The Second Age Year 872
Twenty-seventh day of the fourth month
Cenric opened his eyes quickly and lurched forward. A sharp pain struck his stomach. As he tried to get his bearings, he realised that he was not lying in a field after all. He was lying in a bed. Looking around, he saw several people tending to others who were covered in bandages. Some were missing an arm or a leg. As he tried to get up, he called out weakly, “Where am I?” The people turned to him at once and rushed to his side. “He’s awake,” said one of them. Another person, who sounded like a young woman, said, “No, don’t move around; you’ll reopen your wounds.”
Looking around, he noticed that he was covered in bandages. They were standing at his bedside. He recognised one of them as a young man with brown eyes and dark hair. If he remembered correctly, this was Quintus, the head doctor. Prata had helped Tharos when he was bitten by the monster. As he tried to sit up, he saw Prata looking at the young woman in the servant’s robe. “Go and inform His Highness and his companions that he is awake,” Prata ordered.
The young woman nodded and rushed out of the tent. As she left, Prata looked at cenric and asked, “How do you feel? Are you OK? You had a some nasty cuts as well.”
When he tried to prop himself up, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach and noticed his arms and legs were sore. His head was spinning, and his mouth was dry. “I’m just a bit sore and it’s hard to move. I could really use some water—my mouth is so dry.” No sooner had he finished speaking than a jug of cold water was placed in front of him. He grabbed the cup and drank the water. It felt cool and refreshing as he swallowed. Prata gave him a warm smile.
“How long has it been?. How did I get here? Did we win the battle?” Cenric couldn’t remember what had happened. The only thing he could remember was the cavalry charge and fighting a silver armoured warrior.
“You’ve been out for a few days. As for how you got here… His Highness had you dragged to safety during the fighting.” Prata continued. “As for the battle itself, our Highness was victorious, as always, in no small part thanks to you.”
Cenric looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. “What do you mean? I didn’t do much. All I did was join in a cavalry charge.” he admitted reluctantly. After all, he had seen Tharos and Rayner kill several dozen men in the time it took to count to ten on your fingers. Compared to that, killing a few people wasn’t that impressive.
“You don’t need to be that modest,” said Prata. “I myself may not be a warrior. But even I can recognise and appreciate someone with great martial skill.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked again. He was confused as to why he was being praised, because as far as he knew, he hadn’t achieved much in the battle except killing a few people and horses. He did similar things with Tharos and Rayner all the time, although he didn’t like to admit it. He had helped them kill the odd bandit or monster and rescue a few people. Had he done something in the battle that he couldn’t recall? But he couldn’t think of anything. Everything had happened so quickly that it was difficult to keep track, and the battles he had been in were beginning to merge in his memory. Recalling the battle, he thought he had been fighting undead creatures. Then he remembered that that particular conflict had taken place almost a year and a half ago. He started to get carried away by his thoughts and recollections. He heard Prata speak up again. “If you were a warrior for the Kingdom of Anathos, you might even be the subject of a triumph for what you did.”
“A triumph?” he asked. He had heard of them. It was an ancient custom practised by the Invicti, and he had heard that some kingdoms and city-states still practise it to this day. These celebrations were usually held to honour people who had achieved something exceptional in either military or civilian life. Often, the recipient would gain a noble title, estates and/or large sums of money. From what he could tell, they were similar to his people receiving a deed name. But what could he have done to earn such an honour? He couldn’t think of anything he had done that merited it.
“Do you not know what a triumph is?” Prata asked, raising his eyebrows and his tone shifting from a warm, friendly to a slightly condescending. “I heard you Wilders have some strange customs. Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the term. If you wish, I can explain….” Before he could continue, Cenric cut him off.
“No. I know what a Triumph is. I just don’t know what I did to possibly earn such a thing.”
“Well, I am not an expert on these things. But I would that slaying an enemy general in single combat is surely something worth some sort of reward, especially for someone as young as yourself.”
“The enemy general?” Cenric didn’t have a mirror if he had. He would have seen his jaw would have dropped to the ground. As he tried to recall the battle, he remembered fighting and killing a man who called himself Julius Rodent, before being stabbed in the stomach. At the time, Cenric hadn’t thought much of it; he had been too busy fighting for his life. This was the first foe he had killed who knew his name. He had just thought he was a random nobleman who was part of the army sent against them, not the commander of it. Was this Julius the general of the army they were fighting? If so, how on earth had he managed to win against such a formidable opponent? He had certainly been training hard, but he didn’t think he was skilled or brave enough to take on someone like that. Yet he had, and he had emerged victorious. He should be proud: all that training had paid off. He was no longer the scared boy he used to be; he was becoming strong. He could be useful; he was able to protect himself. But, at that moment, he didn’t feel proud. Instead, he felt a sense of shame. Yes, he had killed the General in single combat, but it hadn’t been an epic duel like those he had heard or read about. It had been a brutal struggle, in which he had ended up on the ground, fists and knives flying. Maybe those stories were nonsense after all. He wasn’t so sure, and being praised for killing this general made him feel uncomfortable for some reason.
After a few more moments had passed, and Prata had looked over his wounds, with his assistants giving them space and tending to the other injured soldiers in the tent, two people came in through the entrance of the tent: it was Tharos and Rayner. Tharos looked his usual self, his sharp and hawk like face was stony and poised, like a stone statue, while Rayner was smiling from ear to ear. As they both walked over, Rayner gave him a playful slap on the back. He flinched at this, and then saw Prata give Rayner a cold stare. “Please refrain from doing that, he is still recovering.”
Rayner responded back. “He is a Wilder, you milking, drinking, piss-ant. Takes more than a slap to hurt him. Isn’t that right.”
“Yeah, i am fine.” He said, looking at Prata.
Earning a tired sigh from Prata. “Do you, like, but his wounds reopen, it your fault, not mine. But.” Prata continued. “He seems to be recovering quite well, and should be back to normal within a few days, perhaps a week, as long as he doesn’t move around and rests.” Prata stressed, before getting up to leave, to tend to his other patients in the tent. Leaving him with Tharos and Rayner.
“So, how are you feeling?” Tharos asked him. “I was a bit concerned when I heard you were wounded and dragged away during the fighting.”
“Well, aside from being sore, I’m doing fine, well, as fine as a good bear.” He said, biting his lip. “I was worried about you, too. I couldn’t see either of you from the hill during the fighting. I thought you might have been in trouble.”
“We were fine. Although I would have preferred not to fight on the frontlines. Do you know how many arrows and crossbow bolts almost hit me?” Tharos complained, “They almost tore through my armor and my nice robes.”
Rayner snorted. “The only people in trouble were the corpses that the Milk Drinker and I made of the front lines. About twenty men I killed.” Rayner boasted.
“No, it was fifteen.” Tharos corrected him. “And my count was ten. It seems you might have won our contest and wager this time.” Then, Cenric saw Tharos grab his bag and toss several old, stained silver coins to Rayner.
“Guess we’re even for this month, milk drinker.”
“For now. The month is still young, and there will be more battles to come.” Tharos said with a small smile. After that brief exchange, he turned to Cenric, gave him a warm smile, and gently placed his hand on his shoulder. Cenric let him do it, even though it still hurt a little. “I must admit I had some reservations about letting you join a battle proper, because I thought you were not ready yet. However, after hearing about how you acquitted yourself, I must say I am quite proud of you. It seems like all that hard work and training is starting to pay off. However…” Tharos’s face and voice hardened for a moment. “Don’t let it go to your head. For there is no greater poison to a person’s greatness than the sweet wine of praise and victory. Do you understand?”
Cenric understood that complacency was a slow and subtle killer; that was one of the first lessons Tharos had ever taught him. Cenric then looked downcast on his bed for a moment. “Yes, I do. I understand.”
“Let the whelp enjoy it, milk drinker,” Rayner interjected. “It’s not every day that a general is killed in single combat, let alone by someone in their first battle. Perhaps we should call you Cenric the general slayer.”
Cenric’s face flashed red from embarrassment, and he shook his hands. “It’s a little early for a deed name, isn’t it.”
“Well, it isn’t what you think, kid, it’s what others think, and most the wilders here at this camp think you’re worthy of one.” Before Rayner was going to continue. He heard Tharos clear his throat, and look at Rayner for a moment
“Fine, milk drinker, the floor is yours.” Rayner said with a sigh.
Tharos’s face and voice softened. “You did well for your first battle, but don’t make a habit of it. You might not be as lucky next time. I do wonder where you got the boldness to take on the enemy commander in single combat in the first place. We must have the details.”
Cenric narrowed his eyes at Tharos. “Well, it’s not like I was seeking him out. I came across him, we then fought and i won using what you taught me. Isn’t the result the most important thing rather than how and why.”
Tharos nodded in approval. “Good. You’re applying what I’m teaching you. At the rate you’re going, you might even surpass me one day.” He then saw Tharos look at the exit of the tent. “As much as I would like to stay and hear more, we must be heading off soon. We have a fortress to capture.”
“Wait, are we at the fortress already?” Cenric asked. “Well, we’re camped about a few miles away from it,” Tharos replied. “Quintus has given us a special mission to help capture it. We’ll come back and check up on you once we’ve finished.”
“OK, well, good luck!” he said to them both as they turned away and left the tent, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He started to drift in and out of sleep. He had nothing better to do with his time. After what felt like a blink of an eye — maybe only half an hour — footsteps woke him. The sound of heavy metal boots approaching interrupted his sleep. A voice said, “Your Highness, he has recovered, but I believe he is sleeping at the monument. I will check on him for you right now, Your Highness.” Cenric opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voices. He saw Quintus in full armour, helmet in hand, talking to Prata. From where Cenric was standing, Quintus appeared to tower over Prata. When they both looked in his direction, he heard Prata say, “Never mind, Your Highness, he seems to be awake.”
“Excellent.” said Quintus. “Now leave us. I have things to discuss with him.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” Prata gave Quintus a small bow and gestured for his assistants to leave the tent. Quintus then walked over to his bedside and placed his helmet on the wooden shelf next to it. “You and your companions are starting to be worth more than your weight in silver and gold.”
“Well, I hope not. I don’t want to end up in poor and infirm. Have you seen how big Rayner is?” he joked.
Quintus gave a small, dry chuckle at that. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. My family’s treasure vaults and coffers run as deep as the great mountains of the north,” he boasted, his voice dripping with confidence. He then turned back to a warm, friendly expression.
“Well, it’s good to see you are well and up and about, Cenric. When they dragged you out, I was told it would be a miracle if you survived the night, but here you are. It seems like the vigour your people are known for is true after all. Although.” he consented. “I seen Bowen, Aghi and Asta survive worse.” he said almost nonchalantly.
Cenric scratched his cheek sleepily for a moment. “Well, it was nothing. I suppose it was just luck on my part,” he admitted as he gave a small shrug.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, it’s clear to me that the gods of war and fortune favoured you that day.”
“Well, let’s hope I don’t turn their ire,” Cenric said.
“Indeed.” He then saw Quintus reach out and grab a small coin purse that was tied to his belt, and tossed it onto the bed. It landed with a small, soft thud on the blanket.
Cenric looked at him, puzzled. “What is this?” he asked.
“This is your reward from the City of Chalybes, for slaying the enemy general. I have been told that it amounts to twenty-five gold talents in total.” Cenric stared at the coin purse for a few seconds. Twenty-five gold talents. That was a lot of money, was the first thing that flashed in mind, until he realised that the man he had killed was only worth twenty-five gold talents. One life, the life he took, was valued at a small bag of gold coins, each no bigger than maybe half his little finger. This was someone who had lived and laughed; someone who had lived a life measured in about two decades; someone who had family, friends, and loved ones — all of whom had come to an end because of him. This person’s life, entire life, was measured at the sole value and worth of only twenty-five gold talents, which, upon their death, he would receive. Twenty-five golden coins that now rested gently upon his lap.
He kept staring at the coins, deep in thought, until Quintus interrupted him. “Is this not sufficient for you?” he asked. “If not, I will petition the city to offer an even greater reward. Once we reach the capital, I do plan to reward you and your companions for saving my life and for your help in this campaign.”
He looked at Quintus and held out his hands. “You don’t need to do that, Quintus. You’ve already done enough for us.”
Quintus gave him a firm look. “You and your companions came to my aid. You even put yourselves at great risk for a mere stranger such as myself,” he said, gesturing to himself. Cenric saw his reflection in the polished black armour. “Then put yourself at an even greater risk by joining me in a war and you yourself personalty played a key role in a battle that led to my victory. I don’t believe you, Tharos or Rayner have been thanked enough, and I will not be accused of being ungrateful to those who aid me.” Quintus said to him. His voice was firm yet charming. Cenric wanted to agree; in fact, he felt almost compelled to. But he had to do what was right.
Cenric sighed. “The issue isn’t the amount of money or reward,” he said. “Nor is it us risking our lives for you, either.”
“Then what is the issue?” Quintus asked, his grey eyes looking at him intently. “If you feel you have been rewarded enough, then…”
“Well, I took a life, and getting rewarded and praised for it now feels wrong to me. I can’t help but feel like a murderer.”
As he said that, Quintus’s mood changed quickly and Cenric felt as if the room temperature had dropped as Quintus looked almost sombre for a moment. “We must all do our duty to protect our people’s freedoms and laws. Whether we want to or not, because we don’t have a choice in this matter, I’m afraid — regardless of how blue your blood is. He was doing his duty and so were you. Besides.” Quintus continued, his voice charming yet softer, with a hint of melancholy. “When it comes to who is right or wrong, the gods will decide, and they decided you were right by virtue of your victory.”
Cenric looked at him for a moment. Perhaps Quintus was right. After all, the gods did work in mysterious ways that were beyond mortal understanding. He had heard that the Invicti God was involved in almost every aspect of his followers’ lives, bestowing favours, blessings — and curses — at will. However, according to his elders, the Wilder Gods did not heed or care about their followers, except to breathe life into a Wilder soul. In fact, they would send doom upon anyone who dared pray to them for help, just to test their strength and worthiness. This was why many of his people often worshipped other gods. But a question arose in Cenric’s mind: For as long as he had known him — perhaps a week or so — he had got the impression that he liked war and fighting; he was the type of person who liked to live life on the edge. He wondered if this is what Thorag was like when he was younger, before he became the broken old man that he knew him as. However, after this brief exchange, he wasn’t so sure. He had never thought he would see such a sombre, almost melancholic look on Quintus’s face, not even for a moment, but he had. Now, though, Cenric had to know something.
“If you don’t mind me asking, I have a question,” he asked.
“I will allow it,” Quintus replied. His demeanour shifted back to that of the confident speaker he had been before.
“Is all this some kind of act?” he asked. “Is your love of battle and fighting, all this hassle and bloodshed, just for its own sake? Is that all you want to live for or do with your life?” There was an awkward pause, followed by a few moments of silence, before Quintus spoke up again. This time, his voice was more subdued and the swagger had disappeared. “It depends who is asking. Are you asking me as Quintus Florianus, or as The Tiger of Anathos, or by any of the other names people have given me over the years?” Quintus asked him.
Cenric didn’t know what the right answer was, or what Quintus truly meant by that. Was this some sort of test? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to trust his instincts on this one. “I am asking you as Quintus Florianus.”
“Very well. Let me answer your question with a question of my own. If you could have everything you ever wanted whenever you wanted it, and more besides, would you still want those things once you had them, or would you discard them as easily as you obtained them?”
“I wouldn’t know. I have never been in that situation. I was born in a humble village, and before meeting Tharos and Rayner, I was made a…” Quintus raised his hand signalling him to stop.
“Let me ask a different question. If everyone expected great things of you by virtue of your birth and the circumstances around it, and you consistently met their expectations, so they demanded more and more of you each time, wouldn’t you want to test yourself to see what you are truly capable of and what your true limitations are, just to feel alive, even if it cost you everything: your life, your reputation, or your wealth?”
“No, I couldn’t imagine what I would do if I lived such a life.”
Quintus gave him a small, firm smile and nodded in approval. “Well, Cenric, if you never find yourself in such a situation, perhaps you’ll understand why I do the things I do. The burden of bearing royal blood is a heavy one, and I hope you never have to suffer it yourself.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you run away and start a new life? You could certainly do that. Why don’t you? Why do you stay?” Cenric asked him.
“Because they need me and my love for them prevents me from doing so,” Quintus replied, gesturing outside the tent. “I’m sure you feel the same way.” Cenric couldn’t disagree with that. While he may not have agreed with everything that Tharos and Rayner did, he couldn’t see himself leaving their sides. He still owed Tharos his life. It was a debt he would never be able to repay, nor did he ever want to.
“I would agree with that.” He nodded at Quintus. He then saw Quintus look at the entrance to the tent. “I’m afraid I must cut this conversation short. We’ll have to talk more later — I have a fort to capture.”
“Good luck,” said Cenric.
“Thank you. Now enjoy your rest,” said Quintus, making his way out of the tent and leaving Cenric to himself and his thoughts.
