Read Online Oathbreaker: The Knight's Tale by Colin McComb - Free Book Online
Authors: Colin McComb
Tags: Science-Fiction, Fantasy
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they took him to the courtyard and whipped him in front of the other students. And then they sent him to stand in heavy armor in the hot sun for the day.
It was one day among hundreds. The trainers drove their students mercilessly, and this first year was constant marching, drills, hand-to-hand exercises, and training in basic weapons. Those who complained or broke were beaten, as Pelagir had been, and some of them died between the whipping posts. No one was allowed to mourn the dead.
Year 2 – CY 579
Pelagir’s second year of training was little better. The discipline was harsher, his instructors less forgiving, and his training more dangerous than the year before. He bore scars from lashings for failure to obey—or remember—the rules or the Code. It was better for him than for many of his compatriots. Two thousand youths had been gathered from all the reaches of the Empire, and half of them had been expelled for one reason or another. Some of them had died. They were fourteen years of age.
Those who remained were harder, stronger. They studied harder and learned faster. They understood that it was not their bodies and minds being tested but their dedication. Most of them would fail and fall into a lesser position in the military. Some would serve in the High House to which their family swore loyalty. Others might become mercenaries. They would be tougher than many of their conventionally trained counterparts, but they would live with the knowledge that they had failed the knighthood. Some, armed with this insight, took their own lives.
Pelagir didn’t have time to give them a second thought. He was trying to survive.
This year, amid the constant training in arms of all shapes and sizes, he learned Imperial history: the mythical Golden Age, an age of casual miracles and everyday wonders, and its fall. The horrific and destructive war, and the wonder-workers called “scientists” who fled to strong men for protection from the rabble who blamed deep knowledge for the destruction of the Age. This was the Great Uprising. More war, and the terrors of wizardry truly unleashed as the mages worked to save their lords from their enemies, earning a greater place in the nightmares of the common folk. Generations of struggle as small men fought with one another to make large their dreams, and from these small men at last rose a great man: Martyn Strangaers, our first king, who had the charisma, wit, and will necessary to bring the warring lords under his control. He established a central government in the hilly town of Terona, his birthplace, and with his warlords at his side and his pet wizard at his back, he began to subjugate the lands around his hometown. By the time of his death, he sat on the throne of empire and had rebuilt civilization, dragging it screaming from the dark age that had settled upon the land.
As a broad stroke, this was all essentially correct. It was in the details that this history was wrong, but it was wrong for a purpose: it helped fill the young knights with devotion for the Empire they were sworn to defend.
That devotion came with the Code, ritually repeated, used as a marching cadence, as a breathing exercise, fit into every corner and cranny of their waking minds. At first they hated the Code, but they grew to rely on it as the sole touchstone in their training that never changed. They could recite it in their sleep.
“Honor is strength. Honor is integrity. Honor is dedication. My life is my honor, my honor my life. I value my honor more highly.”
And another oath, as well:
“I am the stone on which my order rests. My order is the stone on which the knighthood rests. The knighthood is the stone on which the realm rests. I am stone, and when I stand fast, so too does the realm. If I fail, the realm fails. I am its defender. My commitment never dies.
“I am the steel of my country. I do not bend. I will not break.”
Year 3 – CY 580
By his third year, three hundred of his
It was one day among hundreds. The trainers drove their students mercilessly, and this first year was constant marching, drills, hand-to-hand exercises, and training in basic weapons. Those who complained or broke were beaten, as Pelagir had been, and some of them died between the whipping posts. No one was allowed to mourn the dead.
Year 2 – CY 579
Pelagir’s second year of training was little better. The discipline was harsher, his instructors less forgiving, and his training more dangerous than the year before. He bore scars from lashings for failure to obey—or remember—the rules or the Code. It was better for him than for many of his compatriots. Two thousand youths had been gathered from all the reaches of the Empire, and half of them had been expelled for one reason or another. Some of them had died. They were fourteen years of age.
Those who remained were harder, stronger. They studied harder and learned faster. They understood that it was not their bodies and minds being tested but their dedication. Most of them would fail and fall into a lesser position in the military. Some would serve in the High House to which their family swore loyalty. Others might become mercenaries. They would be tougher than many of their conventionally trained counterparts, but they would live with the knowledge that they had failed the knighthood. Some, armed with this insight, took their own lives.
Pelagir didn’t have time to give them a second thought. He was trying to survive.
This year, amid the constant training in arms of all shapes and sizes, he learned Imperial history: the mythical Golden Age, an age of casual miracles and everyday wonders, and its fall. The horrific and destructive war, and the wonder-workers called “scientists” who fled to strong men for protection from the rabble who blamed deep knowledge for the destruction of the Age. This was the Great Uprising. More war, and the terrors of wizardry truly unleashed as the mages worked to save their lords from their enemies, earning a greater place in the nightmares of the common folk. Generations of struggle as small men fought with one another to make large their dreams, and from these small men at last rose a great man: Martyn Strangaers, our first king, who had the charisma, wit, and will necessary to bring the warring lords under his control. He established a central government in the hilly town of Terona, his birthplace, and with his warlords at his side and his pet wizard at his back, he began to subjugate the lands around his hometown. By the time of his death, he sat on the throne of empire and had rebuilt civilization, dragging it screaming from the dark age that had settled upon the land.
As a broad stroke, this was all essentially correct. It was in the details that this history was wrong, but it was wrong for a purpose: it helped fill the young knights with devotion for the Empire they were sworn to defend.
That devotion came with the Code, ritually repeated, used as a marching cadence, as a breathing exercise, fit into every corner and cranny of their waking minds. At first they hated the Code, but they grew to rely on it as the sole touchstone in their training that never changed. They could recite it in their sleep.
“Honor is strength. Honor is integrity. Honor is dedication. My life is my honor, my honor my life. I value my honor more highly.”
And another oath, as well:
“I am the stone on which my order rests. My order is the stone on which the knighthood rests. The knighthood is the stone on which the realm rests. I am stone, and when I stand fast, so too does the realm. If I fail, the realm fails. I am its defender. My commitment never dies.
“I am the steel of my country. I do not bend. I will not break.”
Year 3 – CY 580
By his third year, three hundred of his
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