I left the reins behind as I walked my horse through the stables. A rope halter would do. Anything more than a saddle smacked of something official and premeditated. This was just a simple excursion, a quick ride to feel the wind in my hair. A few of the other horses whinnied as we passed and I spared a thought thanking the five gods that their riders were still sitting around the dinner table. I craved solitude.
Krag nickered softly and I smiled. Well, not complete solitude.
The fresh air would do us both some good: no distractions, no arguments, and no politics. Just a man and his horse and the cold silence of the night. One last respite before the coming fury.
9. CORBIN, YEAR 198
The city spurned my desire for a quick, quiet ride. Nothing matched my expectations after years retired in a small country village. There was no soft drone of buzzing insects. There were no insects at all except a few flitting around the gas lamps. The familiar hoots of the owls did not penetrate the city walls. There was droning, buzzing, and hooting aplenty, but all of the human variety.
There were several people walking, some stumbling, down the street, but the crowd was so sparse, I held the rope loosely in hand and let Krag weave his way through to the other side. The wall of noise that moved in step with us was a more intangible barrier. No reaching the far side of that. I did not waste time glowering at the crowd dispersing in the streets. They were not the source of the noise. Their low murmur evoked pleasant memories of the insects back home.
No, the noise polluting my ears drifted on the breeze through open windows as somber families took their meals and drunken revelers slayed a catastrophe of dragons amid crashing bottles and cheerful curses. The noise poured like a torrent of sound spilling through open doors as the merchants of the day booted the last of their customers and the merchants of the night welcomed their first.
I turned down a quiet, narrow alley and found myself heading towards the front of headquarters. I smiled, pitying the poor soldiers mired in the slow morass of sentry duty on this fine night while throng after throng of happy, carousing civilians swept past them. It was my solemn duty to dispel the soldiers' boredom after I had enjoyed my moment of reflection.
I closed my eyes to embrace my solitude, but an army of tiny sounds continued the assault. The familiar soft shuffle and thud of Krag's hooves on the leaf-swept trails had warped and twisted on the hard, paved streets into a loud clopping with each step, amplified by the confines of the alley, echoing off the two urban cliffs rising on either side of us.
I opened my eyes and sighed. I touched Krag lightly with my heels. His hooves rang as we trotted to the end of the alley. Never let it be said that Corbin Destrus could not heed the gentle prodding of the gods. If silent contemplation was not the answer, then it was time to make some noise of my own.
I rounded the corner, arm raised to greet the troops stiff at their posts. A strange tableau greeted me instead. The soldiers were waving their arms and blustering like two small saplings caught in the wind, but it was the focus of their argument that drew my attention. I reined in Krag and stared as three young ruffians, clubs and swords raised, advanced on a fallen man cowering in the street. The victim's face was lit by the small torch he held in his hand. He waved it at his attackers, and one of them laughed.
No, that's not a torch. I peered closer, breath catching in my throat. His fingers are sprouting flames. He's a mage crawling towards the sanctuary of headquarters. My eyes flitted to the man's ruffled, white shirt and brown coat. And he's out of uniform.
I dismounted and hitched Krag to a lamp post after briefly considering riding into the fray. Krag's shod hooves would have made short, bloody work of unarmored opponents, but a cavalry charge was not the right tactic to dispel a pack of civilians, even those who dared assault a member of the imperial army. It was too reckless, too impersonal, and too lethal.
My hand went to my side. A sword was much more versatile, a weapon to intimidate. I wanted to see their sneering faces turn to fear. I wanted to hear their taunts turn to screams. I wanted to smell their bowels turn to water.
I patted my hip, fingers clenching the hilt that wasn't there. Dragon shit! I glanced at the pair of wrangling soldiers. Of course. I surrendered my weapons at that cursed door yesterday . . . was it only just yesterday? Well, if their mates took my sword away, then these fellows can loan me one of theirs, by the gods!
I marched towards the soldiers to demand a weapon as the mage cowered in the street, perversely more angry at the victim than his tormentors. I know everyone in the Mage Corps can hardly match Maven's will and verve, but by the gods' shining eyes, they don't all have to take after Sepharius, either. Where was the fierce elan of the mages of old who fought the barbarian hordes at the dawn of the empire?
The gods were in a strange humor tonight. Barbarians on my mind and whom should I find but a child of the northern clans? I felt both eyebrows climb up my forehead as I recognized one of the arguing soldiers: Corvid, the man of northern descent with a mage lurking in his family tree. His blonde hair was disheveled as he hurled insults at the tall woman with olive-colored eyes and a scowl that could grate cheese standing on the other side of the wide double doors.
My stomach rumbled. Perhaps I had fled dinner prematurely. And fed too much of my chicken to Maven. I espied the long sword sheathed at Corvid's hip. Now, there's a proper butter knife. But how does a man frame a request to handle another man's sword? Men can be so twitchy about these things. I strode forward with a large, confident smile, reached out my hand, and took refuge behind formality.
“Good evening, Private Corvid,” I said, ignoring the other soldier. “I humbly request that you allow me the honor of wielding your blade.”
The private turned away from his argument. He blinked and gaped at me. “Sir Corbin?” he asked, looking from me to my horse. “Is that you?”
I nodded as I advanced, tongue tripping over the flowery phrases choking my throat. “Indeed. And I seek the use of your weapon to redress a grievous injustice. ”
“You what?” His fingers reflexively gripped the hilt of his sword as he saw my hand beckoning.
“Give me your sword!”
The hand gripping the hilt limply dropped to one side as he nodded. I slid the sword from its scabbard and bowed. Corvid had recovered enough composure by then to salute. I returned his salute and then advanced upon the ruffians, sword held in a loose, sure grip. The blade felt awkward and heavy in my hand and I shifted to a two-handed grip. How long had it been since these muscles held a live blade that wasn't a tiny paring knife or a dagger?
I glanced at the sword as I stabbed the air with a few practice trusts. The blade dipped as I extended my arm. Now that I had the thing, what to do with it? My recollection of old fights was spotty. Fancy maneuvers forgotten. Sweeping sword strokes lost to the past. A dim memory prodded the back of my mind. Something I was forgetting, a ritual.
Ah. Now, I remember. I raised the blade and kissed the cold steel. I couldn't remember whys and wherefores of that little ceremony, but it felt proper. Private Corvid's grim chuckle at my back confirmed the rightness of my actions.
There was something else I remembered, too. My knees and hips creaked as I bounced on the pads of my feet. I raised my heels off the ground, tendons protesting as I assumed a fighter's stance. It always amused the women of my household to see an old man practice such whirling, mincing steps. Kelsa had been fond of teasing me: 'Grandfa's dance,' she called it, but still, she practiced alongside me. There was a graceful flow to the movements. Her parents had not objected. It's not like I was teaching my granddaughter to hack a man with a sword after all .
The grace in my steps was not matched in my handling of the sword. I held the hilt with both hands at chest height, blade raised behind my shoulders, and twisted my torso as if I were swinging a tree branch. I hefted the weight of my weapon and smiled. I knew almost nothing about swordplay, but I could swing a mean tree branch.
I screamed as I charge
d. The scoundrels froze in the midst of their attack. One of them turned to look at me. His eyes traveled from my lips up to the tip of the sword behind my head and the color drained from his face.
This isn't a tree branch , I snarled to myself, raising my arms and heaving the sword overhead. I brought my pommel down and struck the man in the back of the head. His sword dropped from his limp fingers and clattered to the pavement. I shifted to a one-handed grip and the sword drooped. I caught one of the man's arms with my free hand and eased him to the ground.
One down. Two remain.
“Defend yourself,” I growled at the mage as he waved his little flame and did nothing. Really, was that any way for a soldier to act? The last two men turned to face me, one wielding a club and the other a short sword. I glanced from my sword to the club. I wonder if Sir Corvid would be mad if I traded his sword for a nice club? Would the ruffian be willing to trade? I smiled at the whimsical thought.
The two attackers left standing didn't speak. They strutted toward me while I knelt by their fallen companion with what I suppose they felt were menacing snarls. They just looked like hissing cats puffing their tails. The man with the sword poised himself to strike. His wiser friend with the club hung back.
“Attack a soldier when he's half on the ground, eh? You'll lose more than your honor.” I braced my forearm across my raised knee to better leverage the weight of the sword and gestured with the tip of my blade. The swordsman's crotch was at a convenient height, the angle of attack perfect. I could have emasculated the man with a twitch of my wrist or a sneeze at the wrong moment. Wrong for him , but oh so right for me , I thought, struggling to hold my blade steady as long unused muscles throbbed in my arm.
The closeness between us had its inconveniences, too. The swordsman swallowed, but kept his weapon aimed at my face. I could have shaved myself on the edge of his blade.
“I am Sir Corbin Destrus, the Hero of Jerkum Pass,” I said, ignoring the blade next to my cheek. “I have faced wizards, monsters, and enemies you cannot even imagine. You think three bits of city trash rising from the gutter can best me in combat?” The swordsman had spread his legs in a wide stance, his pants stretching tight below the crotch. I prodded the area with the tip of my sword and laughed as the seams split. Such a neat and tidy battle. As befits a hero! There was no finesse to this at all.
And when you fight someone who actually knows how? Kelsa's tiny voice shrieked. There must be more to swordplay than slashing trousers.
The swordsman paled. He drew a long, shuddering breath. The grip on his sword began to waver.
I shrugged, nestling my cheek against the edge of his blade. “My face for your balls, lad. Which one do you want to lose first?” I grinned and nicked myself. That seemed like a very male thing to say.
The thrill of impending victory surged through my body. My own pair tightened and rose in sympathetic reflex as if to miss the blade passing beneath them. Not that I had much sympathy for the man, merely a tiny bit of empathy trying to shrivel up inside me. I'd always scoffed at males treating their testicles like delicate, little hen's eggs carried to and fro in a rickety basket. The threat of injuring the things had so much more impact now that I carried a basket of my own.
The ruffian choked. He carefully lowered the tip of his blade.
“Both of you, drop your weapons,” I murmured, nodding toward the pavement. I patted the man who lay unconscious at my feet. “Collect your friend here, and leave quickly, before I bother to remember clothes and faces. Your stiff necks would only dull the executioner's axe.”
They lay their weapons to the ground, lifted the prone man between the two of them, and scurried away. Indeed, the ruffians vanished into the darkness quicker than I had expected. I turned as I realized the mage had extinguished his hand.
I rose and offered my own hand to help the coward to his feet, keeping my face carefully neutral and my eyes blank as my thoughts fumed and sputtered. It was that mage's first real fight, no doubt, but by the five, once I find his commanding officer, he's going to hear all about how this puling wretch —“almost made it back to headquarters, didn't you? What's your unit, son? What's you rank?”
Don't yell too loudly , Kelsa whispered. It was your first real fight too.
The mage brushed the dust off his trousers and fixed me with a blank stare. “My what?”
“Your rank. What is your . . .” I bit my lip. “You're not in the army, are you?”
He shook his head .
I clapped him on the shoulder. “No matter. You're still a mage, aren't you? Fire dancing in your eyes? Flames shooting from your fingertips? And you cowered before those . . . before those . . .
Varlets? Kelsa suggested.
“. . . those craven varlets? By the five, why didn't you defend yourself?”
The man I had rescued—part of my mind still insisted he must be a soldier—winced. “I tried using my magic as a deterrent, but I dared not attack them with it directly. You can't half burn a man with ethereal fire, sir. It' so easy to . . . kill a man with it. To do so now here in the capital? After the death of the emperor? It's more than my life is worth to even try.”
If this city is anything like the village, your life was forfeit the moment those flames appeared. I nodded. “I suppose you're right. Still, if I were you, I would flee at dawn tomorrow. You left live enemies behind tonight, and that flame marked you. Would have been wiser to kill them once they saw the fire blazing in your hand. Don't unsheathe a weapon if you don't intend to use it, son.”
“Yes, of course you're right,” the man whispered. “Thank you for my life, Sir Corbin.”
“It's no more than my duty as a soldier of the imperial army to protect those under attack.”
“But I'm a mage, sir?” he asked, a timorous note in his voice.
I shrugged. “That's not illegal.”
Yet, Kelsa whispered. How long before the empress officially . . . fixes that?
The mage stared past me with a blank expression. I sighed and scanned the nearby alley for the next group of bigots. The sooner I satisfied this man's fatal curiosity, the better.
“I swore to protect anyone who needs it, soldier or a civilian, unless they be an enemy of the state. I pledged a bond stronger than steel. 'I swear upon my honor beneath the five gods. To protect the weak. To deny the strong. To honor the sacred dead. It shall be done.'” I smiled and ran my fingers through my hair. “Then, they touch a sword atop your head to seal the vow. Every soldier makes that vow. Neither the bluster of politics nor wind of prejudice absolves us of it. Something my companions over there seem to have forgotten.” I gently pushed the man away and tapped my fingers on the hilt of the sword. “Excuse me while I go remind them.”
The mage had long gone by the time I reached the two sentries. Not that they noticed. The two idiots had resumed their argument in the midst of my heroic rescue. I was sore tempted to throw the sword between their screaming faces, but my muscle memory isn't what it once was. I settled for swinging the sword between the two of them instead. The tip of the blade lodged in the door with a satisfying, heavy thunk.
Both troops had ceased their squabbling, eyes traveling down the length of the quivering sword and then up to me. “What has become of the army,” I roared, gesturing to the discarded weapons in the street, “when a man is nearly killed on our front stoop and we do nothing?”
The soldier opposite Sir Corvid sneered at me, her lips curling with scorn she didn't even attempt to hide. “He was only a mage. What's one less mage in the world?”
I turned to Sir Corvid. “Introduce me to your friend,” I hissed, “before I pull your sword from that door and smack some manners into the woman with the flat of the blade.”
“She's no friend,” Corvid muttered. “I can think of no better use for my sword then warping it across her backside. Corporal Tenyson, may I introduce Corbin Destrus, the Hero of Jerkum Pass? Be polite, he outranks you.”
“No need to pull rank. Sir Corbin will
do. A pleasure to meet you, Dame Tenyson,” I said, bowing.
“A hero who offers violence to my person if I disagree too strongly with his wise council?” She spat. “You are not in my chain of command, old man. Stop pretending to be a real soldier. Best keep the sword where it is lest you cut yourself.”
“Not always wise,” I demurred, “but you would be . . . prudent . . . not to dismiss mages so lightly. They are worthy of your respect, the last example notwithstanding.”
“Oh?” The woman crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed. “I heard a rumor that the famous Hero of Jerkum Pass was a mage lover. I did not believe it. Mages aren't real people . . . sir. They're aberrations, no better than animals in the guise of human beings.”
“Mages aren't real people, eh?” I said, gesturing to the doors behind her. “I suppose the members of the Mage Corps you're supposed to be guarding aren't real soldiers? Did neither of you know any mages in the academy? Did you not train together as a regiment? How could you avoid noticing your fellow recruits?”
Tenyson shrugged and wiggled her fingers. “There were roaches and mice roaming the halls at the academy. Was I supposed to take notice of them, too?”
Corvid winced. “Maybe they were more prevalent in your day, sir. Not a lot of mages in my regiment. They sort of kept to themselves.”
“They're vermin, not real army,” Tenyson muttered.
“Not real army . . .” I echoed, wrenching the sword from the door and handing it back to Corvid. He reached for his blade and I held it back. Deny the mages, will you? What would your poor grandmother say? “Have the ghosts of the Great War died so quickly? Have you forgotten your heritage?”
Corvid shook his head and blushed. I returned his sword and then turned to the woman standing on the other side of the entrance.
“Heritage?” Tenyson clung to the word, glancing aside at Corvid. “Didn't know you were a dirty heretic and a mage lover. Do eerie flaming fingers get you excited, mage lover?”
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