“But I... I don’t remember retrieving my sword. I threw it, and then... then...” Mordraud suddenly jumped off his bed, but he regretted the move at once. He was injured in dozens of different places, wounds of varying degrees of severity. Cuts, bruises, burns. Even a bite on his calf.
A human bite.
“I killed him, didn’t I?! Is the Lance dead?”
“Who are you talking about?! I didn’t see any Lance near you.”
“I’m sure I got him, but perhaps it wasn’t enough...” he huffed in regret. For some odd and bizarre reason, he was almost glad he hadn’t managed to slay that Lance. It had been a great duel – just like the ones he’d dreamt of as a boy. Him, alone amidst the foe, pitching his life against the best. The champion.
“What a fool I am...” he mumbled, slumping back down onto the board.
“Why?”
“Never mind. So... how did the battle end? Tell me about it!”
Adraman made himself comfortable and narrated how things had gone. When his battalion reached the Rampart, the battle had already broken up into a seething and inextricable mass. Luckily for them, the remaining Lances were all grouped on the opposite side, and were busy retreating and abandoning the field. The others had already deserted, leaving only weary foot-soldiers and confused horsemen. The Night of Fire had played in the rebels’ favour. Each step they took forward, they felt elated, while their enemy’s hopes of winning quickly and easily faded, steadily and relentlessly. The Empire had made the wrong calculations, on absolutely everything. Adraman finished off the job with the best of flair.
“I plunged into their back lines and we wiped everything away. Then we assaulted the bulk of their forces, sowing mayhem with my lads’ charge. But what’s incredible... is that you weren’t desperate for our help. You coped on your own, and for love of the Gods... what an amazing result from you all!” Adraman beamed and snapped his fingers in delight. “The Empire made various blunders but its men still hugely outnumbered us... Ice and Berg did an excellent job.”
Mordraud had to bite his lip so as not to interrupt him. He would have liked to tell him he’d been the one to rouse everyone, but he felt certain the commanders had already bagged all the credit.
“...And you were great too! They told me all about it. You called Ice, you got up there in the front and you led your companions...” Mordraud nodded with his eyes half-closed, lulled by the praise. Another of his boyhood dreams. Glory on the battlefield. Glory his father had never achieved. He’d never even come close to it.
“... and you led them into a massacre!”
Mordraud didn’t pick up on the change of tone straight away.
“Yes, it was a full-blown massacre! You should have seen us: we sliced them in two, like a hot knife through butter... something...”
“SOMETHING IDIOTIC!” yelled Adraman, and only then did Mordraud realise they had two very different ideas of what heroic meant.
“You deserted your fellow soldiers, and forced a group of my best men to embark on a suicide mission! You might all have been slaughtered – you were very lucky Cambria’s lily-livered troops were petrified by the Night of Fire! Without of course counting that they made one strategic mistake after another. Don’t you understand?!”
“But we won... Even you said you weren’t expecting to... and Berg...”
“Berg followed you, and I’ve already reprimanded him for that. But you, young man...” Adraman gripped him by the shoulders and looked at him with a blend of compassion, anger and fear. “You must never make such a dumb move again. Follow your orders, stay in your place, and do what you’re told to do. Nothing more than that, at least not until you’ve got some brains in that numb skull of yours so you can lead other people. But until that day comes... none of your own initiatives. Is that clear?!”
“But...”
“IS THAT CLEAR, SOLDIER?”
“Yes... it’s clear...” Mordraud groaned reluctantly. “But why do you care so much about what I might do? I’m a soldier like all the others... And many died in the battle while following orders...”
“I brought you here,” mumbled Adraman. “There hadn’t been fighting at the Rampart for many months. It was the safest and quietest front in the region... I thought it was the best thing to do. For everyone.”
“And who’s everyone?!”
“All of us. And that’s that. Rest now. You’ll be going home for a while in a few days’ time. Eldain wants to hear how things went.”
‘Will I meet Eldain?!’ he wondered in anticipation. Mordraud was already bristling with excitement. His chance to ask a helping hand for his brother. And what a hand!
“What will I have to tell him? How should I behave?”
“Tell him we won, describe how it went, and inform him we also have supplies for the camps. The Empire’s back lines were wealthy and well-stocked. Ah, I was forgetting...”
Adraman untied a pouch from his belt and placed it on his chest. “We also have gold. In mint condition. And this... is your share.”
“Wow!” blurted Mordraud with a muffled cry, when the coins glistened in his palm. “I’ve never seen so many in my life!”
“Even if your conduct was similar to a wild beast’s, you deserve it.”
“There’s one thing I still haven’t figured though...” began Mordraud, fiddling with a Cambrian Scudo. Emperor Loralon stood out on one side, with a serious and striking stare that made the looting even more appealing. “How did you learn the enemy was coming? You certainly can’t have simply sighted the troops.”
“This I will tell Eldain in person. You just do what I’ve ordered you to... Understand?”
“Understood!” Mordraud responded. The gold and the prospects of some leave – they’d put him in a wonderful mood. He wasn’t interested in the generals’ business at that moment. His mind was on other things.
He’d see Deanna again. And just the thought posed the potential risk of reddening in front of Adraman. But luckily for him he managed to control himself. Only once his commander had left the tent did he allow his euphoria to wash over him, laughing at the top of his voice and playing with his new coins. He could feel pain everywhere, and a few of the wounds on his shoulders were really nasty. Black suppurating gashes, and he couldn’t even recall how he’d acquired them.
‘A miracle we survived...’ he thought, dampening his exhilarated tones.
‘And now, finally, I’m in the game. Dunwich, where are you? If you still work for Cambria... sooner or later I’ll find you...’
***
“So did you give your boy a good dressing down?”
Adraman sat on the rush-seat chair and asked the waiter for a glass of wine. Ice had already served himself, and was sipping brandy from a large goblet. Crystal-clear and exceedingly heavy. Perfectly in keeping with his algid style.
“I don’t think he actually grasps what it is he did wrong.”
“I’m sure of that. You didn’t see him, Adraman. A born leader. You should have heard him, when he began the counting, yelling at every foe slain. They all copied him. Even rough old Berg...”
“Yes, him...” broke in the cavalryman. “Only Berg could have followed him on a suicide mission like that, of coming down off the Rampart.”
“Try and see it differently. If they hadn’t done so, we might not have won so easily,” Ice exclaimed with a sarcastic smile. “Just imagine what trouble you’d have had with the Allied representatives afterwards... They’d suggested strengthening our defences, and negotiating... And instead you set off south...”
“Still on about that business?!” Adraman took the glass from the servant and downed it in one. Before the boy had the time to leave, the captain ordered another. “It all went well, didn’t it? I simply opted for the right middle road.”
“Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything! What’s wrong, Adraman? You seem even gloomier than usual... and that take’s something!”
“Nothing, I’m just tired.”
&
nbsp; “That young man, Mordraud... Are you sending him home?”
“Why are you asking?!” Adraman retorted briskly. Ice gave an amused smirk and skirted it. “Never mind, it’s not important. Instead, how about you tell me who gave you the news the enemy was on the way? A lookout? A spy? Or someone else...”
“No, I won’t budge, you sly one! I have to talk to Eldain about it first. Then you and the others will find out.”
“Fine, fine...” Ice replied with a shrug. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
“We’ll leave it at that then...” Adraman rounded off. “By the way, where’s Berg got to?”
“He’ll be down in the foot-soldiers’ tent getting sloshed... He’s been drinking from morning till night for three days now. Or perhaps he’s off sniffing out harlots – only he can stomach those wrecks.”
“Bah... We have to discuss the war, and he’s off having as much fun as possible...”
“Relax, Adraman!” Ice burst out, laughing. “We won a battle that was impossible to win! If Cambria had only been a bit more organised, now we would all be feed for the crows. Let the men enjoy themselves – they deserve it!”
“So I’m the only one who’s not having any fun...” blurted Adraman, draining his last drop of wine.
“As always, my old friend.” Ice chinked his goblet against Adraman’s empty glass.
“As always.”
***
When Gwern opened the door, he came close on fainting. A hooded being fraught with rusty scratches had come for him in the heart of the night, to escort him to the kingdom of the departed. He’d dozed off shortly after sunset, since there was no work in the tavern that evening. Larois had gone to bed hours earlier, and he had a thick book to finish. Sernio had lent him a prized piece from his collection. History of Cambria – as chunky as a brick. Even though he found it fascinating, he’d fallen fast asleep on its open pages.
“What’s wrong, brother? Won’t you say hello? Have you forgotten me?”
“Mordraud!”
Gwern ran into his arms, nearly knocking the pair of them to the floor.
“Gently now, please! It hurts all over... Many of my wounds still haven’t healed.”
“You’re alive! I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Gwern. “The first veterans came back a few days ago... They told us about the battle at the Rampart, and that there were heaps of corpses... I swear by the Gods, I was worried to death!”
“I told you, didn’t I?!” Mordraud lifted the boy up, shaking him in the air. “I can’t die, little brother! Nobody can kill me!”
“And all those cuts? Did you do those on your own?!”
“Those...? Just scratches. Nothing serious.”
“And your hair?! They cut your hair off! You look younger...”
“It’ll grow,” retorted Mordraud. “It’ll all go back to how it was before.”
The two brothers stared at each other in silence, both hushed by the same thought. Could things ever go back to how they were before?
Was there a before in their lives that they wanted to return to?
“Come on, tell me all about it!”
Mordraud described every moment of the battle, skipping only the most gruesome bits. His brother was too sensitive to hear all the macabre details. To round off, he also narrated the duel with the Lance, and found himself shouting with emotion. The more he thought about the scene, the better he felt.
“I’ve slain a couple of those Lances... but he was the strongest of all. You can be sure of that!”
“You talk about it all as if it were a pushover...”
“No, it’s... I don’t know how to explain it... It was thrilling! First, total frigging fear... and then it’s gone! I’d never felt better – even my hand stopped trembling!”
Mordraud had never talked to his brother about his disorder. He had always hidden it from everyone, but Gwern nodded, showing he understood perfectly.
“And now? Are you going to stay here in Eld? Are you done with war?”
“No! I’ve only just started, and guess what... Tomorrow morning I have to speak with Eldain! They’ve appointed me to give him the official news of the victory. It’s a great honour, you know!”
“I’m happy for you...” replied Gwern, lacking some conviction.
“Hey, brother, you needn’t worry...” Mordraud tousled his hair and hugged him. “Look, here...”
Mordraud unlaced the money pouch and tipped the contents over Gwern’s head, who immediately scrambled on his knees to collect the coins, holding his breath. “But there’s lots of them... Forty gold pieces...”
“Forty Scudos, or two hundred Florins. How much do you need?”
“I didn’t think you’d really...” Gwern whispered, barely audible.
“It was two thousand Florins you wanted, right? Well then, another... nine battles like this one, and we’re sorted!”
“I can’t! It’s too much, and you’re risking your life...” Gwern closed up the small bag and pushed it into the pocket of Mordraud’s cape. “I don’t want it!”
“Gwern, whether you like it or not, I’m going back to the war. Do you get it?! Stop being childish, and take this money. I can’t be wandering around with all this gold in my pocket.”
“It’s dirty with blood...” whined Gwern, red in the face.
“I’m dirty with blood too. Like all the money in this world, and like all the men. Only you are still innocent.”
Mordraud brought out the pouch again and shoved it into his hands. “I have to send you off as soon as possible. I want you to have the chance to study – you’re the little genius of the family. Mum always used to say so...”
“Really?!”
“Yes, and she also used to say you were her favourite son, because you were calm and sensitive. Leave these things to me. The money’s not a problem. Neither’s the war.”
“But will you promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I’ve already told you. I won’t die, Gwern. But if it really looks like I might have to, then I’ll forget I’m supposed to die,” Mordraud repeated, remembering the promise he’d made to his brother on the evening they’d said goodbye to each other.
“If you say it like that, it sounds a bit frightening...”
“But it’s the truth. Now go back to bed. I have an appointment at the barracks, with the chancellor.”
Mordraud left the room and shut the door behind him, after one last hug and a vigorous ruffling of the boy’s hair.
“I’ll stop by again before I leave, don’t worry! Say hello to Larois for me!” he finished, already at the end of the road. The night was clear and chilly – a first taste of winter in mid-autumn. Gwern went back into the house, hid the coins inside a jar of salt, and flung himself onto the bed. He no longer wanted to read. All that blood, all those dead men his brother had described had killed his desire to let his imagination roam.
***
“Soldier Mordraud reporting, sir!”
“Show him in.”
Mordraud knelt down before the tall chair, his mouth twisting from the pain in his back. The fortnight’s ride hadn’t done much to help the burn that the resonance – or rather its light – had left him as a souvenir.
“Please, to your feet, my boy. There’s no need for all this formality.”
“At your command, sir!”
Eldain got up, chuckling, and invited Mordraud to sit down at the council table. The room was empty and bare, as was fitting for the rebel leader’s lifestyle. Mordraud observed him, mesmerised by his stateliness, which had been left untouched by age and strain. Eldain poured wine into two bronze goblets and sat opposite him, awaiting the expected account. Mordraud didn’t require coaxing, and repeated off by heart the speech he’d prepared during his journey – the same he’d also given Gwern so he could go over it well.
“From the way you tell it, it sounds like you were the hero of the Night of Fire...” Eldain broke in, smiling. Mordraud was certainly no artful speaker. He
hadn’t even thought it might not be wise to narrate his foolish charge down off the Rampart, or his personal duel with the Lance. He’d let himself get excited, gesticulating like a madman.
“No, well, sir... I’m sorry, I got a little carried away in my description...”
“Don’t worry, I already knew most of the details. Various accounts reached the fiefdom before you. Mordraud the Beast. Mordraud of the Night of Fire... You already have quite a few nicknames, young man, were you aware?”
“I don’t deserve them...”
“Even you don’t believe that, do you?” Eldain laughed heartily. “You remind me of my youth. I had a nickname too. The Executioner of the East, you know? And for the same reason. I used to slay Lances. I was rather good at it.”
“I’m sure you were, sir.”
Mordraud felt an extraordinary sense of subservience before Eldain. He’d imagined the man in many ways: harsh, unbending, even cruel. That’s how a leader was supposed to be – that’s what he’d always thought. And instead, Eldain was showing a very different nature: kind, even with an ordinary soldier like him.
But those eyes – as pale as pools of frozen water – were ready to reveal quite the contrary. It was the gaze of a merciless man.
“If Adraman chose you to report to me, then that means he has great faith in you. Are you aware of that?”
Mordraud nodded, without however grasping what Eldain was getting at. “You’ve proven yourself brave and motivated, my boy. You fought very well, and if you carry on like this, you’ll go far. But you must never lose sight of your orders, understood? Trust those men who, like Adraman and I, have been in combat in this war for many years.”
“May I ask a question?” Mordraud suddenly inquired.
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“Why don’t... How can I put it?”
“Just use your own words,” replied Eldain “Don’t be shy.”
“Well, I was wondering why... What’s the reason behind...? Well, why you don’t lead your army on the battlefield? The men would follow you anywhere...”
Mordraud, Book One Page 33