"You should not be here, Lord Commander."
Ganbatar pulled his stallion alongside Valdemar's own. The Dragonist General's stare was severe from behind the red-lacquered face shield attached to his elaborately constructed helm. The facial armor was molded into a hideously leering mask, which along with his ominous armor gave Ganbatar an intimidating edge over most people. Valdemar was not most people, having been raised around the Dragonist Order.
Every Dragonist knight wore helm and armor fashioned after monstrosities. It was part of their ability to inspire terror in their opponents. Their armor was black and scarlet, constructed of thousands of small rectangular iron and boiled leather plates laced together in horizontal rows, protecting their chest, midsection, shoulders, forearms, and shins. The construction of the scale-like armor allowed more freedom of movement than plate, giving the Dragonists an advantage over heavier armored opponents. Since the Lord of Bruallia commanded the Dragonists, Valdemar wore similar garb, though his armor was without the scarlet threads and lining, and his helmet less elaborate in comparison.
Ganbatar was one of two deadly guards who accompanied Valdemar for the journey. The other was Khidyr, a soldier around the same age as Valdemar. His face was nearly always covered by an iron mask studded with spikes. Like the rest of the Order, he had little, if anything to say. Not so with Ganbatar. He had resolutely insisted on coming along, something Valdemar found hard to refute, especially since Ganbatar was more than just the General.
He was family.
"Still trying to give me unwarranted counsel, brother? I thought we addressed that issue."
Ganbatar did not appear cowed. "You are my lord, and my life is yours, but you are my younger brother as well. I would be derelict of my duties were I not to provide the counsel that you need."
"If you had wished to make the decisions, you should have claimed the throne. It was your right."
"You are better fit for command." Ganbatar's rectangular shoulder armor creaked when he shrugged. "Like Father was. I care not for that mantle." His gauntleted hand touched the tasseled sword pommel that jutted over his shoulder. "This is what I am. What I was born for. I am the bared blade that defends the Dragon. I live and die at the command of my lord. My world is simple. Focused."
"Hopefully focused enough to keep me from our father's fate," Valdemar said. "Your predecessor failed the meet your lofty standards."
Ganbatar's expression darkened. "That was why he was strangled to death by his own entrails. I will not fail you as he did our father." His face relaxed slightly. "You would do well to heed my counsel, Lord Commander. Being attacked by the ponginas has changed things. Our band numbered thirteen men when we rode from Bruallia. We lost our scout when the mountain ledge crumbled beneath him. Three others have died in the pongina attack, and two are injured. You could have been among them, or even one of the dead. This is a task for a lord to delegate to others, not lead himself."
Valdemar felt his teeth grind together. "What would you have me do? Drape myself in velvets and huddle in my palace while my attacker escapes from my hand? Face the scorn and ridicule of the people who witnessed my humiliation?" His face heated. "Marcellus Admorran did more than defeat me singlehandedly. He trampled my name. My reputation. I am the most feared warlord of our Age for one reason only. Because of the complete destruction of my adversaries. My enemies are blinded, maimed, and impaled at my command. No one has withstood my army or my blade."
"You are the most feared lord because Deis favors your sword," Ganbatar said quietly.
Valdemar stared sullenly at the dark, jagged peaks around them. "Truly? Then why did Marcellus escape in from my hand? Now it will be said that Deis favors the Champion of Kaerleon. The people's faith in my power will wither. Everything I have worked for will crumble."
He shook his head. "No. I must be the one to recapture Marcellus. I will scourge him; feast on his screams, drink his cries for mercy. His lands will burn, his children fed to the flames as gifts of war. His woman will be my bed slave and will bear new sons that will curse his name. I will give his severed limbs as gifts to the chiefs of Bruallia. What is left of him will be impaled for the world to witness." Valdemar spat the words through clenched teeth. "Only then will I undo the damage he has caused."
Though a dozen other bands scoured the foothills, Valdemar had led his men deeper into the shadows of the mountains. He would not underestimate Marcellus again. The man was formidable, just as dangerous and cunning as the stories related. Marcellus would not fear the Dragonspine. He would try to lose himself in the passes, gambling on the fear and superstition that the mountains inspired. He would press forward, pushing his body to the limit, never resting until he could be sure that the pursuit ended in the knight's death.
Valdemar was sure of that because he would have done the same. And with that knowledge he spurred his men all the harder, fixated on the capture of their quarry. He had to be the one who recaptured Marcellus Admorran. It was necessary. He'd been publicly disgraced, defeated with humiliating ease by an unarmed man.
The ripples were already spreading. Valdemar felt it in the silent stares of men whose eyes previously glazed in worship of his every word. He practically smelled the rot of uneasiness in the air. There was no telling how the story would affect the dispositions of the savage province lords and chieftains of Aracville and Ravynna. How many of them would reconsider their positions of servility, perhaps even challenge him openly? The lords and chiefs of the wilds had never allied under one lord before. It had taken equal measures of bribery and fear to coax them into their positions of united service. The peace of was ever tenuous, ever on the verge of ripping apart like rotted parchment.
And all of it could topple because of the actions of one man.
Valdemar fumed inwardly. He would recapture the Champion of Kaerleon. And when he did, he would make sure Marcellus could never escape again. The punishment would be severe. Severing both feet would guarantee that Marcellus would stay put. But why stop there? Better to cut both legs off at the knees and make Marcellus half the man he was before. A thin smile toyed with the corners of Valdemar's mouth.
The hounds bayed excitedly, jolting him from his thoughts.
Ganbatar turned in that direction. "At last. Perhaps we have found a bit of sport after all." He booted his powerful stallion, pulling ahead of Valdemar. Khidyr followed behind, an armored shadow guarding Valdemar's flank.
They rode around a flinty hillside, where the other men inspected a scene of carnage. Two corpses lay on the battered earth, their stench ripe in Valdemar's nostrils. He ignored it, having long ago become accustomed to the reek of death. Dismounting, he drew closer, followed by Ganbatar and Khidyr. The other men stepped back warily as they approached.
The bluish mud on the dead men's skin and their tattooed faces marked the pair as Gutoths. Both suffered wounds in the midsection, and one had both legs severed. Agitated buzzards flew overhead, crying their outrage at the men who disturbed their meal.
Gile Noman knelt and dabbed his finger in a murky trail of blood. Licking the finger, he squinted at Valdemar with his good eye. "Blood's still fresh. These mopes ain't been dead long. Couple of hours, tops." He jerked his grizzled head where the dogs were frantically sniffing and baying in their deep voices. "Even better, it's Marcellus for certain. Dogs have finally caught his scent."