not protect his own people.
Jaromir would do anything for Anton. No one could possibly understand what he owed Anton…no one.
Jaromir did not like to view himself as a man who ever needed or wanted to be saved.
But Anton had saved him.
Standing there in the passage alone, outside his room, nearly shaking from a mix of helplessness and unwanted guilt, he couldn’t help his mind from slipping back to a place he’d much rather have forgotten…
C HAPTER 6
C ASTLE P ÄHLEN
F OUR Y EARS IN THE P AST
J aromir stood at attention in the great hall of Prince Lieven. He wore the deep brown tabard of Lieven’s castle guard, but the tabard was a lie. He wasn’t one of the prince’s soldiers. He was just a hired sword, engaged for a week to help exaggerate Lieven’s show of force for a “family gathering” at the castle.
No one in the hall spoke to Jaromir or even noticed him.
He was nothing.
Yet he couldn’t believe his good fortune at having achieved even a week’s worth of employment here. His wolfhound, Lizzie, was pressed up against his leg. His sword, his chain armor, and his dog were all he had left in the world.
Looking around the great hall, he thought on how most he’d seen before were rectangular, butthis one was an enormous square. Heavy chairs, tables, and benches were haphazardly strewn around, but a fire burned in the hearth, and he reveled in the comfort of being warm. He wished he’d been able to borrow a razor from someone to shave his face. Beneath his armor and clothing he was filthy from having slept outdoors for too long, and he knew that his appearance was not working in his favor.
Prince Lieven sat in a chair on a dais at the top of the hall. A stocky man with a graying beard, he was in his midfifties but as yet showed no signs of slowing down. Jaromir was desperate to impress him, to find some way to gain a permanent place among the Castle Pählen guards, even if it meant standing night watch for the rest of his life.
Lizzie whined, and he reached down to stroke her back. There were at least twenty other soldiers in brown tabards placed around the hall, but still, no one glanced Jaromir’s way. They didn’t believe he’d be here long.
He hoped they were wrong.
Once he’d thought himself far too proud to grovel for a humble position as a night watchman, but pride was a tenuous thing that could be worn down bit by bit over a period of years.
Looking back at the dais again, Jaromir thought on everything that had brought him to his current state.
Five years before, at the age of twenty-two, he’d already achieved the rank of lieutenant by servingamong the military forces for the House of Hilaron in the eastern provinces. His lord was an older prince named Phillipos, and Jaromir was loyal. Something about the aging prince stirred his sense of protection.
But tired of waiting to be the head of the house, Phillipos’s son raised a contingent of men and waged war on his own father. Prince Phillipos himself was killed and his soldiers were nearly decimated. Jaromir survived…his horse did not.
In his mercy, the victorious son offered any surviving soldiers a place in the new military for the House of Hilaron. Most of them gratefully accepted.
Lieutenant Jaromir refused to swear fealty.
He decided he would rather live by his sword as a hired mercenary than serve his dead lord’s traitorous son. This seemed the only path of honor. So he headed west, on foot, with his wolfhound, Lizzie, for company.
To his shame, within a year, he began to regret his decision. Life as a hired sword in a nation like Droevinka turned out to be worse than he could have imagined—with him taking on jobs that once would have sickened him. He was often forced to keep company among men who were little better than animals, who understood only hunger and strength. He lived well sometimes and nearly starved at others. He and Lizzie often slept outside.
It rained a good deal of the time.
Upon deciding to
Jaromir would do anything for Anton. No one could possibly understand what he owed Anton…no one.
Jaromir did not like to view himself as a man who ever needed or wanted to be saved.
But Anton had saved him.
Standing there in the passage alone, outside his room, nearly shaking from a mix of helplessness and unwanted guilt, he couldn’t help his mind from slipping back to a place he’d much rather have forgotten…
C HAPTER 6
C ASTLE P ÄHLEN
F OUR Y EARS IN THE P AST
J aromir stood at attention in the great hall of Prince Lieven. He wore the deep brown tabard of Lieven’s castle guard, but the tabard was a lie. He wasn’t one of the prince’s soldiers. He was just a hired sword, engaged for a week to help exaggerate Lieven’s show of force for a “family gathering” at the castle.
No one in the hall spoke to Jaromir or even noticed him.
He was nothing.
Yet he couldn’t believe his good fortune at having achieved even a week’s worth of employment here. His wolfhound, Lizzie, was pressed up against his leg. His sword, his chain armor, and his dog were all he had left in the world.
Looking around the great hall, he thought on how most he’d seen before were rectangular, butthis one was an enormous square. Heavy chairs, tables, and benches were haphazardly strewn around, but a fire burned in the hearth, and he reveled in the comfort of being warm. He wished he’d been able to borrow a razor from someone to shave his face. Beneath his armor and clothing he was filthy from having slept outdoors for too long, and he knew that his appearance was not working in his favor.
Prince Lieven sat in a chair on a dais at the top of the hall. A stocky man with a graying beard, he was in his midfifties but as yet showed no signs of slowing down. Jaromir was desperate to impress him, to find some way to gain a permanent place among the Castle Pählen guards, even if it meant standing night watch for the rest of his life.
Lizzie whined, and he reached down to stroke her back. There were at least twenty other soldiers in brown tabards placed around the hall, but still, no one glanced Jaromir’s way. They didn’t believe he’d be here long.
He hoped they were wrong.
Once he’d thought himself far too proud to grovel for a humble position as a night watchman, but pride was a tenuous thing that could be worn down bit by bit over a period of years.
Looking back at the dais again, Jaromir thought on everything that had brought him to his current state.
Five years before, at the age of twenty-two, he’d already achieved the rank of lieutenant by servingamong the military forces for the House of Hilaron in the eastern provinces. His lord was an older prince named Phillipos, and Jaromir was loyal. Something about the aging prince stirred his sense of protection.
But tired of waiting to be the head of the house, Phillipos’s son raised a contingent of men and waged war on his own father. Prince Phillipos himself was killed and his soldiers were nearly decimated. Jaromir survived…his horse did not.
In his mercy, the victorious son offered any surviving soldiers a place in the new military for the House of Hilaron. Most of them gratefully accepted.
Lieutenant Jaromir refused to swear fealty.
He decided he would rather live by his sword as a hired mercenary than serve his dead lord’s traitorous son. This seemed the only path of honor. So he headed west, on foot, with his wolfhound, Lizzie, for company.
To his shame, within a year, he began to regret his decision. Life as a hired sword in a nation like Droevinka turned out to be worse than he could have imagined—with him taking on jobs that once would have sickened him. He was often forced to keep company among men who were little better than animals, who understood only hunger and strength. He lived well sometimes and nearly starved at others. He and Lizzie often slept outside.
It rained a good deal of the time.
Upon deciding to
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