Book 4 - Interlude - Gurthcid

    When Cid opened his orders, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The day he’d been dreaming of for years had finally arrived: He was to be promoted to Prime of a new Lance, but when he read the names of those serving under him, all thoughts of celebration fled in favor of disappointment and dread.

    His second was to be his best friend Hedrek, a fellow [Knight]. And while Hedrek had many of the qualities he would wish for in a Second, the problem remained that Hedrek was the one person in the world who never listened to him. Hedrek had a boisterous energy that couldn''t be contained, but it had never been Cid''s job to contain it before. Could their friendship survive this? Ideally, they both would have made Prime at the same time on different Lances.

    The other names were worse. Him, Hedrek, and then eight nobodies from Prinnash. No [Knights], and none were even [Squires]. He had two [Warriors], two [Hunters], a [Rogue], a [Porter], an [Armsman], and a [Page].

    This couldn’t stand! A Lance wasn’t meant to be a group of random misfits taken off the street. It should’ve been the sons of lords bolstered by the very best and brightest among the common stock.

    Perhaps if he were anyone else, he would have gritted his teeth and obeyed. Even now, that’s what he wished to do, but he couldn’t. He was the son of a Count, and he had standing to speak directly to command if he wished, even to Commander Galan himself, if necessary. Since he was one of the only men in this camp that could complain, that also meant that he had to, else the problem would go unaddressed.

    Cid had half a mind to march straight up to Galan and demand that he give him ten good Ollandish men or remove him from command altogether. Yes, that’s what he should do. What he would do. If this was happening to him, it was certainly happening to others. He had a duty to Olland to bring an end to this travesty.

    Cid left his rooms to stalk through the halls of the fortress, if it could even be called that. Galan and the other commanders seemed to love it here, but all he could see was an old castle in ruins.

    Leadership likely had never heard a word of complaint. Soon after they’d arrived, one of the older [Knights] had asked rather loudly at mess what sort of true man would ever complain about something like a change in the weather, and now all the new recruits were climbing over themselves to prove that they didn’t mind the terrible accommodations at all. True, as a level 30 [Knight], Cid had long since moved past the point where a chill morning or a hot afternoon could bother him, but there was no amount of points in Vitality or Strength that could make his clothes stop smelling like mold because rain had soaked his wardrobe.

    The fortress bothered him on a deeper level, though. It was a perfect example of the way this war was going, one where Prinnash ripped them off in a hundred different ways and they all pretended not to notice. Or maybe Galan really didn’t notice at all? He was a straightforward sort of fellow.

    Straightforward fellows required straightforward approaches. Rather than stew in his irritation or try to bring it up in subtler ways, Cid needed to approach Galan directly. No other newly appointed Prime could do this, only Cid had the station necessary to approach the Lord Commander of the Order of the Long Sleep directly.

    Even so, he stood in front of the shut door to Galan’s office, deliberating for a long time whether or not he would really knock.

    A female voice answered, “Enter.”

    He gulped did so, to find a bleak and utilitarian office. The large desk stacked high with papers stood empty in the center of the room. Off to the side in a corner, there was a small writing desk, occupied by the woman who had let him in.

    Cid really didn’t understand Lyssa. She was clearly a traitor, was she not? It was like in all the [Illusionist] movies, where the noble [King] always had that one trusted advisor who was obviously up to no good. The man in the movies would always dress in black robes, with a pallid complexion and sunken eyes. He would often be seen anointing a dagger with poison, raising it above his head when the [King] turned his back only to hide it in his robes when the [King] looked back to him for advice. He would advise the [King] to jail every pretty maiden and kill every young hero. Everyone could see that this was a rat, except for the [King] who trusted him completely.

    In the same vein, Lyssa could not be more suspicious. Instead of wearing all black, she wore the uniform of their Order, but every part of the stereotypical evil advisor fit her perfectly. Only, on a woman, a pallid complexion might be described as fair. Sunken eyes might also be the result of a modest amount of makeup. Even the dagger was true; Lyssa could often be seen toying with a ceremonial dagger, often removing it from its sheath when Galan wasn’t looking. Cid half expected it to [Inspect] as “Traitor’s Edge” or some such, but alas all the Skill told him was that it was a possession of her brother’s.

    “He’ll be returning in a moment. You may wait here, if you wish,” said Lyssa, indicating a chair.

    It wouldn’t quite send the correct message if he sat. A commoner supplicant would sit; a subordinate soldier in wartime would stand. Cid stepped off to the side near the chairs and stood to wait. “Yes, ma’am. I will, and I thank you.”

    Lyssa rolled her eyes and went back to work.

    Cid waited. Not too long after, he began to hear voices from down the halls. One effect of halls of stone where no tapestries were hung and the carpets had not been replaced, was that it tended to make voices carry. Cid couldn’t plug his ears, that would be absurd, so he had no chance but to listen.

    “...ever told you of my great friend Lurilan?” This voice could only be Galan.

    “You haven’t. Surely he is a fierce [Knight] for you to call him a great friend,” responded another voice.

    “A [Hunter], we fought together against the undead in the Boglands. At first, I was not sure we would get along. Before Travin’s Bog, I would’ve called a bow a coward’s weapon,” said Galan.

    “No. I refuse.”

    “What do you refuse?”

    Cid didn’t recognize the second voice. He took a risk and gave Lyssa a questioning glance. She mouthed the word “Lothar”.

    “I refuse to believe you would call a bow a coward’s weapon. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you denigrate the profession of any man. It smacks of false humility to hear you say you would insult a [Hunter] after this manner,” said the voice who was apparently Lothar. Cid had heard of him. He was the head of the Order of the Golden Ivory. He sounded exactly like Galan.

    “I would not say it, but perhaps I would think it,” Galan answered.

    “I won’t believe that either. You’re altogether lacking in prejudice, to an offensive degree.”

    Galan’s voice grew agitated. “I apologize for offending you. Is it so wrong that I believe any honest work, diligently executed, is worthy and honorable? Hewing men on the battlefield is no better or worse than hewing grain for a mill, so long as it is done in integrity.”

    “Well put, I suppose, but I myself find it difficult to call myself the equal of any man,” Lothar said with a frankness that bothered Cid.

    “I would also never call you the equal of any other man,” said Galan.

    Lothar barked a laugh. “The fact that you probably didn’t imply an insult there makes it all the better.”

    “I assure you, I did not. I meant to say that you are stronger than any other man I have ever known. May I continue my story?”

    “You may.”

    “Thank you. As I was saying, perhaps some foolish [Knight] would call a bow a coward’s weapon, but I saw in Lurilan no cowardice at all. What I saw instead was wisdom. He prepared for his hunt, approached silently, used guile and misdirection when necessary, and killed his quarry quickly. Perhaps against a [Knight] this would be unseemly, but we fought against foes who were owed no quarter. I learned from him that guile must not necessarily be the enemy of honor. I will approach this war... carefully.”

    Lothar laughed in what sounded like delight. “I’m surprised at you, Galan. The man who left for Travin’s Bog would never have spoken in such a manner.”

    “Of that I am most aware,” said Galan.

    “Then let me reiterate my previous argument and leave it here: Arcaena is not the true threat. I feel it in my bones, with a surety of instinct that has never once led me astray. I think we will regret this war should we force ourselves to pursue it. We would be better off to take this army south to explore the Wastes, or to defend against the strangers to the east. And what of the Frost King? How can we sit still not knowing from whence he came or if there shall be another like him?”

    The door opened and Galan stepped through, shaking his head. “My dear friend, I fear I still cannot understand your perspective. We should do as you say and leave it there.”

    “Very well, I take my leave.” There was one short moment when Lothar walked past the open door that gave Cid a glance at him. The armor was golden and decorated with ivory as expected, but he didn’t see too much impressive about the man in the armor. He looked solid and firm of conviction, but lacked the aura of danger and power that truly high-leveled men carried. Men like Galan.

    And yet, Galan had called Lothar stronger than any other. How could this be? Perhaps his meaning had been referring to moral fortitude or some such.

    “Ah, young Gurthcid Trevorrow. To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Galan.

    Cid ventured a glance at the still opened door. “Good day, sir. Was that Lothar of the Order of the Golden Ivory? I confess I find him strange. Whoever heard of an Order of only one man?”

    Galan smiled in amusement and declined to respond, so Cid took that as the refusal it was. He cleared his throat. “It’s about my Lance, sir.”

    “Yes, congratulations are in order!” said Galan.

    “Thank you sir. But I fear that...” Cid had been planning to leverage national pride to introduce his concerns, but he’d just seen Galan speaking with his dear friend from Theranor while speaking about his good friend from Frenaria. He readjusted mid-sentence, deciding to lean on humility instead. “It’s just that I fear I’m not ready for this. I don’t know if I quite have the experience requisite to lead a Lance to success.”

    Galan crinkled his brow in fatherly concern, making Cid believe he’d chosen the correct tactic. “You are older than I was when I led my first Lance. And the Prime of your first Lance was about the same age? Eighteen or so?”

    “Yes sir, true, and Jori is truly a man among men,” said Cid. He and Jori never truly got along, but he’d been a competent commander and his orders had been reasonable, so Cid felt no regret in praising him. Like father always said, “To praise one’s superiors is to praise oneself.”

    “Then what is the issue? Do you believe you are less than he?” asked Galan.

    “No, sir,” Cid said, accidentally admitting it too quickly. He needed to remember he was trying to be humble. “That is to say, though Jori gives me a lot to live up to, that isn’t the issue. My thought is that when Jori started out, he was able to lean upon the experience of several experienced fighters under his command. Most notable is his Dectant, Clesek Green, a veteran of three wars, and a man of thirty-five years. If I have read my orders correctly, I will be the oldest in my Lance!”

    Galan looked pleased. “I know Clesek. A [Scavenger], yes? That you see such value in one with a Common Class speaks well of you.”

    Cid put his tongue between his teeth to keep from gritting them in frustration. If Clesek Green really still had a Common Class, then Cid’s father was a donkey. Cid’s Lance had four Common Classes, really Common. “But do you see my dilemma, sir?”

    Galan nodded. “That you understand the wisdom of seeking guidance from your elders also speaks well of you. I’ll see to it that you have adequate supervision, and I’ll set appointments during your leaves and breaks with veteran commanders so that you can ask your questions and discuss problems as they come up. Will that suffice?”

    The Rite of the Crucible was a barbaric tradition, but Pinho had the right to ask for it. Instead of a regular trial, he’d be forced to fight each of his Lance members, one after another, starting with the lowest in rank up to the top. If he beat them all, he’d be declared innocent. If he died, he’d at least keep his name intact and cast no dishonor upon his family. In reality, Pinho probably hoped for a third option: if he acquitted himself honorably and fought until he lost consciousness, he might well be given leniency for whatever horrible thing he’d done.

    There was also one last possibility. If no one else in the Lance believed he’d done anything wrong, they could all surrender, in which case he might well get off scot free. From the looks the other men were shooting Pinho, Cid didn’t think he had a hope of that.

    The second [Hunter] stepped forward. “That’d be me.”

    “That’d be me, sir,” Cid corrected.

    “No,” said Hedrek. “It’s him. And why are you calling him sir?”

    “Thank you, Hedrek,” said Cid.

    “You’re welcome. Sir.”

    No one else appreciated Hedrek’s levity any more than he did. Cid spent a moment trying to argue Pinho from this ridiculous course of action, but the man wouldn’t be dissuaded. He also tried to convince the [Hunter] to surrender and forfeit his match, but he also wouldn’t refuse the duel. Normally a Dectant would be the most dangerous non-noble fighter in the Lance, as they were given the responsibility of defending the Lance’s honor. Cid had no idea who the strongest of these new recruits could be, but on the surface a [Hunter] against a [Warrior] was a bad matchup.

    However, since neither the [Hunter] nor the [Warrior] would change their minds, Cid’s hands were tied. He accepted the [Hunter’s] oath and let the rite happen.

    Lyssa spoke the ceremonial words. “Take heart and fight bravely! Remember always that the eyes of Anshar are upon you. Let the light cast away darkness. Let truth prevail and let justice be done.”

    The duel was a travesty. Neither of the men were trained in fighting with armor. They were slow and awkward, and kept hitting each other on the plate, bouncing their weapons in an almost comical fashion.

    Eventually, Pinho got wise and started stabbing for the joints. The [Hunter] was nimble, but Pinho must’ve taken [Blade Mastery], because every blow went exactly where it should. He got a lucky stab underneath his opponent’s shoulder. Where another might have let off and taken a surrender, Pinho pushed deeper until he reached the heart, killing the man on the spot.

    Cid still hadn’t gotten used to death and felt himself growing numb. He wanted to leave, he wanted to quit being a [Knight] altogether. But he’d been here before. He calmed himself with a few breaths and then called out, “Pinho is victorious. Who is my ninth?”

    The [Page] raised his hand. [Inspect] named him Govannon Boal and he couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His level was only 14, and from the pale face and the shaking hands he knew as well as Cid did that this duel was certain death.

    “Pinho, let’s leave it here. Surrender, and I’ll promise to argue your case. I’ll speak of your courage and temperance,” said Cid.

    Pinho had a devilish glimmer in his eye before he clicked his faceplate shut. “No. I’ll beat you all.” There was no way he could really think that possible. He must’ve also been aware that he could win this next one. If he meant to surrender, he’d wait until he matched a fellow [Warrior].

    He turned to Govannon. “You can surrender. There’s no need to throw your life away for someone like him. In fact, I’d prefer it if you all surrendered. Let Hedrek take care of this!”

    Hedrek grinned and slammed his fist against his breastplate in agreement.

    Govannon stared at the ground and said in a timid voice, “It’s my right to face him, is it not?”

    “It is, but you needn’t risk yourself. This is suicide. A waste!” said Cid.

    “I’ll fight.”

    Shaking his head in disbelief, Cid accepted Govannon’s Oath and this time spoke the ritual words to begin the duel himself.

    Unlike the unfortunate [Hunter] or Pinho, the [Page] moved in armor as if he were born to it. Indeed, they seemed more comfortable on him than fine silks on a noble lady.

    He neglected to draw his sword and instead brought out only a foot-long dagger.

    Pinho laughed derisively, and Govannon gulped and retreated back a few steps. Emboldened, Pinho charged.

    Govannon flowed like a snake. His movements weren’t so quick as to suggest Skill usage, but he moved with the grace of someone who’d trained this exact circumstance a hundred times. He took Pinho’s swing on the top of his shoulder plate, and pushed up with his dagger, perfectly sliding it into the space under Pinho’s chin.

    Blood poured from Pinho’s helmet, and he swung wildly, striking Govannon twice on the body, though both were deflected by the plate. They separated, and Pinho slumped to the ground.

    Face down on the ground, Pinho didn’t move or speak. A long groan escaped the armored man, then nothing.

    This left Cid with an uncomfortable dilemma. The Rite of the Crucible was fought to death or surrender. Unconsciousness counted as a surrender, but an honorable one. He could end the duel here and perhaps still save Pinho’s life. Did he wish to?

    In the time it took to make up his mind, Pinho bled his last, making the decision for him.

    “He’s dead,” announced Lyssa.

    “The Rite is ended,” said Cid. “Honor is restored.”

    Govannon retreated towards the far edge of the clearing, looking even more timid and anxious than before. Well, at least one of his men wasn’t completely useless. But why did he have to be a [Page]?

    “Come,” said Lyssa. “We should report this to command.”

    “See that they’re buried with full honors,” Cid told Hedrek, who nodded with appropriate solemnity. It was good to see that his friend could take at least something seriously.

    Cid had hoped to begin familiarizing himself with his men and begin to organize things, but he saw now that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He followed Lyssa back into the fortress.

    “Perhaps what I told Galan was right. I’ve been in charge for ten minutes and I’ve already lost two men.”

    “Two Prinnashian men,” Lyssa responded. Yes, there was something odd going on with her. Cid still believed his first instincts about her. She was certainly a traitor, but now he began to wonder just who she was betraying.

    The rest of the day was full of reports, questions, and hearings. If viewed from the outside, it might seem that the Order viewed the deaths of their men flippantly, but from the inside he could see clearly just how much of a stir this event had caused.

    To his relief, few had any problems with Cid’s actions. The lion’s share of the ire was directed to the [Drill Sergeants]. How had they not noticed the bad feelings existing among their men? How had they not noticed Pinho’s crimes, and why had he not been arrested before being assigned to a Lance? The hearings would likely go on for weeks, and the ramifications would no doubt last for months. Every part of the Order’s treatment of female serving staff would be investigated.

    Luckily, Cid would have little to do with any of that. Two days later, he finally got word that he’d been given two more recruits and that he’d be able to begin to organize his Lance.

    His men had organized in the same courtyard, and this time all eight of them were lined up correctly. Galan met them there as well, with Lyssa.

    “I couldn’t be more excited about your new member. He’s really something special, and after due consideration, I believe this is the right place for him. Use him well,” Galan said, and then left the courtyard to call the two new members out while Lyssa stayed by his side.

    The man who came out next didn’t look too promising. Another moderately-leveled [Warrior], he looked like he was cast from the same mold as Pinho who he was replacing. He gave Lyssa an arrogant sneer when he saw her, then suddenly switched to contriteness and docility when he noticed Cid standing next to her. [Inspect] named him Rhun.

    Cid truly hoped the next one was better.

    The next one was worse. Out came an unwholesome-looking fellow, so covered in thin white scars that Cid immediately suspected a mental affliction. He was short, and young, and not particularly tough-looking, and Cid immediately suspected that he’d started with a Common Class.

    [Inspect] told him he was true on all accounts. Only fourteen years old, he was even younger than the [Page]. The only good thing about him was his absurdly high level. How did he get to 38? But all that meant was that Cid wouldn''t have grounds to have the boy removed; he doubted he''d be able to use him. [Glass Invocationist] was a nonsensical Class. How was he supposed to integrate something like that into a combat strategy? Worst was his name. Despite his Prinnashian looks he had a Frenarian name, but not even a real name. This fellow was calling himself “Scar the Mistaken”.

    Hedrek burst out laughing at the sight of him.

    “This is to be my new Dectant?” asked Cid.

    “Oh, no not at all,” responded Lyssa, and for a moment Cid began to hope. Then she finished, “This will be your new Second.”

    Hedrek stopped laughing.

    Cid abandoned decorum and rubbed away a growing headache in his temples. This was sure to be an extraordinarily difficult assignment.