“You’d let me fight him, sir?” Thomas asked, and the Paladin nodded in satisfaction.
“You’re still a man after all, eh? Good. I’ll have use for that fire in your belly. If I let you fight him, will you swear the Oath?”
“What Oath…sir?” Thomas asked, shifting his jaw, and probing his teeth with his regrown tongue. It felt as though some of the teeth had been replaced, but some were still sharp and jagged…he could live with them, though, as long as he got his chance here.
“Swear to obey the orders of the Church of Nimon, to follow where He leads, and to face the false gods wherever they skulk. Swear to obey the commands of the Holy Order, and one day, who knows, boy? You might end up standing as a free man again. Or you’ll be kept, as appropriate to the crimes you’re accused of.” The Paladin nodded toward Boris and the others, and Thomas paused, thinking quickly. He’d be signing his life away, property of the Church to such a strict degree that even a slave wasn’t. A slave always had the hope of escape…but…he’d be a soldier again. He’d be able to move around the camps, even earn his way up the ranks…if he were lucky. He’d heard the horror stories of the Oathsworn, the Warriors of the Night…but he’d heard the good tales as well, and at least he’d stand a chance this way.
“I’ll swear, sir, if I get a chance at him?” Thomas said, jerking his head toward Boris, and the Paladin grinned at him.
“Excellent! Perhaps this morning isn’t a waste of my time after all!” He clapped his gauntleted hands together. “No time like the present. Form a ring!” he shouted, gesturing to his men, and in short order, the prisoners, transport wagons, and guards had formed a rough circle around Thomas, Boris, and the Paladin of Nimon.
“Sir…the collar?” The Church solider asked again.
“Hmmm… no, I think not. For now, it stays on. He can earn its removal,” he mused, looking Thomas in the eye. “Mage?”
“No, sir, Arcane Soldier,” Thomas said, getting a raised eyebrow as a smile quirked at the edge of the Paladin’s mouth.
“Really? Well now, there’s a rare gift. How many spells?”
“Five, sir. ‘Flame Touch’, ‘Magic Missile’…”
“Best you keep them to yourself, son; we’ll talk later. For now, you’ve got the chance to prove yourself, followed by an Oathbinding as a Slave-Aspirant…” The Paladin said with a nod toward Boris, whose face was a mix of fear and fury.
“E’s a criminal! E’ attacked me when I weren’t ready, an’…” Boris spoke up quickly, pointing at Thomas.
“Then you’ve got the chance to face him fully aware now, haven’t you? How wonderful.” the Paladin said, cutting him off. “I’ll admit I’m curious, though… if an Arcane Soldier attacked you without warning, yet you still managed to defeat him, why are you a simple jailor, rather than leading a squad now? Hmmm?” Then he turned to look Thomas up and down, noting his condition and dismissing it as unimportant. “If you’re a real Arcane Soldier, boy, you’ll be able to beat this streak of shit easily, even as weak as you look.”
“If not, then you’re a liar, and I expect this jailor will beat you to death, in which case I’m out a potential soldier. While I’ll regret the loss of a man, I’ll not have liars in my forces. Last chance to back out.”
“I’ll rip off his head and shit down his throat… Sir.” Thomas said, shifting from foot to foot, ready to fight. “Do I get a weapon, or do I have to do it with my bare hands?” he asked, focused on Boris with laser-like precision.
“What do you use?”
“Anything, sir. I trained in spear, sword, mace, lance, and Morningstar.” Thomas replied, still focused on Boris, watching the sweat beginning to bead across his forehead. Thomas’s injuries were still there; most had been healed, but months of beatings, deprivation, and abuse couldn’t be reversed in a single spell. He was weaker than he’d ever been in his life, and absolutely desperate for the chance to kill his hated attacker.
The Paladin nodded to the soldier that had unlocked Thomas’s restraints, and he sighed, pulling his own mace from its hook on his belt.
“You better not damage this, laddie…” the soldier quietly warned Thomas, handing the weapon over before stepping back.
“Well then, let’s see what you both can do,” The Paladin nodded, his mustachios quivering as he grinned at the two men standing before him, and he stepped back.
Boris lunged forward immediately. His regulation short sword whistled through the air, the tip cutting a thin line across the ragged, filthy jerkin Thomas wore.
Thomas had judged the distance as best he could, moving back a single step and bringing the mace up to catch Boris’s left forearm as the jailor lashed out with his cosh, trying to end the fight quickly.
Boris screamed, dropping the cosh from suddenly numbed fingers. Taking a quick step back, he yanked the sword back around, only for it to clang off Thomas’ hastily raised mace.
Thomas twisted his wrist, deflecting his opponent’s sword to the side, and kicked Boris hard on the inside of his left knee, staggering him.
Boris half-fell backwards, the encircling men and women moving with him, and he thrust frantically with his sword, rust spots standing out clearly. Thomas leaned aside, lashing out and grabbing the jailor’s wrist, pulling him forward.
Thomas grinned into the terrified eyes of the man who’d tormented him, beaten him, and tortured him for months, and he brought his borrowed mace around to smash down onto his forearm.
The flanged mace hit with sickening force, and Thomas felt the bones shatter under the blow.
Boris
