by Michael Mood
The story she had told Ormon today – about her baldness and her scar and the bandit's poisoned bolt – was a lie. Domma couldn't remember for the life of her why she was broken and lost.
Chapter 4 – The Orphan Savant
-1-
Krothair Mallurin moved like lightning, his sword twirling in front of him.
The Foglin danced left and right, firing flames from its mouth at Krothair. The wind of it whipped his hair back and forth and the heat from it dried the sweat on his face the instant it formed. Krothair held his sword, Battlestir, in his hand and a large silver shield in his other. The crest on the shield was a raging boar, and Krothair felt every bit the animal.
He charged in close, whirled around a gout of flame, and stuck his sword into the Foglin's guts up to the hilt. Then he slashed upwards, severing the thing in half.
His heart dropped, for as the creature fell to the ground he saw what was behind it. It was an entire army of Foglins; all different types. Every grotesque iteration he had ever imagined was standing before him, waiting for him and Battlestir to fell them all. He hadn't known Foglins could make it past the Vaporgaard, but here they were a thousand strong in the royal palace of Hardeen Kingdom. It was up to Krothair to defend his King. He was the only one left!
The Foglins let out a battle cry that shook the walls of the castle and Krothair set his feet, preparing to meet them head on. The first of them reached him and then-
-2-
Clank!
The practice sword whistled towards Krothair's head, but he deflected it easily. The clanking sound of metal on metal had snapped him from his daydream. There were no Foglins here, there was only the boy he was fighting against today. The kid wasn't very good and Krothair had no trouble forcing him to yield, bashing his shield and weapon away through a series of fast cuts and slices. Well, his practice sword couldn't really slice, per se, but it could leave lasting bruises with its dull edge.
The boy he had been fighting was on the ground now. Krothair hadn't even learned his name.
“Enough!” Germon shouted from the side. He ran up, laughing a little. “Let the poor guy up, Krothair.”
“Fuck!” screamed the boy on the ground. His face was beet red. He had recovered his sword and was repeatedly slamming it into the hard-packed dirt.
“I told you, Irving,” said Germon. “Krothair's our best. Don't get pissy now, just get up off the ground and shake his hand.”
Irving looked as if that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he did it anyway. You listened to Germon when he told you to do something. He was jovial until you didn't follow his orders. Krothair said not a word as Irving shook his hand, then the kid ran off to the guardhouse probably to complain to the others how Krothair had cheated somehow.
“He hates me,” Krothair said.
“Skill has that effect on people, sometimes,” Germon replied. “Better get used to it.” He turned to leave the field. “We're done out here for today, Krothair,” he said over his shoulder. “But there's something I want to talk to you about. We'll talk in my office.” Germon motioned.
Krothair raised an eyebrow. He had almost opened his mouth to say he wanted to talk to Germon. He'd had something on his mind as well.
Krothair sheathed the practice sword which at this point, after being used numerous times, was basically just a beat-up piece of metal with a handle. The Western Watch had never been privy to the kingdom's best equipment, but these swords were getting pretty pitiful.
The shabby equipment never seemed to affect Krothair, though. He could beat almost anyone with any weapon, quality or no. He had been able to do that ever since he'd turned twelve, five years ago. The first time he had fought had been with the handle of a broken hoe on a farm he had been working on. The wood had spun and sung in his hands as he bashed a loud-mouth farmhand in the head, ending that fight quickly and getting himself expelled from that job in the process.
He walked across the dirt towards what Germon referred to as his office which was really just a hut, more or less. The Western Watch was grand in title, but low on style. A few buildings squatted here and there on this border of Hardeen Kingdom, and they made up the infrastructure of the Watch. There was the guardhouse which was also the bunkhouse. Then there was Germon's office, which Krothair was pretty sure used to be a large outhouse. There was a small fence and barricade that the men here had built, and there was sort of a kitchen-slash-dining room where the men ate.
Krothair never complained. Perhaps that's why he had ended up out here. He had wandered his whole life, roaming wherever work and food had taken him. When he had come to Hardeen Kingdom he had run into the Western Watch, proven his skill, and joined on the spot. Krothair knew that it wasn't as glorious a job since the war had ended, but still someone had to watch the border, and the free, wide-open lifestyle had fit him at the time.
The whole encampment was situated on top of a large hill with a fantastic view of the surrounding area. An attack from any direction could be spotted. Any pesky trees that had tried to grow and block the view were cut down and used for firewood or lumber to patch the dilapidated buildings.
Krothair took a quick scan of the area. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He knocked on Germon's door.
“Come in,” Germon said.
-3-
Krothair reached nervously into his shirt pocket as he shut the door behind him. His hand grasped clumsily for the small scrap of paper he kept within the pocket. Paper wasn't necessarily a rarity out here, but this scrap had actually blown onto the hill last fall. Krothair couldn't read fantastically well, but he knew enough to be able to decipher the blurry word that was written on it: Kingsguard.
The paper wasn't meant for Krothair, of course, but even so he had taken it as a sign. This scrap, clearly separated from a larger sheet, had somehow made its way here. His sharp eyes had noticed the tattered thing amongst the leaves on the ground and when he had held it in his hand he'd felt that it had belonged to him his whole life. Of all his possessions it was his most dear. He thought maybe that was kind of sad.
But he knew that all young boys dreamed of being on the Kingsguard – that elite group of warriors, the men of legends. They said that Kelin Lightbearer had killed thirty mounted men using a dinner fork. They said that Telin Lightbearer – Kelin's twin brother - had barely survived a fifty foot jump from the ramparts of Haroma castle only to pop right up and behead the Shailand general. And Krothair wasn't sure whether or not to even believe all the things he had heard about Trance Raynman. Did the man really rise from the dead?
A spot in the Kingsguard didn't open up very often. You had to die to relinquish it, and the men in that service didn't fall easily.
“What you got there, Krothair?” Germon asked. He was seated behind a makeshift desk which had a few scattered papers and a candle on it. Scant things, and even so they were unorganized. Germon had heart and could inspire and teach men, but Krothair had learned that the man couldn't keep any other part of his life under control.
Krothair laughed nervously. He felt that it was now or never. “Well, sir,” he started, trying frantically to remember what he had wanted to say. He licked his lips which were still chapped from the winter that had just recently departed. He drew out the paper. “This is going to sound stupid but this paper . . . this paper blew into camp last year.”
Germon sat passively with an impartial face. “Paper?”
“It's only a little scrap,” said Krothair, starting to sweat worse than he did during his most vigorous workouts. “It says . . . it says 'Kingsguard' on it. It got me to thinking. I'm as skilled as anyone here. I need a recommendation. Something. Anything. I don't know how it works exactly. I'm meant for more than this.” He blurted the whole end out, feeling the words burst forth.
Germon slowly steepled his hands, elbows on his desk. “More than the Western Watch?” he asked, his expression impossible to read.
“I don't mean that it's bad,” Krothair said quickl
y. “It's noble work, this watch is. But the boy I just beat, Irving . . . well, he knows it as well as I do. I don't belong here. I don't . . . fit in.”
“Seems you don't fit in anywhere, Krothair. A wanderer you are. Farm work, orphanages, a bit of small-time thievery, and then the Western Watch.”
“I have wandered,” Krothair said. “My whole life, I've wandered. Some of my tasks were . . . less noble than others. But I have seen much of the world.”
“You seen the Vapor?” Germon asked.
Krothair's heart lurched. “Not with my own eyes. Heard enough stories, though.”
“Stories don't do it justice,” Germon said. “They're recruiting down there again. Hard. They need men there and they need them quickly.”
Krothair scrunched his forehead in thought, eyes on the floor. The Vapor needs men? Since when? Did I overstep my bounds by bringing up the Kingsguard? What was I thinking? Krothair had always been an orphan. Don't you have to be born to a family that means something to become a Kingsguardian? A family. That was something he'd never really had.
Germon stood up. “Not many here know this,” he said. “Don't even think most of the men here have guessed it. I'm old, Krothair. I've been around the world fifty times if you've been around it once. I've been to the Vapor.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a scar across his ribs. The thing was jagged like a lightning bolt and the hair that seemed to grow everywhere on Germon's chest pulled back from the scar as if it were poison.
Krothair's eyes widened.
“Rumors would have you believe that this gash from a Foglin claw gives me magical powers. That's horseshit. What it's given me is pain every day for the last forty years.”
“Why are you showing this to me?” asked Krothair. For a moment he completely forgot about his Kingsguard paper. Germon has been to the Vapor?
“I'm showing you the consequences of what happens when lesser men try their hand at the Vaporgaard.” Germon sighed. “You're a better fighter than I ever was Krothair and that's hard for me to admit, especially considering your age. A position in the Kingsguard is admirable. Shit, you won't find anyone more revered than those twelve. But they don't need you, Krothair, and I say that with as much respect as I can. Yorn Darmon once took eight arrows to the chest and laughed about it the next day, showing them off like trophies still stuck in his flesh.”
“I've heard that story,” Krothair said. Despite his best efforts his eyes began to water and his throat tightened. The hope he'd had was draining away. “So. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked. “Serving on the Vaporgaard?”
Germon shrugged slightly as his shirt fell back into place. “You're looking for your place. I can see it in your eyes every day. And let's face it – we're not as important out here as we used to be. The hill is quiet. We get the occasional thief to catch, the occasional animal gone bat-shit crazy, the occasional territory dispute to see to. But the war . . . the war is over for now. You've never even seen true action here. I've forgotten what it was like. I've been ordered to lighten our personnel. You are one of the ones that I am going to let go.”
“More wandering?” asked Krothair. “Should I just wander down to the Vapor and have at it?” He couldn't tell if he was mad or not. He knew he was hurt, but couldn't tell what type of hurt. A father: that was something Krothair had forgotten about long ago. But Germon had been . . . close. And now, as much as he had wanted to go gallivanting off to the Kingsguard he was now frightened of the prospect of leaving this place.
Germon had taken him in. Germon had shown him off to the others. Like he was proud of me . . .
“No,” Germon said. “They don't take untrained wretches down there on the Vapor. No, if you didn't get proper training you'd be Foglin food within the hour. Even with training it took me little over a month to get slashed. Anyway, I pulled some old, fraying strings and arranged for you to train with Ti'Shed Hawkethorn in Haroma. You can leave within the hour if you like.”
So Germon had set the whole thing up already. Krothair had always been able to choose his own path, and he supposed he still was able to, but something about the name Ti'Shed was familiar. “Germon,” Krothair said, realizing. “Ti'Shed was the one who trained both Kelin and Telin Lightbearer.”
“Well, not exclusively, of course, but the man was definitely involved. He also trained me. He still owes me a few favors so I'm calling them in. I want you to be careful, though. I've told him of your prowess and he may push you incredibly hard, but if you come out of the training, you will be ready to serve the Vaporgaard with honor.” Germon set an envelope on his desk. “Directions to Ti'Shed's house along with my seal.”
“Do you have a horse for me?” the boy asked, stepping forward to grasp the envelope in a sweaty hand.
“I do,” Germon nodded. “You've taken to this idea quickly. But I knew you would.” The older man's brow wrinkled. He stood, came to Krothair, and laid a heavy, rough hand on his shoulder. “Don't give up on your dreams, Krothair. If you do, your hair turns gray and your eyesight fades. The men of the Kingsguard can't live forever, you know, no matter what the stories say. They are just men. But, for now, the Vapor is the best place for you.” Germon smiled. “I know Irving thinks so, anyway.”
“He's truly awful,” Krothair said, letting a small laugh escape his lips despite his sadness. “You might want to teach him to parry a bit better. Or at all.”
“You leave him to me,” Germon said.
Krothair tucked the Kingsguard paper back into his shirt pocket and nodded his head while backing slowly towards the door. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Germon smiled sadly and went back behind his desk. “Show me one of your medals someday,” he said. He bent towards his papers, quill in hand.
Krothair willed himself through the door, deciding to move on despite whatever he would lose or gain from it. He could always come back here.
But he wondered if he would ever see Germon after today.
-4-
It wasn't far to the city of Haroma. It would be three or four hours' hard ride at most. Krothair had been many places in his life, but never into the heart of a city as big as Haroma. The paper that Germon had given him rested in the same pocket as his Kingsguard paper now.
Perhaps they will call me the Paper Soldier, he mused.
The countryside whizzed past him. The gray mare that Germon had given him wasn't the best horse in the world, but Krothair knew her from his time in the Western Watch and the horse liked him.
It hadn't taken him long to gather his things because he didn't have many things. He and Germon had gone through the Western Watch's supplies and picked out the best sword they had, stuffed it into a sheath, and hung it from his waist. It swung there now, in time with the mare's hoof beats. Likely Krothair would be given a new sword, but he might have to earn it as well. Germon hadn't known how Ti'Shed would operate or what exactly Krothair should expect, despite the fact that he had trained with him. Germon had described Krothair's new master as fluid and slightly quixotic.
Houses started to appear with more regularity: low little things all made of wood with fields around them. The early indications of a rough road began to appear, and the horse had a much easier time walking on the even, hard-packed ground. The sun was just beginning to drift below the horizon and the day was just giving way to the coldness of night. Krothair didn't feel it at all.
Then something started to rise over the horizon. The city walls of Haroma were massive. Torches blazed their contention to the approaching night. Krothair could see the road winding all the way up to the walls, and for the first time in his life he could smell what could only be the ocean. It was a sensation he had never really prepared for. The salt tang hit him full on; even the mare snorted a little bit.
Haroma was set with its eastern side to the ocean. Krothair had heard stories of the Golden Fleet, but had never seen a ship in his life. He had been to a few cities, but this was to be the largest by a wide margin. A full half-mil
lion people lived here. This number was almost too big for Krothair to comprehend.
-5-
Ten more minutes of hard riding brought him to a bustling crowd trying to get into the gates. As Krothair brought the gray horse up, he took a moment to let himself be overwhelmed. Everything had become like a dream. Details were completely lost in the grandiose feeling he had.
Someone was talking to him, and he said something, but he couldn't remember what. Someone bumped into his leg and swore at him to get out of the way. He obliged. He dismounted. He wasn't sure if that was what he was supposed to do, but he didn't feel right riding the horse into the city. He didn't see anyone else riding horses. And anyway, he wanted to go in on his own two feet. It seemed even more grand that way.
The colors began to pierce his vision now. Vibrant costumes of every hue: bright blue shirts, red dresses and cloaks, yellow shoes, even. Krothair had never seen yellow shoes. A fat man wore no shirt at all despite the cold. His skin was hairless and scarred. Most women were bundled in soft furs. There were carriages, horses, people, a few dogs – coming, going, coming, going. Conversations: yelling, arguing, laughter, apologies, excuses, the occasional scream.
He was lost in the crowd.
A guard looked down from the top of the wall, but Krothair wasn't sure that the man could actually be of much use. One guard for all these people? One guard to keep order at the gates of a city like Haroma?
Germon had once told him: “A man alone can be more effective than two. Where two men are reckless, one is careful.” That didn't seem to fit this situation, though.
His eyes betrayed him and he knew it. He looked harder and found a few more guards blending in with the citizenry. A few more peering out of arrow slits. Then he saw the heavy metal doors. He wondered how many men it would take to close them and knew there must be even more guards around somewhere.
