Of Blood and Honor (3 page)

“By the grace of the Light, may your brethren be healed,” the Cleric said in a whisper. He bowed and backed away to stand once more amongst his fellows.

The Archbishop turned to the men on the right and spoke again: “Knights of the Silver Hand, if you deem this man worthy, place your blessings upon him.”

Two of the armored men moved forward with obvious pride on their faces and stood solemnly in front of the dais. One of the men held a great, two-handed warhammer. The hammer’s silvery head was etched with holy runes and its haft was meticulously wrapped in blue leather. Tirion could only marvel at the weapon’s exceptional craftsmanship and beauty. The knight laid the hammer on the dais before Tirion’s feet. He then bowed his head and backed away. The second knight, carrying dual ceremonial shoulder plates, stepped forward and looked Tirion in the eye. He was Saidan Dathrohan, one of Tirion’s closest friends. The knight’s face was alight with pride and excitement. Tirion smiled knowingly. Visibly composing himself, Saidan placed the silver shoulder plates upon Tirion’s shoulders and spoke in a stern voice. “By the strength of the Light, may your enemies be undone.”

After he finished speaking, Saidan adjusted the silver plates so that the blue stole streamed out from beneath them. He then backed away and returned to the group of attendant knights. Tirion’s heart pounded in his chest. He was so overcome with joy that he felt almost light-headed. The Archbishop strode forward once again and placed his hand upon Tirion’s head.

“Arise and be recognized,” he said. Tirion got to his feet and marveled at the sheer magnitude of the honor being bestowed upon him. The Archbishop leveled his gaze at Tirion, then read aloud from the book.

“Do you, Tirion Fordring, vow to uphold the honor and codes of the Order of the Silver Hand?”

“I do,” Tirion replied earnestly.

“Do you vow to walk in the grace of the Light and spread its wisdom to your fellow man?”

“I do.”

“Do you vow to vanquish evil wherever it be found, and protect the weak and innocent with your very life?”

Tirion swallowed hard and nodded while saying, “By my blood and honor, I do.” He exhaled softly, overcome with emotion.

The Archbishop closed the book and walked back toward the center of the altar.

Turning to face the entire assembly, the Archbishop said, “Brothers—you who have gathered here to bear witness—raise your hands and let the Light illuminate this man.” Each of the Clerics and knights raised their right hands and pointed toward Tirion. To Tirion’s amazement, their hands began to glow with a
soft, golden radiance. He supposed that, in the excitement of the moment, his eyes were playing tricks on him. Yet, as he watched in wonder, the sunlight that poured in from above began to move slowly across the floor. As if in response to the assembly’s command, the light came to rest upon Tirion himself. Partially blinded by the intense radiance, Tirion felt his body warmed and energized by its holy power. Every fiber of his being was ignited by divine fire. He could sense life-giving energies flowing through his limbs, energies enough to heal any wound or cure any disease. He mused that these energies were enough to burn even the souls of the accursed denizens of the shadow. Despite himself, he shuddered involuntarily.

Ablaze with hope and joy, Tirion knelt down and took hold of the mighty hammer—the symbol of his holy appointment and station. With joyous tears streaming down his face, he raised his head and looked toward the Archbishop, who smiled warmly back at him.

“Arise, Tirion Fordring—Paladin defender of Lordaeron. Welcome to the Order of the Silver Hand.”

The entire assembly erupted in cheers. Trumpets blared from the high balconies and the cheerful din echoed through the vastness of the Cathedral of Light.

*    *    *

Tirion woke with a start. The sound of children’s frolicking laughter came through the nearby window. Outside he could hear the familiar sounds of commerce and trade being conducted within the grounds of Mardenholde keep. He was home, in his own bed. Shaking his head to clear his groggy mind, he wondered how long he had slept. His sheets were soaked with sweat and he smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in a week. His head was pounding so hard he felt as if it would burst. Sighing heavily, he remembered that he had been dreaming. He tried to recall the dream’s details, but due to the incessant pounding in his skull, he could only grasp the faintest flashes of imagery: a robed man, a shiny hammer, and a vicious orc.
A vicious orc?
He surmised that he had dreamt of his appointment as a Paladin. But surely there were no orcs present at that joyous ceremony. Slowly, more images began to flash in his mind. There had been a fight between himself and the orc—and he had lost. Nonsense, he thought absently. He mused that his dreams were becoming even more imaginative in his old age.

Lifting his head from the sweat-soaked pillow, he attempted to get up and out of bed. A searing pain shot through him and he lay back down, panting for breath. He stripped the blankets from his body and saw that his entire midsection had been neatly bandaged. Bruises and small lacerations covered most of his aching body. He was surprised to find that his arm had also been dressed and bandaged. Frantically, he tried to recall what had happened to him. Had the fight against the orc been real? For some strange reason, his memory seemed hazy and sluggish. His face contorted with pain as he struggled out of bed. Wrapping himself in his dressing robe, he made his way toward the sitting room of his private chambers.

He found his young wife, Karandra, sitting quietly with her needlework in a large plush chair near an open window. At seeing him enter the room, Karandra threw down her embroidery and rushed to meet him. She hugged him warmly, careful not to squeeze him too tightly.

“Thank the Light, you’re awake,” she said. Her young, delicate features were fixed with both relief and concern. Her blue eyes seemed to stare straight through him, as they always did. He smiled back and kissed her forehead lightly. He marveled, for perhaps the ten thousandth time, at her beauty. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep clear through midyear,” she said. His eyebrow arched questioningly as he stroked her soft, golden hair.

“What do you mean? How long have I slept?” he asked.

“Nearly four days,” she replied flatly. Tirion blinked in disbelief.

“Four days,” he mumbled to himself. That would explain the hazy memory, he mused.

“Karandra, what’s happened to me? Why have I slept so long?” he asked. She shrugged, shaking her head slightly.

“We’re not exactly sure what happened to you,” she replied. “You left in the morning to go hunting and were gone for hours. Since you’re almost never late in returning, I was worried that you’d been hurt. I sent Arden out to find you.” Tirion smiled. Arden was the captain of the keep’s guards, and perhaps his most loyal friend. He should have guessed that Arden would go searching for him. Karandra continued, “Just as he was leaving the keep, he came across you atop Mirador. He said that you were unconscious when he found you, and that you’d been tied to the saddle with your own reins.”

Tirion cupped his aching head in his hands. “Tied to my saddle? None of this makes any sense,” he said wearily.

She placed her cool hand against his forehead, soothingly. “Your ribs were broken and your arm had been sliced open. We feared you had been attacked by a rogue bristlebear. Barthilas healed you as soon as Arden brought you inside.”

Tirion sat down heavily in her chair.
Barthilas? Barthilas had healed him?
The youth was only recently anointed as a Paladin, and Tirion was surprised to hear that his powers had developed so quickly. The somewhat arrogant but devout Barthilas had been assigned as Tirion’s Second—his successor as Lord Paladin over Hearthglen. He had tutored the young Paladin in the ways of their holy Order and instructed him in the protocols of the political arena. Though he was glad the youth had been able to heal him, he had other matters to ponder.
Had the fight with the orc really taken place
?

Karandra kneeled down, close to him. “Barthilas’ healing taxed you greatly, and left him exhausted. As you slept, you cried out a number of times in delirium,” she said.

He looked at her questioningly. “And?” he asked.

“Well,” she began with a look of concern crossing her face, “you were rambling on about orcs, Tirion. You said that there were orcs in Hearthglen.”

He laid back in the chair wearily. The memories of the furious encounter came rushing back at him. The fight
had
been real. He looked into her crystal blue eyes and nodded grimly.

“It
was
an orc,” he told her. Karandra sat back on her feet, mouth agape.

“Light save us,” she muttered. Just then the door slammed open and five-year-old Taelan came bounding into the room.

“Poppa! Poppa!” the boy shouted, running over to his parents. Karandra straightened and stood up as Taelan leaped up into Tirion’s lap. Tirion grunted as the small boy threw himself against his sore chest.

“Taelan, my boy, how are you?” he asked, wrapping his son up in a hearty hug. Taelan beamed a coy smile up at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Have you been good for your mother?” Taelan nodded excitedly.

“He’s mindful often enough,” Arden’s strong voice boomed from the doorway. “But he’s just as rambunctious as his father ever was.” Karandra smiled warmly at the loyal guardsman as he entered the room. “I hope I’m not intruding on anything. I saw Taelan there heading this way like a raging ogre and thought to catch him before he woke you, Tirion. It seems I shouldn’t have worried.” With a grunt, Tirion rose with Taelan in his arms and walked forward to greet his old friend. The two shook hands heartily.

“Karandra tells me that I should thank you for hauling me back to the keep. Honestly, Arden, if I had a gold mark for every time you’ve fished me out of trouble . . .”

“Nonsense. I just led your horse back. If you thank anyone, it should be Barthilas. He just about burnt himself out trying to heal you. You’d taken a pretty good beating, old friend. In any case, I’m glad to see you back amongst the living. You had us concerned there for a while.”

“I know,” Tirion said. “There are some things we should discuss, immediately.” Arden nodded, casting a sidelong look at Taelan and Karandra. Catching the captain’s subtle hint, Karandra took Taelan from Tirion’s arms and said, “I’ll leave you both to it, then. You’ve got plans to make. And this little one needs to go down for his nap.” She kissed the boy on the cheek. Taelan, whining with displeasure, struggled to break free of her firm grasp. Karandra laughed softly to herself.

“Just like his father,” she said with a giggle. Both Tirion and Arden smiled as she left.

“I’ll see you later, son,” Tirion said, watching them leave. Once they were out of earshot, he turned to face Arden, his face a mask of concern.

“It was an orc, Arden. More than likely, it’s still alive. As far as I could tell, it was alone out there. And, until we know otherwise, I want to keep this between us and whoever else was on hand when you brought me in. I don’t want to panic the entire province in case this was just a solitary incident.”

Arden’s strong jaw tightened noticeably. “There may be a problem on that front already, milord. Barthilas and I were both on hand while you slept. We both heard you mutter about the orc,” he said. Tirion grimaced as Arden continued. “You know Barthilas as well as I do. Once he heard you say ‘orc,’ he flew into a rage and started calling for a full regiment to scour the countryside in search of any more of the brutes. I nearly had to sit on him to calm him down.”

“I appreciate the lad’s enthusiasm, but his fervor could be problematic,” Tirion stated wryly.

“That would be an understatement,” Arden added, smiling. Both men had recognized early on Barthilas’ almost zealous obsession to face orcs in battle. Barthilas’ parents had been murdered by orcs during the war, which had left the traumatized youth orphaned and inconsolable. Deciding to spend the rest of his life combating the orcs’ evil, Barthilas underwent years of rigorous training and study. Yet, tragically, the fiery youth was accepted as a Paladin only after the war had ended. Despite all his training and preparation, Barthilas was tortured by the fact that he wouldn’t have the chance to avenge his slaughtered parents. He also felt that he could only win the respect of his superiors by bloodying his hands gloriously in battle, as they had during the war. He dreamed of becoming a mighty hero and taking vengeance upon the creatures that had taken his family from him.

Although he empathized with the younger Paladin, Tirion knew that that kind of thinking could lead to disaster. “I doubt he’s been tight-mouthed about my encounter. Especially after he healed my wounds. How many know about this, Arden?” Tirion asked anxiously.

“Rumors have been flying all around the keep for the past few days. Personally, I’ve heard just about everything from an orc raiding party to a full-fledged invasion force waiting to descend upon us. You know how it is. People are terrified that the Horde will return. And Barthilas, specifically, is terrified that he won’t get to defeat it singlehandedly if it ever does,” Arden replied. Tirion patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tirion said in earnest. “Assemble my advisors. We’ll discuss this further in council.” Arden saluted crisply and turned to leave. Tirion cleared his throat. “Arden,” he said softly. “One last thing . . .” Arden stopped in his tracks and stiffened. “You saw the shape I was in when you found me?”

“Yes,” Arden replied.

“There’s no way I could have tied myself to Mirador and found my way home in that condition.”

“No, milord. There’s no way.”

“And you saw no one else out there? No one who could have helped me and led the horse back here?”

“No, milord. There was no one about. I even went back later to search for tracks. I found nothing. Someone definitely tied you to your horse. And, for the life of me, I can’t figure out who,” Arden finished. Tirion nodded and motioned for him to go. Left alone, Tirion pondered on who his anonymous savior could have been. As far as he knew, the only two people in the woods that morning were himself and the mysterious old orc. Briefly, Tirion wondered if it was the orc that had saved him. His past experience with the creatures prompted him to disregard the notion. The bestial creatures had no notion of honor. From all he had seen of them, he was certain that they would never go out of their way to show compassion toward another creature, least of all a hated enemy. Still, despite his convictions, Tirion’s instincts told him that it had been the orc after all.