Reclaiming Honor

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Tovak knew from speaking with them that Duroth’s yuggernok was the only one in the caravan carrying passengers. The other two hauled only supplies.

  “Thulla curse you young scruggs,” Duroth hollered from the front as he stomped slowly down the corridor. “We’re almost to the encampment. Soon enough, I’ll be done with the lot of you. And I say the sooner you bugger off the better. No more nursemaiding for me, Fortuna be praised. You’ll be someone else’s headache after today. Bloody Thulla, I can’t wait to get rid of the lot of ya.”

  Duroth stopped before Tovak, and his rheumy eyes narrowed.

  “I said eyes forward!” he said, his breath thick with spirits. “You best get used to acting like warriors if you expect to join the Blood Badgers.”

  Tovak kept his face calm, impassive. Standing a head taller than Duroth, what he really wanted to do was grab the short drunkard by the collar and throw him over the edge of the platform. But that was not in the cards. The other teamsters would likely not look kindly upon such actions.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Duroth growled in a low tone so that only Tovak could hear. “I never should have let one of your kind aboard my rig,” he seethed, poking his finger into Tovak’s chest. “Thulla’s bones, they’ll probably blame me if something happens to the Blood Badgers . . . . All you Pariahs are bad luck, boy.”

  Tovak shifted his gaze forward, staring over Duroth at the supplies stacked and strapped down on the other side of the corridor. He bit back the suggestion that Duroth had been too drunk at the time to see anything but the purse and more coin for another bottle of spirits.

  Duroth hesitated a moment more, his jaw flexing as he considered Tovak. He let out a heavy breath that was part sigh. The stench of spirits was almost enough to make Tovak gag. Then, the old Dvergr turned and stomped back the way he’d come.

  Like so many other times, Tovak wanted to say something . . . do something. Frustrated rage bubbled up inside him, but he kept his mouth shut. Duroth was in a position to kick him off the yuggernok and perhaps even keep him from joining a company.

  All Thulla’s sons and daughters have free will, and it is His domain to mete out reward and consequence as He sees fit. Tovak had always liked that passage and found a measure of comfort recalling it. He took a deep breath and pressed his lips together in silence, when something occurred to him. Duroth’s drinking might have been the only thing that had allowed him to gain a berth. The great god worked in mysterious ways. Tovak sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

  “The main encampment is in sight,” Duroth continued, loud enough for all to hear. “Gather up your belongings and be ready to get your sorry asses off my rig the moment we come to a stop. We won’t be serving no dinner for you either.” He came to a halt halfway down the corridor, leaned around a recruit, and swept the curtain aside. He made a show of peering within the berth. “And clean up before you go. Don’t leave nothin’ behind. Your mommas didn’t come along for the ride, so anything I find after your feet hit dirt is mine.”

  “Who does that drunken bastard think he is?” the recruit beside Tovak hissed.

  Duroth swung around in a flash. The old teamster’s eyes settled on Kutog, though it had not been him. Duroth stomped back down the corridor and stepped right up into Kutog’s face, his nose only inches away from the recruit’s chin. He slowly ran his eyes up and down Kutog’s larger frame and then glared up into the recruit’s eyes.

  “Anything you want to say to me, rich boy?” Duroth demanded. “Or perhaps I should have a few words with your new commanding officer to let him know what a Thulla-cursed, disrespectful little cuss you are? One word from me and you’ll be without an appointment, in the same boat with the Pariah there.” Duroth jabbed a thumb in Tovak’s direction. “What would daddy think, eh? How would you like that?”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “No, sir,” Kutog said. “Sorry, sir. I have nothing to say.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Duroth let out a disgusted grunt and turned on his heel. Without another word, he marched back up the corridor to the steps that led to the teamster’s bench. He stopped at the first step, turned back with a disdainful sneer, and then climbed up, disappearing.

  Tovak let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It seemed that the others did the same, and then they went back into their berths. Many of the recruits traveled with armor, weapons, and even multiple packs containing their possessions. Compared to the others, Tovak had very little. All he owned fit into his small battered and patched pack.

  Turning around, Tovak grabbed his blanket from where he’d discarded it, folded it carefully, and laid it aside. The other side of his berth opened up to the prairie, with only a couple of stacked crates between him and the rear deck of the yuggernok.

  “At least I didn’t have to walk,” he said under his breath, for he had at one point, prior to securing passage with Duroth, thought he might need to. He picked his pack up from the deck and set it upon a nearby crate that had served as a table for him during the trip. The sigils stamped upon the side in black lettering indicated it was destined for someone named Struugar Ironfist, of the Baelix Guard. Tovak had spent much of his journey daydreaming about who Struugar might be and what the crate might contain. He’d had little else to do.

  He untied his pack and peered inside to make sure he wouldn’t be leaving anything behind for Duroth to confiscate. He found a small toiletry kit, a bone-handled comb, a book wrapped in cloth, a small wooden box, a knife, and his spare tunic. He also had another pair of socks, which had been patched numerous times by his own hand. He ran his fingers along the cloth-wrapped book, feeling the smooth fabric. It was the same type of cloth used for prayer knots, and as his fingers brushed the surface, he offered up thanks to Thulla for it coming into his possession.

  Within the cloth was his copy of Thulla’s Blessed Word, kept hidden from condescending eyes. In truth, the book was old and battered, its stitching coming loose in places, but it was one of his few treasured possessions.

  A pang of sadness tinged with shame washed over him at the necessity of hiding the book from prying eyes. His people had mostly abandoned Thulla. They blamed the god for the problems they faced. Part of Tovak understood the why of it, but it still bothered him to his core that he had to hide his faith.

  “‘And the Way shall be opened to the faithful, so they may be tested and reclaim that which was taken from them’,” he whispered. Tovak closed his eyes for a long moment. He breathed in and then out.

  If only he could show his people that suffering was one of the paths to Thulla, not a reason to turn away from the great god. Was that not one of the primary lessons taught through the tale of the hero Uliand Stormhand in Thulla’s Blessed Word?

  As the first holy warrior of Thulla, his trials had been unparalleled and had only made Uliand stronger, or so the scripture taught. The loss of his family, torture, years spent fettered in chains, all of it had prepared him for divine service. The god tested his flock, and faith brought salvation. Indeed, Tovak’s own faith had been his compass, his foundation, and his anchor during the worst of times.

  Folded inside the book was his Warrant of Passage, proof of his graduation from the Pioneer Academy. He unwrapped the cloth and pulled the yellowed parchment out. With it, Pariah or not, he had the right to travel to a warband of his choosing and apply for a posting. The document represented years of work. It was the first step in his dream of proving that he was just as worthy as the next Dvergr and not the disgrace everyone thought him to be.

  The Warrant even bore the coveted Crossed Hammers, a mark of excellence granted to top students. Not only did Tovak know his numbers and letters, but he’d also completed basic military training and gone on to complete pioneer school, a grueling twelve-week program. The Academy taught scouting skills to those deemed to have promise or the potential to become a pioneer. He hoped this achievement would allow him to sign up with one of the coveted pioneer compan
ies. It was with the pioneers that he saw himself rebuilding Legend and breaking free of the Pariah’s stigma.

  He pulled a small, plain wooden box out of his pack and slid open the cover. Inside was a spirit deck, containing forty-eight placards, hand-painted by Tovak’s priest, Father Danik. After Thulla’s Blessed Word, it was his most cherished possession, and certainly his most valuable. Most Dvergr believed that spirit decks were simple folly, but among the faithful, they were believed to be a direct connection to Thulla, allowing one to divine a measure of the god’s will.

  The deck had been gifted to him by the cleric. Since the passing of his parents, Danik had been the one person who had offered Tovak any real measure of kindness. It was through Danik that Tovak had discovered and embraced his god. For that, he would be eternally grateful.

  Stepping up to the crate he used as a table, Tovak closed his eyes and thought on Thulla.

  “Of the way ahead, what must be foremost in my heart?” he asked, shuffling the deck.

  He then laid out four cards, face down, before him. One by one, he flipped them over. The first card was the Traveler, depicting a lone Dvergr in white cloth, leaning upon a walking stick with a long, open road before him. The second revealed Thulla, the Taker, the deity standing with a scowl upon His face and a closed fist held against His chest. The third exposed the Road Hidden, which showed the Traveler standing before a high hedgerow, and beyond it an open, straight, cobbled path between high mountains rising on either side. And finally, he turned over Thulla, the Giver, where the god stood smiling, His hands outstretched and a bounty of fruit in one hand and a clay jug in the other.

  Tovak pondered the message before him. He was obviously the Traveler. The card had come up frequently for the past few months, but the second card concerned him. What might Thulla be taking from him as his journey progressed? He had so little. What more could Thulla ask? The lesson, perhaps, lay in the next card. A new path would be made available to him, and down it would lie Thulla’s bounty, but the way would not be clear. Tovak slowly nodded his head in understanding.

  As always, he would keep going. Faith was the one thing that nobody could take. He would keep his faith, and with it seek out Legend with every trial. Each test that lay before him would only serve to make him stronger.

  He returned the cards to the deck and slipped them carefully back into their box.

  The smell of woodsmoke now filled the air. There were shouts outside, followed by a trumpeting of oofants. He glanced over the back of the yuggernok to see a formation of Dvergr warriors in full plate armor emerge into view. They were marching in the opposite direction of the wagon, passing within a handful of yards.

  With an officer and a standard-bearer at the front, they looked disciplined, and dangerous. Tovak couldn’t help but smile. Soon he would be one of them—a Blood Badger. The warriors carried packs and yokes. A sergeant walking alongside the formation waved. Tovak waved back but, to his embarrassment, realized the warrior had been waving to one of the teamsters driving the massive wagon. He felt his cheeks heat as the sergeant looked directly at him, and then they were past.

  Tovak removed his Warrant of Passage and set it on the crate. He then put everything carefully back into his pack, including his dagger, which had been lying on the floorboards. He tied the straps tight and gave a tug to make sure the knot would not come loose.

  Gazing upon the Warrant, a warm feeling washed through him. Even as a Pariah, his skill had seen him admitted to the Academy. He could scarcely still believe he had graduated and earned a Warrant, and with it, his goal now lay tantalizingly within reach. He folded it carefully along its creases and tucked it into his tunic pocket.

  His field blanket came next. It took only a few moments to roll it up. He used short lengths of rope to tie the ends off and then secured it to his pack with a strap. Standing quickly, he slipped the strap over his head, settling the rolled blanket under his arm. He slipped on his pack next.

  A rough bump almost knocked him over. The great wagon rattled and creaked loudly, as if in protest. Tovak looked outside again and felt a thrill of excitement. They were passing into the encampment. A deep trench and turf wall with a wooden barricade formed the outermost defensive line. Sentries slowly walked the wall, gazing out onto the prairie. To Tovak’s eyes, they looked impressive in their armor and invincible. He imagined himself as one of them, guarding the encampment and helping to keep everyone secure.

  The yuggernok passed through the encampment’s open gate, where a detail of armored, shield-bearing infantry stood on either side, ever watchful. Full of anticipation, Tovak moved out onto the rear deck to try to get a better look at the camp, but much of it was blocked by the massive wagon and stacks of supplies. As they continued forward, the smell of smoke grew thick in his nostrils, and he quickly realized why. Dozens of campfires came into view. He picked up the stench of waste, mixed with the appetizing aroma of cooking. Tovak’s stomach rumbled with hunger. As Duroth had said, there would be no evening meal for him tonight. He would have to fend for himself.

  There were hundreds of tents, both large and small. He spotted an officer’s pavilion, a blacksmith, a leatherworker, even a large cooking tent with a dozen long tables set off to the side with cooks and their assistants hard at work, preparing an evening meal.

  Dvergr warriors were everywhere now, gathered around fires, marching in formation, and some going to or fro on whatever business they were about. Dozens sat around the nearest campfires, some in armor, others in their service tunics. Tovak saw women and children too.

  He had never seen so many Dvergr gathered in one place, and he was only now coming to understand the scale of what the word “warband” really meant. The stories he’d heard as a child did not do them justice. The steady beat of hammers from a forge filled the air. Dogs barked and chased after one another, fighting over scraps.

  The yuggernok passed through another defensive turf wall identical to the first. Within that were more tents, as well as an artillery park off to the left. In the fading light, Tovak’s eyes fell on a line of bolt throwers. Beyond them were several rows of catapults, massive machines with great iron wheels. Two of the machines were at least twenty feet tall, with massive beams and wooden arms for throwing stones.

  In the fading light, he spotted a team of engineers working on one of the dread machines. They looked to be replacing a support beam. The yuggernok turned away and the artillery park was lost from view. Then the great wagon came to an abrupt, jerking halt. Tovak almost lost his balance. The heavy locking bolt was thrown in place with a hollow thud that shuddered through the floorboards.

  They had arrived.

  The center of the encampment was a veritable city of tents, formed around a wooden watch and signal tower. The structure rose thirty feet into the air. Tovak could just make out sentries on the tower’s platform. He knew from his studies they would be equipped with a large war horn.

  Tovak reveled at the sights and sounds that surrounded him. The clatter of wooden swords against shields drew his eye to what appeared to be hundreds of warriors training, sparring against one another in an enclosed area surrounded by carts. Officers and sergeants moved amongst them.

  Formed into tight ranks, a company of warriors stomped by, moving in the direction the yuggernok had just come. Excitement, anticipation, and a wave of nervousness rippled through Tovak. This was where he was meant to be. He could feel it in his bones. Soon, his days of being an outcast, one barely tolerated by society, would be over. He would be a pioneer.

  A growing clamor of voices rose behind him. Tovak stepped away from the railing and moved to the end of the corridor. It was full of the recruits, slinging gear over their shoulders as they got themselves ready to disembark.

  “I can’t wait to get to my company,” a recruit said with no little amount of excitement. “My brother’s been with them for two years now. It will be good to see him. Hard to believe tonight I will be part of Sixth Company.”

  �
�The Sixth are second-rate,” Kutog jeered. “Everyone knows First Company is the best, and that’s where I’m headed.”

  “Bah,” the first recruit said. “What do you know?”

  “My company has no equal, you dumb scrugg. Everyone knows that.” Kutog struck his chest with a fist. “They only take the best, and that’s me. My father told me they reject nine out of ten applicants. The Sixth takes whatever they can get, because that’s all they can get.”

  “The best my ass,” a voice replied. “You can wipe mine if you want.”

  Kutog spun around, but clearly could not see who had said it. His cheeks flushed with anger. Tovak almost grinned at the smug bastard’s consternation.

  “Make way,” a voice called. “I said, make way.”

  It was Kyn, the youngest of the teamsters but still considerably older than Tovak. He moved down the corridor with an old, battered ladder that had seen better days. He held it over his head. His long, wild hair and heavily braided beard were the color of copper with only hints of gray. He wore a hardened leather breastplate and long hide pants tucked into knee-high boots. Two white painted slashes on his shoulder armor indicated he held the rank of an auxiliary corporal. His bare arms revealed an array of red tattoos depicting mystical patterns from shoulder to wrist. Like a captive beast, the outline of a dragon coiled around his right arm. He held the ladder easily, and as he approached, the recruits moved aside to allow him to pass.

  “Get the latch, will you?” he asked Tovak as he reached the end. “Open the gate too.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tovak replied and moved to the gate on the far side of the deck. Kyn had been the only one of the teamsters who hadn’t gone out of his way to treat him badly or outright ignore his presence . . . although they hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words during the trip.

  “Don’t call me sir,” he said. “I work for a living. The name’s Kyn or Corporal, your choice.”