Dishonour by Dee Carteri (best memoirs of all time .txt) 📖

armed and armoured men on horseback on even terrain. Near the centre of the loose group rode Sir Maceol, a middle aged knight cloaked in a muddied red cape embroidered with the emblem of Octania, a sword driven deep into an anvil with a single thornless rose wrapped about its hilt, commonly referred to as the Sword, the Soul, and the Strength. He always wore the cape as it was a symbol of his status as the Knight-Marshal of Octania, high commander of all the military operations of the kingdom. The kite shield strapped to the flanks of his roan was engraved with a complex coat-of-arms involving a farm, a stylized picture of Whiterift castle, a slain Wyvern and even a jester's mask. Having come from a family of commoners, there hadn't yet been generation after generation to smooth down and refine the livery to within the ever-present bounds of good taste. Maceol personally liked the design, and had paid the blacksmith extra for not trying to remove some of the odder aspects as so many others had done.

At his right, upon a white horse, rode Sir Rodul, Marshall of the Flaming Calvalry, commander of all the offensive forces of Octania, in rank only marginally below Maceol. He was equal in rank to the Marshall of the Silver Bows, who commanded all home garrisons, but greater in rank than such lesser marshals as the Marshall of the Warding Hands, who controlled the rangers that watched the roads of the kingdom. Nearing thirty years of age, his short blond hair was hidden beneath a mail coif wrapped protectively about his head. Even though they were hundreds of miles away from any who would wish them harm, he still insisted on wearing mail at all times. Some joked that he was afraid a stray arrow shot by a squirrel might strike him dead.

On his left rode Esquire Kay, the son of Duke Iaen of Yantsima. Duke Iaen, a hero from the Sybürmian war, personally trained Maceol. Maceol gratefully took Kay as a squire.

The only wagon in the small company bore Lieutenant Daken, still recovering from the horrific injuries he sustained at the hands of the Shadow worshippers. Only twenty-three autumns old, he was the youngest man in Octanian history to reach the rank of Lieutenant. In his nine years of military service to the Crown, his clever mind and swift sword had helped him rise to the prestigious position of commanding the Fist of Octania, the company of elites so experienced that they were often trusted with the defence not only of the Marshall, but also of the king when he went to war. In the last hundred years, they had only known defeat twice. Maceol still hadn't forgiven himself for being the Marshall who witnessed the second rout, although, truth be told, they were outnumbered perhaps eight to one and had no source of relief or support. To most eyes, it hadn't been so much a rout as a tactical withdrawal. Sir Daken was currently being tended to by Jylo, a rotund Seer assigned to the Fist in their recent campaigns. Maceol watched with fascination the Seer as he placed his hands above one of Daken's more prominent wounds and weaved his magik, despite the regularity of this event. Some flesh began to regrow, scabbing over in a flurry of supernatural regeneration as the magik willed the cut to mend. He had only recently began to heal the knife wounds, instead focusing on the cracked ribs he feared would pierce the young knight's organs if not tended to immediately. Maceol knew that Jylo was capable of mending all the wounds at once, but the Seer chose to conserve his power and recover during the homeward journey. When they first left, Jylo was so spent that he could barely stand up. Most of Daken's wounds had been inflicted a little over three weeks before, when he was captured by the enemy after leading six knights in a daring charge that killed four of their warlocks. Octanian scouts found him the next day, brutally beaten and crucified. Had the scouts arrived no more than two hours later, he would have been dead. Smiling slightly, Maceol thought of what Daken's wife would say when she heard. He hoped to be at least three leagues away.
They were now close to the mountains that separated Sybürmia and Octania. It would probably be one or two weeks before they reached Whiterift. They had left as soon as the summons came, bidding them return to Octania. The king was ill. Maceol remembered, when he was but a child, asking his father why they couldn't just take his mother, sick with the flu, to the Seers, those workers of miracles. His father had hardly left her bedside though Maceol knew she would get better. His older brother, Nansoneol, told him so. Even Anji the peddler said so. His father told Maceol that Seers could not directly kill anything, could only make new life, and thus could not kill the demons that caused such sickness. Maceol, only six autumns of age, looked up at his father and cheerfully said, "Well, it doesn't matter. Mama'll get better anyways, right?" Maceol never forgave Anji for lying to him.

Maceol's mind snapped back to the road. They whole procession moved in eerie silence. Each man there felt bonded to the king, and none now felt in the mood for the usual singing and storytelling common to traveling knights. Garek IX, the successor to the kingdom, was once a squire to Maceol, and he would be proud to see the lad upon the throne should his father not recover. Some people accused Garek IX and his cousin Nesel of being warlike and violent as they wanted to vastly expand the Octanian military. Garek knew, as Maceol did, that the war was necessary, that they couldn't leave the Westerlands to fend for themselves against the men from across the sea. Any soldier who served at the front knew that. Nesel and Garek simply wanted to give the knighthood the ability to drive the Shadow worshippers back to the Gaia-forsaken land from whence they came. The Marshall fervently hoped the they wouldn't back down.

The old man finished had reached the last few verses of his song.

Cyrindrel I challenge thee
As demons dance and angels sing
Let us fight for our destiny
Let us contest Heaven's key"

So did Ne'Motin decree
Upon the Plains of Destiny
To the lowly mortal knight
Who stood before the demon's might.

The man clutched the brilliant sword
Of Anariet, the Fiery Lord
This soldier fought with Ne'Motin
A lord of Netani's deadly sins.

The ground shook as fate clashed
As magic flowed and white blade slashed
Cyrindrel smote down the lord
Sealed his fate to the sword.

The audience of the old man, whose name was Kali, was mainly young children and a few men taking the day off, applauded. Most, of course, really did not understand anything about Ne'Motin, the dark lord of conquest, of whom the song was about. Most simply came to hear the music, played on an old lute by the still vigorous fingers of the elder. The older children came up and deposited various scraps of food in his basket. Some of the adults gave small bits of copper. The old man, a travelling minstrel who had hung up his boots long before in this quaint little village in the Marquisdom of Whiterift thanked each member fervently as the came to give their praise and payment for the song. This had become the aged minstrel's main source of sustenance, as his lack of current news usually meant that his old stories of times long gone did not draw large crowds of adults. He noted that many of the adolescents had left earlier, disinterested with the rather slow-moving ballad that, in their opinion, really contained much less violence than it ought to. He grunted in distaste. These people had no appreciation for the truly great deeds of the past, mostly wanting to hear about the tragic love affairs of the current nobility. In fact, the last minstrel through this town had drawn large crowds with a story of stolen pigs. He had barely been recognized for his sweeping epic about one the most powerful demons ever to defile the world. Pigs! The old man scoffed.

He once worked in the Hall of Kings, and as such learned all the old songs and stories. Nobles, at least, had an ear for greatness. The minstrel remembered singing tales of Cathin of Angelos and lost Ambur to the King Lesk VI in the great stone hall. The memory of the king standing to applaud him still brought tears to his eyes. The king let him stay in the castle for as long as he desired. He often walked about the castle marvelling as he remembered the great deeds that had been done before those walls.
Now he was singing tales to bored ears in a muddy square and pacing about the wattle walls of his filthy sunken hut.

After he had collected all the people would give, he said farewell with a flourish and walked inside. In the corner lay a disused wooden chest, beside his straw pallet. He went directly to the chest. This business about the king's illness was disturbing. He opened the chest and carefully removed an old unbound book, the pages simply stacked neatly in a quaint box. Very disturbing indeed. He removed the book, turning it over in his arms. His treasure.

Bishop Cigal sat in his study, poring over scrolls on various birds and beasts. He had always had an interest in lore of this kind, preferring the study of Gaia's subjects in their natural environment, free from sin or virtue, to the history of men and lands and great deeds. He owned almost thirty books on the subject, not to mention scores of smaller writings. Other Seers often criticized Cigal, as his extravagant taste for knowledge had cost his diocese almost thirty pounds of silver. However, he had never built castles or gathered armies, as other bishops sometimes did, and was on the whole considered a just and holy man, truly blessed by Gaia. He had a rather small diocese in Blackmoor, but was still in his early thirties, and had a promising career ahead of him. Cigal fancied he could become a Deacon's assistant, or even a Deacon, in his life.

The bishop looked about the small room, taken up almost entirely by shelves. A small window to his right let in a column of light that illuminated the surface of his desk. The small wooden desk was bare except for the scroll and a small oil lamp for those occasions where he stayed up to read long into the night, trying to drown his worries in a sea of simplistic knowledge. A shadow was cast by a lonely sparrow balancing on the edge of the windowsill, its head snapping to and fro like power in temple politics. Cigal focused briefly on the sill. Small tendrils of green grew and lengthened, binding together to create a stalk. Leaves budded and grew as roots stretched downwards. A single flower bloomed and withered. Cigal continued to focus on the plant, his eyes glowing green with magik. A cluster of seeds sprouted from the plant. The sparrow, surprised but delighted, grabbed several seeds and flew away. Cigal had never been proficient at magik, for while he had no trouble touching the essence of Gaia and drawing forth His power, he had never quite acquired the knack of shaping it into an effective form.

Ah, to be a bird. To be free of greed or generosity, of custom or tradition. To simply live for living's sake, as Gaia would have it.