Chapter 37: Surprising Son (Esrahaddon Cut Scene #7)

IMPERIAL CAPITAL OF PERCEPLIQUIS, SUMMERSRULE EVE, 2112 IR

Jerish knocked on the door to Master Rawlings room again and waited.

Brizen, one of the new boys, walked by. Hair a mess, tunic swallowing him, the kid looked toddler-young, none too happy either. He stared at Jerish and gave several glances over his shoulder as he continued down the corridor. This was the third time Brizen had passed by.

“Brizen?” Jerish called and the boy froze.

“Yes, sir?”

Jerish smiled. “I’m not a Master, Brizen. You don’t call me, sir. I’m Jerish.”

“Oh, I know who you are, sir. You’re a legend.”

This was news to Jerish. After eight years at the Academy he’d done nothing notable except fight respectably in the tournaments, and at age fifteen he still hadn’t reached the top of the leaderboard. “What makes you say that?”

“First ever to defeat five challengers in a row, first ever to reach the rank of ninth by the age of ten. First ever in the history of the Academy to fight in a real duel, and you did it at age twelve beating Darius Seret who was fifteen. And everyone knows you’d be at the top of the board if they let you fight live blades. You’ve already beat the top three. Gareth, Easton, and Darius wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

Jerish looked at Master Rawlings door that remained stubbornly closed, and hoped the master was in there and hearing this.

“You’re assured of taking top next year.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, no perhaps about it. You will. Everyone knows you’re the best Teshlor that’s ever been trained here.”

Jerish laughed, then he pointed to the banners hanging over head. “That’s a lot of people, and a bit premature, don’t you think? I’m not even a Teshlor. And look whose up there.” He pointed at the green banner. “Kolby Fiske, knight of the First Order, bodyguard to Princess Farilane who defended her against a cohort of rebellious legionnaires. And over there, is Humbolt Segalas who took charge of the 8th Grygorian Legion and saved Urlineus from invasion. Defeating Darius Seret in a duel doesn’t quite measure up.”

“That’s only because you haven’t had a chance yet. You’ll be bigger than all of them one day. And I’ll be able to say I spoke to you once.”

“Is that why you’ve been by here so often? Hoping to speak to me?”

“Not really.” The boy frowned, looking embarrassed. “You see I only just started here. Don’t really know my way. Keep getting lost.”

“How old?”

“I’m seven, sir.”

I was seven when I first arrived. Was I really this small?

“Anyway,” Brizen went on. “I don’t know where the ah…” he bit his lip.

“Say no more, follow me.” With a last look at the still closed door, Jerish led Brizen to the lavatory.

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“Master Lynch!” Jerish called, catching the attention of the Master at Arms as he walked through the Entrance Hall traveling from the west to the east wing. Jerish had lain in wait for the past hour hoping to catch him when he headed to the Slop Shop for the midday meal. Seeing the speed at which he walked, Jerish almost reconsidered. Lynch seemed in a hurry, but then the man always appeared that way.

Lynch looked over but barely slowed and Jerish was forced to trot alongside.

“We’re only a couple days away now and I was hoping to speak to you about lifting the requirements on live blades for fifteen year olds in the Summersrule Tournament. I’ve heard the rule can be waved by an endorsement of a master, as in the case of Gaylord Sire. And I know that I should go to Master Rawlings about this, as I’m certain he would sanction me, but I’ve tried to speak to him several times now and Master Rawlings doesn’t appear to be in his office.”

Lynch stopped. “No—no, he’s not.” Meeting Jerish’s eyes Lynch licked his lips. “I’ll bring it up at the next tournament meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Jerish watched Lynch disappear into the labyrinth of hallways realizing nothing would be done.

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When Jerish reached the Slop Shop the place was bursting. A crowd had formed around the back wall near the leaderboard where a man dressed in a uniform with a dragon emblem, and adorned with three swords stood on a table addressing the gathered crowd of boys.

Spencer Engleton had returned.

Jerish’s one time orientation guide, had graduated two years before, and no one had heard a word about him since. Everyone knew he made knight, but not much more as he was sent on circuit.

“Well, let me tell you,” Spencer replied to a question Jerish was too late to the party to hear. “It’s freezing up there in Hinterlandia. And talk about barbaric, they ignore most to the imperial laws. They actually have slaves up there! We keep trying to stop it, but the old clans are barely human. With them it’s a culture thing—the Old Way as they call it. Well, let me tell you, the Old Way treats dwarves and women like animals. Here I thought I’d be living it up in sunny Bel Bay, but Third Orders don’t get the posh routes. In a few years I might work my way up to someplace nicer, but for the foreseeable future it’s all snow, horns, and furs for me. But I must say the women do their best to to keep you warm at night.”

Jerish looked around but didn’t see Lynch anywhere, which he thought strange. Where else would he be at this time? As he stood in the middle of the dining hall Jerish realized he didn’t see any of the masters. Their table remained vacant.

“Do you have a partner?” Gareth asked. He was up front holding a mug of something. A lot of them did as if they had just been toasting the return of a hero, which they were.

A big grin appeared on Spencer’s face. “Oh yeah, the masters prepare you for any crisis, but they don’t train you for meeting a cenzar, much less working with one.”

“What are they like?”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Annoying. Basically they’re full of themselves—and a few other things, if you follow me.” He winked, displaying that same amiable smile. “They always assume they’re the smartest in the room, and see us as idiots. That’s what they teach them over there on the other side of the plaza, that we’re all drunken, violent, morons that like kicking puppies and spitting on children. So, in addition to undermining imperial traditions and honorable values the bast-zards”—he grinned— “brainwash their new recruits into believing that Teshlors are inbred ogres. Honestly, I never met one that thought we were worth the time of talking to—no, not that’s not true—we aren’t worth listening to because they believed they already know what we’re going to say. That’s just it. They believe they know everything, convinced that they understand better than you what you’re thinking.” He shook his head. “Had this one guy tell me that I was the problem with the empire.”

“There’s a problem with the empire?” Gareth asked, and laughed.

“Exactly,” Spencer nodded.

“You personally, or Teshlors in general?” Easton asked.

“No idea, the idiot was too absurd to bother with. I just walked away. That’s what you have to do, just back away slow, like you would with a rabid raccoon that also happens to be the imperial pet.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I heard they want to do away with the Church of Novron, is that true?” Easton asked.

“Course it’s true,” Darius Seret answered for him. “All cenzars hate Novron. They see themselves as gods, so what use do they have for Novron.”

“I heard they worship Ferrol,” Erament, one of the fourth years said. “The Cenzarium is the old temple to Ferrol, you know.”

“But if the bast-zards think their gods, why would they worship the elven god?” Gareth asked.

“Because they love elves, of course,” Darius replied. “They want to be elves. That’s why they dress in those robes—that’s why they use magic.”

“Is that true?” Gareth asked Spencer.

The returning grad had taken advantage of the internal debate to take a bite of muffin and was still chewing. He brushed the crumbs off his emblem. “I don’t know about that…well, maybe. Sebastian didn’t seem too pious. He’s the cenzar I got paired with. Never saw him pray or anything, but we didn’t talk about elves. So I don’t know. Maybe.” He took another bite of muffin.

Jerish found all the talk about worship odd as he’d never seen any of them pray. Few ever went to church, and while they all learned not to insult the name of Novron in his presence, he was pretty sure they still did.

“What’s it like being a real knight?” Tucky asked.

Spencer grinned. “Nice. You get this wicked tattoo, and you get to meet the emperor—you actually talk to him.”

“Really? What’d he say?”

Spencer shrugged. “Nothing too profound, and it’s not like he’s having a beer with you. I mean he’s the ruler of the world so he’s busy, right. But…” Spencer paused staring off at the rafters. “He really does talk to you. He asked me about myself, about my family, where I came from, what I wanted to do. Shows that he cares, you know, makes you feel good—makes you feel proud to serve him.”

“I heard the emperor was being held prisoner,” Darius said. “Being manipulated, enchanted by the cenzars to do what the elves want. You see anything like that?”

Spencer shook his head. “He seemed fine to me.”

“Magic, though,” Darius said. “No one knows how it works. Emperor probably has to look normal or people would have caught on by now.”

“Lets see the tattoo!” Erament shouted.

Several others joined him, but Spencer shook his head. “Sorry, imperial secret there boys. Can’t be showing it off. If I did, I’d have to kill all of you after.” He didn’t grin, not even a tiny smile and the crowd grew quiet wondering if he was kidding or not.

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The Summersrule Tournament that year was miserable. Unseasonably cold, it had rained for three days straight and showed no sign of letting up. The field was a muddy mess. Few were in the stands. Most gathered around the refreshment table that had grown over the years to include treats such as fired pig’s ears, and boiled bull testicles, which always resulted in tournament day dares.

Jerish hadn’t heard anything on his proposal and assumed it had been ignored, or forgotten. Over the intervening days, he continued to seek Master Rawlings, but failed to find him, leading Jerish to the conclusion the master was avoiding the issue. Assuming nothing would change, Jerish fought all the boys in his blunt-blade division, dispatching them effortlessly. Most who faced him had lost bouts with him for the last two years and none held out any hope of victory.

When he finally pulled Tucky up out of the mud he’d just dropped him in, Jerish, assumed he was once more done with the tournament. He hooked the old practice blade on the rack and started toward the stands to sit in the rain and watch Easton fight Gareth in the semi-final.

“Where are you going?” Ipstich asked. The master was soaked through, as were all those on the field, but he alone had rain splashing off his bald head.

“I’m done,” Jerish replied.

“Not if you have a sharp sword.”

“Really?”

Ipstich narrowed his eyes.

“Sorry—of course you meant it. Yes, I have sharp blades.”

“Get them. And be quick. I’d like to get out of this infernal downpour.”

Jerish raced to the stands and pulled the belt of swords Rawlings had gifted him years before. He looked around for the master as he belted them on. Every year Rawlings sat in the same place, but he was missing.

Returning to the field Jerish faced Easton, who waited for him with a frown.

“You again,” he said. “Great. Just don’t cut me. I have to look pretty for the ladies who will console me afterward.”

Having completed all the Teshlor disciplines short of the Gorian Gar, they each fought with two swords, the short and the bastard. As expected, Jerish won the match in record time, moved on to Gareth and did the same. Darius, the reigning leaderboard champ was next, but before he stepped into the ring, Master Lynch interrupted.

He crossed the soaked field in his usual fast march shouting for attention.

Everyone stopped and moved in as Lynch waved for them to gather at the foot of the stands. Then Lynch stepped up two levels and waited for everyone to assemble.

“I need to announce that Master Rawlings…” he paused, cleared his throat, and looked up into the rain. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat again. “I regret to inform you, that Master Rawlings has died.” This unleashed a quiet rumbling among everyone present, that Lynch was forced—with some difficulty—to raise his voice over. “As you may know, Master Rawlings was sick these past weeks. He has been suffering in isolation from an illness and today—just a few moments ago—he passed. I will let you know when services will be held.”

With that Master Lynch stepped down and just as quickly marched away.

The entirety of the school, a field of boys stood in the rain staring after him. No one said anything. For a handful of minutes faces did all the talking with each asking the same questions. “I don’t understand.”

Finally they found their voices.

“What just happened?” Sigur said.

“How can Master Rawlings be dead?” Easton asked

“Take your seats, boy,” Ipstich said gently. “We’re not done here yet.”

Slowly the boys found seats on the benches, but their eyes showed they were all far away.

Darius entered to the circle with blades drawn.

Jerish looked up, rain spilling down his face, but he didn’t move except to stare at the vacant space on the left end of the first bench. No one had dared take that spot.

“Jerish?” Master Ipstich called. “Com’on lad. Let’s finish this up.”

Jerish felt the handles of the two blades at his hips, but otherwise didn’t move.

Master Rawlings had seen every match Jerish had ever fought, even those first few that no one else cared about. With feet on the grass, leaning forward, the master had seen them all—all the ones that mattered.

“Jerish?”

He turned, faced Master Ipstich and Darius.

“I forfeit.”

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Later that night it was still raining when Jerish was called to Master Rawlings room, now Lynch’s office. With the passing of Rawlings, Lynch served as acting Martial Master. Jerish expected to face a scolding for his behavior in the tournament. The masters were always going on about fighting in the face of unexpected adversity. No setback could stop a Teshlor. Not ice on a balance beam, not pouring rain on tournament day, not the unexpected death of a…friend.

Jerish wiped his eyes clear before knocking.

“Come in,” Lynch said.

Jerish opened the door to see the same old room. It hadn’t changed except for the person behind the desk.

“Close the door, Jerish.”

He did, then stood straight and waited for the reprimand.

“You forfeited yesterday,” Lynch said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You insisted on being allowed to compete for first place, then walked away. Why?”

Jerish looked down at the floor feeling like he was being tortured. “Master Rawlings had seen every competition I’d been in. Didn’t seem right that he…that he wouldn’t be able to see me take the top. I guess…I suppose I just I didn’t care about…” He sniffled and wiped his eyes again. “It didn’t seem so important to see my name at the top anymore. So, I’m sorry if I disappointed you for not stepping up and fighting through the misfortune, but honestly, sir, I couldn’t care less.”

Lynch nodded, and stood up. He turned to the hearth and pointed at the sword on the mantle. “Do you know what this is?”

“Master Rawling’s great sword. Used to be Jerel De Mardefeld’s ages ago.”

“Yes. It is a spadone, believed to be the first ever of its design. It was crafted for one of the two founding fathers of the Teshlor Guild. They were Amicus Killian and Jerel De Mardefeld. The first was known for his martial skill, for having preserved the fighting disciplines originated during the Great War. The second for creating the Knightly Virtues, the code of honor that we teach here, that must go hand-in-hand with the skills in order to prevent Teshlors from becoming a force of evil in the world.” Lynch lifted the great weapon off the mantle. “This sword, Jerish, was Master Rawling’s most prized possession. If this guild burned to the ground he would have run through the flames to rescue it, and it alone.”

Lynch held out the blade. “He asked me to give it to you.”

Jerish stared at it stunned. “I don’t understand.”

“In his day, Morgan Rawlings was a great knight, but he wasn’t like Gaylord Sire. His greatest feats were not won with a sword. Rather his victories were attained by virtue of his dedication to uncompromising ideals, personal integrity, and an unassailable reputation for honesty, fairness, and wisdom. It is for this reason the emperor honored him with De Mardefeld’s sword. A most appropriate reward for a life time of impeccable service. Having finished his time in active duty, Master Rawlings could have done anything. He could have been a governor, a magistrate, had a seat on the Imperial Council, or retired to a comfortable life in a wealthy villa in wine country, but instead he chose to come here and teaching hapless boys how to swing sticks. I used to wonder about that, but I think I figured it out. You see Master Rawlings never had a son. He married only once, and both she and the infant died in childbirth. So you see, I think this post was a way for him to raise the sons he never had, only none of them ever lived up to his brutal standards, none ever surprised him. The day you faced Darius Seret in the corridor, the time he nearly killed you…I saw it then. You surprised him. And while you might not have realized it, from that day on, Morgan Rawlings had a son—a son he was very proud of, or did you think he gives his side swords to just anyone?”

Lynch placed the spadone in Jerish’s hands. “And, Jerish, I think he would have been very proud of you today. Giving up glory to honor the memory of a man is the very thing Morgan’s hero, Jerel De Mardefeld, would have done. Yes, Jerish, I think you made your father very proud this afternoon—very proud indeed.”