by John Ringo
“The measure passes,” she said sadly, looking at Edmund who just shrugged.
“On the composition of the upper house to include both hereditary aristocracy and persons chosen to lifetime appointments for their civic virtues, we will now take a vote.”
Again the vote was for aristocracy, by a wider margin than the debt peonage. She had to wonder if that was because most of the delegates knew they were shoo-ins for the first round of appointments.
“The draft constitution so stands,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Copies of it will begin circulation immediately. When the copy reaches your locality, you should debate it as you see fit within your own charters and return it as soon as possible, either with or without approval. But this is the last draft; any society that chooses to reject it rejects it totally and is outside the support and succor of the Free States. Or myself,” she added, looking at Edmund.
Edmund frowned at her but nodded his head and kept his peace.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said with a nod and then dismissed the virtual figures except for Edmund. “Are you going to toss this overboard?” she asked.
“No,” he answered after a moment. “But I’m serious about serfs who make it to Overjay. And I’ll take my legions to damned Chitao if it takes that to make them get the point.”
“How is the ‘legion’ coming?” she asked.
“It’s not even a century,” he admitted. “But it’s going well.”
“Well, as queen I’m going to have a say in the cabinet appointments,” she said. “I want you for secretary of war.”
“I don’t,” Edmund said. “I want a field command. I’m so sick and tired of being behind a desk you can’t believe it.”
“You were the one who told me to think strategic and not tactical,” she reminded him.
“I am thinking strategic,” he said. “I happen to know without a doubt that I’m the best general you have right now. Putting me in charge of forming the army is silly. That’s a job for a military manager. As long as he knows to let the professionals do the job.”
“Suggestions?” she asked.
“It’s going to depend upon who is Prime Minister,” he admitted. “But I’d suggest Spehar. He’s not nearly as good a commander or a strategist as he thinks he is. But he’ll accept insubordination from me or I’ll damned well beat his head in with my hammer.”
“I can believe it,” she said. “Get going Edmund. And say hello to Daneh for me. How’s she doing, by the way?”
“Better on the mental issues,” Edmund said. “But the pregnancy is starting to slow her down.”
“Pregnancy, yeck,” Sheida said.
“Uhmm, my queen?” Edmund said with a smile. “You do know the primary duty of a monarch, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied. “That is why I went yeck.”
“Are you planning on a body birth or a replicator?” Edmund said with a grin.
“We’re far from that,” Sheida pointed out. “Unless I clone myself, I have to find another genetic contributor. Got any plans for the weekend, Edmund?” She grinned.
“Try anything and Daneh will kill you,” he replied with a grimace. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Have fun with your army,” Sheida said with a wave. “And keep the offer in mind.”
* * *
There followed more weeks of training. Sword drill, pilum throwing, shield maneuvers marching in formation in the morning and engaging in sword and pilum training in the afternoon. The sword technique was simplicity in itself, consisting of nothing but a series of almost mechanical chops and jabs. They had set up wooden stakes wrapped in hay and they chopped and jabbed until they felt their arms would fall off.
The pilums, also, were used in a very disciplined manner. When used as spears in the advance, they were marched forward in time. The training method for this was a large construction of wooden shields on a sledge. Gunny would stand on the sledge, which was extremely heavy, and they would march into it, driving it back. Throwing was also “by the numbers,” consisting of a two count “run” and then “hurl” command. By the end of the training period, they felt like military automatons, which Herzer guessed, correctly, was the point.
They learned to create complex formations based upon trumpet calls, waved flags and shouted orders. They formed lines and squares and triangles. They charged imaginary enemies and whacked at dummies. And still they worked the A-frame weights and lifted their rocks, which were made larger and larger as time went by. They got to the point that they preferred the long route marches when at least they had some “rest” while marching. But even on the route marches, when the camp was set up there was more drill. They fought, decuri against decuri and individual against individual. And when the time came, they were integrated with the bowmen.
They had seen the bowmen working out. From time to time on their innumerable road marches they would see some of the archers moving as well. There were about half the number of archers as line infantry, and most of them didn’t seem to have bows. Herzer strongly suspected that they, too, had been doing quite a bit of weight work.
The archer camp was well away from the town, so that any errant arrow wouldn’t cause injuries, and they had only gotten glimpses of them maneuvering. But when the bowmen showed up they proved that while they might not be able to handle long marches, they sure could maneuver pretty. The first exercise was simple; the line infantry was to take and hold a narrow gap that existed only in the imagination of the officers, while the archers were to set up and prepare to engage the enemy whenever they appeared.
The Blood Lords marched forward to their positions and assumed their open battle formation. Herzer knew that, technically, they should also have light armed skirmishers out in front. But since they didn’t have enough bodies for them, they had to make play like they were out there. When the line forces were in place the archers were called forward and took up a position on a slight rise on their rear and to the right. They were permitted to watch the archers move into position and it was impressive. There was one archer to a team of three men. The archer carried his bow and a long stake. The two other men carried arrow barrels and large wooden “shields” that were taller than a man. The archer teams moved into position and dropped their stakes and shields. By the time the actual archer had his bow out of the case, the other two had set up the shield with the stake passed through it so that any enemy assaulting their position would run into a hedgehog of defenses. The archers then stepped to the side of the shield and prepared to fire.
The archers opened up first on the notional enemy and the air was filled with arrows. The first went out nearly two hundred meters and landed in a small patch that was the designated “enemy” force. Herzer was glad he didn’t have to wade through the fire even armored as he was. But the Blood Lord’s response would have been to form a “tortoise” with their shields over their heads. He wondered how effective that really would be with the rain of arrows crashing down. The archers were keeping up a steady fire and the other two members of their team existed just to feed the archer. When they took short breaks the assistant archers would provide water and even stools for the archer, meanwhile setting out arrows on the ground so that the archer only had to reach down to pick up his ammunition.
Finally the enemy was determined to be within pilum range and the Blood Lords rushed forward on command, one-two-hurl and cast them at the notional enemy. Then they took up their defensive positions and proceeded to hack at the imaginary enemy. Herzer felt a bit of a burke on the front lines, hacking at air, but as the time went on he realized that it was a test. From time to time the whole line would be given the command to bash and they would throw their shields forward into the imaginary enemy and step forward as if the enemy had fallen back. He wasn’t sure it would work out that way, but what the hell, it was the drill.
The archers were still firing and, remembering how hard it was to fire one of those bows for even fifteen minutes, Herzer knew that
they had been in some serious training. When he took the opportunity to look around, though, he saw that some of the archers had switched off with their assistants and were massaging their arms. A few of them were even juggling. After getting back to the business at hand he decided that it made sense; the continuous motion of firing had to be bad for their shoulders and another motion like that would reduce the likelihood of repetitive motion injuries.
Finally, after what seemed like all day, they were called to a halt and sent on the “chase” portion of the exercise. They recovered their packs and started marching.
The Blood Lords quickly left the archers behind. Somewhere back there was supposedly a pack train. That was left behind as well. In just their armor, with their standard three days of rations, they started off after a murthering great simulated battle on the march of their lives. Gunny had taken to a horse and led a string of others behind him. Late on the afternoon of the first day, Kane and a couple of riders turned up with a few more horses and a string of pack mules. And that was all they took as they headed out on what came to be called “The Long March.”
Herzer wasn’t too sure where they were going or what they were doing. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the march. They headed first down the valley to the head of Massan Mountain then across the base, up the east valley about half way, over the front ridge by one pass and back by another.
Half the time they were making the trails that they took and the crossing of the front ridge was especially hard. The trace they followed was apparently an old road bed but much of it had washed away into the stream that it followed. They cut down trees, reinforced turns, made temporary bridges and all of it with the Gunny driving them to go faster, faster, FASTER!
They finally made it across, though and headed back in the general direction of Raven’s Mill only to cross back into the valley along an old railroad cut and then back down the east valley. They headed back up towards the top of Massan Mountain through the west valley but then turned and crossed it instead, another nightmarish march, nearly a thousand meters into the air on tracks the horses and mules nearly couldn’t make and near the top of the mountain they ran into a tearing thunderstorm that had the horses going wild from sheets of lighting that rippled the trees around them. They then came down into the east valley and headed back south away from Raven’s Mill.
The march had taken nearly three weeks. They had met up with pack trains twice. All the horses and mules had been switched out for ones that weren’t broken down, but still they kept marching far into the night and generally were up before dawn. They marched up and down the west valley, into the Iron Hills, back towards and past Raven’s Mill and then finally all the way down the valley to its base and ended up just short of the south end of Massan Mountain, exhausted, out of food, their leather clothes and heavy boots in tatters around them. They had marched through summer heat and pouring thunderstorms, through fields and forests as old as the fall of nations, sleeping in their cloaks and up to march the next day before the sun was up. Then, as the afternoon wore on, they came to a clearing in sight of the high mountain above them.
Everyone was there, though, with the exception of a few casualties they had had along the way who had been shipped back to Raven’s Mill. Of the forty-four that had started on the trek from hell, forty made it to the clearing. And there, the Gunny had them fall out.
Herzer, at the word, simply collapsed on the ground. They were still tens of kilometers from Raven’s Mill and he was sure they would be up in the morning and off on another march. For once he didn’t even bother to post sentries. He would, before dark, but not right now. Right now, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.
He saw the Gunny walk over to an old stone monument on one side of the clearing and pick something up from the ground. After a moment he shook his head and walked back to where the triari was lying on the ground.
“Up, Herzer,” he said, quietly.
Herzer thought for a moment he wasn’t going to be able to but he got his arms out of his pack and used it to push himself to his feet.
“Yang, Locke, Stahl, first watch. Deann, you’ve got first sergeant of the guard.”
“Ah, fisk,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Up, you guys.”
“Get up and moving around the rest of you,” Herzer said, walking over to the monument. “Dig in, Gunny?”
“No,” the sergeant said. “Just rest your weary bones. Do your maintenance, get chow started; we’re not going anywhere until tomorrow morning.”
Herzer let the squads handle the drill as he walked over to the monument. It was so old and defaced by time and elements that nothing could be seen on its face except the vague outline of a couple of chemical fired rifles.
“Do you know what it is, Gunny?” he asked as Rutherford appeared at his side.
“No,” he said. “Just that it’s a tomb. But this was sitting in front of it.” He held out a fresh lemon.
Herzer took it and looked at it quizzically. “There’s nobody living around here, Gunny. Who put a lemon in front of it?”
“I don’t know. This place has been used as a campground for people going to Faire and just hiking for… well practically forever. I don’t think anybody knows who is in the tomb. But every day, there is a fresh lemon in front of it. Have it if you’d like; there will be another tomorrow.”
Herzer shrugged and cut the lemon with his belt knife. It wasn’t as sour as he expected; it was actually a bit sweet with a sharp bitter aftertaste.
“Want some?” he asked.
“Nope, not for me,” the sergeant said with a nod. “I notice you’re not taking charge of getting the camp set up.”
“No, Gunny, I’m not,” Herzer replied, sucking on the lemon. “The decurions know their jobs. I’ll check up on them in a minute, but there won’t be anything wrong; we can set up camp in our sleep.”
“That you can,” Rutherford chuckled.
“Permission to speak, Sergeant?” Herzer asked.
“Speak.”
“Can we find out when we’re going back to town? Please? Or when we’re going to meet up with a pack train? We’re already on half rations and this meal will be it.”
“Tomorrow,” Rutherford replied. “There’s a bullock train on its way down the valley. We’ll march out tomorrow and meet it somewhere up the valley. So we’ll only miss one meal.”
“Thank you.”
“For what? Get the fisk out of here, recruit,” the Gunny growled, but he smiled as he did.
“Blood Lords,” Herzer answered and went off to find out who had screwed up the perfectly simple process of making camp.
The bullock train was barely five kilometers north of their position and they reached it while the drivers were still barely stirring. They finally got a good, hot meal and to their amazement the Gunny had them mount up on the wagons and ride part of the way back.
They stayed with the bullock train for two days, riding in relative if very bumpy comfort, eating heavily to regain some of the weight they’d lost on the Death March and got off it when they were barely halfway back to Raven’s Mill. By that time just about everyone was ready to move; the carts weren’t all that comfortable and they could make much better time on foot.
They marched into Raven’s Mill singing “March of Cambreath” in a light rain as the sun was setting over the Iron Mountains. When they arrived at the barracks area they were surprised to see a crowd awaiting them. Gunny dismounted stiffly then marched over to Mayor Talbot and gave him a crisp salute.
“My Lord, Class One of the Raven’s Mill Academy has completed their training and are, in my opinion, fully qualified for service.”
“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Rutherford,” Edmund replied, saluting him in turn. “Post.”
Instead of walking to the back of the formation, Rutherford stepped to the side as an armorer brought up a portable forge and anvil. The forge was already heated and Herzer looked at the glowing coals uneasily.
&n
bsp; “Herzer Herrick,” Edmund called. “Front and center.”
Herzer walked from the back of the formation and made a series of rights and lefts until he was in front of Mayor Talbot.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, state your name…”
“I, Herzer Herrick.”
“Do solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the Kingdom of Free States…”
“Do solemnly swear…”
Talbot swore him in and then held out his hand. “Inspection, arms.”
Herzer reached across his body and drew his hated training sword, holding it up and out, pommel first. Talbot took it and handed it to Gunny Rutherford who handed back a freshly forged sword. Talbot took it and held it up.
“May it never be drawn, but that it draw blood. Hold out your left arm, turned up.”
Herzer did and Talbot drew the sword across his inner arm, drawing a line of blood.
“Blood to our blood…” he said, and paused.
“Steel to our steel,” Herzer intoned.
Talbot handed him the sword and took a set of tongs the armorer held out. At the end of them was a metal symbol. “Hold out your arm.”
Herzer did so and Talbot pressed it into the still bleeding wound.
Herzer gritted his teeth against the pain and thought for just a moment that he’d pass out. But he took a deep breath and refused to flinch away from the brand.
“In blood we are born…” Talbot said.
“In blood we live…” Gunny continued.
“And in blood we shall die,” Herzer gasped as the brand was released. Talbot took a handful of ash and pressed it against the burn, then nodded at the armorer.
The armorer stepped forward and taking the still hot symbol, affixed it to the left breast of Herzer’s armor.