A Call to War: C03S01

The trip back to the capital was an uneventful eight days. Marcus was near mute, having little to say in the face of such terrible visions that haunted him each night. Thomlin remained quiet as well, only occasionally conversing with his fellow squires. Taemis felt ill due to his injuries, but managed to hold conversation with Kyrl. The veteran, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied with something or another. When they finally reached Eliberin, they were nearly sick of one another’s company.

There was no fanfare when they arrived in the city. Not that there was much to celebrate; the people would never know their dark deeds in the forests of Orelkel. They were solemn as they passed the people, all dressed in finer clothes than Marcus’s father owned. It took nearly no time for them to reach the manor of Jerno. Though it had only been a few weeks since Marcus was last there, it felt as though it happened in another lifetime.

The Court officials of the County greeted the knights and ushered them into the second manor adjacent to Jerno’s. It was the seat of the Order of Elibe, and their barracks when they stayed in the capital. Taemis and Kyrl were greeted by the knights within as they entered. Marcus hear no address to him, but he wouldn’t have responded if he had. His mind was still filled with specters of those dead in that unholy place.

Marcus left the company of the other two when the master of arms showed him his billet. It was a small room, with a bed, bench, desk, and a mast on the floor for the squire to sleep. Marcus and Thomlin stowed their belongings before Marcus climbed into the bed and fell asleep. Hours later, he awake in a cold sweat, the nightmare he’d experienced a vague after image. Thomlin was sleeping on the floor when he came to, murmuring in his sleep. Marcus was a bit jealous, but didn’t hold a grudge against the boy.

He dressed himself in the fine garments that had been hung on his door. One of the perks of being a knight of the Order was the free clothing. After, he stepped into the hall and looked out the nearest window, seeing it was late midday. He pulled his pipe from his belt and packed it with bandle leaves, lighting it with the device from his father. Marcus paced the halls, unsure of what to do while he waited.

A voice calling out distracted him. “Ho, knight. Direct me to your Lord Count.” He turned to face the woman that spoke and took pause. She was a young looking creature, but her pose and manner suggested that she was older even than his father. She wore loose fitting white pants and her shoeless feet were wrapped tightly in leather bindings. Above, she wore only a tabard, giving her only the barest of modesty as it covered the front of her small chest and her back, leaving her sides bare. Her arms were crossed in front of her, impatience written on her youthful face. She wore her hair near white blond hair cropped short like a young boy’s. “Well, knight?” she asked, her voice sweet with a Palaeon accent.

“Certainly, Master Cleric,” Marcus said, feeling his voice tried from disuse. He waved his hand for her to follow, and turned to the walkway that connected the two manors. He was silent as he led her through the estate, turning down corridor after corridor until they reached the door to the Court’s chambers. “Through her, Master Cleric. He may be in session at the moment, but he should be more than happy to delay the proceedings for a member of the Church.”

She nodded slightly before stepping past him. “Wait here, knight. After this meeting, you will treat me to your famous Ruon hospitality.” She pushed opened the door and shut it behind her, leaving Marcus, still smoking, standing at attention in the hall. Members of the Court passed by him, giving him filthy looks before hurrying on to their appointments. For near an hour, he stood there, almost motionless, waiting for the cleric to leave the Jerno’s chambers.

When she exited, the cleric seemed a little more hostile than she had been when she entered. “Glad to see someone in this forsaken kingdom can listen to the clergy,” she said as she spotted Marcus. “Take me to a place where I may be served.”

“Yes, Master Cleric,” Marcus replied. He started to move.

“Knight, why are you so silent? Have you never seen a Cleric of the Brotherhood before?” she asked, following close behind the young noble.

“I have, Master Cleric. It’s only…” his voice grew distant. “You have no need to listen to my problems.”

She stopped, grabbing Marcus’s shoulder. “That’s shit, knight. Firstly, you will address me as Cleric Jolaer. Secondly, the problems of a man with one of my people as a Chronicler are chief amongst my concerns.”

Marcus felt the strength in her grasp and immediately knew that she was a member of the Savage Order. He looked down to her, wondering how a woman as small and frail as her could be in their numbers, but brushed it off. “I’ve just returned from an assignment. It has left me bitter and wistful, Cleric Jolaer.”

“You were among those in Orelkel?” she asked, a glimmer of knowledge in her eyes. “I see.”

“You know of the fate of that town?” Marcus asked surprised.

“Yi,” she replied. “My Hand was sent to deliver purification to that darkened land, as a gesture of good will to your Count. We found our work done for us when we arrived, so I came here to try to persuade your Count to send me troops for the Crusade.”

“A Crusade has been called? Where?”

“Not yet, but one is brewing in Ilopa. I was hoping to secure men for training and deployment the moment it was called, but you apparently have more pressing concerns than the work of the Godking in this land.” She looked forward and urged Marcus to continue.

“You speak of the Asageth, Cleric Jolaer. Another horde has risen in the Southplains.” Marcus cleared his throat and began to walk once more. “We must attend to that matter, lest the Northern Lands be overrun as we may be.”

Jolaer crossed her arms in front of her, a sour expression spreading on her face. “I am aware of the situation, knight.”

“My name is not knight, Cleric Jolaer,” Marcus said, allowing a hint of scorn to enter into his voice. “It’s Sir Marcus Delrinne.”

Jolaer smiled to herself. She seemed to enter into a playful mood. “Such courage, to tell a Cleric of the Brotherhood to address you by name.”

Marcus looked over his shoulder, his eyes appearing dead. “After having performed your duty for you, I would say I’ve earned it.”

“So you have, Mærkos,” she said, smirking.

Marcus grew silent once more, having only been referred to by his name in the old language by one other person. He swallow despite his dry mouth. “So it is true than Baer is still spoken in Palaeon, Cleric Jolaer? Khreios speaks it as well.”

Jolaer struck the back of Marcus’s head. “Do not address the Chronicler!” Marcus didn’t break stride but rubbed absently at the sting on his scalp. “Yi, we speak Baer, and Ruonic and Palaeon and Ilopaen. We actually value scholarly pursuits back home.” She crossed her arms again, seeming to return to her poor mood as they left the manor. “We aren’t the savages that live in this land, Mærkos.”

“Kol vis untira baer ha dras, Kari Jolær,” Marcus said in Baer, shocking Jolaer. “Some of us are educated beyond what you think.” He fell silent once more.

“So it would seem, Mærkos. So it would seem.” Jolaer grew quiet as Marcus navigated the streets. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was taking her, but it didn’t really matter. Nowhere would compare to the foods in which she was accustomed. He decided on the bakery and soup shop he’d eaten at the first time he’d come to Eliberin, and weaved his way through the midday crowd. In minutes, they arrived.

Jolaer took a deep breath of the aromas of the bread and broths. “Seems like a decent enough place.” She moved in front of him and entered the open bakery. She grabbed a loaf of bread and a bowl, dipping it into a bucket of hot beef soup sitting on a counter. She walked past Marcus, leaving as he entered. “Take care of the bill, Mærkos,” she said to him, shortly before she disappeared into the crowd.

Marcus scoffed, then approached the baker. “I’ll pay for the bowl, the soup and the bread she took,” he said, reaching for his coin purse.

The shopkeeper shook his head. “No charge for knights and Clerics, my lord.”

Marcus set two silver pieced on the counter and sighed, disgusted. “Take the damned money.” He turned and left before the shop keeper had time to argue. He walked back to the manor, keeping his eyes low so as to not see the kowtowing the people of the city did for him. He didn’t feel like anything special, and he thought they should not treat him as such.