Reclaiming Honor

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  The cook glanced up.

  “Never seen a krata before?” he asked with an amused, almost knowing grin.

  Tovak shook his head. “And I didn’t know people ate them.”

  “We don’t see them very often, but you can eat ’em,” the cook said enthusiastically as he pulled off another leg, giving it a hearty twist as he did so. “We’ll even cook krow, if anyone is fool enough to try and kill one.”

  “Krow?” Tovak asked. He could not conceal the surprise. Krow were apex predators. He’d read in school the gigantic spiders could grow as large as twelve feet in length, and even a hatchling was reputedly dangerous.

  “The warband’s gotta eat,” the cook said with a shrug. “As long as it’s edible, we’ll cook it.”

  “Krow? Really?” Tovak still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

  “I’ve never had the privilege of cleaning and cooking one,” the cook said, “but the head cook says he has . . . claims it fed almost an entire company, if you can believe that. Me, I have my doubts. I think he was tryin’ to pull one over on me. You see, a company eats a lot, and I mean a lot.” He paused and patted the carapace of the krata with his palm. “I can’t imagine a krow having that much meat, no matter how big they get.”

  Tovak could only shrug in disbelief. To his people, krow were the things of nightmares. Living in mountainous regions, both above and belowground, the giant spiders were frightening creatures. Though he’d never seen one, Tovak knew he’d rather face a wyrm, one of the enemy’s dragons, than a krata.

  “You’d best get along, lad,” the cook said, glancing around, “before any of the senior cooks come along. They might think you’re begging, and it could cause me some trouble for not shooing you on your way sooner. There are just too many hungry followers looking for a bite, if you know what I mean, and the warband’s short on food as it is.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

  Tovak nodded and started to move off, then hesitated. “I’ve just arrived and I’m a little turned around.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Center of the camp,” Tovak said. “Second Pioneers.”

  “You’ll want to keep going the way you’re headed,” the cook said, pointing. “Take your first right, then third left, and then follow that all the way down.”

  “First right then third left and go all the way, right?”

  “That’s it.” The cook returned to the krata, pulling off the next leg.

  Tovak moved on. At the next cooking tent, meat was being rotated over spits. Several piles of durpa carcasses that had been beheaded and skinned lay nearby. The dog-like pack hunters fed primarily on the herds of wild teska that roamed the plateau. While not considered tasty by most, their tough, gamy meat had been an occasional treat for Tovak when he’d been able to afford it.

  His belly rumbled again at the sight of the cooking food. He moved on, hearing hammering of metal ahead. He passed a smith, whose hammer clanged almost painfully upon a piece of glowing steel. Tovak felt the heat from the portable forge wash over him and then he was past. In the next tent, the sides of which had been rolled up, a leathermaker was hard at work on a roughly made table. Strips of discarded leather and hide lay on the ground all around. At the same table an assistant was busy repairing the backside of a piece of chest armor.

  Tovak continued on, following the directions, but came to a dead end. He was forced to ask directions again. Finally, he came upon an alley that cut between tents and led to another street that bordered the inner defensive ring of the encampment. The foot traffic on this new street was light. There was another trench, backed up by a turf wall with a barricade.

  Twenty yards away, three sentries stood guard on a wooden-planked bridge. They wore plate mail and carried spears, with shields in hand. In the trench, just off to the side of the bridge, children played a game of King of the Hill. Two of the sentries watched and rooted them on. The other looked bored.

  Just beyond the sentries, on the other side of the bridge, there was a slight rise with a pavilion atop, surrounded by a series of tents larger than the rest. In the pavilion and under the dull glow of lamplight, several clerks seated before long tables worked. Tovak realized this must be the warband’s headquarters compound. The larger tents likely belonged to the senior officers, including Karach.

  Before one of the large tents next to the headquarters pavilion and illuminated by torches stood the standard of the warband. The standard depicted a black badger head at the center of a crimson field, with bloody, bared fangs and fierce eyes. Below the badger was a black battle-axe crossed over a long-bladed sword, forming an X. The standard shifted slightly in the breeze, and as it did, Tovak felt his heart swelling with excitement. He’d made it.

  Tovak could just make out the watchtower in the gloom, perhaps fifty yards away, rising into the sky, well behind the banner. It marked the center of the camp. Dagon’s company was in there somewhere amongst the closely packed tents that crowded in on the headquarters compound. Tovak took a deep breath and strode forward and onto the bridge. The bored sentry turned from watching the children, stepped forward, and barred his path.

  “What is your business?” He was a fierce-looking warrior with a thin scar running from his forehead down along his cheek to his chin. His heavy plate armor, black and highlighted with the crimson of the Blood Badger Warband, was spotless and well-maintained. He leaned his spear against his shoulder as he set the bottom of his shield down on the bridge with a solid-sounding thunk. The guard’s helm had a crimson crest of stiff bristles.

  “A new recruit, sir,” Tovak said uneasily. “I’m looking for the Second Pioneers.”

  “You want to serve under Dagon, eh?” the guard said with an almost impressed tone. “Off to be a pioneer, are you?”

  “Aye, sir,” Tovak said.

  “Those are some pretty tough bastards. Are you sure you can cut it? They don’t take just anyone.”

  “I have a Warrant of Passage, sir,” Tovak said, feeling no small amount of pride. “From the Pioneer Academy back at Garand’Durbaad.”

  The sentry nodded and stretched forth his hand. “Let me see it.”

  Tovak reached into his tunic pocket, pulled out the thick sheet of vellum. He unfolded it and handed it over.

  The guard held it up to the light of a nearby torch and gave it a once over. “Mark of excellence . . . .” He peered at Tovak with an appraising eye and gave a grunt that indicated he wasn’t terribly impressed. He handed it back. “Have an appointment, boy?”

  “No, sir,” Tovak said.

  The sentry grunted again. “You’ll want to head straight through here”—he motioned behind him and across the bridge—“and turn left at headquarters”—he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the pavilion—“to get to the Second Pioneers. Go about a quarter way around the inner ring until you see Dagon’s banner. It’s the—”

  “—tall green banner with a black durvoll on it,” Tovak finished for him as he tucked the Warrant away.

  “And if old Dagon doesn’t take you, don’t bother going to the First Pioneers. They’re not accepting new recruits. Veterans all. You need an appointment from either their captain or Karach himself to get in.”

  “I understand,” Tovak said, nodding.

  The guard stepped aside, the bottom of his shield scraping against the wooden planks at their feet. With a wave, he motioned for Tovak to be on his way. “Good luck with Dagon. You will need it.”

  Tovak moved past and strode across the bridge. Karach’s standard seemed to glare down at him. With the sentry’s words fresh to mind, he suddenly felt as if the spirit of the animal captured there somehow considered him an imposter, unworthy of joining the warband. He shook his head, glanced back at the bridge. The sentry had already turned away and had returned to watching the children play King of the Hill.

  There was a fair amount of activity around Karach’s headquarters. Off to one side stood a group of six warriors in plate, talking and laughing together.
A short distance from them were four stern-looking officers in tunics talking amongst themselves. Tovak recognized the white marks of rank on their shoulders. They seemed to be arguing quietly over something.

  A warrior emerged out through the open flap of the tent with the warband’s standard. He set an urgent pace, passing between a pair of guards who were posted just outside the entrance. It was clear by his armor he too was an officer. Both guards snapped to attention and saluted, then fell back into a parade rest position as the officer stalked off into the night.

  “Someday,” Tovak promised himself, eyeing the tent. He had a long way to go yet before he could distinguish himself enough to be recognized by the warband’s leader. “Starting today, I will begin building my own Legend.”

  Following the sentry’s directions, he continued on. Before he knew it, he came upon Dagon’s standard and tent. A guard was posted before it. The guard was extremely tall, standing a few inches taller than Tovak. He was heavily muscled, with coal-black hair and a braided beard. Beneath the shadows of a heavy brow, his black eyes seemed to catch everything and glittered in the torchlight. His face was heavily scarred, almost to the point of being a horror. Tovak resisted the urge to flinch. Unlike the other warriors Tovak had seen, this one did not wear plate mail. Nor did he carry a shield.

  A pair of long knives were sheathed at his hips, and he held a large two-handed blade, point set down in the dirt, with his hands resting on the butt of the guard. Tovak recognized the weapon as a drozjain.

  The guard’s eyes followed Tovak as he approached.

  “State your business,” the guard ordered in a deep voice.

  “I’m here to join the pioneers, sir,” Tovak said, and his voice broke on the last word.

  “Do you have a letter of appointment to the company?”

  “No, sir,” Tovak said.

  “I’m not a sir.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Tovak cleared his throat, embarrassed.

  The guard chuckled in a half friendly manner that was laced with a confidence Tovak suddenly did not feel. “Tell me, what would the pioneers want with a young, scrawny boffer like you?”

  “I’ve been trained,” Tovak said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the Warrant.

  The guard took the document from Tovak’s hands and scanned it quickly. His eyes lifted briefly before returning his attention back to the Warrant.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, handing it back. Pushing the tent flap aside, he turned and half-stepped into the tent. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but there is a fresh recruit to see you about joining up. He’s got a Warrant from the Academy.”

  There was a pause from inside.

  “Send him in.”

  Tovak felt his heart skip a beat.

  “Yes, sir.” The guard turned, holding the tent flap aside. “It’s your lucky day. The captain will see you.” He gave a nod. As Tovak moved forward, the guard put his sword out, blocking the way. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “The captain values honesty. Be mindful and speak true. Lie to him and he’ll never forgive you.” The guard raised a warning eyebrow, removed the sword, and jerked his head for Tovak to enter.

  The interior of the tent was darkened and smelled of smoke from an oil lamp, weatherproofed canvas, and mold. A single lamp hung from the center support pole. A pair of moths flitted about the flame.

  Tovak had expected something very different than what he was greeted with. Instead of a carpet of some kind, there was only grass beneath his boots. He spied no cot for sleeping. Dagon had a bedroll laid out against the back wall. There was a small battered wooden chest at the foot of the bedroll.

  A camp table had been set up in the center of the tent. Beyond that, the tent was bare of furnishings. A set of weathered but well-maintained leather armor painted in green and black had been stacked neatly in the corner.

  The captain sat on a three-legged stool before the table, with a wax tablet in one hand and a metal stylus in the other. A second lamp sat on the table. From its burning wick, a coil of black smoke twisted upward toward the ceiling.

  The captain was a yellow-haired, hard-looking Dvergr, with intelligent green eyes and a thick beard that had only a few braids in it. Despite the chilly night air, he wore a light, sleeveless tunic. Tan leggings and thin, comfortable-looking boots adorned his feet.

  Tovak came to a stop before the captain and snapped to attention.

  “You wish to join my company, yes?” The captain’s voice was hard, unfriendly. He placed the stylus down on the table, but still held the tablet.

  Tovak found the captain’s gaze piercing. He thought he detected a flicker of recognition but prayed that Dagon knew not who he was. If he did, it would likely see the crushing of his dreams.

  “Yes, sir,” Tovak replied.

  “And you come bearing a Warrant of Passage?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The pioneers are not for everyone, no matter what they told you at the Academy,” Dagon said, with a hint of disdain at his mention of the school. “We are the eyes and ears of the warband. We fight outside the protection of the line. We move fast and strike hard. We train even harder.” He took a deep breath, eying Tovak with a calculating gaze. “Consider everything you learned at the Academy nearly useless. Pioneer training only truly begins when you join your first company. It is both difficult and demanding. It changes a person . . . makes them harder, stronger . . . both inside and out. And of those we do accept in, I boot four out of every five because they can’t keep up or meet my standards.” He paused, an expectant look upon his face.

  “I understand, sir,” Tovak replied.

  “I doubt that very much.” Dagon placed the tablet carefully down upon the table and clasped both hands together. “And you believe you have what it takes to make it in the pioneers?”

  Tovak paused, contemplating what he thought the captain might want to hear. And then the guard’s words flitted through his mind. Be mindful and speak honestly. He decided to keep his answer simple.

  “I do, sir.”

  A hint of a sneer crossed Dagon’s lips. The captain nodded slowly, as if he’d heard the very same answer many times before, which Tovak suspected he likely had.

  “You have no idea,” he finally said. “We sometimes march all day and through the night. There are times where our stomachs are glued to our backbones for want of food. The First and the Second Pioneers train and fight harder than any other company in the Badgers, for with the jobs given to us, there is no room for failure. We are the elite. A pioneer in either of our companies must be the very best. Karach requires it of us, and there is nothing we would not do for our warchief.” He paused. “You need to know what you’re getting into, lad.” He made a show of looking Tovak over. “You look fit enough. Let me see the Warrant.”

  Tovak handed it over, and the captain began reading through the document.

  “You don’t come from a wealthy family,” Dagon said, his eyes moving back and forth over the Warrant. “Do you?”

  “No, sir,” Tovak said. “I’ve been on my own for . . . a while now. My family is dead.”

  Dagon’s eyes flicked up at the last part. He scowled and then returned to reading.

  “Impressive Warrant,” Dagon said after several moments of silence. “The master at the Academy gives you high marks.”

  Tovak’s hope swelled. He was certain to get an appointment, wasn’t he? He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Thulla.

  “I must admit, a mark of excellence is not an easy thing to achieve,” Dagon said slowly. He raised his eyes to peer at Tovak, and then his forehead creased in concentration, as if he were trying to remember something. In a flash, his eyes went wide with recognition, and his features hardened. He quickly scanned the bottom of the Warrant and froze. His body stiffened, and his face became a furious mask. He looked up and locked eyes with Tovak.

  “Who was your father, Tovak?” he asked in an icy tone.

  Tovak’s heart sank as he remembered the c
ards from the spirit deck. Thulla, the Taker. He knew what was coming. It was the same story, over and over again. People judged him not for who he was, but who his father had been, what he had done. He took a deep breath. He exhaled and with that breath went all the hope and happiness he’d felt since he’d stepped off the yuggernok.

  “My father was Graybor Stonehammer, sir.” The words came out flat, defeated. Tovak wanted to scream, cry out, curse the captain for what he knew was about to happen. But he’d grown accustomed to the role of Pariah long ago, so he stood there and said nothing more.

  Dagon slowly folded the Warrant along its creases and slid it across the surface of the table to the farthest edge, toward Tovak. It was as if he somehow feared contamination.

  “You don’t know this, but I have two sons.” Dagon’s tone was harsh, cold. “I used to have three. My firstborn served under your father’s command. In a snowy pass above Barasoom, he was slaughtered like a teska sold at market.” The statement hung between them. Dagon’s voice, like his face, was full of pain and wounded rage.

  Tovak almost cringed. His shoulders slumped. He felt like the life was being sucked out of him. He knew the story all too well. He just hadn’t known Dagon’s eldest son had been there, a party to his father’s disgrace. Would Tovak never be free?

  Dagon let out a slow breath. The anger seemed to leave him. In its place was only a cold disdain. It was all coming undone. Again.

  “Graybor Stonehammer failed his troops,” Dagon said quietly. “He failed the village he was tasked with protecting. He failed the Dragon Fists and every Dvergr of Garand’Durbaad. And sadly, he failed you, too, Tovak, for you must now bear your father’s disgrace, his shame. You are a Pariah, and with good reason, coward’s son.”

  Tovak burned with a deep shame. It was as Dagon said. His father had failed in his duty and been solely responsible for a massacre by the enemy upon his people. And it was Tovak’s everlasting shame to live under that cloud of disgrace and humiliation.