by Sandell Wall
That must be the quartermaster.
He took the spot at the end of the queue. There seemed to be no rush to process new recruits. They stood in awkward silence as the line crept forward. More than one man in front of Remus had second thoughts and lost his nerve, hanging their heads in shame as they disappeared into the crowded city. After what must have been an hour, it was Remus’s turn.
“Name?” the quartermaster said.
“Remus Ironborn.” He hated his ridiculous last name. But orphans don’t get to pick. Holmgrim thought it poetic.
“Age?”
“Eighteen.” He lied, not sure what the minimum age for recruitment was. He would be eighteen soon anyway if his day of birth was accurate.
“Trade?”
“Farmer.” Another lie. He was done with manning a forge. And he did not want Holmgrim to hear about a young blacksmith that joined the Legion in Delgrath.
“All right,” the quartermaster said. “Back you go.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing Remus towards the next line. This new line was being swallowed by a large tent. Within, he could see recruits being issued basic armor and weapons.
Stuck in another queue, Remus was growing drowsy in the midday sun. Just before it was his turn to enter the tent, he heard the quartermaster query a potential recruit.
“Name?”
There was a pause and then a drawl of a reply, “Prick-er.”
Remus started out of a daydream and whirled to look back at the recruitment table. Pricker stood before it, about to become the newest member of the Legion. Remus stood transfixed, not wanting to believe his eyes.
“Age?”
“Pricker is very old,” Pricker replied, his head cocked to the side.
The quartermaster snorted at the joke. “Trade?” he said next.
There was a pause, and then Pricker said, “I pricks things.”
At this, the quartermaster looked up for the first time. Pricker attempted to smile, but it was a grimace, looking like some deranged creature trying to mimic an expression it did not understand. His yellowish eyes bulged over lips pulled back from horse-like teeth.
The quartermaster went mute. His only acknowledgement of Pricker’s application was to jerk his thumb backwards towards the tent where Remus stood. At the same time a voice barked behind Remus, “Bleedin’ hells, boy, are you deaf and stupid? I’m talkin’ at ya!” It was Remus’s turn to be equipped.
Inside, the tent was hot and crowded. Remus did his best to keep an eye on Pricker, who had followed behind Remus and was being fitted for armor on the far wall. It was the first time Remus had seen Pricker without the wide-brimmed hat he favored. The pale man had a wicked scar on his forehead. Not just the forehead, Remus realized, the scar circled Pricker’s entire skull.
What could make such a wound? It looks like someone put a ring of red-hot metal around his head.
Once outfitted, soldiers shoved them back into the sun. Remus and Pricker were the last of the day’s recruits; the rest stood in formation waiting for them to be processed.
A squat sergeant stood on a wooden platform in front of the formation. He shouted at Remus and Pricker, “Welcome to the show, boyos! Now that you’re here, your fellow recruits can stop roastin’ in the sun.”
The sergeant hopped down from the platform and yanked Remus into formation. Quick, painful taps to the spine, elbows, and chin communicated to Remus what standing at attention was supposed to look like. The sergeant turned to Pricker, about to manhandle him into position the same way.
Pricker looked at the sergeant, then at Remus, and then slowly moved into formation, copying Remus’s posture exactly. Annoyed at Pricker’s initiative, the sergeant decided to make an example of him.
“You’re the ugliest whoreson I’ve ever seen!” the sergeant screamed, his nose almost touching Pricker’s face. “You think you know what you’re supposed to do? You don’t! You do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it!”
Pricker slowly tilted his head from standing at attention, and making eye contact with the sergeant, said, “Loud man should stop.”
Gobsmacked, the sergeant spluttered, his face reddening.
Before the livid sergeant could unleash on Pricker, a commanding voice cut across the formation from the right. “Sergeant Braston, enough! These recruits haven’t even passed physical yet.”
Sergeant Braston spun away from Pricker and stood at parade rest. Striding across the field was a young, blonde-haired lieutenant. With a friendly face and a twinkle in his eye, he was a marked contrast to the swarthy, swearing sergeant.
“I’m Lieutenant Dales,” he said, addressing the recruits. “I commend your desire to join the empire’s legions. However, to finish your recruitment processing you will need to pass a basic physical test. You must wear your armor and carry your weapon for the duration of the test. If you fail to complete this test, we will take back the gear you’re wearing and wish you a good life.” He smiled, amused by what he had to say next. “And if you pass, I’m afraid I’ll have to deliver you into the tender, loving care of Sergeant Braston here.”
“Bloody right, he will,” Braston shouted.
“The test will have three phases,” Lieutenant Dales said. He swept his arm around to indicate the large field behind him. “The first phase will be to run ten laps around this field. The five men who finish last will not move on to the next phase. The second phase will take place in the center of the field. Once you have finished your laps, move to the center and execute fifty pushups. After that, the third phase will be to defend yourself with shield from a basic assault.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to know how to fight. It’s only meant to test your aptitude.” He looked at Braston. “Anything I missed, Sergeant?”
“No, sir,” the sergeant said. Without pausing for a breath he shouted, “The test starts now, you miserable sacks of guts! MOVE OUT!”
The formation broke apart in a mad scramble. Unaccustomed to wearing armor, the recruits crashed into each other. A feeble few tripped and fell. Remus had to hurdle a fallen man to get into the clear. The armor was heavy and awkward, but he could manage a steady jog. A man paced him on his right, and he glanced over to see Pricker jogging beside him. The thin man from the quarry seemed to chafe under his poorly fitting armor.
“Why are you following me?” Remus yelled at Pricker as they jogged around the field.
Pricker took so long to respond that Remus stopped listening for an answer. Finally, Pricker said, “Tired of marble.”
Annoyed, and a little scared, Remus put his head down and ran harder. Two recruits had loped easily past him, but he was staying ahead of the rest of the pack. Pricker ran beside him with no apparent effort. It was obvious that Pricker could finish first if he wanted to, but he kept perfect pace with Remus.
Ten laps later, sucking air like a bellows, Remus staggered to the center of the field. The two men that had finished before him were already at phase three, and the clang of swords on shields rang out over the open space. He dropped into position and started cranking out pushups. Fifty pushups should be no problem, but he had just run two and a half miles and was wearing thirty stone worth of armor. To Remus’s embarrassment, he had to stop and rest every ten pushups. Beside him, Pricker pumped his body up and down as if he weighed nothing.
Done with his fifty, arms quivering, Remus staggered to his feet. Hands on his knees, he paused to catch his breath. Sergeant Braston jumped on him so fast that Remus wondered if the sergeant were omniscient.
“Move, maggot, you don’t get to rest!” Sergeant Braston thundered.
Pricker followed Remus as he jogged to phase three. Three Legion soldiers were standing at the end of the field, stationed to test the recruits. Remus grabbed the waiting shield, hefted it on his arm, and readied his weapon. The soldier in front of him lunged, the attack a basic swing that Remus easily blocked.
Remus had never wielded sword and shield before. It felt natural, intuitive. He could sen
se a pattern and rhythm that demanded his surrender, but some defiance deep within resisted. He didn’t want to submit to the blade—he wanted to control it. He parried another blow. Overthinking it now, fighting against his own intuition, he felt clumsy and awkward. He took a step toward his opponent. And then the world flipped upside down.
Head ringing, Remus sat in the dirt and looked up at the soldier, stunned.
“Sorry, lad, ye had it and then ye lost it,” the soldier said from behind his helmet in an accent Remus had never heard. The soldier turned and shouted to Lieutenant Dales, who was observing, “The lad’s good!”
A wicked thump caused all three men to turn their heads. The soldier who had been testing Pricker was laid out flat on the ground. Pricker stood over the fallen man, looking bemused. He gave Remus and Lieutenant Dales a wide-eyed, innocent look that seemed to say, “What did you expect?”
“Where did you learn to fight?” Lieutenant Dales said, one eyebrow raised.
Pricker shrugged.
“Man of few words, I like that.”
One of the other soldiers testing recruits stepped in front of Pricker and said, “Let me try him, sir.”
“If you must, Markus,” Lieutenant Dales said, giving his consent with a casual wave.
The soldier called Markus banged sword on shield and shouted at Pricker, “Come on then, let’s see what you’ve got!”
Up to this point, from the recruitment table until now, Remus had thought Pricker curious and relaxed. But when faced with a direct challenge, a change came over the pale man. His long fingers twitched once, twice. Eyes that had been naïve and open narrowed to slits, pupils dilating into pools of blackness. Pricker’s gaze bored into Markus with a ferocious focus, like he was taking the soldier apart before the fight even started.
Markus lunged. Pricker dropped into a combat stance. Pricker moved so fast that Lieutenant Dales shouted in surprise. Markus tried to test Pricker with a quick slash, but Pricker simply stepped around it. Countering with a vicious backhand, Pricker smashed the edge of his shield into Markus’s helmet, sending the surprised soldier stumbling.
Pricker followed, waiting for Markus to make another move. Markus shook his head, trying to regain his senses. When he saw Pricker standing in front of him, he let out a bellow and rushed his opponent. Pricker sidestepped the charge, and with a quick kick and a strike to the back of Markus’s neck, tripped the soldier and sent him sprawling. Markus went down in a clatter, thrown clear of the training circle.
As Markus struggled to his feet, three soldiers approached, drawn by the noise of the fight. Two men and a woman, Remus was shocked at the bigger man’s size. The giant stood a head taller than everyone else. Dark cornrows tied at the back of his head gave the big soldier an exotic appearance. The woman was tall too, and had long, striking blonde hair. The woman and the big soldier were wearing silver and black armor, more ornate than what Remus had seen on other Legion soldiers.
“Ho, Markus, you letting the recruits win?” the big soldier said.
“He’s bleedin’ fast,” Markus panted, on his knees in the dirt.
“I’ll show him fast,” the woman said, taking a step towards Pricker.
“Be careful,” the big soldier said. He looked at Pricker with a wary eye, concern on his face.
The young woman accepted Markus’s shield and drew the short sword at her hip. She advanced towards Pricker, shield up and sword held low at her side. Her eyes glared over the rim of the shield, full of determination. Pricker watched her approach with disinterest.
When she was within striking distance, the woman lunged, stabbing at Pricker’s chest. Pricker parried the blow with a simple flick of the wrist. Staying on the offensive, the woman attacked Pricker with a flurry of strikes. Her sword flashed in the sun as she tried to find a hole in her opponent’s defense.
When Pricker showed no desire to counter attack, the woman backed off a few paces. “Fight back!” she said.
“No more, Aventine,” the big soldier said. “He obviously knows how to use a blade.”
“To the hells with that,” the woman called Aventine growled.
She was breathing hard, strands of long blonde hair falling into her flushed face.
She pushed the issue too far, and now she’s trying to save face by beating Pricker.
Reckless now, the woman called Aventine rushed at Pricker, attempting to drive him back with an overhead swing. Somehow, either by anticipation, understanding, or only because he was so fast, Pricker intercepted the blow. He darted forward and slammed the edge of his shield into Aventine’s armpit. Exposed under her raised sword arm, the weak armor could not withstand the blow. The metal crumpled.
Aventine shouted in pain, right arm stuck in place, blood oozing from the broken armor. She stepped back from the fight, sword and shield discarded.
Pricker backed off a step, waiting to see what would happen next. Out of the corner of his eye, Remus saw Lieutenant Dales and Sergeant Braston glance at each other. All activity had stopped; the soldiers looked at Pricker with a mix of awe and confusion.
“Are you all right, lady?” Lieutenant Dales broke the uneasy silence.
“Yes,” Aventine said with a wince. “It was my fault. I was careless.”
“This man will be wasted in formation,” the big soldier said. “He does not need any further training. Have him report to the captain of the scouts and promote him to corporal.”
“Sir, he only joined an hour ago,” Lieutenant Dales said. “Regulations require—”
“I know the regulations,” the big soldier said. “They also require you to obey orders.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Dales said, scowling. “Sergeant, escort this man to the captain of the scouts.” With a deprecating glance at the big soldier, he said, “Inform him that Brax, of the Rune Guard, orders the recruit be promoted to corporal.”
Sergeant Braston nodded, walking into the camp and motioning for Pricker to follow. “Come on, you.”
Pricker glanced at Remus and then followed the sergeant.
Aventine tried to force the damaged armor to bend with her arm, but the torn metal would not budge. Brax caught Remus looking at her and said, “You there, recruit, come with us. We might need help getting that damaged armor off.”
Remus looked at the lieutenant, who appeared ready to try his own luck in a fight against Brax. Instead, Lieutenant Dales nodded at Remus, indicating he should follow.
Aventine and Brax were already several paces away, the big soldier supporting her wounded side. Remus jogged after them.
“What’s your name, recruit?” Brax said.
“Remus.”
“Remus, sir,” Aventine corrected.
She expected him to fix his mistake, but Remus let the silence hang.
“Let it be. He’ll learn,” Brax said. “I’m Brax, and this is Aventine. We’re both members of the Rune Guard. Do you know what the Guard is?”
“You’re supposed to be the best,” Remus said, giving Aventine a doubtful look.
Brax laughed. “Yes, we’re supposed to be the best. But only when we’re not getting clobbered by new recruits.”
Aventine scowled at Remus, but spoke to Brax. “That was no green recruit.”
“I tried to warn you,” Brax said. “That man moved like an expert warrior. He was just toying with you.”
“Why the blazes would he join the Legion?”
“I have no idea.”
Because he’s following me.
But Remus kept silent. He did not want to explain where and how he had met Pricker. He followed the Guardsmen to a tent that rang with the sound of hammer on anvil.
Great. The one place I wanted to avoid.
When they entered he noticed a look of surprise, and then satisfaction, flit across the face of the Legion blacksmith. The man was pleased to see Aventine injured.
“Can you get this off of her?” Brax said to the smith.
The smith made a show of inspecting the tor
n armor, poking and prodding with cruel fingers. “I don’t rightly know, sir. This here armor is mighty fancy. It might get damaged were I to hack at it with me crude tools.”
“Just do it.”
“Yes, sir, as ye command.” The smith picked up an ugly set of shears. “I’ll have to cut through the breastplate. It’s gonna to hurt.”
The man disgusted Remus. Who did he think he was fooling? While the smith explained what must be done, Remus searched the worktable for a small hammer and hole punch. Equipped with these tools, he moved to stand behind the smith. “Get out of the way,” he said in a voice laden with distaste and annoyance.
Surprised, the smith turned to look behind him. Remus shoved him out of the way and attacked the rivets in Aventine’s armor. With expert efficiency, he hammered the rivets out of the armor covering Aventine’s shoulder. Once it was unattached, he bent the broken metal away from flesh and pulled the sleeve off of her arm.
Brax looked at Aventine with raised eyebrows. “There’s more to this recruit than meets the eye.”
Aventine sniffed.
Blast. Holmgrim is sure to hear about this.
Chapter 12
TENSIONS WERE HIGH IN the Legion camp. It had been two days since Centurion Immers and his men left—two days and no runner with a report. Brax was on a warpath, demanding that the entire expedition mobilize and march to the border fort. He had been in a strategy session for the last hour and Aventine awaited his return. She stood under the overhang of Brax’s personal tent, looking out into the pouring rain. The rain had come with the dawn and showed no signs of stopping. The ground was fast turning into a swamp.
This is going to be a nightmare to march in.
She caught sight of Brax, who was several hundred paces away and running hard through the rain. Every step kicked up splashes of muddy water. His head was down and one hand was keeping his cloak closed at the neck. She moved to the side to make room for him under the overhang.
“Blasted rain,” he said, shaking water from his cloak. “But we can’t wait for it to clear. Grab your gear; we march within the hour.”