Chapter 1335: Levelling the ground(2)

With a sharp wince and a heavy, ragged exhale of held breath, Rodry finally managed to take his seat. His cracked ribs violently protested the slight motion, the bone grinding just enough to send a flash of white-hot agony across his chest. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ground together, doing his absolute best not to howl like a wounded dog right in front of the master maker of Yarzat.

It was damn hard, too.

He had already swallowed a bitter dose of willow bark hours ago, but the dull magic of the root had completely worn off. He only possessed one single ration of the bark left in his pouch, and he was stubbornly saving it for bedtime. Gods knew he needed to catch at least a few hours of quiet sleep before tomorrow; only the heavens knew what kind of misery the next dawn would bring. They had not packed much pain-killer, stupid perhaps looking back, but none had expected so much resistance.

Truthfully, he would have gladly taken a dose of that strange new pain-killer the white-cloth battlefield doctors had started handing out to the legions’s wounded. Just an hour after the fighting stopped, Rodry had watched a young conscript screaming in howling, gut-wrenching agony with an arrow buried three inches into his intestines. The doctor had fed the boy a small spoonful of some dark paste from a ceramic plate, and five minutes down the line, the lad’s screaming ceased entirely, his eyes rolling back as he drifted off to sleep like a fat babe done with his mother’s tits.

He envied the bastard.

Smudjka.

That was the name of the stuff, or something close to it. Where the crown had managed to find such a miracle, Rodry did not know, nor did he particularly care. He had aggressively cornered the legion doctor after the battle to demand a taste of it for his side, but the old medic had merely shaken his head. The bastard had mumbled something about the substance being highly addictive and dangerous, judging Rodry’s cracked ribs as "insufficiently grievous" to warrant the prize.

Rodry had nearly spit directly into the man’s face when the physician tried to lecture him on what an addiction was.

The arrogant prick, did he truly think a veteran of the King’s Guard was so weak-willed as to be enslaved by a spoonful of matching gray sludge? Still, the medic was the one holding the keys to the apothecary chest. And since there was currently an entire cohort of iron legionaries backing the doctor’s authority against only four remaining King’s Guards and twenty green fuck that was sent under his orders from the capital, forcing the issue with steel was out of the question.

So, here he was. Ribs cracked, body broken, doing his level best not to let out a whimpering cry whenever his spine shifted a fraction of an inch.

To distract himself from the dull throbbing in his side, he stared out across the pavilion, attempting rather unsuccessfully to process the utterly ridiculous decorations of Pontus’s mobile lodgings. A man would hardly think they were currently rotting away in the middle of a provincial mud-pit.

Three tall, colored candles burned brightly on the sideboards, filling the heavy air with a rich, cloyingly sweet scent of vanilla and lavender, which was, if he were being fair, a massive improvement over the stagnant stench of mold, wet wool, and horse shit waiting for him back in his own tent.

Heavy cloths of silver, royal purple, deep crimson, and a vivid, blinding yellow hung down in dramatic swathes from the white canvas walls. It looked almost as though the architect had tried to make a grand artistic statement using every expensive dye available in the capital, before entirely giving up and simply throwing the whole treasury against the fabric.

Pontus stood in the center of this theatrical display, wearing his absolute finest tunic of deep emerald green. His plump fingers were neatly intertwined, resting against his stomach in a polite, practiced courtly setting. He flashed a wide, dazzling smile that showed every single one of his straight, white teeth.

His were all yellow...

The architect looked for all the world as though this was a magnificent state dinner he had long expected and hoped for, acting as if the guest he had been waiting on all evening was the King himself, rather than his battered and sour-faced guard .

He was hunched over a heavy silver plate piled high with a thick, pan-seared steak, the meat heavily sprinkled with salted forest mushrooms and sweet, caramelized onions. Where Pontus was elegant, pristine, and smelling of flowers, the knight was rowdy, vulgar, and caked in the dust of the road, wearing nothing more than the simplest white linen tunic with a rough coat of boiled wool thrown over his shoulders to ward off the freezing draft.

The architect brought delicate little pieces of food to his mouth, crumb of bread here, a polite sip of wine from the rim there.

Rodry, by contrast, tore massive portions off his steak and shoved them past his lips, careful to direct the meat to the left side of his mouth where he still possessed his full set of teeth. Twelve years ago, a heavy iron mace had found its mark against his chin, shattering his jaw and tearing a quarter of his teeth clean off the gums. Time, however, was a cure for most wounds. Of that nasty injury, all that remained today was a slightly wobbled chin and a conspicuous gap in his grin.

Initially, he had been downright miserable about it. He had thought the blow ruined his pretty face, and it indeed had, for a time. But a man learns to live with what he is given.

It had healed tightly enough, and with a thick, coarse beard covering the deflected contour of his chin, the only visible mark was the white line of the scar tracking up to his mid-cheek like a winding river across a plain. One of the loose-vowed nuns he had bedded had even admitted it gave him a mysterious, dangerous air.

It was unfortunate about the teeth, but he had mastered the art of chewing strictly on one side and to speak with his lips tight. He knew he had been lucky; he had seen plenty of men come out of a shield-wall looking a hell of a lot worse. It was a damn good thing he still had half his grinders, too. He didn’t think he could endure a life of cold peas porridge and broth; he truly loved meat and proper food. And despite the ridiculousness of the company, he was genuinely enjoying the steak.

It was just a pity he couldn’t pleasure himself with the meal entirely. There was a reason he had been invited to this theatrical pavilion.

"So, what do you want?" Rodry muttered, talking around a half-mangled bite of beef.

"E-Excuse me?" Pontus stammered, his fork freezing an inch from his lips.

With his knife, Rodry smeared a puddle of grease and juices back over the steak before slicing off another chunk. "Usually, after one gets wined and dined, he expects to get fucked next. It’s the standard rule of the world, whether you’re dealing with a woman or a lord. Now, I took a heavy axe to the ribs today, so if you’re looking to get laid, Master Maker, you’ll have to look elsewhere."

"That... that won’t be necessary," Pontus spluttered, his pale cheeks flushing a violent shade of pink.

"Good. You aren’t my type either; you lack the most critical bits that would make you any slight interesting ," Rodry said, washing the meat down with a heavy gulp of sour wine. "Hence the question: what do you actually want?"

"Well, Ser Rodry," Pontus began, recovering his composure and smoothing down his green tunic. "I believe you are an exceptionally apt warrior. A savior of this enterprise."

Ah, Rodry thought, leaning back just enough to make his ribs throb. So, apart from getting wined and dined, I am now getting praised. My, my. Aren’t I a lucky soldier.

Pontus began to pour out more words, each one more honey-laced and grander than the last. He spoke grandiosely of Rodry’s bravery, his unyielding nobility under fire, and his tactical genius. The only thing the architect forgot to call him was holy, which Rodry figured was probably the most accurate descriptor available. He was practically a saint in mail and plate.

"I am certain that everyone who truly knows your character regards you with the highest esteem," Pontus gushed, leaning forward over his silver plates. "Why else would our great King have assigned you such an honorable post, giving you the vital, sacred task of guarding my person?"

"A severe lack of human resources, for one," Rodry grunted. "His Majesty has a very long, very distinguished list of brilliant military men. Unfortunately for you, they all had actual, important tasks to attend to.So I am stuck with you and you with me."

Such as promptly hunting down and butchering the rebel swine that have been attacking us, he added silently.

"And you have done a thoroughly worthy job of it," Pontus continued, determined to ignore the sarcasm. "The many broken bodies lingering out in the mud, waiting for the fires, are absolute proof of your martial prowess. But..."

And there it was. The pivot.

"Given that your explicit, royal task is to safeguard my well-being and protect the intellect of this expedition," Pontus said, his voice dropping into a heavily convoluted, delicate tone, "perhaps... certain tactical adjustments could be made to that exact point? After all, as the esteemed head of this small army, the strategic call is entirely yours to make. Perhaps we might consider a temporary... relocation effort? To a more fortified, vastly more civilized sector of the province? Merely to wait until the current logistical circumstances stabilize and the climate becomes... more favorable to our work."

Rodry stared at him through the candle-smoke, his knife balanced precariously on his thumb.

And just when he thought his regards for the man could not go any lower....he discovered the man was twice the coward he thought he was already.