Chapter 29 – Mine Honor is My Life

The Warlock still lay where he had fallen. No one had moved him. But his helmet had slipped from his head in death, revealing his ordinary human face. Narrow, unremarkable, and unkempt, with three-day stubble and dark circles under his eyes.

He actually looked more like an exhausted accountant than someone who commanded a goblin army, drove four peoples to war, and committed countless massacres.

The kind of person whose neighbors would later report on television that they had no idea.

Shaelith looked away.

A Shaeravyn sorceress knelt beside Benderast and worked her way through his injuries with makeshift healing glyphs. He had broken ribs, various cuts, bruises, and a mild concussion.

Benderast endured it. He sat silently on an overturned cabinet, his hands on his knees, staring at the floor while the healer painted glyphs on his skin and muttered quietly to herself.

Since she had met him again here in this world, she had never seen him so quiet.

Grimbart sat five feet away, leaning against a pillar, also receiving treatment, giving the healer precise instructions as to which of his injuries affected his flesh and which affected his chronosteel arm, which required a different form of maintenance.

Thaelon had a long cut on his leg, which he had ignored with stoic indifference until a healer wordlessly rolled up the leg of his trousers and began to clean the cut. He let it happen with a minimal nod, but as always, he seemed a little cautious around Shaeravyn.

Vyriz leaned against the wall and had nodded off as soon as a healer had given him a tonic. As emaciated and dehydrated as he was, he was probably in worse shape than Shaelith wanted to admit.

So Shaelith, who was herself largely unharmed, did what she always did when she had nothing to do or wanted to distract herself. She looked for a problem she could solve.

The Warlock’s documents were scattered across the room. Journals, maps, loose sheets of paper, sketches, all jumbled together by the force of the battle. Some pages were splattered with blood, some singed, but most were intact.

And Shaelith wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

Commander Mirilenre Baerelin stood at the opposite end of the room, eyeing a stack of extremely detailed maps with a greedy glint in her eyes.

She was a typical Baerelin. Large for a Shaeravyn, yet slender, with a face that looked as if it had been carved from granite. House Baerelin holds the line, one of her hair messages proclaimed the house motto. Although she too was formally a sorceress, she wore armor, a saber, and as far as Shaelith could see, only very few glyphs.

Shaelith went to her.

“Mirilenre. A word about the Warlock’s documents.”

Mirilenre raised an eyebrow but made no other movement.

“I would like to claim the collection for House Vyrnara,” Shaelith said. “Anything of military value will, of course, be shared with House Baerelin as soon as I have reviewed it. The maps, the fortress plans, the military-relevant rune research. You have my word.”

“That is generous,” Mirilenre said in a tone that made it clear that it was not enough.

“Perhaps not generous enough. What would be a more appropriate compensation?”

Mirilenre studied her for a moment, as if weighing how far she could go. “Captain Norvyz.”

Shaelith blinked. “Captain Norvyz is one of our best officers and loyal to the House. I don’t think he would enter your service even if we ordered him to.”

“That’s not what I mean. He just needs to father a few children. Let’s say two. With two Baerelin women of my choosing.”

Ah, I see. Norvyz was considered an excellent soldier, tall and handsome, if you ignored his scars. Of course Mirilenre had noticed him. And of course he was of interest to House Baerelin’s breeding efforts.

“Agreed,” said Shaelith.

Mother won’t mind.

Mirilenre nodded curtly. Business concluded. She turned back to her troops.

Shaelith beckoned two soldiers, who joined her in systematically collecting the documents. Some pages were written in Tulvian, others even in Dwarvish, and some in a symbolic language she did not know, consisting of geometric, interlocking shapes connected by lines, almost reminiscent of circuits. The magical theory on some of the pages went far beyond anything she had ever studied, and part of her itched to sit down at the next table and get started right away.

But there would be plenty of time for that later.

Then her gaze fell on a journal lying open next to an overturned shelf. She picked it up and leafed through it until she stopped in surprise.

The handwriting was tight, careful, almost pedantic. And the letters were Latin. The journal was written in English.

Day 12,743. The Story Engine continues to generate the same plot loop with minimal deviations at irregular intervals of 30-60 weeks, but the sample size remains insufficient for…

Shaelith closed the journal without batting an eyelid. She placed it on the pile as if it were a document like any other and continued.

 

~

 

The inner courtyard of the fortress looked as if someone had set up a refugee camp right on a battlefield and then held a military parade in it.

More and more allied troops poured through the destroyed gates, piling goblin corpses into large heaps, which they then burned, and clearing barricades. The wounded were lined up against the walls, and healers from all four races worked side by side.

They found Mirrsoss at the foot of the tower.

She was covered in dust and was directing a stream of freed prisoners outside, while the two groups of soldiers Mirilenre had assigned to her followed her instructions and assigned the injured prisoners to the healers according to the severity of their injuries.

“Seventy-seven survivors,” said Mirrsoss. “Among them, twenty-six Shaeravyn, twenty-three Sylvyn, nine dwarves, and nineteen humans.” Her antennae twitched. “There were… there were more there, but… well, most of them were dead.”

“You did a good job,” said Shaelith, placing her hand on the Umilari’s arm.

Mirrsoss nodded and fluttered her wings weakly.

The courtyard was a jumble of uniforms and banners. The Shaeravyn grasshopper cavalry had set up a temporary camp on the eastern grounds of the fortress while the dwarven siege engineers were still examining the fortress structures for hidden traps. Most of the Sylvyn Rangers had retreated from the fortress into the forest, partly because they felt more comfortable there, and partly to create a perimeter for the allied armies.

And then there was the Tulvian cavalry, which was hard to miss.

They admittedly knew how to make a visual impression. Even after the battle, the Tulvian knights looked as if they had stepped right out of a heroic oil painting. Their armor was intricately engraved and painted, their helmets bore heraldic animals made of polished steel, and their living battle standards waved proudly in the wind, sometimes accompanied by the soft, contented murmurs of the silk creatures.

Most of these magnificent suits of armor, however, were also dented, scratched, and splattered with blood, and their wearers were exhausted and wounded.

The one exception was hard to miss.

The most splendid of the knights sat on a large warhorse, whose golden and diamond-studded bridle alone was probably so valuable that a farming family could have made ends meet for a few decades with the proceeds. His armor was enameled, painted, and polished to a high shine. Blue and gold, with a griffin as a crest on his helmet, gazing majestically toward the sky. It was a beautiful suit of armor.

A beautiful suit of armor that showed suspiciously few signs of battle. None at all, in fact.

A battle standard also hung from the flagpole of his horse. It was a silk flag in red, blue, and gold, elaborately embroidered with a griffin, the coat of arms of the Grevue dynasty of Triarch King Gelsevier. Which meant that this was almost certainly Prince Gwilet, King Gelsevier’s son and heir.

His banner was an impressive artifact and, like all Tulvian battle standards, it was alive.

And it was absolutely furious.

From a distance, it looked as if the cloth was fluttering in the wind, but up close, it was obvious that it was actually trembling with rage.

“NO!”

The voice was full, theatrical, and loud enough to make heads turn across half the courtyard, and it came from the cloth itself.

“NO, NO, AND NO AGAIN!”

Prince Gwilet flinched in his saddle. “Honor, be quiet-”

“I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!” The flag tore stiffly on the pole, so taut that the embroidered griffin figure seemed to bulge. “Twenty-six generations of the most noble Grevue dynasty have carried me into battle! Twenty-six! Your great-grandfather rode with me against the troll hordes of Nordrist, with THREE five-foot-long troll arrows in his thigh, and refused to die until the enemy had fled! Your grandfather held the bridge of Grivonne ALONE against a superior force of savages from the Sunveil desert, while I sang in the wind above him!”

Oh, this is going to be good.

Shaelith stopped. Next to her, Grimbart did the same, chuckling to himself.

“And you,” continued the Battle Standard, his voice lowering to a hiss that could still be heard across the courtyard, “you, Gwilet Grevue, son of Gelsevier, grandson of Tanquard the Fearless, great-grandson of Maillard Trollhammer, you hid behind the third cavalry line while men and women, WOMEN bled and died in front of you!”

A few Tulvian knights within earshot looked sheepishly at the ground.

Gwilet’s face turned red. “I had taken up a strategic position that-”

“You were AFRAID!” thundered the battle standard that Prince Gwilet had called “Honor.” “I could feel you TREMBLING! I’m hanging on your back, you vain, cowering, perfumed-”

“I command you-”

“YOU command me nothing! NOTHING! I am a battle standard of the House of Grevue! My honor IS my life, and BOTH are withering in your presence!”

Then, with a flowing movement, the flag detached itself from the pole, slowly and gracefully, the silk gliding into the air, fluttering once, twice, like a giant bird of prey seeking updraft, and the embroidered griffin figure turned its head this way and that, as if surveying the vicinity.

Then the cloth sailed across the courtyard, straight toward the group that had just left the tower, and landed with a satisfying thump on Benderast’s shoulders.

It draped itself around him like a cape. A very proud, confident cape that adjusted itself with little tugs until the embroidered griffin sat centered on his back.

“HERE,” Honor announced. “HERE is a hero worthy of my favor! Look at him! Covered in the blood of his enemies! Marked by honorable combat! The man who slew the villain with his own hands!”

Benderast stood stock-still, the blank expression on his face giving way to a kind of confused alarm, as if he wasn’t sure whether this was really happening or whether the concussion was worse than he thought.

“What,” he said.

“And what a physique!” Honor continued unabated. “Such shoulders! Such stature! Strong as an oak, upright as a-”

“What the… what is this?” Benderast tried to pull the fabric off his shoulders, but Honor clung on him as if his life depended on it.

“My name is: ‘Mine Honor Is My Life, Both Grow In One’! But hasty tongues tend to call me Honor. I am… or rather I was the Battle Standard of House Grevue, formerly bound to the unworthy Gwilet, now freely united with… what is your name?”

“Benderast Stone-”

“BENDERAST! A magnificent name! It sounds like strength! Like determination! Like a man who looks his enemies in the face and-”

“HONOR!” Prince Gwilet had swung himself off his horse and was coming toward them, his face changing from red to purple. “You return to me this instant! That is an order!”

“I no longer recognize your authority,” said Honor, and the silk billowed demonstratively around Benderast’s shoulders, as if drawing him into an embrace. “I have exercised my right to choose. Article Seven of the Great Symbiarchic Charter. A battle standard that deems its bearer unworthy may choose a new bond.”

Gwilet took a threatening step toward Benderast. “You! Return the standard. Now.”

Benderast raised both hands. “I didn’t do anything. The flag just flew onto me. Can someone explain to me what-”

“That’s theft! It’s an heirloom of the Grevue dynasty! I am a prince of Tulvia, and if you don’t-”

“He didn’t steal me,” Honor interrupted. “I chose him. It’s not a subtle distinction, but I have no doubt that a soft-headed cretin like you wouldn’t be able to recognize that, since you don’t even know the difference between BRACERY AND COWARDICE.”

Gwilet opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His hand went to his sword.

Three battered Tulvian knights stepped forward and placed their hands on the prince’s shoulders. Not roughly, but resolutely.

“Your Highness,” said one of them, an older knight. “Perhaps it would be advisable to settle this matter at a later time and in a more appropriate manner.”

Translation: Don’t make yourself look any more ridiculous than you already are.

Gwilet shook off his hands, but he stepped back. His gaze bored into Benderast with an intense hatred.

“There will be consequences,” he said. “I am a prince of Tulvia and the heir to the Grevue dynasty. My father will find out about this. The other triarchs will find out about this. And then-”

“Then the king will learn that his son is a cowardly dog and that his standard, the pride of the dynasty, flew away in shame,” Honor said cheerfully.

Gwilet turned and marched away, followed by the three knights, who looked as if they had never been so ashamed in their lives.

Shaelith glanced amusedly at Benderast, who stood there completely bewildered, the living flag draped around his shoulders.

“We are riding into history together, Benderast!” Honor announced. “Your name will be sung in songs! Your deeds will-”

“Could you maybe… be a little quieter?” Benderast muttered.

“QUIETER? A battle standard knows only one volume. The volume of GLORY!”

Benderast looked at Shaelith with a silent cry for help.

She shrugged and smiled.

 

~

 

“It’s best if you fly. The grasshoppers will take you to Myzelemaerlazin. We can’t afford you travelling on foot for days when we can get you there in a day by air.” Mirilenre wouldn’t have any argument.

Mirrsoss beamed. “I can fly alongside! And when I get tired, I can hold on to a grasshopper and ride along for a bit. It’ll be fantastic, I’ve always wanted to-”

“Accepted,” said Shaelith.

Thaelon bowed his head. “The animals are trustworthy,” he said.

Shaelith had seen him stroke one of the grasshoppers on the head earlier, and the animal had gently pressed its antennae against his palm.

“Sure, whatever,” Benderast said monotonously. Honor rustled approvingly on his shoulders.

All eyes turned to Grimbart.

The dwarf stood with his arms crossed, staring at the grasshoppers in horror.

“No.”

“Grimbart, it’s-,” Shaelith began cautiously.

“No.”

“The alternative would be a march of several days through territory where there are still scattered groups of goblins that-”

“Then I’ll march.”

“Alone?”

“The Forge-Father put dwarves on the ground. There is a reason he didn’t give us wings, and that reason is that we are meant to stay on the ground.”

“Grimbart,” said Thaelon. “Don’t be stubborn.”

Grimbart looked at him. Thaelon looked back.

Grimbart snorted.

“When I die,” he said, “you have to write on my tombstone that it wasn’t my idea and that I resisted.”

He climbed onto one of the grasshoppers behind a Shaeravyn soldier. The animal eyed its new passenger with its large compound eyes.

Shaelith swung herself onto her own grasshopper, Vyriz in front of her, his thin body leaning against hers. He had already fallen asleep again. The crates containing the Warlock’s documents had been strapped to a cargo grasshopper, and Mirilenre had assigned two of her best riders to escort them.

The grasshoppers stood up on their powerful hind legs, their wings unfurled, and the riders shouted the start commands.

The animal beneath Grimbart was the first to take flight.

The dwarf’s panicked scream as the grasshopper shot into the air was exquisite. Grimbart grabbed the rider in front of him and dented his mycelium armor as his chronosteel arm clung to him.

Then all the others followed, and beneath them the conquered fortress shrank to a point, then to a speck, then it was no longer visible.

“THAT WAS A MISTAKE! I KNEW IT!” Grimbart yelled into the wind. “I KNEW IT FROM THE START!”

Shaelith held Vyriz closer and watched as the destroyed landscape slipped away beneath them.

We’ll be home soon.