by Mark Barber
Valletto jumped down from his horse and walked slowly, hypnotically, across the street toward the screaming and roaring crowd line. His wife’s eyes met his and her face dissolved into a tear stricken smile. She crouched down and pointed their son in Valletto’s direction. His face joyous, the boy ran out as Valletto dropped to one knee to embrace him. His wife stood over them, her hand on his face as their infant daughter looked on in confusion. Valletto was home.
***
The steps leading up to the palace’s main entrance spanned wide enough to drive an entire army up to the grand, double doors sat beneath an archway of pure gold. A soft carpet of light blue, somehow kept impossibly clean despite being outside and exposed to the elements, covered the center section of the white, marble stairs. Tall pillars of smooth white ran up each side of the staircase, punctuated regularly with ancient statues of deities, saints, and heroes of legend.
The screaming of the crowds still audible from outside the thick palace walls, Tancred arrived atop the staircase to find High Paladin Augus waiting for him. Several yards behind Augus, a quartet of hulking ogres stood guard by the palace doors, their resplendent armor seemingly at odds with their harsh faces and terrifying reputation. Nonetheless, the guards stood rigidly at attention with a discipline that would make any race proud.
Augus walked out to meet Tancred, his face breaking into a smile.
“Welcome home, Lord Paladin!” the older knight beamed.
“Thank you, High Paladin,” Tancred saluted smartly.
“No need to stand on formality,” Augus replied with a wave of the hand, “there will be plenty of that when you meet the Hegemon shortly. It is needless to say, but I shall say it anyway. You have done Basilea a great service. Your bravery and leadership have made our Order proud.”
“It was ‘we’, not ‘I’, High Paladin,” Tancred corrected quickly. “We all played our part. Every man and woman from the detachment carried out their duty to the very last.”
“I know,” Augus nodded sadly. “I know. Our lost will be properly remembered.”
Any response from Tancred faded from his lips as a familiar figure appeared at the far end of the gallery at the top of the steps and walked quickly over toward them. The newcomer was tall, with silver flecks at his temples and neatly trimmed beard, and broad shoulders covered by a cloak of rich crimson. The highly stylized leather breastplate and ceremonial short sword at his waist marked out his previous life in the legion.
“Tancred,” the older man smiled, holding out his hand, “welcome home.”
“Father,” Tancred nodded respectfully, shaking his father’s hand and noticing with some disappointment that he continued his habit of overpowering and turning his hand palm down during handshakes. Tancred looked up at the broad politician, their height difference reminding him of many cruel accusations regarding his parentage during his adolescent years.
“Tristen,” Augus greeted, “good to see you.”
“I had nothing but faith in you,” Tristen continued to smile, “but even I shall admit that I did not envisage meeting you here, awaiting an audience with the Hegemon himself. You have exceeded all expectations.”
Tancred opened his mouth to comment on expectations and accolades being very much secondary to the dangers averted and comrades lost, but a lifetime of high expectation and harsh discipline forced his mouth shut again.
“Yes, father. Thank you.”
“I heard mention of a laurel ring being presented,” Augus interjected. “Of course, I am not privy to any final decision, but I would consider that award feasible considering who you are about to be presented to.”
“Laurel ring, be damned,” Tristen scoffed, “my son just saved the Hegemony from complete and utter destruction! I would expect nothing less than a royal epaulette!”
“I did not save…”
“Perhaps,” Augus interrupted Tancred’s response, “but one must accept that being summoned by the Hegemon is honor enough. As paladins, it is our honor and duty to serve. We fight for good, not glory. Any decoration is gratefully accepted, but ultimately secondary.”
“Nonsense!” Tristen flashed a friendly smile. “One singles out a worthy soldier for adulation. At least, that was how it was done in the legion in my day.”
“Father, I did not save…”
“Quiet, Tancred, not now,” his father held a hand up to silence him. “High Paladin, if my son does not receive the correct marks of respect for his leadership and devotion to this nation, I will be having some uncomfortable conversation with Gnaeus Sallustis.”
“That may be…” Augus began, his tone calm and diplomatic.
“I did not save the Hegemony,” Tancred declared, “hundreds of us did. I was one of many. We all played our part. If I did not do what I did, somebody else would have…”
“Augus, give us a moment, won’t you?” Tristen said coolly to the High Paladin in a tone Tancred was well familiar with, a tone he had come to fear over the years.
The High Paladin nodded politely and walked over to wait by the palace’s main entrance. Tristen turned to glare down at his son.
“Now, of all times, Tancred?” he said, his tone low and threatening. “You have the honor of meeting the Hegemon himself, and you decide now is the time to play humble?”
Tancred looked up to meet his father’s glare but found himself transported back to the reprimands of his youth. He looked down at his feet silently.
“I’ve done the soldiering, Tancred,” his father continued angrily, “I know exactly what it is like and I know exactly what you’ve seen. But a soldier’s duty is to die for his country, which is why I did my minimum time to establish credibility as a politician and why you will do the same.”
“Yes, father.”
“Family is everything, Tancred. Family is infinitely more important than the comradeship of the military. Your family will take care of you when the military has spat you out and forgotten you.”
“Yes, father.”
“Your great grandfather elevated himself from pauper to knight. Your grandfather built on that status to build our entire family’s fortune. I built on your grandfather’s success to establish our name in the Duma. And now you will march into that palace and do your bit for this family by accepting the credit for leading the defense of this nation and get yourself out of that Order uniform. The paladins can do no more for you now. You owe this much to this family.”
Tancred paused before answering.
“Yes, father.”
“Good.”
The huge doors swung open, allowing light into the reception hall. The cavernous room’s painted, dome ceiling was supported by tall, thin pillars of green veined marble, while the center of the room was dominated by a life sized carving of a trio of Elohi, knelt in prayer, fountains of water spraying up to cascade down gently over their elegantly carved wings. Two lines of servants waited to usher Tancred in to see the Hegemon.
Tristen gestured to the doors. Tancred nodded, turned, and walked smartly over to the vast reception hall as a thin, balding man with pale skin he recognized as Ferrien, another senator of the Duma, walked over to Tristen.
“You must be proud, Tristen!” the pale man greeted. “I hear rumors of a statue being commissioned in honor of the battle.”
“As long as Tancred is front and center,” Tristen laughed, “a statue might not be a bad thing.”
Tancred stopped dead in his tracks. His temper flared up uncontrollably, rapidly rising to easily override the fear beaten into him by his father. He thought of the past weeks, of the immense, flame-eyed devils he had faced and the risks of being dragged into the depths of hell itself for an eternity of torment. His father suddenly did not seem so intimidating. He turned back and fixed his eyes on Tristen, Ferrien, and Augus.
“No,” he said sternly.
“Excuse me?” his father stepped forward to challenge him.
“No!” Tancred spat venomously. “Nobody is building a damned statu
e of me! You want a statue? You want heroes? Jeneveve, Reynaud, Tantus! Those are the ones you need to honor and remember! Those are the ones who stood their ground and died for Basilea! Silus, brother of the Blades of Onzyan, add him, too! He fought with us to the end! If a statue is honoring anybody, it is them! And many others who died with them!”
“Now you listen here!” Tristen growled as he paced forward.
“Shut up!” Tancred boomed, stopping his father dead in his tracks, wide-eyed in shock. “I am still talking, father, so keep your damn mouth shut until I am finished! We honor our dead! They gave everything! Over a hundred of us left this city, and three returned! The least we can do is acknowledge their sacrifice and bravery, and do all we can to ensure they are never forgotten! So that is who will be on any statue which is commissioned, I insist upon it!”
The High Paladin and the two senators stared at Tancred in shocked silence. He could feel the awkwardness from the lines of palace servants witnessing the altercation from within the reception hall. It meant nothing to him.
“Now,” Tancred continued, “I am going in that palace to speak to the Hegemon. You, father, I am not done with you! You wait – right there – until I am back!”
Turning on his heel, Tancred stormed angrily into the palace.
***
A trio of brown chickens strutted across the ground outside the tavern, their clucks drowned out by the sound of merry music coming from within the building. The autumn sun was high in the sky, and the aroma of hops and olives drifted across from the fields behind the isolated tavern, the smells of summer still clinging to the atmosphere surrounding the country village.
Opening the door revealed a tavern like any other in the sunny south Basilean countryside; a rarely used hearth against one wall and a long bar running in an L-shape across the far wall; old and broken farming implements were pinned to the walls to add a touch of ambience, and an ancient and worn rug whose colors were long faded covered the age old timbers of the floor. Farmers nearing the end of their midday break finished their lunches and ales as serving girls collected their empty plates with polite smiles, stopping for brief conversations.
A gray mustached bard, as tall as a bear and with a belly that spoke of a fondness for ales and cheese, sat on a small stool by the hearth, a lute against one knee as his thick fingers played a succession of merry songs that complimented the laughter of the farmers and the serving girls, adding to the positivity within the country inn. The aging bard looked up as the two newcomers to the inn approached him. His fingers stopped playing their intricate tune, his smile faded, and his jaw fell open in shock.
“It… it can’t be…” he stammered.
“Hello, Hayden,” Constance smiled warmly, “it is good to see you, old friend.”
His wrinkled eyes filling with tears, Hayden jumped up and embraced Constance and Jaque, pulling them in tightly and clinging to them as if he feared they would disappear. Her eyes closed in contentment, Constance held on to the old man, happy her journey to find him had come to a successful end. After a long pause, Hayden finally released his two old friends and took a step back to stare at them.
“I thought you were both gone,” he gasped. “I didn’t realize you made it home!”
“She’s as tough as a bastard, and I’m a coward,” Jaque explained. “It’ll take more than hell’s demons to kill us off!”
Constance joined the other two in a laugh before Hayden signaled to one of the serving girls.
“Constance?”
Constance turned to see Maya, Hayden’s daughter, dash over excitedly.
“It’s so good to see you!” Maya said as she embraced them. “Pa said… well…”
“He was wrong, thank the Ones!” Jaque grinned.
“Let me get drinks for you!” Maya nodded excitedly. “I’ll be right back!”
Hayden sank down to his seat, gesturing for his friends to do the same.
“So,” he began, still breathless, “what happened? You know, actually, I don’t want to know. Those days were dark and I would rather forget. Seeing you both alive and well is more than I could have hoped for.”
“Alive and recovering,” Constance corrected, “but we needn’t go into the details. So this is it? Your retirement? This is what you said you wanted.”
“Aye,” Hayden nodded, “I’m back here where I grew up, I’m here with my daughter, and I just sit here with ale and play my music. Life is good!”
“I think I may steal your retirement plan,” Jaque remarked as he looked around the tavern, nodding in approval, “this was a good idea.”
“So take it,” Hayden said, “you’re still young, Jaque. Learn an instrument and stay safe and happy for the rest of your life. Find a woman and settle down. This isn’t a bad way to live.”
Jaque exchanged an awkward glance with Constance. The smile faded from Hayden’s cracked lips. He leaned forward to fix them both with an accusatory stare.
“So what’s going on with you two?” he enquired, his voice low.
Constance looked back at Jaque. He shrugged uncomfortably and shook his head before looking out of the window.
“We’re reforming the company,” Constance said. “Tancred, the Lord Paladin, ensured we were paid very well. We’re here to give you your share of the payment as well as catch up. But Jaque and I are equal partners now. We’re not done with soldiering yet.”
“Are you mad?” Hayden sighed, his expression one of utter disappointment. “You escape with your life from… from… that? And you want to go back for more?”
“It’s all we know,” Jaque offered, “it’s not forever. But I’m not ready to stop. Not just yet.”
“Look,” Constance leaned forward, “I already know the answer, but I have to ask. We wanted you to know how much we value you. How much we respect you. We’re going back to mercenary work and we want you with us. Equal partner, equal authority, the three of us run the company. What do you…”
“No,” Hayden declared assertively, “not a chance. And that’s me using my polite words. You two are mad.”
“We had to ask,” Jaque said.
“But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you made that choice,” Constance added. “I’ll be happy knowing you’re safe, and here with your daughter.”
Maya arrived with three tankards of foaming ale, lowering them carefully down to the table between the three old friends.
“You pulling up a chair?” Constance invited.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“No chance!” Jaque grinned his gap toothed smile, standing to offer the girl his own chair before fetching another.
Maya sat down and looked across at the two newcomers.
“So,” she said, “you staying here for long?”
Constance looked back at Jaque before turning to Maya.
“We’re in no rush,” she replied, “I think we can afford a few days here.”
***
The air was cooling slightly as the late afternoon sun dipped down to touch the tallest towers and spires of the capital, darkening the skyline dominated by the rich and complex architecture behind Orion. The coastal path leading west out of the capital climbed gently up to give a clear, unobstructed view south across the glistening, turquoise waters of the Sea of Eriskos, its smooth surface broken by lines of fishing boats and small trade fleets. His lumbering warhorse, Star, trotted gently up the dusty, undulating path, back up to fighting weight and strength after the rigors of the battles against the Abyssals. The familiar, powerful warhorse was a welcome return, but a sentimental part of him missed Henry, the farm boy’s horse who had lumbered into his life following his recovery after the campsite battle. He smiled fondly. At least Henry was back home now, with the farmer’s son who doted on him. And an extremely generous payment to the family as a reward, courtesy of the Order.
The last few days had swept by in a blur, each hour demanding Orion repeat his account of the events around Tarkis, the first battles, Hugh’s m
urder, the campsite ambush, and the final battle against Dionne. His patience wearing thin with every repeat telling of the story, Orion was forced to debrief paladins of rising ranks until he found himself stood before Gnaeus Sallustis himself. The Grand Master of all paladins had warmly expressed his gratitude, but Orion’s promotion came as something of a shock. Appointed Paladin Defender, Orion was presented an exquisite greatsword of shining silver, a precious alloy that allowed a weapon to be lighter and stronger than any conventionally smithed blade across all of Mantica.
Orion truly appreciated the recognition, but the first thing to enter his mind upon being formally presented his blade was also the first thing he did upon being dismissed from the Grand Master’s company. He found Kell, his squire, and gave him his old sword, the very sword that had cut down Dionne and helped to save Basilea from invasion.
“You shall need a stout blade,” he had told his squire. “I intend to put you forward for consideration for your spurs next year.”
Orion could never expect Kell to suddenly warm to him, not after years of neglecting his training and taking his service for granted, but the grateful smile that Kell gave him looked to be a solid start. There was some positivity there at least, although Jeneveve’s death in the final battle against Dionne was something Orion knew he would need address with Kell about at some point.
His nights had been torn apart by horrific dreams ever since his fight against Dionne. The fight itself did not leave any lasting mark upon his mind, nor did the confrontations with his Abyssal horde. It was something else, something new and unexplained that troubled his soul. A new feeling in his core, something missing. It dominated his thoughts whenever his mind was left unoccupied.
