Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers (38 page)

 

Now before you seek shelter or food for yourself
Go seek first for those things for your beast
For he is worth far more than praises or pelf
Though a fool thinks to value him least.
If you've ever a moment at leisure to spare
Then devote it, as if to your god,
To his grooming, and practice, and weapons-repair
And to seeing you both are well-shod.

 

Eat you lightly and sparingly—never fuh-fed-
For a full belly founders your mind.
Ah, but sleep when you can—it is better than
bread—
For on night-watch no rest will you find.
Do not boast of your skill, for there's always one
more
Who would prove he is better than you.
Treat swordladies like sisters, and not like a whore
Or your wenching days, child, will be few.

 

When you look for a captain, then look for the man
Who thinks first of his men and their beasts,
And who listens to scouts, and has more than
one plan,
And heeds not overmuch to the priests.
And if you become captain, when choosing your
men
Do not look at the “heroes” at all.
For a hero dies young—rather choose yourself ten
Or a dozen whose pride's not so tall.

 

Now your Swordmaster's god—whosoever he be—
When he stands there before you to teach
And don't argue or whine, think to mock foolishly
Or you'll soon be consulting a leech!
Now most booty is taken by generals and kings
And there's little that's left for the low
So it's best that you learn skills, or work at odd
things
To keep food in your mouth as you go.

 

And last, if you should chance to reach equal my
years
You must find you a new kind of trade
For the plea that you're still spry will fall on
deaf ears—
There's no work for old swords, I'm afraid.
Now if all that I've told you has not changed
your mind
Then I'll teach you as best as I can.
For you're stubborn, like me, and like me of the
kind
Becomes one
fine
swords-woman or -man!

(Captain Idra)

 

This is the price of commanding—
That you always stand alone,
Letting no one near
To see the fear
That's behind the mask you've grown.
This is the price of commanding.

 

This is the price of commanding-
That you watch your dearest die,
Sending women and men
To fight again,
And you never tell them why.
This is the price of commanding.

 

This is the price of commanding,
That mistakes are signed in red—
And that
you
won't pay
But others may,
And your best may wind up dead.
This is the price of commanding.

 

This is the price of commanding—
All the deaths that haunt your sleep.
And you hope they forgive
And so you live
With your memories buried deep.
This is the price of commanding.

 

This is the price of commanding—
That if you won‘t, others will.
So you take your post,
Mindful of each ghost—
You've a debt to them to fill.
This is the price of commanding.

(Jadrek)

 

I sit amid the dusty books. The dust invades my very soul.

It coats my heart with weariness and chokes it with despair.

My life lies beached and withered on a lonely, bleak, uncharted shoal.

There are no kindred spirits here to understand, or care.

 

When I was young, how often I would feed my hungry mind with tales

And sought the fellowship in books I did not find in kin.

For one does not seek friends when every overture to others fails

So all the company I craved I built from dreams within.

 

Those dreams—from all my books of lore I plucked the wonders one by one

And waited for the day that I was certain was to come

When some new hero would appear whose quest had only now begun

With desperate need of lore and wisdom I alone could plumb.

 

And then, ah then, I'd ride away to join with legend and with song.

The trusted friend of heroes, figured in their words and deeds.

Until that day, among the books I'd dwell—but I have dwelt too long

And like the books I sit alone, a relic no one needs.

 

I grow too old, I grow too old, my aching bones have made me lame

And if my futile dream came true, I could not live it now.

The time is past, long past, when I could ride the wings of fleeting fame

The dream is dead beneath the dust, as ‘neath the dust I bow.

 

So, unregarded and alone I tend these fragments of the past

Poor fool who bartered life and soul on dreams and useless lore.

And as I watch despair and bitterness enclose my heart at last

Within my soul's dark night I cry out, “Is there nothing more?”

(Kethry:
Oathbound)

 

Most folk avoid the Pelagir Hills, where ancient wars and battles

Were fought with magic, not with steel, for land and gold and chattels.

Most folk avoid the forest dark for magics still surround it

And change the creatures living there and all that dwell around it.

Within a tree upon a hill that glowed at night with magic

There lived a lizard named Gervase whose life was rather tragic.

His heart was brave, his mind was wise. He longed to be a wizard.

But who would ever think to teach their magic to a lizard?

 

So poor Gervase would sit and dream, or sigh as sadly rueing

That fate kept him forever barred from good he could be doing.

That he had wit and mind and will it cannot be debated

He also had the kindest heart that ever gods created.

One day as Gervase sighed and dreamed all in the forest sunning

He heard a noise of horse and hound and sounds of two feet running.

A human stumbled to his glade, a human worn and weary

Dressed in a shredded wizard's robe, his eyes past hope and dreary.

The magic of his birthplace gave Gervase the gift of speaking.

He hesitated not at all—ran to the wizard, squeaking,

“Hide human, hide! Hide in my tree!” he danced and pointed madly.

The wizard stared, the wizard gasped, then hid himself right gladly.

Gervase at once lay in the sun until the hunt came by him

Then like a simple lizard now he fled as they came nigh him.

And glowered in the hollow tree and hissed when they came near him

And bit a few dogs' noses so they'd yelp and leap and fear him.

 

“Thrice damn that wizard!” snarled his foe. “He's slipped our hunters neatly.

The hounds have surely been misled. They've lost the trail completely.“

He whipped the the dogs off of the tree and sent them homeward running

And never once suspected it was all Gervase's cunning.

The wizard out of hiding crept. “Thrice blessing I accord you!

And is there somehow any way I can at all reward you?“

“I want to be a man like you!” Gervase replied unthinking.

“A wizard—or a man?” replied the mage who stared, unblinking.

“For I can only grant you one, the form of man, or power.

What will you choose? Choose wisely, I must leave within the hour.“

Gervase in silence sat and thought, his mind in turmoil churning.

And first the one choice thinking on, then to the other turning.

Yes, he could have the power he craved, the magic of a wizard

But who'd believe that power lived inside a lowly lizard ?

Or he could have the form of man, but what could he do in it?

And all the good he craved to do—how then could he begin it?

Within the Councils of the Wise there sits a welcome stranger

His word is sought by high and low if there is need or danger.

He gives his aid to all who ask, who need one to defend them

And every helpless creature knows he lives but to befriend them.

And though his form is very strange compared to those beside him

The mages care not for the form, but for the mind inside him.

For though he's small, and brightly scaled, they do not see a lizard.

He's called by all, both great and small, “Gervase, the Noble Wizard.”

He's known by all, both great and small, Gervase the Lizard Wizard!

(Tarma: “Swordsworn”)

 

“I shall love you till I die!”
Talasar and Dera cry.
He swears “On my life I vow
Only death could part us now!”
She says “You are life and breath
Nothing severs us but Death!”
Lightly taken, lightly spoke,
Easy vows are easy broke.

 

“Come and ride awhile with me,”
Talasar says to Varee,
“Look, the moon is rising high,
Countless stars bestrew the sky.
Come, or all the hours are flown
It's no night to lie alone.”
This the one who lately cried
That he'd love until he died.

 

“Kevin, do you think me fair?”
Dera smiles, shakes back her hair.
“I have long admired you—
Come, the night is young and new
And the wind is growing cold—
I would see if you are bold—”
Is this she who vowed till death
Talasar was life and breath?

 

Comes the dawn—beneath a tree
Talasar lies with Varee.
But look—who should now draw near—
Dera and her Kevin-dear
He sees her—and she sees him—
Oh confusion! Silence grim!
Till he sighs, and shakes his head—(pregnant
pause)
“Well, I guess we must be dead!”

(Leslac and Tarma)

 

Leslac:

Tarma : Bartender, shut that minstrel up and bring another beer.

L: The warrior and the sorceress went searching high and low

T: That isn't true, I tell you, and I think that I should know!

L:

L: They searched through all the town to find and bring him to defeat.

T: Like Hell! What we were looking for was wine and bread and meat!

L: They found him in the tavern and they challenged him to fight.

T: We found him holding up the bar, drunk as a pig, that night.

L: The tyrant laughed and mocked at them, with vile words and base.

T: He tripped on Warrl's tail, then took exception to my face.

L: The warrior was too wise for him; his blade clove only air!

T: He swung, I ducked, he lunged—and then he tripped over a chair.

L: With but a single blow the warrior brought him to his doom!

T: About that time he turned around—I got him with a broom.

L: And in a breath the deed was done! The tyrant-lord lay dead!

T: I didn't
mean
for him to hit the fire iron with his head!

 

L:

T:

T:

L:

T: Don't you believe a word of it—I
know,
‘cause I was there!

(Tarma: “Swordsworn”)

 

 

CH: Wind's four quarters, air and fire
Earth and water, hear my desire
Grant my plea who stands alone—
Maiden, Warrior, Mother and Crone.

 

Eastern wind blow clear, blow clean,
Cleanse my body of its pain,
Cleanse my mind of what I've seen,
Cleanse my honor of its stain.
Maid whose love has never ceased
Bring me healing from the East.

 

Southern wind blow hot, blow hard,
Fan my courage to a flame,
Southern wind be guide and guard,
Add your bravery to my name.
Let my will and yours be twinned,
Warrior of the Southern wind.

 

Western wind, stark, blow strong,
Grant me arm and mind of steel
On a road both hard and long.
Mother, hear me where I kneel.
Let no weakness on my quest
Hinder me, wind of the West.

 

Northern wind blow cruel, blow cold,
Sheathe my aching heart in ice,
Armor ‘round my soul enfold.
Crone I need not call you twice.
To my foes bring the cold of death!
Chill me, North wind's frozen breath.