by Sigrid Kraft
“Pah, you just imagined it!”
Eryn was unable to trump Ravenor’s overweening self-confidence, so he replied: “We can ask some witnesses. There were such a lot of them watching that day.
I’m sure we can find one or the other who can remember... since your powers of recall don’t seem to be up to scratch. Of course, I can understand that the beating may have erased parts of your memory.”
Ravenor saw he was losing ground, so he switched slickly to another topic: “I’ll volunteer for special duties.”
Special duties were mainly assignments such as chopping wood for fires or construction, unloading materials, carrying out construction work on buildings and other everyday chores requiring physical strength.
“If you think,” Eryn drew out his words, “you need the extra work. I, for my part, will turn to my studies again. I haven’t opened a book for weeks. If I’m not careful, I’ll forget the art.”
“Oh, you’re changing from a savage of the woods into a proper intellectual,” rang out of Ravenor’s corner.
Eryn sat up and grabbed a book. “At least I am able to develop. Magic is such an interesting subject. Only, this stupid armlet is extremely limiting, reducing me to an unmagical and condemning me to consume only dry theory.”
The armlet was only removed by a mage if Eryn had a class. The officers of the Guard insisted that he wear it to disable his magical powers. “But you seem to be developing a taste for simple work. Or have they broken you so completely that you now want nothing more than to happily lick their boots?”
A cushion flew across the room and only missed Eryn because he snatched it out of the air and sent it immediately back to where it had come from. Ravenor moved sideways and the ammunition hit the wall instead.
“Hole up behind your books and take your fill of Halford’s food till you are completely exhausted. Like one of those scrawny scribblers with their bad eyes. I’ll work my muscles till they’re as hard as steel and I’ll also feast well. In those special units, you get extra portions, you know, and I don’t think that Halford will be able to play his little games out there. In the kitchen and the refectory, he decides what the kitchen boys will serve us, but he won’t get away with that outside. You’ll soon see that I’m right.”
“Do what you want,” Eryn ended the conversation and opened the book Master Lionas had given him.
11. Commendable
For some time now Lord Boron had been discontent with living so much of his life in the garrison. He wanted to spend more time with his family, a plan that Prince Raiden did not object to. This meant the path to a medium-sized building project near the garrison was free. Working on the building site of Lord Boron’s new house, located four miles to the north of the garrison, also gave Ravenor the chance to escape Halford’s wretched cooking.
He wasn’t afraid of hard work and because he was skilled, he was asked to help on the construction by the master carpenter himself. Ravenor was therefore freed from almost every military duty and spent his days at the construction area, where besides having much better food, he also put on muscle, and his skin was browned by the sun. When he came back at nightfall, he never forgot to torment Eryn with tales of his fine life – if Eryn wasn’t already asleep, or far too tired to listen after the day’s exercises.
One such occasion was the time Ravenor boasted: “Whoa, today was really hard work. We put in the beams for the suspended ceiling.”
Eryn listened with half an ear. The rest of the troop marched the whole day long. Certainly that also falls under the heading of ‘hard work’.
But once Ravenor started talking, he went on effortlessly to recite a monolog, just as long as there was an audience, however small. “And then Lord Boron’s wife paid us a visit to examine our progress. She was very content and we got an extra portion of meat goulash with potatoes. Really well cooked. I ate such a lot that I felt as though my paunch were full of stones. Eryn, are you still listening?”
“Mhhh,” grumbled Eryn sleepily. I’m not keen on Halford’s cooking either. But Eryn avoided the problem mainly by going to the mages’ kitchen. Today on the march we had field rations anyway. Ravenor’s needling about tasty food has become so corny that it has lost the power to make me rise to the bait.
Eryn yawned while Ravenor felt the need to talk on: “Lord Boron’s wife was there with her children. Did you know that their eldest daughter already looks rather womanly and she’s pretty, too?”
“Mhhh.” This is enough of an answer for Ravenor. Besides, that wasn’t a real question. Eryn’s eyes almost fell shut.
“So the girl came over and I pretended I felt too hot – it really was warm in the sun – and pulled off my tunic. You can see every muscle on my perfect body and I’ll tell you this: Girls go wild for a man like me. That’s a body to look at. Not like yours, you milksop.”
“Mhhh.” Eryn was anything but a milksop, but his let-him-talk-attitude won over.
“I pulled up a beam as if it was no big deal. To be honest, it was a struggle to haul the first one up. But the lass couldn’t take her eyes off me, gazing at me all the time. Alana, that’s her name. When her mother called her to come, she pretended not to hear her, being too busy picking flowers but in truth she wanted to stay to watch a perfect man at work. Yes, I’m pretty sure if I could meet her alone somewhere – well a few words would be enough to make her swoon. Then I could show her my true qualities.”
Ravenor’s dangerous dream tore Eryn out of his half sleep: “What? Are you insane? Perhaps you could get her with child too, then you can call Lord Boron father-in-law and the Prince will become a grandfather, and everyone will live happily ever after – or they might just cut your balls off first and after that your throat!”
“Now, now, no need to paint the devil on the wall. Nothing’s happened yet. And admittedly, she is still a bit too young for me. Although I haven’t had a woman for so long now... that’s no state for a man to be in for any length of time.”
This is drifting in a very dangerous direction, which means nothing but trouble.
“Just wait until you get furlough. Then you’ll be breaking no rules if you leave the garrison.”
Ravenor got up: “Months can pass before that happens. And because you have no needs, it doesn’t mean that others feel the same way.”
Slowly Eryn got annoyed. “I have feelings too, but– unlike you – I’m not driven by my cock. You learn abstemiousness in the mountains. But you have a hereditary defect and aren’t able to help ‘your needs’.”
It didn’t take Ravenor more than a second to find a proper reply: “You’re just jealous. You’re probably not capable of feelings at all. Or have you ever experienced the pangs of lust?”
There are some questions which would be better left unanswered when it came to Ravenor, but Eryn nevertheless fell into the trap.
“Well, yes. I wanted to live with her.”
Now Ravenor was curious: “And? Let me guess. She didn’t want to.”
The needling struck home and provoked Eryn to protest: “She also had feelings for me, but then she took the spear and after that ...”
At that point Ravenor interrupted. “Well, I don’t want to know about it in that much detail. There’s nothing you can teach me about that business anyway.”
Once again, Ravenor has only one thing on his mind, and Eryn embarked on the hopeless task of putting things right.
“Fool! To take the spear means she chose the way of a warrior and so can’t be touched by any man. That’s the tradition.”
At this point, completely different views of the world collided into one another.
“Wait a moment! You were completely in love. Well, the two of you... and you didn’t do it? That kind of logic is beyond my imagination. Truly, Eryn, you can be glad that you escaped that prudish mountain life of yours. Have you ever done it? With a female being... and by that expression I don’t mean a mountain goat?”
It took Eryn a great deal of self control not
to jump up and smash Ravenor in his smirking face.
“Of course I have. With one of your immoral Lowlander women. But you, my friend, mistake deep feelings for pure lust. You don’t love, you merely gratify your urges. Your old man seems to have the same problem.”
Now Ravenor’s face took on the expression of a carnivore ready to attack. They stared at each other and an aggressive tension filled the air. Suddenly Ravenor laughed.
“Just let it be. The fact is that I urgently need an opportunity. I can’t stand it any longer.”
Eryn was still upset: “Do it yourself.”
Ravenor didn’t react to this advice but closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the bed with a deep sigh. “Hell, I’m beat. Could you sent me a refreshing spell? For a good mate?”
Eryn, too, stretched out on the bad and closed his eyes. “Tomorrow perhaps, when I have rested. Because weaving spells is also exhausting, even if you don’t believe it. And my day was at least as hard as yours. Now shut up and let me sleep.”
The following day was a day of normal routine and Eryn’s duty ended rather early. On his way back to the quarters, he thought about how he might spend the time until the evening.
Shall I study a little or play cards with the others? He hadn’t yet made up his mind when Sir Haerkin came by. Eryn noticed him too late to veer off in another direction. Sir Haerkin had already looked over at him, so Eryn saluted and hoped the officer would continue on his way. Sir Haerkin, however, was still annoyed on account of the misdemeanour and besides, he had a vengeful character. He barely let an opportunity such as now slip by.
“Recruit, are you still on duty?”
I hate this question. I would like to lie, but I know it’s not really a good idea. “No, Sir Haerkin.”
A malicious grin spread across the commander’s face. “Well, then follow me.”
What kind of foul work is it this time? “Yes, Sir Haerkin.”
They went to the meeting room of III Company, where Eryn was assigned as an orderly.
The officers of the III sat together around a table and to Eryn’s surprise, the recruit Sir Orten joined them, where they then discussed a number of serious matters over the lavish meal.
This is sheer extravagance, the food that is standing on the table. I would rather help in the kitchen, where I could also benefit from some of these fine things. Instead, I have to hold a bottle of wine in my hands and wait for orders to fill up empty glasses. If I could, I would turn the wine into vinegar. Sadly, I can’t, which leaves me no other option but to savor the thought of it. But I still wonder why recruit Sir Askir Orten is also sitting at this table? This so far was a riddle, but later the solution emerged from the conversation, flowery words of flattery clearing up the matter.
It was mentioned that one of the elderly troop leaders would soon be retiring from service and Sir Orten was being considered as his successor.
That’s how quickly you clamber up the career ladder if you are highborn, Eryn thought, not without disgust.
Back in the dormitory, the story was also a source of displeasure to Eryn’s roommates, who all pulled faces of disapproval.
“Shouldn’t he become a regular first? They can’t just make him an officer as long as he is still a recruit,” remarked Ravenor sourly.
The next days’ exercises were arrow shooting and swordplay. Eryn’s new hand was well suited to using a bow because the lizard skin was thicker than human skin. Also, he hadn’t forgotten how to handle the weapon, and after a few hours of practice, none of the others were fit to hold a candle to him. With the swordplay it was different. In the past, Eryn had mainly practiced with the long knife, so he wasn’t so used to the sword. Ravenor, by contrast, was outstanding with a blade.
Their next competition with the recruits of the III was a source of deep satisfaction. Sir Askir Orten lost against Ravenor in the sword fight and was far from putting in a good performance with the bow. That competition was won easily by Eryn. Even Sir Galden showed himself pleased about that result.
The troop leader had not completely yet got over the story in the wine cellar, but at least Eryn and Ravenor rose somewhat in his estimation, not least because they had shown the Lordlings who were the better men.
The competitions weren’t over yet, however, and now the horsemen competed against each other, which meant that only III Company took part, as the Vth wasn’t mounted at all.
Because they were not on duty afterwards, Eryn and his mates stayed on to watch a part of it. Basically, all the soldiers who had nothing to do gathered around as spectators. Such a competition was an exciting change to the normal routine, and so a lot of men filled the yard.
Sir Orten was able to win at hitting the target with the lance, and Ravenor commented enviously:
“They don’t give us horses. We’re just cheap foot soldiers.”
Deren stood next to him and pinched Ravenor in the ribs. “They don’t give the Lordlings horses either. They bring their own mounts. Well, if you had some money or were at least of noble blood...”
“Arse.” A short word reflected Ravenor’s entire opinion on the matter.
Hitting a target with arrows from a galloping horse was won by someone they didn’t know.
“Fortunately, not the arrogant ass Orten.” Ravenor couldn’t hold back his thoughts, and his opinion was one that Eryn had no trouble sharing.
Finally, it was time for the last competition. Two men rode against each other and tried to unseat the opponent from the saddle with jousting lances. This kind of fight was completely new to Eryn. He had never seen such a thing in the mountains.
Many of the men fell hard to the ground, and the mages had their hands full casting healing spells. The tension increased and the spectators cheered the competitors loudly.
Eryn was so fascinated by the spectacle that he couldn’t have said when Lord Boron and his staff officers had joined the gathered men. Now the commander stood beside Sir Haerkin and followed the tournament with great interest, as did all the others around the yard.
After the last ride, the winner was determined: Sir Askir Orten, a man from one of the noblest houses of Ardeen was honored with the winner’s crown.
“He did well, that can’t be denied,” Deren said fairly.
“Pah, one day I’ll ride against him and then we’ll see,” boasted Ravenor.
Deren winked at Eryn while he gave Ravenor a sound piece of advice: “First you should see about acquiring a mount. Perhaps one day you can afford a donkey or even a mule.”
“The donkey is already standing right beside me, Deren. One day I will have a charger such as Braeven’s Brood.”
“Who?” Eryn asked and Deren explained to him:
“Braeven’s Brood is a demon horse. The stallion of the Black Prince. Instead of hair, he has black scales – say those who have seen him. And he spits fire. A very rare animal, such a demon horse.”
Eryn was skeptical about whether this was a joke now or really the truth. But Ravenor, too, praised the horse:
“Yes, such an animal would be a fine thing. Have you seen the stallion yourself, Deren?”
Deren shook his head. “No. He is somewhere at the citadel. They say he doesn’t get along with other horses, so he grazes alone behind the mill. I know some of the veterans who have seen him already.”
The four mates were distracted by their talk of the demon horse, so at first they failed to notice that something else was going on in the yard. Five recruits of III Company had lined up at the center.
Some kind of award ceremony? Eryn wondered.
But then the recruits stepped forward towards the commander, and Lord Boron declared solemnly that he would use the extraordinary performance as an occasion to promote those recruits to the rank of regular soldier. Then they swore loudly the oath to the Prince, while Ravenor spit venom and bile.
“It seems you need a horse to give an extraordinary performance. The simple foot soldier with a sword in his hand doesn’t even de
serve a mention.”
And what’s even worse... “I don’t like pointing this out, but now the path is free for Sir Orten to reach the rank of a troop leader, a promotion that I fear will happen pretty soon.”
Without a word, Ravenor rolled his eyes and bared his teeth.
When he runs out of words, it’s a bad sign, but I don’t find the thought uplifting either.
Ravenor did his service and also worked at Lord Boron’s domicile while Eryn made progress with his studies. In this way, the weeks passed quickly. Master Lionas had given Eryn the second volume of the Oranium, which dealt with healing minor infections in theory and practice. Both young men were very busy and for the time being forgot about Sir Orten and his prospects of promotion.
After the drill exercise one morning, Sir Galden announced that a group of wyvern had been spotted close by, roving around in the woods. He chose ten men who should accompany him on the hunt, and mentioned that the Vth would also send out a troop to try their luck at hunting. Deren, Farat and Ravenor were among the men chosen, though Eryn wasn’t. That rankled.
Why not me? I hunted wyvern even as an adolescent. Besides, I’m the best archer in the Company – perhaps in the whole Guard.
After lunch, which – by the way – was once again one of Halford’s special creations, Eryn went to Sir Galden to complain. He found the troop leader in his office, preoccupied with something he was writing down. Eryn saluted and Sir Galden gave him a brief look before turning back to his paper-covered desk.
“What’s the matter, recruit?”
“With respect, Sir, I would like to join the hunting party. I’m your best archer and if I may mention it, I am also experienced with the hunting of wyvern.”
Sir Galden placed his pencil to one side and straightened his back: “That may all be true, but you haven’t been chosen. Over the next few days, you can devote yourself completely to your studies – as you always wanted to.”
“Yes, but...”