Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 8: A Quill Cuts Sharp

Libro swallowed for the tenth time that morning. The sunrise had come like death, turning the bruised sky shades of orange and apricot. He stood near the other guardsmen, donning his armor, checking, checking, and rechecking that every strap and buckle was secure.

Damn it all, but was his mouth dry like the Austerland desert. His tongue felt like a thick strip of cotton, sticking to the roof of his mouth. His lips fared little better, all cracked and tight as they were. He swallowed again, but the hard lump in his throat remained. And yet, goddess above, did he have to piss. He'd relieved himself twice already in trying to prepare, and again his bladder felt full enough to burst just then. What irony, he thought. His mouth was bone dry, and yet he was practically swimming below the belt.

It wasn't right. None of it was. Libro being here, arming up with all the other guardsmen. He wasn't a soldier. Well, not technically. Sure he'd practiced the drills, recited the litanies, and brought a cadet to his knees in the sparring ring a time or two, but things were different now. He was the Chronicler. He was supposed to hold a quill, not a shield, and certainly not an ax.

His hand instinctively brushed against the spine of the Archive chained to his side. The cold leather only gave a semblance of relief, but somehow it was enough. Libro closed his eyes, remembering the Captain's words. Breathe. Just breathe. He sucked in a lungful and let it out slowly through his nose.

A rough hand clapped him hard on the back. Libro gasped, sputtered, and gave a horrid belch. He turned, the daggers in his eyes quickly their edge the moment he laid them on Regis.

"Morning," said Regis merrily, appearing dressed for battle. His massive body stood wrapped in thick furs and chainmail, the metal links intertwined with corded red string, fashioned in the shape of some bizarre winged monster—a Wyrm. Libro remembered Regis describe it. Some fire breathing beast that lived up in the mountains of Danic. Utter nonsense honestly.

"I...oh...good morning," Libro said between gasps.

"Well, well," Regis gave Libro the once over. "Have to say you don't look too shabby in armor. Fits you rather well."

"You think?" said Libro nervously. He imagined he looked rather comical. The thick wool coat made it hard to move his arms, the chain coat even more so. The metal plates of his lamellar coat clicked and clacked like a damned wind chime every time he moved. How anyone could fight in all this was beyond his understanding.

Regis tapped a finger to his chin. "Now that you mention it though, it does feel like somethings missing. Ah, I know." He bent down, scooping Libro's cone-shaped helmet off the ground and planting it over his head.

The world went dark as the lip of the helm slipped over his eyes. Libro scrambled to pull it up, the faceguard digging into his nose.

"There," Regis brushed his hands together and stepped back to admire his work. "You look like a tried and true Tribune now. Tassel and all."

"More like a tried and true corpse if you ask me," Libro said as he tried to keep the helmet above his eyes. "I can barely see in this thing."

"Bah, damn that quartermaster. Hordie couldn't give a man the right fit if he had a tape measure sewed to his ass. Give it here." Regis tore the helmet off Libro and peered inside. "Damn leathers all folded to shit in here. Let me just fix that." He stuck a hand into the oversized drinking mug and fumbled with it before checking once more. "Eh, that'll have to do."

Regis slapped the helmet back on Libro before he could protest. The metal pinched a bit more in some places, squeezed in others, but at least its place this time. All the better to see his death coming, he supposed.