The Soldier's Tale Read online

  THE SOLDIER'S TALE

  Jonathan Moeller

  ***

  Description

  The plague took Camorak's family, and all that remains to him is duty.

  He is a man-at-arms in service to the Dux of Durandis, fighting to defend the realm from the savage orcs of the wilderness.

  A duty that might lead him to his death...

  ***

  The Soldier's Tale

  Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover image copyright catiamadio | Dreamstime.com & © Aleksminyaylo1 | Dreamstime.com - Knight Holding Sword On A Sky Background Photo.

  Ebook edition published September 2015.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ***

  The Soldier’s Tale

  I woke up with a hangover and a headache so sharp it felt as if someone had pounded nails into my head.

  I usually did, these days.

  It was a fine bright day in the summer of the Year of Our Lord 1471. The sun rose over the plains and hills of Durandis, and one of those damned rosy rays of dawn came through the arrow slit that served as my window and hit me right in the face.

  It annoyed me, but I didn’t care that it annoyed me, and I didn’t care that it made my headache worse.

  I had to get up anyway. I had yet to miss a day of duty because of a hangover, and I would be damned if I was going to start now.

  So I got up. As an Optio of the Dux’s men-at-arms, I had my own room in the barracks of Castra Durius, albeit one that was little more than a stone closet. One of the halfling servants had refilled the water basin while I had been dead drunk, and I lifted it and drank about half of the contents. I used the rest of the water to shave, watching myself in the little mirror of cloudy glass as I scraped away last night’s stubble. I looked terrible, my gray eyes bloodshot, my brown hair marked with gray streaks, the lines on my face deeper than they had been yesterday.

  I looked like hell. Of course, those lines and those gray hairs hadn’t been there until three years ago, hadn’t been there until…

  If I dwelled on that too long, I would start drinking again, and that was not going to happen while I had duty. I was a man-at-arms of the Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, and I would be damned before I showed up for duty drunk. Even after everything, I was still an Optio of the Dux’s men-at-arms, and I suspected I would die that way.

  I wondered if drinking myself to death counted.

  By the time I finished shaving, the water had a chance to work its way through me, so I relieved myself and got dressed, pulling on my tabard over my chain mail. The Dux’s colors are green, and his badge is a gray tower upon that field of green. Sometimes the new men grumbled that the colors looked drab, but they soon changed their minds. They were easy to clean, for one thing.

  And when the Mhorites came down from the Kothluuskan mountains to make trouble, the colors made it easy to hide in the hills.

  I left the barracks and strode into the courtyard of Castra Durius, my scabbard tapping a little against my left leg with every step. The castra occupied a hill at the edge of the Kothluuskan foothills themselves, its walls tall and strong, its octagonal towers topped with war engines, its keep a massive block of stone. Long ago, a knight named Sir Durius had claimed the hill, driving the Mhorites into their mountain valleys. The High King had granted him the land as Dux, and Durius had given the name Durandis to the plain between Kothluusk and the River Cintarra in honor of his father, who had fallen fighting the Mhorites. Ever since, Durandis and Castra Durius had stood as guardians, defending the rest of Andomhaim from the malice of the Mhorite orcs and the creatures that dwelled in the Deeps below the mountains.

  I remembered my wife telling my daughter that story, the last time I had seen them. Before…

  I thought of the whiskey waiting underneath my cot.

  I pushed the thought out of my head and walked to the gate.

  Sir Primus Tulvan stood there. He looked the way I always thought the Romans must have looked upon Old Earth in ancient days, with his graying hair close-cropped, his face stern, his nose like the beak of a proud bird of prey. He was the youngest son of a prominent noble family of Tarlion, and so had come to take service with Dux Kors. He had risen to the rank of Decurion, commanding a company of men-at-arms, and I served as his Optio, his second-in-command.

  The Decurion and I had been in a lot of rough spots together, but we had survived. Sir Primus knew how to keep his head in a battle. Both in the literal and the metaphorical sense.

  “Sir,” I said.

  “Optio Camorak,” said Primus. He glanced to the east, checking the position of the sun. I was still early. “Feeling the worse for wear, are we?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “My cot is a bit stiff, sir.”

  Primus snorted. “A stiff drink, you mean. Maybe nine or ten of them?”

  I straightened up. “Have I ever been derelict in my duty, sir?”

  Primus sighed. “On the contrary. There are other things in a man’s life than his duty, though.”

  “Not for me, sir,” I said.

  Primus said nothing for a while, and then nodded.

  “So,” said the knight at last, “we’ve new lads to turn into men-at-arms. Up for the task, Optio?”

  “Always, sir,” I said.

  “Good man,” said Primus. We waited as the sun rose, and a short time later the first of our new recruits marched into the castra from the town below the hill.

  Every man of fighting age in Durandis could be mobilized as militia in time of war, but the Dux always kept a standing force of men-at-arms to garrison his fortresses and respond to any raids from Kothluusk or the Deeps. Sir Primus’s company of men-at-arms had suffered losses lately. Some men had retired of old age. A few had fallen in a skirmish with the Mhorites a month past, and had been buried with honors.

  Either way, we needed replacements, and I watched those replacements walk into the castra, looking at the towers and battlements with wide eyes. Twenty young men between the ages of sixteen and twenty filed through the gate, accompanied by Optio Murcius, a squat, scowling man with an oft-broken nose and a missing left ear who traveled up and down Durandis seeking recruits for the Dux. Despite his intimidating appearance, he had a knack for finding recruits.

  “Sir Primus,” said Murcius. “These lads wish to swear to the Dux’s service.”

  “Very good, Optio,” said Primus, turning his sternest look upon the recruits. “The Dux of Durandis charged with defending both his lands and the realm of Andomhaim from all enemies. Every man of Andomhaim is called to serve in times of campaign, but the dangers around us require the Dux to maintain soldiers at all times. Only the worthiest men are permitted to serve as men-at-arms in Castra Durius, and over the next few weeks we shall see if you are worthy.”

  I listened with half an ear as Primus continued his oration, his Latin soaring to formal heights he rarely used in everyday speech. While he talked, I looked over the recruits. I thought perhaps I could turn half of them into men-at-arms. The recruits would have differing motivations for coming here. Some of them wanted to serve and defend Durandis. Likely some of them wanted to get away from their families’ freeholds, or just their families. Others might have lost kinsmen to the Mhorites and wished to avenge them.

  �
�This is Optio Camorak,” said Primus, gesturing at me, and I turned my full attention back to the Decurion. “You already know Optio Murcius. Optio Camorak will take charge of your training, and Optio Murcius will assist him. For the next two months, as far as you are concerned Optio Camorak speaks with the voice of the Dux, the High King, and the Dominus Christus himself. Am I understood?”

  Some of the men murmured their assent.

  “Am I understood?” boomed Sir Primus, using his field voice.

  The young men answered more enthusiastically this time.

  “Optio, be about your work,” said Primus. I bowed to him, and the knight strode off, leaving twenty young men watching me with trepidation.

  I set about justifying their discomfort.

  I had been a man-at-arms for twelve years, ever since I had joined the Dux’s service at fifteen, and when I had first joined I had hated my training and had thought my Optio a cruel tyrant. Later I realized that his training had saved my life again and again. In battle, following orders and knowing how to use your weapons was the margin between life and death, and discipline offered the men of Durandis an edge over the savage orcs of Kothluusk or bands of kobolds raiding from the Deeps.

  I was going to teach the recruits to fight and survive, whether they liked it or not.

  The first day we spent getting them to march in an orderly fashion. Whenever they failed, I made them run a lap around the courtyard, and then we tried again. Bit by bit they started to get it through their heads. The day after that the castra’s master of arms Sir Corlust joined us and began instructing the recruits in the use of sword and spear and mace and javelin and shield, showing them the proper way to hold the weapons and the correct way to catch a blow upon a shield. The next day, in addition to the other drills the master of horses began to teach them to ride. Knights had their own horses and provided their own weapons, but the men-at-arms used weapons from the Dux’s armories and rode the Dux’s horses into battle when necessary. The recruits also learned to clean and maintain their weapons and armor and how to care for the horses.

  The exercises and training had been done this way for centuries. Back on Old Earth, in the Empire of the Romans, there had been a man named Vegetius, and he had written a book called “Concerning Military Matters.” Malahan Pendragon and the other survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm had brought the book with them. I knew how to read (which was one of the reasons I had become an Optio), and so had read the book. The Romans had trained their legions this way, and they had conquered most of Old Earth, so the men of Andomhaim followed suit.

  “You might hate this now, lads,” I said as they went through their spear and shield drills, Sir Corlust calling out the movements. I scowled at a man holding his spear wrong, grabbed his hands, and adjusted his grip. “But in battle there is no time to think, and what you learn now will save your life. As Vegetius wrote, ‘A handful of men, inured to war, proceed to certain victory, while on the contrary numerous armies of raw and undisciplined troops are but multitudes of men dragged to slaughter.’”

  I remembered my old Optio quoting Vegetius at me when I had been a recruit, and I had hated the stern old bastard for it. Likely the recruits hated me now for it.

  But my old Optio had been right to do it.

  I observed the recruits as I shouted orders. In every group of ten men, I have found, there are six competent men who are content to obey orders, one sluggard, one troublemaker, and two natural leaders. Our new recruits followed the pattern. We had troublemakers – one lad decided he didn’t feel like checking his horse’s hooves for stones, and when I pressed him, he tried to punch me. He made a botch of it, and I gave him a sound thrashing. After that I had him flogged, and he was dismissed from the Dux’s service.

  The other troublemakers fell in line after that. A salutary example can work wonders.

  After the first week I thought most of them would eventually make solid men-at-arms. Sir Primus would have to dismiss a few of them – one lad was too nearsighted to do anything right, but had the wits to make a good clerk, and if another ever held a real sword he would slice his own damn foot off. A few of them were natural leaders. They could keep their heads, and the other recruits began to look to them for guidance. Likely Sir Primus would make a few of them into Tessarios, the leaders of ten men each, and some of them would become Optios or even Decurions in time.

  One recruit, though, was exceptional.

  His name was Romilius, and he looked like a rural young man from a prosperous freehold, strong and well-fed. He was an orphan from the village of St. Matthew to the south, and he had been raised by the monks of the village’s monastery. The lad was pious enough to become a monk, but his nature was too vigorous for a contemplative life. He took to weapons like a fish to the waters, and he had the potential to become one of the best swordsmen I had ever seen. That sort of aptitude could have turned the other recruits against him, but the boy had the unusual gift of humility. There was no arrogance to him, and the other recruits seemed to like him, even the troublemakers.

  I liked him, too. I was the Optio, and I had to make sure not to show favorites, so I gave him as much work as the others.

  The headaches made that easy.

  I didn’t drink at all during the first week of training, but the damned headaches never went away. Sometimes it was only a dull throb behind my eyes. Sometimes it felt as if molten steel had been poured into my head and was sloshing around the inside of my skull. It was just as well that an Optio was supposed to be stern with the new recruits, because the headaches did not help my disposition.

  But we finished the first week of training, and then the next day was a day of rest.

  ###

  I got drunk that night.

  I had a ritual. I filled a waterskin with whiskey, climbed to one of the curtain wall’s watch towers, and sat and drank, gazing at the dark shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Sometimes I drank alone. Sometimes some of the other Optios or Tessarios joined me.

  Tonight, the Magistrius Mallister joined me.

  He was about fifty, thin and tough, his sun-darkened skin a contrast against the white robe of a Magistrius. Sometimes the Magistri put on airs, going on and on about how they were the masters of magic and the true custodians of the High King’s realm. Mallister, like me, had come from humble origins (his father had been a farrier, mine a tavern keeper), and he did not have the arrogance that marked some of the noble-born Magistri.

  And, by God, that man could hold his drink. You’d think a little wiry fellow like him would be under the table after the first cup, but I had never seen him anything more than slightly tipsy, no matter how much he drank. Maybe the Magistri had a spell to maintain sobriety.

  “Well, Camorak,” said Mallister, holding out his cup, “how are the new lads?”

  I grunted and poured from the waterskin. I was getting a bit dizzy, but my hands didn’t shake. “We’ll make soldiers of most of them yet. Couple of them will have to go.” I shook my head and took a drink. “They’re all so damned young.”

  Mallister raised his gray eyebrows. “You’re only twenty-seven. I’m fifty-two. How do you think I feel?”

  “They’re young,” I said. “I’m old. You’re ancient.”

  The Magistrius snorted. “High praise, indeed! If not for this excellent whiskey, I would take offense.” He watched the mountains for a moment. “Heard one of the recruits has a gift for swordplay.”

  “Romilius?” I said. “Lad’s a natural. He might even become a knight someday for valor in the field. Then I’ll be taking orders from him.” I drained off the rest of my cup, blinked at it, and then refilled it. “He’s not even uppity about it.”

  “Rare quality in a young man,” said Mallister.

  I shrugged. “Plenty of time for him to go bad. He’s young yet.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “What are you going to do tomorrow?” said Mallister.

  “Services at the chapel,” I
said. Best to set a good example for the recruits, but the thought of sitting through one of the priest’s interminable homilies with a hangover wasn’t a pleasant one. Not that God cared what happened to me. If he did, then…

  I took a long swallow to drown that thought.

  “Might walk down to the town,” I said. “Play some cards, throw some dice. I could use a new cloak. Winter’s coming on in a few months.”

  “The blacksmith’s daughter got married,” said Mallister. “He’s throwing a feast in a pavilion outside the walls. Half the town will likely attend. You ought to go as well, Camorak. Might do you some good.”

  I snorted. “Doubt that.”

  “Most of the unmarried women in the town will turn up,” said Mallister. “Might be one of them will catch your eye, or you’ll catch one of theirs…”

  “No,” I said at once.

  “It is not good for a man to be alone,” said Mallister.

  “Quoting the scriptures at me?” I said. “I thought you were a Magistrius, not a priest.”

  “The words are true regardless of who speaks them,” said Mallister. He sighed. “I do not think Judith would have wanted you to be alone the rest of your days.”

  “No,” I said. “I am a foul-tempered drunk. Is there some woman of the town you hate so much that you would inflict me upon her?”

  “You are an Optio in service to Dux Kors,” said Mallister without reproof, “who has served honorably for twelve years, who has defended the Dux’s lands from Mhorites and kobolds and deep orcs. To put it bluntly, you would be the sort of bachelor a mother would be delighted to introduce to her daughters.”

  “Widower, you mean,” I said, staring into my cup.

  “Yes, of course,” said Mallister. “I misspoke. Forgive me.”

  I shook my head. “I appreciate that you are trying to do something kind for me, but if you really want to help…”