Rain, Chapter 2

This is the second chapter in a story I've been writing for a very long time now. The first part can be found by following the "Rain" link on the right side. If you've already been there, click below to read!

Elanus Qer’olan, Knight Throne, commander of the Divinity Platoon of the Sanctified Knights stationed at the fortress town of Jolan, stood now on a simple, raised wooden platform before the entirety of his platoon, minus the sentries on duty. Long had he awaited this day, as anxious as the honored man no doubt was. The young man in question stood sternly at attention, hiding his fear behind his usual stoic mask. Elanus had known him for a long time, however, and could see the signs. His boots were shined too brightly, his jaw set a little too much. His dark hair, normally kept just long enough to be slicked back against his head, glistened with sweat over his homemade styling gel (the recipe for which was kept close to his belt). Elanus hid the smallest of smiles from his mouth (though not his eyes, he suspected) as he extolled the young man’s virtues in rich, reverberating over the dusty compound.

“We’ve known Anthony for some time,” he continued with practiced ease. “We took him in when he came to us at Ravenholdt, we raised him as our own. He’s been our whipping boy since he was barely old enough to hold a sword.” He threw Anthony an aloof grin which was answered by a low rumble of laughter from the knights gathered. Anthony looked back at Elanus, apparently unwavering. Only Elanus saw the silent desperation in his eyes.

“When he was fifteen, he finally enlisted, becoming a Knight Angel. He’s risen through the ranks faster than any other member of the Divinity Platoon. He’s come into command over some of you who taught the young rake how to read.” Another laugh rose from the crowd, this one silenced quickly by a stern look and raised hand from Elanus. “But none of us resent him. No man among us deserves these promotions more. No man among us has proven himself in combat as ably, or earned our loyalty so completely.” The older knights in the crowd, particularly, nodded by way of agreement.

“Besides,” Elanus continued after a suitably dramatic pause, as a smirk slowly turned up one corner of his thin mouth, “no man among us looks quite so good in that armor.” The assembled knights hooted with laughter, catcalling and whistling approvingly at their commander’s jape. Anthony’s eyes flared with panic and looked to Elanus, begging without words to stop the madness. Elanus took particular pleasure in letting it continue for a few moments before silencing the men with a call to attention.

“Just like any man who receives this promotion,” he bellowed, suddenly serious, “you must earn your armor!” The knights cheered again, this one more of a drunken battle cry than anything. The Knight Throne took an apple from a basket held by one of the town’s women, to his right, and turned, pitching it underhanded at Anthony on the other side. Anthony knew what was coming, and was drawing his sword with one hand before even he noticed the apple. His sword swept upward, cutting a graceful arc through the air and slicing the apple perfectly in half. Because he put a flourish into the cut, he barely had enough time to parry Elanus’ downward strike.

The bleary, unfocused cheer of the knights quickly resolved into a brutal, animalistic chant, little more than barking in time as Elanus pressed down on his sword, forcing Anthony’s blade a little closer to its wielder’s face. Sweat beaded up on their brows as both of Elanus’ arms strained only against Anthony’s left. Elanus frowned lightly at the position of Anthony’s arms.

“You’re not left-handed,” he murmured to Anthony, sotto voce.

“No, I am not,” Anthony whispered back, allowing himself the smallest of smiles. He twisted aside, releasing the hilt of his sword with his left hand as he did. Elanus stumbled forward, catching himself on his forward foot. Anthony spun completely around, snatching his blade from midair with his right hand, and brought the point to bear right at Elanus’ thigh, where the greaves met the codpiece. The platoon laughed uproariously, calling out Anthony’s name with battle-drunk fervor. Anthony winked so that only Elanus could see him and lowered his sword; he scooped up one of the apple halves, biting into it victoriously. Elanus couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Stop by the quartermaster’s office before three bells this afternoon to turn in your old armor and receive your new set, Knight Dominion Anthony Ryles,” Elanus called loudly enough for all to hear, placing special emphasis on Anthony’s new title. Huzzahs continued for several minutes thereafter, despite Elanus’ attempts to officially dismiss them. Eventually, he gave up and held out one hand to his pupil, now his second-in-command. The two grasped hands and embraced, as a father and son might after a long time apart.

“You just had to show off, didn’t you?” Elanus muttered through his grinning teeth.

“If ever there was a time to do it, it was now,” Anthony replied in muted tones. “Besides, after you tried to humiliate me in front of the men, I had to regain my credibility somehow.” It took no small amount of knowledge and effort on Elanus’ part to discern emotion in Anthony’s words. Anthony was typically a taciturn man; he’d been a taciturn boy, for that matter. But knowing Anthony for as long as Elanus had, it was easier for him to read between Anthony’s words. He was annoyed, of course, but there was amusement beneath it, and a sense of gladness that Elanus had used humor to relieve some of the tension.

As Anthony stepped down from the platform and was congratulated and slapped on the shoulder by the various knights standing around, a disheveled young man in the worn armor of a Knight Principality stepped forward; his sandy blonde hair was windblown and covered in a light dusting of actual sand, the fine-grain variety so common in the desert surrounding Jolan. He stepped up to Anthony, standing squarely before him. The cleaner knight stood half of a head taller, scowling down at his fair-haired counterpart. The stare down continued for several seconds before a light breeze tossed some sand in the Anthony’s face, forcing him to blink it out of his eyes.

“I win again,” Cassius crowed triumphantly, thrusting both fists into the air. Anthony sighed in exasperation.

“It was the sand. Some got in my eye….”

“Yes, please. I never get sick of hearing that one.” Anthony rolled his eyes but pulled his dear friend, Cassius Laermus by the shoulders into his side. Cassius laughed at the gesture and elbowed Anthony in the side playfully; Anthony complied, releasing Cassius and the two walked off, heads bent in conversation.

“So, Knight Dominion. I’ll have to start saluting you,” Cassius observed drolly. Anthony gave him a sidelong look.

“You should have saluted me two promotions ago.”

“Yes. I’ll start now.” Anthony exhaled through his nose to express his disapproval and did his best to hide his smile. He was not completely successful; the smile still touched his dark eyes. Cassius considered his oldest friend quietly as they walked. The two became friends when the Divinity Platoon was reassigned from Ravenholdt to Jolan. Cassius’ father was a Knight Virtue stationed with the platoon at the time, and so relocated with his parents. During the trip, the two boys became fast friends, spending many a long wagon ride talking and playing games together. They had even signed into the service of the Sanctified Knights together as soon as they were old enough.

“Do you think I’ll ever be promoted to Second Sphere?” Cassius eventually inquired. Anthony glanced uncomfortably at his friend. “I mean, I’ve been a Knight Principality for two years now. You’ve been promoted twice in that time. I’m sick of being a lowly Third Sphere.” He spat wistfully into the dusty ground to punctuate the sentence.

“You will be promoted soon,” Anthony assured him in a monotone. “I hear we have a shipment of new Knights Angel and Knights Archangel coming in from Aerta soon.” Cassius nodded thrice but said nothing more. The pair wound up at the barracks, and strode in together. Anthony’s things were never unpacked from his footlocker, which made his relocation to the Knight Dominion’s quarters much simpler. He enlisted Cassius’ help to move the monstrous chest; even between the two of them, it was a burden.

In Anthony’s new quarters, a small one-room cabin with two only narrow windows on opposite walls and the door to break up the stretches of sandstone, the two dropped the chest with a grunt at the foot of the comfortable wooden bed Anthony would now be sleeping on. Anthony pulled his dress uniform’s doublet from his chest, sat down heavily on his bed, and began removing the stitches from his Knight Virtue’s patch. Cassius took up residence in the simple beech chair sitting before its matching desk.

A long silence settled over the cabin; the silence was not an uncomfortable one, simply a lack of words, like the white edge of the canvas on the sides of a painting. Nothing is there, but it is of no import. Cassius watched Anthony work for a time, then began polishing his sword out of habit. The two passed the time in silence until the town’s bell struck two bells.

“Maki above!” Anthony cursed, leaping to his feet. “I have to get over to the quartermaster!”

“Get lost easily in your chores, don’t you?” Cassius smiled sardonically.

“Don’t you have watch?” Anthony asked pointedly.

“Oh, by the plague!” Cassius exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He stormed out the cabin door without so much as a farewell, well-worn armor clanking with each panicked stride. Anthony let out a single chuckle and made his way to the large, open building which served as the quartermaster’s office and blacksmith’s shop. Conveniently, the two offices were held by the same man. As Anthony approached, he heard the unmistakable ringing of steel being pounded into shape. At first, the old man did not notice Anthony, absorbed as he was in his work. When he turned to quench the rather large blade he was working on, however, he spotted Anthony out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah, Knight Dominion Ryles,” the kindly old man greeted Anthony warmly, turning to face him and dropping the blade into the water, almost negligently. A cloud of steam rose behind him as he spoke the final consonant in Anthony’s surname.

“Jaswen,” Anthony replied curtly. “I am reporting as ordered to receive my new set of armor.” Jaswen rolled his wide-set green eyes in a gesture of exasperation, but smiled patiently, as a grandfather might with a mischievous grandchild.

“Right then, Anthony, turn in your old armor so that I can inspect it.” He turned away long enough to scoop up a pair of spectacles and a piece of parchment. As he turned back, Anthony was tossing aside his gauntlets and gorget dismissively.

“Be gentle with that! Some poor Knight Virtue is going to get this set that you’re tossing around!” the quartermaster scolded with a wince.

“Sorry, Jaswen, but plate mail can get a little heavy sometimes,” Anthony intoned dully, casting a sidelong look at the aging quartermaster.

“So you think now, but you haven’t seen your new set yet.” Jaswen’s eyes sparkled and his smile turned a particularly sly shade.

“I meant to talk to you about that,” Anthony replied sharply as he continued to shirk his armor. “I have seen the armor before, and it is just too damned thin.”

“What do you mean?” Jaswen leaned forward to look at Anthony over his glasses, furrowing his brow as he did so. The effect of this gesture was to both increase his apparent age and give him the impression of a curious-looking night owl.

“There is no way a piece of steel that thin will stop any blade, even a dull one. A good blow will break me in two, even if it cannot cut deeply,” Anthony declared in annoyance, throwing aside his final piece of armor. His glower intensified as Jaswen laughed heartily.

“Oh, by Maki’s Book, you’re serious,” he realized with a start. Anthony cleared his throat by way of answering, and Jaswen had to follow suit to cease his laughter. “It’s not steel, boy, I thought you knew.”

“Not steel? What else would it be?”

“You don’t know much about the elves, do you, Anthony?” Anthony shook his head negatively. “I’d have figured as much, coming from a farm boy such as yourself. So you’ve never heard of mythral, either?” A befuddled frown flashed across Anthony’s face.

“Isn’t it just elven steel?”

“Comparable, but not exactly,” Jaswen replied as he trotted over to a chest of notable size, carved from cherry wood. “Mythral is actually stronger than steel, meaning you can get the same amount of protection out of a thinner piece of metal. Furthermore, mythral is much lighter, granting you greater mobility in combat.”

“Why wouldn’t everyone use mythral armor, then?”

“Only elves know how to work it,” Jaswen chuckled, throwing the chest open, revealing a suit of armor with a beautiful silvery sheen. “And let me tell you, they make you pay a fair bit of gold for it.” He pulled the suit of armor out from the chest piece by piece with apparently no effort, not even on the rather flimsy looking cuirass. He passed the cuirass off to Anthony, who scowled disapprovingly.

“I can’t wear this!” he protested in alarm. “Feel how light it is, I’ll be crushed the first time I’m struck in combat!”

“Weren’t you listening?” Jaswen sighed wearily. Anthony gave the old man a dubious look in response. “Fine, fine, put the damn stuff on.” Anthony grunted and began placing the armor over his sweat-stained linens, grumbling to himself about how he was sure to be killed wearing the stuff. By the time he looked back up, Jaswen was holding the claymore blade he’d been shaping in two gloved hands, the last two feet glowing red-hot from the forge.

“Hold still,” he suggested calmly. With that, he swung the sword around, attacking from Anthony’s right. With a cry of alarm, Anthony instinctively raised his arm and caught the sword on his vambrace. He threw the sword back away from himself, only so that Jaswen could attempt a downward cut; Anthony turned his body so that the sword skimmed off of his rerebrace, and shoved Jaswen hard with his shoulder. Jaswen coughed and fell back, letting the sword clatter to the ground.

“Are you insane?” Anthony demanded. thoroughly bewildered. “You were trying to kill me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jaswen spat, picking himself off the ground irritably. “You were in no danger! I haven’t put an edge on the sword, first off; and besides, look at your armor!” Anthony did so, and was amazed to find that neither the vambrace on his forearm or the rerebrace on his upper arm were dented at all by Jaswen’s attacks; neither was there any distortion from the heat of the blade.

“But it’s so light,” was all Anthony could manage to say, awed as he was.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Jaswen grumped. Seeing the stupefied look on Anthony’s face, however, melted any resentment that remained in Jaswen; he caught himself laughing despite his best efforts. “No finer armor anywhere.”

“Thank you, Jaswen,” Anthony said finally, obviously still begrudging.

“I don’t suppose you need a new sword? You know that as a Knight Dominion, you’re entitled to one.”

“Jaswen, you know better.”

“Of course, of course,” Jaswen guffawed, showing his rotted teeth. “Well then, I shaln’t keep you from your duties longer. You are supervising your first night watch, I think.” Anthony nodded his affirmation. “Well then, off with you!” Jaswen saluted mockingly, which Anthony returned without amusement.

“Perhaps we could share a drink later,” Anthony remarked with no special intonation. Jaswen knew better than to be offended; this was as close as Anthony came to jest. Jaswen had stopped drinking years before, after his wife had died of consumption.

Anthony returned to his cabin to collect his sword, a special blade that he was allowed to carry, despite the fact that it was not standard issue. The blade was curved very slightly and was a bit longer than a traditional one-handed sword, but was much shorter than a two-handed sword. Most who saw it referred to it as a hand-and-a-half sword, or a bastard sword – a sword that could be used with one hand or two, depending on the amount of leverage needed – but they were also somewhat incorrect. Since it lacked a fuller, the sword was not a true bastard sword; however, the blade was extraordinarily light, even without a fuller, since it was made of folded steel. The blade was only sharp on one side, allowing Anthony to use either lethal or non-lethal force, as he saw fit. A traveling blacksmith had once gifted it to Anthony, in the style of swords from the blacksmith’s homeland. Anthony had never learned the blacksmith’s name or where he had come from.

Anthony secured the sword to his belt and a crossbow with spare bolts to his back, then reached under his mattress and removed a blue silk ribbon. He tied the ribbon around his right hand gingerly and tied it off with a practiced ease. This was a daily ritual for Anthony, before going on duty. He hustled up to the western officers’ tower so that he could take over supervision of the watch for that night. He hustled up the stairs, entering the small circular room at the top just as the bell rang out three times. The two men in the room turned toward Anthony as he entered and saluted.

“You certainly do know how to cut it close,” Knight Virtue Velus intoned dully as he saluted in return. The Knight Power standing near him also saluted, but held his tongue. Anthony found it rather amusing that Velus would scold him, since he had been put on reprimand three times for missing watch; he’d gotten lashes the third time.

“At least I show up on time, Knight Virtue,” Anthony replied coolly, stressing the inferior rank. “How is your back, by the way?” Velus turned slightly red and clicked his heels once.

“If you will pardon me, sir,” he stated, rather than requested. Anthony nodded his assent and allowed Velus to breeze past him. The Knight Power, with whom Anthony was not familiar, chuckled faintly as soon as Velus was out of earshot.

“Thank Maki you seem to have a sense of humor, sir,” he expressed with a glad grin. “Knight Virtue Velus is quite the hardass.”

“Watch your language, Knight Power,” Anthony barked abruptly at him. The Knight Power snapped back to attention just as quickly, alarm overcoming his face. “Who is on watch tonight?”

“Well, sir, we have Knight Principality Laermus and Knight Power Kalen on the western wall, here.” Anthony was pleased to hear that Cassius would be on the western wall, right near the tower; perhaps he’d get a chance to chat with him later that evening. “On the eastern wall, Knights Principality Werth and Shodan are scheduled for the evening. Knight Power Gholam and Knight Virtue Jaerk have the northern wall, and Knight Principality Maeth and Knight Power Leman have the southern wall.”

“At thirty chimes past this hour,” Anthony ordered the young knight (who was still a few years Anthony’s senior), “go to the eastern and southern walls to double-check that everyone is at their posts. I will check the western and northern walls.” The Knight Power saluted his compliance and sat down at the simple round table in the center of the room. Anthony joined him and began writing the watch rosters for the coming week. At thirty chimes, both officers went on their scheduled routes; Knight Power Kalen was not at his post, but showed up quickly when Anthony bellowed across the compound for him, the strain making even his powerful voice rough. Cassius couldn’t help but laugh, even though he shouldn’t.

The two friends spent part of their evening sitting on the eastern rampart of the western wall, looking out across the town of Jolan. Jolan was a fortress town, easily a months’ ride from the empire’s capital city of Aerta. The town had initially sprung up around one of the few oases in the Ratholme Wastes. It was a relatively popular stop on the not-so-popular trade route to Wrelyx, the home country of the beastly rat-folk. Though the two countries were no longer at war, their relationship was anything but amicable. Years ago, the Most Holy Empire of Maki had tried nothing short of genocide when forcing the rat-folk from the Ratholme Wastes (the name had at one time apparently been Rat’s Home); that is not the sort of offense easily forgotten.

“What are you thinking?” Cassius inquired idly, snapping Anthony back from his thoughts.

“This town’s history,” Anthony responded, resting his eyes on the town’s temple. In a town built with utilitarianism in mind, only the temple showed any hint of aesthetic musing on the part of the architect. It was not squat and square like the other buildings, instead featuring three spires arranged asymmetrically with hand-carved murals of stories from the Texts. “At one time, the rat-folk called this very spot home, and we drove them from it.”

“The Wrelyns,” Cassius corrected him softly. Anthony responded to the sentiment with a withering glare, which Cassius returned in kind. “What? That’s what they’re called. Or rather, what they ought to be called.”

“They are large, humanoid rats, Cassius,” Anthony sighed. “Why not call them what they are?” Cassius grunted disapprovingly and glanced behind him, across the wastes.

“We did them plenty of hurt in the old days,” Cassius reminded Anthony, anger rising in his own voice. “No need to be rude now, especially since they’re no longer our enemies.”

“Do not tell me you regret what happened back then,” Anthony drawled, eyeing Cassius askance.

“And what if I do?” Cassius bristled, his tone quivering rebelliously. “Who gave us the right to drive them off of their own land; to give them blankets from our plague clinics? Who decided it was all right for us to kill them, man, woman and child?”

“A dangerous sentiment to express,” Anthony warned him. Cassius snorted.

“Are you going to turn me in, Knight Dominion?” he asked stiffly. Anthony shook his head without taking any time to consider the question.

“Of course not, Cassius. You know better. Just be careful who you let hear you.” Cassius grimaced at him and looked over his shoulder again. His face immediately took on an expression of shock, and he yelped in alarm, swinging his legs over the parapet and dashing to the other side of the wall.

“What is it, Knight Principality?” Anthony barked, suddenly all business. He followed after Cassius,

“Runner, sir, about half a league out to the west,” Cassius replied, indicating the direction with his gaze. Anthony followed his stare and saw a dark form approaching rapidly; it was humanoid, to be sure, but he couldn’t tell if it was elf, human, or otherwise. In all honesty, it was amazing that Cassius had noticed it all without a moon in the sky. Anthony pulled out his crossbow and loaded a single bolt into it, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Cassius, noticing his commander’s actions, followed suit. Anthony lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, following the form with the tip of the quarrel. Minutes passed tensely as the shape crossed the distance in a remarkably short time. Perspiration beaded on Anthony’s forehead as he did his best to hold his crossbow steady. He had never been a great marksman. Cassius, on the other hand, was as still as a stone in an open field; even his breathing was almost imperceptible, as it did not move his crossbow from his target.

“Friend or foe?” Anthony hollered as the figure approached, crossbow still on his shoulder.

“Friend! A messenger from Aerta!” a burly, rasping voice called back; it was so deep it almost sounded like a dwarf, but the figure was clearly tall enough to be human. Anthony lowered his crossbow, but did not remove the quarrel. He did, however, take a moment to tighten the knot on the ribbon, which had grown loose from the sweat. Cassius’ eyes focused momentarily on the ribbon, then returned to the humanoid, now nearly at the gate. Cassius had never asked Anthony about the ribbon, and Anthony had never offered to tell him.

“Open the gates!” Anthony shouted down to the men behind the huge iron doors that protected the town. He went into the tower and climbed down the stairs to the courtyard. It was customary for the ranking officer supervising the watch to greet a messenger. Anthony stepped up to the gates, which were nearly fully open by the time he reached them. His hands tightened on the stock of his weapon as the runner entered, stepping into the torchlight near Anthony.

The man standing before him was abnormally short, though taller than a dwarf, and broader than a man. His face was not as square as a dwarf’s either, but still more angular than a human’s. Perhaps he was a half-dwarf; Anthony found something about the union somewhat unsettling. Still, there was no denying the man’s stamina; it had taken him nearly no time to cover the half-league to the fortress, but from what Anthony could see, he did not appear to be winded at all.

“Message for Knight Throne Qer’olan, sir,” the half-dwarf said with a salute. His voice was somewhat tight, as a man’s might be after a brisk jog. Anthony glanced briefly at the insignia of rank on his shirt collar.

“Thank you, Knight Virtue, I’ll take it to him. Would you care to rest the night here?”

“Thank you, sir, the offer is greatly appreciated.” Anthony took the missive from the man and dismissed him; the half-dwarf promptly found his own way to the barracks as Anthony took the missive to Elanus’ cabin.

Anthony approached Elanus’ door cautiously; Elanus never enjoyed being woken after ten bells. Nonetheless, Anthony rapped three short times on the door. A shuffling noise emerged from within, and Elanus came to the door with a dagger in his hand.

“Easy, sir!” Anthony cried in alarm. “I am no adversary.”

“Enemies don’t knock,” Elanus growled pointedly. “What is it, Knight Virtue?”

“I’m a Knight Dominion now, sir.”

“Nothing is forever, Anthony.” Anthony shifted uncomfortably, but did not allow his unease to show on his face

“A message came from Aerta, sir,” he responded, his voice steady. Elanus scowled and sheathed his dagger, reaching out to take the letter. He flipped the letter over, and for the first time Anthony noted the seal of the Knight Seraph on the back. Elanus quirked an eyebrow at his young protégé; it was not every night that the unit’s commander received a missive directly from the Sanctified Knights’ supreme commander. Elanus beckoned Anthony inside as he withdrew into his cabin, pulling out a letter opener to break the wax seal. Anthony followed him in, shutting the door behind them and waited for Elanus to finish reading.

“Rats and locusts,” Elanus cursed quietly as he folded the letter back up. “I can’t believe this is happening. May Maki’s prophets steel our souls.” Anthony frowned deeply; Elanus was not a man easily shaken.

“Sir?”

“The elves have broken the Thetan Accords. Their troops have moved on the Qwellands. We’re at war, Anthony.”