Book of The Dead

Not for the first time, Preston wished he were out fighting. He turned his head away from the empty road in front of them toward the Soldier beside him, a footman named Rylat, with the tanned complexion of someone from further south.

Probably explained his odd name.

“Do you think the heretics will attack us here?” he asked.

Not for the first time, Rylat scowled behind the visor of his helmet and gripped the haft of his spear tight.

“Preston, you are on duty at the Jorlin family estate. You’re a professional Soldier, so act like it, or I will tell the sergeant how distractible you are. I assume he’ll have even less patience for your whining than I do!”

With a mighty thud, he slammed the butt of his spear into the cobbled road, putting an end to the conversation. For his part, Preston merely rolled his eyes, which luckily his fellow Soldier couldn’t see, and returned to the task at hand: watching the empty road and field.

Putting up with guard duty was painful at the best of times, but he’d always managed it in the past. He was, after all, a professional warrior in service of the Noble Houses, the descendants of divinity. He trained hard, diligently worked on his Skills and abilities, and was good at what he did.

But things were different now. Most of the Soldiers were absent, taken out of the estate and sent into the field to fight against the heretics, while he was made to remain here and perform even more mind-numbing guard duty than before!

Why? Was he not worthy? Preston had placed in the top half of all Soldiers in the last dueling competition, he knew he was good enough! The thought of being left out grated at him, but the thought that he might have been considered not good enough grated at him even more.