Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles)

by May, K. C.

  “Almost. Give me one second.” Boden untied his bedroll, unrolled it onto the cot, and set his knapsack at its head. He followed Rasmus out.

  “Oh, good. Fresh meat,” one of the older soldiers said with a grin as he walked past. His arm was in a sling, and he had a bandage around his thigh. “Better gird yourselves, boys. Our enemies will make men out of you.”

  Boden squared his shoulders, unrattled. Though he lacked actual battle experience, he’d had superior training. Gunnar had failed as a father, but he’d excelled as a drill master.

  They met the other recruits near the cook pots, where a slightly stocky fellow ladled stew into wooden bowls for them. They each received wooden spoons and they took their meals to some nearby benches to eat.

  Boden watched the goings on while he ate, as did Rasmus and a couple of the others. Though he felt sympathy for the wounded, he shrugged off the injuries as a natural, expected consequence of war. Men were fighting with real weapons, not wooden training swords, and someone was bound to be hurt or killed. In fact, that was ultimately the point of battle. The sooner they killed the enemy, the sooner their leaders would run out of troops and end their aggression. After all, the fighting was on Serocian soil. The Serocians were simply defending themselves.

  And the Tree.

  After they finished eating, Pharson took them back to the command building. Three benches had been set up, and upon entering and saluting their new leader, they were instructed to take a seat. Boden and Rasmus sat on the front bench and watched the commander shuffle the papers on his desk.

  “Welcome men,” the commander said. He began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. “You’re men now, men who’ve spent eight years training under a drill master for the life ahead of you. It’s a hard life full of sacrifice and hardship, but you’ll develop friendships that will get you through the darkest of times. You’ll see things, hear things, things that you’ll wish you hadn’t, things that will haunt your dreams for the rest of your lives. The man beside you might not live through the day.”

  Boden and Rasmus glanced at each other with concern.

  “You might not live through the day. Like everything else—your arms, your legs, your eyesight and hearing—your life may well be one of those sacrifices we all offer in defense of our country and in defense of the Tree we hold so dear.

  “Let’s be clear about one thing,” Turounce said, raising one finger. “The Tree of the Fallen God is on our land, and the fruit it bears belongs to us. Our enemies want to destroy it. But like the land we stand upon, the Tree belongs to the people of Serocia. It’s a symbol of Retar’s sacrifice to not only the people of Serocia but to the people of Aerta. We protect it not only for our own benefit but for the benefit of those who would destroy it.

  “You’ll hear things about the Tree and the fruit it bears. Frightful things. Amazing things. The only thing you must remember about the godfruit is to eat it every morning. It will save your life. It will give you another chance to return home to your wife and child.”

  Boden swallowed, reminded again of his father’s warning. Surely Gunnar wanted him to return home. He thought back to the scene in Kaild, of Gunnar embracing him with the fierceness of love. His eyes had reddened with unshed tears. His face had been taut, his whisper both pleading and insistent. Boden studied the commander’s face, trying to reconcile his command with Gunnar’s caution.

  “Let me say that again,” Turounce said. “Eat the godfruit every morning. Not in the afternoon, not in the evening. Morning. Its effect lasts from dawn to dawn only, not from dusk to dusk or noon to noon.” Turounce looked around the room. “I see doubt in some of your eyes. Perhaps you’ve heard stories that it gives men nightmares horrible beyond imagining. I won’t lie to you. Those stories are true. But eating the godfruit before battle will ensure you survive a mortal wound. You will live to fight another day, and trust me when I say that you will be a better fighter for it.”

  A couple of the men behind Boden let out a breath as if relieved. Boden felt the opposite of relief. What was Turounce not telling them? What was the sickness of the soul Gunnar had mentioned?

  “I gather a few of you don’t believe a mere fruit could have such power,” the commander said. “Let me remind you of the source of this fruit. Whether you’re an Iskori or not, whether you believe Retar is a true god or not, the Tree’s existence cannot be disputed. I’m not here to challenge your beliefs. I’m here to lead you into battle, a battle we can win with superior training, skills, intellect, attitude, and the advantage the godfruit gives us over our enemies. We can win every battle we enter, men. You can survive the next ten years with the help of the men fighting beside you and the miracle of the godfruit. Stick together, look out for one another, fight your hardest, and don’t let the enemy tempt you into rashness or anger. Nobody here is a hero. Did you hear me? Not one of you. You’re part of a unit of men who look after each other, brothers on the battlefield. Help your brothers get home, and they’ll help you.” He paused and looked at each of them in turn, his brown eyes calm and confident. “Questions?” He looked past Boden and lifted his chin.

  “Sir, what about the curse?”

  “The godfruit isn’t a curse,” Turounce said. “It’s a vehicle for survival, fueled by the blood of the fallen god Hibsar. When Retar defeated him on the Isle of Shess, his blood soaked the earth and turned it red, and from that red earth grew the Tree we know today. The godfruit is a gift to Serocia. It’s a gift to every one of you and to your loved ones at home who want desperately to see you again.”

  “If we keep eating the godfruit, why do our men still die?” asked the same man. Boden didn’t know who it was, and he wasn’t familiar enough with their voices yet to guess, but it was a fair question.

  “The godfruit erases one death,” the commander said, his voice soft. “A man cannot survive an infinite number of deaths simply by eating more fruit. The next time a sword goes through his heart, he will die.” He looked at each of their faces, his eyes sad. “This is why, men, you cannot rely solely on the fruit to survive the next ten years. You want to return to your wives, to meet your first-born child and to father more children. No one understands this more than I do. The way to ensure you do that is through awareness, hard work, brotherhood, and a still mind. The godfruit is insurance. After you survive your first death, you will become a better fighter. More aware, more driven, more careful.”

  Boden stared at the commander, once again questioning Gunnar’s plea not to eat the fruit. There was no doubt Turounce believed what he was saying, but Boden had no reason to doubt Gunnar’s certainty, either. Had Gunnar eaten it? He had a terrible scar on his chest and walked with a limp. Was the fruit responsible for his return? Would Boden ever have met his father without the godfruit?

  If only he could ask those questions now. “Where do we get it?” he asked.

  Turounce looked down at him, his expression pleased. “Crates of it are delivered every other day and stacked in the mess hall where you get your pottage. Take one with the morning meal.”

  When no more questions about the godfruit were asked, the march commander spent the next half hour dehumanizing the people of Mangend, Arynd-ban, and Barad Selegal, drilling into the heads of his new soldiers their enemies’ lack of morality, refinement, intellect, and self-control. They were little more than animals, Turounce said, animals that didn’t have the mental capacity to understand the significance of the Tree and the glory of Retar to have gifted it to them.

  Boden listened, though he couldn’t take to heart the argument that people on the other side of an arbitrary line in the dirt were any different from his own people. Perhaps they had different customs and clothing, but how could they be so severely lacking in the attributes that made them human simply by virtue of where they were born? Were their own commanders telling them the same things about Serocian fighters? Perhaps the only way a man could justify killing another man was to first stop thinking of him as a man.

  Aft
er the lecture, as the recruits were standing to leave, Turounce turned his attention to Boden. “Are you Sayeg?”

  Boden snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay behind a minute. I need to caution you about something.”

  Boden swallowed, unsure what he could have done so soon that would warrant a reprimand. Rasmus pulled his mouth taut, the corners curving downward in an expression that conveyed exactly what Boden was thinking.

  Once the recruits had filed out and Boden was alone with the march commander, Turounce gestured to the bench. “Have a seat. I understand you’re from Kaild.”

  Boden sat as instructed. “I am, sir.”

  “Then you must be related to Gunnar Sayeg.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

  Turounce nodded, a small smile playing on his mouth. “Good. I knew him when I was a sergeant. He wasn’t in my platoon, but he was in my unit. I’m sure he’s told you of his early life in the Legion.”

  “No, sir. He rarely mentioned his own service, only to provide examples of why or how a particular method or strategy works.”

  The commander looked at him with arched brows. “He’s a good man. We all liked him, but he was a terrible fighter. He survived by the grace of the sharp eyes and blade skill of everyone around him. We watched his back, kept him alive. He trained when everyone else was relaxing or whoring and learned to be a warrior on the battlefield. Gunnar became one of the most dedicated soldiers I’ve ever known, then and now. You’re fortunate he reenlisted.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  “Within the Legion, the men from Kaild have a reputation of being fairly worthless as fighters. The old drill master there had done little more than provide the Legion with fodder to throw at the enemy so the real warriors could kill without taking as much damage. To become a drill master, a man must first achieve the rank of sergeant. The only way Gunnar could ensure you and the other boys of Kaild had the training you needed to survive your first year of battle, let alone the nine years after that, was to become the drill master himself. It’s not easy to rise in the ranks of the Legion that quickly, but he was a driven man. Without his sacrifices, you’d probably be fodder too, like the Kailders before you.”

  Boden could barely believe what he was hearing. This was what Gunnar had meant when he’d talked of sacrifice. He’d reenlisted to save Boden’s life.

  Guilt settled upon his shoulders and thickened his chest, guilt over his anger and the disdain with which he’d treated his father the last three years, assuming it was indifference that had driven him away from Kaild the second time, rather than love.

  “You’ll hear things,” Turounce said. “The other men will assume you’re as worthless as your predecessors. They’ll ridicule and goad you. I’m not going to tell you how to handle those situations, but I will caution you not to take it too far. These are men who’ll be watching your back on the battlefield. Remember that before you throw your first punch.”

  Chapter 7

  His thoughts heavy with guilt, Boden returned to the F tent, now occupied by his new tentmates. They acknowledged him with a nod or glance while they continued their conversation, which was currently a gripe about the campers and cooks and their lack of regard for order.

  “I’m hungry for a big steak,” said the eldest of the group. He had a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken in a fight. “Hope the supply wagons get here on time.”

  “Leave it to Hadar to turn the conversation back to food,” said another, a short man with dark skin and eyebrows. He turned to Boden and introduced himself as Rojyr.

  “How long have you been in the Legion?” Boden asked.

  “Three years,” Rojyr said. “Not Relived yet.”

  “What’s Relived?”

  “That’s what you become after you’ve eaten the godfruit and died,” said another, a lanky man with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Are any of you Relived?”

  All of them shook their heads.

  “How long since you’ve seen battle?” Boden asked.

  “Two weeks,” replied Hadar. “We lost ten men in that fight. Damned Kaild fodder nearly got the rest of us killed.”

  Boden felt his face redden at the mention of his town. So what the commander had said about the boys of Kaild being inadequately prepared was true. Gunnar had only been drill master for three years. Any soldier older than twenty-one wouldn’t have received the benefit of his superior training.

  The fourth man asked, “What’s Kaild?”

  Hadar snorted. “Some little shit village of grass huts, where they wear loincloths and hunt with sharpened spears.”

  The other men laughed and threw out other insults, each one painting the residents of Kaild as ignorant, fearful monkeys who ate their own feces.

  “I heard one of the new cusses is from Kaild,” Hadar said.

  “I’ll challenge any of you to a match,” Boden said, his voice quiet but serious.

  The four stilled their tongues. Hadar sauntered over to Boden. “You’re from Kaild, then?”

  Boden squared his shoulders and looked the man, shorter by at least four inches, directly in the eye. Hadar might be older and more experienced in battle, but there was only one way to quell the stream of insults and answer the question they were probably all asking: would the new Kaild recruit be a hindrance or a help in the heat of battle? “I am. And my father, Gunnar Sayeg, is the drill master there. If you question my prowess as a fighter, you question his as an instructor as well.”

  “Gunnar Sayeg’s your pa?” the lanky one asked, his voice reverent. He approached Boden and Hadar.

  “He is,” Boden said, feeling a twinge of pride he hadn’t felt since he was nine years old, seeing his father ride into town for the first time in Boden’s young life.

  The lanky man held out his hand. “I’m Voster.”

  He shook it. “Boden.”

  “That’s Hadar and Eron,” he said, pointing at each man in turn. “And you met Rojyr already. My brother was in Gunnar’s platoon, said your papa’s a hero.”

  “Nobody’s a hero, Voster,” Hadar said with a snort. He went back to his bed without answering Boden’s challenge. “Don’t you remember Turounce’s welcome speech?”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that,” Voster said, returning to his own bed. “I didn’t hear you accept Boden’s challenge. You should. The rest of us would like to see Gunnar Sayeg’s son stomp your big mouth into the dirt.”

  The other men laughed, and good-spirited banter continued, though this time it was directed at each other rather than at Boden.

  He went back to unrolling his bedroll, a dim smile on his face.

  The next morning, Boden and Rasmus sat together to break their fast, joined by Joh, one of Rasmus’s tentmates. The meal consisted of eggs, fish, cut fruit, and sausage, all piled into a single bowl. Though it was a hearty meal, it was fairly bland. Boden wished for a shaker of pepper at least, but he supposed spices were a luxury he could learn to live without.

  Another soldier, one he hadn’t seen before, set his bowl and piece of godfruit on the table beside Joh and sat down. “Korlan,” he said, offering his hand. Rasmus and Boden both shook it and introduced themselves, and Joh greeted him as a friend. “Welcome to the forty-fourth. Whose squad are you in?”

  “Algot’s,” Rasmus said.

  “Pharson’s,” Boden said. “You?”

  “Hodsnick’s,” Joh said.

  “I’m in Pharson’s too,” Korlan said. “You’ll like him. He’s a bit brash, but he’ll give it to you straight. Good fighter, too.” He pointed with his spoon at the bowl in front of Rasmus, beside which was no godfruit. “Didn’t Turounce give you the speech about the godfruit yet?”

  Rasmus snorted. “I don’t believe any of it. A fruit that can erase a death? It’s just a bunch of superstitious nonsense.”

  Boden raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think a tree that grows in earth soaked with the blood of a god could be...” He search
ed for the word he wanted.

  “Magical?” Rasmus asked. “No. Maybe the earth there is redder than in other areas. That doesn’t mean the fruit’s magical.”

  “How do you explain all the soldiers who’ve died and lived to tell about it?” Joh asked.

  “The earth beneath the Tree is blood-red, not merely tinged with red or orange,” Korlan said.

  “They didn’t truly die,” Rasmus said with a shrug. “And Retar slew Hibsar over a hundred years ago. I doubt blood stains the earth for that long. I’ve no plans to eat anything I can’t identify. That goes for fruit, too.”

  “No fault in that logic,” Boden said. He still wasn’t convinced either way, but the dilemma bothered him all the same. “My father warned me not to eat it.”

  “What?” Korlan asked, his eyes round.

  “Why?” Joh asked.

  “God’s Challenger! You don’t say,” Rasmus said. “Didn’t he eat it?”

  Boden shrugged. “He didn’t say, but I think he did. He almost never takes off his shirt in public. He has an ugly scar on his chest and a matching one on his back. He also walks with a limp.”

  “He definitely ate it,” Korlan said. “How else would a man survive being run through like that?”

  “Maybe he had good medics,” Rasmus said. “Was he an officer? I’ll bet officers get the best treatment.”

  “Yah,” Boden said. “He served fifteen years, came home a sergeant.”

  Korlan reached across the table and clapped Boden’s shoulder. “You must be proud. Was he your drill master?”

  Pride in his father was a new feeling for him, one that would take some getting used to, once his guilt subsided and the truth behind Gunnar’s reenlistment settled in his mind. “He was. Better than the old fellow he replaced.”

  “Bet he worked your hands bloody with drills, too, didn’t he?” Korlan asked around a mouth full of food.

  Rasmus laughed. “In Tourd, the drill master’s sons were the best fighters among us. I’m sticking with this cuss,” he said, pointing at Boden with his thumb.