part0007

I trotted my faithful steed along the forest trail, my eighty-six year old body weighed on my twenty-two year old brain. The familiar aches and pains were settling in for the ride as Krag's lopsided gait sent jarring pulses into my thighs and straight up my spine. My armor shuttered and clattered with every hoof beat. Krag was bred for the thunderous charge of a proper warhorse, not a leisurely, ambling stroll through the woods. I would never admit it to her face, but the gentle gait of Miranda's sweet-tempered palfrey was much more suited to traveling long distances in the saddle. The wussy little nag.

My butt readjusted to the familiar curves and hollows of the saddle, and my armor nestled into old dents in the padding, but my back remained slouched. It was an effort to straighten myself, not from any aches—though my body had those aplenty—but from old habits. Kelsa sat in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. I had often nagged the girl about her posture, but the great Sir Corbin? The Hero of Jerkum Pass always perched in his saddle like he had a spear shoved up his backside, and with agonizing creaks and pops I made it so.

As I adjusted my posture, my thoughts also ventured down well-worn grooves. Procrastination is the only enemy I never defeated. I gave the speech to poor Kelsa to 'proofread' when we both knew I meant 'finish it.' Sometimes, that girl knows me better than I know myself.

A branch dipped across the path and I absently smacked it with my gauntlet before it could smack me. I laughed as the branch stubbornly whipped back into place behind me. Alas, not all looming obstacles are so easily brushed aside.

I reviewed the speech in my mind: rough, short, and riding off a cliff. Maybe seeing my old companions would inspire me. Maybe after I bought the first round of ale, I could persuade some half-drunk comrade to help me finish writing it.

Now that's thinking like Corbin Destrus. I twisted my fresh-cut pennon in its holster beneath the saddle and angled the helmet, laughing as my steel face smashed through the trees. Birds scattered in all directions, screeching and flapping. Fly, my tiny, feathered heralds. Fly! Tell the world Sir Corbin Destrus rides again.

Krag and I emerged from the forest path into a wide, sunny field. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass as I spurred him to a canter. The horse's rough gait transformed into a rolling, undulating motion and his hooves tore the sod as we sped through the field. I ignored my creaking knees as I posted in the saddle, matching the rhythm of Krag's back rising and falling. What a day to be alive. With the wind blowing through my hair, I felt like I would reach the capital in no time at all.

I gently tugged the reins as we reached the end of the field and the shade of the trees as the path continued back into the forest. Krag snorted, turning around for another run. I laughed as I bent forward and patted the old boy's neck. “Not today.”

Krag pawed the grass. The charger resisted as I pulled the reins toward the dark forest, side-stepping back toward the sunshine.

“It's a long way to the capital.” I sighed. “If we canter back and forth across every field we find, we're never going to reach it. Come on. I'll feed you a nice warm oat mash tonight when we find an inn. If we find an inn. We need to find the Northern Road first, eh?”

Krag's nostrils widened, but he responded to my light touch on the reins leading him back to the path. I ducked beneath the brambles and low branches on the edge of the field and was back in the woods again.

I reached the crossroads to the Northern Road as the sun reached its zenith. Krag's steel shod hooves clopped on the smooth, dark pavement. I nodded with satisfaction as a large cart pulled by a team of two oxen rumbled past, creaking under the weight of assorted pots, boxes, and trinkets.

Several red and black painted warriors marched alongside the cart, their dusky arms bare, vests open to expose the tribal tattoos splayed across their chests. They were a head shorter than the young men of the village and had long, dark blonde hair tied back with strips of leather where most of the villagers had short-cropped black or brown hair. I glanced at their chests and arms as something nagged the back of my mind. It was the body hair, I realized, or the lack of body hair. The skin on their arms was as bare and sparse as a woman's.

I raised my arm and glanced at my own hairy wrist. I stared between the bristles as the warriors swung their arms to the rhythm of the march, thick, ropy muscles rippling beneath their skin. I had heard countless stories of their prowess in battle of course, and even used their wares, but I had never seen one in person. The elder never let the merchant caravans anywhere near the village. I coughed and tried to avert my eyes. Proper soldiers did not go about admiring the graceful details of other men's arms, just their armor.

I didn't know where to look. The barbs had no armor, but the designs of those tattoos were achingly beautiful and—I grunted and made myself focus on the large cart behind the warriors. The craft was as different from my daughter's tiny one horse cart as lizards from dragons. I dipped the helmet on the end of my lance, saluting the painted barbarian driving the thing and his fellows. The man responded with a curt nod and continued traveling south. The warriors all ignored me.

I harrumphed, but recovered when I espied a flash of red cloth in a small cart over the next hill heading toward me in the opposite direction to the north. Those would be priests, hoping to convert the barbarian heathens in their own lands. I glanced at the sign post with the weathered words 'Sylvana' pointing back toward the village and peered after the barbarian drover as my heart swelled with imperial pride. Would a deer path in the Northern Territories boast of such a sign for a mere village or know the use of it?

Never forget that they are a great people despite their odd beliefs, I chided myself. Why can't the warriors be literate as well as formidable? The shamans are certainly literate. Not that they would ever travel south in peacetime. Surely, there are as many books in the merchant's cart as there are in the priests' cart?

I turned from one cart to the next as they passed each other on the road. Both groups pushed literacy for different reasons: the one to serve needy markets and the other to serve needy souls. May the five gods forgive me, I tended to favor the barbarian motives. One can only read Blessings of the Five so many times.

I saluted the priests. They hailed from some provincial temple by the rough cut of their robes and simple design of their cart, but I still dipped my helmet near to the ground. They ignored me, too. The ignominy of it. Does nobody recognize the Hero of Jerkum Pass? I chucked the pennon and helmet into the woods from whence I came. It was a stupid custom.

None of this was getting old Corbin any closer to the capital and proper, civilized folk. I lightly touched Krag's withers with my heels, and we followed the merchants south. The jewel of the empire lay waiting for me. There were friends waiting, too, of course. The necklace jangled against my cuirass like a tiny bell, a reminder of a past I could not quite remember.

Ah Corbin, you're getting senile in your old age. The bright sunshine soaked up all worries. I closed my eyes as the ring kept rattling, pulling the reins as Krag approached the end of the field and the next stretch of woods. The tiny bell eased and then silenced. There's another story here , I thought, smiling, and I can't wait to hear it. One of my friends waiting for me in the capital will remember the story of the ring, but I must be subtle.

Can't have the scuttlebutt going around that old Corbin was losing his mind. “Names and faces,” I muttered, massaging my brain with metal fingers as I tried to recall the details of the letters I had read last night, trying to match each letter to an image in my mind. Most of those names had visited our house at one point or another. “I may have forgotten a few of the old stories, but I will never dishonor their names nor forget their faces.” But despite the mantra, I could not escape the feeling more and more of my memories were slipping into an abyss. I attempted to marshal my thoughts.

Wasn't there something else I was meant to do in the capital? Money. My penniless son-in-law is worried about money again. Heroes don't worry about money. They just save damsels in distress and hang the expense. Now why does Miranda's sweet face come to mind when I think that? Ah, the coming mage pogrom. I will die before I let those bastards lay a finger on my little girl. We just need more money to escape this blasted country. By the gods, I'm turning into my son-in-law.

I tried to scrimp when I found an inn outside a small town for the night. Saddlebags slung over one shoulder, I nodded to the short man behind the counter in the homespun apron and examined the premises. The innkeeper appeared to keep the building trim and clean. Unlike so many roadside establishments, the plaster on these walls had a fresh coat of lime, the wooden floorboards had been recently swept, and sprigs of dried herbs hung from the rafters, giving the place a pleasant aroma of thyme and rosemary .

I sniffed the air and smiled. Then I coughed and made my face smooth. Surely, a doughty old soldier would not derive pleasure from a room scented with anything but beer and beef? I smacked one of the dried bouquets aside and approached the counter.

The man startled, then gave my face a second, discerning glance as I stepped into the lamp light.

“The Hero of Jerkum Pass at my little inn,” the little man bubbled. “Welcome, sir. A thousand welcomes! Will you be staying long?”

At last! A proper hero's welcome. “Only one night, my good man.” I set my saddlebags down and slid a handful of coppers across the polished, wooden counter.

A warm, metal color gleaming in the wood gave me pause. A large brass edifice sat on one end of the counter with its odd-shaped singular backwards spiraling dial pointing up. I leaned forward to examine my reflection in the mirror surface as the innkeeper pocketed most of my coins and slid two back across the counter.

“Will you be wanting fresh fodder for your horse this evening, sir?” the man asked, his fingers still on the coins.

I nodded. The man slid the coins into his hand with a happy little sigh.

The ring clanged against my curiass and the brass box hummed at me and the dial dropped. A magic detector, then, which I had assumed presented no danger of detecting me. Miranda had explained that the machines responded best and absorbed fresh cast, direct attack spells. Passive magic wrapped in a talisman in close contact with the spell's recipient should not trigger much of an effect.

Still, the stupid thing hummed. Did the innkeeper look nervous? I rapped my knuckles on the brass and moved the dial to its original position. “Old model here,” I said. “Seems in want of some repair.”

“They're heavy to move, sir, and repair costs dear.”

An old story flashed through my mind. In the days of my youth, I had strapped one of these infernal contraptions to my back once. Then I lugged the thing into battle and saved the day. I reached over and patted the brass edifice, keeping the ring at a distance. “Heavy indeed. I know from personal experience.”

The innkeeper nodded and turned to select a key off the rack behind the counter. He offered it to me.

“No need to ready a room.” I waved him away and flashed a smile that was unfortunately more gums than teeth. “I'll bunk down with my horse. Done it often enough on past campaigns.”

“Past campaigns, sir?” He placed a disturbing emphasis on the word 'past.' The little man dusted the wood with the corner of his apron as his eyes flickered past my tin dress armor and ornate cape. I could see the obvious thoughts marching through his skull. I was dressed more for a ball than a battle. “Surely, you cannot expect us to house a gentlemen of your mature years and advanced . . .”

Just what is he implying? I propped my elbows on the counter and glared at the innkeeper. It was the dark, cloudy expression I borrowed from my son-in-law. The skinny, little miser always looked like a storm was about to break across his face when he caught someone in the family daring to spend coins instead of earning them. I had certainly seen that glare often enough to mimic it: those hooded eyes, that angry, slanted brow, and a forehead you could use as a washboard .

“ . . . stature,” the man coughed, “with the horses? The Hero of Jerkum Pass cannot sleep in a barn.”

The innkeeper turned and clapped his hands. “Marie! The finest silken sheets for our guest. And a bath. Don't spare the aromatic salts. And heat up the finest sweet porridge . . .” His voice dropped off when he turned back and saw my face glowering a flyspeck away from his sweaty brow.

“Porridge?” I drummed my fingers on the counter. “Do you serve such filth to every soldier of the empire who walks through your doors? Or just the heroes?”

“Marie,” the man squealed. “Only the finest cuts of the pork haunch roasting on the spit for our illustrious guest.”

I nodded and turned towards the door. My hand froze in the act of gathering my kit when I heard the man whispering.

“Well-roasted and tender, mind you. Be sure to trim the blackened, gristly bits. And maybe some soft peas and mashed potatoes on the side?” As I whipped around, the innkeeper smiled. “We shall prepare a feast fit for a . . . hero. Now, if you head up the stairs to your room, sir, I believe Marie has drawn you a nice, hot bath.”

The bath in the large copper tub was relaxing. After locking the door, more to hide my unrestrained squeals of delight than my naked body, I slipped a few more handfuls of salts and suds into the water than was properly masculine. I soaked in the privacy of my room and let the mask slip. Everything below my neckline vanished under the bubbles, senses smothered by the warm, tingling embrace of the hot water. I wiggled my hairy toes, which poked above the surface.

The dinner was tasty. I insisted on a hard crust of bread to sop the juices from the meat. My teeth may be missing, but my pride was intact. Time was a soldier of the empire could doss in a barn with his steed for two coppers and no questions asked. Fame is an awful burden to bear. The inn laid out its finest spread for the Hero of Jerkum pass.

That night, rummaging through my saddlebags in the privacy of my room, I found three items buried deep inside them: a large mug, a tiny bag of salt, and a set of false teeth. I tilted the room's small lamp to better examine the silver and ivory teeth. Hadn't seen these in awhile. Only wore them for special occasions. I ran my tongue across my naked gums. Guess this qualifies. I remembered the nightly routine from nights gone by, filling the large mug with warm, salty water. I submerged the teeth for the evening and went to sleep.

The next morning, the innkeeper and his assistant were met with a blinding smile of sterling and ivory. They knew better than to offer me porridge again! However, the toasted crust of bread and dried fruit made for a very welcome breakfast. Then they presented me with the hero's bill.

I staggered out the door with a woefully half-empty purse. Maybe I should have swallowed my pride . . . and the porridge.

Another day in the saddle did not help the pork from last night settle in my stomach, but the rest of the journey passed without incident. When inns were available, I asserted my hero's prerogative. When they were not, old barns and bushes were enough for an old soldier, lulled to sleep by the buzz of insects and hooting of the owls.

The weather was clement enough, but still, the capital was a happy sight the afternoon of the sixth day and I nearly cheered as I saw the tips of the spires over the hills. Realizing such reserved ways hardly befitted a true hero, I let out a loud whoop, startling one of the passing cart drovers.

I touched Krag's withers and trotted into the warm bosom of civilization. No more nights in the bushes for me!

Even from the outside, the city was a grand sight. Glass and steel spires commingled alongside ancient stone walls. The capital is both an ever-changing testament to mechanized progress and a timeless artifact of the empire's history. The iron gates opened wide to welcome all visitors and as I slowed Krag to a walk and rode through, saluting the guards as I compared their armor to mine, feeling fake wrapped in my tin plates.

The guards were wearing proper cavalry armor. I had a suit of it packed away somewhere, didn't I? I smiled as an old memory surfaced. Of course, there was the time I caught Kelsa playing with it.

I had hid and watched, only revealing myself after she had strewn my armor across the room. She tossed the leathers and padding aside and went straight for the armor. The helmet covered her head and wobbled on her shoulders, her cries muffled by the padding inside it. She chucked the helmet. The greaves, which were only supposed to extend just past the knees, swallowed her legs whole. She braced herself against the wall, walking with a stiff-legged gait before she screamed and kicked them off. The breast plate was next. The riveted leather and steel plate cuirass—wonderfully light to an adult—drove the poor little girl to her knees.

One of the soldiers whipped off a classic barracks salute, breaking my reverie. The other one flubbed it miserably, and I clucked and shook my finger at him. “In my day, we knew how to salute, by the five gods. As I am still here, it is still my day. Take example from your friend here, son.” I glanced at his uniform, looking for some redeeming qualities. His red surcoat was fresh pressed and the chain mail underneath had not a speck of rust. “Your salute is awful, but your uniform is quite acceptable.”

“Welcome back, Sir Corbin,” the guard with the crisp salute said while his partner reddened and stared straight ahead. “Here to attend the annual meeting and awards ceremony?”

“Well, somebody's got to consume all that alcohol and force down all that rich food. Would that I had another reason for visiting, son, but yes. Duty calls.” I cupped a hand to my ear. “Can you hear her ringing?”

“ . . . like a dinner bell, sir," the guard replied, waving me forward. “Enjoy your stay in the capital.”

I turned to bow in my seat to the flag draped on the distant castle walls, noticing for the first time the black pennon overlaying the imperial crest. “Who has died?” I asked the guard quietly.

“Have you not heard, Sir Corbin?” the guard replied. “The emperor was struck down by a mysterious illness. They say it was the final blow from those cowardly rebel mages. Those stinking traitors don't know when they've been thrashed.”

“And who rules in his stead?”

“Empress Cordelia I. Long may she reign.” He raised his fist in the air. “Death to the mages!”

“Such horrible news,” I murmured. “May our new empress find the strength to close the affair quickly and justly.” I nodded to the guards before riding past the gates and proceeding to the outer city while my eyes remained fixed on the castle dominating the inner city .

The inner city is a fortress on a hill in the northwest corner of a valley: a walled town complete with an imposing castle that serves as the emperor's . . . empresses's mansion, a large temple that retains its original use, and old houses long since converted to bureaucratic offices and little shops. The streets are too narrow for modern machines and the roads tend to meander, so the only vehicle allowed is the empresses's palanquin.

Walking through the old town evokes visiting a museum more than anything else and the bureaucrats often dress the part, wearing rich brocades and ruffled sleeves that harken to a distant past, often taking time from their busy days to act as guides for bewildered tourists. The quaint stone and wattle charm of the inner city is maintained by the will of the emperor . . . empress and the historical preservation society.

Over the years, the inner city had been swallowed by the more modern, steam-powered capital thrusting an ordered array of towering buildings all around it. While the quaint walled town remained the off center epicenter of imperial government, a new city spread to fill the rest of the valley. If the inner city was dedicated to showcasing our past, the outer city flaunted the empire's role in building the future. Where the inner city retained the coarse, blunt lines of the corrupt monarchy from whom the empire appropriated it, the outer city displayed the expansive steel and glass grace that is the modern stamp of the Iron Empire.

I leaned back in my saddle and breathed the sweet, acrid fumes. I could feel the vibrations in the air. Hear the clanging from the great factories. All that time spent languishing in the village. So refreshing to finally return to the steel bosom of civilization. I steered Krag towards the Army Headquarters on the outskirts of the old city with a glad heart.

A private greeted me at the door. “The meeting was moved to the conference center on Piston Avenue, Lieutenant Corbin. Did you forget the change of venue, sir?”

Kelsa's tiny voice surged to the surface. Did I miss one of the letters on his desk? Curse the gods' blind eyes.

I pushed the girl back down to the bottom of my mind, tucked her into bed, and slammed the door shut. “Forget? Of course not.” I patted the walls and chuckled a little too forcefully. “Just wanted to make sure the old walls were still standing without you fellows propping them up.”

“They will stand as long as the empire. May the empire stand forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever, son. The monarchy faded. Someday we will, too.”

“Don't let the bureaucrats hear you say that, sir. If the empire falls, they'll all need to get real jobs.”

We shared a quiet chuckle while I gestured to the dual city surrounding us. “The way of the world. Stone gave rise to steel. Someday, the steel will rust away and get replaced by something else. Everything fades,” I sighed. “Even an old man's memories. Thank you for the reminder, Private . . . ”

“Corvid, sir,” the young man said, wincing. “Private Corvid.”

Strange name. I glanced at the soldier again. Something about his appearance reminded me of a story about the ancient great war with our neighbors to the north. That dark hair is normal enough in the heart of the empire, but his skin has a well-tanned sheen. What if that's a natural dusky complexion? And is he a head shorter than the man standing next to him? My eyes flitted to the lad's forearms. He had the same sparse, light, womanish body hair as the warriors who had passed me on the Northern Road. What's a northern lad doing wearing an imperial uniform? Where is his tattoo?

I grinned. No reason not to find out.

“Corvid is a good name, private. Glad to see the northern clansmen keeping . . . some of their traditions alive in the bosom of the empire.”

He blushed, “My grandmother was a barb, sir. She insisted on the name.”

“Stand . . . tall, son.” I bit my tongue. “Such a heritage is hardly shameful. Any people who can whup an imperial battalion in pitched battle deserve respect. Do you believe in the five gods?” I asked, wondering what the lad's response would be.

“Yes, sir. Of course I do, sir,” the guard said, his blush spreading. “My Granny was no heathen, but she wasn't just any barb either. She was full-blooded shaman before the priests saved her soul, and she practiced magic to her dying day. I'd rather keep that quiet given the situation here in the capital, sir.”

What situation? I wondered, before remembering. The great war was largely a conflict between magic users: their shamans versus our mages. Of course, a young, imperial soldier doesn't want people making that connection now. “Calm yourself. I know how to keep a secret, lad.”

The soldier nodded and smiled. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Your old regiment is all gathered at the headquarters on Vilius Avenue.”

“I had best find my way there. Old soldiers are a thirsty lot, and they wouldn't dare start the celebration without me.” I chuckled. “Or worse, maybe they would. ”

“If anyone deserves to be commemorated by their peers, it's you, sir.”

“As well they should! I've crammed 500 years of heroic deeds into a single lifetime.”

“So many achievements,” the soldier marveled, “and you don't look a day over 200, sir.”

I grunted and turned Krag towards one of the side streets. “You're lucky I'm retired, son. Back in my day, soldiers who cheeked their officers shoveled horse shit until their arms fell off.”

“Yes, sir. I will put myself on report to muck the stables this evening, sir.” The northern lad whipped off a classic salute.

Private Corvid. Good to see old traditions surviving in this frantic, changing world. Some old traditions, at least, I amended, smiling as the private's excited voice drifted on the wind.

“Wait till I tell the guys I got disciplined by the Hero of Jerkum Pass!”

His enthusiasm made my bones ache. Surely, I was not so young and bubbly once?

Surely not , Kelsa murmured, chuckling before I silenced her.

The headquarters was like any other hastily erected government building in the outer city: a flat, featureless edifice of brick and steel. It looked more like a fancy box with doors and little knife slits for windows than a real building. I walked Krag to the stables around the back. Government architecture was nothing if not predictable. I went back around to the front of the building and threw open the doors. Not for Sir Corbin, sneaking through the back entrance.

The two soldiers manning the door politely requested that I surrender my sword and dagger. I acquiesced without qualm. I had come here to celebrate, not to fight. With a nod to the soldier and a lazy salute, I threw open the doors and sauntered into the building.

People milled about the atrium, glasses and mugs held in one hand, tiny tasty snacks in the other. It was a riotous swirl of gossip, old clinking metals, and ill-fitting uniforms. Little groups huddled together in bunches of red and blue. Each colored uniform would split and coalesce separately, like machine oil mixed with floral-scented water. I stiffened as a mage passed me, yanking his sky-colored blouse to avoid touching my blood red armor. Can't blame army mages for the current political crisis, but one would think free booze might loosen them up a bit.

One person sat silent amidst the revelry, her hands clasping a glass of white wine as she eyed the door. She was a bastion draped in ruffled purple brocade among a forest of uniforms and military garb. It wasn't as elegant as my crimson cloak, but it made an impression. Our eyes met and a name floated to the surface: Maven . “My friends,” I shouted, raising my arms, “Corbin has arrived.”

The forest of trees all swayed towards my radiance like plants bowing to the sun. I made pleasant small talk of weather and the hard journey and doesn't damp weather ache old bones, every verbal skirmish bringing me one step closer to the purple maiden. “Hello, Corbin,” she murmured as I danced through the crowd to her chair.

“Nice to see a show of unity in this clashing mess of red and blue.”

“Can you blame them?” Maven sipped her wine. “All mages are branded by their rebel ilk. The wizards think the cavalry is going to hunt them down after they gave their lives for the empire and feel betrayed. The cavalrymen are insulted anyone would dare assume they might sully their honor riding down old friends and colleagues and feel betrayed. You missed the opening salvo. Now they just circulate in icy silence.”

“Such elegant garments next to our drab peers. And me.” I banged on my cuirass. “Wearing your civvies, I see, Madam.”

“Madam?” She quirked an eyebrow, then scowled. “That makes me feel my years more than three days in the saddle. Not here . . . not now. Today we are young again. You even look the part. However did you get that old armor to fit properly?”

I coughed. “I'm afraid this owes more to a costume shop than a blacksmith. Had it tailored. This plate mail would not turn aside a harsh glare. You wound me, Maven. You wound me in the heart.”

“Haven't forgotten my name at least. Everyone is getting so forgetful these days.” She took another sip of wine and gestured to the crowd. “You must love all this. Never left the battlefield, did you, Corbin? Up here,” she tapped her skull. “And I hear you're still wearing that old ring around your neck. It makes you clank like a tin bell when you walk.”

I bowed. “I wear the ring . . . to honor the mother of my child.”

“Do you, now?” she asked, taking a long, slow sip.

“You disapprove?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Whether you wear that stupid ring in public is your business.”

What does this woman know about my grandfather's ring? I took her glass and quaffed the rest of the wine. Her glare grew more furious as I sipped down to the dregs. “Ancient, bitter vintage,” I muttered. “Almost vinegar. Pity what the passage of time does to fine wine. ”

“I could sour your adoring audience with a few choice stories, hero. Like how you betrayed my dear sister. She was as pale and sparkling sweet as this Dragon Crystal White '22. Now be a dear,” her words slurred as she gestured toward the bar across the room, “and bring me another glass. Someone masquerading as a gentleman stole my wine.”