From Ashes, A Fire

Khossid Stonegrip came in the dead of winter, when the ground was frozen stone and the nights were endless. For months it had seemed like nothing would ever grow in the red earth of the training yard again, until the heavy boots of a Vortsborn dwarf shook the cold earth awake.

He’d only ever met Gretcha Coldiron once but it was enough. As the rising sun cast a pale light over Daring Heights, beating back the winter solstice, he came to offer his services in her honor.

And so nine became ten.

Not enough thought the man, and the gods smiled quiet smiles, and said nothing.

Just as day follows night and spring winter, so too did others follow Khossid. Decker came next, and Ildimiir - as different from each other as two people can be, and yet both drawn to this quiet red hall in the heart of a bustling city. Decker came from beneath the windswept plains of Joran, from the glittering caverns of Crystal Spire. She did not suffer fools, nor waste time talking that could be used drinking. The man liked her immediately. Ildimiir, on the other hand…

Her hair was like spun gold, her movements lithe, and she carried herself with all the vanity of her sun-kissed people. A gilded peacock, Khossid called her, until she laid him out in the red dust of the training yard. When he’d regained his senses and his feet, he boomed a laugh and clapped her on the shoulder, knocking a smile onto her face for a moment, before her courtier’s mask returned.

And so they were twelve.

Not enough thought the man, and called for his hounds.

On Silver Street it was that the next of them found him, a leaf blown by the wind. Calling his dogs with an indolent whistle, he glanced down to see that not one of them had come. He found them nearby, clustered around a kneeling figure, tails wagging as he cooed and jostled. The man surveyed this creature, clad in scholar's garb, his hood pushed back to reveal an oft-broke nose and a face more scar than skin. As the stranger rose to greet the man, he squinted and shifted, until at last, with a sigh, he produced a pair of spectacles from the folds of his robes and set them upon the bridge of his nose.

Tall he was, and broad, a scion of those ancient lands that folk call Cormyr. And though Jain - for such was his name, he told the man - looked every bit the steel-shod thug, it was knowledge that had brought him to the Land of the Dawn. Still, they were fine dogs. Fine dogs indeed...

So twelve became thirteen, and the man touched the ring at his throat to ward off ill luck.

Not enough he thought as he climbed the tower to wait for the dawn.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Spring had come, and with the rain came a flood - not of water, but of people, washing into the quiet red hall and filling it with sound and warmth and laughter. Kuori and Sabetha, Matrim and Usk, Zunus and Noriou and Shiv - each with a story, each with their sorrows. The man looked at them, clustered around the tables in the mess, Grits passing bowls and feigning upset at the noise and the chaos and the mouths to be fed. He watched and he smiled and he felt something shift.

Enough thought the man. And it was.


“God’s breath, lad. Where’d you learn to swing a hammer like that? I thought I was about to meet the Morninglord, practice bout or no.”

Ser Lytton pulls a plated gauntlet from one hand and mops at his streaming brow with a scrap of cloth. Those who had not known the knight before the Siege of Vorsthold might be puzzled to hear him speak, his manner belying his youthful countenance.

“I knew you were hard as old nails, but fuckin’ hell.”

From the shade under the eaves, Lady Antonia gives a musical laugh.

“Thy exhortations lack the gentility of thy swordwork, good Ser. Perhaps if thou were to fight as thou speakest, Ser Baine would perspire as prodigiously as thou dost.”

Ser Lytton flings the sweat soaked rag at her in response, eliciting a squawk of alarm followed by peals of laughter as the knight’s scramble to avoid it leaves her sitting in the dirt. Around the yard, the newer recruits share grins, enjoying the knight’s banter as much as the demonstration of arms.

“Ser Baine isn’t perspirin’ cause he isn’t waistin’ energy on fancy sword twirlin’.”

The half-orc in question grins widely at his opponent before addressing the small group of Squeaks who’d come out to spectate.

“It don’t matter how many manoeuvers or fuckin’ parries you know - if your footwork is sloppy and someone like me comes along, they’re gonna knock you on your arse the second they get a hit in.”

He throws a wink at Ildimiir where she’s watching the match silently.

“And if you hit the ground around someone like me, you’re dead.”

She arches an eyebrow back at him but doesn’t deny the truth in his statement. Under the eaves Lady Antonia picks the dirty rag from her stool and retakes her seat, baiting Lytton with a smile.

“Oh ho! Ser Baine hath insulted thy galliard, Ser, and made cruel sport of thy delicate coranto. Wilt thou let such slander go unchallenged?”

“You can be sure I fuckin’ won’t,” Ser Lytton replies, fixing Baine with a bellicose scowl, though his eyes sparkle with playfulness.

Several bouts later - with no clear winner determined - the Squeaks disperse. Baine fetches two mugs of ale and leads his worthy opponent up to the Watchtower. The two watch a rare sunset painting Daring Heights in vibrant hues, a satisfying ache in their muscles.

“So what now, Lytton? Vorsthold is secure - as secure as a city under permanent siege can ever be, I suppose. You lot gonna pack up and head back to Faerûn?”

The knight grunts as he shifts position. Despite his youthful appearance, he still carries the mannerisms of someone twice his age. Running a hand through his thick chestnut hair he purses his lips in thought.

“Hard to say, lad. The Dawn doesn’t bind us the way some orders do - we go where we feel ourselves needed. I think you’re right about the Vorstborn, they don’t need us now, if they ever did.” He glances out over the yard, recruits scurrying about their evening chores or heading to the mess for dinner. “You’ve got this place in hand too. He’s lucky to have you, lad. I hope he knows it.”

Baine follows his gaze with a bashful smile on his face and quiet but unmistakable pride in his eyes.

“He knows.”

The half-orc takes a sip of ale and turns back to his companion, squinting a little in the setting sun.

“Wouldn’t hate it if you stuck around for a bit. Any way I can convince you your services are needed in the Dawnlands?”

Lytton turns his head to meet Baine’s gaze, a spark of mischief behind his eyes. Mischief, and something else -

“Ser Baine?”

The half orc closes his eyes in exasperation at the interruption before forcing his features into a semblance of calm, if only to mask his embarrassment. He turns to find Shiv’s head poking up through the trap, visibly paling under his glare.

“Yes? Out with it, Squeak.”

The befreckled former adventurer swallows hard before speaking.

“The Grandmaster is asking for you. He’s in his quarters.”

Baine dismisses her with a curt nod, and glances back to Lytton. Whatever was hanging in the air before Shiv’s interruption has vanished like snow in midsummer. The man gives him a rueful smile.

“I’d best be getting on too, lad. Not as young as I onc-” He stops short with a snort and a shake of his head.

“Same time tomorrow? I reckon some of your younguns will be ready for coordination drills in the morning. Seventh bell?”

Baine gives a resigned nod, wanting to say something but realising that the moment has well and truly passed. He watches the other knight stride out through the red stone arch and into the night, before sighing and making his way down the steps and across the yard.

The door to Varis’ chambers is ajar, and he slips in quietly, shutting it behind him. His friend glances up from the stack of papers in front of him long enough to flash him a smile, before returning to his study of ledgers and parchments.

“Have a seat and a drink, in any order you like.”

His voice is warm and playful, though Baine has known him long enough to detect the current of exhaustion beneath it. It’s enough to clear the last cobwebs from his mind and he turns his thoughts from longing to duty. Forgoing the drink, he sinks into his usual armchair by the fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, intent on the Grandmaster.

“I’m all ears.”

Varis carefully blots the parchment he was working on and places it to one side, turning fully to regard Baine.

“The yard is busy. How are they doing?”

“They’re comin’ along, yeah. Zunus is settin’ a pretty good standard, the others are followin’ his lead. Ildimiir is learnin’ how to play nice with others. Shiv needs to pull that rod out of her arse soon before Decker and Noriou team up and take her out back for a few words. And I suspect Matrim’s been givin’ Sabetha a few pointers since our.. conversation in the yard; she wasn’t nearly that good with a blade three days ago.”

He straightens up and leans back in the chair again, grey eyes a little distant as he muses on the state of his students.

“We did footwork today, some of them are still sloppy. Lytton said somethin' about coordination drills tomorrow but I dunno, there’s some other stuff I think they need first. All in all, though, yeah. We’re makin' progress.”

Varis watches his friend speak, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. When Baine is done, he nods, and sits for a moment in thought, before looking up again.

“You’ve done well with them. More than well. They respect you, and they listen to you.” He pauses for a moment, green eyes raking over the younger man.

“I’m naming you as the Order’s Master at Arms. As Gretcha did before you, you’ll shape this gaggle of misfits into true soldiers, make sure they know enough to survive on a battlefield, and to honour the legacy of those who came before them. You’ll also serve as my second. If anything should happen to me - on or off the battlefield - the command will pass to you. It would have done anyway, no doubt, but now it will be official.”

He gives Baine a look of mixed sympathy and amusement.

“Congratulations, Ser. I suspect you’re going to hate every minute of it.”

For a long while there’s silence in the Grandmasters quarters, but unlike the long months after the Rift War when the compound held nothing but quickly fading echoes and memories, now it’s broken up by the sounds of voices, of boots, of doors opening and being slammed shut again. The Order of the Crimson Fist is alive once more.

Baine listens to its heartbeat as he takes in Varis’ words, letting feeling after feeling wash over him. Reluctance, foreboding, grief. Immense pride. Satisfaction. Honor and duty settle firmly somewhere around his heart, anchoring him. Eventually, he looks back at his friend, tears shining in his eyes, and nods. After a moment he huffs a small laugh.

“Somewhere, Red is fuckin’ fumin’. She’s gonna buy me a drink in the next life just to spit in it.”

He takes a moment to marvel at the fact that Varis is right; this would change nothing except give a name to the work he’d already been doing. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and groans for a second before letting his words out.

“Right. Okay. Fuck. You dick. You tricked me into this somehow and I’ll never forgive you. Okay. Jain can take care of the dogs, can’t keep him out of the kennels anyway - hey, Varis? Are you doin’ this right now for any particular reason? You foreseein’ anything in our immediate future that would possibly end in you needin’ to retire? ‘Cause if so, I believe that as the Master At Fucking Arms I have a right to know.”

He raises his eyebrows in challenge but can’t quite hold back a grin.

“There’s always another fight, so who’s next?”

His friend returns his smile with genuine warmth, but it fades quickly.

“There was a time, after the Battle of the Sundered Chains, when I thought this order might simply fade away. Wither, die and be forgotten. In my darker moments I hoped for it. Better that we drift apart, leaves carried by the wind, than limp on trying to reclaim what once was, or might have been."

Baine has to steel himself against the dread that the very thought of disbanding fills him with but thankfully, Varis continues.

"I see now the folly of that. The Order is many things - it is the people who fill this hall, it is the strength of our collective convictions, and it is an idea. A terror in the hearts of our enemies and a glimmer of hope to those shielded by our sacrifice. When I was-” he stumbles, takes a breath and continues “When I was bound, we saw how unsure were the foundations of this place. I have fought gods, dragons, the Lady of the First and countless horrors beyond imagining. Each time I have prevailed, through the strength of my arm and the courage of my friends. But I will not live forever. When my time comes - be it tomorrow or a hundred years hence - I want to know I have laid strong foundations, and true. The foundry is part of that - wealth and materiel to sustain Daring and the Order long after you and I have passed beyond this world. The other part is you - and through you, all the people who make up the Order.”

He gives a rueful smile, aware of his own sermonising.

“So yes, there is always another fight, and I suspect it will be an ugly one - political as much as martial. But while we are fighting this one, we must also begin winning the next fight, and the one after that. ‘The victorious general first wins, and then goes to war; the defeated general goes to war and then seeks to win.’”

Baine nods, seemingly satisfied that Varis isn’t planning on handing him the reins anytime soon. He gets to his feet and crosses to the small side table, pouring them each a dram of whiskey. He takes the drinks over to the desk and hands one of them to the older man.

Ser Baine Cinderwood, Master at Arms, raises his glass.

“To the Order of the Crimson Fist. May it be around long after we’ve kicked it.”

He throws back the drink and pulls his friend in for a hug, echoing the sentiment of when he was first sworn in.

“I won’t let you down.”

Varis returns his hug, smiling quietly as he is engulfed by the towering half orc’s arms.

“I know.”

---

As always, with Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar 🔥