Chapter Seventeen

Justice Before Mercy

The town crier struggled to stay on his feet amidst an uproar of wild declamations of defiance and disapproval from the crowd. The two dwarves from the Iron Watch held back their kin and taller erdvolkers alike as they protested against the news of a Seviskian praetor on Jattan soil, so far and so deep behind Kreuzhain’s own lines.

Faraway cities like Roses falling to Sevisk was one thing. Fleur d’Lain could be under siege by dragons, for all they cared - that was all well and fine. But this news? This news told them that a Praetor had made his way all the way to the Black Forest. All the way to knock on the gates of Avengard’s wall.

This meant that a Seviskian elite had made a camp for his legion to the East. The Emirate of Sevisk stood to the West. Fleur d’Lain was being torched to the North.

Never in Kreuzhain’s history had its walls been tested. As much pride and as much virtue as the Kreuzhainers had attributed to their walls, they had never had even a single arrow nor blade test the mettle of their walls. This was an arrogance that was now being tested by the idea that suddenly, without so much as a bell to warn the people, they had been surrounded.

As the three of us stood back, Vaelora tugged on my shirtsleeve and said, “Eyes up there. Are they watching us?”

As the crowd descended upon the poor littling, easily overcoming his two protectors, three men in worn leathers scanned the horizon with intent. Was the crowd’s devolution into a small riot not of interest to them?

“We need to get moving,” Vaelora urged us again. “Anywhere but here. I’d rather Scipio here not welcome another cut to accompany that one, yes?”

“Let’s move somewhere the Houses wouldn’t be able to follow us, then,” Quixada suggested calmly. Even as chaos began brewing around us and trouble lurked around every corner, he seemed to handle himself with as much cool and calm as he had the moment I caught him alone on that road to Kreuzhain. “The Devil’s Hill. That’s where we can go.”

“Is it safe there?” Vaelora asked, clearly not assured by the place’s namesake.

“No, but that’s why it’s safe for us,” Quixada said, and so we followed him.

I had learned since then that The Devil’s Hill is, by all accounts, the wretched underbelly of Kreuzhain that the Houses pretended to not care about. It was where one went to buy an exotic jewel, a man’s death, or, with enough coin, a whispered word.

And the latter is exactly what Quixada brought us there to find. With the elder paladin now with us on our quest to Avengard, he began to brew plans and schemes for how we would get there, how we could possibly make an impact in the world.

“Is this magick-wielder as powerful as you say? Enough to best a Praetor? To fell Soulbreaker?” Quixada asked us with steely resolve now firmly behind his voice. “Many a conjurer has fallen to him, with their souls snatched and dessicated. To even attempt to rescue this sorceress is to interfere with House Stolz, and that could well easily be the death of us.”

Vaelora answered sharply before I could. “You said it yourself Ser Knight, did you not? That she is the Mistweaver, and that she is the Eclipsebinder. Rimbaud’s seventh symphony.”

“That I did, lass, but those were just words, do you understand me?” The old man was visibly stressed as we walked through the streets of Kreuzhain, his hand smoothing out the curls of his thin wispy long beard as he spoke. “Words that were repeated to me by drunken housemen and farmers who had never so much as seen the Laurelsroad. Those words are cheap.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have repeated them to us with such weight, Ser Knight?” Vaelora said. “Words should be given more value than the breaths they were formed with.”

To Quixada’s credit, he quickly conceded the point, “You’re correct, lass. That’s a fault of my own, but that still does not change the fact that we need some assurance that this wizardress is someone we can bank on. Because if she’s not going to make a difference, then the door is still open for a quiet life elsewhere while this war goes on.”

“I told you I saw her,” I said sternly, taking Quixada back, as all three of us stopped walking. “I told you that I watched as she felled a dragon with nothing but her staff and her word. If there’s anything anywhere in the world that can make a difference - like you said - it’s her. So what are you hesitating for? Is that you don’t trust me, or is there something else?”

Quixada and I shared a look. To the side on my periphery, I could see Vaelora watching over our shoulders, checking if the housemen had followed us.

“When you’ve made it as long as I have, lad, you come to understand that life’s nothing but a serious of big decisions. Everything in the middle’s just…games and beer and going along with whatever life is throwing at you. But those big decisions, that’s when all of a sudden, you’re the one throwing the hit. You’re the one coming out with your lance and the town square waiting on ‘ye, looking to see what you’ve got in store for them. And believe me, lad, you remember every single one of those big decisions.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I’m saying that this is one of them. This is the fork on the road, lad, and we’re at the helm of the cart. And I’m saying that on one side, you have a way out. The south is still quiet, and you make it there, build a farm or smithery or whatever it is your heart desires, and you ride it out to your elder years. Hells, I wind it down here on my own years as well.”

“This doesn’t like what I’ve heard of paladins and their chivalry, Ser Knight,” Vaelora interjected, concerned.

“Paladins are given divine power from their Oaths,” he explained. “I’ve accomplished mine. I met young Scipio here right before I did. I fulfilled my Oath when I buried the last of my men where they had asked to be buried, near Oberwinter.”

“Is that what you were doing on the King’s Road?” I asked.

Quixada continued, “Without that direction, I am Oathless. And this path that you are leading me down now, towards this sorceress, towards bringing her to Soulbreaker, that is a wholly new Oath that would consume me. It would be greater than each and everyone of every other Oath I’ve ever taken, combined.”

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“Is this the other path, then?” I asked. “The one on the fork, away from the life on the farm?”

“It is. And you need to understand the weight that this decision would put on my shoulders. To take on an Oath of Vengeance against Soulbreaker would be like choosing to kiss Death himself on the lips.”

“Is there no other way, Ser Knight? What if you continued on Oathless?” Vaelora asked.

“If I went on Oathless, then to bring me to free this magick-wielder would be as if you brought your great grandfather into a war. I’d be nothing but an old man. And perhaps that’s exactly what I should be. I’ve served nine Oaths throughout my life. I am not certain if I need a tenth.”

“Quixada,” I began, “That night before you fulfilled your last Oath, that night you met me on the King’s Road and gave me your Blessing…you spoke of Soulbreaker. And you spoke of him with such vigor and energy that I would have thought that you already were on an Oath to best him.”

“I recall our conversation, lad,” Quixada said. “Soulbreaker was not on my Oath, no, but he was the reason for it. He destroyed an entire rank of men in a single word. A single syllable. And I’ve been burying men ever since.”

“You said you would ride to meet him,” I said, pointing a finger at Quixada now. “You said that if I heard of him, I’d find some way to pass word onto you, and you’d ride to meet him. Well, I’ve heard word of him. I’ve heard word of the name, and I know where he is, and I’m passing the word onto you. Will you ride to meet him?”

I will never forget the look Quixada gave Vaelora and myself that day. His weathered, wrinkled face told a thousand stories, as if he were nothing but a library filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes. Stories of conflict, of relationships lost, and of Oaths from years past.

“…I will need to conduct a vigil,” Quixada said finally. “I don’t believe Hadrianus watches over one of His shrines here in Kreuzhain, but I believe I can make do if I could find a space quiet and private enough.”

“Hadrianus,” Vaelora echoed. “The Unbroken Shield. The Lord of Honor.”

“Aye, lass. That he is,” Quixada said solemnly with a hand resting over his chest.

We crossed the narrow, filthy stream of a river that bisected through the city, and afterwards, the climb up to the district of the Devil’s Hill was much more strenuous than I had anticipated. Despite what its name had suggested, this area was more of a collection of different hills rather than just the one, and each downward descent was met again with another steep climb ahead of it. The walk was so taxing that it quickly became clear why the majority of Kreuzhainers - especially the dwarves - refused to even acknowledge the district’s existence. The faces we met on the street were becoming younger on average with each new hill, and their ancestries more varied.

After a fair amount of climbs, we found quarters in a respectable inn run by a middle-aged couple originally from the South. They greeted us with warm greetings and fairly priced ironhorn broth. The entire district, in general, seemed to be a similar story, and diametrically opposed to what we had seen in the rest of Kreuzhain. Here, in the poorest district of the city, the foreigners found their livings, and people could find some reason to smile and offer kindness without an expectation of reward.

The room was simple in its furnishings, but behind its rusted iron-cast shutters was a clear view of the district. Where most of Kreuzhain’s buildings were uniform in design and material, the structures on the Devil’s Hill were varied and wildly different. Sandstone from the South, ceramic tiles from the West, and intricate carpentry from the East were put together in an amalgamation of the different cultures that found their foothold here.

At night, Quixada simply placed his iron breastplate, gauntlets, and helmet on the windowsill, and knelt on one knee before his armour. He explained that without a shrine to Hadrianus, his armour was the next best artefact that he could use, and that Hadrianus was not one to turn down offerings made to Him.

He stayed still, knelt on one crooked knee and eyes fixed on his own armour. He began when the sun set, murmuring a prayer in repetition, affirming his Oath of Vengeance. “Justice before mercy, vengeance for the weak, and recourse for the fallen. Justice before mercy…”

I do not know how many thousands of repetitions of his mantra Quixada had accomplished before the old man’s bones began to falter, and sweat began to pool on the many wrinkles draped on his forehead and flanked across his gaunty, pointed nose. It must have been hours, with the moon now in full shine over the district of the Devil’s Hill, when Quixada’s murmurings turned into strained whispers, and his eyes struggled to maintain contact with his metals.

“Quixada? Are you well, Ser Knight?” Vaelora asked him in a low voice, concerned.

He did not answer, and instead continued to struggle on with repeating his Oath. His face was strained and racked with emotion, and with the moonlight shining on him through the room’s sole window, I saw him for who he truly was…an elder who’s walked his roads and fought his battles. Was it truly right for us to ask for him to walk down another with us?

“Justice…before mercy,” Quixada continued, each syllable now a battle for him. He rested his hands over his left breast now, and it became clear that this was an internal battle for him, not a physical one. The type that took place in the soul rather than in the mind. “Vengeance for the weak. Recourse…for the fallen.”

“Quixada, you need to tell us how to help,” I said. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what to do. We haven’t taken on any Oaths ourselves.”

The smell of sulphur…

“There’s…nothing you can do to help me, lad. This is a toil for me and me alone,” Quixada finally answered. “Justice-”

A sharp, violent breath racked Quixada, and he stumbled lower on his knee, his hands clutching at his chest. We stepped toward to help him, but he firmly waved us away, before regaining his composure and straightening his form. Tears formed now on his face. Under his breath, I heard Quixada whisper to himself, “Brothers of the covenant, I will not fail. I will not fall.”

The old man began his mantra once again, each syllable now punctuated with sweat and struggle.”Jus-tice…before mercy. Ven-,”

“Vengeance for the weak,” Vaelora continued for him, in a singsong voice and with low, bass chords plucked from her lyre. “Bringing light to those cast off from the light of the sun.”

“Vaelora,” I started, “Let the man conduct his vigil in-“

“Let her continue, lad,” Quixada interrupted me, waving Vaelora to continue on.

She nodded, and sang, “Bowed for the sword which does not bend. In homage to the shield which does not dent. A pilgrim and a knight for Hadrianus - the Lord of H’nor, Prince of Justice above. For recourse for the fallen.”

“Recourse for the fallen,” followed Quixada.

“Seeking virtue in a tainted land. Creating fairness in an unfair place. A lance of light and firm hand of stone. Justice before mercy.”

“Justice before mercy.”

Vaelora shifted the tune on her lyre smoothly, picking up the pace and putting a bit more power behind each chord. She smiled as she sang, sharing energy with Quixada, and simultaneously feeding off his own, like a wheel gaining speed rolling down an infinitely tall hill.

“The words on this night, they’ll continue the fight. Continue the toil, and continue the path. You see, this isn’t this man’s first battle - and neither will it be his last! This pile of bones - this many-scarred knight. He has his eyes fixed on a prize. An eye for an eye, a life for a life of one who’s taken so many. Soulbreaker.”

“Soulbreaker…”

While Vaelora plucked on nothing but her lyre, the tunes of different instruments seemed to resonate around the room as well. The growing beat of a drum, the delicate tune of a clavichord…was this some sort of magicks of her own?

“Vengeance for the weak.”

“Vengance for the weak.”

“How many battles can one man command? How many blows can one man take? Better yet, answer me this - for what reason does one man live?” The sound of drumming rolled upwards, steadily growing in volume, and her lyre began to harmonize with the phantom clavichord, along with the accompanying high notes on a harp. “He lives to build a bridge, you see - a bridge between the world as it is and as it can be! So show us - Ser Quixada - how to build that bridge and build that world. Light the way, and bring forth-“

“…Recourse for the fallen,” Quixada finished now, each syllable no longer a question mark, but a firm exclamation mark. His eyes were awash with a glowing light for a second, before fading as he stood with renewed vigor and - perhaps more importantly - reaffirmed purpose. “My Oath is complete,” Quixada said, “So let’s get to work and save that Elf.”