Ranok

Not now.

It was a familiar feeling, all too familiar. The molten spike piercing his brains from the neck, the pain so complete it made his eyes water, and his vision go red. Ranok clutched the sides of his cot with all his considerable strength, and ground his teeth together. Blood began to flow where his canines bit into his own cheeks.

Your mind is a sword in the making. Temper the steel. Temper your mind.

The mantra was all he could focus on. His mouth forced itself open, to bellow a soundless cry. He fought back and all that came out was a groan and some spittle. His breath followed in short, rapid gasps. The pain itself was joined by the hunger – the desire to make war. Ranok snarled, gripped the sides of his simple cot even harder. Temper the steel. Temper your mind. Temper the steel. Temper your mind.

The urge to lash out, to search something to kill, was clouding his sanity like an approaching storm front. He closed his eyes, drove them shut and shook his head violently. Tears fell down his aching cheeks, onto the old sheets. No. No. I am Unbroken. I am Unbroken.

Tiny beads of sweat were appearing across his face. His cot was trembling beneath him, shifted by the spasms of his muscled body. Ranok let out another snarl. The Red Fever came strong this time. He willed himself to ignore the burning pain in his head, and focused instead on the struggle in his soul. He fought back the red storm, crackling with bolts of fire, all-consuming, that would see him rage and kill and maim, if only he would surrender himself to it.

Temper the steel. He focused on the words, saw them as glinting mountains of silver against the backdrop of the raging clouds. Mountains high enough to bar even the mightiest storm and turn aside its fiercest winds.

The red fever howled without words that made any sense, in the voice of his father, but Ranok’s focus held.

Temper your mind. The imagined the clang of the forges, a hammer hitting a red-hot blade, to drown the howling with its steady, relentless rhythm.

Then, as soon as it had come, the clouds of blood and fire dissipated, and the urge to commit horrible violence retreated. For now, the mountain range had held. But Ranok knew the Fever would return, like it always did. It was a part of him, something that made him who he was.

“I am Unbroken”, he whispered to the empty cell, and began to breath slowly, in and out, to calm his body as he had been trained. The flicker of the torches cast dancing shadows on the ceiling above him and was reflected in the sweat covering Ranok’s weary face. He embraced the serenity, wrapped it around him like a cloak of furs during winter.

The sudden slam on the door behind him made him flinch.

“It is time, Silvereye”, a man called out, the voice muffled by the thick, sturdy door. Ranok waited just a while, willing his heart to stop its galloping. There was another slam on the cell door. “I am ready”, Ranok groaned the reply, sat up and pushed his feet over the side of the cot and onto the cold stone floor. After putting on his boots he rose and went to pick up his greatsword. The master-wrought relic was standing against the wall next to the door, waiting like a loyal servant. He deftly lifted it and slid it over his back into its sheath, something he had done a thousand times. “Don’t want to keep the Cap’n waiting, aye?” The man said, beyond the door. Ranok closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. No I don’t, he thought to himself, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Gods, I thought you were having a wank”, Cold Matheson smiled at him as Ranok made his way out of his cell. He just grumbled in response and shouldered his way past him.

“Irori forbid you’d find a sense of humour in the Stolen Lands”, Cold yelled after him as Ranok paced away along a dark corridor. “And by the way, big boy, you’re bleeding from your mouth, might want to clean that up!”

**

Every seat around the semi-circular council table was occupied as Ranok entered the The Officer’s Hall. He felt all eyes on him, but did not lift his own to meet them. Instead, he walked the along the rug before the table and stopped two strides short of it. Keeping his eyes to the floor, his brought his fist to his forehead first and then down to his chest, above her heart, before letting it drop to the side.

“I am Unbroken”, he said in salutation and lifted his gaze. Captain Hazell was sitting at the center, beaming his fatherly smile at him. To his right was First Lieutenant Scoles, scowling, like he always did when he was forced to address Ranok. He had disliked the young fighter from the day he had been admitted to the Company. To the Captain’s left was the Warpriest, Erinosian, his face unreadable. They were flanked by all four of rest of the Company’s Lieutenants. Ranok disregarded them, kept his eyes level to the back of the hall.

“Ranok Silvereye”, the Captain began and rubbed the brown-grey of his bearded chin, “are you ready for tomorrow?”

Ranok cleared his throat. “Yes sir. I’ve made all the necessary preparations.” He had been waiting for a long time for the coming day. His true trials were approaching, and he welcomed them.

Captain Hazell nodded approvingly. “Good! I hear Lord Surtova and his council of Swordlords have all but decided the members of the expedition. The fifth member is unselected, and it seems the decision is made between you and one Naraya Midwinter.”

The name brought vivid recollections to the eye of Ranok’s mind. “Yes sir”, he replied coolly, and brushed aside the mixed emotions. There could not be any self-doubt. He must be absolutely focused.

“She’s a fine fighter, I hear, quick as a snake, and with a wit to match her skills. Daughter of late Edwin Midwinter, emissary and personal advisor to Lord Surtova himself!” The Captain added.

“I’m aware, sir”, Ranok replied, and regretted his words immediately. Across the table, First Lieutenant Scoles raised his other eyebrow. “You know her, Silvereye?”

“I do. Personally, sir.” Intimately, he thought, but did not say it, while still remaining honest. He remembered the last time he had seen her, a few days or so ago. There had been no goodbyes, but a sense of finality had hung over them none the less. The First Lieutenant snorted. “Would you say she was better suited for the task than you? Speak truly, boy, so we can spare ourselves the shame of sending you and recommend them to pick her.”

“That’s enough, First Lieutenant”, the Captain cut in, calmly but with every grain of authority he had. “You should realize you are criticizing your commanding officer and his decision.”

Scoles turned to the Captain. “Captain, I urge you to reconsider!” He pointed a finger at Ranok. “He is a fearsome, capable warrior, I admit that, but he is mad!” Hazell frowned but did not say anything. “Our credibility, honor and prestige will be tarnished beyond repair if he loses control during the journey! The Swordlords will never again hire the Unbroken for its services if they find out we sent a brother who could turn into frothing madman at any moment!” Scoles kept pleading, red-faced, his voice rising with every word.

“Will you let the Red Fever take you over, half-orc”, Warpriest Erinosian asked suddenly. He was staring at Ranok passively, without sympathy nor accusation. “Will you let your cursed blood best your resoluteness?”

Temper the steel. Temper your mind. Ranok remembered the Warpriest’s teachings well, every lesson since the day he had joined the Company. Sometimes he felt he was the only one in the Company that truly had to live by them, just to survive, let alone to be allowed to remain in the Company’s service. But that’s why you joined in the first place, he told himself. Or were allowed in, he corrected himself. What he chose to say next could very much affect his fate. He very much wanted to be bold, certain, indomitable. He wanted to go and prove he was worthy of the Company.

Still, what can I say, Ranok considered, but did not hesitate. “I will not, sir”, he replied patiently and was surprised of his own words and their firmness. A trace of satisfaction came and went in Erinosian’s expression. “Our Master Irori be your guide and guardian”, he said and leaned back in his chair, as if that settled the matter for him. He knew Ranok’s darker side well, but he was familiar with his honest, diligent nature. Two of the Lieutenants began to frantically whisper to each other’s ears. The First Lieutenant was frowning, and almost baring his teeth.

“So he says”, he hissed, but the Captain was not letting him go on.

“How many times has he succumbed to his curse during the missions he has participated?” The old commander asked his second-in-command. “Sir, he has not that many missions under his belt-”

“How many times?” The Captain’s words were cold steel. He was staring the First Lieutenant straight in the eye.

“Not once”, Scoles replied, between his teeth, without lowering his gaze, the challenge obvious in his manner.

“Not once”, the Captain repeated, and turned to regard Ranok. He looked tired, but stern. “I have absolute trust in your, Silvereye. I see great potential in you, not only in terms of your fighting ability, but also your ability to lead men. You are deeply flawed, yes. It is something you must overcome. But your perseverance against all odds is exemplary. To me, that signifies everything the Unbroken stand for.”

The Captain drew breath and regarded his subordinates. “My decision stands. Ranok Silvereye will represent us in the expedition”, he stated and turned back to look at Ranok. “If you are chosen.”

Ranok closed his eyes and bowed. “You honor me, sir. I will not let you down.”

But in his heart, the half-orc warrior was not so certain.