Bog Standard Isekai

Book 4 - Interlude - Gurthcid

When Cid opened his orders, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The day he’d been dreaming of for years had finally arrived: He was to be promoted to Prime of a new Lance, but when he read the names of those serving under him, all thoughts of celebration fled in favor of disappointment and dread.

His second was to be his best friend Hedrek, a fellow [Knight]. And while Hedrek had many of the qualities he would wish for in a Second, the problem remained that Hedrek was the one person in the world who never listened to him. Hedrek had a boisterous energy that couldn't be contained, but it had never been Cid's job to contain it before. Could their friendship survive this? Ideally, they both would have made Prime at the same time on different Lances.

The other names were worse. Him, Hedrek, and then eight nobodies from Prinnash. No [Knights], and none were even [Squires]. He had two [Warriors], two [Hunters], a [Rogue], a [Porter], an [Armsman], and a [Page].

This couldn’t stand! A Lance wasn’t meant to be a group of random misfits taken off the street. It should’ve been the sons of lords bolstered by the very best and brightest among the common stock.

Perhaps if he were anyone else, he would have gritted his teeth and obeyed. Even now, that’s what he wished to do, but he couldn’t. He was the son of a Count, and he had standing to speak directly to command if he wished, even to Commander Galan himself, if necessary. Since he was one of the only men in this camp that could complain, that also meant that he had to, else the problem would go unaddressed.

Cid had half a mind to march straight up to Galan and demand that he give him ten good Ollandish men or remove him from command altogether. Yes, that’s what he should do. What he would do. If this was happening to him, it was certainly happening to others. He had a duty to Olland to bring an end to this travesty.

Cid left his rooms to stalk through the halls of the fortress, if it could even be called that. Galan and the other commanders seemed to love it here, but all he could see was an old castle in ruins.

Leadership likely had never heard a word of complaint. Soon after they’d arrived, one of the older [Knights] had asked rather loudly at mess what sort of true man would ever complain about something like a change in the weather, and now all the new recruits were climbing over themselves to prove that they didn’t mind the terrible accommodations at all. True, as a level 30 [Knight], Cid had long since moved past the point where a chill morning or a hot afternoon could bother him, but there was no amount of points in Vitality or Strength that could make his clothes stop smelling like mold because rain had soaked his wardrobe.

The fortress bothered him on a deeper level, though. It was a perfect example of the way this war was going, one where Prinnash ripped them off in a hundred different ways and they all pretended not to notice. Or maybe Galan really didn’t notice at all? He was a straightforward sort of fellow.

Straightforward fellows required straightforward approaches. Rather than stew in his irritation or try to bring it up in subtler ways, Cid needed to approach Galan directly. No other newly appointed Prime could do this, only Cid had the station necessary to approach the Lord Commander of the Order of the Long Sleep directly.

Even so, he stood in front of the shut door to Galan’s office, deliberating for a long time whether or not he would really knock.

A female voice answered, “Enter.”

He gulped did so, to find a bleak and utilitarian office. The large desk stacked high with papers stood empty in the center of the room. Off to the side in a corner, there was a small writing desk, occupied by the woman who had let him in.

Cid really didn’t understand Lyssa. She was clearly a traitor, was she not? It was like in all the [Illusionist] movies, where the noble [King] always had that one trusted advisor who was obviously up to no good. The man in the movies would always dress in black robes, with a pallid complexion and sunken eyes. He would often be seen anointing a dagger with poison, raising it above his head when the [King] turned his back only to hide it in his robes when the [King] looked back to him for advice. He would advise the [King] to jail every pretty maiden and kill every young hero. Everyone could see that this was a rat, except for the [King] who trusted him completely.

In the same vein, Lyssa could not be more suspicious. Instead of wearing all black, she wore the uniform of their Order, but every part of the stereotypical evil advisor fit her perfectly. Only, on a woman, a pallid complexion might be described as fair. Sunken eyes might also be the result of a modest amount of makeup. Even the dagger was true; Lyssa could often be seen toying with a ceremonial dagger, often removing it from its sheath when Galan wasn’t looking. Cid half expected it to [Inspect] as “Traitor’s Edge” or some such, but alas all the Skill told him was that it was a possession of her brother’s.

“He’ll be returning in a moment. You may wait here, if you wish,” said Lyssa, indicating a chair.

It wouldn’t quite send the correct message if he sat. A commoner supplicant would sit; a subordinate soldier in wartime would stand. Cid stepped off to the side near the chairs and stood to wait. “Yes, ma’am. I will, and I thank you.”

Lyssa rolled her eyes and went back to work.

Cid waited. Not too long after, he began to hear voices from down the halls. One effect of halls of stone where no tapestries were hung and the carpets had not been replaced, was that it tended to make voices carry. Cid couldn’t plug his ears, that would be absurd, so he had no chance but to listen.

“...ever told you of my great friend Lurilan?” This voice could only be Galan.

“You haven’t. Surely he is a fierce [Knight] for you to call him a great friend,” responded another voice.

“A [Hunter], we fought together against the undead in the Boglands. At first, I was not sure we would get along. Before Travin’s Bog, I would’ve called a bow a coward’s weapon,” said Galan.

“No. I refuse.”

“What do you refuse?”

Cid didn’t recognize the second voice. He took a risk and gave Lyssa a questioning glance. She mouthed the word “Lothar”.

“I refuse to believe you would call a bow a coward’s weapon. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you denigrate the profession of any man. It smacks of false humility to hear you say you would insult a [Hunter] after this manner,” said the voice who was apparently Lothar. Cid had heard of him. He was the head of the Order of the Golden Ivory. He sounded exactly like Galan.

“I would not say it, but perhaps I would think it,” Galan answered.

“I won’t believe that either. You’re altogether lacking in prejudice, to an offensive degree.”

Galan’s voice grew agitated. “I apologize for offending you. Is it so wrong that I believe any honest work, diligently executed, is worthy and honorable? Hewing men on the battlefield is no better or worse than hewing grain for a mill, so long as it is done in integrity.”

“Well put, I suppose, but I myself find it difficult to call myself the equal of any man,” Lothar said with a frankness that bothered Cid.

“I would also never call you the equal of any other man,” said Galan.

Lothar barked a laugh. “The fact that you probably didn’t imply an insult there makes it all the better.”

“I assure you, I did not. I meant to say that you are stronger than any other man I have ever known. May I continue my story?”

“You may.”n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

“Thank you. As I was saying, perhaps some foolish [Knight] would call a bow a coward’s weapon, but I saw in Lurilan no cowardice at all. What I saw instead was wisdom. He prepared for his hunt, approached silently, used guile and misdirection when necessary, and killed his quarry quickly. Perhaps against a [Knight] this would be unseemly, but we fought against foes who were owed no quarter. I learned from him that guile must not necessarily be the enemy of honor. I will approach this war… carefully.”

Lothar laughed in what sounded like delight. “I’m surprised at you, Galan. The man who left for Travin’s Bog would never have spoken in such a manner.”

“Of that I am most aware,” said Galan.

“Then let me reiterate my previous argument and leave it here: Arcaena is not the true threat. I feel it in my bones, with a surety of instinct that has never once led me astray. I think we will regret this war should we force ourselves to pursue it. We would be better off to take this army south to explore the Wastes, or to defend against the strangers to the east. And what of the Frost King? How can we sit still not knowing from whence he came or if there shall be another like him?”

The door opened and Galan stepped through, shaking his head. “My dear friend, I fear I still cannot understand your perspective. We should do as you say and leave it there.”

“Very well, I take my leave.” There was one short moment when Lothar walked past the open door that gave Cid a glance at him. The armor was golden and decorated with ivory as expected, but he didn’t see too much impressive about the man in the armor. He looked solid and firm of conviction, but lacked the aura of danger and power that truly high-leveled men carried. Men like Galan.

And yet, Galan had called Lothar stronger than any other. How could this be? Perhaps his meaning had been referring to moral fortitude or some such.

“Ah, young Gurthcid Trevorrow. To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Galan.

Cid ventured a glance at the still opened door. “Good day, sir. Was that Lothar of the Order of the Golden Ivory? I confess I find him strange. Whoever heard of an Order of only one man?”

Galan smiled in amusement and declined to respond, so Cid took that as the refusal it was. He cleared his throat. “It’s about my Lance, sir.”

“Yes, congratulations are in order!” said Galan.

“Thank you sir. But I fear that…” Cid had been planning to leverage national pride to introduce his concerns, but he’d just seen Galan speaking with his dear friend from Theranor while speaking about his good friend from Frenaria. He readjusted mid-sentence, deciding to lean on humility instead. “It’s just that I fear I’m not ready for this. I don’t know if I quite have the experience requisite to lead a Lance to success.”

Galan crinkled his brow in fatherly concern, making Cid believe he’d chosen the correct tactic. “You are older than I was when I led my first Lance. And the Prime of your first Lance was about the same age? Eighteen or so?”

“Yes sir, true, and Jori is truly a man among men,” said Cid. He and Jori never truly got along, but he’d been a competent commander and his orders had been reasonable, so Cid felt no regret in praising him. Like father always said, “To praise one’s superiors is to praise oneself.”

“Then what is the issue? Do you believe you are less than he?” asked Galan.

“No, sir,” Cid said, accidentally admitting it too quickly. He needed to remember he was trying to be humble. “That is to say, though Jori gives me a lot to live up to, that isn’t the issue. My thought is that when Jori started out, he was able to lean upon the experience of several experienced fighters under his command. Most notable is his Dectant, Clesek Green, a veteran of three wars, and a man of thirty-five years. If I have read my orders correctly, I will be the oldest in my Lance!”

Galan looked pleased. “I know Clesek. A [Scavenger], yes? That you see such value in one with a Common Class speaks well of you.”

Cid put his tongue between his teeth to keep from gritting them in frustration. If Clesek Green really still had a Common Class, then Cid’s father was a donkey. Cid’s Lance had four Common Classes, really Common. “But do you see my dilemma, sir?”

Galan nodded. “That you understand the wisdom of seeking guidance from your elders also speaks well of you. I’ll see to it that you have adequate supervision, and I’ll set appointments during your leaves and breaks with veteran commanders so that you can ask your questions and discuss problems as they come up. Will that suffice?”

Of course not! That was making everything worse! Now he’d have someone micromanaging all his affairs, as well as losing his short and limited leave to horribly boring meetings with some stuffy old know-it-alls.

He thought about adjusting tack and speaking his complaints more forcefully, but the moment was growing long and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak now without seeming rebellious or insubordinate.

To his shame, he lost his nerve. “Yes, sir, that will be more than adequate. Indeed, I only feel that I have embarrassed myself in occupying your time with this matter.”

“Nonsense,” said Galan. “This conversation has only strengthened my opinion that I made no mistake when assigning you a Lance. You’re going to perform grandly.”

“Thank you, sir. Then by your leave.” Cid turned to make his retreat.

“Lyssa will introduce you to your new Lance,” said Galan.

Lyssa shot Galan a very cross look, then looked at Cid as if he were a stray rodent. “Yes, naturally. With me, Gurthcid.”

Cid nodded and followed the poisonous viper out of the rooms.

She walked quickly, obviously feeling that this was a waste of her time and wanting to get it out of the way quickly, but Cid was a [Knight] and had no issue keeping up while making it look natural.

They’d only turned down one hallway when she spoke up, mimicking him in a sarcastic voice. “Oh, Galan, I don’t know what to do; I don’t feel ready for this command I’ve been begging for for years! Come off it, Gurthcid, insecurity has never been your vice.”

Cid still remembered how well sound traveled in these corridors so he deflected. “I spoke truly. I worry that I cannot succeed with this Lance.”

“Hm, I wonder why. Is there something wrong with this Lance in particular?” Lyssa looked pleased to be teasing someone.

Cid waited until they were well away from Galan’s earshot before responding. “A [Rogue]. A [Page]. Common [Hunters]. Where are my [Longbowmen]? Where is my [Axe Master] for that matter, or my [Horse Master] or my [Lancer]? Who ever heard of a Lance without a [Lancer]?” Now that it was out, his voice had a bit more heat than he had intended.

“You can’t hold a lance?” teased Lyssa.

“That’s not the point, and you know it. A Lance should be a unit mixed with the most promising young men in the kingdom with a fair balance of high-leveled veterans.” Cid was pleased with how well he’d regained his composure.

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“Oh, how arrogant you are? The scum scraped off of the sewer-lanes on the streets of Prinnash suddenly isn’t good enough for you?”

Cid nearly tripped, stumbling on a loose stone, something that hadn’t happened to him in five years or ten levels. He stood up straight and kept his face even, although he couldn’t stop his face from heating. In part because of his embarrassment at stumbling, and in part because of her shocking statement.

So she knew. Well, he knew she was a scheming, conniving sort of woman. Of course she’d be keen to the schemes of others.

“Aren’t you from Prinnash?” asked Cid.

“I’m from the Order of the Long Sleep now,” said Lyssa.

Cid made a mental note to check up on her family history. He was certain there was more going on here than he quite understood. How would she respond if he pressed a bit harder in implicating her native country?

He said, “Prinnash undermines us at every turn. They give us the worst fortress in the worst spot, and no resources to repair it. Every request for supplies is delayed and short-shrifted. They flood our Lances with their riff-raff, in hopes to imbue more of their numbers with better Classes. They–”

“Oh, no, I think the reason they’re flooding the Lances is to fortify loyalty. The new Lances will stay behind in Prinnash, you see,” said Lyssa.

“Then you don’t deny that they are doing it!” said Cid, nearly shouting.

“Of course not.”

“Then, then–”

“Then so what?”

Cid did not stumble this time. “So what, you say? We are being undermined by our own allies!”

“So what?” Lyssa asked again. “We’re not made of sugar; no son or daughter of Olland will melt in the rain. We can purchase our own rations, if needed. So what if our breakfast isn’t the tastiest? This is a war.”

“And stealing the loyalty of the Lances?”

“Did they succeed in doing that? By flooding the Lances with their worst, they are ensuring that the leaders of these Lances must come from Olland or Frenaria.”

The conversation was cut short after that. They’d arrived in the outer courtyard where his new Lance was supposed to be lined up for his inspection.

His friend Hedrek was there and for once he was standing where he should, but he wore a broad grin that could not mean anything good. The entire group, even the [Hunters] and the [Page] were wearing full plate armor, and almost looked the part of a Lance, except that Cid could spot that apart from his friend they all wore common unenchanted metal. They were also not standing where they should. Most were circled around a pair who were shouting insults at each other. A [Warrior] and a [Hunter].

The [Hunter] turned to Cid. “He steals, and he takes liberties! He abuses the woman among the staff.”

Cid’s stomach sank. Investigations into such matters could take weeks, and was certain to completely undermine any effort he would make in turning these men into a team during that time. This Lance was fraught with difficulty from the start.

The accused [Warrior], who [Inspect] called Pinho Duriet, turned to Cid with a wild look in his eyes. “He lies. They all lie!”

Cid had only occasionally supervised the training of the new recruits. They’d been put through a six-week regimen from hell, wearing them out bodily in an effort to forge them into men and grow bonds through common suffering. Cid worried they’d failed on both counts. All of the boys before him seemed to hate every single other.

He didn’t have the full story, as neither he nor Hedrek had joined that training. Even though he had not yet achieved the [Inexhaustible] Skill, a hallmark of their order, there was very little physical training that could tire a level 30 [Knight] like Cid.

Cid cleared his throat. “An investigation will need to be established, unfortunately. In the meantime–”

“Then I demand… trial by combat. I demand the Rite of the Crucible!” Pinho shouted.

Cid winced, and it was Lyssa who came to his rescue. “You can’t. You are not a member of a Lance yet.”

Pinho cast his eyes around for help, and found none. How was he already hated this much? “We became a Lance today! I’m a knight-at-arms now! I have rights!”

“Not until you swear. You were all given the words, correct?” said Lyssa.

Pinho dropped to his knees. “Gurthcid Trevorrow, I render you my fealty. I will obey all lawful commands and give you my service. To you, I dedicate my life.”

“Pinho, come off it. This isn’t worth your life. The investigation–”

“You need to say your part,” said Lyssa.

Cid began to think she wasn’t actually helping at all. “Pinho Duriet, I accept your oath. I will return loyalty for loyalty and service for service. Be welcome in my Lance. Stand as a man among men.”

Pinho stood. “I demand the Crucible!”

“Then you demand death. Why not submit to the investigation? Unless you’ve done something truly depraved…”

Pinho grimaced in a painful smile, the smile of a man who’d done something truly depraved.

Cid sighed. “Who is my Dectant?”

The Rite of the Crucible was a barbaric tradition, but Pinho had the right to ask for it. Instead of a regular trial, he’d be forced to fight each of his Lance members, one after another, starting with the lowest in rank up to the top. If he beat them all, he’d be declared innocent. If he died, he’d at least keep his name intact and cast no dishonor upon his family. In reality, Pinho probably hoped for a third option: if he acquitted himself honorably and fought until he lost consciousness, he might well be given leniency for whatever horrible thing he’d done.

There was also one last possibility. If no one else in the Lance believed he’d done anything wrong, they could all surrender, in which case he might well get off scot free. From the looks the other men were shooting Pinho, Cid didn’t think he had a hope of that.

The second [Hunter] stepped forward. “That’d be me.”

“That’d be me, sir,” Cid corrected.

“No,” said Hedrek. “It’s him. And why are you calling him sir?”

“Thank you, Hedrek,” said Cid.

“You’re welcome. Sir.”

No one else appreciated Hedrek’s levity any more than he did. Cid spent a moment trying to argue Pinho from this ridiculous course of action, but the man wouldn’t be dissuaded. He also tried to convince the [Hunter] to surrender and forfeit his match, but he also wouldn’t refuse the duel. Normally a Dectant would be the most dangerous non-noble fighter in the Lance, as they were given the responsibility of defending the Lance’s honor. Cid had no idea who the strongest of these new recruits could be, but on the surface a [Hunter] against a [Warrior] was a bad matchup.

However, since neither the [Hunter] nor the [Warrior] would change their minds, Cid’s hands were tied. He accepted the [Hunter’s] oath and let the rite happen.

Lyssa spoke the ceremonial words. “Take heart and fight bravely! Remember always that the eyes of Anshar are upon you. Let the light cast away darkness. Let truth prevail and let justice be done.”

The duel was a travesty. Neither of the men were trained in fighting with armor. They were slow and awkward, and kept hitting each other on the plate, bouncing their weapons in an almost comical fashion.

Eventually, Pinho got wise and started stabbing for the joints. The [Hunter] was nimble, but Pinho must’ve taken [Blade Mastery], because every blow went exactly where it should. He got a lucky stab underneath his opponent’s shoulder. Where another might have let off and taken a surrender, Pinho pushed deeper until he reached the heart, killing the man on the spot.

Cid still hadn’t gotten used to death and felt himself growing numb. He wanted to leave, he wanted to quit being a [Knight] altogether. But he’d been here before. He calmed himself with a few breaths and then called out, “Pinho is victorious. Who is my ninth?”

The [Page] raised his hand. [Inspect] named him Govannon Boal and he couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His level was only 14, and from the pale face and the shaking hands he knew as well as Cid did that this duel was certain death.

“Pinho, let’s leave it here. Surrender, and I’ll promise to argue your case. I’ll speak of your courage and temperance,” said Cid.

Pinho had a devilish glimmer in his eye before he clicked his faceplate shut. “No. I’ll beat you all.” There was no way he could really think that possible. He must’ve also been aware that he could win this next one. If he meant to surrender, he’d wait until he matched a fellow [Warrior].

He turned to Govannon. “You can surrender. There’s no need to throw your life away for someone like him. In fact, I’d prefer it if you all surrendered. Let Hedrek take care of this!”

Hedrek grinned and slammed his fist against his breastplate in agreement.

Govannon stared at the ground and said in a timid voice, “It’s my right to face him, is it not?”

“It is, but you needn’t risk yourself. This is suicide. A waste!” said Cid.

“I’ll fight.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Cid accepted Govannon’s Oath and this time spoke the ritual words to begin the duel himself.

Unlike the unfortunate [Hunter] or Pinho, the [Page] moved in armor as if he were born to it. Indeed, they seemed more comfortable on him than fine silks on a noble lady.

He neglected to draw his sword and instead brought out only a foot-long dagger.

Pinho laughed derisively, and Govannon gulped and retreated back a few steps. Emboldened, Pinho charged.

Govannon flowed like a snake. His movements weren’t so quick as to suggest Skill usage, but he moved with the grace of someone who’d trained this exact circumstance a hundred times. He took Pinho’s swing on the top of his shoulder plate, and pushed up with his dagger, perfectly sliding it into the space under Pinho’s chin.

Blood poured from Pinho’s helmet, and he swung wildly, striking Govannon twice on the body, though both were deflected by the plate. They separated, and Pinho slumped to the ground.

Face down on the ground, Pinho didn’t move or speak. A long groan escaped the armored man, then nothing.

This left Cid with an uncomfortable dilemma. The Rite of the Crucible was fought to death or surrender. Unconsciousness counted as a surrender, but an honorable one. He could end the duel here and perhaps still save Pinho’s life. Did he wish to?

In the time it took to make up his mind, Pinho bled his last, making the decision for him.

“He’s dead,” announced Lyssa.

“The Rite is ended,” said Cid. “Honor is restored.”

Govannon retreated towards the far edge of the clearing, looking even more timid and anxious than before. Well, at least one of his men wasn’t completely useless. But why did he have to be a [Page]?

“Come,” said Lyssa. “We should report this to command.”

“See that they’re buried with full honors,” Cid told Hedrek, who nodded with appropriate solemnity. It was good to see that his friend could take at least something seriously.

Cid had hoped to begin familiarizing himself with his men and begin to organize things, but he saw now that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He followed Lyssa back into the fortress.

“Perhaps what I told Galan was right. I’ve been in charge for ten minutes and I’ve already lost two men.”

“Two Prinnashian men,” Lyssa responded. Yes, there was something odd going on with her. Cid still believed his first instincts about her. She was certainly a traitor, but now he began to wonder just who she was betraying.

The rest of the day was full of reports, questions, and hearings. If viewed from the outside, it might seem that the Order viewed the deaths of their men flippantly, but from the inside he could see clearly just how much of a stir this event had caused.

To his relief, few had any problems with Cid’s actions. The lion’s share of the ire was directed to the [Drill Sergeants]. How had they not noticed the bad feelings existing among their men? How had they not noticed Pinho’s crimes, and why had he not been arrested before being assigned to a Lance? The hearings would likely go on for weeks, and the ramifications would no doubt last for months. Every part of the Order’s treatment of female serving staff would be investigated.

Luckily, Cid would have little to do with any of that. Two days later, he finally got word that he’d been given two more recruits and that he’d be able to begin to organize his Lance.

His men had organized in the same courtyard, and this time all eight of them were lined up correctly. Galan met them there as well, with Lyssa.

“I couldn’t be more excited about your new member. He’s really something special, and after due consideration, I believe this is the right place for him. Use him well,” Galan said, and then left the courtyard to call the two new members out while Lyssa stayed by his side.

The man who came out next didn’t look too promising. Another moderately-leveled [Warrior], he looked like he was cast from the same mold as Pinho who he was replacing. He gave Lyssa an arrogant sneer when he saw her, then suddenly switched to contriteness and docility when he noticed Cid standing next to her. [Inspect] named him Rhun.

Cid truly hoped the next one was better.

The next one was worse. Out came an unwholesome-looking fellow, so covered in thin white scars that Cid immediately suspected a mental affliction. He was short, and young, and not particularly tough-looking, and Cid immediately suspected that he’d started with a Common Class.

[Inspect] told him he was true on all accounts. Only fourteen years old, he was even younger than the [Page]. The only good thing about him was his absurdly high level. How did he get to 38? But all that meant was that Cid wouldn't have grounds to have the boy removed; he doubted he'd be able to use him. [Glass Invocationist] was a nonsensical Class. How was he supposed to integrate something like that into a combat strategy? Worst was his name. Despite his Prinnashian looks he had a Frenarian name, but not even a real name. This fellow was calling himself “Scar the Mistaken”.

Hedrek burst out laughing at the sight of him.

“This is to be my new Dectant?” asked Cid.

“Oh, no not at all,” responded Lyssa, and for a moment Cid began to hope. Then she finished, “This will be your new Second.”

Hedrek stopped laughing.

Cid abandoned decorum and rubbed away a growing headache in his temples. This was sure to be an extraordinarily difficult assignment.

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