Is he? Have you really got over being a self-serving coward? Might be a bit soon to start patting yourself on the back just yet, Ryder.
He sat amongst the rest of the lads as they polished swords and lacquered shields. They chatted about the previous night as though it happened every week. As though putting themselves in peril were just another part of life. Some laughed, comparing their kills. Some went into graphic detail about how they’d slit a Khurta’s throat or pierced a groin or hacked off a limb. Their chatter was casual, light-hearted, as though they were bragging about winning a hand of cards. Merrick listened long enough for it to seem almost normal. He was about to laugh along with a big knight named Garnar as he talked about how he’d crushed a Khurta’s throat with the edge of his shield when he glanced over to the other side of the courtyard.
Lying in a row, hidden beneath the pennants of the Wyvern Guard, were their dead. Of the three hundred who had fought on the previous night, thirty-eight of them were now corpses. Merrick had got to know some of those men in his short time amongst their number. Terryl had made him laugh on more than one occasion. Barsa had in turn laughed at Merrick’s shit jokes louder and longer than most. Now they were dead, but the rest of their brothers didn’t seem to think on it too much.
They’d laid their fallen out solemnly enough the night before. Bowed their heads as the Lord Marshal had said his words about ‘brotherhood’ and how their dead were now safe in Arlor’s embrace. But now it was like they were all but forgotten. Just lying there in the cold morning, waiting for someone to come and bury them.
Merrick couldn’t have given two shits whether Arlor wanted to give him a hug or not when he died. When his time came he was damn sure he wanted more than to be laid out in a cold courtyard and covered with a fucking flag. He wanted weeping maidens and a funeral procession strewn with fresh flowers and not a little gold.
You can want all you like, Ryder. You’ll be lucky to get a hole deep enough to fit you in.
With that dour thought in his head, Merrick went back to polishing his armour, trying desperately to take his mind from the prospect of an early, and undoubtedly gruesome, death. He tried to think back to the night before, to the camaraderie, to the elation of victory as the Khurtas had fled. Deep down, though, he knew they’d be back, and soon. Knew that there were tens of thousands of the bastards, and less than three hundred Wyvern Guard. Thirty-eight gone last night. How many tonight? And how long until it was his turn?
A cry went up from the barrack room they’d converted into an infirmary. As well as the dead they had over three dozen injured. Most were walking wounded, minor cuts and bruises, but the rest would be lucky to walk or raise a sword again.
Merrick reckoned that would probably be worse than dying — wandering around as a cripple for the rest of your days, no use to man or beast. He doubted the Wyvern Guard suffered any hangers-on in their number either. They were a brotherhood, and no mistake, but a ruthless and brutal one. They would fight for each other, die for each other, but weakness certainly wasn’t tolerated in any form from what Merrick had seen.
He could only hope his luck would hold and he’d survive with everything intact, or die a swift and glorious death. It would definitely be the former if he had any say in it.
As he continued to buff his breastplate a figure silently entered the courtyard. No one seemed to notice the red-robed old woman as she made her way across the training square; everyone continued their laughter and not one of the Wyvern Guard even so much as glanced in her direction. It was like she was invisible to all but Merrick.
When she reached the centre of the courtyard, he suddenly felt a pull in his chest, right where his wound was. That wound, the one that should have killed him but a few short days ago, seemed to recognise the old woman, even if Merrick didn’t. He lifted a hand to his shirt, expecting to feel it sodden with blood, but it was still healed over.
Merrick stared at her as she continued across the square. Before she reached the other side, Lord Marshal Tannick walked out from beneath the eaves of a building to greet her.
The two regarded one another with familiarity, though Tannick seemed a little wary. The words they exchanged were brief, with Tannick nodding and shaking his head while the old woman spoke. All the while the pain in Merrick’s chest seemed to intensify, burning a little as though the blade were still sticking in him and starting to glow with heat. After a final solemn nod from Tannick, the old woman turned. As she did so she fixed Merrick with a look he couldn’t read. There was something about her he recognised, but from where it was he had no idea. It was like he’d dreamt about her and the memory of it still haunted him at the periphery of his thoughts.
She made her way back across the courtyard, still fixing him with that look, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly as though she were somehow relishing his discomfort. Merrick grimaced at the pain now, fighting back the urge to cry out.
As the old woman almost made it to the archway leading from the courtyard, she stopped. Sweat had beaded on Merrick’s forehead now, and he was filled with sudden dread and panic.
The woman in red lifted a gloved finger to her lips. As quick as it had started, the pain in Merrick’s wound subsided, and he let out a sharp exhalation.
With that, the woman was gone.
While Merrick’s eyes were locked on the archway from the courtyard, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see his father standing there, face stern as ever.
‘I’d have words,’ said the Lord Marshal, before marching off back to his quarters.
Merrick glanced around, bewildered. Still no one had noticed the old woman or Merrick’s discomfort. They simply carried on with their bragging and polishing. He stood gingerly and followed his father across the courtyard. Though the pain in his chest had abated, Merrick’s legs were still unsteady, the beads of sweat on his head now cooling in the morning air.
‘There’s a mission,’ said Tannick, once they were both within the confines of his chamber. ‘And it’s a dangerous one.’ Here it comes, Ryder. A chance to prove yourself! ‘That’s why, when I ask for volunteers, you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
‘I’ll do what?’ Merrick asked.
‘You will stay silent, boy. I’ll not have you put in harm’s way.’
‘Harm’s way?’ Merrick could feel his hackles starting to rise. ‘What would you call last night? A gentle stroll in the evening air?’
‘You weren’t in any danger last night. I had my eye on you all the time.’
‘I don’t need-’
‘Regardless of your needs, boy, you’ll not be volunteering. Is that clear?’
Merrick had suffered about enough of this. His father had allowed him to join the Wyvern Guard, given him a chance at redemption, but all the while stopped him from showing his worth. If he hadn’t ridden out to save Cormach the foul bastard would be dead, and the defenders on the wall would never have seen the Wyvern Guard riding back victorious with their banner. And besides, he’d more than held his own on the wall last night. More than shown he was as good a blade as any other man there.
But what did he say to you yesterday, Ryder? Don’t disobey again, wasn’t it? Are you going to try it? Are you going to defy your father’s wishes a second time? Go on, give it a go. See what happens.
‘Clear as crystal,’ Merrick said, struggling to hide his disappointment.