Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  He raised what would have been his eyebrows, if he’d had any eyebrows to raise. “Now, Red”—Horkin pointed at the broken beaker—“clean up the mess.”

  13

  WAITING IN LINE WITH THE OTHER NEW RECRUITS IN THE HOT sunshine, Caramon watched his brother depart with considerable anxiety. In situations like this—new and unfamiliar—Caramon felt oppressed and uneasy when separated from his twin. Caramon had become accustomed to looking to his brother for guidance, was uncertain and unsure when Raistlin was not with him. Caramon was also concerned about his weaker twin’s health and even ventured to ask one of the officers if he might go see if his brother was all right.

  “Since all we’re doing is standing in line,” Caramon added, “I thought I could go see if Raistlin—”

  “You want your mommy, too?” asked the soldier.

  “No, sir,” Caramon replied, flushing. “It’s just that Raist’s not very strong—”

  “Not very strong!” the officer repeated, amazed. “What did he think he was joining? The Fine Ladies of Palanthas Embroidery and Hot Muffin Society?”

  “I don’t mean he’s not strong,” Caramon said, attempting to correct his mistake, hoping fervently his twin never came to hear what he’d said. “He’s very strong in magic. …”

  The officer’s expression darkened.

  “I think you should be quiet now,” Scrounger whispered at Caramon’s elbow.

  Caramon considered this excellent advice. He fell silent, and the officer, shaking his head and muttering, walked off.

  When the new recruits had all made their mark or signed the roll sheet, the sergeant ordered Caramon and the other recruits to march into the courtyard of the castle. Shuffling their feet and tripping over one another, they entered the courtyard and lined up in wavering, uneven rows. An officer brought them to what passed for attention, subjected them to a long list of rules and regulations, the infraction of any of which would bring about all sorts of dire occurrences.

  “They say the gods dropped a fiery mountain on top of Krynn,” said the officer, summing up. “Well, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what you’ll get from me if you screw up. And now Baron Langtree would like to say a few words. Three cheers for the baron!”

  The recruits shouted lustily. The Mad Baron took his place before them. He was jaunty, cocky, his tall leather boots, which came up over his thighs, would have swallowed him, but for his large plumed hat. Despite the heat, he wore a thick, padded doublet. His black beard and mustache emphasized his wide grin, his long black hair curled on his shoulders. He bore an immense sword, which seemed always on the verge of tripping him or becoming entangled in his legs, but, miraculously, it never did. Putting his hand on the sword’s massive hilt, the Mad Baron made his customary welcoming speech, which had the advantage of being short and to the point.

  “You’re here to join an elite force of fighting men and women. The best in Krynn. You look like a pretty scabby group to me, but Master Quesnelle here will do his best to try to turn you into soldiers. Do your duty, obey orders, fight bravely. Good luck to you all, and let me know where to send your pay in the event that you don’t survive to collect it! Ha, ha, ha!” The Mad Baron laughed uproariously and, still laughing, walked back to the castle.

  After that, the new recruits were each handed a small loaf of bread, which, though heavy and hard to chew, was surprisingly good, and a hunk of cheese. Devouring his food, Caramon considered it a good beginning and wondered when the rest of the meal was going to be served. He and his stomach were doomed to disappointment. The men were permitted to drink their fill of water, then the sergeant marched the recruits off to the barracks—low buildings made of stone with large rooms, the same buildings through which Raistlin had passed. The recruits were given sleeping rolls and other equipment, including boots. All that they received was marked down against their names, the money for their equipment would be docked from their pay.

  “This is your new home,” the sergeant announced. “It will be your home for the next month. You will keep it clean and tidy at all times.” The sergeant cast a disparaging glance at the well-swept floor and the new straw that covered it. “Right now,” he announced, “it’s worse than a pigsty. You will spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Caramon, raising his hand in the air. He honestly thought the sergeant had made a mistake. Perhaps the man was nearsighted. “But the room is already clean, sir.”

  “You think that floor’s clean, Majere?” the sergeant asked with deceptive solemnity.

  “Yes, sir,” said Caramon.

  The sergeant reached out, grabbed a slop bucket from a corner, and dumped its foul contents onto the stone floor, soaking the straw that covered the floor.

  “Now do you think the floor’s clean, Majere?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, but you—”

  “No, what, Majere?” the sergeant roared.

  “No, sir,” said Caramon.

  “Clean it up, Majere.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Caramon, subdued. The other recruits were now mopping and scrubbing most industriously. “If I could have a mop, sir—”

  “Mop?” The sergeant shook his head. “I wouldn’t soil a good mop with this filth. A good mop’s hard to come by. But you’re different, Majere. You’re expendable. Here’s a rag. Get down on your hands and knees.”

  “But, sir—” Caramon grimaced. The smell was nauseating.

  “Do it, Majere!” the sergeant shouted.

  Trying to hold his breath to avoid the stench, Caramon took the rag and got down on his hands and his knees. He continued to hold his breath until he saw stars, then gulped in the quickest breath he could manage. The next moment he was reaching for the slop bucket, to deposit the contents of his stomach.

  The floor was suddenly deluged with a flood of water, which effectively diluted the horrible smell, washed away much of the filth, and sloshed over the sergeant’s boots.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Scrounger, looking apologetic.

  “Let me wipe those off for you, sir,” said Caramon, solicitously daubing at the toes of the wet boots with his rag.

  The sergeant glared at the two of them, but there was a glint of laugher in his eyes and a hint of approval. Turning, he yelled at the other recruits, who were standing around, staring. “What the hell are you looking at? Get busy, the sorry lot of you! I want to be able to eat my dinner off this floor, and I want it clean before sundown!”

  The recruits jumped to work. The sergeant strode out of the barracks, his face twitching in the grin he had worked hard to suppress. Discipline must be maintained.

  The recruits removed the fresh straw, swept the floor with brooms made of rushes, poured water on the floor, mopped it until the stone was so clean that, as Caramon announced proudly on the sergeant’s return, “You can see your face in it, sir!”

  The sergeant grudgingly pronounced the work satisfactory. “At least until you’re taught to do better,” he added.

  Caramon waited for the sergeant to announce that it was time to eat, either on the floor or off it, Caramon didn’t care which, so long as he was given food and lots of it. The sergeant glanced at the setting sun, then glanced back thoughtfully at the men.

  “Well, now, you’re done early, so I’m going to give you a little reward.”

  Caramon smiled happily, anticipating extra rations.

  “Pick up your bedrolls. Strap them to your back. Pick up your swords and your shields, put on your breastplates and your helmets, and”—he pointed to a hill in the distance—“run to the top.”

  “Why, sir?” Scrounger asked, interested. “What’s up there?”

  “Myself, with a whip,” said the sergeant. Rounding on his heel, he caught hold of Scrounger’s shirt and gave him a shake. “Listen to me, Puke. And this goes for all the rest of you.” He glowered around at them, no hint of laughter in his eyes. “This is the first thing you will learn, and you will learn it now. When I give an orde
r, you obey that order. You don’t question it. We don’t discuss it. We don’t take a vote on it. You do it. Why? I’ll tell you why. And this is the only time I will ever tell you why you are doing something.

  “Because there will come a time when you’re in battle, and the arrows are whistling around your ears, and the enemy is rushing down on you yelling and screaming like demons freed from the Abyss. The trumpets are shrieking, and hot, bloody metal slashes the air, and I’m going to give you an order. And if you take even one second to think about that order or to question that order or decide whether or not you’re going to obey that order, you’ll be dead. And not only will you be dead, but your buddies’ll be dead. And not only will they be dead, but the battle will be lost.

  “Now …” The sergeant let loose of Scrounger, dumped him on the stone floor. “Now, we’ll start over again. Pick up your bedrolls. Strap them to your back. Pick up your swords and your shields, put on your breastplates and your helmets, and run to the top of that hill. You will notice,” he added with a grin, “that I’m wearing my helm and my plate and carrying my sword and shield. Now, get those sorry asses moving!”

  The order was obeyed, though with considerable confusion. None of the recruits had any idea how to fasten their bedrolls around their bodies. They fumbled at knots and, in several instances, watched in dismay as their bedrolls uncoiled out behind them. The sergeant went from man to man, bullying and shouting, but all the time instructing. Eventually, they were all more or less ready, with their helmets perched at odd angles on their heads, their swords clanking against their legs—occasionally tripping those unaccustomed to wearing a weapon—sweating under the heavy breastplates. Scrounger could not see from beneath his helmet, which was too large and fell down over his eyes, and he rattled around in the breastplate like a stick in an empty ale mug. The shield he carried dragged the ground.

  Clad in his armor, his sword at this side, Caramon cast a longing, regretful glance in the direction of the eating hall, where he could hear the clatter of plates and smell the delicious odor of roast pig.

  With a yell, the sergeant started his recruits on their way.

  Night had fallen by the time they returned—at a run—from the hill. Six recruits had decided on the way that a military career was not for them, no matter how much it paid. They handed in their equipment—what they hadn’t dropped on the trail—and limped, exhausted and footsore, back into town. The rest of the recruits staggered into the courtyard, where several collapsed and where several more learned why new recruits were termed “pukes.”

  The sergeant took a head count, discovered that two were missing. He shook his head and started out to see if he could find the bodies.

  “What’s this?” The Mad Baron paused on his way from touring the camp to look at an unusual sight.

  Flaring torches and a huge bonfire lit the compound. Into the light came a very large and muscular young man with curly brownish-red hair and a handsome, open face. This young man carried, slung over his shoulder, a very thin and scrawny young man, who still clung gamely to a sword he had clutched in one hand and a shield, which he held in the other and which knocked the big man in the back of the legs whenever he took a step. The two were the last to make it down the hill.

  Upon reaching the other recruits, who stood at sagging attention, the big man deposited the smaller man gently on the ground. The smaller man staggered, almost fell, but—digging the end of the shield into the ground—he used his shield to prop himself up and managed a triumphant, if exhausted, smile. The big man, who had carried his own shield and sword as well as his comrade, took his place in line. He did not look particularly worn out or winded. He just looked hungry.

  “Who are those two?” the baron asked the sergeant.

  “Two of the new recruits, sir,” said sergeant. “Just back from a run up old Heave-Your-Guts. I saw the whole thing. The boy there collapsed about halfway up the hill. He wouldn’t quit, though. Got to his feet and tried again. Made it a few steps and down he went. Damned if he didn’t stand up and make another go at it. It was then that the big guy grabbed hold of him, slung him over his shoulder, and hauled him up the hill. Hauled him back down, too.”

  The baron peered closely at the pair. “There’s something odd about that boy. Does he look like a kender to you?”

  “The good Kiri-Jolith protect us! I hope not, sir!” the sergeant said fervently.

  “No, he looks more human,” said the baron on reflection. “He’ll never make a soldier. He’s too little.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I muster him out, sir?”

  “I suppose you better. Still,” the baron added, “I like his pluck. And that big man. I like his loyalty. Let the skinny fellow stay. We’ll see how he does in training. He may surprise us all.”

  “He may, at that, sir,” said the sergeant, but he did not look convinced. The baron’s comment about kender had shaken the officer badly. He made a mental note to count the metal plates and the wooden spoons, and if there was one missing, by the gods, the skinny fellow was gone, pluck or no pluck.

  The recruits were sent to their dinners. They staggered into the mess hall, where several fell asleep over the meal, too tired to eat. Not liking to see food go to waste, Caramon took it upon himself to eat their dinners for them. But even Caramon had to admit that the stone floor felt as good to him as the softest feather bed when he was finally permitted to lie down to sleep.

  He had closed his eyes for only a moment, or so it seemed, when he woke to a trumpet blast that brought him sitting bolt upright on the straw-covered floor, his heart thudding. His fuddled brain had no idea where he was or what was happening or why it should be happening to him at this ungodly hour. The barracks was pitch dark. Outside the windows—slits cut into the stone walls—he could still see the stars, though there might have been the faintest hint of dawn in the paling night sky.

  “Huh? What? What?” Caramon mumbled and lay back down.

  Flaring torches lit the barracks room. The torches glowed ruddily on the faces of those carrying them, faces that were grinning and jovial.

  “Reveille! Up and at ’em, you lazy rotters!”

  “No! It’s still night!” Caramon groaned and piled straw over his head.

  A booted toe slammed into Caramon’s midriff. He woke wide awake this time, woke with a grunt and whoof.

  “On your feet, you sons of gully dwarves!” the sergeant roared in his ear. “You’re going to start earning that five steel!”

  Caramon sighed deeply. He no longer considered the amount he was being paid generous.

  The stars had disappeared by the time the recruits had dressed themselves in worn blue-and-gray tabards, gulped a hasty and highly inadequate breakfast, and marched to the training grounds—a large field located about a mile from the castle. Seemingly as sleepy as the men, the sun peeped above the horizon for a few moments, then, as if tired out by the effort, crawled under a blanket of heavy gray clouds and went back to sleep. A soft, soaking spring rain pattered down on the metal helmets of the sixty men, who had been bullied and cajoled into forming three ranks of twenty men each.

  The sergeant and his staff handed out equipment—a practice shield and wooden sword.

  “What’s this, sir?” Caramon asked, eyeing the wooden sword with disdain. Lowering his voice, he said in confidential tones, so that the other recruits wouldn’t feel bad, “I know how to use a real sword, sir.”

  “You do, do you?” the soldier said, grinning. “We’ll see.”

  “No talking in the ranks!” snapped out the sergeant.

  Caramon sighed. Hefting the wooden sword, he was astonished to find that it weighed twice as much as a good steel blade. The shield, also weighted, was extremely heavy. Scrounger could barely lift the shield off the ground. A second soldier passed among the ranks, handing out battered arm bracers. Caramon’s arm bracer would not fit over his large forearm. Scrounger’s slid off and fell into the mud.

  Once every man was more or less accout
ered, the sergeant saluted an older man who was standing on the sidelines.

  “They’re all yours, Master Quesnelle, sir,” said the sergeant in the same dour and hopeless tones he might have used to announce that plague rats had sneaked into the castle.

  Master Quesnelle grunted. Walking slowly and deliberately through the rain, the master-at-arms took his place in front of the troops.

  He was sixty years old. His beard and hair, flowing beneath his helm, were iron-gray. His face was scarred from sword and knife wounds, deeply tanned from years of campaigning. He, too, was missing an eye—a patch covered the empty socket. The other eye was deep-set and glittered beneath the shadow of his helm. The eye seemed to shine more brightly than a normal eye, as if it sparked for two. The master held in his hand the same wooden sword and the same practice shield as the men. He had a voice that could carry over the din of battle, could probably be heard over a kender reunion at a midsummer’s fair.

  Master Quesnelle studied the recruits, and his face grew grim.

  “I’m told that some of you think you know how to use a sword.” His single eye roved among them, and those it touched found it convenient to stare at their boots. Master Quesnelle sneered. “Yeah. You’re all real tough bastards—every one of you. You remember one thing, and one thing only. You know nothing! You know nothing, and you know nothing until I tell you that you know something.”

  No one moved, no one spoke. The ranks, which had started relatively straight, now straggled all over the field. The men stood glumly, the heavy wooden swords in their sword hands, shields in the other, the rain dripping off the nose guards of their helms.

  “I was introduced as Master Quesnelle. I am Master Quesnelle only to my friends and my comrades. You slugs will call me by my first name, which is Sir! Got that?”

  Half the men in line, feeling the stinging eye upon them, said “Yes, sir” in despondent tones. The rest, not knowing that they were meant to answer, hastily threw in “Yes, sir” at the last moment, while one unfortunate made the mistake of saying, “Yes, Master Quesnelle.”