Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Tarin heard a growl and he spun slowly in a circle, trying to locate the source of his next enemy. All he found were the dead and dying, giving a unique texture to the snowy field. And the growl:

  It was coming from him.

  With no foes left to brutalize, the monster departed in an instant, leaving Tarin breathless and shattered. He looked at his gloved hands, which were slick with blood. They felt like the hands of a stranger.

  He sank to his knees, suddenly sick with sorrow. Not by what he had done, not exactly, but at the world of men, of war, of violence.

  Though he had not been born with a mark of power like the Ice Lord, he knew he was marked all the same. And his marking was a curse, one he would be forced to bear for whatever was left of his life.

  I am warmarked, he thought.

  The eastern army’s deception had been thwarted. Though Tarin had no recollection of many of the events that had transpired on the battlefield, numerous soldiers had come forward with stories of the Armored Knight defeating enemies by the hundred. Depending on the source, he was credited with kill totals anywhere between five hundred and a thousand.

  Everywhere he walked he received calls of adoration and thanks, falling just short of being patted on the back. No, none was brave enough to touch him. Some even dropped to their knees and bowed to him like royalty.

  All of it left a bitter taste in Tarin’s mouth, for celebrating so much death felt wrong, regardless of his intentions. It didn’t matter that the east had attacked them, nor that he was defending his people, fulfilling his vow of knighthood.

  All that mattered was that his eyes continued to see everything tinted by a pinkish haze. It was fading day by day, but the memory of it was not. Something had changed in him, and he feared the door he’d opened for the monster could never again be fully closed.

  Would that be so bad? the monster said now. It was the first it had spoken since the battle, more than a week ago.

  Tarin didn’t know the answer, for it was true that the monster had saved them all. It had saved him too, on countless occasions.

  “You’re frowning again, Arme,” Sir Jonathan said, standing beside him. He was out of his armor, wearing a black velvet vest over a crisp white shirt. Tarin had to blink away the blood-like spots he saw marring the cloth.

  Tarin shifted uncomfortably in his armor. It wasn’t the armor that was bothering him, however. It was the occasion, the grandness of it all.

  At least a dozen soldiers had been awarded medals of valor for their part in the battle. Sir Draconius had received one, his eyes lingering on Tarin for a moment as the bronze medallion had been hung from his neck.

  To Tarin’s surprise, however, he felt no anger toward the knight. Only pity. A great warrior such as he could only be brought so low by pointless pride.

  “The Armored Knight,” a voice boomed, snapping Tarin away from his thoughts.

  “That’s you, you big lug,” Jonathan said when Tarin didn’t move. The knight shoved him forward. Tarin took a deep breath as he made his way up to the dais. Lord Darrin himself presided over the occasion, and Tarin dropped to one knee and lowered his head in deference. Despite the fact that Tarin could crush the man’s head in one of his massive hands, there was no changing the aristocracy that governed the north.

  “Sir Armored Knight, by the authority of King Wolfric Gäric, the Dread King of the North, I hereby bestow upon you the medal of highest honor, for strength and prowess in battle.” The weight of a chain fell upon Tarin’s neck. “The Black Medallion.”

  As Tarin stood, the applause was deafening, but he heard none of it, staring at the priceless black-gold stone tethered to his neck. It was etched with the cracked but never broken shield of the north.

  And, to Tarin’s eyes, it was stained with blood.

  Much had happened since the north’s decisive victory. The east had offered a tenuous truce and the north had accepted. Restitution had been demanded by King Gäric and denied by King Ironclad. Negotiations would likely last the better part of a year. Tarin was certain the end result would be yet another war. The world had continued turning, as it does.

  Tarin had received a letter of invitation to attend the king himself in Castle Hill. He still hadn’t responded. His memories of the king from his childhood coupled with the stories of the atrocities he’d carried out on his own people were enough to give Tarin pause. More interestingly, the letter had been accompanied by another note, hastily scrawled it seemed, and penned by the queen, Sabria Loren Gäric. Annise’s mother, Tarin thought, rolling and unrolling the scrap of parchment it was written on. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the second message, for the queen had been friends with his mother, and it was she who had helped arrange the services of the very witch who had saved his life and cursed him forever.

  The note said, simply: I will have need of your services soon. The lives of my children may depend on you. My husband is…not a good man.

  Tarin sighed and tucked the note away under his pillow. Sir Jonathan was saying something and he hadn’t been listening. For Tarin’s part, he had managed to enjoy the time off he’d been granted. He’d read a few books, slept a lot, and, despite Sir Jonathan’s pleas, avoided the crowded pubs and taverns. But the wily knight didn’t give up easily.

  “Your people want to see you,” he said now, flipping through a history book Tarin had read two times.

  “My people?” Beneath his face shield, his eyebrows lifted.

  Sir Jonathan closed the book and added it to a stack of others he’d inspected, and discarded, over the last hour. “You know what I mean. You are their hero. It’s good for them to have something—someone—to celebrate. The north is a cold place in the best of times.”

  “And in the worst?”

  “Frozen hell,” Sir Jonathan said with a smile. “But winter is abating. War is a distant memory. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself a little.” Tarin wished such a thing was possible, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the note. I cannot respond. I cannot open myself up to my old life. It’s too dangerous. I’m too dangerous.

  “Plus, then you can enjoy yourself,” Tarin said. It wasn’t an affront, just an observation.

  “Exactly! Now we have an understanding.” Sir Jonathan picked up another book.

  Tarin had the sudden urge to knock the whole stack over, because…

  Even if the people did think him a hero—which he wasn’t convinced of—and not a monster—which was closer to the truth—they couldn’t actually see him. Not the real him, anyway. “You can wear my armor and parade yourself through Darrin if you wish. I’m certain the free drinks will flow like a river toward your mouth.”

  The room suddenly felt colder, and Tarin knew he’d caused it.

  “That’s not fair,” Sir Jonathan said, and it wasn’t.

  Tarin breathed deeply. “I know. I’m sorry. You are the only one who truly…knows me.” And yet you will never understand me.

  Jonathan laughed, and the warmth returned to the room in an instant. “I’ve never even seen your face.”

  “You don’t want to.”

  “I’ve seen horrifying things in my life. Your face will not even make the list, I promise.”

  It was a promise Tarin knew the knight could not keep. “Maybe next century.”

  “Amusing. You should be a court fool.”

  Despite the war of emotions Tarin had been feeling every time he was in Sir Jonathan’s presence these last few days, he was glad to have someone to care about. A friend. A confidante. The only one who had gone looking for him when he’d been confined by Sir Draconius and his ilk.

  “I’m sorry,” Tarin said.

  Sir Jonathan flipped a page in the book he was perusing. “For what?” he said absently.

  “I’m leaving Darrin,” he said.

  Sir Jonathan’s eyes darted up and he almost dropped the book. “What?”

  “I—I have new orders.” It didn’t matter that he’d requested to be relocated, or that he knew n
one would refuse him after being awarded the Black Medallion. Nor that the orders had been handed down by Lord Darrin himself, far swifter than even Tarin had expected.

  “What orders?” Sir Jonathan’s face was a mask, though Tarin had known him long enough to discern the tightness of his jaw, the lines etched in his brow and about the corners of his eyes. It was a look of concentration he’d seen many times. Though the knight had a tendency to jape, he was still a born warrior. Tarin forgot that sometimes.

  “I am to represent the soldiers’ division on this year’s tournament circuit.” It was clearly a political maneuver, an attempt to give the people a hero during dark times fraught with war and loss. I am no hero, he thought, but that didn’t change the fact that he would be treated as one. And he would give the people what they wanted. He owed them that much. Despite that knowledge, Tarin hadn’t fully come to terms with the fact that he would be returning to where the violence had all started. A slice of fear cut through him.

  The monster purred.

  He pushed it back and the monster obeyed. He hoped he’d be able to manage the same in the heat of battle, surrounded by thousands of screaming spectators.

  Sir Jonathan was staring at him, his eyes piercing the only visible part of Tarin. His eyes. “You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question. More like a numb statement, a realization.

  “I’m sorry. It’s time to move on.”

  Sir Jonathan nodded, his expression giving way to tenderness. “I will miss you, old friend.”

  If you only knew I was fourteen, Tarin thought. “And I you,” he said instead.

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I shall ride through the night.”

  Sir Jonathan stood suddenly, and the pile of books teetered but somehow managed to remain upright. There was something in the knight’s eyes. Something that sparkled like gemstones.

  “It has been an honor to know you these last five years, Sir. I hope our paths cross again. Perhaps when the tourney reaches Darrin.” Jonathan’s hand was outstretched, waiting.

  Tarin stood to meet him. “As do I. Easy on the drink, Sir, and respect that wife of yours. She is a good woman for sticking by a scoundrel like you.”

  Jonathan laughed and they clasped arms. “That she is, Sir. That she is.”

  The knight departed, cutting off the howl of wind as he slammed the door.

  Tarin fought in many tourneys before he returned to Darrin. He was the victor in all of them, his fame growing almost as much as his body had after drinking the witch’s life-saving potion.

  But when he finally returned to Darrin, Sir Jonathan was nowhere to be found.

  Almost two years later

  Tarin was back in Darrin, fighting in yet another tournament, another melee. To everyone’s surprise, the war with both the east and the west had been on hold for these last two years, though the threat was always there, prowling in the shadows. Thus far, Tarin had avoided returning to Castle Hill, only entering tourneys in the other castle cities. He had, however, traded several messages with the queen, who had managed to guess at his true identity. With each note she seemed more anxious, more paranoid. She feared for her children, speaking of her enemies circling like birds of prey, closing in. In the last message she’d practically begged him for his help. Who am I to deny the woman who saved my life? he thought now, staring across the field of faux battle. He shook his head, trying to concentrate.

  Everything about the event was the same:

  The smell of roasting meat and ale.

  The crisp snap of the flags bearing the eastern sigil as they were tossed hither and thither by a stiff wind.

  The roar of the crowds, calling out to him everywhere he went and anytime he marched into another arena.

  And Tarin, his entire body rigid with concentration as he held back the monster’s bloodlust. The event began and it took all his effort to restrain it. In the midst of the melee, it screamed, its voice muffled behind the mental wall he had erected. It wanted him to kill all these men. Snap their necks. Spill their blood. It didn’t matter that they were not true enemies, just competitors in a violent sport.

  All that mattered was that they were alive.

  Tarin breathed in and out, his focus complete. I can do this. It was his mantra now, for who but himself could control his urges.

  Steel flashed and he dodged, slamming his forearm into a burly man’s jaw. He was a commoner, his armor ill-fitting and missing pieces. And now he was unconscious.

  He will wake up, Tarin thought. He will live to hug his family and tell the tale of the day he went toe to toe with the Armored Knight.

  Though every instinct urged him to rush into the thick of the battle, recklessly swinging the Morningstar at anything and everything that moved, he held back, waiting for the numbers to dwindle. He’d learned that focus was easier if he chose his foes carefully.

  One combatant caught his attention. A newcomer to the tourney circuit. A knight, based on the tarnished crest on his breastplate, but unlike any knight Tarin had ever seen. Most knights regaled themselves in the finest armor, polished to a shine, their comings heralded by trumpeters and callers.

  This knight, however, wore dented, scratched armor, dull and unpolished.

  But the pathetic state of the knight’s armor wasn’t what caught Tarin’s eye. No, it was the way he fought.

  Like wind and rain, Tarin thought, immediately shaking his head at the thought. No, it was more than that. This man fights like a winter storm.

  As he watched, the warrior’s sword swept left and then right in short succession, disarming two opponents with a pair of deft flicks of his wrist. They weren’t commoners, but seasoned knights themselves. They cried out in surprise before submitting to the point of his sword.

  Soon he was the only man left, having dispatched all other competitors. He turned to face Tarin, and he couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. For he wore no faceplate, and his face was in as poor a state as his armor. He wasn’t unhandsome per se, but his skin was laced with scars, some old and white and others fresher, as if he’d entrusted his morning shave to an ice bear’s claws.

  He strode toward Tarin with confidence, like he didn’t fear him in the least.

  Tarin couldn’t hold back his smile. It had been a long time since anyone had truly challenged him, and he finally felt like he could meet this threat without the assistance of the monster inside him. He began to swing the Morningstar in long, slow arcs.

  The knight watched them carefully, but Tarin could see the hesitation. I can use that, he thought, suddenly bringing the spiked steel down on a vicious angle. He aimed not for his head, but for his sword arm. It was something he’d learned to do. Even a broken arm was better than a broken head, and it would end the trial swiftly.

  To his surprise, however, the knight stepped aside and the ball ratcheted off the frozen ground.

  A dozen attempted strikes later and the knight was still unscathed. He truly does move like the wind, Tarin thought. He was tiring, especially since he was getting no help from the monster. He could feel it scratching at the wall, trying to find a weak spot.

  I can help youuuu, it hissed.

  “No,” Tarin growled under his breath, changing tactics. He widened his swings, offering a long pause between arcs, leaving himself vulnerable.

  A grim smile flickered across the knight’s face, there and gone. And, like a wily lake trout finally outsmarted, he rose to the bait, dancing inside the circle and striking at Tarin’s midsection.

  Tarin released his weapon, letting it fly off to the side. In the same second, he lashed out with his hand, closing a tight grip on the knight’s wrist and stopping his strike.

  The knight’s eyes widened, but then narrowed as he tried to twist free.

  Frozen hell, Tarin thought, feeling the man’s strength push back against his own. He was the strongest man Tarin had ever battled, and not by a small margin.

  Something wasn’t right.

  This man is marked, he
thought, the knowledge sending a shot of adrenaline through him. At the same moment, the monster’s energy snuck through the wall, pushing additional strength to his weary muscles. Tarin yanked the man’s arm to the side, wrenching his sword from his hand and tossing it away. The knight’s strength seemed to finally wane and Tarin easily slung him to the ground. Still, the warrior tried to roll away, but Tarin stomped on his chest, pinning him down. “Submit,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Yes. I submit.”

  Tarin released him, standing and striding away, his mind a whorl of emotions.

  “What is it?” Tarin said. He’d been rereading the latest troubled message from the queen. She implored him to return to Castle Hill immediately.

  The innkeeper’s expression was nonchalant. “That knight ya defeated in the melee? He’s ’ere askin’ fer ya. Shuld I kick ’im in the arse and tell ’im to be on his way?” Tarin knew from experience that the formidable woman’s words were not an idle threat. It was precisely the reason he always stayed in this inn while in Darrin. She always kept the rubberneckers away from him. And she never tried to see him without his armor on.

  After the melee, Tarin had inquired about the knight. Sir Dietrich was his name, though little was known of his past, only that he’d suddenly appeared on the tourney circuit, winning his first three melees before his defeat today.

  “I will see him,” Tarin said.

  The woman frowned, but nodded. “As ya wish. But if ya tire of ’is company…”

  “Of course. You shall have first rights to kicking his arse.”

  The woman nodded with satisfaction and turned away, her footfalls descending the wooden steps to the bottom floor. Tarin fell in behind her, the wood creaking under his heavy trod. At the base of the staircase, he opened the door.

  The scarred face of the knight looked at him. Sir Dietrich was no longer wearing his dented armor, his upper body clothed in a stained, tattered shirt and his legs covered by trousers that might’ve been ten years old.