back. My uncle wanted the Sanctiff to trade them in return for the Church recognizing that they are ensoulled.”
Zephanus gave him a skeptical look. “And your uncle is?”
“Lucius Valerius, called Magnus.”
“Hmmm, I should have known. Well, that’s not a bad idea, actually.”
Marcus suppressed his first, indignant protest and contented himself with a mild observation. “It would appear Michaelines don’t go in for a lot of theology. Or philosophy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Zephanus protested with a grin. “Why, sometimes our debates over who to kill first can last for hours!”
Marcus smiled. “Still, I wonder if anyone here actually know how to fight them. Elves, I mean. Not that we want to, but it seems to me that perhaps it might be useful to know something more than the year in which Saddranus fell to the orcs.”
Marcus glanced at Lodi, but the dwarf was staring off into the horizon with an expression that seemed to indicate he was done speaking for the nonce.
Zephanus, on the other hand, was rather more loquacious. “Happily we have with us someone who is said to have battled them on at least one occasion. Do excuse me for but a moment, noble sir and dwarf, and I shall return.”
The young warrior-priest urged his horse into a brief trot, until he reached the side of two of his fellow Michaelines, who were riding in companionable silence farther up the narrow column. Their party stretched out along the road as the sun rose toward its apex.
Zephanus returned, bearing in his wake an older Michaeline with a close-trimmed beard that was shot with grey. His receding hairline was lined with a white scar that nearly spanned his forehead, as if he’d been wearing a helmet so long that it had left a permanent mark upon him. Or, as was much more likely the case, some long-ago enemy had nearly removed the top of his head with a sword or axe on a battlefield that was now otherwise forgotten. His horse was a magnificent chestnut very nearly the equal of Barat, Marcus’s own mount.
“Marcus Valerius,” Zephanus said, “I present the Blessed Sir Cladius Serranus.”
Serranus nodded and Marcus returned the greeting, a bit more deeply. It wasn’t hard to remember to be properly respectful to a veteran soldier who looked as if he had breakfasted on raw orc legs earlier that morning.
“An honor, Blessed Sir.”
The scarred Michaeline flashed his teeth momentarily. “Call me Serranus. That, or ‘Brother Serranus’ will do. Heard you were a courteous young pup. Perhaps you won’t forget to curtsey to King Caerwyn or such and get us all killed, eh?”
“I shouldn’t like to displease the Sanctiff, Brother Serranus.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s fear of his displeasure that will make your bowels clench and the acid burn in the back of your throat when we reach the heights. Or when you stand in the place where the mountain meets the sky, darkness falls, and you hear the cries of the High King’s warhawks soaring unseen somewhere high above you.”
“Are you so certain that I shall need to wait until then? I don’t think it’s the lack of breakfast that seems to have soured my stomach.”
Serranus smiled, a more genuine smile this time. “It takes a brave lad to admit that he’s afraid. I think you’ll do well, Valerius, should it come to swords and elvish sorcery. It won’t make a difference, mind you, but at least you won’t shame your name. Probably.”
“I’m confident I shall sleep better for the knowledge.”
“Brother, Marcus here was eager to know more about how the elves make war,” Zephanus said. “And since I’m told you have some experience with that, I thought perhaps you might further his education.”
Claudius Serranus waved his arm, his gesture taking in the road disappearing into the horizon before them. “I don’t seem to have anything better to do,” he said. “This is a dry and dusty business. Give me a skin to wet my whistle and we shall see if the
Zephanus gave him a skeptical look. “And your uncle is?”
“Lucius Valerius, called Magnus.”
“Hmmm, I should have known. Well, that’s not a bad idea, actually.”
Marcus suppressed his first, indignant protest and contented himself with a mild observation. “It would appear Michaelines don’t go in for a lot of theology. Or philosophy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Zephanus protested with a grin. “Why, sometimes our debates over who to kill first can last for hours!”
Marcus smiled. “Still, I wonder if anyone here actually know how to fight them. Elves, I mean. Not that we want to, but it seems to me that perhaps it might be useful to know something more than the year in which Saddranus fell to the orcs.”
Marcus glanced at Lodi, but the dwarf was staring off into the horizon with an expression that seemed to indicate he was done speaking for the nonce.
Zephanus, on the other hand, was rather more loquacious. “Happily we have with us someone who is said to have battled them on at least one occasion. Do excuse me for but a moment, noble sir and dwarf, and I shall return.”
The young warrior-priest urged his horse into a brief trot, until he reached the side of two of his fellow Michaelines, who were riding in companionable silence farther up the narrow column. Their party stretched out along the road as the sun rose toward its apex.
Zephanus returned, bearing in his wake an older Michaeline with a close-trimmed beard that was shot with grey. His receding hairline was lined with a white scar that nearly spanned his forehead, as if he’d been wearing a helmet so long that it had left a permanent mark upon him. Or, as was much more likely the case, some long-ago enemy had nearly removed the top of his head with a sword or axe on a battlefield that was now otherwise forgotten. His horse was a magnificent chestnut very nearly the equal of Barat, Marcus’s own mount.
“Marcus Valerius,” Zephanus said, “I present the Blessed Sir Cladius Serranus.”
Serranus nodded and Marcus returned the greeting, a bit more deeply. It wasn’t hard to remember to be properly respectful to a veteran soldier who looked as if he had breakfasted on raw orc legs earlier that morning.
“An honor, Blessed Sir.”
The scarred Michaeline flashed his teeth momentarily. “Call me Serranus. That, or ‘Brother Serranus’ will do. Heard you were a courteous young pup. Perhaps you won’t forget to curtsey to King Caerwyn or such and get us all killed, eh?”
“I shouldn’t like to displease the Sanctiff, Brother Serranus.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s fear of his displeasure that will make your bowels clench and the acid burn in the back of your throat when we reach the heights. Or when you stand in the place where the mountain meets the sky, darkness falls, and you hear the cries of the High King’s warhawks soaring unseen somewhere high above you.”
“Are you so certain that I shall need to wait until then? I don’t think it’s the lack of breakfast that seems to have soured my stomach.”
Serranus smiled, a more genuine smile this time. “It takes a brave lad to admit that he’s afraid. I think you’ll do well, Valerius, should it come to swords and elvish sorcery. It won’t make a difference, mind you, but at least you won’t shame your name. Probably.”
“I’m confident I shall sleep better for the knowledge.”
“Brother, Marcus here was eager to know more about how the elves make war,” Zephanus said. “And since I’m told you have some experience with that, I thought perhaps you might further his education.”
Claudius Serranus waved his arm, his gesture taking in the road disappearing into the horizon before them. “I don’t seem to have anything better to do,” he said. “This is a dry and dusty business. Give me a skin to wet my whistle and we shall see if the
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