about
Gothalinzur now.
Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.
“Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter
of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already slightly
unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. “A pity
the tournament is not today.”
The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned. “Today is a
holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but
dwell in peace.”
“Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we must be
vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy
days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out
of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight
of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”
Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the tournament
to prepare for battle?”
“Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand, sir. Indeed,
you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!” He
slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have your pick of the
ladies, I’m sure.”
“Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand will likely
pick his wife,” said Constantine.
Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of
Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix
pick his own wife.”
“Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.
“Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the man who
earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind
made up.”
He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his
gaze.
The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood
upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like
Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had
long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius
Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and
Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His
older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown,
stood near him.
Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as
he spoke.
She resembled both her father and her brothers, with
the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful,
radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at
her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the
urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of
stunning loveliness.
Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body.
She had taken over much of the household management of Castra
Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one
in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and
orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.
She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down.
Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.
“Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder
again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”
Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the
squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a
worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her
other suitors.”
Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by that?”
“It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir,”
said Constantine, and then fell silent.
The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his
followers trailing after.
Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach
for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man
about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly
trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other
knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the
pack.
They stared at each other, waiting for the other to
speak.
“Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.
“Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.
They had never gotten along, from the day both had
arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had
tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son
of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the
Gothalinzur now.
Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.
“Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter
of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already slightly
unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. “A pity
the tournament is not today.”
The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned. “Today is a
holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but
dwell in peace.”
“Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we must be
vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy
days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out
of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight
of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”
Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the tournament
to prepare for battle?”
“Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand, sir. Indeed,
you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!” He
slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have your pick of the
ladies, I’m sure.”
“Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand will likely
pick his wife,” said Constantine.
Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of
Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix
pick his own wife.”
“Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.
“Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the man who
earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind
made up.”
He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his
gaze.
The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood
upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like
Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had
long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius
Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and
Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His
older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown,
stood near him.
Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as
he spoke.
She resembled both her father and her brothers, with
the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful,
radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at
her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the
urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of
stunning loveliness.
Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body.
She had taken over much of the household management of Castra
Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one
in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and
orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.
She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down.
Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.
“Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder
again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”
Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the
squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a
worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her
other suitors.”
Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by that?”
“It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir,”
said Constantine, and then fell silent.
The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his
followers trailing after.
Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach
for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man
about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly
trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other
knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the
pack.
They stared at each other, waiting for the other to
speak.
“Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.
“Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.
They had never gotten along, from the day both had
arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had
tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son
of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the
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