Reclaiming Honor

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  He did his best at cleaning the tunic, scrubbing it against a large rock. Some of the murinok blood would not come out, no matter how hard he scrubbed. The tunic appeared to be permanently stained. After giving it some more attention, he reluctantly concluded there was nothing he could do about it. The tunic was as clean as he was going to get it. He wrung the tunic, squeezing tightly, then shook it, trying to get as much of the water out of the wool as possible.

  Next, he began working on his kit, starting with his helm. There was a small dent in the left side where his head had connected with the tree during the fight with the murinok. He would need to find an armorer in the main encampment to repair it. Tovak wondered how much that would cost and whether he could afford it.

  The plates on his left shoulder armor were also damaged. There were two clear indentations where the murinok had tried to bite him. He touched the indentations and shivered as he realized how close he’d come to death.

  “Stupid, Tovak,” he said to himself, in a whisper only he could hear. “Real smart.”

  He put such thoughts aside and worked on cleaning the armor, as he’d been taught at the Academy, first brushing it free of dirt and grime, hunting through all the grooves and nooks for even a speck of dirt. In the dying light, this was more difficult than it sounded. He knew he would have to check over his work in the morning. When he was satisfied he’d done a decent job, he made sure to wipe it down with a wet towel. His instructors had been quite fastidious in their inspection of his work. Tovak had no reason to assume Thegdol and Benthok would be any less thorough.

  It was completely dark when he was done with his armor. The moon was rising, though it was hidden behind a cloud. A torch that one of the others brought to the stream illuminated those working on their kit. Under the poor light, Tovak checked over his work once again and found himself pleased with what he saw.

  He filled his waterskins, topping them off, and then started cleaning and sharpening his sword. He ran the stone across the blade several times. He heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Thegdol approaching with a cleaning kit and a pair of waterskins in his hands. Jodin, Lok, and Staggen were following along behind. They broke off from the corporal and moved upstream to a free spot where there was some room.

  “Corporal,” Tovak greeted.

  Thegdol’s eyes shifted over to Tovak’s armor, but he did not say anything about whether he approved or not. Tovak got the sense his corporal was unhappy and deeply displeased. There was just something about Thegdol’s manner that said as much.

  Thegdol settled down by the stream, a few feet away. The corporal began unfastening his armor before removing it with a soft groan. He set it by his side, then sat down on a large rock at the edge of the water and took off his boots.

  Tovak returned his attention to the edge of his blade. He ran the stone down it several more times, then carefully scraped his fingernail with the edge, watching a thin layer of the nail curl away. Satisfied that it was sharp enough, he rose to his feet. His legs were so done in, they trembled slightly from the effort. He sheathed his blade and then gathered up his armor as Thegdol leaned forward and began washing his hands.

  Tovak turned and took a few paces towards the camp. He stopped, looking back. He hesitated a moment more. Then he spoke.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble with the lieutenant.”

  Thegdol froze for a heartbeat, then he went back to his washing. “Apology accepted. Now, leave me in peace, boy.”

  “Yes, Corporal,” Tovak replied.

  He walked back to camp, passing Gorabor, who was headed towards the stream with his own kit and waterskins. His new friend seemed in excellent spirits.

  “How’d it go?” Tovak asked, stopping.

  Gorabor grinned and slapped Tovak on the shoulder. “She’s still keen on me.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit,” Gorabor said, continuing on his way to the stream.

  Tovak watched Gorabor for a moment, then walked into camp. He nodded to Gulda, who was still standing by the entrance, where she’d been posted. He returned to where he’d left his pack and opened it. He took a moment to pause and placed his hand upon Thulla’s Blessed Word, which was still wrapped up inside his pack.

  “Thank you, Thulla,” Tovak whispered. “Thank you for seeing me through.”

  Tovak took a deep breath. Word must have gotten around about his fight with the murinok, for there were plenty of eyes on him, but nobody said anything. Laying aside his armor, he packed away his brush, small towel, and cleaning kit. He laid his freshly cleaned tunic over the back of his pack, but not before wringing it out again. With any luck, it would be dry by morning, and if it wasn’t, well then, the sun would dry it out soon enough.

  He stood and his legs protested with the movement. He looked around and realized he had no idea where his squad would be bedding down for the night. His squad mates were all at the stream cleaning up. Well, when they returned, he would find out soon enough where he could lay his bedroll. Tovak made his way over to the fire, where the teamster was slowly rotating the spit, to take a closer look at the spider. The scent of the roasting krata was incredible.

  “Care to give this beastie a few turns for me?” the teamster asked, spotting Tovak. “My arm’s getting tired. Damn thing’s heavier than a pregnant teska, but it’s gonna be good eating.”

  “Sure,” Tovak said, stepping up to the fire. A light gust of wind blew smoke into his face. He held his breath until it passed.

  “Here.” The teamster tossed Tovak a towel. “So you don’t burn yourself, laddie.” He gestured at the spit. “The metal’s hot.”

  Tovak nodded and, using the towel, took over, giving the spit a slow turn. He could feel the warmth of the metal through the towel. The heat of the fire beat against him too, to the point of it being uncomfortable. “I’m Tovak.”

  “You can call me Shrike.”

  “Shrike?” Tovak asked, for it was an odd name.

  “Aye,” Shrike said, “my nickname. It was given to me by my mates, back when I was able to march with the best of you boys.” Shrike blew out a breath and tapped his right knee. “Bum knee ended my soldiering career something quick. Instead of mustering out, I joined the teamsters. It was either that or go home, and I didn’t want to go home.”

  Tovak did not say anything to that, for he knew it must have been a blow to Shrike’s sense of self-worth. There was not much Legend to be had amongst the teamsters. All they did was drive the wagons and carts. Tovak suddenly felt such thoughts were ungenerous. He supposed in a way there was honor in what Shrike did, for without the teamsters, the warband would quickly go hungry.

  Shrike stepped back up to him, eyes on Tovak as he rotated the spit.

  “Keep it steady, a nice slow turn, yes, just like that.” He stepped around Tovak and, using a towel, grabbed a ladle that had been hanging on the other side of the spit. Sitting under the roasting krata and amidst the flames was a small iron pot. Its contents bubbled. Shrike dipped the ladle in and then poured the liquid over the shell of the krata. It was bacon fat mixed with water.

  As he gave the spit another turn, Tovak examined the monstrosity of the spider that was roasting away before him. Its fangs and venom sacks had been removed. The hairs had burned off, leaving only a smoke-charred, smooth surface. He stared into its now-blackened face and shook his head in dismay. He could not imagine coming upon such a monster out in the wild, but someone from one of the other squads had. Heck, a few hours back he’d not thought he could face down an adult murinok and live to tell the tale.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” Shrike said, looking at him closely and squinting slightly. He dropped the ladle back into the pot. “You’re new to the company.”

  “Yes,” Tovak said.

  “Well,” Shrike said, “you joined a right solid bunch. Some good boys in this company. Let me tell you, you could have done worse than join the Baelix Guard.”

 
Tovak said nothing, just gave a nod and the spit another turn.

  “Proud of what you did today?” Shrike asked. “It was you, right? What all of them have been jawing about? The new guy killing a murinok?”

  Tovak froze.

  “Aye,” Shrike said, “I heard about you and the murinok. So, I’ll ask you again. Are you proud, boy?”

  “Proud?” Tovak turned his gaze away from Shrike’s and back to the krata.

  “Proud,” Shrike said. “It’s not every day you take out an adult murinok by yourself. That’s quite a feat. So, are you proud of yourself, boy?”

  Tovak fell silent. He ran his gaze about and found more than one pair of eyes upon him. They quickly looked away. He felt himself scowl and gave the spit another half-turn as he considered his response. Then, after a moment more, he looked back at Shrike. “No, not really. It almost killed me, and to be honest, I’d not want to take one on again by myself. If I never see another murinok, unless it’s on the dinner table, I will count myself fortunate.”

  Shrike gave a low chuckle that was part cackle. “You’re not a daft bugger, then. I guess there is some hope for you.”

  “Thanks,” Tovak replied and gave the spit another turn. He did feel some pride in the deed, but it was overshadowed by the thought of what could have happened. That and whatever Benthok had in store for him and Jodin. He was not looking forward to that encounter, when it came. Thoughts of the lieutenant caused him to look over to where Benthok sat on his bedroll. He had a sheet of vellum out and was writing something with a charcoal pencil. Tovak wondered if it had anything to do with him and Jodin. He hoped not.

  “It should be soon,” Shrike said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “‘Til it’s done?” Tovak asked, looking back at the teamster. He had to admit, the smell of the roasting krata was driving him crazy with hunger.

  “Yep. Once we hear the pop, we can serve this monster up and fill our bellies.”

  “Pop?”

  “Top of the shell,” Shrike said. “That’s how we know these things are ready to eat.”

  The teamster poured another ladle of bacon juice over the carapace. “You see, the heat from the fire pressurizes and cooks the insides, and at just the right moment, the shell along the back ruptures and cracks open with a burst of tender, succulent, white meat just begging to be eaten. The legs are also full of goodness. This one’s kinda small, but it should be enough to feed the section.”

  “Small?” Tovak asked, thinking the thing was enormous.

  The krata sizzled and hissed as it cooked. Steam escaped from the leg joints. Tovak gave the spider another full turn, righting it. The moment it was righted, with a sizzling POP, the back of the krata broke open. Tovak jumped and almost dropped the towel. A thick line of white, puffy meat had pushed its way out, as the shell of the carapace had cracked open. A cheer went up from some the nearest warriors. They began rising to their feet and started to make a line, mess bowls in hand.

  “Give me a hand with this, son,” Shrike said, moving to the other end of the spit and taking a second towel from where it had been tucked into his belt. “When I say, ‘Lift,’ we lift together, okay?”

  “Right,” Tovak said.

  “Now, lift.”

  Tovak did as instructed, grunting with the effort. They lifted the spit away from the fire and placed the steaming carcass, legs down, on the ground.

  “That’s one heavy beast.” Shrike held out his hand towards Tovak. “Lend me your dagger, boy, will you?”

  Tovak pulled his dagger out and handed it over.

  Shrike stuck Tovak’s dagger into the white meat and then carved out a healthy portion. He stabbed the meat he’d cut away and then handed the dagger back to Tovak with the point up, and the meat glistening in the firelight. Juice ran down the hilt and onto the teamster’s hand.

  “There you go, son,” Shrike said, “for your help. You can come back with your mess bowl and line up with the rest for more. Now, step aside. I need to feed the rest of this hungry bunch.” Shrike looked over the line that had formed and raised his voice. “You’re all animals, don’t you know that? You don’t care about the effort and time that goes into cooking something right. It’s an art. All you want to do is eat . . . no matter who cooks it. Savages the lot of you, no better than animals.”

  “You’re the only animal I know, Shrike,” a voice from the line called.

  “Aye,” Shrike answered, “that I am. It’s probably why I like you bloody skirmishers.”

  “Thank you, Shrike,” Tovak said, and stepped aside.

  Shrike gave an absent nod, then turned back towards the line.

  “Corporal Logath,” Shrike said to the first in line. “Since it was your squad that brought down the krata, as squad leader, you get the largest portion.”

  “I expected nothing less,” Logath replied with a wide grin. “Serve me up, Shrike.”

  Shrike carved off a chunk of meat as Logath held out his mess bowl. Logath had bushy orange hair and a wide nose. Logath’s cheeks were pockmarked. His beard was long, with four thick braids reaching down to his waist that were tied off with green leather laces. Silver beads had been woven into his beard.

  “Not a bad first day out, eh, Shrike?” Logath asked as the teamster put the meat into the bowl.

  “It’s why I volunteer to haul for foraging duty,” Shrike said. “Despite the risks, I’m always fed well and, more importantly, I get to do what I love, to cook. It is one of the few joys left to me. Can you believe they won’t let me cook back in the main encampment? The cooks are afraid an old teamster like me will show them up.” Shrike shook his head sadly.

  “Nah, Shrike, it’s because you’re an animal,” a voice from the line said. “They’d rather cook the animals than work with them.”

  Shrike laughed and so did a few of those in line.

  “Their loss and our gain,” Logath said.

  “Exactly,” Shrike said, sounding pleased. “Next.”

  Amused by the exchange, Tovak stepped away to where he’d left his pack. As he sat down, he took a bite, and found the krata meat not only hot, but quite tasty. He wholeheartedly agreed with Corporal Logath. Shrike was wasted as a teamster.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tovak set his mess bowl down on his thigh. It was his second helping. His stomach was satisfyingly full and he felt slightly groggy, lazy even. His head still hurt from the blow it had taken during the murinok fight, and his body ached something fierce. He took a pull from his waterskin and then rubbed at his tired eyes while yawning. The wine ration had been distributed. An untouched skin lay next to his pack, where he’d left it.

  Tovak had never been much of a drinker. This was primarily because he’d rarely had enough surplus money to spend on wine and spirits. But that wasn’t why he’d not started in on the skin, like everyone else. As exhausted as he was, Tovak feared the wine would put him right to sleep. So, he’d made the decision to save it. He would enjoy it on the morrow.

  Tovak would have liked to consult his spirit deck. For as long as he could remember, he had done so on a daily basis. It had given him comfort, but also guidance. He dared not pull it out, for fear of ridicule. The same went for Thulla’s Blessed Word.

  He yawned again and then looked up. The lieutenant was looking in his direction. Their gazes locked. Benthok’s expression was grim, cold even. Tovak knew without a doubt the lieutenant was unhappy with him. Benthok held his gaze a moment more and then turned his attention away when one of the corporals asked a question of him.

  Free of the lieutenant’s scrutiny, Tovak puffed out a breath, then glanced around. The section was seated about the camp. Most were reclining against their packs, drinking or eating the last of the food. A few were gaming, rolling dice, or throwing bones. Several of the section were even asleep. Across from the cook fire, Logath was regaling a small group of rapt listeners with some sort of a tale. Tovak only caught the occasional word. The group roared with laughter every so often. After a hard, l
ong day, it was a pleasant and relaxed atmosphere. But for the lieutenant’s ire towards him, Tovak liked it.

  Then the lieutenant abruptly stood and moved towards the central fire. The mood instantly changed. All conversation stilled and even Logath ceased his storytelling. Tovak felt suddenly ill, for he knew the moment of reckoning was at hand.

  “Shrike,” Benthok asked. “Did you save some food for the sentries?”

  “Aye, sir,” Shrike said. “That I did, that I did.”

  “Good.” The lieutenant looked around and spotted Gorabor. He had just returned from the stream and cleaning up. Gorabor was heartily digging into his food. “After we’re done here, you will take food to the sentries.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gorabor said, setting his bowl aside and standing to attention.

  “Sit down,” Benthok said, glancing towards the mess bowl, “and finish your meal first.”

  Gorabor sat down, as ordered, but he did not resume eating. His eyes were on Benthok. It was at that moment Tovak noticed that all eyes were on the lieutenant. It was so quiet that Tovak could clearly hear the pop and hiss of the main fire from ten feet away.

  “Listen up,” Benthok said, though that was hardly necessary. “There is a matter we need to deal with before tonight’s lesson on hand signals.”

  Here it comes, Tovak thought, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he opened them. Whatever the punishment was, he’d earned it. He might not like it, but he resolved to take whatever the lieutenant dished out. It was the honorable thing to do. The worst that could be done to him would be kicking him out of the company, and Tovak thought that an unlikely prospect.

  Benthok moved around the fire and looked at Jodin, who had been sitting with Lok and Staggen. Jodin froze and hastily swallowed the mouthful of food he’d been chewing.

  “Jodin, Tovak, front and center,” Benthok said, in an almost deathly quiet tone.

  “Sir,” Jodin said, jumping to his feet and moving towards the lieutenant.

  Tovak rose as well and stepped up next to Jodin. They both stiffened their backs, standing to attention.