Adam did not even have to contemplate. A man could only die once. “Sounds good to me.”
The officer nodded at one of the jailers. “One less for the gibbets today.”
The army camp was just like any other, a big and filthy mess of sweaty men with no apparent purpose in life.
Adam shared a small stretch of mud and feces at the end of the encampment with another three hundred or so former convicts. Like him, most had been rounded up before they could hang and given the choice of bleeding for the monarch rather than bleeding for past sins. Most looked like semi-rabid animals kept at bay only by the fear of being slaughtered by the soldiers guarding them.
For the past three days, Adam had kept to himself. He was careful to avoid eye contact with the monsters surrounding him. He did not speak at all with anyone and ate alone. For protection, he had fashioned himself a crude spike from a willow branch, using a stone to whittle one end. Blessedly, no one had challenged his solitude.
About an hour before noon, a delegation of soldiers arrived at their camp. A soldier placed a crate on the ground, and an officer climbed on top of it. He clapped his hands twice.
“Listen up, scum. Gather around.”
The soldiers drew their weapons and stepped forward. The former criminals quickly ceased all their idle doings and bunched up in front of the impromptu podium, nudged by sharp edges of cold steel.
“I am Captain kal Armis, your commander. From now on, you will do everything I say.” He waited a few seconds to let the first sentence sink in. “We have saved your miserable lives from certain death. Now it’s time you showed some gratitude for our mercy.
“I don’t know what some of you scum have done in your past lives—and I don’t care. From now on, you’re the soldiers of the realm, and you shall fight for the monarch. We have two weeks to train you to fight before we march for the front. Use this time well to learn the skills of combat. You will be given no second chance.
“That said, you are also expected to behave like soldiers. This means total discipline and obedience. You have already been spared once. It won’t happen again. Fail to report to the morning call, and you will be hanged. Fail to obey a command from one of your superiors, and you will be flogged. If you steal anything, you will lose a finger. If you rape anyone, we’ll castrate you. If you go missing, you’ll be declared deserters, hunted down, and killed on the spot. There won’t be any trials or bargaining.”
Adam stared at his new brothers-in-arms from the corner of his eye. Fear and hatred were plain on their faces.
“If you brawl among yourselves, better keep it low. But if you cause grievous injury to another man, you will be hanged. Remember, you are now the monarch’s property and shall remain such until the monarch releases you from your duties.
“Any of you got any questions? Feel free to speak. This is your one chance to say what you think.”
No one spoke. No one was so foolish as to mark themselves as a troublemaker. They might speak freely now, but the punishment would surely come, one day.
Adam had nothing to say either. Inside, he boiled. But he had lost his naivety long, long ago. He knew his cry of despair at the injustice being done to him would serve no purpose. For all they cared, he was a murderer, a condemned man, a man without future, a man without life.
Kal Armis nodded to himself, satisfied. “Good. That’s settled then. You will now be divided into companies and platoons. You’ll report to your sergeants directly. You’ll be issued uniforms. Your training begins after lunch.”
Captain kal Armis was a man true to his word. They started their duties just after midday. To Adam, it seemed, most of the chores were meant to be nothing more than pure, simple humiliation, intended to break them.
They were tasked with digging the crap pits for the entire camp. And when shovels broke or buckets lacked, they worked with their bare hands. They rose one hour early and went to sleep one hour late. While most soldiers had short breaks in between, they got none.
The only thing they did enjoy like the rest of the troops were the meals. They fed them well so they had the strength to work.
Discipline was razor-sharp. In the first two days, four men had been executed and at least two dozen flogged for a variety of minor infractions. On the third day, no less than seven men had been killed for being too late for the morning call.
The executions were simple. Soldiers would round up the perpetrators and bind their arms behind their backs. Then, they would force them to kneel and stab them through with a sword.
By the fourth day, almost a tenth of the regiment had been killed. They were dying, with no battle in sight. The soldiers hated them with all their souls. Supposedly, they were allies, but they were treated worse than enemies. Adam had never felt so worthless in his life, not even in the darkest hours of his profession.
But he did not despair. There was no point in brooding and lamenting and wishing for what could not be altered or what had yet to happen. All he could do was make his best effort to live through it. He was a dead man four days past, and yet he breathed. That had to count as something.
Their first military training started on the sixth day. Fearing mutiny, they were given wooden weapons to practice. Adam had no doubt the maneuvers were just an excuse, meant to instill them with a false sense of hope. He was dead sure they would be the first line in the first attack to face the full brunt of the enemy force.
They were not very good at marching, but at least they could retain some sort of formation. A veteran regiment could maintain their battle order for miles without end. Mediocre troops doubled the space between ranks every three miles walked. Their regiment lost cohesion after only a mile. But they were not likely to live that long in a battle anyway. Still, it was some sort of progress. Perhaps they would be able to keep formation for two miles before the training ended, a week away. The double spacing was the fatal difference between an effective picket and rows of men awaiting harvesting by angry horsemen slipping through their loose defenses. It was called the Cornfield Syndrome, their sergeant, a quiet man by the name of Nigel, had told them.
They were segregated into platoons and companies. Each had its own banner and a commander. His company was named the Miscreants. The other two were Bandits and Villains. Such poetic names, Adam thought. He was not sure whether they were supposed to boost morale or mock them.
On the tenth day, their training slacked and became slops hauling once again. Bitterness was palpable in the air. Adam would not be surprised if some sort of riot erupted.
The very next day, he had his first encounter with one of his comrades. A burly man with almost no teeth in his mouth and a large scar that ran across half his face approached him just before sunset. Adam pretended not to see him and remained casual, but his right hand closed on the short spike hidden in the sleeve of his shirt. The brute just stood there and leered, dark, beady eyes agleam with serious mischief. Adam did not really wish to contemplate what the moron was thinking.
The former prostitute looked around him. There were no spectators. Good. This meant the man acted alone. The soldiers guarding them were looking the other way.
Adam timed his moment carefully. As the other man moved, the barest twitch of the shoulders, Adam struck. The short, yet painfully sharp, spike dug into the man’s thigh. The brute groaned with pain. Adam twisted. Growling softly, the man sank to his knees.
“Stay there.” Adam uttered his first sentence in more than a week. “Understand?”
The other man said nothing. A look of surprise and fear masked his homely features. He had not expected his fair-skinned, soft-featured victim to lash back. A typical coward, Adam thought, disgusted.
Adam pulled the spike out with a sick, wet sound. Dark blood gushed like marmalade. The other man’s eyes narrowed with hatred. But he could see that Adam would stab him again the moment he moved. Flint-hard resolution in Adam’s eyes broke him. He lifted one arm in a semireconciliatory gesture.
“Press on the w
ound. It’ll help stop the bleeding,” Adam advised almost friendly-like. He knew this coward would use the first opportunity to avenge himself. The moment they left camp, Adam would have to kill him. He did not look forward to killing anyone, but he was no stranger to death. As a whore in Paroth, he had faced the bitter choice quite a few times. Paroth was not kind to its prostitutes.
The next morning, he found out he would not have to worry about revenge. His attacker had bled to death overnight. The soldiers dismissed the case as an injury by a tool, most likely a shovel or something, and dumped his body onto a pile outside the camp, where it would burn with several others.
Despite his stoic stand the night before, Adam felt shaken. Working knee-deep in other people’s shit did not help soothe his spirit. He was in a fidgety mood. He decided to do something about it.
Cleaning himself perfunctorily of the feces, he strode toward Sergeant Nigel’s tent. Like most real soldiers, their commander did not have any real work to do. The former convicts did all of the hard labor. The soldiers did not train much either, conserving strength for the expected march.
“Permission to speak, sir,” Adam chanced.
Sergeant Nigel did not seem to mind the smell. He did not look at Adam. He was busy shaving himself, using a piece of tinfoil as a mirror. “Go ahead.”
“I believe we would benefit more from extra training with weapons rather than the menial jobs. Maybe the troops could share a bit of the burden…”
“No.”
“Sir, permission—” Adam couldn’t finish the sentence. Sergeant Nigel punched him in the stomach hard, deflating all air from his lungs.
“You heard me. Don’t ever doubt or question my decisions. You will do as you are told, and you will never think twice about it. Do it again, and I’ll make sure you are flogged senseless.” The quiet Nigel spoke softly, in an even, calm voice, but his eyes blistered with unbridled hatred.
Adam was shocked by the sudden ferocity of the man’s response. He could feel the disdain of the common soldiers, but he had not expected the same kind of revulsion from the officers. How could a man command a unit without believing in his soldiers?
Gasping for breath, Adam retreated, doubled over. Slowly, he recovered. As he finally managed to straighten up, he saw her.
She was a striking figure among the mounted warriors approaching. She was dressed in simple riding clothes and displayed no marks of authority, but the officers around her deferred to her. Adam stared with growing fascination at the woman.
The camp parted to let her through. She rode at ease, oblivious to the bustle around her. As she dismounted near the large tents of the top brass, he lost sight of her. Only the ripple of excitement among the soldiers told someone really important had just arrived.
Power and beauty, Adam thought. Such an unexpected and refreshing sight on an otherwise shitty day.
CHAPTER 2
Ewan had never seen an army before, although he had read about them in books. There was no army in the Safe Territories. It was one of the founding principles of the country. People who wanted to live without violence came to the Safe Territories to escape the brutal world out there, be they refugees or criminals. No one asked any questions. Everyone was welcome, as long as they swore to leave their former lives behind and start afresh.
People were given a shelter to live in. They were given jobs that fit their skills. Some were even given new names. All sins were forgiven. It was like being born again. And in return, the newcomers promised to live by the Code for the rest of their lives. A fair bargain, by far.
The long train of soldiers was trundling down the Old Road, raising a huge cloud of dust that looked like a sandstorm. It was what had drawn Ewan’s eye in the first place.
“Ewan, you fool, get down here!” Ayrton called in a subdued hiss.
Ewan spun to see his friend standing some twenty paces away, tense and poised to flee, hidden below the top of the hill.
“What’s wrong?” Ewan called back.
“If those soldiers see you, we’ll be in a lot of trouble. Come on. Stop playing, and come here!”
The lad did not leave, but he slowly knelt and blended into the high summer grass. He kept his eye on the jangling snake of men and animals moving ever deeper into the Safe Territories. It was hard to tell details or their exact numbers, but they were numerous. You could feel the heat emanating from that huge train, a collective sweat of thousands of soldiers and pack mules. A solid hum of chaos pervaded the landscape, almost like a fog.
“They won’t hurt us,” Ewan recited.
Ayrton rolled his eyes. “A beast does not care when it steps on an ant. Come here.”
Ewan turned back to see his friend crouching behind him, his face dark. The old, puckered scar down the side of his cheek was whiter than ever before.
The older man was one of the Outsiders. He had come from one of the surrounding kingdoms one day, wearing torn clothing and bleeding from a dozen wounds. He had never spoken of the world he had left, but it was obvious that he knew what armies were. He had been a soldier once. Ewan knew that.
“For the last time, boy, let’s go, or I’ll have to hit you on the head with this.” He shook his quarterstaff.
Grudgingly, Ewan withdrew from the hilltop and let the magnificent view of the army slide away. He was curious and wanted to know more. Never before had he seen something like that. Life in the Territories was peaceful and uneventful.
“What shall we do?” he asked.
Ayrton shrugged. “Nothing really. We’ll let them pass and then get back to the village.”
Ewan pointed behind him. “We should inform the patriarchs. They must know about this.”
The man with the scar smiled softly, as softly as his hard, scarred face permitted. “Son, trust me. They already know.”
Ewan was shocked to see his friend among the dozen or so men readying to leave the next morning. Coming out of the monastery after the Morning Prayer, he found Ayrton in the village square, packing. Dozens of bewildered people, mostly young brothers, stood and stared at the twenty or so men strapping bags and tools to their horses.
Questions rushing like a rapid inside his head, Ewan approached his old friend. Ayrton had been almost like an older brother to him for a decade. A mentor, really. He had taught him so many things about life. And now, he was leaving.
“Good morning, Ewan.”
That seemed to unlock his tongue. “What are you doing?”
“Readying to leave. The patriarchs have issued the Call to the Cause. I have decided to go.” Ayrton closed another bulging saddlebag, fumbling with the straps.
“But you do not have to go.” The Call was voluntary.
“Son, you have so much to learn about life.” Ayrton tugged on one of the straps twice. “When you come to a new place and they welcome you in, give you a home to live in, give you food, treat your wounds, give you a new life, give you a future…do you really think it’s all for free? There’s always a price to be paid.”
Ewan was not really sure what Ayrton was saying. “I’ll go too,” he said after a long pause.
Ayrton did not raise his eyes, but he gave the second strap a powerful, sharp yank, so that it snapped like the tip of a whip. “Ewan, you are a young brother. You have spent your entire life with the clergy. You have already devoted your life to the Cause.” He looked up at Ewan with his sharp, squinted eyes. “Besides, you’re no warrior.”
“But neither are they.” Ewan pointed at a secluded group of about ten men on the far side of the square. “No one is, in the Territories.”
Ayrton smiled. A tooth he was missing made for a macabre grimace. “Look better.”
The young brother shielded his eyes from the morning sun and stared at the other men. At first glance, they appeared to be ordinary people. But then he spotted the same signs that adorned his friend: scars on faces and arms, a slightly crooked gait of people who had spent too much time riding, bearing weapons, and fighting. Just like Ayrton
.
“They are Outsiders, too,” his friend spoke in a distant voice, his eyes locked on an old, faraway memory. “And now, it’s our chance to serve the Cause. We must answer the Call.”
“Where are you going?” Ewan’s face fell. He felt devastated. He was confused. Life had seemed so simple only yesterday.
“To the Grand Monastery in Talmath. The patriarchs are assembling the Call there. It’s about a three days’ ride from here.” Ayrton bent down and picked up a bundle from the ground. A sword hilt stuck from one end.
“Is that a sword?” Ewan asked, his voice trembling.
Ayrton pursed his lips and tsked. “Might be. And before you ask, I can’t show you. It’s forbidden, until the patriarchs declare otherwise.” And they will, quite soon, he added to himself silently.
Ewan looked around him. Some of the villagers had dispersed after the initial curiosity wore down. But most of the children and brothers hung around, their eyes gleaming. Never before had they seen anything like this.
Ayrton tied the bundle to the back of the old harness, making sure it did not clink. He lifted the last item still unfastened, a pair of goatskins. “Help me fill these.”
Leaving the small dun behind, the two men walked to the well. They hauled the buckets up, and carefully filled the two bags.
Ewan stood aside, staring at his friend from the corner of his eye. He had never seen Ayrton wear such an outfit before: leathers, boiled and hard and covered in coarse hide on his shoulders, elbows, and knees. It must be some sort of uniform, he thought. The other men were garbed in much the same fashion.
Ayrton laid a hand on Ewan’s shoulder. It was a friendly pat. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. I’ll be back soon. Probably no more than a moon or two. You stay here in the monastery. You’ll be safe. Do your chores and studies, and we’ll meet again sooner than you expect.”
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