by Evren, S. K.
One drunken corporal snidely suggested that the commander might have “other” preferences, looking pointedly at a goat. Suggesting that their commander was anything less than the paragon of manhood, however, was not the right thing to do. The corporal woke several days later and regained the use of his legs within the year.
The soldiers eventually came to look at their commander as something of an eccentric. Some went so far as to speculate that his abstinence was the cause of his success in battle. Over time, many of his men tried, at least once, to emulate their impossible commander. Even the most intemperate among them stopped drinking and wenching a day or two before battle. The wives of the married men under his command praised him and bragged to the wives of other soldiers. The fidelity and sobriety of his men became something of a legend in itself. The unmarried soldiers of his troop commanded the attention of wealthy merchants and even minor nobles.
The noble who commissioned Troseth had kept abreast of these stories, judging the young commander to be the perfect man to lead his household lifeguards. The richly dressed and equipped cavalry regiment was quartered in the palace grounds and accompanied members of the family on ceremonial occasions. Troseth had seen his elevation to this position as a sign that Providence approved of his pure love for the young woman named Li. He had become so convinced of that approval that he began to expose his attention to the girl.
He would speak to her in his room, alone, practicing as he had with his weapons. He would feint and parry, thrust when appropriate, let her attack when was necessary. He had been brilliant in his practices.
The reality, however, had been elusive. The girl never initiated the duel. She was courteous and kind, but she, herself, had never developed any kind of personal curiosity about him. He was a servant, an honored solider, and nothing more.
On one or two occasions, he had tried to draw the girl into a conversation, but she avoided the engagements skillfully and tactfully. She had never offended him in any fashion, yet she remained aloof, unapproachable. Troseth became convinced that she simply didn’t know enough about him.
He engaged in elaborate plans to discuss his martial skill and victories when he knew she would be able to overhear and appreciate. He often placed himself at the head of her personal guard, dressed in his finest uniform, or, if the occasion called for it, his gleaming armor. He strutted and bragged, trying to impress his quarry. Unfortunately, he recalled, something altogether different had happened.
Although she had not taken a personal interest in his glory, his actions had not gone unnoticed. Her father, the Duke, called one day for a private audience. Troseth responded crisply, secure in his master’s appreciation. He approached the ducal throne in the audience chamber. Two personal guards stood at attention by the door, two others stood watchful in the far corners of the room. Troseth wondered at their presence during a private audience, but not seriously.
The Duke looked at him as he approached. A stern look hardened the noble’s features. It was a look Troseth had seen aimed at others. He began to wonder why, exactly, he had been summoned.
The Duke Ythel spoke to him in a firm but quiet voice. He told Troseth that he was aware the soldier had taken a far too personal interest in his daughter. In no uncertain terms, Troseth was told to focus his attentions elsewhere. To aid him in refocusing, the Duke informed Troseth that he would be immediately transferred to a light horse regiment that was on loan to the Crown. His master presented him with a ceremonial, but serviceable, dagger. The blade was a symbol of his rank and his new cavalry command. The light horse regiment would be used to patrol the eastern border and was a chance for service and advancement, he was told. He could even be noticed by ministers of the Crown. Troseth was dismissed with his dagger and orders to leave by nightfall.
Troseth left the audience chamber covered in amazement and shame. He had worked so hard to close the gap between his service and his master. All of his service, however, his months—no—years of moving closer to his goal had been in vain. With one stroke, the Duke had widened the gap to a chasm. Troseth reeled as the reality of what had happened flooded his mind. Numbly, he packed his gear, requisitioned a horse, and followed his orders.
As he traveled to his new command, his mind began to work. Certainly, he had been struck a mighty blow, but he hadn’t been beaten. Unwittingly, perhaps, his master had provided him with command under the auspices of the Crown. There was no more certain path to glory, rank and a patent of nobility.
A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps the Duke had not, actually, rebuked him. Perhaps Ythel had simply acknowledged the gulf between Troseth and his daughter, offering the young man a chance at real advancement. In service to the Crown, promotion could come swiftly enough—and high enough—to eliminate the gulf between master and servant. Then, he thought, having distinguished himself in service to the Crown, having earned rank and nobility, he could approach the girl as an equal. This had to be the case, he thought to himself. Duke Ythel had given him a gift, he was certain, and it was up to him to use it to his full advantage.
What a fool he had been.
The transfer to the border regiment did provide Troseth with greater exposure to the Crown and greater chances for merit and glory. Troseth had served with honor and distinction, becoming even more focused and chaste than he had been before. His constant sobriety, his serious nature, and his success in the field pushed him higher and higher in the eyes of the Crown. Within two years of his transfer, he had been rewarded with a patent of nobility. He was to return to Arlethord to stand before the King and receive his patent and title.
The Duke Ythel welcomed him back, praising Troseth for the glory he had won both for himself and his master. Troseth was pleased by the reception, certain that his elevation would finally give him the chance to open his heart to Li and to her father. He asked the Duke about the girl and was amazed at the rapid change in the older man’s eyes. Ythel’s face had grown pale and his brow furrowed deeply. Troseth felt as if winter had expelled its last breath in the room.
“Li is gone,” the Duke told him.
“Gone?” Troseth asked, his heart withering in his chest.
“She is… married now, she is gone.”
Troseth staggered as if the older man had struck him with a blacksmith’s hammer. His mind went immediately blank and his eyes widened as if he saw his own death approaching on wings. His head began to jerk spasmodically on his neck and his hand shook uncontrollably.
The Duke looked at Troseth in surprise, his own dark thoughts banished by the sight before him. Troseth had always been firmly in control of his feelings. Even during setbacks, Ythel thought, the young man had been as steady as the noonday sun. The older man stopped himself, revising his thought. Troseth had suffered no setbacks. He had never reported a loss or failure that his master could remember. What, then, had so shaken the boy now?
Troseth staggered from the room, his hands pulling at the black length of his hair. It was impossible, he thought, not possible at all. She had been meant for him, made for him. Providence had decided it. He had worked for it, earned it, deserved it. She was his! She belonged to him!
He returned to his old barracks and his former quarters. At first, his men were excited to see him. His haunted eyes, however, brought worry and concern. Their new commander was out for the night, and the men herded Troseth into his former bedroom.
“Drink,” he demanded in a voice that brooked no opposition. The men blinked and stared as if they had heard the wall, itself, talk. “‘Drink,’ I said, damn you all!” The men scattered reaching into hiding places under mattresses and in old boots. Alcohol was forbidden in the barracks, though Troseth had always known about it. They brought him several bottles and he drained one in a single attempt. The men continued to stare in disbelief. The bottle he had swallowed wasn’t wine or ale, but potent spirits. He looked around for other bottles, but the men quickly hid them behind their backs.
They stared at him in amazement, won
dering what would happen to their former commander. He caught the look in their eyes, each staring at him as if he had swallowed a bottle of poison. Concern tried to establish itself in his mind, but it failed. The world spun around him and his men seemed to undulate like smoke from a funeral pyre. He tried to stand and felt the world swim away beneath him. A terrible sickness rose in his stomach and he fought to control it. Pain doubled him over and he fell to his hands and knees.
The men watched their former leader, the man who had covered their names in victory and glory, fall before them. Their eyes showed that he had not simply fallen to the ground, but fallen from their graces as well. They backed away as if they were observing a man possessed of something evil. Someone brought him water, but Troseth was too far gone to see or accept it. He staggered to his feet, only to vomit on himself and the closest of his former men.
“Married,” he slurred through the fog in his brain and the liquid in his mouth. “Married,” he tried to say again. He wanted to explain to his loyal men, these men that he loved this day beyond all other days, how he had been betrayed. He had been betrayed by their master, by a woman, by their Maker. He reached for his weapon and attempted to draw it. His hand slipped from the hilt several times, and he dropped it on the floor when he finally got it out.
“Mound,” he screamed, trying to get his men to mount up and ride, yet slurring his words. “Kill, attash!” His eyes lit with insanity, red blood filling the whites of his eyes. He tried to urge them to attack the ducal palace, to drown his betrayal in blood. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the idea across. He stumbled into the courtyard and grabbed the reins of the nearest horse. He slumped on the animal’s back and vomited down its neck. The men turned their backs on him and returned to their barracks.
He remembered trying to attack the palace himself; at least he thought he did. The next thing he remembered was waking in a ditch outside of town, no horse in sight. As far as he could tell, he had awakened at least two days later. He had been beaten, he was certain, and he had no money or weapons left on his person. A foul taste filled his mouth and a shattering pain pierced his skull. He felt as if his body would turn itself inside out, and the sooner the better. If he’d have had a weapon, he was certain he would have killed himself on the spot. He hadn’t, however. He had only pain, and sickness, and the realization that he had lost his heart’s desire, destroyed his name and his glory, all in one single night.
She was gone, the Duke had said. The hope of his life, the love he had hidden and nurtured had disappeared, been taken by another man. How did that happen? How could he, Troseth, lose on such a scale? Some other man was sharing her love, her… body while he soaked in his own vomit in a ditch. He had never even stood before King Olventross to accept his patent and title. Everything was lost, everything. His feeling of loss was so great that he vomited once more into the grass. He fell to his hands and knees, crying, the top of his head resting in a warm pool of his own expulsion.
Nothing, he thought to himself. Nothing remained for him. He looked about the ditch, hoping he had simply dropped his weapons nearby. He wanted to die. He had to die! What else, what else could he ever do?
He couldn’t find his weapons, though he had only been searching on his hands and knees. He stopped often to be sick and to try and soothe the pain in his head and body. He passed out a few times, waking finally in the cool chill of night. He hadn’t seen anyone earlier, and he hoped that no one had seen him. He moved away from the road, still feeling violently ill. Hunger woke in his stomach, but the thought of food sent him into throes of dry heaving.
Eventually, he found the dagger that had been a gift from his master. Master, he thought, and spat. He took the dagger and snapped the Ythel family crest from his breastplate. He picked up the emblem and threw it far into the woods alongside the road. The effort of the throw turned his vision dark, and he blacked-out once more in the grass. He passed the night in sickening hunger, rocking back and forth, crying and pulling at the hair on his head.
Chapter 19 – The Path East
Troseth thought back over his past as he watched the undead marching east. He, too, had marched east after his betrayal. He had left his life behind, carrying only his armor, Ythel’s dagger, and his pain into the lands of the enemy.
He fought alcohol poisoning for days before his body flushed the toxins from his system. He waylaid a messenger traveling to Æostemark, robbing him of purse, weapons and horse. The ease with which he’d struck the man down surprised him. He considered, briefly, a life of banditry on the highway, but the thought soon lost its appeal. As a bandit, he’d be able to make a living, probably a good one, but he’d never have the opportunity to chastise his betrayers, not on the scale that he desired.
His life had been a simple matter of service and reward. He had given his instructors, and his Duke, exemplary service, and he was accustomed to being well rewarded. Eventually, he thought, his service had outstripped their rewards. When Ythel knew he could no longer repay such service, he had simply pushed Troseth out of sight. On the eastern frontier, Troseth would be the Crown’s problem; perhaps he might even be killed. What a fool he’d been, to believe that his transfer had been some sort of reward.
He had been transferred to remove an inconvenience, an obstacle. The Duke had probably been offered some familial alliance in exchange for the hand—and virtue—of his daughter. The damned old man had sold his daughter as if she were a common whore! Troseth, instead of being loyal to his true love, had been bought off himself! But Ythel had deceived him. Troseth had believed he was being moved to a needed command, a place to find social elevation and glory. He had believed the old man was preparing him for the exalted position of son-in-law. What a fool he had truly been.
This could not stand, he had decided. Dying by his own hand in a ditch would simply cement the plans the old Duke had made. Troseth would never give Ythel the satisfaction. Banditry might hurt the family’s finances, but the old man would never dare to set his foot on the road without a massive escort. He had no idea where his love had been taken, so there would be no way to rescue her on his own. He needed power—power and opportunity.
He had fought the armies of Sel Avrand, and he knew that they were a formidable force. If he could manage to enlist himself in their service, it was just possible that he might find all that he sought. He could rise through their ranks as he had in the Kingdom of Marynd. He could build a force, loyal to himself, and work to repay the kindness of his former men and master. It would be difficult, he knew. More than simple terrain to cross, there were years of animosity to overcome.
Sel Avrand and Marynd had been separate for centuries. Each, at one time or another, had made an attempt to overwhelm or eliminate the other. What had started as a common people forged by an ancient empire had shattered into warring factions and bitter enemies. Leaders on both sides heard stories of Empire and dreamed of reuniting the land under their own banner. War and death passed between the divided nations as swiftly as water flashing under a bridge. The border between the East and West was a battle-ground, a bloody frontline that was watched and guarded closely.
Troseth had spent nearly a year patrolling that very border. He knew places to slip by the Maryndian patrols. He knew their behavior, knew their routines. He approached the western side of the border at night and with great caution. The sky was clear and black, glittering with stars and a sliver of crescent moon. He had hoped for some overcast or even rain. He had found neither, but determined to cross anyway.
He slipped across the western side of the border somewhere around midnight. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could. He passed easily out of the West, never stopping to look back. He had to keep moving, had to get away from the border before he was seen. If an Eastern patrol picked him up, he would undoubtedly be accused of spying.
The interrogation methods of the time were brutally direct, even in the civilized West. What he’d heard of interrogations in Sel Avrand came close to mak
ing his hair stand on end. He’d known strong warriors who had been captured in battle and ransomed back some months later. They had been good men, proud men when they’d been caught. They returned as broken figures, crying for their mothers and sobbing throughout the night, every night.
He was captured before he’d gone a mile. The patrol that snared him had been watching him even on the Marynd side of the border. They had waited until he was deep enough that his screams would bring no aid. Like arrows shot out of ambush, they descended on him in the darkness of night. He was cracked across the head with a wooden club and knocked, unconscious, to the ground.
He woke later in a dark stone cell. The smell of acrid sweat and stale urine rose through his nostrils to catch in his throat. The darkness was so complete that he had to feel with his fingers to be certain his eyelids were actually open. He tried to stand, but the world spun out from underneath him, just as it had when he’d taken his first drink. Pain, again, shot through his head, though this time, he could tell, it was generated externally. He felt the split in the skin covering his skull and the swelling infection around it.
He’d been captured. He was certain he wasn’t in the hands of a Maryndian unit. Someone would have been watching, waiting for him to stir. Nothing could be watching him in this utter blackness, though he wasn’t sure he was alone. He decided to assess the situation as best he could, hoping for some chance to escape.
He tried to stand again and managed to remain upright. He walked straight in the direction he was facing, running himself face-first into a cold stone wall. He followed the wall with his hand until something caught at his foot. He was chained by the ankle. He reached down and picked up the chain. He followed that to the wall, testing the cuff and each link along the way. Finally, he found the point where the chain had been driven into the wall. It was deep and solid. He tugged and pulled but nothing moved. He walked the range that his chain allowed, reaching for anything in the darkness. He searched the floor for something that might be of use. In the end, all he found was a corpse chained to the wall.