Dulius freed a hand from the reins and massaged the inside of his thighs. It had been several seasons since he’d last ridden this many days in a row and he was paying the price. Heavens be damned, each bounce on the stiff leather felt like falling on a rock. Would it not be so noticeable he might have stood in the saddle to rub his ass a bit, too. This pace would see them at the city by nightfall, though, and the thought of a hot bath to combat the soreness in his legs and back had become his sole reason for tolerating sitting atop a horse for another day. He glanced around, watching to see if any of the others in the party had taken note of his discomfort.
To his right, Lucas rode atop a black horse, small bits of golden armor shining in the evening sun from beneath a long cloak. Dulius couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen one of his Justicar in actual armor outside of the Citadel. Of late, their assignments had required a lighter touch—more subtlety rather than true force.
His own armor was a familiar silver rather than gold and absent the intricate details like wings on the pauldrons. He could appreciate good craftsmanship, but aesthetics didn’t offer much in the way of an advantage in combat, so he’d never seen the point. Not that Lucas could be called vain for his choice in appearance, though. Of the two of them Lucas was far more likely to be remembered. The man was near perfect in every way: noble, fearless, and an absolute terror in a fight. The Caloman name was well-respected, even by the common man. More than once Dulius had caught himself contemplating if Lucas might be better suited to lead the Justicar.
“Have faith in me,” Highlord Brandt had said when appointing him to the position years ago. “Have faith in my decisions.”
They were the same words Brandt had repeated before sending him to the Far East on a fool’s errand. Now, nearly a fortnight of riding later, the first leg of the journey was almost complete.
Dulius eyed the stout man to his left. Thick legs clenched against the torso of the horse. The sight of the man rhythmically bouncing atop its back with the stirrups near halfway up its side brought a grin to his lips.
“We could’ve found you a smaller mare, Erkan,” he called out.
There was a movement in the stout man’s jaw, passable as a twitch of his thick mustache, but to Erkan’s credit, he didn’t break. “I’ve spent the last four years riding around the Khanate, Dulius. I’m far more comfortable here than you.”
Dulius gave a silent huff. Perhaps Erkan had seen him rub his legs. He should’ve known better, anyway. Despite looking like he belonged in a mine, Erkan had a sharper mind than anyone he’d ever known. “Doesn’t make you look any less ridiculous,” he mumbled.
Lucas spoke up before the conversation soured any further. “What are they like, the Shield Cities?” he asked, guiding his mount closer.
Dulius opened his mouth to reply, but Erkan was faster to words. “Bastion’s architecture will be like you’ve never seen, but everything else about them is shit,” Erkan grumbled. “Food’s shit. People are boring as shit. The brothel’s, if you can find one, are shit. Even their ale, of all things, is shit. You’d think for a bunch of people who spend their whole lives fighting literal horrors they’d make good enough drink to wipe away the memory, but no, it’s shit.”
Dulius met Lucas’s gaze and they exchanged amused expressions. Erkan was usually quite blunt and agitation was more of a state of being for the man rather than a temporary mood, but his rants were always entertaining.
“You’ve never been?” Dulius asked.
“No,” Lucas replied. “Though it’s nice to know you don’t keep track of these things. I might arrange for a trip to some more desirable places in the future.”
Dulius rolled his eyes. “If I tried to remember where every Justicar had ever been I’d be liable to forget my own name.”
“Hah! You’d never be able to forget,” Erkan remarked. “Too many idiots singing your praises all the time.”
“Idiots?” Dulius looked to Lucas for some support, but his second-in-command gave a small shake of his head and took a sudden interest in the pommel of his saddle.
“Yes,” Erkan confirmed, “idiots. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a great Justicar and a reliable leader, but all the Council does is kiss your feet. Makes me sick. How long has it been since someone’s told you that you were wrong?”
Dulius’ smile that formed at the compliments turned to a pensive frown by the end. Truth be told, he couldn’t quite remember. Highlord Brandt offered advice and gentle guidance but had never truly criticized any of his decisions in the four years he’d commanded the Justicar.
“Can’t think of one, can you?” Erkan asked wryly. “Someday you might be Highlord and you’ll think too highly of yourself. I’ve seen far too many good people believe they can do no wrong and wind up dead because of it.”
“Well Erkan, if I ever become Highlord I’ll be sure to keep you close then,” Dulius shot back. “At least someone will have my best interests at heart.”
Erkan scoffed but didn’t broach the topic again. Having brought a firm end to the conversation, Dulius took to watching the tall pines grow from behind the lush hills of the highlands. The clumps of grass along the dirt road swayed in the breeze while they trotted on. The air carried a noticeably colder note from the mountains that loomed before them.
“They seem to get bigger every time,” he said absently.
“You’ve been here before?” Lucas asked. Dulius turned his head quickly, not realizing he’d spoken loud enough to be heard. “What were you doing?”
“Oh, Highlord Brandt sent me years ago to determine if the bandits that run rampant through the highlands were an actual threat to the Shield Cities.”
“Were they?” Lucas asked.
“Of course they are,” Erkan interjected. “Filthy bastards raid every other supply caravan Elysium sends to the farlings.”
Dulius considered asking Erkan to clarify if he actually liked the Far East or not, but thought better of it. “The answer was no,” he corrected, “though Erkan isn’t wrong, either. The bandits rarely kill the caravaners. They seem to understand that would create a stronger response and mean an end to their opportunities. Bit of a delicate balance, I suppose. Both Elysium and the Church viewed the raids as acceptable losses.”
Lucas frowned and Dulius noted the man’s grip tighten. The Justicar didn’t stand for that sort of thing, allowing crimes to go unpunished. Perhaps that’s what Brandt saw as the difference between the two of them, though it occurred to Dulius that would mean he was of weaker character—that Brandt saw him as easier to control than someone as stalwart in their views as Lucas.
“You’ve been to the Far East too, Erkan?” Dulius asked. Staying on the topic of overlooked evils did neither him nor Lucas any good.
“Aye. This’ll be the fifth time now.”
“And you were here for…?” he let the words linger, trying to draw out the details.
“Personal pleasure,” Erkan said with a sly grin.
Dulius couldn’t help but let out a laugh while Lucas rolled his eyes. For all the times that Erkan was abrasive and nearly intolerable, they never quite tired of the man. Oh how the years had gone by so quickly. He could still remember the first time they’d all met standing guard at the Citadel bridge gatehouse. He and Lucas had nearly strangled their shorter counterpart back then and the desire returned often in the decades that followed, yet they had grown older together all the same. Lucas didn’t have the same touch of gray that spread in Dulius’ beard with each passing season, but a life of fighting and two daughters to tire him at home showed on his leathery face. Erkan too had slowed some, though he still disappeared often to parts unknown at the Order’s behest.
Dulius looked out at the mountains rising from the ground before them like teeth biting into the sky. In his previous trip, he’d learned they could hold a certain beauty. There was a measure of tranquility to the small pockets of snow that lay nestled between the rocks, immovable by the blustering wind. And in the early morning the peaks were always the first to greet the rising sun when the stone was plastered in its golden hue.
When he had seen them for the first time, though, he’d felt little else but dread. It was a sinking feeling, as though he had swallowed a ball of iron that pulled against his gut. That same dread came to him now. Those teeth were the precipice. To venture beyond them meant entering the mouth of the beast—and this trip would require it.
