet, know that you can walk away if you wish to. I will not think ill of you.

Pure Intent

The beast was out; a thing once merely a seeker of knowledge. It had sought too far, and now was a consumer of life and hope; an architect of illusions and lies.

Perhaps a wicked mind had given us the key. But we had turned it.

It had tricked us. No, it had tricked me. A word from me could have stopped all action; a word from me incited misplaced mercy. I failed my comrades, and we gave it the means to escape, to reap its bitter harvest.

I failed the bardess. Our first task together; tainted. Her own steps faltering with self doubt.

But the Broken God sets a duty to the Adorned. "Persevere", he says, "Persevere and I will be there."

For this though, burdens had to be shared. Apology given. My knees met hard earth as I looked up to Brother and Sister, mindful of my sin. Mindful.

And grateful at the love they showed. Forgiveness...

Pure hearts, measured by the intent they bring.

This was what my Lord's weeping angel told us would be our ally; our sword; our means to atone for the terrible mistake that was made. We were to have that chance. The bardess was to have that chance. No matter that we might falter, question, struggle, doubt our role, our goodliness, our place, no matter any of that:I would not let them down again.

All the while, the beast moved across the land, leaving its taint, followed by one whose love of the land was as pure as my love of my lord. We had unleashed a bitterness on nature; it was right that those who defend it play their part, even if it meant admitting our shame.

Our search began, desperate, near blind. The beast had jailers, jailers who wanted explanation. Jailers who dealt in secrets themselves; who betrayed each other, who nursed hidden intent even as they spoke of a united purpose. Bloodshed and hostility - my person preserved by the vigilance of a learned friend - gave way to uneasy truce - they did not need to die for their mistrust of us - and we took a leap of faith, knowing that it might be a leap into a trap.

The marks of the beast all around, a shadow passing across humble village, driving brother against sister, husband against wife. The mark of a crude gallows awaiting visitors, a sign of a frenzy of bloodletting. Through the reader's wit we found wraiths dreaming waking nightmares for the peasantry. A pall of terror induced by such. Yet order restored by writ of Helm and mailed fist. Villagers dragged from their beds. Peace through steel.

A delay in our hunt perhaps. A distraction. A sideline. But the Broken God's words echoed in my mind. "Allow no injustice to go unchallenged." I could not let them down again. I could not let my sister stumble. I could not let the bardess look away from the light.

For pragmatism can be enemy to righteousness. You repeat it often.

So we tarried to speak with the Helmite Commander, despite discord. Their faith in me touches my heart, however reluctant.

Curfews laid out. Bodies of those slain by the madness not returned. The power of a solider over a peasant, soothed only by a bardess' song. Means of execution, unused, in the town square - a silent threat, no less effective. Each step towards the summit, a step backwards in time for me. Anger jostling with apprehension. But the Helmites were subjected to torment by wraiths just as the villagers; it was too early to judge their actions. Too early to reach for the sword.

Within, confirmation. The servant of nature smelling the taint. The need for games of word with the deluded commander. They let me speak, a dance towards the limits of honour. More faith in me. Undeserved, but I am thankful for it.

And I saw the suffering of the man, even as he betrayed us, sealing us down below with the rotten corpses, consigning us to face the evil. As we knew must happen. Our resolve a blade in our hearts.

And then we walked in shadow. Lies before us; twin sufferers chained by the beast. The meaning clear, choose one to save. And my sword moved quickly, to be merciful. Will she understand this? Will she understand it was no fury?

The words of the shadow-angel were formed to weaken resolve. You have fallen she told my sister; You have tainted your comrades she told the bardess. You should give up on them, she told me. So did the shadow reveal itself a lie, and so was it destroyed.

And finally, the beast, that seeker of knowledge, his black heart still bounded by curiosity, his lies averted, lay before us; his weeping prisoner still full of wonder and glory; she endured.

We destroyed the beast. He will cause no more horrors. He will not be released by those with wicked hearts, he will not be used as a tool. He is no longer a threat, struggling for release.

And the weeping one is free once more.

But there must be mourning for those who died. It was my failure. A failure of faith, a fear of a false truth which the beast showed me; an incitement to guilt, and from the guilt to doubt.

And in that doubt, I erred.

But the Broken God sets a duty to the Adorned. "Persevere", he says, "Persevere and I will be there."


Endure.

Please.

Reckless Gift

Our laughter died, replaced with silent, sweet smiles which shone in our eyes. We stood by the fire, the fresh logs cracking and spitting, filling the room with a woody, earthy aroma. I gazed at her, and I thought her the most beautiful thing in Faerun.

Without a word I removed it from my pocket and held it up, letting it dangle from my fingers on its chain. In my selfishness I could not just give a gift; I had to bask in her reaction.

The flames granted the gold of the necklace a heavy, orange lustre. Even so, one could tell it was very fine. The gasp she gave seemed to suggest that she could too.

She looked at it. She looked into my eyes. Between us, there was silence. Whatever she had been, she had been a stranger to finery such as this.

I stepped forward. She reached up, bunching her hair to grant me access. I fastened it round her neck. Still her eyes never left mine.

Did she know how dangerous it was? A thing worn by ancestors; intended for the Sarneh girl when she came to be my wife. A thing to bind alliance. Now, a thing given from the heart. A dagger formed of ... love? I thought so at the time.

I do not think she was a fool, usually.

It lay against her skin. A trace of her usual insouciance entered her eyes, but it was gone when she finally spoke, retreating as if before a tide. "You didn't have to..." She knew what was meant.

I cut her off. "Yet I did." Her dark eyes grew deep. She understood the promise.

Our lips met; as did our hearts.

*this is written more as a note, than a codified entry. Jottings of a tired man before sleep*

I read back some of these words and see how much has changed; and how much remains constant.

I do write for me now, this is not a didactic enterprise anymore. She has not even read the last entries, although I'll correct that. She must have it all, else our bond is based on a lie, even if it is one to myself. We stood together in the beyond, in the face of Death; she followed in my service to the Broken God against the Shadow. It gives me confidence it will be as I hope; but her mind is her own.

Now I dwell on a second gift one might call reckless, this time arising not out of selfish impulse, rather to atone for it. I am a wiser man, yet not wise. An older man, yet still young. This time I know what path I must take, even if I am unsure my strength and wit will be enough I hope that they will be [Words written between the sentences]. My eyes are open to my foolishness; because they are always also on the duty placed before me.

I hope she understands. I hope those dear to me understand. Do they understand..?

The Judge offers choice;
The Righteous teach how to choose.

An excess of pragmatism kills the soul.

A Great Sin

It was a strange place for my father to summon me to meet. The corridor ran between the main hall and off to the barracks. It was devoid of any real finery, with simple tapestries bearing the family crest positioned along the walls. The place did have a significance, though. A heavy doorway on one wall, about halfway along, led down to rooms under the castle; rooms of particular purpose.

I was still attired for comfort. I had been reading, I forget what. All before and after this moment is lost in reeling shadow, and lashed in ruby wine. I could not forget this, though, no matter how much I drank amidst the paid laughter of others.

"Leave us." my father commanded, and the pageboy who had guided me here beat a hasty retreat. There was something in his tone, in his stance, in the ancient sword at his side. His blue doublet was immaculate, fine. He had dressed for this.

I was wary at once. "What troubles you, father?"

"There has been a theft." he said, tones clipped. "I have had to order one of the servants punished."

"Was it...?" I began. But he was master of this conversation.

"A maid stole a necklace meant for your intended."

My heart lept. My mouth went dry. My mind in a frenzy, I cast about for words

"Surely there's no pr..."

He stepped forward, standing close to me, a firm right hand gripping my shoulder, holding me close as he leaned to growl in my ear. "The girl says she did not steal it. That it was a gift. She spoke of promise. There's talk among the other servants that she shares your bed."

He must have felt me stiffen, as his hand gripped tighter. I felt his restrained fury. I glanced towards him and our eyes met; I saw the fury was not alone. Pain was there. Disappointment.

"Your mother says I have let you run wild. I say you are my son, and will remember that."

He stepped back. My voice was hoarse. My stomach heavy with dread. "The girl. Where is she?"

"She is to be punished, and then cast out." The voice was cold, the meaning clear.

I moved as a blur, throwing the heavy door open. A metallic, bitter waft of air came up from below. A stench of horrors past and to come. Stairs down lay before me, dank and shadowed. At their feet there was another heavy door, with a small grill in it at head height. An orange glow lit the room beyond. I knew well it emanated from the hot coals of a brazier. The only light that the rulers of that infernal pit needed to do their cruel work. There was silence. In a way that was more terrible.

"If this girl speaks no lie, you can go down there, and take what is yours. When you return, you will leave these lands with only the clothes on your back; and without your family name; else you will meet steel."

My foot landed heavily onto the first step.

"But."

I took a second step.

And paused.

"If you are my son, and you know your duty to your father, your Duke, your King and your people. If you remember your ancestors who bled and died in service. If you remember the oaths you swore when you became a man. Then she will be a liar."

I was frozen. So help me, I was frozen.

His voice softened now. "Son, youth makes us reckless. I've raised you sternly, and you've looked for warmth. You are my heir; and my firstborn. You have my love, and you will have honours from me. You will have what you want."

A heavy silence in the air.

"If you learn limits."

Ahead, my promise. Behind, I saw duty and family; and I saw accolade; and I saw ambition.

I stepped back, away from the stairs, and shut the door slowly, as quietly as possible.



It surprised me, to see this entry so recent.



I remember it, when you spoke of it several moons ago.

The worst thing you had done you said, was to close that door and walk away.

Martyrs

The dawn fog was chill as we waited amid dew soaked, balding branches. The crunch of horses' hooves onto fallen leaves was muffled, but still we heard the riders before we saw them.

"Stand to." Jalamir gave the order, but the men, well trained, had already reached for their weapons.

There was a tense moment. Gristan broke it, as he always did in some way; he handed me a hipflask. “My Lord; no sense you freezing while we wait.” He grinned; an easy manner coming from having been promoted from the ranks. He was nearly our best battle captain, though; second only to Jalamir, and tipped to succeed him.

"Good service.” I said, with a smile. Loud enough for the men to hear. Father’s words. The men will follow strength, but do not be aloof. And I was grateful.

Then the riders could be seen emerging from the murk, one of them one of our pickets; the blue cloth visible under his mail, his face miserable from a night’s riding. Beside him rode a woman in a sodden green hood and cloak, but the golden lion brooch she wore revealed her as one of our scouts. I recognised her as she got closer, a grey-eyed woodswoman named Lijena.

Jalamir raised his hand to set our riders at ease. There were twenty-two troopers gathered here with the three us, and our total numbers were just shy of three dozen if counting the outriders even now reporting in. Lijena came before me, dismounting and then offering a respectful bow.

"My Lord."

"Speak."

"Three score. They move in a mass, dragging their loot with them. They’ll cross the Goldwater before the fog clears and be away by mid-morning."

"The prisoners?" Gristan asked.

The woman’s voice slipped, no longer a cold report; instead anger and dismay in one. "There could be as many as a dozen that live. They’re being herded along like cattle."

The beasts had come down from the mountains at the cusp of autumn turning to winter, seeking easy pickings. We’d arrived too late; and they had burned the village of Giltwell, routing its militia and slaying the Sherrif. Most of the villagers had fled, but not all. The goblins had killed some, and slaved others. Now they tried to make their escape with their booty and captives.

"You were not seen?" Jalamir this time.

"No, Sir. They were too busy making pace."

I dismissed her, making a point to congratulate her good work, and turned to my comrades, my counsellors.

Gristan spoke first. ”You were right, old man. If we’d have waited for them at the easy crossings we’d never have found them." His praise was in good humour, and Jalamir’s nod acknowledged it. The master-at-arms had spoken against both of us in yesterday’s war council, and he had been right. The goblins had to cross the Goldwater to get back to their mountain lairs; and they had taken the hard way rather than the direct route, seeking to avoid our vengeful lances. Clever, but not clever enough. We’d ridden hard in the night.

I smiled, a cruel smile, the smile of a lion ready for its next meal. "Then we cross ourselves, and cut them off."

The old master at arms did not agree. "We’ll rout them doing that. Can’t say that we will save the captured. They’ll be guarded and these scum are cruel. They won’t let them live past a defeat. They’ll give them to their god."
Again, sagacious words.

"What is your counsel?" I ask. Father’s voice again. Lead, but look to the skills of those who serve.

Jalamir rubbed his salt and pepper beard. "Need them distracted."

Gristan was eager. ”My Lord, we don’t have to go far down stream before the horses can cross. We can send a force to hold the ford, weak enough to draw the goblins on but strong enough to hold it. They’ll not be sure how many of us they face till the fog lifts. The rest take them from behind. They’ll be among the booty and captives before the beasts know what’s happening.”

We looked between each other; it would work, if we had the numbers, and the timing. We smiled.

”Hammer and anvil.” Gristan offered, echoing Santraeger traditions.

"How many men for the ford?" I asked.

"A dozen dismounted, half with bows. Then a half dozen mounted to cut down the ones that make it across." Jalamir’s assessment was swift.

”The flanking party will have to ride quick. Time’s going to be tight.”

"Aye." nodded Jalamir. "The ford will be bloody."

"Ride now then, Gristan, and see it done. And us to the ford, Jalamir." I said. Yet they did not move.

"No, m’lord." Jalamir intoned. "The danger’s at the ford."

"And the glory is in the charge!" Gristan quipped, as he mounted his horse. "We’ll look for you, sound the horn so we don’t send arrows your way." And he led his men off to their desperate stand.

Jalamir saw my scowl, but I knew their duty; and my own. "With haste, Jalamir. See it done." And so we rode.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Goblins are cowardly and primitive creatures. In numbers, they’ll face their foes, but they are no match for well-armed and armoured soldiery – they quail before the thunder of horses' hooves, and dipped lances. And their fear is often their undoing, as Tethyrians in wrath are strangers to mercy.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The last stragglers were being hunted down, and the villagers were guarded, safe and sound, as Jalamir and I rode through the aftermath. Two riders were close behind us, one lifting high a pennant bearing our sigil; fluttering proud in the breeze that had lifted the fog.

Bodies clogged the ford from that final stampede to escape our vengeance. Blood swirled in the water as Jalamir and I nursed our horses through the shallows. The men on the opposite bank were battered and bloodied, but their eyes were bright as they looked towards their young Lord, fresh from battle, and their honoured Captain, both of whom who had ridden at the head of the charge. I spoke the words expected; of honour and victory and vengeance. I told them what they needed to hear; I told them their sacrifice had saved the lives of the innocent.

Eighteen had ridden to hold this ford. There were less than that standing, and the wounded were off to one side. For them, there was hope, but for the three still bodies, lain with reverence alongside each other, there was none.

I dismounted, removing my helm, holding it under my arm as I walked over; there Gristan lay, armour rent, heart still. His wounds were to his front.

[The entry spans several pages, the writing style is very informal; incoherent even. More as a confession, of things told from the heart]


10th Elesias, 1350 DR


"You should see what I am...when I am not a priest."

Those were the words, you said to me when you gave me your journal.

That there would be no secrets from you.

(Yet we both know there -must- be secrets)



I think. Maybe I was too harsh towards you.

But you came with your words, too quick, too judging, too soon.

I could not bear the priest's words.

I needed a friend. It was all I asked for. For the sharpness to cease.

For friendship.



You said...

That if all you did, is to speak soft words...

If all you did was to soothe my pain, then you have failed me.

Yet each sharp word cut into me.

You almost failed with the sharp words. Do you... realize?



We argued about who would leave.

You insisted you should be the one walking away if we parted.

You said your words were of no interest to me. I said they were.

The garden.

We both stayed.



You gave me the journal to read.

With hesitation, I took the piece offered of your soul.

And then I tried to make you to take it back.

As it was not how I wanted you to share your secrets.

In anger and with bitterness.



You made me take it,

Saying it was given out of love.

And that you would give me all you could.

I never asked you to.



You said I would be reading of a fool, the fool that is you.

I cannot disagree with that having looked through the pages.



Of course it was not that easy.

You asked if I would read.

I said I was uncertain.

I did... not want you to feel forced to give me a piece of yourself.

Again the journal was returned to you.



You swore in the name of the Morninglord,

As the sun rose,

That your intentions were pure.

And the journal was back in my hands.




Only then,

Did I tell you I would read it.




I have read it.




There was little I did not already know.

The darkness within you, the serpent...

I have seen it.

I tried to lure it out sometimes,

I am... ashamed to admit.

You stood strong.



The pain you write of.

Your past deeds.

Things you still feel.

Did you think, that I could not tell?



I did not need to read these pages to know you, my love.

I already did.

And I still loved you, and still I do.

Perhaps even more so now.

When I /know/ that you need me.




If only for a while.




You asked, if we should take the chance.

I told you to just -feel-.

Even if lust and desire is all there is.

That it did not need to be more.

And you said it was more, whatever it was....

And if this is enough for me...

Just being near, is enough.



Dear gods,

I do not know where this path will lead.

But I stand by my words.

If only for a while.

If I can ease some of your pain...

This cannot be wrong.



[A poem is written on a separate page. It differs in writing from the previous pages by the same writer. The words are elegant and flowing across the page in an artistic way]


Wintersun
AM & Shawn Lee - Winter Sun


Sun will hide,
Leaves they will die,
And in return renew,
But will I...?

What we had is now a blur,
We can leave or we can learn.
We survive,
I cannot say,
But we'll try.



[The last word written on the page:]

I will try.

// Apparently it was not clear that the journal had been completely vandalised!

Telia has left a track of commentry throughout the pages. //

*a brief note added to the next clear page. The writing more a scrawl than usual, as if written in haste, recording first impressions*

Vandalised. Vandalised.

Or was this what I asked for? In these pages are many of my purest thoughts; I wanted to be known. I wanted there to be nothing held back; so the reader would understand what a promise to share burden meant. The changes it would require. These additions return that favour of knowledge. And they make promise.

I read the words and see many things.

Admission.
Pride.
Regret.
Forgiveness.
Sadness.
Defiance.
Admiration.
Acceptance.
Curiosity.
Fear.
Intuition.
Anger.
Humour.
Sentimentality.
Judgment.

Closeness. A knowledge of me.

...Love.

Hope.

Belief in me.

Then I shall meet it.

Change

The oddest thing about the practice swords was the sound they made, a thudding crack when they struck each other or the unadorned training shields we used. My brother Errilar circled warily, still reeling from my last blow, although to his credit he kept his shield higher than he had when he first returned from the Duke’s court. That had been near the start of summer and almost daily since then Jalamir had made us spar like this, the master-at-arms watching us with serious eyes, marking – with annoyance – every error and lapse of concentration. Both my brother and I were under scrutiny. Jalamir wanted to break any bad habits that Errilar had picked up in Ithmong, swordsmanship out here on the border being a thing of survival, not courtly grace. And myself, I would come of age in half a year. I had to be ready to stand in place of my father and not embarrass the family name before the Santraeger soldiery, some of the veterans of whom had served us nearly twenty years. Or longer in the master-at-arms’ case.

In Tethyr, the morning sun is still warm even into Marpenoth when it takes the mood to be, and so it was this day. With the heat and the motion, I had worked up a sweat, my hair sticking to my brow beneath the leather practice coif. I could tell Errilar suffered just as badly. These morning bouts had become something of an attraction to the servants and retainers of the castle and, with such clement weather, we had an audience. A number of men at arms stood nearby, Captain Gristan among them, sharing easy camaraderie with the men as they observed the bout between the young lords who would one day fight beside them. One day lead them. By the well, a gaggle of maidservants washed clothes and chattered away as they watched us out of the corners of their eyes. Grooms lazily brushed horses in the stables in between breaks to gaze at the spectacle.

This bout was going much as the others had this morning. My brother was improving, but I was older, stronger, more experienced. Faster. Fiercer. I did not fight with my full prowess, concentrating on technical points, and yet, he was on the defensive. I was jabbing at Errilar, edging myself forward, inviting him to strike and over-extend. My sword darted towards him, a thunk as it hit his shield, and I placed my right foot in place to follow it. He took the bait and thought me overextended, swinging at me. I took the blow on my shield...and bowled into his with all my weight, forcing the shield aside, meanwhile jabbing with the wooden sword at head height, over his defences and towards his shoulderblade at the nape of his neck. The impact carried my brother back, he gave out a squawk, reeling, and my practice sword hit true, marring the leather and no doubt leaving him with a mark of his mistake.

“Back off!” came Jalamir’s throaty voice, and I did so, at once. The bout was mine. A smile was on my lips, keen, wolfish, cheeks flushed with victory yet again. An appreciative murmur came up from the men, and one or two stamped their feet or tapped their shields to acknowledge the victory. Errilar rubbed where my sword had struck and smiled back as Jalamir went over to give instruction. “You kept your shield up, that’s good. You hide behind it too much, still. Press home attacks...” I had already turned away, stepping aside to take a cup of water from a nearby servant. My eyes scanned the yard, meeting Gristan’s gaze. He nodded, a smile which would have been disrespectful from some. I looked around further, seeing the servants and grooms now going about their duties more diligently in this rest time between bouts.

“One more.” Commanded Jalamir. Errilar was already taking up his place, readying his weapons. I adopted a fighting stance myself. We began to circle. I heard the feminine chatter from the well quietening; I heard speculative murmurs from the soldiers. I heard the splutter of one of the horses as the grooms ignored it to watch the developing, and last, match. I was acutely aware of being watched. For some reason, this fuelled my desire to compete. And so I cast away my shield, and swung my sword in a decorative flourish. “Keep yours, Brother.” I said, as he made the move to discard it. There was a look in his eye, but I could not make it out; or did not care to, then. Before he could protest, I was at him in earnest.

“What’s this?” Jalamir growled, displeased. Although I heard some amused banter from the soldiers.

The practice sword swung time and again, darting and feinting. I embraced speed, I embraced prowess, I embraced art, almost. This is the first time I recall fighting shieldless and I revelled in the freedom it offered. I saw my brother twitch, his eyes wide, struggling to guess where each blow would come, my flourishes leading him to distraction. And then I switched to power. Thud, thud, thud, I battered his shield again and again, driving it aside. Desperately, Errilar swung at me with his sword. I was not there, sliding round his practice blade to smash my own into his wrist. He cried out in pain, dropping it, and with an easy, sweeping motion, I swung my practice blade round to take his ankles out from under him and sweep him into the dust with a loud thud. I had not beaten him so badly in weeks. There was some laughter from around the yard as I looked down on him.

I offered my hand, helping him to his knees. A pained look was in his eyes. Humiliation perhaps. No doubt the patronising words which followed did not help that. “You have improved, Brother.” I said as I turned for another cup of water. I saw Jalamir’s gaze, angry. I saw the soldiers, clearly impressed with the theatrics. And I saw Captain Gristan smiling, but there was some concern in his eyes.

I held Jalamir’s gaze, expecting him to offer comment or reproach. Indeed the master-at-arms had looked as though he was going to speak, but his eyes only narrowed, looking hard at me – or past me, now I think back. Granting permission for what was to happen. I shrugged, in truth troubled at his reaction, and approached the cup-bearer.

I heard the footsteps behind me, and turned just in time to parry Errilar’s first blow. He swung it heavy, double-handed, a grunt of rage. My eyes widened in shock, there was no time to protest as he rained one handed blows, his strength double that of before, his face twisted with the ardour of battle. It took all I could to fend off his attacks, to force him back...pushing with all my strength...

Then his foot crashed into my gut, doubling me over, and his fist smashed into my jaw. It was all so sudden, the earth spinning as I crashed into the dirt. I focused, and he was stood over me, cheeks red, practice sword pointed at my chest, gulping down heaving breaths. Anger on him still. I rubbed my jaw, spitting blood from a broken lip. My brow was dark, my hand snaking to my discarded sword. I spoke; the tone terse and even as the words framed a wry compliment. “You have improved, Brother.” My intent clouded; I did not know it myself. There was silence around the yard.

Gristan broke it. He laughed, taking my words as a jest. After a moment, I laughed as well, and then so did the men. I felt the Serpent uncoil from my innards as I offered up my hand to my brother. Errilar, bless him, he took the proffered hand at once, anger blowing way like dust, helping me up, smiling warmly. We embraced as brothers, while Jalamir growled out another command. “Again. Properly.”

Dreams of Flames

I had a dream.

I feel them lick at my heels, washing across my skin, burning away my body, and conscious thought, revealing the soul; that slithering serpent, squinting into the bright light of the flames.

In the swirling sparks I see naked swords shining in the glow, slick with red blood. Lashing out, again and again; ending lives; sending souls screaming to the afterlife."For the greater good." the serpent sneers.

Tongues of fire circle into bitter rage, railing against the deeds of others: betrayals, lies, mockeries, slights. Seeing eyes in the flames, yellow, blue, green; dark. Feeling again their scorn, their victory. "They touched you. Touch back."

Shadow in the heart of the fire, a stench of roasting meat. I see Evil. Cruelty, greed, selfishiness, sin. The rotten corruption of the world laid bear. Purifying fire. "The wicked. Burn them all" Its rage exhultant.

The flame swirling ever deeper, turning blue and chill, revealing cynicism, faithlessness, lapse of belief, steeled hearts rendering the whole world cold. Hard eyes, hard hearts. "Know your duty" the serpent chides, with a sibilant hiss.

The heat swells up, and the pain sets in and I sink down; a soul aflame, as sins of the past dance before my eyes. My own pride. My own betrayal. My own steeled heart. My own lack of courage. My own failings of resolve, of discipline. Of trust. Of loyalty. "All the fires of all the hells would not be enough!" it rages, dragging me further into the pit.

Lines of fire snake round. A misplaced dream. A flawed pursuit. A healing hand squeezing hard. The hope of restitution writhing in agony in the hottest part of the pyre. The bitterest failure, curling round the Serpent, curling round me as I grasp it. It drinks it all in. "I told you." the Serpent sneers. "You might as well have fettered moonlight!"

"No." I whimper.

Then the pain stops, the roaring hiss gone to silence. Flames flicker around me, but seen as if through a dream. A burning gate radiates heat before me. No not heat, light - formed of golden flame. I see chains on the bars of the gate, and names on the chains. Each one brings a smile to my lips, a reminder of trust. "Never!" it says, slithering forward, trying to wrap around the lock, but its flesh blisters and smoulders and it recoils with a keening wail.

Through the gates I go, gaze drawn ever onwards. The flames here sway like branches in the wind, cooling my charred form, soothing the hurts. I feel a breeze fanning them, a sweet, fresh scent. Vitality. Presence. Ahead, a shadow. Black and sickly. A prison. "You cannot." the Serpent hisses behind me. "I can." I say. Looking. Looking. "I can."

Something dances in the shadow, swirling flame, orange, hot; there in my heart. It spins, it laughs; it is bright. The shadow becomes a swirling cloak around it, part of it, fading into it, leaving a raven mark. "No" says the Serpent, and I see it all again. Rage, guilt, violence, suffering. "Yes." I say, and step forward.

Unintended Consequences

It was a warm spring afternoon, the sun hanging bright in the clear blue sky, easily visible through the high windows of the Solar. The frozen winter of a few short months ago, and its cruel hardships, seemed a distant memory. Urdo shuffled in quietly, ushered in by a page. The deferent, nervous look the man wore was incongruous; as otherwise the man’s aspect was fearsome – cracked teeth, hard eyes, scars from the grievous wounds that had ended his duty as a man at arms visible on his pockmarked cheeks. When his broken body had been nursed back to health after an attack, my grandfather had taken mercy on him and given him other duties within the castle. That had been before I was born. As long as I had known, Urdo had been our jailer and the one who put our prisoners to question.

“Yer Excellency. Yer Lordship.” The man murmured, head bowed, as my father and I turned to look at him, cups of wine in our hands. We had retired here for a private lunch in each other’s company; it was a rare honour for a servant such as Urdo to be received here, but my father understood the need for strictly controlled familiarity in binding loyalty to our house.

“He’s broken?” My father asked. I sipped from my goblet.

Urdo looked up, but still did not meet our eyes, wringing his hands. “Yes, yer Excellency. He’s gone and given me t’names an all. I gots a confession written, just waitin’ fer you to bear witness.”

My father set down his cup and swept out of the room, with me at his heels. Urdo limped after us as quick as he could.

Down in the dungeon, no matter the season, it was always chill unless Urdo had lit the braziers for his work. Then, it was hellish hot, cloying and musty, the lack of ventilation dispelling none of the putrid, bile like smell of sweat, fear and despair – and other less esoteric, less savoury things.

I hesitated a moment before descending the stairs. As I had once before. But this time there was no impediment to me going into the pit; because I went to do a wicked thing, not a good thing.

We were out of place here, in our fine blue and gold doublets, the swords of free men at our side as we stood before the rack. The broken figure there snivelled, his breaths short, pain in every gasp. Urdo’s voice, when he spoke to the captive, held none of the deference of before. The voice of the torturer.

“Ye scum, greet yer rightful lords.”

The man gasped and spluttered, squinting up towards us, an animalistic confusion in his eyes. “Gyer” he said, some unintelligible word. His response did not please Urdo, who raised a lash until my father held up his hand to prevent him. Rather, Count Santraeger leaned over his rebellious subject and spoke firmly, but quietly.

“Garion Elbis of Tressing Village, you have betrayed your lords in fee and your king. His justice has found you, but there will be leniency in your punishment if you confirm the names of the others who plan violent insurrection. Urdo here has prepared a list from names you gave him.”

Urdo had retrieved that very list from a table to the side, from where it lay next to writing tools and my father’s seal, marks of civilisation looking incongruous in this barbarous place. My father took the list and showed it to the emptied soul before him.

“Are these the men who you ferried weapons to?”

A muffled sound. My father took it as an assent. Or resolved to make it so. Holding the paper near the man’s bound hand.

“Sign.”

Shaking fingers clutched the proffered quill. The mark was made. My father took the paper over to the table, and wrote his own words; turning the list of names into a writ of execution. He signed it, sealed it, and handed it to me.

“Go quickly. If you set out within the hour you will catch them in the dead of night and be able to take most of them. Thirty men should see to the task. We need captives for examples to be made, publicly. We do not need every name on the list returned here, though. If you meet resistance, slay enough to make an example, but bring me someone to hang.”

“Your excellency.” I bowed my head, heels clicking, and turning to leave. Behind, the wretch on the rack sobbed in his treachery.

_________________________________________________________________________


Sure enough, it was still black night when we arrived at the sleeping village of Tressing. A warm night though. A pair of militiamen watched the road, and stood to block our passage until our numbers became clear in the dark, and the standard that Larso carried beside me became clear. “Stand down.” He said. “I carry the Count’s banner.” We detained the men, and I sent a pair of scouts into the village to rouse, quietly, the Sherriff. He was brought before Jalamir and I, an overweight, peaceful man, blinking away his sleep. At the sight of so many riders, fear soon brought him to full alertness.

We remained mounted.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked, imperiously.

“Yes m’lord, the Lord Ameris m’lord. What can I...”

“Answer questions. Do not ask them.” I proffered down the writ for him to read. The man’s eyes widened, his jowls trembled in shock.

“Rebels and bandits all. They are to be conveyed back to my father. You will mark the houses to my scouts.”

“Y-yes m’lord.” The shock at having to betray those he had known all his life evident. And the despair at having no other choice.

“Good. It will stand to your credit when we ask how it is you let them smuggle in weapons all the way from Ithmong under your nose.”

The fat man went off with our scouts, a silent trio creeping through the shadows. The two militiamen, detained, looked sullen, wary of what was to occur. I turned to Jalamir, looking for his counsel.

“We’ll not be able to ring every house if we move on them all at once. Six wait to guard the horses. Three columns, six a piece, move dismounted to separate targets. With silence until the doors are forced. Detain those within their families, bring them back to us, move on. We stay mounted, ready near the centre of the village with the balance in case any trouble starts. We’ll get at least six names that way before the village is awake. Perhaps we’ll ride down any more that make a break for it. Your father will have to be happy with that.”

I smiled at the old warrior’s candour. “Will he now? I am sure he would love that tone if he were here.” My own tone was teasing. Jalamir laughed. At that moment, I felt no burden.
The scouts returned with their corpulent guide.

I gave orders to the squadron leaders: Mulmar, Ahden and Kural. They dismounted and led their men on their tasks, disappearing into the darkness of the village alleys. The silence grew long before we heard the first cracks and thuds of forced doors and shutters; and shortly after that the first scream of alarm – shrill, female.

We cantered into the village, horses hooves thudding softly on the muddy roadway. It was not long until the first captives were brought to us, a recalcitrant young man, a middle aged woman and a blubbering fishmonger and his family. I did not look long upon them, my eyes instead upon the darkness as dogs barked and the sound of the odd shutter being thrown back was heard. I could barely hear the sobbing of the fishmonger’s wife.

Then more thuds, more cracks, were heard. And more screaming, but not of fear this time, instead of rage, then pain, and then cut off. Only to be followed by a keening wail. Commotion could be heard now, even as the second set of captives were brought back. A farmhand and his wife, clutching each other in shared fear; an older man, blinking in his nightshirt, blood running down his face from a head wound. And the still corpse of a young man, a dark red stain on his chest, followed closely by a weeping, lamenting young woman. The first soul sent to the gods that night.

“He tried to fight, m’lord.” Said Kural. Without emotion, as always. I ordered a man from each group to stay behind to watch the prisoners.

The columns moved out again past the figures visible now in doorways or at windows, lamps lit here and there casting long shadows into the street. Wide eyes watching the soldiers file past. Fearful eyes, confused and uncertain. Keeping within their homes. Hoping it was not going to be them.

Then I saw something, a figure moving in the darkness, then another. I pointed.

“I see it.” Said Jalamir. “Make ready” he ordered those around us, and swords were drawn, dull in the darkness. The figures were not moving towards us, but they must have met some of the men, as we heard the challenges echo out.

“Who goes?”

“Death to the Desert Tyrants!”

Before a clamour of roaring shouts broke out, dissolving any sense from ensuing words.

“Trouble.” Said Jalamir, and we began to canter forward. By the time we reached Mulmar’s column, two of his men were down, one wounded and one seemingly still, a gash in his side.

“Swines.” Swore Mulmar, ever bitter. “There must have been nearly a dozen! Led by a giant! They went that way!” He pointed north. The body of a single villager lay crumpled nearby, kissed by castle-forged swords, his blood appearing black as it soaked the earth.

“More like ...half that, m'lord. They just ...got the drop ..on us.” Grunted the wounded man. Difshar, I recall his name was. Blood was leaking from a wound in his gut. He did not survive the night.

“Stand to, then.” I ordered, and we cantered through the streets. A hue and cry was growing, and as we rode more figures moved through side streets: Santraeger men, in pursuit of villagers. It seems that the list had not named every rebel in Tressing. The occasional scream and yell rang out as hunters caught the hunted. And a distinctive bellow could be heard, filled with cries of freedom and defiance. I distinctly heard Kural shouting for his men to keep their distance and to tend to the wounded. I grew worried.

On the north side of the village there was a mill, the attached flour store making it larger than many of the other buildings. As we rode around the corner to bring the mill into view, we saw the last of the running figures make their way inside, barring the door from our men in hot pursuit. I heard Ahaden’s warrior’s voice loud and clear. “Open up! In the name of Count Ardepan!”

The response was as unambiguous as it was shocking. Shutters were thrown back, and both insults and a pair of arrows issued forth. “Death to the Dogs of Alemander!” Only the panicked inexperience of the resistance saved Ahden, as he ducked behind his men’s shields. A figure appeared at a downstairs window, brandishing a steel sword, one of the smuggled weapons, looking for all the world like he was about to jump out and set about our men.

“TO ME!” I bellowed. “TO ME!” Summoning our men to this place at the same time as bringing Ahaden and his men back to safety, shields held high against the intermittent arrows.

We withdrew a distance, knowing we had a fight on our hands as the men gathered. Urgent orders were issued.

“Ring the place, keep your distance, but do not let anyone escape.” I whispered to Kulmar. He nodded and set about his task with grim determination.

“Take this house.” Jalamir ordered Mulmar. “Bows on the upper windows, shoot to kill if you can.” The family within did not protest, all staying abed in terror.

We looked at each other. “I will bid them cease this foolishness. They are only making things worse.” I said. By now the men had heard of the two fallen of Mulmar’s command. I could feel their mood turn. They wanted revenge.

“Aye.” Said Jalamir. “But if they don’t listen, we have to do this the hard way, for them.” He nodded towards the troopers gathered round, each gripping his blade tightly, and then to the preparations he was already making. Those we had spoken of before we ever rode into the village; the resolution we had made against any attempts at heroism. Fire.

“A line of shields, you lot. Your Lord wishes to address these traitors.” The master-at-arms’ voice broke through their rising fury, and the men made an interlocking wall in view of the mill even as others ringed it at a distance. I crouched behind the shield wall, with Larso beside me, the Count’s banner flying high.

“End this madness and submit to the King’s justice! It will go better for you, and no more lives need be lost!” I remember my voice being quite shrill.

The response was not quite monosyllabic. “Submit to my arse!”

It was accompanied by a flurry of poorly aimed arrows. A couple thudded into the shields. One put a hole in the standard. I looked back to where Jalamir peered round the corner and nodded.
He gave the order, and two flaming arrows arced towards the mill, burning brightly, landing amid the thatch. The flames spread swiftly, in scant seconds. Soon the roof was alight, and cries of alarm could be heard inside.

“Do not go for the first who leave.” I murmured to those in the shield wall. “Others will pick them up. We need to make sure the archers are silenced before we move.”
Smoke began to bellow from the windows. The door was flung open and a man bolted for freedom, coughing. We let him go, confident our comrades would catch him. Then another, casting down a sword as he ran.

Then, a remarkable thing. A huge bear of a man – the miller, I was later to learn, and the man who had rallied resistance against us – loomed out of the doorway, along with more than a half dozen villagers, bellowing mightily as he charged right towards us. He seemed like nothing other than King Strohm reborn.

“Remember, captives, but not at the price of your lives!” Jalamir cried as he rushed forward to join us and we rose to meet their charge. They came on us desperately, in a fury born of hopelessness. Swords shone in the light of the burning mill, even as a coughing woman left the doorway, trailing two girls behind her, eyes streaming – the miller’s family.

The fight was short, and sharp. They were intent on reaching me, and the miller’s brawn forced the first two men who came at him aside. He brought his axe down on the helm of a third, splitting his foe apart like he was firewood. A hero this giant would have been, in another life, but here he was surrounded and his hamstring cut, falling like an avalanche. Still he fought on from his knees.

His brawn had made an opening for the others, and one actually reached me while his comrades were skewered and slashed down, screaming defiantly. A tall lanky man he was with a mess of dark hair on his head. He held his sword in both hands, wavering. I did not toy with him long; a cut, a cut, and a cut, and he fell gasping, his life stolen from him in three short motions.

It was over. We had two more captives; the miller and one of his comrades, both wounded but alive. The miller had four of our men around him, holding him tight despite the fact he was already in fetters, his muscles bulging, his pugnacious face marked with barely concealed fury.

A small crowd of villagers had begun to gather, now the fighting was over. Fear in their eyes, but relief.

A wailing sob echoed out. The miller’s wife. She was hysterical, even as our men dragged her and her children towards the wounded captives. One of the men, furious still at his fallen comrades, back handed her to silence her, but she only sobbed more, words finally forming. “Nelan...little Nelan...he was behind me...!”

There was a whooshing, rushing sound as the roof collapsed, the whole top floor of the mill blazing as if it was some sort of hellish warning beacon. I ignored the woman. “Gather them up!” Jalamir gave the necessary orders as he wiped the blood from his sword.

The miller roared, trying to break free of his bonds again, trying to shrug off the hands that held him. His fury had a desperate edge to it. A despair to it. I felt the world tremble as I realised.

“MY SON!” he cried. “MY SON!” The man was desperate to reach his burning home. “He’s just a boy, you dogs! Just a boy!”

Another crash from the mill as the whole building began to collapse. Ahden reacted first, always a hero. He cast aside his arms and bolted towards the doorway, shielding his eyes from the inferno. “STOP HIM” roared Jalamir, breaking through the miasma of shock which had settled over me, and a group pulled Ahden back before he could throw his life away in a hopeless attempt to save the child. I would wager any inside had long since succumbed to the smoke.

I could see it in the men’s eyes. Their blood was up; and the realisation of this tragedy just served to further erode the restrains of duty. I could see them longing to extract a bitter price from the village that had taken the lives of two comrades, with a third bleeding out his last and several more wounded. I could hear the harsh murmurs and the steely glances cast towards the mutilated body of the man the miller had felled, and then towards the watching crowd.

I stood silhouetted by the fires, as a cloud of sparks billowed up when the doorway collapsed. There had to be a resolution. Even if it was an unjust one.

My voice cut across the din. I pointed my sword at the miller, even as he growled and struggled. “It is on your head, this. You chose your petty defiance. You chose fire, you chose blood. You broke the peace of Alemander and tragedy has been your reward!” I raised my sword. “And so is this!”

I stepped forward.

“Damn you to the hells, dog. Damn you and all yours. By my son’s soul, damn you. He died free. Damn you.” The miller growled, and hawked and spat bloody phlegm at me in a last act of hate fuelled defiance, even as my blade slashed down in misplaced judgment.

Lessons

After I sent the first of my father’s men home without me, I was very uncertain about my decision to stay a while amongst the Ilmateri. I still did not know what I was rejecting, or why. I still did not know what my path would be. A generous sum had been deposited at the Seminary of Saint Ostus to see to my care, more than had been needed, so the Adorned decided to accede to my desire to stay. Especially after soft words from the one who saw the seeds of change in my psyche. Still, I found the room the servants of Ilmater had given me nothing more than a cage, and paced it like some captive big cat now my strength had returned, snarling at any who came to check on me. Eventually, sensing my own ennui, I took it upon myself to explore the grounds outside the Seminary.

There was a copse nearby, small but reserved for the use of the Adorned. The game within would grace Saint Ostus’ tables, or be rendered into nourishing stews to be given to starved travellers or the local needy. It was a short walk, past the orchard and the low buildings where a tasty cider was brewed. A narrow path led through thickets to a little style, allowing ingress past the bordering fence into a flourishing, well maintained woodland.

I’d go there daily in the morning. I would take the ornate elven longsword born by the heirs of my family with me, strapping it to my waist and feeling whole again as I marked its weight on my hip. The Brothers and Sisters would not stop me as I left. I’d garner a few stares from the younger priests and novices – I suspect the more senior priests were just more subtle about it. I imagine I was striking amidst that sea of grey robes, in my blue and gold travelling attire, my thick and curled locks a marked contrast to the cropped hair of the Adorned. My sturdy leather boots rang out on the stone of the hallways, and my sword clattered at my side. I imagine I looked quite lordly.

Arriving into the copse, I’d walk briskly through the forest paths, quicker daily as my strength returned, finally rising to a jog. I’d take a circuitous route, but always the same one; narrow parameters, ordered ritual, I needed the stability. And always the same destination, a small clearing on the north side of the copse, hidden from view. I would take off my jacket, set aside the sword, stretch and then perform the exercises the Ilmateri had given me to rebuild my strength. I’d kneel, and offer a prayer to the Watcher. Then I’d draw the blade and begin sword practice, sparring with an imaginary opponent. Each blow would grow more and more furious. Each slash would grow more and more restive. No matter how many shadow doubts I tried to cut away, there were always more. It was no different this day.

“Lord Santraeger.” Came the voice. A woman’s voice. Kindly, but with that quiet strength I had come to know as she had treated my wounds and overseen my rehabilitation. I had come to know it even when her healing skill was not needed, as she had come back every day since, with the same strong, quiet patience, and the same merciful wisdom. In time we had knelt together, and she had told me to empty my mind of thoughts; she had then asked me questions, the answers to which had stung, drawing forth only more questions. She had tried to teach me, if not the answers, a way to learn them.

We’d parted yesterday’s evening after our talk had filled me with resentment. I had not liked what she’d asked. I did not like being questioned. I did not like, also, questioning myself as soon as I spoke proud answers. Thus, when I turned to speak with her now, there was no smile on my lips, and only my head bowed, too slow as well. I remember thinking to myself how tired I was of bowing to these peasant priests. “Revered Sister.”

The Priestess stood there in her grey robes, with her skullcap masking that brown hair; as if she was preparing to give a sermon. Her holy symbol, the Bloodied Rack, emblazoned with a seal of Saint Ramedar, hung round her neck. A walking stick was in one hand, and she leaned on it.

I sheathed my sword. Her accent was foreign, from the west somewhere, on the Inner Sea. Chondathan, Sembian I think even. “I didn’t want to stop you. I was just wondering what you do out here.”

She stepped into the clearing, walking round it, using the stick but clearly not needing it. She paid attention to the surrounding trees, the grass, the bushes, and the ebb and flow of the breeze in the same way one might look at the decor of a reception room. She came to stand opposite me, her tanned face like old leather, marked by years in the sun. There was a twinkle in her eyes as she smiled. I found it patronising, and raised my chin in defiance.

“I’ll not let talent fester. I must be back at duty soon. When I am ready to leave. When my strength is back.” I was conscious of the lies even as I gave voice. I could not admit my fear.

“Is that so? You’ve been fit for more than month by my reckoning. Since before your father’s men came.” she asked. She never let me rest in my illusions.

“I was not sure then. I am sure now.” She knew I spoke not of my body; but my soul. She also knew I lied to myself.

“Are you? Or are you just angry about our talk yesterday?” Again, direct.

“It is forgotten.” I lied again.

She stepped forward, closing the distance. “It’s hard to realise you have choices in life, isn’t it? And it’s harder when you realise you’ve made mistakes.”

I laughed, shrugging. There was some bitterness in my tone. “It is one thing to talk of your ideals here, priestess. Another to see them done back in reality. You’d not know that.”

She stood before me now, her voice soothing, but the words not. “Hard as well knowing your mistakes hurt others, isn’t it?”

That touched me. I glared at her, eyes hard as they bored into hers. What did she know? I thought; it was just a good guess, though, on her part.

Those brown eyes held mine, and there was defiance there; they were usually warm, but soft. Not now. “It isn’t anger, by my reckoning. It’s fear of the truth. I didn’t take you for a coward, boy.”

My fist moved fast, balled, ready to strike this insolent priest. I am not sure I would have struck her in truth, but I never got to find out. My arm had only drawn back before I felt the light touch of her stick at my throat. So fast. If that had been a sword, she’d have taken my life, just like that. And could have done even if my own blade was drawn; it was clear to me. She would have had me.

It was clear to her. Those warm eyes were gone. They burned now, just for a moment, there was triumph there and her smile was cruel. In that brief second, I saw the cast of her body differently, saw the aggression there; I noted the way she held the walking stick, as if it was some training blade, and noted how it was held with ease. It occurred to me her calloused hands and sinewy muscles were perhaps not only born of the use of hoe and rake. That maybe she had lived before donning that symbol she wore. Lived a very different life.

And then that shadow of a warrior was gone, and she lowered the stick to lean on it, walking away.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Lord Santraeger. You can choose if you learn of the sword or...of something else.”

I mustered a retort. “I am just slow from tendays idle!”

She stopped at the edge of the clearing as I spoke. She did not turn around, but the cast of her shoulders made her seem older, somehow. “It’s the sword that’ll be the easier way though, for you. That will never change.” Now she did half turn, a smile on those ageing lips. “That doesn’t mean you don’t have a choice, it’s just a harder one.”

And then she left me to my thoughts.