Of Blood and Honor (4 page)

*    *    *

Candles fluttered in the medium-size council room. At the room’s center sat a large oak table, covered by an immense map that displayed the lands of Hearthglen down to the most minute detail. Six men were seated around the table, conversing amongst themselves. At the head of the table sat Tirion, who stared quietly at the section of map that indicated the woodlands surrounding the ruined tower. Lost in thought, Tirion was disinterested in his advisors’ idle conversation. He couldn’t tear his mind from the nagging question—who had saved him and led his horse home? He remembered clearly that the orc had saluted him when he allowed the creature a reprieve during their combat. Perhaps the brute had some semblance of honor after all, Tirion mused. No, it had to be a mistake. Orcs were vile and savage. Their kind knew nothing of civility or compassion, he reminded himself. But still, his heart told him that it was the orc who had saved him.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open to admit a tall, slender young man. Resplendent in his silver plate armor, with a deep green cloak flowing behind him, Barthilas looked every bit the crusading Paladin. Though he was nearly thirty years younger than Tirion, Barthilas held his oath as a Knight of the Silver Hand as sacred as the elder Paladin did. As always, Barthilas moved with a fluid grace, barely even acknowledging the presence of the other men in the room. Brash and somewhat pompous, Barthilas rarely went out of his way to acknowledge anyone who was not a Light-blessed Paladin.

Tirion stood and saluted the younger man as he entered.

“Greetings, Barthilas. I thank you for your healing. If not for you, I’d have gone on my way to join the Light,” Tirion said, rubbing his still sore ribs. Although his wounds had healed completely, his body was still tender. Barthilas shook his head dismissively and returned Tirion’s salute.

“It was nothing, milord. I did just as you would have done for me if the circumstances had been reversed,” Barthilas said confidently. “I dearly wish that it had been me facing that orc. If I had, its head would now adorn the keep’s battlements.” Tirion noticed a few of the advisors exchanging surprised glances. As was usually the case, the young Paladin’s enthusiasm bordered on impertinence. Tirion smiled at the young man with practiced patience. “Which, of course,” Barthilas continued, “is not to say that you couldn’t have defeated the brute yourself, milord.”

“Well, I’m sure you would have put the fear of the Alliance into it, at least, Barthilas. Just the same, for the time being, I don’t want any of you discussing this matter with anyone else. I’d rather not rile the citizenry until we have a better understanding of what we’re dealing with here,” Tirion said.

Barthilas nearly choked. “Milord, with respect, are you suggesting that we keep silent while the enemy creeps unhindered through our lands? We must scour the woods immediately! Every second we waste here could provide the orcs with enough time to—” Tirion cut him off.

“You are assuming that there are more orcs out there, Barthilas. I was there, and I saw none. I will not sound the call to arms before we’ve confirmed the facts. This is not the time to start jumping at shadows. We must remain calm and be vigilant.”

“Jumping at shadows? An orcish force somehow slips undetected into our lands, one of its members beats you to a pulp, and you want to remain calm? This is madness!” A few of the advisors gasped at the young man’s audacity, but Barthilas continued, unabated. “We should mobilize a hunting party right this instant!”

Tirion clenched his fists and tried to keep his voice even. The advisors, who had kept silent during their heated exchange, seemed incensed by Barthilas’ disrespectful rantings.

“You’ll watch your tone with me, boy. I am still governor of this province, and your direct superior as a Paladin. For so long as I am, we will do things the way
I
see fit. You are to stand down and remain within the keep’s grounds until I order you to do otherwise. Is that clear?” Tirion growled.

Barthilas was beside himself with rage. “I hope and pray to the Light that milord isn’t so shaken by his recent beating that he fears to do his clear duty.”

“That will be
enough,
Barthilas! You’ve gone too far!” one of the councilor’s shouted. Bristling with anger, Tirion stepped up to the young Paladin and looked him dead in the eye.

“You may leave my council room now,” he said to Barthilas.

The young Paladin choked back his rage and steadied himself. He calmed visibly. “Of course, milord,” he said in a strained voice. “I will await your orders eagerly.” With that he snapped a crisp salute and left the room.

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Tirion said grimly. Everyone seemed to sigh as the tension drained from the room. Tirion rubbed his eyes wearily and sat back down.

One of the advisors spoke. “Milord, he is brash, but he is a good man at heart. I’m sure he didn’t mean—”

“I know what he is. And I know what he meant. Barthilas has always been ruled by his passions. They’re what make him an exceptional Paladin. However, they also make him a liability in delicate situations,” Tirion stated. He felt tired, like an old man. “Once he calms down, he’ll come around. He always does.”

“But milord, what if he’s right? What if there are more orcs out there waiting to strike at us, and we sit here and do nothing?” the advisor asked.

Tirion ran his fingers over the spot on the map that indicated the broken tower. “Under no circumstances will I do
nothing,
old friend. I’ll take care of this matter myself.” Before they had a chance to argue the point further, he rose and walked toward the exit, leaving the advisors to stare at one another in confusion. “But on the off chance that he is right . . . may the Light help us all.”

Later that evening, Tirion sat alone in the keep’s spacious dining hall. His plate of food had gone cold, and he picked at it absently with his fork. He was thinking about the old orc again. Was it truly possible that the orc had saved his life? He would have to find out soon. If Barthilas was right, then everything he’d worked for could come crashing down at any moment.

Behind him he heard a quiet scuffling of small feet. Looking around, he saw sleepy-eyed Taelan emerging from the adjoining sitting room.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, young man?” he asked. The boy crawled into his lap and looked up at him in awe. Tirion smiled at his son, thinking how much the boy resembled his mother. Sandy blond hair. Big blue eyes. He was certainly a sweet, innocent child, Tirion thought.

“Did the green men come back again, Poppa?” Taelan asked. Tirion nodded and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Yes. But you don’t need to worry, son. You’ll be safe enough here in the keep.”

“Are you going to fight the green men, Poppa?” the boy asked. Tirion’s brow creased.

“I don’t know yet, son. I just don’t know.”

A  Warrior’s  Tale

T
irion woke early the next morning. Slipping out of bed so as not to wake Karandra, he dressed and made his way down to his personal ready room. There, displayed upon an ornate stand near the darkened room’s center, was his armor. The heavy silver plates with their gold lining shone brightly in the early morning light, despite the numerous gouges and dents that covered them.
Scars of battle,
he thought warily. Any one of the deep gouges could have signified a fatal wound, had he been a less cautious man over the years. He hoped silently that his luck would hold out with whatever troubles were coming.

As quietly as he could, he slipped the armor plates on one at a time and buckled them into place. Once finished, he stood in front of a full-length mirror and looked himself over. He looked much the same as he always had, despite a few more gray hairs framing his tired face. He marveled at how well the heavy suit still fit after all these years. He had to admit to feeling a certain indestructibility every time he wore the armor. Yet that was a young man’s notion. No one was invincible.
No one lived forever,
he thought grimly.

Walking over to the stone fireplace set into the far wall, Tirion reached out for his trusty warhammer, which rested on the oak mantel above. The expertly weighted hammer felt good in his hands. The holy runes etched in its head shone as brightly as they ever had.

“With any luck, I won’t need your strength today, old friend,” he muttered. He tucked the hammer under his arm and strode down toward the keep’s stables.

*    *    *

The sun was just breaking over the distant Alterac peaks as Tirion finished saddling Mirador. He slung the hammer into its saddle-hoop and made ready to mount the seasoned warhorse. He put his foot in the stirrup and grunted in pain. His ribs still ached, and the heavy armor made it difficult for him to pull his own weight up.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” a suspicious voice asked from the stable’s dark entryway. Tirion took his foot from the stirrup and turned to face Arden. The captain of the guard’s face was stern and etched with concern.

“I am going to investigate the tower’s ruins. If the orcs are planning an invasion of my land, then I’ll find proof of it myself,” Tirion said flatly.

Arden nodded. “Great. Then I’ll saddle up and go with you.”

“I do not wish to have company. This is something I must do alone, Arden,” Tirion said. There was iron in his voice, and the captain’s concern grew more apparent.

“I don’t like this, Tirion. What exactly are you trying to prove? Heading off unescorted so soon after your—”

Tirion cut him off. “My what, Arden? My defeat?” Tirion asked heatedly. Arden lowered his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. Tirion mounted the horse, exhaled deeply, and curtly said, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to keep an eye on Barthilas while I’m gone. I have a feeling he’ll try to stir up trouble.” He dug his spurs into Mirador’s sides and sped out toward the distant tree line.

With growing unease, Arden watched his lord gallop away into the distance. Somehow he knew that Tirion wasn’t telling him everything.

*    *    *

Finding his way back to the ruined tower wasn’t as easy a task as Tirion had thought it would be. It took him hours to wind his way back up the mountain trail. The morning fog still clung to the ground along the winding path, but he could still make out the tower’s broken frame through the trees. As he neared it, he slowed to an easy canter, attuned to any sounds of danger.
This is not a wise move,
he thought—approaching his enemy’s encampment without so much as a squire to aid him. His horse’s heavy barding and his own flashing armor were enough to announce his presence to anyone for miles around.
Need to be more cautious,
he thought. After all, there was still a good chance that the orc had not been alone when he encountered it. Yet something in his gut told him that this was not the case. Something deep inside told him that he had nothing to fear. Throwing caution to the wind, Tirion rode boldly up to the tower’s base and dismounted. Looking up, he could see where the once mighty walls had collapsed inward. The structural damage to the tower was extensive, and he wondered fleetingly how he could have survived the disaster at all. He looked about the place for any sign of the orc. He saw none. The tower looked deserted.

A low, guttural grunt caught his attention and he turned to see the orc sitting on a large rock near the tree line. The creature seemed calm and poised, but its great battle-ax leaned nearby within easy reach.
So the creature, too, was cautious,
Tirion thought to himself. The proud Paladin removed his helmet and set it on the pommel of Mirador’s saddle. The great horse snorted loudly, sensing its master’s tension. From the corner of his eye, Tirion caught sight of the warhammer strapped to the saddle and reached for its handle. Immediately, the orc grabbed for his ax. Tirion quickly pulled his hand away and took a step back from the horse. The orc grunted softly and relaxed. It grinned at him knowingly. Tirion took a deep breath and then walked slowly toward the orc.

As he walked forward, he realized that he could have been sorely mistaken about the old orc. Perhaps the creature did intend to kill him after all. Maybe someone else had miraculously saved him from the tower’s wreckage. Maybe. But he had to know for sure, one way or another. Stopping only a few paces from where the orc sat, Tirion raised his fist to his heart in salute.
That had been the orc’s salute, right?
In return, the orc raised a stiff hand to his own grizzled brow.

“That is how you humans do it, is it not?” the orc asked in fluid speech. Its voice was deep and gritty, but its articulation was exceptional. Tirion was dumbfounded, his shock evident on his face. The orc’s hideous features contorted in what Tirion surmised was a grin.

“You . . . you speak our language?” Tirion asked shakily.

The old orc eyed him sternly. “Do you think my people survived in your world this long using brute strength alone?” it asked. “Your kind has always underestimated mine. That is why you lost the first war, I think.”

Tirion could only marvel at the creature. Here sat a thing of darkness—a vile, murdering beast. And yet, it spoke with fluidity and wit. This creature did not rush to tear out his heart, as he would have expected. It merely sat, reading him with its clever, knowing eyes. Tirion shuddered, feeling fascinated and repulsed at the same time. Without thinking, he blurted out the question he had been asking himself ceaselessly: “I must know. Did you pull me from the tower and lead my horse back to the road?”

The old orc held him in his gaze for a long while and then nodded once. “I did,” it said.

Tirion exhaled sharply. “Why would you do that?” he asked. “We are sworn enemies.”

The orc seemed to consider the point for a moment. “You have great honor, for a human. That much was clear from our fight. No honorable warrior deserves to die like a trapped animal. It would not have been right to simply leave you there,” the orc finished. Tirion didn’t know exactly what he had expected to hear, but he was clearly unprepared for that answer. “Besides,” the orc continued, “I have seen enough death in my time.”