(THOB) Chapter 80: A Promise That Cannot Be Made (Patreon)

Lord Bilvion was a difficult man to please. Apart from the men he brought with him from whatever part of the realm he came from, no one at the fort liked him. Every soldier regarded him with a moderate level of disdain however much concealed. Even his men often showed a hint of dislike. It was obvious the man had either proven his mettle to them in some way or he’d simply grown on them.

Bilvion stood at the head of the table, barely having spared the map on it so much as a glance. Despite his lack of significant age as was expected of all Lord Commanders, he carried himself with an air of confidence. He was roughly taller than Ezril and, beneath the uniform, he was clearly a man seasoned by the training and battles he had seen.

“The men will not be happy about this,” Teradin said. He was his second in command, easily old enough to be his father. Having come with the Lord Commander, he often acted like one.

Bilvion discarded the matter with a wave of his hand. “I am not here to give the soldiers happiness,” he said. “I am here to win a war. They are soldiers, and they will obey my commands.”

All the men in the room nodded in agreement, each man having been placed in their command by him.

Darvi and Ezril remained passive, neither opposing nor supporting the man’s decision. It had taken more than a month, but the scouts had finally found a Merdendi encampment with a large enough number that Bilvion believed it capable of turning the tides should they conquer it.

They had come across a few during Oddor’s command, and they knew Bilvion was privy to the information. But he was never one to listen. In the secrecy of the war room he had just condemned over a hundred men to their death. A sacrifice to win this war, his words repeated in Ezril’s mind.

A company of a hundred men was to attack an encampment of over four hundred Merdendis under the cover of night. When they have the encampments attention, the rest of them would swoop in from the flanks and cull the horde. The problem was Bilvion’s definition of gaining their attention. The man intended to wait for the plan to prove effective enough on the part of their distraction before they would engage.

“Any questions, Father Tenshaw?” Bilvion asked.

“No, My Lord,” Darvi replied, his tone flat. “My brothers and I will play our part.”

“Good.” His gaze slid over to Ezril before returning. “However,” he continued, “I still do not see the necessity for two priests. You are the leader of your group, I assume?”

“I am.”

“Then of what purpose is Father Antari's presence here?”

“He requires firsthand knowledge of whatever decisions are made.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it is essential.”

Bilvion cocked a brow. “Essential?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Darvi answered.

“Essential, how?”

“I cannot divulge that information.”

The Lord Commander studied him through narrowed eyes. “Cannot or will not.”

“Will not,” Darvi answered without pause.

“I see.” Bilvion mused. “Well, your secret matters not. This is my fort, and from today Father Antari has no business in the war room. You lead your brothers, and that is why you stay. He can hear the details from you after we are done.”

“Then my brothers and I will be returning to the Seminary at first light.”

A silence fell on the room and the men gazed at Darvi with mixed feelings of surprise and confusion. Bilvion, however, remained unfazed by Darvi’s words.

“You will be willing to explain to the Bishop how you broke his arrangement with the crown over a matter as petty as this?” he asked.

“Actually,” Darvi replied, unfazed either, “the question here is: will you be willing to explain to the king how you lost the support of the Seminary over a matter as petty as this?”

Bilvion paused.

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Father Antari can stay.”

“My thanks, My Lord,” Darvi replied, his voice betraying no emotion.

Not sure if he was mocking him or not, Bilvion turned his attention back to his captains. “We attack on the night of Nuratiff,” he announced. “That should give us more than enough time to prepare for what is to come.”

“Father Antari,” Bilvion said when the meeting came to its conclusion. “A word, if I may.”

Ezril ceased his exit. When they were alone, the Lord Commander continue. “Commander Vardil tells me that you are exceptional with a bow. Is this true?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Ezril answered, choosing to ignore the hint of condescension in Bilvion’s voice.

“And among the other priests you bear the title of First Bow.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Bilvion made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan. “I also hear you are responsible for the Wolf chained to the foot of my tower. That you sometimes grace the battle field with only your bow. That you are capable of killing three men from near six hundred paces with one arrow.”

“Some, true,” Ezril said. “Some, stories.”

“I see,” Bilvion mused, the condescension more vivid in his tone. “Are you aware that there are two types of men, Father Antari?” Ezril said nothing, and Bilvion continued. “The first are moved by what people think of them. The second, by what they think of themselves.” He made a dramatic pause. “Tell me, Father, which are you?”

“None.”

Bilvion’s brows furrowed in confusing. Clearly he had not expected a quick answer, and certainly not the one Ezril had given. “How do you mean?”

Ezril didn’t know what games the man was playing, and, in truth, he found it more Salem’s field. I doubt I’ll ever like you, Lord Bilvion… “… I mean I am neither moved by what people think of me nor by what I think of myself,” he said, instead. He turned to the exit. “Now, if I may, My Lord, you must excuse me. I’m late for a meeting with my brothers.”

Ezril took his leave without an answer, leaving Bilvion to his thoughts.

Sister Alanna was hunched over a soldier, applying an odd looking paste to his genitals when Ezril entered the infirmary. In the past month he had seen her less times than he had fingers on his hands. He knew she was more than annoyed by his relationship with Lenaria, especially her nightly visits.

After he was done with his brothers he had decided seeing her was long overdue.

He’d learned Alanna was offered by the convent to the fort as a healer. When he had been wracked by Titan blood and the church had heard of his body’s refusal to react to treatment, they had decided to send the best they could spare. It was the only reason they sent her, having been ordained with the recognition of being the best healer in her class, as she so nicely put it. Sadly, she, too, had been at a loss of ideas on how to handle his case.

Ezril recognized the man Alanna was treating. Flenton was a soldier who had come as a part of the king’s choice of reinforcements in the past two days. He had witnessed the man in a spar with one of the other soldiers one early morning and could say the man knew his way around a wooden sword.

Ezril cast his gaze across the infirmary. The patients were few, each having nothing too serious, from what he could tell, save one who had an arrow in his thigh.

“This one seems to have carried a good case of gonorrhea from across the realm,” Alanna said, applying the last of the paste when she noticed him. “Unfortunately, he has visited a few of the tavern girls at least twice since his arrival. Men; can’t seem to keep it in their pants.” The second part she said in a whisper.

Ezril nodded reflexively. “I see.” His gaze still scanned the room.

“Well, now a few of the soldiers have it, and I’m not sure when time can be made to visit the tavern girls. So, until then, I’ve informed the Lord Commander that his men should stay away from them till we’re done with them.” She spared him a brief glance. “I hope you’ll be alright.”

Ezril’s brows furrowed in confusion, somewhat unable to connect the two sentences. In the end he settled for a sound that was more a grunt than anything else.

“Ah, Father Antari.”

Ezril turned to find Nixarv exiting one of the inner rooms where he kept his grimmer patients. The old man strolled passed him, pausing for a quick survey of Alanna’s work.

“It’s good to see you again, Father,” the old doctor continued. “Although it has been a while. I was beginning to fear that your brush with death had made you averse to this place.”

Alanna looked at Nixarv, confused.

“Father Antari used to visit us quite frequently,” Nixarv added as he walked on to another patient. “It was like a daily routine, so to speak.” He raised the cloth covering the hand of the patient and his face scrunched up in disgust. “I don’t believe we can save this one, Sister. We may have to amputate.” The fear that colored the patient’s face was of no import to him. “I always did wonder, though,” he continued, sparing Ezril another glance. “What was the appeal? Was it the death?” he mused, “or the healing?”

Ezril remained quiet. He always came seeking men who knew they were but a hair’s breath away from death. Some took it with resolution. Some fought to stay alive. Some didn’t even know what was happening. There were those who cried, and begged, and died in pitiable fashion. All his days visiting and seeing them, and he still learned nothing of what he sought.

“I see.” The old man returned to his survey of his patients. “It is a truth you seek to keep to yourself.”

Alanna turned a questioning gaze on Ezril. Ignoring her, he answered. “Perhaps I have not figured out what it is, yet.”

“You can keep your secrets, Father,” Nixarv said blandly. “But do not lie to me. Unlike most men, I think you above it.”

Ezril bowed his head slightly. “My apologies…” … but you are very mistaken.

Nixarv bent over the man with the arrow in his thigh. In one swift motion, he pulled arrow from flesh. His hands moved quickly, replacing it firmly with a piece of clothing. “Someone will be with you soon enough,” he told the man.

Alanna finally spoke. “It is a sad thing,” she said.

“What is?” Ezril asked.

“The men,” she clarified. “There has been no battle in the past month, yet they keep coming in with injuries and the like. The infirmary remains as full as when there were battles.” She paused. “Perhaps fuller.”

Nixarv made a sound. It took Ezril a moment to remember that it was what the man sounded like when he chuckled. “It would seem you know very little about men, Sister Alanna,” he said. “All men remain boys at heart. Due to that, with nothing to do we are prone to careless and hazardous plays, and a fancy for the opposite sex. For they are the things men are born skilled in.” His gaze settled on another patient before he continued. “These men are soldiers; all they know is how to fight and lay with women.”

Ezril snorted. They do not know what a fight is.

“Yes, yes, Father Antari,” Nixarv snorted. “Fighting is a skill you excel at, and you do it better than these men.” His disappointment was obvious in his voice. “But they fuck better than you—” he eyed Ezril “—or at least they should. So I see no justification for your condescension.”

Ezril frowned, cowed but refusing to show it.

“Good.” Nixarv returned his attention to Alanna. “And that is why even in the absence of battles in a fort like this we have men with…” he gestured to the man freed from the arrow, “the dumbest injuries, and…” he turned their attention to Alanna’s patient, “men plagued by their sexual escapades.” He spared the room one last gaze. Certain that he was done, he made his return to the room he exited. “If anything comes up, you know where to find me, Sister Alanna.”

Ezril observed in silence as Alanna spent more time examining her patients. She was correct about the state of the infirmary. Despite the absence of any battles it remained as full as it was perhaps three days after one. Perhaps we truly need to find something to do with our time. Ezril thought as he observed Alanna work. But one thing remained: the quantity of the injured stood superior, but not the quality of the injuries. Fewer men would die in the infirmary today than those who would come in in a few days.

The appeal of the infirmary was lost to him now. He saw neither struggle nor pain. All that laid before him were men whining over trivial discomforts. It was not the infirmary he loved to visit. It would give him no answers to his question. Appalled, he pressed his lips in a thin line and waited.

“So, Father Antari,” Alanna turned to him, her examinations finished. “You wish to speak to me.”

“No.” Ezril shook his head. “Merely a visit.”

Alanna seemed confused. “I or the infirmary.”

Ezril considered his next words. “Perhaps a part of me wanted to visit the infirmary,” he said. “But more you than it.”

“Choosing to speak to me is strange enough,” she commented. “But choosing to visit me is out of the ordinary.” She studied him, then smiled. “Do you miss me, or are there still traces of Titan blood in your system?”

Ezril found he could do without the reminder. “Perhaps it is the blood,” he replied. Slightly angered, he turned to leave.

“I’m joking,” Alanna insisted, halting his exit. “A simple joke, Ezril. I’m glad you came to visit.” With a fond smile she added: “I almost forgot how difficult you are to deal with.”

And I almost forgot how incorrigible you are.

Ezril had always thought her the one difficult to deal with during his spiritual service. She always had something to say, always prone to her unorthodox tantrums whenever he refused her requests.

“It’s good that you’re here,” Alanna continued, leading him out of the infirmary. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s about the battle on Nuratiff.”

She chuckled at his confusion when they had left the infirmary. “What? The sisters at the convent gossip a lot, but so do the soldiers here. It seems gossiping is not a thing of only women. Dare I say the soldiers here gossip more than the sisters.”

“I see.” Ezril replied, uninterested, unbelieving of her words. Even in the parish she’d had a way of knowing everything that went on in it. “What do you wish to talk about, Sister?”

Alanna’s frown was so brief Ezril would have thought it imagined if he hadn’t known its reason.

“I understand that you and Sister Snow are quite close,” she began, cautious. “It’s very understandable. But do not let it cloud your judgement.”

Ezril’s brows furrowed. “Cloud my judgement?”

“Yes.” Alanna seemed determined to make her point, regardless of how he would react, and so, Ezril chose his silence as she spoke. “You may remember Sister Snow as she was when you were children, but you do not know what she is now. You haven’t seen her fight. Do not let her size deceive you. In battle she is hungry and knows nothing but the kill. She cannot be reasoned with, and she follows no orders but her own. Even then, I doubt she has orders herself.” She observed him and, not finding whatever she was looking for, continued. “On the battlefield stay away from her. Do not sacrifice yourself for her.”

“She is a sister of the church,” Ezril pointed out. “A priestess of Truth; it is my duty to protect her.”

“No it is not,” Alanna said, voice pleading. “It is your duty to protect yourself.”

“So I should leave her to die?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” She frowned. “Soldiers die in battle, but it is not because you leave them to die. What I’m saying is don’t sacrifice your life for hers.”

Annoyance built within Ezril. He held it back. He was not certain of what truly offended him; if it was her belief that Lenaria cared so little that she would put him in a situation that could cost him his life or that he couldn’t handle himself enough around her. Either way, he found himself offended.

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his expression was placid. “Death comes to every man, Sister. I will do what I must.”

Alanna rounded on him in anger. “What you must do is protect yourself!” Her eyes searched his. “Sister Lenaria is not the girl you knew. You may think so now, but she is not.” She reached for him and stopped short, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. “She is a person with no care for her allies or even herself in battle. The seminary teaches you to protect those important to you. Your brothers are important to you; they are your family. Protect them. Not her.”

He could see it in her eyes as she spoke. She didn’t want him protecting anyone but himself. She had determined protecting his brothers the lesser evil of the two and offered it to him as a compromise.

Your brothers are important to you; they are your family.The words reverberated in Ezril’s mind. I don’t know what she has become? She is not my family? Ezril thought of the smell of iron, the red of metal blades covered in blood. It was the same on every battle field. A sight no man could ever forget. However, this was not it.

He did not think of a battle field. At least, not one many were privy to. His mind glazed with the thought of white knuckles, a face stained with blood, a crimson snow. He shook it from his mind. You are wrong Alanna.His annoyance grew. I know what she has become, and, more than anyone else, she’s my only family.

He looked into Alanna’s eyes, appalled. But he kept it hidden when he spoke. “I’ll be careful.”

“Promise me.”

He shook his head. “I cannot make that promise, Sister,” he said. “I will be on a battlefield. The word ‘careful’ on a battlefield does not mean what you want it to mean.”

“Then promise me you will only take care of yourself.” In the wake of his silence, she added: “And your brothers.”

Taking a step back Ezril increased the distance between them. “I will protect what is mine.” It was all he would say.

With no more patience for her worries, he left, wondering if visiting her had been the wrong choice.