Chapter 34: Thorpe

Penaton heard the cry of pain as he approached the gatehouse. It was the cry of a man who was prepared for it, expected it and knew it had to happen, but was still overwhelmed by the sheer agony nonetheless. He noted the trailing moans were stifled as the man tried to hold on to his dignity.

The Commander rounded the corner and found his soldier collapsed against the interior wall of the gatehouse, just inside the portcullis. His leg was splayed out and the head medic was beginning to splint it while the White Blade bit down on a piece of soft dowel, breathing hard from the agony. The cries had obviously been from the traction the medic had applied to set the leg.

Thorpe had seen it all too many times before.

“Just take the laudanum,” urged the second healer, with a small cup raised to the man’s lips, but it was slapped from his startled hands as the soldier threatened to bite through the wooden rod.

“No opioids.” He breathed hard through his gritted teeth, then ripped the dowel from his mouth.

“You have no idea… how strong that is… There’s no… fucking Narcan…” His voice broke into a shout. “JUST SPLINT THE FUCKING LEG!”

Penaton didn’t know what Mathew’s objections meant, but he recognised the signs of accumulated trauma when he saw them. This wasn't a man who was reacting to combat for the first time. This was a man whose past trauma had been triggered by tonight’s events. Penaton suspected that Mathew had fought the Iron Shield in the Copperwise Forest. According to Sir Gregory’s report, he’d somehow single-handedly eliminated almost all of Revenant Company and, if the report was to be believed, had done so whilst unarmed. He couldn’t believe it; it wasn’t possible. But no matter how the Iron Shield Knights died, witnessing that kind of violence could carry a hefty price for a young man like Mathew. And whilst it seemed too much of a fantasy to believe, the trauma he was seeing now - that? That was real.

“What about Rio?” cried the mysterious White Blade. “How can I tell her? What do I tell her?”

Penaton looked towards a white sheet on the ground from which protruded a pair of boots, and his heart leapt into his throat as he walked towards the shape beneath it. Deep down, he knew what he was about to find, but couldn’t accept it unless he saw it himself. Lifting the sheet, he swore softly as he saw Brendon’s lifeless eyes and the dark, dried blood that almost blended into the man’s jet-black skin. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped his face as the reality flooded him. It stirred more in him than the loss of other men. He told himself it was only because the man had been valuable: one of those rare soldiers who sharpened everyone around him, and that he was destined to be a fantastic leader. When Brendon was in a unit, the men worked better. Morale was better. They were focused.

He made them happy.
He made us happy.

But the truth was that Thorpe was devastated for no simpler reason than because he liked the man. Brendon was loved like a brother throughout the company.

And just like that, he was gone.

Penaton knew what this would mean for the men. He could see it even in the eyes of Mathew, who had barely known the soldier for a fortnight. The weary Commander dropped the sheet with a slow, deep breath.

Anger filled him; someone was going to pay for this, but he knew better than to let it out before he knew who was to blame. It had to be swallowed; now was not the time.
Watchman Aaron, having waited for exactly the right moment, approached him slowly and respectfully. Penaton silently praised the guard’s intuition and remembered that the White Blade was due a promotion; Thorpe promised himself Aaron would get one.

“What happened?”

The answer came in hushed tones. “We don’t quite rightly know, Sir. We didn’t hear him until he was almost upon us, and we barely saw him at all until he was at the gate. He hardly had enough strength left to raise his voice. I sent Mason to get you and opened the gate. He’d dragged the Lieutenant’s body from the River District… Sir, it’s… it’s over two miles of winding streets.”

Thorpe glanced at Mathew, who was still thrashing against the medics, trying to stand now that his leg had been splinted. “On a broken leg? He dragged that man in full kit from the River District? On THAT leg?”

Aaron nodded. “I trained with him several times last week, Sir. He certainly gave the impression of a man who did what needed to be done when the demand came for it… but…”

“But what?”

“But it’s impossible, isn’t it?” Aaron whispered.

The Commander frowned. “I’ve seen many heroic things over the years. Maybe this is one of them.” He looked around. “Where is Cort? I thought he was in the field tonight.”

The White Blade shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t seen him, Sir.” then added. “He did leave with them.”

The Commander looked absentmindedly out the gate, wondering where the Blade Warden could be. “Did you send for Gleeson?”

“Yes, Sir. He left for the scene immediately after he pulled the location from Initiate Mathew.”

Thorpe nodded, concerned. “Thank you, Watchman. You’re up for promotion soon. You deserve it. I will be considering you favourably.”

Aaron saluted solemnly and returned to his duties whilst Penaton turned and finally focused on Mathew.

“Report,” he commanded in a clipped tone. He didn’t want to be hard on the boy; it was clear he’d been through enough, but he needed to know what had happened. He needed details whilst they were fresh. He needed the soldier to focus.

Soldier. He’s still just a boy. He’s barely been with us for two weeks. He never should have been put on patrol. What was Cort thinking? And where was Cort? Was he dead too?

Mathew stopped his writhing and locked eyes with him. Initially, he saw sadness in the boy’s eyes. But then he realised there was also fierce determination there, alongside a seething anger that matched Penaton’s own, but unrestrained and full of fury. Penaton watched as the young man ignored the medics’ arguments, threw off the Commander’s own hand and stood on his good leg, drawing himself up on his halberd as a crutch.

Penaton couldn’t believe his eyes. The fortitude of the man was humbling. The man had hauled a fallen comrade in full kit for two miles, had his leg set without laudanum and then stood to attention. And this was after whatever had happened in the River District… the Commander softened.

“Easy, man. You don’t need to push yourself.”

But the boy pulled himself up regardless, and Penaton watched Mathew carefully as he calmed down from the frantic panic he had been engaged in earlier. The boy was putting iron back into his spine before he tried to speak. The breathing slowed. Mathew’s eyes remained fixed on his own and the boy’s jaw set in place. The anger remained in those focused eyes, and Thorpe felt a momentary wash of relief that it was not meant for him. Or was it? Something was off about it. Then there was a pause. Even now, the young man was choosing his words deliberately, thinking before he spoke, and the Commander let him take his time. Whatever he was told, Penaton somehow believed Mathew would not lie to him. Omit, possibly. But not lie.

“The Lord’s Guard… were trying to rape a girl in the River District. The Lieutenant and I intervened. The Knights let the girl go, but drew their swords against us. We tried to de-escalate the situation, but they wouldn’t back down. We fought. Brendon was killed. I brought him back here.”

Mathew swayed in front of the Commander and the medics held him upright.

Penaton wished they could have done the same for him.

Nothing could have prepared the officer for the news he’d just received. Penaton did not speak for a long time as he absorbed the information and the implications it carried.

“What did Cort do? Why didn’t he come back with you?”

He regretted his words instantly. In all his years, Commander Thorpe had never felt intimidated by a soldier under his command. He was a monster of a man, and had been since his mid-teens. His height and sheer bulk had always given him a quiet confidence: not arrogance, exactly, but a settled certainty that few men could truly threaten him.

That certainty abandoned him at the mention of Cort’s name.

The boy, no… not a boy anymore… a man. This man had an aura pouring out of his skin so thick that Penaton believed he could almost see it radiating from the body. It was not rage, not merely. This was colder than that. Cleaner. It had weight. It pressed against him like… inevitability. Thorpe’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. His vision narrowed. The muscles in his legs tightened before he had given them permission, preparing him to move, to retreat, to put distance between himself and the thing standing in front of him.

He wanted to hide.

Not from the physical threat, though his body was screaming at him to move, but from the gaze that promised to expose every sin he’d ever committed, every compromise he had swallowed, every act of cruelty he had mistaken for discipline, and every decision he had made that had led to this point. He was being judged.

But Mathew just stood there. Invisible power rippling through him, revealed only by Commander Thorpe’s own, previously unnecessary, survival instincts.
There was a long silence as Mathew stared into Thorpe’s eyes, holding him in place. Not with threat. Not even with command. Thorpe simply could not look away. And, in the silence, he was being forced to reflect on his sins. Forced to understand his sins.

It was unbearable.

Then, finally, the pressure relented.

It vanished so quickly that Thorpe could have sworn his ears popped from the change in pressure.

Mathew’s face softened, the wrath draining into sorrow, and he lowered his eyes to the blanket covering Brendon on the ground nearby.

“Cort wasn’t there. He went into an establishment to meet an ‘informant’. He told us to continue the beat until he was done.”

Penaton was trying to piece the situation together. Nothing about this made sense. He knew Cort was tough on his recruits, but to leave them alone on Night Watch? It was insane. Cort knew better than that. And Mathew wasn’t lying to him. He’d bet his life on that. He needed to find the man and figure out what the hell he was thinking.

Thorpe wanted to press. Wanted to push for more information, but Mathew’s strength was fading and the Commander knew it would have to wait. Whatever anger had been triggered at the mention of Cort’s name had drained the last reserves the man had left.

One more thing.

“You’re sure it was the Athnian Knights? The Lord’s personal guard?” he eventually asked. “Absolutely positive?”

Mathew nodded. “They showed their colours and invoked his name. They wore his coat of arms on their sleeves. They moved and fought like a unit trained together.”

The Commander swore. Mathew nodded, gasping as he shifted his weight and seemed to shrink back to the boy he had originally seemed. The power, the pressure… it was completely gone now.

“Sir, I know this will put you in a difficult position.” The boy grimaced. “I understand the political weight this situation has, with greater comprehension than you might have expected.”

Penaton Thorpe shook his head. “You’re not at fault here, son,” he tried to assure the young White Blade, all the while wondering whether he could ever discipline this man, even if he wanted to.

“With due respect, Sir…” The boy closed his eyes and the older man could see the effort this was taking him. “…you misunderstand me. I’m not asking for forgiveness… I’m trying to provide context…”

He fell forward in pain again and, after the man was lowered onto a stretcher that the medics had taken the opportunity to put behind him, Thorpe leaned down and Mathew spoke again, barely more than a whisper, but with all the same cold fury of before.

“There are no witnesses.”

***

Thorpe sat behind his mahogany desk in his office as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. A faint glow, nothing more, in the inky black sky. It was only an hour after Mathew had returned. This strange, strange man. He thought about the last words that Mathew had spoken to him before they took him off to the infirmary.

There are no witnesses.

He swallowed hard. It almost felt like a threat. A warning of some sort… but…

How?

How were there no witnesses? Logically, the boy couldn’t kill one of the Athnian Knights himself. He didn’t like the Lord’s Guard, but he had to admit that they were chosen on merit and were exceptional swordsmen. He’d seen the reports of his new recruits; the boy wasn’t anything special with the halberd. Gleeson had reported that the boy wasn’t useless but “had potential”. Cort had said that the boy was insubordinate and a borderline liability.

Then why did you put him in the field, man?

But the way Mathew had looked at him, the penetrating gaze that had set lime fire to his sin…

He shuddered.

Thorpe looked over the last week’s training reports again. Usually, this was a job for Gleeson, but the dwarf had left to investigate the scene of the skirmish before the Commander had even reached the gatehouse. Gleeson knew how important the scene would be and he hadn’t even waited for the order. Thorpe hadn’t even thought to give it.

Mondarin’s beard, he’s still showing me how to do this job properly. That dwarf will end up saving this company again.

The reports showed what he’d expected: a perfectly average soldier learning to adjust to a military lifestyle. Cort had initially found fault with the boy, but there hadn’t been an altercation since.

It didn’t make sense.

How does a 19-year-old white blade defeat any number of Knights?

Commander Thorpe thought it through. If there had been one knight, then Brendon and Cort together should have had no problem holding him at bay.

The boy said “knights”, plural. There was more than one. And Cort wasn’t there.

It didn’t make sense. If Brendon and Mathew had engaged any number of Athnian Knights, then the person he would have least expected to return was the least experienced. But after debriefing the White Blade and experiencing that…

That aura…

He shuddered. Logic and instinct were fighting a battle within him.

Unless Brendon sacrificed himself for Mathew?

That, he could believe. But what happened to the Athnian Knights? 'No witnesses.' That’s what Mathew had said. Which implied that the Knights were dead. He certainly didn’t believe that they would have let Mathew live. That backed up the implication that the bastards were dead. And if that were the case, Mathew would have had to kill at least one of them.

Penaton didn’t have enough information.

“Where the fuck is Cort?” he exclaimed in frustration.

The Commander turned to see Gleeson enter the room. The dwarf shook his head in disbelief of the whole situation as he sat down heavily in one of the chairs opposite Thorpe’s desk.
As Gleeson sat in thought, staring into the distance, Penaton watched his second carefully and knew immediately that his old friend was still trying to process what he had seen. He should give the dwarf some time. He would be patient. He could be patient.

“Well…?” His lips betrayed him.

So much for being patient.

Gleeson looked up from his reverie and nodded slightly, as if considering where to begin, but Penaton needed answers and he needed them an hour ago. Any moment, he expected a contingent of the Lord’s Guard to turn up and try to force their way into the Arena. That would lead to a siege. Then a bloodbath.

“Gleeson. Cort? Was he there?”

The dwarf shook his head with a sneer. “No. No sign he was ever there.”

Penaton furrowed his brow. “Then where could he be?”

“I don’t know yet, but I have some informants looking for him. No-one witnessed the altercation. At least, no-one admits to witnessing it. There was a commotion after midnight, but none of the windows in that area faced the incident.”

Thorpe took the information in, processing what it meant. “What did you find?”

Gleeson stood and moved to the table where Penaton kept his liquor. He poured a finger of whisky and shot it back with a snapping motion. “It’s a pity you gave that messenger the Aquinan Rum.”

Penaton pinched his nose. He knew that Gleeson was buying time to find the right words, but he was imagining worse and worse situations in his head; he needed information to work with. Even if it spelled disaster, the worst part was not knowing.

At last, Gleeson put him out of his misery. “I found five of Arnias’ men…”

FIVE?

“…one clearly killed in combat and three executed with a single dagger wound through the heart. Two of them had been incapacitated first and killed later, the third looked like he just let someone stab him without contest.”

The Commander shook his head in disbelief, exactly like Gleeson had done when he first entered the room. The dwarf continued.

“I found where Brendon had fallen. Recreating the battle wasn’t easy because it was on stone, with no footmarks. But there was enough blood. But… it seems it was five on two. Mathew seems to have fought two and Brendon, three. It seems that they managed to catch two of the knights early, I expect that the three remaining were more cautious after that. Brendon died before the knights were executed. I believe that Brendon killed one in the battle, and Mathew stabbed three in the heart.”
Penaton had always admired his friend’s attention to detail. Gleeson had been a Blade for almost two and a half centuries and, in that highly distinguished career, the dwarf had learned to read the scene of a battle and recreate its events. He knew how men fought, how they retreated, how they advanced. It was almost magical and many times he’d sworn black and blue that his friend had some sort of psychic ability. But even after all that… even trusting the dwarf implicitly, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You’re telling me that they just let him stab them?”

The dwarf’s moustache twitched. “Two of them were likely incapacitated already. One had a shattered clavicle and possibly a broken neck; the other had lost his lower leg. It would have been easy for any White Blade to execute them. But yes, one knight, and likely the one who killed Brendon based on the positioning of the body, died without any other injuries. It looks like he just stood there and let himself be stabbed in the heart.”

Commander Thorpe was getting more questions than answers.

“Your own reports said he displayed potential.”

“They do,” acknowledged the dwarf.

“And you’ve fought him? You sparred?”

“I did.”

“And how well did he do?” the Commander pressed.

“About as well as you did the first time you picked up a sword against me.”

The Commander shook his head and pounded his fist against the table. “Then how in Darask did he kill four Athnian Knights? If he was that good then why couldn’t he stand against you?”

“Because I was free of sin.”

The Commander stared at the dwarf with a frown. “We are many things, Gleeson. Free of sin is not one of them.”

The dwarf swallowed, and Thorpe could see him reliving a recent memory. Gleeson's body tensed, Penaton watched his pupils dilate.

“If that young man decided I was a threat to the innocent, I would meet my ancestors before I’d drawn my sword.” The old dwarf admitted.

The Commander sympathised immediately. He’d felt the same visceral reaction earlier that night. Remembering the wrath he had been subjected to without a word from the boy, he knew that, despite all evidence to the contrary, if Mathew wanted it, he would die.

“What did you bring upon me, Gleeson?”

“Justice,” the dwarf said quietly. “I didn’t know what he would be at first. But it’s clear now. He is going to be justice. And it started tonight.”

This was quickly becoming a nightmare. Lord Arnias was going to be furious; there would be repercussions for this. And, if he wasn’t careful, the remaining Athnian chapter could be crusading towards the Arena gates before noon. What would happen then? He was halfway through trying to fabricate a cover story to sell to Lord Arnias before he stopped, snapping his gaze towards Gleeson, realising the numbers came up short.

“Wait, you only mentioned four… what about the fifth man? What happened to the fifth knight?”

Gleeson poured another finger of whisky and held it out to him, drawing in a long, slow breath.

“You might want to drink this first… and sit down.”