this? This was just plain aggression.
“I was told to come,” and regretting it too. He looked to the heir, a man standing on the other side of the open courtyard, prancing. He was a colonel already, despite his clearly inadequate learning. Military science was a mystery to the man, and yet here he was. Lord of an army. He, meanwhile, was little more than a learned tramp. And for that apparent inadequacy, he was being drenched in the spittle of a disciplinarian. It appeared that the man had a real problem with his own poor looks, and revelled in the aggression he could apply to others. The sergeant turned to the cluster of officers, and then switched back. His eyes were narrowed, as if in menace.
“Told or ordered? Either way, you have some sense at least.”
What was he supposed to say to that? “Thank you.”
The ugly bastard flared up. “Or maybe not! Did I ask you to speak?”
This was going to be tough. He had been obedient to no-one at any point in his life. He’d even floored his mountain of a father. This frankly scrawny sergeant could not dampen the fire in his gut. His edge was alert, but he wouldn’t need it yet. He would handle this the proper way if he was able. It would not serve to make enemies this soon. He gulped down the anger.
“Good. When to shut up and when to whimper are important lessons. We’ll beat that into you.”
He nodded, unsure whether this was a moment for silence or squeaky submission. He almost sniggered, which would definitely have been the wrong option. He hid it by scrunching up his face and itching his nose.
“You don’t have anything to say?”
He’d got it wrong. Of course he had. He looked to the prince, but the young colonel didn’t seem to care. Oh well. There was no other option. He tried to talk his way out of the situation. This was unlikely to go well.
“No.”
“NO WHAT?”
His face was drenched, and it turned out that this authority figure had an oral hygiene problem. And that simple fact made the sergeant closer to him than any of his actual family. How sad was that?
“No sir.”
The sergeant was riled, but that was clearly the correct etiquette and the reprimand ceased. The whole of the Fields – so named because it was the only open stretch in Triosec, save for the gardens about the Senate – had come to a halt. The fact that his sponsor was here was reassuring, in part, but no-one else seemed to be expecting him. He didn’t even know what he was here to ask.
Actually, of course he did. There was no other reason to come. He’d come to fulfil his purpose.
He’d never considered it before, which was strange. He’d come here and watched drills as an eleven-year-old, absorbing the movements of the trained soldiers until he was sure he could overcome them. And since then, nothing. Yet if he wanted to be a great smith, what better place to practise the art than here? He wanted to make the world’s greatest weapons, and these would therefore be his customers. Then again, deep down, he actually only wanted one weapon. He looked to the prince’s waist. That was the only true reason to be here, and he wasn’t sure it was enough. It would never be his.
“What are you doing here, you shit?”
Not a little shit anymore. Was that progress?
“I’ve come to join the Royal Guard.” It came out with a questioning inflection at the end, which raised eyebrows. There was silence for a moment, but not for long. What was he expecting? Did he expect a slap on the back?
The laughter rolled through the open space, and the petty sergeant’s guffaw was taken up by all and sundry. And looking about, he judged that there was more than a sprinkling of sundry. This was supposed to be the finest that Delfinia had to offer, but they certainly didn’t look the part. No wonder the Mandari held such sway.
“Think you can fight, I s’pose?”
At least he could speak properly. This bastard was barely coherent.
“I’ve had my moments.” He’d forgotten to say sir, but he didn’t care.
“Corporal Sluuger! Come and show this shit what’s required of the Royal Guard.”
His interrogator walked off – only that – and a hulking bastard stepped into the space before him.
He looked to the heir, who was still gazing intently. At least the prince seemed interested in his performance. That was something at least. He was offered the slightest nod. What did that mean? Was he a piece in a play? What was he doing? Did he want to join the army? He wanted revenge, though he didn’t know what for. Most likely he wanted revenge on his father, and he wanted to make great weapons. And he really wanted that weapon, the one that winked at him from the prince’s waist. But was this really the way to get it? Then again, what other option was there?
And then it didn’t matter. This was a question of pride and survival.
“You little shit.”
The hulking git recognised him, and it was two-way. Beef stood before him, now a full-grown adult, but none the wiser for it. He hauled a brutish lump of metal from his side, and grinned. His teeth were rotting. Perhaps that was a requirement of the Royal Guard? If anything, Beef’s breath was worse.
“Chick never moved again. You left him a vegetable, you little fuck.”
How dare he. “Well my arse has never been the same again, so call it evens?”
Beef lurched, and he saw the path. He would have the better of this encounter. But when he sidled past Beef and jabbed at the exposed neck, his old bully managed to spin. The git came again. In the interest of evasion he dropped onto his previously bullied arse, and exhaled.
“Ha. Arse of a girl; technique of a woman. You’re no Guardsman. You’re dead meat.”
It turned out that Beef was actually quite quick. That was surprising given his considerable bulk. The only option was to dance out of the line of pain and wait for his moment. The turgid fight became frustrating, but finally a plan hatched. With the prince looking on, and with his possessive edge now screaming from within, he channelled that anger in the way that was uniquely his. If he had something to fight for, then the anger fuelled him, and here he was fighting for a future that had been ripped away once already. His past would not catch up with him again.
As he squatted down and forced his shoulder into the man’s stomach, he screamed in brief concession. But it was controlled. When Beef was on the dusty ground looking into his eyes, he showed genuine shock. And then the lumbering idiot came again.
This was just wasting time. He had greater deeds in mind, and this flailing heap of lard was just an obstacle in his path. With an abrupt acceleration, he snapped the corporal’s arm to a painful angle, and levered the dull steel from his grip. When those eyes – ghosts from his past – looked upon him, little Jossie slapped the side of Beef’s head with heavy metal. He gazed at the blood trickling over the sand without a pinch of remorse. It had been a while since he’d done that.
And this time there were witnesses. A lot of witnesses. “You sneaky shit. Give that here.”
The tendons in his wrists flexed as the disciplinarian came for him. He was about to start a chain of carnage, but instead he recognised the tiniest shake of a head from the corner of the Fields. Such a small gesture, yet such a huge effect. He dropped the poor lump of metal.
The sergeant took him by his shirt, knuckles white with fury, and he whimpered. The bastard knew it was fake, but he didn’t care. That was fine.
“You bastard. I will―”
“Sergeant, you will find a place for him. I suspect he will prove useful.”
The eyes of the man told him everything he needed to know. That was true hatred, right there. But a colonel’s word, and the Prince of Delfinia no less, outweighed any personal intentions the man might have. Authority smothered the temper, and he was given back his ability to breathe.
“Yes, I’m sure we can. You can clean the fucking mess. Now!”
He walked past his sponsor harbouring a surge of gratitude. But it w
as mingled with something else too. After all, it was the prince’s fault he was here in the first place. But without that man, his temper would probably have got him killed. He wasn’t stupid. He had to be grateful for the intervention at least. And besides, it was almost like the prince was looking out for him. Perhaps they shared a goal?
A flash of light distracted him, and he turned to see his sabre being shown off. The bastard. Even if they did share a goal, they wouldn’t share that sword. The class chasm was just too big. And Kantal was on the wrong side.
________
He was on boot polishing duty. Again. Twenty cycles, and all he’d done was shine stuff: floors; boots; crockery; cutlery; other people’s steel. He’d almost ended up shining a handful of cocks too, though he’d managed to duck that responsibility. Being a twelve-year old recipient of buggery was one thing. Taking cock in mouth at eighteen was quite another. He would have bitten the fucker off.
The Royal Guard was the self-confessed pinnacle of the Delfinian military machine, and they wore the arrogance that went with that title. They were utterly meticulous in their demonstration of marching capabilities, and could switch a right angle to near mathematical perfection. Everything about the bastards was polished: their weapons; their uniforms; their facial hair. Even the abuse they handed out had a honed edge to it. The word shit could be made to sound almost divine.
But he had never lived a life of embellishment, and he
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