Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga

by Regina Watts

  Eyeing the blade and taking its pieces from my hand, he studied the point of the break before looking into my face with a shake of his head.

  “Keep your money,” he said. “You won me back my house, Paladin. It’s the least I owe you. But isn’t this your sword from the Order? Thought these never broke…I once saw one said to be a thousand years old. Looked forged the day before.”

  Heart stinging, unable to look at the pieces of the broken blade, I focused on Rigan’s aged face and told him, “It was the will of Weltyr that shattered my Strife…no man can truly know why anything happens in this world.”

  With a snort and a shake of his head, Rigan agreed, “That’s the only thing that really is for certain. All right, Burningsoul…I’ll fix your sword. If you’re not back by the time my Selectrix takes me to the Hall, I’ll see to it that my grandson knows to keep it for you.”

  “Thank you, Rigan.”

  Spirit overflowing with emotion, I took one last look at Strife. While the blacksmith stood to go inside, I set my hand upon the cool flat of the blade.

  “Good-bye, Strife, old friend…thank you. Weltyr bless you, and whosoever next wields you, if our paths do not cross again. Ah!”

  Beset by that awful heart-pain again, I drew my hand away and nodded at Rigan. “Take care of it, and of yourself. Weltyr bless your house.”

  “And yours,” said the old smith, disappearing inside.

  The door shut behind him, and I knew that I would not see Strife again.

  THE DUEL’S APPROACH

  WHILE THE JOURNEY was long and tiring, we pushed the horses exchanged at the Dardries’ ranch to the limits of their endurance and made excellent time back to Skythorn. Erdwud rode with us, as did the Dardrie boy: the horses still in Skythorn were needed to repair the fields, and at any rate I couldn’t fault the family for wanting to keep their steeds close to home in case they needed to take sudden flight. Once bitten twice shy, as a teacher of myself and Elishta-bet used to say sometimes.

  Elishta-bet was the subject weighing most urgently on my mind as we headed back to the city. Even as, by night, the tavern-keeper and I took turns regaling our fellow travelers with tales, I could not chase anticipation of the duel from my head.

  Zweiding was twenty years older than I was. An orphan, as were we all. He was a powerful warrior with twice my experience—and an actual battlefield veteran, which I, born to peacetimes, was not. Having raided terrorist cells, worked as an officer of the law in Skythorn and trained cadets for years, the Commander responded very well to unexpected battles, let alone planned duels.

  And there was me—not having had a full night’s sleep in days, journeying all over the face of creation. Missing a sword.

  I had no idea what I was going to do…and every time I tried to think of a solution, my mind went in circles. What could I do to best the Commander when I hadn’t even a broken weapon? There wouldn’t be a blacksmith in all Skythorn open to me before the coming of dawn. Perhaps Sharp would let me borrow his gun when he saw I had returned Erdwud alive and well…now that would have been quite unjust! But I had no other solution.

  Father Fortisto—I needed to ask him about the Ring of Roserpine, anyway. Perhaps he might also find me a sword somewhere in the Temple? It was a strange request and somehow absurd, but all the same I felt that somewhere in the sacred halls there had to be something of use to me. There was always Elishta-bet, too: if I saw her before the duel, she might also be tasked with finding a solution.

  We arrived in Skythorn around midnight, leaving me approximately four hours to sleep before the duel—and even that, I could not do without delay. There was a reward there, though. It warmed me to see Erdwud reunite with Lively, who sprang up from the armchair by her private room’s window to see that the person in the doorway was him. Their joyous celebration attracted the innkeeper, who arrived to tell off the people making so much noise…but, on seeing his friend, Sharp simply joined the ruckus. Soon Lively had kissed us all and bowed and thanked us hundreds of times. She and her husband promptly retired, and I and my companions did the same.

  After laying the wrapped Scepter across the dresser in the corner, I disrobed. Branwen looked shyly over at me, then at the relic. After a few seconds, she asked, “Are you worried I’m going to do something stupid again?”

  I laughed just slightly at that, looking over at her and assuring her as I bent to remove my boots, “If you do anything like you did before, it would only be because of Weltyr’s command…now that we have the Scepter back, Branwen, I have no quarrel with you.”

  Satisfied, her hands worrying together, Branwen edged nearer to me and begged to know, “This duel—what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll see what happens.”

  “You can’t just blow off preparing for a fight like this. He could kill you!”

  “I’m aware…but I have no choice. I must put my faith in Weltyr.”

  “Whatever happens,” she said, grabbing me by the hand and catching my eye before I could resume undressing, “you have to win, Rorke. You can’t die. Seeing you fight that golem for those people, and making peace with the gimlets, and—I love you, Rorke. I’m so sorry I ever betrayed you.”

  Her eyes were glassy with tears, I was amazed to realize. Softly tutting, I drew Branwen into my arms and caressed her cheek.

  “And I love you,” I told her. “Will you think me selfish if I love you and Valeria both?”

  “Of course,” she said with a light laugh, “but I’m very selfish, myself, so it won’t stop me. At any rate…I’m very fond of Valeria lately, too. It’s my pleasure to love her with you…if—if you’ll let me stay with you, Rorke.” Her soft hand tightening in mine, Branwen peered uncertainly into my face. “I’m not sure what your plans are once you give the Scepter back to your Church, but—”

  “Only to fetch Valeria’s ring,” I informed her while the door to the room opened. Her eyes widened and I explained, “Before my duel, I intend to speak with Father Fortisto to gain a lead on the ring…then, after my duel and the Scepter’s return, I fear I may be severing ties with the Order.”

  Looking astonished to have walked in on such a conversation, Valeria stood in the open doorway and asked me, “How can you say such a thing so easily? You don’t intend to fight it?”

  I shook my head, almost frightened to admit aloud that, having divined the sign of my broken sword, I believed it was Weltyr’s will that I be ejected from the Order one way or another. “I won’t have a choice…either I’ll have proved myself unfavored by Weltyr, or I’ll humiliate the Commander by defeating him in battle. No matter what happens, I don’t think they’ll continue with my confirmation.”

  After peering at me closely, having experienced the change in me even more acutely than had Branwen, Valeria stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “What happened while we were in Soot, Rorke?”

  “I’m not sure,” I confessed with a shake of my head. “And what I am sure of…I don’t know how to explain.”

  Branwen and Valeria exchanged a look. No doubt they worried I was going mad, or had at the very least grown incoherent with lack of sleep. Weltyr knows I certainly felt that way at the time…but that is the humbling truth about those humans who consort with the divine. They are exposed to knowledge that, to most, is so utterly without context it cannot help but seem insane. In fact, if anyone had the least of hope of understanding the magnitude of my experience, it was Valeria—but even she had not met the godhead incarnated in any form of Roserpine’s.

  Mere proximity to the memory of my experience brought upon me such a violent trembling, such a wave of fear, that I felt foolish straightaway. I’d experienced enough fear on that journey to humble a man for eternity! Soon, I hoped, it would be the time for me to build myself back up. Had I not sufficiently been destroyed?

  Evidently, no—not quite.

  That night was the night of the second strange dream, the bulbous hivemind organ of the spirit-thie
ves pulsing in the water of its storage chamber like the hideous homunculus of a mad alchemist. The flesh of its hateful body quivered in the shimmering darkness, its thoughts vibrating through the human mind that was, during those hours of slumber, empty of everything but the message it sent.

  You are truly skilled, Paladin…and beginning to understand what is really happening. It must be strange to find yourself opposed to your own Order; there is much you do not know about it…and yourself.

  A flap of skin opened with a noise like a sigh, the pulses of the hivemind permitting water to lap into the hole only occasionally.

  Your god delivers scraps of information, then behaves as if he has satisfied your curiosity…you do not even know what a Wotsung is. You still do not know where you came from. You still do not know what it is the Order believes itself to be fighting for.

  A slot opened in the side of the chamber. Fresh water flooded in to raise the level of liquid above the flesh-vent. The entire organ gave a pleasurable shudder, the very membranes rooted in the walls quivering to receive the intake of fluid.

  Why, continued that hateful voice, he did not even tell you the truth about Gundrygia.

  At the sound of her name, I snapped awake to realize I was having another nightmare. Branwen continued sleeping heavily to one side of me; to the other, Valeria stirred. She turned over in the darkness and peered at me tiredly, her eyes puffy with sleep and desperately kissable.

  “Are you all right, Rorke?”

  “I am—of course, I am.”

  The pre-dawn morning outside was still crisp. I looked out the window to gauge the hour by the richness of that darkness, then fit my hand to Valeria’s warm cheek.

  “I’d ought to go to the Temple now.”

  Nodding, she sat up in the dark as silently as she could. I thought she only meant to give me room, but then she rose and dressed. When I whispered to know what she was doing, she murmured, “I must come with you.”

  “I’m not sure that you should,” I told her, remembering Zweiding’s comments about the durrow and El’ryh. “I’d fight better knowing you were there, but—”

  “Then I’ll be there.”

  “But the durrow are not well-liked by other members of the Order.”

  How it saddened me to say! Yet Odile had told me just such a thing from early in our acquaintance. She knew more about my own organization of knights than I myself had ever been permitted to learn while raised among them. Now I regretted not taking her more seriously; in fact, I felt a complete fool. I could not permit Elishta-bet to endure such an impious reproach for something she could not control—something that was, to my mind, entirely unverified and unimportant.

  “If I am to spend even part of the rest of my life on the surface, Rorke, I must accept that there are those who detest me. There are also sure to be those who do not. Your makes it worthwhile to me, and—”

  Her lips pursed. She fell silent, her hand a fist upon her heart. She remained leaning forward, her gaze upon me, the sheet draping away from her to leave one breast exposed and add tenderness to her plea. My heart ached to see her so worried for me. I knelt, clasping her free hand in both of mine and pressing her knuckles to my lips.

  “I’ll be safe, Valeria.”

  “But how are you to duel with no weapon?”

  “Weltyr will see to me.” At the intensification of her dubious expression, I lowered my voice with a brisk glance at Branwen’s back. “It has been told to me specifically, Valeria,” I confessed, looking at her in a meaningful way from where I genuflected at her feet.

  She absorbed my expression and, after a few seconds, her own changed somehow. It filled with an excitement; an intensification. Bending forward more, the rarely modest durrow forgot her nakedness and braced her hands against the edge of the mattress. “How was it communicated you?”

  “The raven informed me,” I allotted. “I wish I could tell you more. I can’t.”

  Yet her features sharpened with acute knowledge. She caressed my face with her delicate fingers. “Your hands tell the story in the fierceness of your trembling, my paladin…oh!” She quivered, too, marveling at the very sight of me. “Are you quite sure?”

  “If I wasn’t sure, I would be very wrong…or very evil. So, I’m very sure.”

  “Strife,” she whispered at last, understanding.

  I nodded, my gaze unable to hold hers. “But I was assured, among other things, that I would find a sword in my time of need. And I don’t know how to explain this, but…I feel it. In my heart.”

  Valeria nodded, her caresses sliding back over my scalp and down my neck. “Yes—I understand, Rorke. The call and assurance of a god within the heart. Many times I have been urged by Roserpine to make a snap decision and trust it will work out, even if success seems unlikely and the decision ill-advised.” A faint smile graced her features. “That is the kind of confidence I felt when told to leave El’ryh with you.”

  Despite myself, I smiled. Kissing her knee, I told her, “Well, that’s the confidence I feel when I think of this promise that I’ll find a sword at the right moment. I don’t really have much choice…I have to believe it will work out well.”

  “Then you must let me come with you. Pray, ease my mind. Roserpine drives me on to be with you in the same degree of confidence. This assurance that what is being urged is being urged for a reason…it is what I feel right now, when my heart insists that I must go with you. You may need my help, Rorke.”

  Sighing, I glanced at the back of Branwen’s head. Her breathing was softer than it had been when she was actually asleep and I told her, “Don’t even think about coming with us.”

  “Well?” Caught, the high elf turned over to let me see her frown. “How can I help it, Rorke? I don’t like the thought of you going through all this any more than she does.”

  “If I have too many people with me, it’ll look like I’m intending retribution in the case of a loss. I don’t want that.”

  Sighing, shaking her head, the high elf said, “Well, you really do need to have at least one person with you. Anroa forbid something should go wrong…the people at the Temple won’t know where to look for your friends, and we’ll be stuck back here wondering what happened to you.”

  “If that’s the case, I could have Father Fortisto come tell you…but, I suppose you’re right.” With a sigh of my own, I patted Valeria once more, rose, and began to dress. “Valeria can come along. If it looks like Zweiding is going to kill me without holding back, perhaps you can intervene.”

  “I could do it anyway,” she said with a crooked smile.

  I knew she jested, but I couldn’t help a stern reaction.

  “No,” I said in a firm tone that gave her pause. “If you’re to come with me, you must not interfere in any way. Not unless it looks like Zweiding is violating the code of the duel or otherwise striking like he intends to kill. It is vital to my honor that I abide by the standards of duels, and vital to my worship of Weltyr that I abide by the contractual agreements into which I enter. There can be no intercession from you in the actual duel.”

  Her features once again serious, Valeria fell in line with me.

  “Very well, Rorke,” she said, searching my face with a sternness of her own. “But if this duel takes a turn against you—”

  “Now, Valeria…” With a somewhat wry grin at my own brash nature, I patted her cheek. “What are the odds of that?”

  In part, I joked; but in greater truth I held in my heart a glowing confidence in my future success. To say such things aloud was to invite an ill fate—at the very least to lose friends. After our discussion, Valeria understood the root of my confidence and the importance of the change that had begun within me. Even with that intimate understanding between two loyal servants of the divine, however, there were secret things that could not be expressed.

  Before we left, I hovered by the dresser. The Scepter, still in its silk wrapping, lay upon its surface.

  This was the object for which I’
d journeyed so long. That very same for which I willingly enslaved myself and risked my very life.

  Here it sat.

  There was something infinitely sorrowful about the thought of submitting it to the Order—not just because it marked the end of my journey, but because it may well have marked the end of my relationship with that very same society of honorable knights into which I once hoped to be inducted.

  This was the dream of an entire lifetime—what I’d thought I wanted since being old enough to want. The acclaim and glory that came with being one of Weltyr’s anointed paladins was incredible, to say the least. Zweiding might stroll through the streets of Skythorn and, by the time he had traveled twelve blocks, would have been offered several gold ounces’ worth of goods and services. Not to mention the praise of women and admiration of children! It was an enviable existence, to be certain.

  But my Master had all but informed me that there were worthier occupations in his name—and that immobile institutions could not contain the full experience of his truths.

  To whom do you owe your fealty?

  The question returned to me so many times! The answer had been simple at first, but the more I pondered it, the more I found it steeped in complication.

  Weltyr was the answer, and the only answer. But since those first raven-eyed glints of memory through the darkness of pre-existence, the Church that clothed and fed and educated me had also taught me that Weltyr’s word was only knowable through the outlet of its institutional teachings. I had been educated in an infinite number of examples of men who came forward claiming to know better than the Church.

  The result, each time, was the same. Inevitably, a new religious cult would be founded. Time would pass, and the group would either dissolve or grow to a competing faith. Weltyr’s word would be woven through all of it, but nothing would be as true as the Church’s word.

  So I had been taught, at any rate.