Chương 22: Summoned

"Hello sleepy head," Strix said as he came to. He smiled, sat up, failed. Letting out a long groan that sounded like it should have come from an ornery donkey, Asgar tried again more carefully. Once he was up, he opened his eyes to take in Strix in all her glory. She looked… well, awful, honestly.

"You look awful," he said, stupidly. She blinked, eyebrows rising in disbelief.

"Don't know why I said that," he muttered.

"Sorry."

"Well the pot shouldn't go 'round calling the kettle ugly." He laughed despite himself.

"Not ugly! Never that. Just… You're caked in blood. And what happened to your hair? Is that a gut?"" Is that a gut?" she repeated.

"Really? Those are your first words to me? Fuckin', really?"

"Think my first words were ' you look awful', but—""Oh, shut up," she laughed.

"You all good? Looked a royal sight clinging to the wall there. What the fuck happened to you? How'd you end up beyond the wall?"

"Dunno." She smiled.

"None of those blows to the head knocked the smarts back in, then?"

"I'm still your big dumb hero, don't you worry."

"Aye, you might be." She leaned forwards, and for a joyous second, Asgar thought she'd kiss him. But her lips moved to his ear at the last moment, and then she whispered, "yer that Knight, ain't you?" He stilled.

"The one with the dark armour? I got you rumbled now, big man. Never seen such sloppiness from a Knight before, but it makes sense now. Yer new, ain't that right?" She drew back, satisfied smile gleaming on her grime-streaked face. He hesitated.

"No, no. Don't go lying to me now, you hear? I'll save my questions for later. But you will be giving me answers." Then she rose and stalked away, glancing knowingly over her shoulder at him as his eyes followed her. The hours passed quickly after that. There was plenty of work to be done, but Asgar let it wash around him while he sat against the wall. He dozed off, and when he came to, the world was just as apocalyptic as before, but perhaps a shade calmer.

The sky was stained black with smoke, the smell caustic—burning bodies, courtesy of the Lance's magik. Nobody ran back and forth though, instead everyone moved slowly, exhaustion weighing them down. Bodies were carted to pyres outside the temporary walls to be catalogued and burned, gear was reclaimed and carts loaded for moving. Anyone needing healing had already been sent to the large tents by the time Asgar woke, and if they'd not yet made it then they never would.

The regiment had stopped the threat, and would soon march to cleaner, safer environs to recover. Their journey to the Pits wasn't over, but a detour was sorely needed. He picked his way back to his company, limping and wincing with every mismatched step, hardly able to count his injuries.

"Sergeant," he grunted, as Orson spied him. The man raised an eyebrow.

"Thought you were on assignment for Lady Valentia." There were a few ' ooohs' of salacious implication from the men behind, but the sergeant's glare killed them quickly. Nobody had much energy for banter anyway.

"I was," Asgar said.

"Went to Westveil Tower to call the Lance." Sergeant Orson looked out up the smoking sky.

"Seems you were successful then."

"Seems like it." The sergeant considered him for a long moment.

"My thanks," he said, but the air of suspicion lingered.

"Did Lord Finley survive?" Asgar asked.

"That he did. Had to practically restrain the lunatic from leaping off the wall, but we kept him well enough—""Asgar!" The noble shouted as he came flitting through the men and women of their company. Despite lacking the frame for bowling people over, he managed to squeeze through quickly on account of his station, soldiers letting him through with only faint grumbles at the rudeness.

"My God, man, look at you! Did you bathe in a swamp while you were gone? But I should say: well- bloody- done! I've heard you are to thank for our timely rescue? And to think the Golden Lance himself answered your call! A time of heroes is truly upon us. You keep this up and perhaps you'll join their number!" Asgar smiled as the man clapped him on the back, though it was more of a wince. The admiring looks he'd received from those behind Sergeant Orson were quickly souring.

Soldiers loved a good success story, but the lordling was not well-liked, and nobody was fond of self-aggrandising. To a sceptical man, Asgar's actions looked suspiciously like those of a glory-hound.

"Come, come! We've a long march ahead, but war-heroes deserve a horse, isn't that right sergeant?"

"Our company's allocation of horse is ear-marked for the wounded, sir," he answered evenly, turning a hard stare toward Asgar.

"It's best to keep it that way."

"But—""It's fine," Asgar interrupted.

"I'll join the march. My place is with the company." Sergeant Orson's gaze softened and he dipped his head in thanks.

"Oh, well… very good," Lord Finley muttered.

"Comradery, hey? Very good." The march ahead was brutal. Everyone was tired, most were injured, and many had lost friends. It was late in the day by the time the regiment was ready to leave the site of their triumph, and judging by the posture and faces of the men and women of the 2nd infantry regiment, very few were feeling particularly triumphant. With so many seriously injured, most were pulling double-weight and the usual systems still needed observing.

Asgar, despite his injuries, found himself on rear-guard for most of the march. He could still fight, and that made him valuable, so he bore a lighter pack than those marching in tight columns, and was expected to keep himself alert for danger. What the fuck he was supposed to do if he found it, he had no idea. Alert the army, sure, but what fucking army?

The small cadre of mages were lost in delirium after drawing too deeply on their source of magik, chained and under the watchful eyes of the Ardent Guard lest they try to rip their own limbs off for a drop of the precious concoction they downed in battle. The regular soldiers were dead on their feet, stumbling beneath the weight of heavy packs, and while the levees were surprisingly hale, what use would farmers be if an orc horde came through?

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Asgar kept his head on a swivel and hoped he'd see nothing. They ended their march hours later, with the sun dipping below the horizon. Asgar was back with the company, and trying his best to pretend he knew how to set camp. Turned out, sergeants were hot on regulations. Who knew?

"Pick it up, soldier!" Sergeant Orson was barking at some poor lad nearby. Asgar hunched his shoulders and tried to ignore the angry look his partner was giving him as he fumbled the tent poles again.

"You never put one of these up before?" Handsy asked sarcastically.

"Ha," Asgar laughed weakly.

"Just tired. You seem competent enough for both of us though. That why they call you that?" Handsy just smiled. Creepy man. Asgar wasn't looking forward to sharing a tent with him. Lord Finley was patrolling their section of camp, calling out encouragement. He was liable to get a tent peg through his skull if he kept it up, in Asgar's opinion, but nobody had killed him yet, so maybe he was wrong.

He'd heard some dark rumours a few days back over a game of knucklebones—someone was out for young Lord Finley apparently—but he wasn't experienced enough yet to know what was soldierly gossip as opposed to earnest truth.

"Asgar, a word?" Sergeant Orson asked as he strode past. Shrugging apologetically at his disturbing tent-partner, he hurried over, to be joined by their company's annoying gold-cloak a moment later.

"Now," Orson started, only to be interrupted immediately.

"Bloody good work back there, Asgar! And you, Orson, a credit to your position. We'll have the boys up and ready bright and early tomorrow. I dare say a commendation from the queen is in order if we make it to the Pits, don't you agree?" Asgar rather thought the noble brat might have forgotten what waited within the Pits to fucking Hell and what their ultimate purpose as an army was, but he kept his silence. Orson looked equally frustrated.

"Ah, and here they come now," Lord Finley babbled on, "I believe I'm needed at the command tent." An adjunct arrived. She looked harried, but Asgar was coming to realise that they always did.

"An… Asgar? Is to report to the command tent immediately." Sergeant Orson turned a surprised look his way, but Lord Finley only bounced excitedly.

"I'll bring him along presently, adjunct, many thanks." The adjunct frowned.

"Commanders are to stay with their companies for now. Lord Hendry will send out new orders when he has them." The noble wilted.

"Oh." Asgar just shrugged and limped over to the messenger, giving Sergeant Orson a grateful clap on the shoulder as he went past. Lord Finley's quiet voice followed them as they departed, sounding like a kicked puppy.

"Very good then." He was still muttering as Asgar left earshot.

The command tent was shockingly quiet. A storm of preparation was unfolding outside, but within the boundary of its thin canvas flaps, no sound entered or exited. Must be an enchantment of some sort. Asgar thought he could detect a faint hum in his magikal senses if he strained, but he was so strung out that it could have just been the quiet whine of his protesting brain trying vainly to stay conscious. He was soon ushered from the entrance into the tent-proper, where four figures sat behind a large desk.

He took a hesitant step forward and saluted as best he could. It was sloppy.

"Asgar, welcome," said Lady Valentia in a quiet voice.

"Please, take a seat." He did so.

"I believe you've met Sir Rupert here," she indicated the man to her right. The Golden Lance looked annoyingly put together; armour gleaming, moustache freshly waxed, skin healthily flushed. Bastard. Wait, Rupert? What sort of fucking name—"Well met again, young Asgar," he called in his cheerful baritone. Some of Asgar's distaste must have flickered across his face, because Lady Valentia smirked quickly before covering it with a cough.

"And Captain Strand and Lord Hendry you're already familiar with. Now, to business then."

"Point of order!" the sneering gold-cloak interrupted.

"Sensitive discussions are to abound, and only those of elevated station should witness them. Captain Strand, if you would?"

"Really Hendry?" Strand's anger was obvious. The Lance spoke up.

"He's right, I'm afraid, captain. This is not something that concerns you. Esoteric nonsense mostly, and I'll be sure to keep you briefed of anything that may affect your men before I leave, have no fear." Captain Strand shot a venomous look at Lord Hendry, a marginally more respectful one towards the Lance, then looked to Lady Valentia. She offered a slight nod, and then he relaxed and strode from the tent. He paused as he passed Asgar, rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned in.

"Careful, lad. The less you say the better." Then he was left alone in the tent before three vultures. All three hummed with magik, though Lord Hendry's felt disparate and weak. Likely just artifacts, though that didn't mean he was defenceless. The high houses had access to truly potent enchanted gear, or so the stories said. So, not weak by any means, but perhaps the weakest link. If he could take the noble out, or use him as a hostage or distraction… What the fuck was he doing?

Gonna cut his way free of the command tent, leave the corpses of a high lord, a member of the royal house, and a true Knight behind? And just how was he to defeat the two magikal powerhouses before him anyway? The last few days had drained him, playing havoc with his common sense.

"We're here," Lady Valentia began, broaching the silence, "to discuss your class." Lord Hendry hissed.

"So he is chosen, then. Where are you from, boy? Which house?"

"Allow me to handle this interrogation, if you will, my lord," Lady Valentia said, some iron in her voice now. The noble ignored her.

"I have a right to know who is meddling in my army, and he will answer me. Now, boy. Which house?"

"None," Asgar said.

"Don't lie, fool. Which house—""I already fucking told you," Asgar hissed, teeth clenched. Where was this anger coming from? The word ' interrogation' had riled him, but... His head ached.

"I'm not from a great house. I was born a farmer, out west."

"Obviously, you cretin," Lord Hendry shot back.

"But which house put you up to this? Who is your backer? Who sponsored you to the queen's presence?"

"Enough!" lady Valentia's voice cut through the argument, the subtle hum of power beneath it brooking no dissent. Asgar swallowed.

"It is a fair question," she continued after a pause, "and one you must answer." Asgar's pulse pounded behind his eyes. He had no answers to give, no dark and twisted lies to obscure the bright and simple truth: nobody had sponsored him to stand before the queen, to bow his head and be bestowed his class the proper way. No Knight had taken him under their wing to train, no house had dipped him in magik to encourage his awakening. His class came from God himself, and that made him unique, so far as he knew.

He knew what that meant, when sat across from these vultures. Interrogations, investigations, dissections. Fuck, but he hated them. The arrogant Lord Hendry, so emblematic of those who had worked Asgar's family and those like them to the bone over generations. The mysterious and powerful Lady Valentia, who looked on in silent judgement while men and women died by the dozen, not lifting so much as a finger. And finally, the worst of the three.

The shining golden exemplar of the whole sordid structure of this unfair world. The Golden Lance, the famous Knight, the royally-sanctioned killer that bore a smile as gleaming as his armour. The one who had ordered his village burned.

"I'm from Piddlebottom," Asgar said slowly. His voice was dark.

"Yes, yes. Stupid peasant names aside, to whom do you owe featly?" Lord Hendry asked.

"House Finley? House Krakenheart?"

"Baron Stagger, of Flootsbridge," Lady Valentia said mildly.

"You should know, Lord Hendry. They sit within your lands." He scoffed.

"I can hardly be expected to know every piece of backwater that joins my great house. Out west, you said? Must have come in last generation with my wife's father's death. We've yet to survey their books, but perhaps I should make it a priority if they have the funds to sponsor Squires from farmers." He said the word like a curse, and Asgar's anger wormed a little higher up his chest.

"You're not listening," he said. Nobody ever listened. Lady Valentia was saying something to Lord Hendry, who reared back like he was slapped, and made some retort about the queen hearing of this or that. His head was pounding, vision white at the edges. The Lance was so close, so achingly close, and yet Asgar was just listening to these fools bleat on about honour and face and so much pigshit instead of killing the bastard dead. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to contain the anger.

Screwing his eyes tight shut didn't help—the images flooded his mind anyway. The door ajar, the sight of pale flesh, the surprise on the soldier's faces, their brigandine's thrown haphazardly over chairs. The golden pin on each. It was too much. He needed to know how to talk his way out of this, how to put the leash on his anger, but then, what was the point? Why was he here in this regiment if not for this? Was this not why Avarron had brought him here? His class was one of rash power, not careful deliberation.

His eyes snapped open, and he activated Bloody Oath. The world tried to freeze, but Asgar's purpose was oh so clear, and the freeze was over before it truly began. He sucked in a breath, and the world felt distant. Raising his head, he saw both gold-cloak and purple still arguing, but between them sat the Lance, and he was staring straight at Asgar.

"Why don't you ask him?" Asgar's voice was so cold. It cut through their heated words like a knife through flesh.

"What's that?" Lord Hendry asked, wrongfooted.

"Why don't you ask the Lance where I come from?" Asgar asked. The Knight frowned.

"Why don't you ask him why I've got my class? Why don't you ask him what happened that night?" The tent was silent, and as Asgar stared into the cool gaze of the Golden Lance, he knew someone would die here today.