The Soldier's Tale, Page 2

  “Stop talking?” said Mallister.

  “That,” I said, “and you can do something about these damned headaches.” I’d had a bad one all day, and the whiskey had done nothing to take the edge off. It felt like a hangover headache, but I hadn’t been drunk long enough to develop a proper hangover.

  Mallister frowned. “You’re still getting headaches?”

  “Aye,” I said. “I thought drinking was supposed to kill your liver, not your head.”

  “There is no limits to the evil of drink,” said Mallister, drinking the last of his whiskey. Then he reached over, put his hand on my shoulder, and cast a spell.

  I flinched. Mallister was a friend, and the magic of the Magistri was nothing like the blood sorcery the Mhorite orcs wielded in the name of their murderous god, but I still found magic uncanny and didn’t like it. Of course, the Magistri had the power to heal wounds through their magic. Uncanny or not, if I had the choice between having to spend weeks recovering from a wound or healing from a spell, I would choose the spell every time.

  We soldiers are a practical breed.

  Mallister’s hand flared with white light, and a cold chill swept through me. He frowned for a moment, eyes half-closed, and then shook his head and withdrew his hand.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you as far as I can tell,” said Mallister.

  I snorted. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing physical,” said Mallister. “Your state of mind is another matter. But physically there’s nothing wrong with you.” He scoffed. “Your liver is even in fine shape. Won’t be if you keep drinking like this, though.”

  “Then why do I have these headaches?” I said.

  “Damned if I know,” said Mallister. “I was always better with warding spells. If you get cut up I can heal you well enough, but illness…no, that was never my strength. He shrugged. “Perhaps we can obtain leave from the Dux to visit Tarlion. The greatest healers among the Magistri are there.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not walking all the way to Tarlion for a headache.”

  “Perhaps it would help your headache,” said Mallister, “if you met some of the women of the town.”

  “God and the apostles!” I said, refilling my cup. Was it the sixth time? The seventh? I really should keep track of these things. “You’re as bad as Murcius. He keeps offering to buy me a whore.” I shook my head, which hurt. “It’s just a headache.”

  I supposed I knew what was wrong with me, but it was something that a Magistrius could not fix.

  Or even whiskey.

  It couldn’t hurt, though, so I drained my cup.

  ###

  Over the next few weeks I spent most of my time training the new lads.

  After endless repetition, they started to get better. Eventually I had them square off against each other in individual duels, hammering at each other with wooden practice swords. As ever, some of the recruits did better than others. Romilius did the best, and the other recruits started to defer to him. I thought Sir Primus might make him a Tessario after his first year, if he did well.

  After three weeks of training, Sir Primus came to watch.

  “How are they doing, Optio?” said the knight.

  “Well enough, sir,” I said. “Only lost five of them so far.”

  Primus looked startled. “Killed?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “Two of them were troublemakers, so I had to throw them out after beating some politeness into their heads. Three of them just aren’t suited for this kind of life, sir. No shame in that.”

  “The shame would be in not admitting it, and causing the death of other men,” said Primus.

  “Aye,” I said. “So I let them go, no hard feelings. The realm needs farmers. Can’t eat swords.”

  “No, we cannot,” said Primus with a shake of his head. “Dux Kors knows it, but not all the other nobles are so wise. Young Dux Tarrabus and his proud young knights, for one. But…well, that is not our concern. How are the rest of the recruits shaping up?”

  “They’ll do, sir,” I said. “Eventually. Still pretty rough, but they’ve potential. Good raw material. Romilius, in particular…I would keep an eye on him, sir. Lad’s a natural leader, and already pretty good with a sword. Might make a Decurion someday.”

  “All in good time,” said Primus. “Think they’re ready for a ride outside the castra?”

  I frowned. “Problem, sir?”

  “Some of the freeholders to the west of Castra Durius have been complaining,” said Primus. “Cattle have been going missing. Sheep, cows, pigs, snatched away in the night.”

  “Cattle thieves?” I said.

  “That is one possibility,” said Primus. “The freeholders are afraid it might be Mhorites.”

  “The Mhorites would steal the cattle,” I said. “They’d also kill the freeholders and leave their headless bodies as a sacrifice to Mhor.”

  “I thought as much,” said Primus. “Of course, it might be kobolds or deep orcs scouting for targets. Or an urvaalg or an ursaar, some manner of beast that kills for sport. Either way, the Dux wants to send men to take a look. But all the veteran men are patrolling the passes into Kothluusk…”

  “Which means us,” I said.

  “Aye,” said Primus. “Are they ready?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “Not for a serious fight. But…if we’re just chasing cattle thieves, they can handle that.”

  “New men must become seasoned me at some point,” said Primus. “Now is as good a time as any. We shall leave at dawn.”

  “I’ll make the preparations, sir,” I said. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course,” said Primus. “We’ve been in too many fights for me not to trust your judgment, Optio.”

  I felt…well, if not pride, then something. I respected Sir Primus, and I was glad he respected my judgment. Even with my tendency towards drink.

  “I think we should bring some veterans,” I said. “If we run into something more dangerous than a few cattle thieves, we’ll need men who can keep their heads.”

  Primus considered for a moment, and then nodded. “Sound counsel. I shall speak to the Dux.”

  ###

  We left at dawn, thirty men riding west from the proud towers of Castra Durius. My recruits rode behind Sir Primus, nervous and careful with the Dux’s horses. Scattered among them rode a dozen veterans, men I had fought alongside in skirmishes against the Mhorites and the kobolds. Magistrius Mallister came with us just in case we encountered an urvaalg or an ursaar or some other creature of dark magic. The ancient war beasts of the dark elves were immortal, unless something killed them, but only magic could wound a creature of dark magic. Normal steel would not get the job done, though fire might. One urvaalg could tear through thirty men-at-arms without breaking a sweat. A Swordbearer and his magical soulblade could dispatch an urvaalg with ease, but the Dux would not waste a Swordbearer hunting down cattle thieves. He could spare a Magistrius, though, and so Mallister rode with us, sitting at ease in his saddle, wearing a long white coat over leather armor in lieu of his white robe.

  I rode up and down the line to keep an eye on the new men, my head throbbing. I hadn’t had any whiskey in three days, but still my headache persisted. I wondered if I was getting sick. Maybe I was about to die of some untraceable and undetectable disease. Sometimes people died for no discernable reason – their hearts stopped, or strange tumors consumed their organs. Maybe such a tumor grew within me now.

  The thought of death did not trouble me. I might be a bitter drunk, but I had never abandoned my duty. When I stood before the throne of the Dominus Christus and was judged for my many, many sins, I could at least say that I had never abandoned my duty. Maybe I would see Judith again. I could see Judith, and…

  I wanted a drink. I had to have a drink. Else my thoughts would go to a dark place…

  Of course, there was no way Sir Primus would let us bring along strong drink in the field. Hell, I was an Optio, and if any of the men-at-arms had brought
along whiskey, I would have flogged him myself. So instead I put my energies into discipline. I made sure every saddle strap was tied tight, every bowstring was stored properly, that every tabard was crisp and every hauberk was free of rust. God help the man who was lax!

  We rode west into the pine forests and rocky foothills of western Durandis, the dark mountains of Kothluusk towering over us. There were farms and fields and pastures throughout the hills, but this close to the homeland of the Mhorite orcs the houses were built tall and strong with arrow slits for windows, and even the shepherds went about armed. I had fought Mhorite raiders in these hills, along with creatures that came from the caverns of the Deeps below the hills. Yet the hill country seemed almost peaceful at the moment, without any trace of Mhorites or more dangerous things.

  For all that, a lot of sheep and pigs had gone missing. The freeholders let us know about that at great length.

  “Must be a wolf pack,” I said to Mallister as Sir Primus stood speaking with an aggravated freeholder. “Hungry wolves out of Kothluusk.”

  Mallister grunted. “Wolves wouldn’t make a sheep disappear without a trace. They’d leave bones. Wolves don’t drag sheep off to their lair to eat it.”

  There were any number of creatures that kept lairs and dragged victims off to be devoured. Of course, the sort of creatures that did that would also break into the fortified houses to devour the people within them.

  “Cattle thieves, then,” I said. “Making off with the cattle in the dead of night.”

  “Sir,” said Romilius, sitting straight in his saddle. I had taken out my ill temper on a few of the new recruits who had been lax about tending their horses, but Romilius had been diligent. “If they are cattle thieves…what will we do with them?”

  “Hang them,” I said. “The Dux doesn’t tolerate brigands. If they want to steal, they can go steal from the Mhorites, not from honest men of Andomhaim. If we are dealing with bandits, they’ve probably built themselves a little nest somewhere in a ravine or one of the ruined villages. If they’re stealing cattle, eventually they’ll get bolder and start attacking villages and freeholds. We’ll find them and teach them the error of their ways.”

  Primus bade the irate freeholder farewell and rejoined us.

  “Did he run out of complaints, sir?” I said.

  “Eventually,” said Primus, “but he did have some useful information. He’s been talking with his neighbors. All the disappearances have been around Mhazulask’s Hill.”

  I knew the place. It was a hill a few miles west, named for some old Mhorite warlord who had met his end there a century past. It was also home to a ring of black standing stones raised by the dark elves in ancient times, and those were bad places. Dark magic lingered within those rings of standing stones, and the Mhorite shamans could use those circles to augment their spells. The dark power also sometimes drew things like urvaalgs or ursaars or even worse creatures.

  “Bad sign, sir,” I said. “That’s not a good place. Perhaps we should return to Castra Durius and await a Swordbearer.”

  “We have a Magistrius,” said Primus.

  “We do, sir knight,” said Mallister, “but this Magistrius would also prefer the aid of a Swordbearer.”

  Primus considered for a moment. “No. We’ll press on. We have our orders, and if this was a creature of dark magic, it wouldn’t stop with stealing cattle. Optio, prepare to make for Mhazulask’s Hill.”

  “Sir,” I said, and I gave commands to the men. It took a bit to get the recruits into order, but soon we rode west.

  We reached Mhazulask’s Hill by late afternoon, a grim, barren fist of rock that rose out of the surrounding pine forests. Atop the hill stood a ring of black standing stones, and I felt a faint queasy sensation as I looked them, which wasn’t pleasant combined with my headache.

  “We’ll camp at the base of the hill,” said Primus. “Optio, select four groups of four men each. They are to scout the area and report back. No man is to go off alone, and if the scouts encounter any foes, they will return at once. We…”

  “What the hell is that?” said one of the new recruits, his voice rising with fear.

  I turned, my first impulse to rebuke the man for speaking out of turn. Then I saw the terror on his face, saw his eyes widening as he groped for his sword. I turned again, looking for what had frightened him so much.

  Then a shadow swept over us, and I looked up.

  There was a reason whoever had stolen the sheep and pigs hadn’t left any tracks. The stolen cattle hadn’t been carried away.

  They had been flown away.

  The wyvern fell from the sky like a green-scaled thunderbolt.

  The creature was enormous, its body the size of an adult ox, the limbs heavy with muscle and equipped with razor-edged talons. Its wings spread like the sails of a ship, and fierce yellow eyes glared from a head crowned with a bony crest, its thick neck long and serpentine. Its greenish-black scales looked as tough as steel, and the wyvern’s long, thick tail ended with a barbed stinger glistening with black slime. A wyvern’s poison was lethal, and could kill a strong man in moments.

  “Scatter!” I shouted, but it was too late. The wyvern swooped over us, and its stinger plunged into one of the new recruits, punching through his armor to sink into his flesh. The man screamed, yellow foam bubbling from his mouth, and he fell from his mount, thrashing and moaning. The wyvern snatched another man from his saddle, its talons closing around his head and shoulders. I aimed a hasty sword stroke at the wyvern as it passed, but my blade rebounded from the thick scales on its hind limbs. The wyvern soared into the sky, dragging the screaming recruit with it, and then it twisted its claws. The man’s headless corpse tumbled to the ground, blood spurting from the ragged stump of his neck.

  The wyvern let out a brassy cry of rage and circled around for another pass. We didn’t dare run. The great beast had claimed Mhazulask’s Hill as its lair, and it would regard us as intruders. Wyverns were not magical creatures, and were not immune to normal steel. Of course, with its thick scales, claws, fangs, and that venomous tail, it hardly needed to fear normal steel.

  “Bows!” roared Primus, pointing with his sword. “Bows, quickly, quickly!” The men-at-arms scrambled for the short bows slung from their saddles, putting arrows to the strings.

  “Aim for the wings!” I said, sheathing my sword and raising my bow. “The scales are too thick! Aim for the wings!”

  Mallister cast a spell, white light flaring around his hands, and that light jumped from his fingers to sink into the men-at-arms. I had seen him use that spell before. It was a magical ward, armoring us in protective spells. It wouldn’t stop a wyvern’s talons or fangs, but it would make us harder to kill.

  “Release at my command!” said Primus. He sheathed his sword and took up a javelin, preparing to throw it as the Roman legionaries in Vegetius’s book had done.

  The wyvern swooped lower, coming down for another attack. I felt the hateful weight of its serpentine yellow eyes, and its fanged mouth yawned wide to unleash another brassy bellow of rage. Thankfully, wyverns could not breathe fire the way that a drake could, though that barbed stinger was just as lethal as a fire.

  “Hold!” I thundered as some of the new men shifted away, their eyes wide and their faces wide with terror. “Hold, damn you!”

  “Now!” said Primus, drawing back his arm to throw the javelin. “Release!”

  I raised my bow and released, and a volley of arrows shot towards the descending wyvern. About half the arrows missed, but a quarter struck the wyvern’s flanks and neck, rebounding from the thick scales there. My arrow slammed into the wyvern’s right wing, punching a hole through the leathery flesh, and four or five other arrows hit the wings. Primus’s javelin struck the left wing and caught in it. The beating motion of the wyvern’s wings pulled the javelin’s weight down, ripping through the thin flesh, and the wyvern let out a scream of rage.

  The impact also caused the wyvern’s left wing to collapse, and the cr
eature crashed into our midst, laying about with its claws and talons, its stinger-tipped tail driving forward like a whip. Three men died in the space of an instant. The wyvern bit off the head of a recruit, the skull making a horrible crunching noise in its jaws. It talons shredded through the tabard, armor, and ribs of another recruit, and the man simply fell apart, his innards landing in a pool of blood upon the ground. The stinger punched into the chest of a veteran, and the man collapsed writhing to the ground, yellow foam bubbling around his mouth and nostrils as the venom ate its way through his flesh.

  It all happened so fast there was no time to react.

  “Go for the head!” I shouted, yanking my sword from its scabbard. I took a swing at the wyvern’s head, aiming for its neck. I hit the neck, and my blade bit into the thinner scales there. The wyvern roared, its bone-crested head slamming into me. It struck me in the belly like massive club of barbed bone. The impact didn’t penetrate my armor, but it did knock me from my feet and send me sprawling, the breath blasted from my lungs. For an awful moment I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even blink.

  The wyvern surged toward me, its jaws yawning wide. It would bite off my head. The creature’s vile breath, a mixture of rotting meat and an acidic tang, filled my nostrils.

  So that was how I was going to die. Guess the drink wouldn’t do for me after all.

  The wyvern’s mouth shot towards me, and then its head jerked to the side, the creature screaming with fury. I glimpsed a blur behind its head, and I saw Romilius straddling the wyvern’s thick neck. The wyvern jerked its head back, and Romilius bounced a bit, but he was simply too heavy for the wyvern to throw him off with a flick of his neck.

  He also had an axe in his hands, which he brought down once, twice, three times. On the third blow I heard something snap in the wyvern’s head, and the blade sank to the handle in the creature’s skull. Its entire body heaved, its serpentine neck snapping back with enough force to send Romilius sprawling, the axe still buried its head.