Tiarraluna had broken down again during the tale and it had taken her awhile to get through it. Between the wanton brutality of the murders of the travelers and the torture of Dimo the bandit, she had ventured much deeper into the waters of cruelty than she’d been prepared for. Eventually, Jonkins had come around the table and taken the sobbing girl uncomfortably in his arms, stroking her hair and trying to soothe her grief, as though she were a small child awakened from a nightmare.
For all of her power and rank, Tiarraluna had led a somewhat sheltered life up to this point, particularly for an adventurer. The most of her experience had come from more peaceful pursuits than fighting monsters. And even on those occasions where she’d been forced to fight, the battles had been clean cut and clear against obvious beasts. Even Jack’s battle with the jaegers had been honest self defense with no more savagery than had been necessary. Fighting or killing humans was a different kettle of fish. Many couldn’t bring themselves to do it to save their own lives. Whether she was one of these remained in question.
“What do you know of sentinels?” Jonkins asked once the sobbing had run its course and he was able to retreat to his own chair. After a slight detour to the bar for a mug of something to soothe his own nerves, it should be noted.
“What you have told me,” she sniffed. “Uncle Mohrdrand... he called them idiots. Lunatics. Fools who took the burdens of the world upon their own shoulders for no good reason.”
“He was closer than you might believe,” he nodded. “I’ve been reading up on them since the two of you left. We’ve no great, all encompassing library of lore concerning them, of course. They roamed the world a very long time ago, and there were never that many to begin. A few journals have survived, one or two guild guides. None of them easy to read. Surprising how the language has changed in a thousand or so years.
“The thing you notice,” he went on, “when you’re reading their journals and comparing them to the histories....” he paused, long enough to take a few swallows of his drink. “The histories go on and on about how many people this one or that one saved. The towns or villages freed. The monsters vanquished. The demons banished. The journals mention none of it.”
He had her interest now, even beyond her misery.
“The journals dwell more on those they didn’t... couldn’t save. Sometimes going so far as to list the names of the dead, each and every one. As though each and every lost life were a terrible burden blackening their souls.
“What’s usually the first thing an adventurer asks when he hits town and has a look at the boards?” he asked suddenly, straightening in his seat and looking up.
She reared back a little at the suddenness of it. “Er... I do not—”
“What’s the bounty pays the most with the least risk, am I right?”
She nodded uncertainly.
“And what was his first question?” he asked flatly.
Ah, she thought. “What is getting people killed,” she answered.
“Right,” he confirmed, smacking his hand on the table for emphasis. “No question of pay, no concern for danger. What was getting people killed. That was all he cared about.”
“But what has that to do with what he did, Master Jonkins?”
“Everything,” he said half to himself as he looked down into his empty mug, as though wondering where its contents had gotten off to.
“You want something stronger than that?” he asked as he stood.
“I do not drink alcohol, Master Jonkins,” she demurred. “Grandmother says I am too young, and that alcohol would interfere with my ability to grow into my power.”
“Right,” he mumbled as he hied himself to the bar and drew another mug of ale.
“Did you get a look at the traits listed for his classes?” he asked when he’d seated himself again.
“I did,” she told him. “Briefly. But I am afraid that I do not remember them all, nor their effects.”
“I rushed you out,” he admitted. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have. I was angry, you see?”
“About Jehsha’s recognition?” she posited.
He arched an eyebrow. “Yes,” he sighed. “I admit it. I was angry at Jehsha. Stupid, eh?
“That aside,” he shook himself free and gave her an eye. “Among the traits of the sentinels is one that’s maybe not so heroic.” He had another swallow of ale before he went on, as though trying to postpone the revelation. “Grim resolve, it’s called. Ever heard of it?”
“No,” she frowned. “I have not.”
“Can’t say as I’m surprised,” he shrugged. “It’s almost exclusively reserved for sentinels. Well, and certain types of paladin that you also don’t see anymore, I suppose.
“Once a sentinel has his goal set and there are lives in danger,” he explained. “He fixes on that goal. Like a released quarrel. He thinks of nothing but those lives, and will do anything in his power... do you understand me, Tiarraluna Galbradia? Anything in his power, to preserve them.”
He gave her time to absorb that information.
“In the grip of that power,” he pressed. “That drive... they’re wont to do some pretty horrible things to those they consider....”
“The enemy,” she finished for him, voice strained.
He watched the hard, angry lines of her face for a moment before nodding slowly. “The enemy.”
“So,” her voice was clipped. “You are saying it was not his fault? That it was a facet of his class forcing him to torture and murder a man?”
“Not at all,” he waved the thought hastily away with the hand not holding the mug. “I’m telling you it’s a facet of who he is. Because of what drives him. And what drives him is saving lives. Innocent lives. Likely, it’s what makes him a sentinel as well. That same drive.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“As for murder?” he shook his head dismissively. “You did read the bounty, didn’t you?” At her look, he nodded. “Yes, girl,” he told her. “He was correct. Eliminate, not retrieve. Can you not see why?
“There’s a reason banditry by the gifted is a capital offense,” he told her bluntly. “The ungifted have literally no defense against them. Once they get started and realize how easy it is, there’s only one single curb on their depredations. Death. Or the fear of it, I suppose. That’s it. And with our esteemed new king having sucked the entirety of the valid fighting forces of the land westward to battle the demon lord, they know there’s almost nothing left to stop them. Only us. We few remaining adventurers.
“They have to know in their bones,” he stressed, “that, if they start preying on the ungifted, one of us will eventually be coming for them. And that we won’t stop until they’re dead. We don’t have room for it to be any other way. What’s more, those men that you... that your... that he, killed? They knew it too. You would have received no quarter, no mercy, from any of them. They’d have left your bodies in the road with the others, and in the same condition, if they’d lived to do it. Make no mistake."
* * *
“Here you go,” Mohrdrand placed the cup into Rosaluna’s quaking hands. “Are you feeling any better?”
Not particularly, the old woman sent irritably as she swallowed down the decoction the wizard had brought her. A consequence of being too closely attuned to Button’s mind, I’m afraid. When she is like this... I’m afraid there is little I may do to keep her out.
At least she seems to be calming a bit now.
He took the empty cup from her and set it on the cart, hovering nervously as he waited for the decoction to begin taking effect.
Oh, do sit down Mohrdrand, she sent. Neither am I a chick, nor are you a mother hen. I will endure.
He took his seat reluctantly, muscles tense. It was seldom he caught the old woman in weakness, and it worried him more than he cared to admit.
I wonder, Mohrdrand, she ventured a few moments later, looking down, a hand to her forehead. Do you, perchance, remember the class Kenjiro held?
His brow furrowed. This was even more worrying. She almost never spoke aloud of Ishihara Kenjiro, the first hero. “Something unusual, wasn’t it?” he stumbled. “Unique to him alone, if I remember the stories? Samurai, wasn’t it?”
Yes, she sighed mournfully. Samurai. Or so he considered himself. The class originated on his home world, though, she explained. In Jehsha’s eyes, he was considered an Oathsworn Paladin. Are you familiar with them?
“I’m sorry Rosaluna,” he shook his head. “ I’m afraid not.”
Don’t be embarrassed, she soothed. I don’t suspect many are. He was the first in something in the order of six hundred years.
“Indeed,” he replied, unsure of how to answer.
She allowed him to stew for a few moments before going on. And you wonder what this demented old witch is on about now? She teased. What Kenjiro’s class has to do with Button and our misplaced hero? And why I should suddenly darken your door after so recently having refused to budge from my home?
“Now you mention it,” he nodded.
I have been remembering, she confessed. Some facets of his class that I’d put aside over the years. Things I’d preferred not to remember. The oathsworn and sentinels are not so dissimilar as one might at first believe, now that I think about it. They share a number of traits in common. Some of them... not so noble. Some of them that may cause... but they already have, haven’t they? My poor Button is already being made to pay their toll.
“Oh?” he prompted.
She nodded slowly, sadly. Allow me to explain to you the concept of grim resolve, Mohrdrand, and the duties and dangers of those whose lot it is to ally with such heroes.
* * *
Jack was running out of steam. The bandit had gone on the offensive at last, and he was better than anybody Jack had ever faced, bar the guild master. The sword seemed to have a mind of its own, dancing in and out effortlessly, as though weightless. It was all he could do to keep the man at bay, even given FoeSmite’s properties.
But, and there was the single ray of hope in this mess. If Jack couldn’t land a strike, neither could the bandit. It was a small ray, and dimming. Jack’s night had been long and arduous, and he’d already faced one foe before this one, while his opponent was still relatively fresh. It wouldn’t be long before one of them made a mistake, and it wasn’t difficult to foresee which of them it would be. It was time to get creative.
Jack started giving ground for the first time in the engagement, feigning more weariness than he felt. He deliberately slowed FoeSmite down, just a fraction. Drew it in a couple of inches. It was stupidly dangerous given who he was facing, but if he wasn’t getting an opening, he’d have to force one. He drew FoeSmite’s shaft back a bit more, slipping his trailing hand up the shaft another inch or so.
He saw the grin slide across the bandit’s face as the sword darted in. He slipped it, barely. Again, and he took a greater step back as the tip of the blade flashed far and away too close to his eyes.
There followed a flurry of action as the bandit bore in and Jack pulled him closer, sweat breaking out on his face as the blade nipped at his green cloak time and again. Now he was anteing blood, for a few of those rents were wicking red.
There! The sword was right there, beating against his armor, tearing through the leather outer layer and scraping at the plates beneath. Jack released FoeSmite with his left hand, twisting and thrusting forward hard, allowing the sword blade to slide past and allowing FoeSmite’s shaft to slip freely through his right, catching it in a one-handed, Meyer style thrust, lunging far out over his lead foot as he turned side on.
The sudden strike, aimed at a point well past him, caught the bandit in the upper chest, between the breastplate and pauldron, gouging through the edges of the plates, striking the mail beneath and punching through and into the bones of his shoulder. His eyes went wide as the thrust forced him back on his heel, stumbling unsteadily.
Jack pulled FoeSmite clear just as abruptly, pulling the bandit back toward him as the shaft scraped clear of the pushed in plates. In the instant before the man could regain himself, Jack thrust again. He couldn’t manage the same force without the extra throw, and so this one only dented the armor. But the placement was better. The man’s face went grey-white as his heart took the brunt of the force of the strike. He staggered, and Jack stepped back, finally free to finish this.
Another step back, and he was at full measure again. He whirled FoeSmite back and around, striking this time at the juncture of neck and shoulder. The bandit toppled over onto his side, rolled onto his back, and was still.
For his own part, Jack thumped himself down where he stood. Flat onto his rump, breath coming in tearing gasps, FoeSmite across his lap. After a moment to catch his breath, he took stock. He’d let that guy in very close to find his opening. There were tears in his cloak and gashes in the leather of the brigandine. There was blood on his left upper arm, and his right thigh. He gave those wounds some attention. His face felt wet and an inspecting hand came away bloody.
His head had stopped ringing, finally, although his headache was threatening to yank his eyeballs out through his ears. He pulled the sallet from his head to regard the deep gouges the mace had dug through the steel. That had been a very close call.
Altogether, though, and all things considered, he seemed to have come out of the encounter pretty healthy. Always assuming the bandit’s blade hadn’t been poisoned.
There was first aid equipment in the pack, and after awhile, he hauled himself to his feet to fetch it. The bodies he let be for the moment. They wouldn’t be in any hurry.