Swords & Heroes Story #4

Eye of the Beholder by Charles Allen Gramlich

Jul 09, 2024

Charles and I connected on Facebook just over 14 years ago over our mutual interest in writing, fantasy in particular as I recall. I’ve learned a lot from his storytelling, as I badger him every now and then to provide feedback on some tale I’ve written. His comments are always insightful. And his adventures are exciting! I was privileged to publish one of his S&S tales in Swords & Heroes anthology, as well as his post-apocalyptic SF fantasy (with more swords!) titled Razored Land (details below). I like the fact that his stories leave me thinking!

In today’s offering, Charles explores the dangerous dimensions of power, greed, and lustful conquest. Depending on the eye of the beholder, these obsessions can turn out to be quite illusory. Or maybe desiring such things creates a reality that warps our souls, and we’re left wondering how it is that ‘looks can kill.’ - Ed.

This week, we present Story #4…

“Eye of the Beholder” by Charles Allen Gramlich

– 1 –

The Iron Knights of Milash struck the front ranks of the Sanorien rebels and drove them reeling back. The shock of steel on steel thundered across the valley. Men screamed as crimson spurted; bodies fell like trees before a volcanic wind as the knights cut through their lightly armed and armored foes.

Duke Robae of Milash rode in the forefront of the charge, as was his wont. His lance tip drank gore, but the soldier he slaughtered managed a lucky sword swing before dying. The steel hacked into the unarmored lower leg of the warhorse. The animal shrieked and stumbled.

Robae kicked free of the stirrups and released the reins as the destrier fell. He landed hard but rolled to his feet, dropping his lance and pulling the sword strapped across his back.

The knights had ridden completely through the enemy army. The duke stood alone. Most Sanorien soldiers had fled but half a dozen stood around the duke with blades drawn. Seeing an enemy knight unhorsed promised a chance for revenge, and the soldiers lunged to attack.

The duke whirled left and right, slashing wildly at enemies to keep them back. Desperation lent his arms strength; it could not last. His knights would return, but would it be soon enough?

A Sanorien soldier darted close; Robae slashed the man’s arm, spraying red across the greensward. But a sword struck him on the back of his helmet. Bright lights exploded in his vision. He staggered forward, off balance, easy prey.

“Duke!” a voice shouted.

A single knight on a black stallion charged into the fray. Robae recognized the silvery armor of Arik the Northman, a mercenary hired to train his army. Arik slashed left and right with a longsword. Sanorien soldiers screamed and fell back. Arik slammed the sword into its sheath and thrust an arm down to the duke. Robae grasped it. With a tremendous heave, Arik yanked the nobleman off the ground and swung him up behind him.

The northerner spurred his stallion. The horse’s legs thrust against earth; the animal leaped forward, knocking an enemy sprawling as it carried both men free of the brawl. Twenty yards away, Arik wheeled his horse to face the enemy again. They were on the run, casting away weapons and anything that might encumber their flight.

Duke Robae swung off Arik’s warhorse and looked up at the tall Northman as the fellow roared with laughter. Then Arik dismounted too, as other knights rode to surround the pair. Arik’s green eyes met the duke’s brown ones, which barely showed through the slits of his close helm.

“Might make a song of this,” Arik said.

Robae pulled off his helmet. Sweat plastered his curly dark hair to his head. “Thanks to you. I’ll live to hear it.”

– 2 –

The duke’s victorious army returned to their encampment. Some knights drooped in their saddles with exhaustion; others laughed and joked, energized by the slaughter. As they came into camp, the women and older men who’d remained behind raised cheers. Robae, on the borrowed destrier of a dead man, thrust a fist into the air. The cheers racketed louder.

They passed through the crowd toward a white pavilion at the hilltop marked with the duke’s gold and scarlet pennon. Arik’s smaller red pavilion sat to the left. Arik turned toward it and the duke glimpsed a woman awaiting the mercenary, a woman the likes of whom he’d never seen. His breath stilled.

Her copper bright hair fell in curly locks to her slender waist. Though tall and well-muscled, her face was almost elven. She wore a rich blue velvet gown and an olive cloak of wool. Her eyes shone green with feral light.

She was beautiful, certainly. But there was more. Their glances crossed; her lips curled and parted. She leaned forward, her body poised like a panther set to spring. Strange lightning sheened the clear sky. The hair rose along the duke’s arms and at the nape of his neck.

No one but the duke noticed the lightning. His body thrummed and only by the force of a disciplined will was he able to look away. He dismounted stiffly in front of his tent, then turned helplessly to look back. The woman was gone; perhaps she’d ducked into Arik’s tent, for the red hair and green eyes suggested a shared ancestry with the northerner.

Spitting, Robae stooped into his own tent and dismissed everyone save his squire and physician. The men stripped off his armor. The physician examined the back of his skull while the squire used a heavy cloth to wipe his sweat.

“The red-haired wench!” Robae declared. “Who is she?”

The physician said nothing; he’d learned to keep his mouth shut to keep a head on his shoulders. But part of the squire’s job was to bring the camp’s gossip to his master.

“She arrived after you left this morning,” he said. “She went directly to Arik’s tent and asked for him. When told he was gone, she said she’d wait.”

“What is she to him?” the duke inquired gruffly. “Wife? Concubine? Sister?”

“I don’t yet know,” the squire said, “but I’ll find out, Master.”

“Do. Now!”

The squire nodded. He fetched his duke a flagon of watered wine before slipping quickly from the tent. The duke swallowed a mouthful of sour red, then pushed the physician roughly away.

“Leave. Keep everyone out!”

The man bowed and retreated. Robae refilled his wine cup without water and slouched into a wooden chair that creaked beneath his weight. He gulped at the fermented grape and felt the burn. With the burn came the image of white skin and red hair writhing beneath him. He cursed. The memory of his recent victory faded like morning vapor and only a hunger remained that no wine could assuage.

– 3 –

“Her name is Ilga,” the squire told Robae later. “Many believe she is Arik’s wife, but I found no proof.”

“Did you speak to Arik?”

“I did, your grace. He only smiled and said nothing.”

“Curse it!” The duke’s wine cup held only dregs and he flung it away.

“That wine skin is empty, my lord,” the squire said. “I could find another if you like.”

“There is much I’d like that I cannot have,” he said. “Leave me.”

The squire hesitated. “The men celebrate their victory, your grace. They will be expecting a speech.”

The duke cuffed the boy away. “Be gone!”

The young man yelped and fled. Robae pushed to his feet, staggering from the wine. He relieved himself in the chamber pot then fell across his bed. Perhaps sleep would drive the northern woman’s eyes into the void.

***

He awoke to a night as dark as soot. No moon, no stars. Not even the watchfires of his army. He did not remember leaving his tent. And where were his men? No army encampment ever rested so quietly.

Soft laughter rang his ears, feminine but wild. He turned, saw one source of light. Arik’s tent glowed a delicate red, like the paper lanterns from the eastern lands of the Kinij. And through the thin skin of the tent two silhouettes moved, a man and a woman locked in love’s embrace.

Robae’s mouth dried; his muscles tightened. He stepped toward the tent, licking his lips as his mind turned to liquid flame. The silhouettes must be Arik and the northern woman. Ilga!

The woman lay atop the man, her long hair veiling his face. She was all rhythm and silken curves. She lifted her head, stared out through the skin of the tent as if she saw him watching. Her features sharpened in his vision, as if he were inside the tent with her now. Her lips curved in a smile of which devil’s dream.

A rage of jealousy bloomed in Robae’s chest, then evaporated as he looked down and saw the face of the woman’s lover revealed. His face, his features twisted in ecstasy. The duke awoke on his own bed. He thrust himself to a seated position, wiping his face.

“A dream,” he muttered. “All a dream.” But he knew better. “I must have her,” he groaned. “I must!”

– 4 –

Morning had just begun to brighten when Robae left his tent. He seated himself in the rising sun, his head throbbing from wine and dreams. A dark figure approached. The duke recognized Pieter of Virthane, his second in command.

“A scout brought news,” Pieter said.

The duke waved him away. “Not now!”

Pieter acted as if he didn’t hear. “Overnight,” he continued, “the remnants of the rebel army were reinforced by two fresh regiments. They’ve camped on Arrow Hill and are preparing a counterattack.”

“I said not—” the Duke roared, then broke off abruptly. “Did you say Arrow Hill?”

“Indeed. You remember it, don’t you?”

The duke chuckled. A plan had formed in his mind. “I may recall a certain something. Go, bring Arik the Northman to me.” He stood and walked unsteadily back into his pavilion.

***

Robae rose when Arik ducked into his tent. He grasped the mercenary’s wrist and slapped the man on the shoulder. His tone was jovial, his sour morning mood seemingly dissipated.

“Another battle comes,” the duke said.

“That’s why you pay me,” Arik replied.

Robae nodded. “And today I have a special task, one to earn you a bonus.”

“Speak on.”

Robae gestured toward his cot, where lay his armor and the gold and scarlet surcoat he wore over it. Upon his pillow sat the close helm of gray steel that protected his royal head.

“Today,” Robae said, “you’ll dress as me and lead a direct attack against the remaining rebels. They’ve been reinforced and are encamped at Arrow Hill. While you assail their front, I’ll lead a small band up a secret path to the hill’s summit and attack their flank. Together, we’ll destroy them and end this war for the king.”

Arik frowned. “Forgive me, Duke, that seems an unnecessary subterfuge. Why not lead the army yourself and allow me to take the secondary force?”

“A reasonable idea,” the duke said smoothly. “You and I are best suited to lead the attacking forces. However, I grew up here. I’ve climbed Arrow Hill many times by the hidden trail. I know it well, and the secondary attack must be carefully coordinated with the frontal assault.”

Arik considered, then nodded. He offered a wide grin. “I see why you lead and I follow.”

Robae’s response was cryptic. “The old dog knows truths the young ones do not.”

– 5 –

Wearing his physician’s robe with hood raised to shield his face, Robae slipped from his tent and left Arik to dress in his stead. The duke and the mercenary were nearly the same size. With the closed helm and the right armor and surcoat, the Milash army would accept Arik as the duke.

Robae joined Pieter in a ravine south of the encampment. Pieter was alone, though he’d sent forty skilled warriors to a rendezvous near Arrow Hill.

“Your Grace,” Pieter said. “All is in readiness.”

Robae nodded. “Once the Sanorien rebellion is crushed, if Arik lives, you must demand he remove his helm. Let the men see his face and know.”

Pieter frowned. “I thought you wanted him mistaken for you.”

“Only for the battle. Once it’s over, you’ll accuse him of a plot against me. He must not leave Arrow Hill alive!”

Pieter did not hesitate. He straightened. “As you command, my duke!”

Robae placed a hand on Pieter’s shoulder. “Your reward will be an earldom, and gold, of course.”

Pieter nodded grimly. “The Northman dies today!”

***

Pieter rode away to fulfill his duties; Robae remained in the ravine to watch Arik leave the duke’s pavilion in full armor and mount Robae’s own golden warhorse. No one saw through the mercenary’s disguise.

Afterward, Robae crept through the nearly empty camp to the back of Arik’s red tent. Ilga had not left it; she waited for him, though unaware of it. He slit the thick cloth with a sharp dagger and slid inside, throwing off his own disguise. He would approach the woman as himself. Surely she would accept him. If not? His fist clenched on the dagger’s hilt. His desire was too great; he would have her one way or another.

The tent’s living area had been partitioned by a hanging sheet of silk. Behind the partition lay the northern woman’s boudoir. Robae glimpsed indistinct movement there. Stepping silently across the floor rugs, he grasped a fistful of silk and tore it back.

Ilga sat in a chair before a large, oval mirror, her arm rising and falling as she stroked an ornate silver comb through her bright hair. She did not gasp at the sound of tearing cloth, but her arm paused and she turned her head.

“Duke Robae,” her voice murmured. “I wondered when you’d visit.”

“You knew I’d come from the moment our gazes crossed, you witch!” he accused. “You knew I could not stay away.”

The woman made no denial. She lay the comb on the table and turned to face him. A satin robe of crimson clung to her shoulders, open at the front to provide shadowy glimpses of beauty beneath. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and took two steps forward.

“I will have you!” he said.

Unafraid, Ilga chuckled. “Do you plan to love me with that dagger?” she inquired, gesturing at his hand. “Is there not another weapon we both might prefer?”

The duke shook his head. It felt heavy, as if he could scarcely hold it upright. He tossed the dagger aside and took two more slow steps toward her. She rose, and the gown fell open, revealing all. He wiped his mouth again and bit at his own hand.

“Only one thing before the moment,” Ilga said. She gestured toward the mirror. “Before you come to me, see yourself as I see you, oh Duke!”

Robae’s gaze shifted to the mirror. He saw himself. It wasn’t him, not his face nor body. He wore the tattoos and shaved pate of a Sanorien warrior. He gasped in shock, his lust momentarily abated.

“My guardian!” Ilga called, her voice loud.

The front flap of the tent flew back. Footsteps entered. Robae spun. His squire stood in the doorway, eyes dilated and staring. He held a crossbow.

“You!” Robae snarled at the youth. “Get gone! Your duke commands!”

“I don’t think he sees you as his duke,” the woman said.

The squire pulled the trigger on the crossbow. The heavy bolt struck Robae in the chest and punched through flesh and ribs. The duke grabbed the bolt with both hands, tried to yank it free. It was locked in bone. He tried to roar; it erupted as a whine.

He fell forward, landing on the bolt, driving the tip into his heart. The last thing he heard was the witch’s voice whispering intimately to his squire: “Well done, my guardian. You saved me from a terrible fate at a rebel’s hands.”

“By all the gods,” Robae thought as he died. “How can I still want her?”

– 6 –

The Battle of Arrow Hill ended in blood and victory for the Iron Knights—with a little help from a dagger to the back provided by forty Milash soldiers who’d crept up a secret trail to take the enemy from behind. While the few remaining enemy soldiers knelt in chains, the victorious knights gathered around their commander in the armor and helm of Duke Robae. They cheered him, for never had they seen him fight so ferociously.

Pieter of Virthane pushed through the gathered crowd. He shouted until the cheers died and silence moved over the faces of all. “Brave warriors and knights of renown, hear my voice!” Pieter shouted. “We have been misled!” He pointed toward the man he knew as Arik the Northman. “This is not your duke! Another has usurped his place.”

“What foolishness is this?” one knight retorted. “He wears the duke’s armor. He wears the lord’s insignia and rides his destrier!”

“Then have him remove his helm,” Pieter demanded. “For I swear he is not who you think.”

The knight who’d protested drew his sword and reined his horse toward Pieter as if to slaughter him. A fresh voice cut the sky harshly. “Hold!” said the man in the duke’s armor, in a voice no one dared disobey.

The knight stopped his attack and turned in confusion. The duke pulled off his armored gloves and tossed them to a warrior. He unbound the straps that held the full-face helm upon his head. His fingers grasped the helm’s cheek plates and pushed it up…and off.

The crowd murmured. Pieter of Virthane stared. His throat dried in sudden fear. For the man who sat upon the golden warhorse was Duke Robae.

“My…my Lord,” Pieter gasped. He fell to his knees. “Forgive me, my Duke! I thought…. I….”

“Throw this traitor from the hill!” Robae snarled while a dark smile played at his lips.

A dozen knights rushed Pieter, who cried out in terror. He tried to run, with nowhere to go. Men grabbed his arms, his legs. They dragged him to the cliff’s brink.

“My lord! Please!” Pieter shrieked. He kept shrieking as he was hurled outward for a very long fall.

Robae put his helm back on. “Home!” he said. The others followed.

– 7 –

At the camp, the duke dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. Instead of ducking into his own tent, however, he stepped to Arik’s red pavilion and bent to enter.

Ilga greeted him, pushing herself into his arms, uncaring of the crimson smears on his armor that stained her satin. She drew off his helm and Arik laughed as his blue eyes and red hair were revealed. He grasped the woman and bent her back. “Victory is ours!” he crowed. “The duke and his lady!”

“The warrior and his witch,” Ilga crooned back.

Arik kissed her, then drew away. “What happened here?” he enquired.

“The duke sought me, as we expected. His own squire recognized him only as a rebel who he then killed with a crossbow.”

“The body?” Arik asked.

“In a shallow grave in the woods. Left to rot.”

“Better than he deserves.”

The woman nodded. She brushed her hand down his face, and once more he wore the visage of the dead duke. “Go now,” she whispered fiercely. “Feast with your warriors.”

He turned away after another long kiss.

“Do not forget,” Ilga called after. “The king must hear of today’s victory.”

“A courier is already en route.”

Ilga laughed. “Perhaps the king himself will want to congratulate the duke who defeated a rebellion for him.”

“Perhaps,” Arik agreed. “’Tis good to be a hero.”

“Better to be king,” Ilga opined.

Eye of the Beholder © 2024 by Charles Gramlich. (3200 words.) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Sword illustrations by Gilead the Artist, used by permission.

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