A Call to War: C02S01

Giggling and playful shouting came from the room, as Marcus and his wife probably undressed. They were like children, after all, and it should have been to no one's surprise that they behaved as such when it came time for them to consummate their marriage. The sound of a clay dish in the room falling to the floor, followed by a burst of laughter, was the height of their efforts before the threads of fate interrupted them.

A commotion arose at the front of the manor as the large door was thrown open. A small boy, no more than twelve, rushed in, pursued by two Valiants. “I'm here for Master Marcus!” he shouted as he ran, a gleaming masterwork sword tied to his belt with twine. It had no scabbard, only a slat of wood, carved to cover the edge and point. He ran to the door to Marcus's chamber, the Valiants a hair behind him; and threw himself at it.

It did not budge, but it caused a loud clamor. The Valiants caught the boy before he could attack the door again, but the sounds from the room had changed. Footfalls approach from behind the door. The latch clicked open and the door was thrown wide. Marcus stood, wearing only the tight leggings, the waist tie undone. “What is the meaning...” he fell silent as he noticed the boy.

One of the Valiants, a tall man built for war, spoke, “Many apologies, Lord Heir. This boy assaulted the manor. We shall execute him in the courtyard.” He jerked at the boy's clothes, pulling him back to toward the door to the manor.

“That's quite all right, Krisus. Release my squire. Something must be afoot if he is here.” Marcus looked to the boy as the Valiants released him. The boy ran back to Marcus and grabbed him.

“Thank you, Master Marcus,” he said, his Corhald accent betraying his origin. “I have been running almost non-stop for the past six days. I almost caught up to you before you got here, but I stopped at this river a few days back to get some fish, and one thing led to another and I wound up staying with these nice old folks for dinner and a hot bed-”

Marcus raised his hand, silencing the boy. “I understand, Thomlin. Why have you come here? I told you to wait for me in Elibe. I was to return in another month, and I hired that tutor to teach to literacy.”

“Well, about that, Master Marcus,” Thomlin began, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. “Mister Jerno didn't like me hang about near his palace without you about, so I went to the tavern to work for room and broad, but then Mister Jerno's men came and brought me back after three day and took me to see Mister Jerno, and he asked me if I knew which road led to Delrin, and I said no, but I was always good and proper at looking at those pictures with roads...”

Marcus rubbed his brow, growing impatient with the boy's rambling. “Thomlin, the point?”

Thomlin raised his hands in submission. “Sorry, Master Marcus. Mister Jerno gave me a letter that has orders for you. You were to head there as soon as you read it.”

Marcus looked up to the two Valiants. “You are dismissed, men. Thank you for your help, this night.” They bowed slightly and left. He turned back to the boy, who was breathing heavily and resting his hands on his knees. “Let's have this letter, Thomlin.”

Thomlin reached into the pouch on the side of his belt and pulled out a folder piece of parchment, its corners crumpled from neglect. “Here you are, Master Marcus,” he said, offering the letter to the knight like a trophy. Marcus took the letter and opened it, reading the contents quickly.

He lowered his arm to the side, cursing under his breath. His other hand landed on Thomlin's head and tussled the boy's hair, saying, “That's a good boy, Thomlin.” He stepped back into his room, looking over his shoulder to the boy still. “I'll be a moment. Wait there.” He went to his travel bag and pulled out leather pants with iron plates affixed and a iron molded breastplate. He left them on the bench next to his door as he went about collecting his tunic, belt, and boots.

He stopped at the bed, and knelt before Elsbet, who sat wearing a short undress and nothing else. “I have duties to attend to, my lady. Please forgive my absence.”

Elsbet grabbed the sides of his head and touched her brow to his. “Don't you dare die before you return, Marcus.” She gave him a lingering kiss before releasing him. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Not a thing in all the Seven Worlds could keep me from you, my Eternal.” He rose and walked back to the door, dressing with haste. Elsbet laid back on the bed, smiling, though seeming wistful.

He donned his armor and his boots, reaching into his bag for the braces for his forearms and his small helm. While he had not real experience as a full knight, he certainly looked the part, down to the vacant look of his eyes. He held his helm in one hand and stretched his other to Thomlin. “The sword?” he asked.

“Yes, Master Marcus,” he said as he untied the twine. “It's just like to asked the smith in Elibe. I checked in on it every day until he got it done. He didn't name it, though. He said that with as specific a request as yours, you should be the one to give her a name, so he did.” Thomlin help up the sword as he had the letter.

Marcus examined the blade, popping it from the wooden guard. “It is a fine work. My boon was well spent, I see. If he want me to name her, I'll call her Glory.” He slid it back into the guard and hung it from his belt. “Time to address father with this.” He stepped past Thomlin, giving Elsbet one last look before closing the door.

He stepped across the dark hall, the oil in half the lamps having burned out. Knocking on his parent's chamber door, he stood in anticipation. This would be a bad mission, no matter how he looked at it. Breaking the news to Athos's would be part of the reason for it. His mind being occupied by thoughts of returning to his wife, most of the rest.

After what seemed to Marcus an eternity, the door opened. Athos stood, nude, save a swatch of fabric wrapped at his waist, and weary. Marcus held out the letter for him, the elder noble reaching for the oil lamp next to him. He read it in a hurry, reaching the end just as Marcus reached for it.

“Will you need tolces?” Athos asked his son.

“Only two. Thomlin and Khreios can share,” Marcus replied.

“I'll look after Elsbet for you, son. Take care.” He looked into Marcus's eyes. “Orelkel is not a pleasant place.”

Marcus turned to leave. “I shall endeavor to return within two weeks, father. Bid mother health for me.” He hurried down the hall, followed by his young squire. He burst through the door and bounded down the steps, Thomlin matching his determination with energy.

“Who was the tilly in your room, Master Marcus?” the child asked.

Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked to the boy. “That 'tilly' is my wife, the Lady Elsbet. If I hear you utter that word again, you will receive ten lashes, Thomlin.”

Thomlin ran in front of Marcus. He dropped to his knees in penance, saying, “Please forgive me, Master Marcus. I've only never seen a woman as beautiful as her before.”

Marcus bent over and patted the boy's head. “You are forgiven, this time, squire. But pains will be taken to cleanse your tongue of such language. After all, you will be a noble once you are knighted, and we do not speak in such a base manner.”

Thomlin rose, sullen. “Yes, Master Marcus,” he said.

Marcus began moving again, slower this time as he approached the stables. He knew there was no lock, as there hadn't been a theft of a tolce since his grandfather's time. He slid open the door, barely feeling the weight of his armor against him. He was set on reaching the meeting place before the next nightfall.

Inside, the tolces where startled by the sudden sound, braying and whinnying at the sight of Marcus. He already saw his mount, a white tolce he's ridden in his youth. It was now fully matured and powerful stallion. The one he chose for Thomlin was a gray mare, a few years younger than his. The claws of the beasts clicked on the floor as they were saddled. Marcus, with a deft jump, climbed his. Thomlin took a few moments to mount the gray one.

They set off into the night, taking the bridge out of town. It was half a day's ride to the crossroads where they turned to Kellerin. The sun began to descend by the time they reached the place where the other knights would arrive after the last rays of light had vanished. Marcus had Thomlin prepare a fire with he went hunting. The sun was half set when he returned, dragging a boar.

“Why are we waiting for them, Master Marcus?” Thomlin asked as the boar roasted on the large flames of the fire. “We could get to where we are going before they even show up, couldn't we?”

Marcus nodded, drinking from the skin he'd filled at the spring nearby. “Aye, we could. But I'm the junior knight in this group.” He grabbed a leg of the boar and turned it in the pit. “Even if we could accomplish the goal of this assignment, we weren't trusted with it. And we are going to Orelkel. Lord Count Jerno only sends four or more knights there at once.”

“Why is that?” Thomlin asked in earnest.

“Lord Mayor Paeth Orelkel is a mythier, Thomlin”

“What's that-” Thomlin started, but was interrupted by Marcus's hand covering his mouth.

“They approach,” the knight said as the thundering of tolces rang out. “We will sit in silence until they are here, Thomlin.” The pair quieted as the sounds of men drew closer. Nothing lasted longer to either of them as that waiting.

By the time he caught sight of the four men and eight boys approaching, Marcus had removed the boar from the fire and hung it from a tree. He was the last to join up with them, it seemed, so no waiting past the night's rest would be needed. He stood near the road as the lead knight came into focus.

He was an old knight, the same age as Athos, wearing a finely crafted suit of plate. He had no sword, only a lance tied to his saddle under his leg and a halberd strung over his shoulder. His look was that of a man that had seen much, but remained at peace with his life.

He waved to Marcus. “Are you Sir Marcus Delrinne?”

“Aye, Lord Knight. I've come at the word of our Lord Count,” he said, measure his voice as a sign of respect. The other joined the lead knight near Marcus as their squire dismounted and tied their tolces to the trees. They returned moments later, as all the knights were sizing up Marcus. “Many pleasant greeting to all of you, from the Lord Mayor of Delrin.”

“Cut the formalities, boy.” The old knight swung down from his saddle followed by the others. “We're brothers in the Order of Elibe, same as you. I'm Sir Taemis Taemilsen.” He pointed to another, a grizzled veteran of warfare horrors. “That is Sir Kyrl Visinne.” He pointed to the others. “Those are Sir Geoffrey Kabisen and his brother, Sir Unger. You will address them as Sir Kyrl, Sir Geoff, and Sir Unger, and they will address you as Sir Marcus. Understood?”

“Yes, Lord Knight Taemis.”

Kyrl handed his reigns to his squire, a lanky boy around sixteen. “At least that worthless scum that rained you taught you manners, Sir Marcus.” He walked to the fire and thrust his hands at it, gathering warmth.

Taemis raised his voice at Kyrl. “Do not speak ill of our brothers in the Order, Kyrl!” Scorn filled his face, not because of the target of Kyrl's insult, but the idea that he would insult another knight.

“Apologies, Sir Taemis,” Kyrl muttered, raising one hand over his head and waving it.

The squires gathered wood for a second fire for themselves, and the rest of the knights, Marcus included sat next to his. Thomlin stood behind Marcus, looking at the hardened men that gathered.

Unger, a rotund man with darken skin from the sun, looked to Marcus and his squire. “Send that away, Sir Marcus. This is for the nobles, not peasants.” Marcus looked over his shoulder and nodded to Thomlin. The boy was reluctant to leave, but did as his master suggested, heading to the smaller fire with the other squires. Unger watched, smiling. “That boy will need to be taught his place. Since you're little more than a commoner yourself, I offer to do it in your stead,” he said with a jovial laugh.

“Touch him, and you will not survive the night, Sir Unger,” Marcus replied, no humor on his face. It was a look that Taemis had seen before on the faces of young and idealistic men. This was the first time, though, that he felt the look belonged.

“Calm yourself, boy,” Taemis said before turning to Unger. “And if you dare to question our brother's ability to train his squire again, Sir Unger, I will put you to the blade.” He looked back to Marcus. “Have you prepared food for us, boy?”

Marcus nodded and gestured to the boar in the tree. He tried to contain his anger at Unger's insult but knew that one day, perhaps soon, they would fight. Unger was the kind of man, after all, that cared little for the quality of a noble, but the titles he was born to.

Geoffrey, a delicate looking man half the size of his brother, spoke up. “Forgive brother Unger, Sir Marcus. He is a boorish man, as his wife will attest.” His voice was soft and persuasive, like a born member of a higher court.

Kyrl spoke up, as he stood to get the boar. “Speaking of wives, I have heard that you a newly married, Sir Marcus. To the fifth daughter of our Baron.” Taemis, Unger, and Geoffrey looked to their junior, somewhat surprised.

“Aye, Sir Kyrl. Lady Elsbet is my wife.” Marcus kept his eyes from anyone's face, feeling that he was beneath looking these men in the eyes.

“By Baerdras, that's a load!” Unger cried, laughing once more. “I've seen that tart before. Hell of a woman. What's a tilly like that doing with a poor piece of country crap like you?”

Marcus stood, locking eyes with Unger. The cheer drained from Unger's face as a glob of spit landed in his eye. Rage poured from his body as he stood.

“You worthless, godless, son of whore mongering filth-” he started to yell, but he was silenced by a fist striking his cheek and sending him to the ground. Taemis grabbed Marcus's arm and wrenched it down.

“What do you think you are doing to our brother, Sir Marcus?” he snarled, as Unger staggered back to his feet.

“That brute is no brother of mine, Sir Taemis,” Marcus said. “He may be in the Order of Elibe, and he may be of the gentry, but he is in no way a noble.”

Kyrl let out a hearty laugh as Taemis climbed to his feet. He stood over the tall Marcus, nearly matching Kastan's height. “Sit, Sir Marcus,” he said, looking the younger man in the eye. “You've earned a spot at our fire.” He let go of Marcus's arm and watched him sit, his back to Unger.

Unger still fumed from the disgrace of being struck by a lower nobleman. He began to draw his sword to issue challenge to Marcus, but Taemis grabbed him by the breastplate. “What do you think you are doing, Unger?” He lifted the man onto his toes, bringing him near Taemis's height.

“That trash insulted me, Taemis! I intend to settle this!” Unger protested. Geoffrey places his hand on his brow at his brother's stupidity.

Taemis punched him, sending him to the ground once more. “You are not worthy of sitting with the nobles, you diseased swine!” He kicked at the fat man's unprotected stomach, knocking the air from him at both ends. “You are not a noble, and you will be cast fro the Order when our business is finished!” He reached down and grabbed Unger's greasy brown hair and pulled him back to his feet. “Now sit with the squires in silence. If I hear so much as an utterance of your voice without you being addressed,” he threatened quietly, “I will hang you from the nearest tree to rot like a common thief.” He flung his hand toward the squire's, who were all watching intently. “And you will eat after they've their fill.”

Kyrl was still laughing, having carried the boar back to the fire and sat. He began to cut chunks of meat from it, tossing each to Taemis, then Marcus, and Geoffrey. He took the last for himself before setting the boar to the side. Producing a skin of strong sulth from his hip, he tore into the meat with his teeth.

Geoffrey ate in a more civilized fashion, cutting the meat into chunks with his hunting knife and putting each into his mouth with the point of the knife. He seemed an oddly cautious man to have such a dullard as a brother, but odder families existed in Ruon. Geoffrey nor Kyrl looked to the squires as they ate.

Taemis kept his eyes on Marcus. He was impressed with the young knight, that much was certain, but other than that, he showed nothing. As he watched Marcus pick at his meat, he slowly drew his knife and tossed it to his junior. “Sir Marcus. A gift.”

Marcus looked up and reactively caught the handle of the knife. It was a lighter metal than iron, and it reflected the light of the fire perfectly. “Thank you, Sir Taemis,” he said as he looked at it in wonder.

“Think nothing of it, Sir Marcus. It was a gift from Marcus the Savage to my father, Taemil. Malcolm Aetherheln's personal hunting knife.”

Marcus's eyes grew in awe. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Taemis said, taking another knife from his belt. “I've felt that I've only been holding it to return it to its true owner. A descendant of Malcolm.” Geoffrey nearly choked on his last morsel of boar flesh, and Kyrl spit the sulth in his mouth into the fire.

“This boy is of Aetherheln?” Kyrl asked, dumbfounded.

“Sir Marcus is descended from the Lord Prince, yes. Like his grandfather and his father.”

Marcus tore a small chunk of the flesh fro his piece. “Did you know my grandfather?” he asked.

Taemis thought a moment of how to best respond. “I met him, once,” he said. “He paid homage to my father on Taemil's deathbed. Never before had I seen a more noble man.” He cut slice of the boar and held it up. “Never since, either. Until now.”

“You give me great honor, Sir Taemis.”

“Honor nothing, Sir Marcus.” He tossed the slice into his mouth and chewed for a moment before swallowing. “You've married far above your family's station, been made a full knight at seventeen, posses the blood of one of the oldest, if most tainted, families in Ruon, have a Chronicler, and have impressed your future greatness on me.” He carved another strip from the meat in his lap. “The honor was yours to begin with.”

Marcus sat for a moment before tucking the knife into his belt and pulling his original one out. It was no historic affair, unlike the other, but it would be more suited for eating. He cut his meat and ate, Kyrl cracking jokes until the moon had risen. They spoke of their mission, to ascertain the fate of the two tax men Lord Count Jerno had sent to the Lord Mayor of Orelkel, Paeth.

They discussed their families, laughing at Marcus's explanation that the mission interrupted his first night with Elsbet. Before they turned in for the night, Marcus well and truly felt as a member of the Order of Elibe. Not as their junior, but as their brother. His stories of his brothers and home seemed to endear him to them. Taemis, especially, was taken with the young man.

The night wound down to only Marcus and Taemis, Kyrl and Geoffrey having fallen asleep next to the fire. The squires had eaten their fills, save Thomlin would had deigned to share his scraps with Unger. Unger had taken them, grumbling a thanks, before falling to sleep, drunk from sulth. The rest at the squires' fire had fallen to sleep as well.

Marcus pulled the knife out once more, looking at it with intense scrutiny, attempting to discern the nature of the grandfather he had never met. Taemis watched, sipping on the King's Blood he carried in a bottle tied to his belt. The young man captured his attention fully, causing a feeling of kinship and unease.

“Sir Marcus,” he said, his voice quiet. “Have you training in your heritage?” Marcus looked to him, blankly, and Taemis could tell that he could not understand. He raised his hand to the fire and slowly breathed out. The flames grew stronger and hotter in an instant, rising to nearly the treetops before falling back to embers.

“What was that?” Marcus asked. He'd fallen back from his seat to not be singed from the flames.

“That is what we are going to inquire. I am a mythier, Marcus. As is Paeth and it looks as though you are one as well.” He reached up and pulled back on his cowl, revealing the raven chair beneath it. It was a stark difference next to his pale skin. “Pale skin and black hair. These are the traits of those born to mythis. That is one of the reasons a baron of Malcolm's stature was invited to fill the vacancy of the Prince of Nols.”

“I've never seen anything like that,” Marcus said, still in disbelief from the feat. “You grew the flames?”

“No. I fed them mythis. I've never been any good at the art.”

“I've never seen the arts performed in person, Sir Taemis. Only ensorceled items,” the young man said.

Taemis nodded before laying back. “A shame. It would have been useful should Paeth have lost his mind. Sleep now, my brother. We leave at dawn for the den of a mythier. You will need your wit and your steel in the worse event.”

The older knight closed his eyes and seemed to drift peacefully to sleep. Marcus still sat, amazing. Deciding to try it himself, he raised a hand to the fire and concentrated on the flame. Nothing happened. He raised the other and exhaled slowly, seeing white strings flowing from his hand. The embers produced flames the same height as he. He fell back, exhausted from his long days. A smile crossed his face as his eyes closed and he fell asleep.