Sonder was absolutely sick of the staring. Everywhere he went, eyes followed. He could practically hear their thoughts, could practically hear their inner voices asking him why he did it. Nosy priests, servants, peasant women from the Village—they gawked at him at every turn, a constant reminder of the decision he had made.
“As if I needed a reminder,” Sonder muttered to himself.
He was walking to the Holy Guard's training grounds, a field in the shadow of the Godskeep on the western side of the Holy Hill. He wore a jerkin of leather over his tunic and his blunted sword was slung across his back. He did not walk with his head bowed, but rather, Sonder openly returned the stares of any who happened to show too much of an interest in him, dared them in his mind to ask the questions that burned the tips of their tongues. None did. Most were quick to scuttle out of Sonder's way, some of them even deigning to bow to the fallen priest, which Sonder found highly amusing. He did not deserve such deference. He was a priest no more.
When Sonder reached the training grounds, he came to stand with the other young men, who had gathered around two new recruits who had apparently decided to test their strength against each other. Judging by their futile hacking and swinging, they were still in much need of training. Some of the other men hollered words of encouragement at the lads, others laughed raucously at their new comrades’ ineptitude. Sonder watched quietly. The smaller of the two boys was running circles around the larger one, who was visibly exhausted.
Any minute now. Sonder thought. Sure enough, a few heartbeats later the larger boy lunged as the smaller dodged and quickly spun around to whack his opponent on the back of the shoulders with his practicing blade, sending him hurtling to the dirt. The men started to cheer as the larger boy fell inches from Sonder's boots and was too spent to get up. With a grunt, Sonder stooped and helped the boy to his feet. Though he judged the boy to be younger than him, he was already Sonder’s height and half as many times as big.
“You fought well,” Sonder said once the boy was upright again. “Try not to let your smaller opponents tire you out, though.”
The boy gave him a harassed look, “I tried. 'Snot easy keeping up with the likes of him!”
Sonder smirked, “You’re right, it's not. Just a bit of friendly advice. Is today your first day?”
The big boy nodded.
Sonder held out his hand gamely, “Sonder Darpentus. Welcome to the Holy Guard.”
“Sonder? Lord Sonder?” the boy gaped. “I, uh, my name is Connal, milord.”
“Well met, Connal,” Sonder replied with a grimace. “But I'm no lord. Not any more at least.”
“You’re joining the Guard too?” Connal asked, his pink, sweaty face incredulous.
Sonder nodded, “For now. I've always loved sword play, but never had much training. Let us say I plan to make my start here.”
Connal nodded, “I see mil—Sonder.”
As they spoke, more and more men made their way to the training field. Young boys, sturdy youths, and tan, wrinkled old men all came to stand in a perfect circle, each with a practice sword at his back, each wearing a plain leather jerkin. Now that their diversion was done, the men stood in silence. Connal grew hushed as well, and gave Sonder confused sideways glances. In turn, Sonder gave the lad a reassuring smile. Wait for it boy, he thought.
“Guards of the Gods, defend now your lords and land!”
With a great kshhing, every man in the company drew his sword and held it with both hands out, feet shoulder-width apart. It looked impressive enough. Next to him, Sonder could hear Connal gulp.
The order had come from the Captain of the Guard, a slight, simpering man by the name of Horace Nellton who stood now at the center of the circle, clothed in his own fine leather jerkin. The badge of his high station was sewn upon his breast and he wore a fine cloak of yellow with the Mark of the Way—the moon of Lantos surrounding the sun of Dartos, be-speckled by nine bright stars of Seltos—embroidered in gold thread. His voice was shrill and warbly.
“Guards of the Gods,” he shouted once more, “parade march, left!”
Each man turned to his left, sword still held stiffly upright, and started to march clockwise around the circle. Connal dropped his sword, startled, and scrambled out of the circle to avoid being knocked over. Sonder shook his head at the youth, though he could hardly blame him. The men were precisely in sync. A rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk resounded through the valley as the guards marched in unison.
“Guards halt!” Captain Nellton called in his warbly voice. “About, face!”
The men stopped suddenly and all turned toward the captain.
The Captain’s long face frowned in approval, “Very good. You have learned our maneuvers quickly.”
Marching in circles is not exactly a difficult task, you old lizard, Sonder thought. He and about a dozen other young men had joined the Holy Guard over the course of the last few months, and all they had learned so far was how to march in the ridiculous serious of formations that Captain Nellton never seemed to grow tired of. Any who questioned the merit of such 'training' was loudly hushed by the others.
“I see we have even more new recruits with us today,” Captain Nellton continued. “Let me be the first to welcome you to the Holy Guard. We have defended the Godskeep and the Way itself for hundreds of years. If you wish to join our ranks, you must show discipline, strength, intelligence, and fortitude.”
You must know how to march in circles. Squares won’t do, Sonder thought.
“If you make good today, and tomorrow, and the next day, we will accept you into our ranks for further training,” the captain said. “If not, you will be asked to leave. Questions? No? Carry on then. March right!”
And so they marched. They marched to the west, to the north, to the east, to the south. They marched clockwise and counterclockwise, holding their swords now in front, now at an angle, now in sweeping graceful arches. They marched in a battle formation, in a star, in a column, in triangles. The new recruits were never quite in step, but they followed the troupe well enough. Connal marched next to Sonder for the better part of the afternoon. He was an earnest lad, if a bit uncoordinated. He seemed particularly baffled by marching backwards, and often tripped over his feet. Sonder had to bite back a smile every time he stumbled. Hearing the younger boy cursing thickly under his breath at his own feet was irresistibly amusing.
Finally, after a few solid hours of marching, the Captain of the Guard called for a final halt. The sun was low in the sky, and the yard was now oddly quiet without the steady stomp of boots.
“Fine work men,” the captain warbled. “But we’ve a long way to go before we are ready to defend our Godskeep at Midsummer. Tomorrow we begin at noon. I shall pray that Our Lady Seltos guides your spirits to an easy rest this evening. You will need your strength.”
With that, the captain turned his heels and mounted a handsome chestnut horse with the help of his squire, and trotted away with dainty strides. Sonder snorted. The men dispersed with a groan of tired feet, sweat, and tedium. Hot and dripping with perspiration, Sonder made for the shade of a large oak tree nearby, where the men were wont to throw their canteens, shirts, and other personal belongings before each training session. Sonder was unsurprised to see that Connal had followed him. He took a long swig from his canteen and handed it off to the boy.
“Thank you mi—Sonder,” Connal said after he had drunk his fill. The boy was quite round, and was thus perspiring even more than Sonder. The skin on his face and arms was red and blotchy, and he was panting with exertion.
“You are welcome to it, lad,” Sonder returned. “Tell me, did you enjoy our little folly?”
The peasant boy turned even redder, “Truth be spoke milord, I had hoped to learn to wield a sword and a bit of proper fighting, not just…”
“Waving it around and marching about like a show pony?” Sonder smirked. “I had harbored those same hopes myself. I’m sad to say you'll only get more of the same from Captain Caterwaul. I had to ask some of the veterans in the barracks to teach me real swordplay, and even then, they could only teach me the basics.”
Connal’s doughy face fell, “I thought the Holy Guard would be more…guardish.”
Sonder laughed and eased himself down to stretch out beneath the great oak, hands behind his head. “They used to be, or so all my instructors always told me. They used to be more revered and fearsome than the King’s Green Knights.”
“What happened?” Connal asked, sitting down as well.
Sonder shrugged, “Peace. Cowards. The Godskeep hasn’t been attacked in hundreds of years. If you were a sensible squire hoping to become a knight, would you rather join the Green Knights and live in the Port Cities with the King and the great river lords and see actual battle—or would you rather live with a bunch of soft body priests and fanatics in the middle of nowhere and stand guard at some stupid gate against a nonexistent foe for the rest of your life?”
Connal frowned, “Seeing the Port Cities would be something.”
Sonder sighed, “It would. Instead we have to parade around at festivals waving our swords like maidens wave their handkerchiefs until we find a way to join the real warriors.” He sounded bitter, even to his own ears.
When he had rejected his father’s title, Sonder had known exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted did not coincide with the path his family had set down for him. How could he be a world-renowned warrior if he spent his entire life as a priest of Dartos? Especially as the Keeper of the Gods? How could he ever hope to see the far corners of Dorneldia and all the lands that lay beyond the seas, if he devoted his life to the gods of the Way? Sure, the Keeper sometimes made diplomatic journeys abroad, but typically all his father did was sit and pray and try to run the circus that was the Godskeep, making sure all the animals were happy. Give the Order of the Stars more gold for their new sanctuary, allow the Order of the Sun to erect a new statue in some little town no one had ever heard of to increase their following, buy the Order of the Moon a thousand more robes decked out in pearls, the sacred gem of their god… And for what? So he could live out his life in this wretched little valley? To make the gods happy?
Connal turned and looked at Sonder with determination, “Will you teach me what you know? You saw me fight.” He blushed again. “I could use some help so when we do leave this place, I’ll be fit to fight with the real warriors.”
Sonder considered a moment, then nodded, “Sure, I’ll help you lad.” He saw Connal reaching for his sword and added hastily, “But not now.” Sonder stood, took another drink of water from his canteen, and fixed it to his sword belt. “Tell me, Connal, have you ever been to the Pretty Priestess?”
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