by Marcus Lee
Taran hadn’t found the arguments that persuasive. There seemed to be lots of ways to end up dead, and he’d no wish to be involved in any killing either. Still, he’d nodded his sincere thanks to Rakan, pretended to be grateful for his corporal’s rank, and promised he would make him proud.
He’d felt sorry for lying, as he intended to escape this predicament as soon as possible, but it dawned on him that with the scars on his face there’d be no hiding the fact he was in the army. No one left at his age once conscripted unless from loss of limb, so he’d be identified as a deserter, and his life would end very quickly.
So thanks to his immediate promotion, he would be stuck where he least wanted to be, amongst these degenerates, murderers and general bullying scum who made up the Witch-King’s army. What else could he do unless he lived the rest of his life on his own in the depths of a forest somewhere, or managed to escape across the border to either the Eyre or the Freestates?
His thoughts were interrupted as Rakan stomped through the barracks, talking to each of the men briefly before making his way to Taran.
‘In three days we go to the garrison town of Pilla, and there we will do the formalities. I’ll pull in a few favours and keep you posted with the lads and me. You’ll fit right in.’ advised Rakan.
Taran didn’t feel exactly complimented by that statement, but he had to make the best of this terrible situation.
‘Over the next few days,’ continued Rakan, ‘unless new orders come in, we are going to be training and training hard. You and these lads need to get your weapon skills honed. War is coming, and we need to be ready.’
Rakan’s eyes looked misty, ‘I can’t wait,’ he said, ‘I just can’t wait. The slaughter, the blood, the pleas for mercy, it makes you feel so alive!’
Taran was reminded then of just how twisted Rakan was, and smiled in pretend appreciation. ‘Just show me how it’s done,’ he said, ‘and I’ll follow you into the nine hells.’
-----
The next day Taran rose at dawn to a horrible breakfast of foul porridge and bread. Still, he thought, as he wolfed it down, it was plentiful, and he didn’t have to pay for it, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all.
The small settlement barracks had a training yard behind it, straw dummies for bow, spear and throwing knife practice, and an open area for duelling with the extra heavy wooden practice swords and shields that weighed so much more than the real blades.
‘Get used to swinging something this heavy,’ Rakan had said, ‘and when it comes to fighting with the real thing, it’ll feel far lighter in your hand!’ Taran couldn’t disagree with that logic.
As the soldiers walked out into the cold morning air, Taran wished he could be somewhere else, but perhaps this would be better than going from settlement to settlement, fighting for coins before being moved on.
The sun moved slowly across the sky as they went to work on their archery skills. Taran had never used a bow before. How difficult could it be? But he soon found out. The other soldiers had all practised at length before, and whereas they could hit the target dummies all of the time, Taran missed frequently.
They were merciless in their derision, and Rakan came over to Taran. ‘You are making yourself and me look bad,’ he said. ‘I made you a corporal, and if they don’t respect you, they won’t follow your command.’
Taran redoubled his efforts, but whilst he improved a little; still, he mostly failed and felt miserable for it. Men who had only a couple of nights before looked favourably on him soon started to mutter under their breaths, all in the short space of the morning. Why had he been given a corporal’s rank while for the most they were still privates, and he so inept?
When they stopped for lunch, and he took his platter of grey food to the tables, the other men moved slightly away from him in a visible display of contempt. The break was short, and Taran groaned at the thought of more bow practice, but to his relief, Rakan was giving out heavy wooden practice swords.
Rakan said nothing until Taran came at the last. ‘Don’t make me cut those corporal’s marks off your face,’ he said, ‘otherwise you won’t have a face left!’
Taran laughed, but when Rakan didn’t respond, he realised it had been no joke.
As the men moved into the yard, they spread out and pulled off their shirts in the weak sunlight to limber up, swinging the heavy blunted wooden weapons back and forth in practised swings. He noticed they’d all taken the oath already, because all of them wore the dark amulet of the king around their necks, hanging heavy against their chests.
Taran thought it best to emulate and pulled off his loose upper clothing and saw some of the men turn to watch, ready to find something further to laugh at. He’d always hidden his frame under baggy clothes, walked slightly stooped so that people would underestimate him on the justice turf, but now he saw in their eyes the first signs of grudging respect.
All those years spent in the blacksmith as his father’s apprentice had left their mark. The thousands of time he’d lifted the incredibly heavy hammer, again and again, worked the bellows throughout the day and felled trees had made Taran’s upper body as strong and solid as it could be. His chest was deep, his arms long and powerfully muscled and his shoulders broad.
Rakan walked past. ‘Short warmup,’ he shouted, then slapped Taran hard on the stomach. ‘Need to lose a little bit down there,’ he said.
Taran grimaced at the stinging blow as well as the truth of the comment. He did like his ale rather too much.
Swords were not unfamiliar to Taran, as both he and his father had made them more than any scythe, hoe, pot or pan, as the growing army needed to be armed. So Taran at an early age had forged them, tried them on the hard wooden post outside the smithy, to ensure the blades were true, so he and his father’s life wouldn’t be forfeit for providing a poorly made weapon.
He’d also watched the soldiers train, and emulated them whenever he tested the blades, so whilst his moves were clumsy in comparison; still, he knew some basics. This wooden sword however heavy, was nowhere near the weight of the smith's hammer that he’d swung day after day and it felt light in his hand.
‘Right. Time to work. Pair up!’ shouted Rakan.
Taran found himself opposite Lexis, a tall and lithe soldier who had been making the majority of the biting comments that very morning.
Lexis smiled cruelly. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he sneered. ‘You seem likely to have as much idea about swordplay as you do about bow craft.’
‘Three turns of the glass sparring!’ shouted Rakan, and Taran turned his attention back to Lexis.
‘I’m going to have those corporal’s scars,’ Lexis said, ‘and you … you will have no face left.’ He laughed at his own joke having overheard Rakan’s comment to Taran earlier.
Taran knew Lexis would be the better swordsman, and it was obviously his intent to showcase his skill at Taran’s expense. This was the first time he’d faced something other than a wooden post with a sword in his hand, but he also had his gift, and that would give him the advantage.
‘I can smell your fear!’ said Lexis, lunging forward in the same moment, arm extended, sword tip flashing for Taran’s bare chest.
Even though these wooden swords were blunt, a blow like that would likely crack ribs. This wasn’t a sparring blow; this was meant to hurt, to put him down, firmly in his place, and likely in the hands of the settlement’s disgusting excuse for a healer.
However, Taran had used his gift to read the move and stepped past the thrust. He closed the distance before Lexis could recover, firmed his grip on the hilt of his sword and punched Lexis full on the nose with the crossguard.
Lexis hit the ground hard, his eyes glazed. Blood splashed down his face as he looked up in incomprehension at Taran, standing casually over him.
‘I’m not sure you can smell my fear now,’ said Taran, with a mocking grin. ‘In fact, I think you might find it hard to smell anything for a while with that broken nose of yours.’
<
br /> Quietness descended on the courtyard, as the rest of the soldiers stopped sparring and stared at Lexis as he lay moaning on the ground.
‘I ordered sparring, not a bloody execution. Now get back to work!’ commanded Rakan furiously, and as he said this, he pulled off his shirt. ‘Lexis,’ he shouted, ‘get yourself to the healers, and the rest of you it seems like you are now short a practice partner, so I’ll be joining in today.’
Mutters of dismay answered this announcement, and as Taran sparred against other opponents, he wondered what would happen when he faced Rakan, for he didn’t seem to be at all happy with what had happened to Lexis.
The next bouts would have been fun if he hadn’t worried about what Rakan had in mind. He wanted to read him, but there was so much going on, and he had to focus on his direct opponent, so never had a chance.
One after another, he faced his more experienced squadmates and each time he used his gift without conscious thought to block and sidestep, to parry and trip.
Unexpectedly, Rakan called a halt, and Taran with relief thought that would be that, but instead, Rakan asked for the men to form a circle and called Taran forward.
Gone were the mocking looks, the sarcastic comments, the envy in their eyes. As Taran stepped forward, they clapped him on the back to encourage him. In turn, he’d defeated each of them, but now he was going to be schooled by Rakan, and they were all behind him as one of them, even if he was going to lose.
Taran for the first time that day felt some warmth for the other soldiers, well, maybe not Lexis, but he felt a strange sense of belonging.
As Rakan stepped forward, Taran reached out with his gift and straight away could tell Rakan was there to give him a lesson, and a hard one.
Taran had a choice, to let it happen, or to give a lesson himself. He smiled, time to give Rakan a lesson. Not a harsh one, not even make him look bad in front of the others, just tire the older man out.
He looked at Rakan properly for the first time, meeting his steely gaze and confidently met it with his own. Rakan’s body was strongly muscled but also hideous, a quilt of scars covered his skin, and where there weren’t scars, there were sores from skin rot. Taran was just glad this wasn’t wrestling, or he would have surrendered straight away before getting into any sort of clinch.
There was no talk. Rakan, his face serious and frightening to behold, raised his wooden sword in salute, and Taran did the same, the soldiers chanting in the background as they faced off.
Rakan attacked with an overhand slash, but Taran was already raising his shield to deflect while stepping forward in an attempt to land a blow of his own. Back and forth they exchanged cut and thrust, slash and parry.
After several exchanges with neither gaining an advantage, Rakan stepped back a little, his eyes wide open in surprise. ‘You are very talented,’ he said, ‘but it’s time to finish this now.’
Taran smiled to himself, time to finish it indeed, then Rakan swapped his sword from left to right hand, settled his shield back on to the left. Taran raised his eyebrow in a question.
‘I’m better with my right hand,’ Rakan answered with a grin.
Several moments later, Taran opened his eyes to find himself looking up at the grey sky with a ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. ‘What happened?’ he asked groggily.
Rakan leant over him, pulling him to his feet. ‘I’m always picking your damn lifeless body up off the ground, that’s what happened. Stop fainting all the time!’ The men laughed, and Taran couldn’t help but laugh with them as they filed back into the barracks for a break.
As Taran went inside to help himself to some food, some other soldiers sat at a table, made room and beckoned him over. Before he could oblige, Rakan pulled him briefly to one side. Here comes the lecture, thought Taran.
Instead, Rakan gave a rare genuine smile. ‘I’m impressed with you, lad. After this morning’s debacle with the bow, I thought I’d made a big, big mistake giving you a corporal’s rank. But, the way you put Lexis down so damn hard, so quickly, and then took it a little easier on the others just earned you their respect. Well done.
‘As for your sword fighting skills; your footwork is good, your defence is impressive, but your attack is awful, and your technique is raw. Saying all of that, your reflexes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think you’d last a few heartbeats against me, and instead, you made me use my best hand!’
Taran grimaced at this. He hadn’t lost a fight before, but then again he’d never fought with swords before either. He didn’t like losing.
Rakan laughed at the look on his face. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘I’ll be working closely with you. You’ve got real talent, lad, and it won’t be long before you’re able to use a sword properly, as opposed to swinging it like a smith’s hammer. Now, go sit with the boys, you earned a short break.
‘Three turns of the glass, and it’s spear practice!’ Rakan yelled as Taran walked away, and everyone groaned.
-----
Antoc felt exhausted. He could barely hold on to the horse’s reins, even stay awake, but he knew he had to. Fortunately, the horse knew the way to the garrison, and devoid of any meaningful instruction, it followed its training, to return home, where food and water awaited it.
That damned creature; breaking his face, killing his men and then drinking his blood. He felt physically sick at the memory of the hideous sound Kalas had made while drinking from his wound.
‘Just wait,’ he muttered under his breath, trying to rouse himself to anger. ‘Just wait, you filthy creature. Once I warn the garrison, they’ll hunt you down whatever you are.’ He just hoped there was no need to be there when it happened, for he couldn’t shake the bone-deep fear which he still shook from.
Finally, the walls of the garrison fort came into sight. Antoc dug his heels into the flanks of the mare, and she obediently broke into a trot, almost dislodging him from the saddle, but he held on. As the horse approached the gates, they opened, and a group of soldiers waited inside.
He wanted to cry with relief but bit his lip hard to stop himself. He’d made it, but now he had to keep a brave face. The army didn’t take kindly to cowards; they had a way of finding themselves a target for archery practice.
As the gates closed behind him, Razad, one of the other sergeants stepped forward. Antoc smiled in relief, he wasn’t a friend, but as a fellow sergeant, he would surely help. ‘Razad,’ he said, his voice sounding weak and strange, ‘help me, will you?’
Razad his eyes cold, sneered up at him. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked, ‘and why are you in uniform and riding one of our horses?’
Hands pulled him roughly from the saddle, and he couldn’t help but cry out in pain at the treatment. ‘Watch how you handle me,’ he said, to one of the privates who pushed him to the ground. ‘I’ll have your bloody guts for this!’ Yet his voice was weak and lacked the bite of command it usually had. The group of soldiers laughed.
Razad stepped forward and planted his boot in the small of Antoc’s back and pushed him face down into a muddy puddle. Everyone laughed even louder.
‘Razad. It’s me, Antoc!’ he implored, scared now, water dripping from his face. ‘Why are you doing this? They’re dead, all dead, every one of them, only I survived. I need to report to Captain Hess, and the overseer needs to be there too.’
Antoc pushed himself to his knees and the muddy water of the puddle slowly stilled beneath him.
‘There’s something strange going on here,’ he heard Razad say to one of the men. ‘Fetch the captain, and while you’re at it, the overseer too. We’ve got nine men overdue, and if this wretch knows anything, we’re going to find out exactly what it is.’
‘Wretch?’ thought Antoc. ‘What’s wrong with everyone?’ He leaned forward to look into the puddle and saw his reflection for the first time and understood now why they didn’t recognise him. He understood why his vision was so blurred, his voice so weak.
He started to cry th
en, wracking sobs that shook his body, and as his tears fell they shattered his reflection in the puddle into a thousand more, all mocking him as they rippled away. All mocking this old man on his knees, who was older than anyone had the right to be and still be alive.
-----
Kalas watched the gates close behind Antoc, who rode unsteadily into the garrison town and then settled himself down, his back against an old tree. His fingers idly picked at the soft bark. It was full of beetle holes and smelled of rot.
It had been hard to concentrate as he followed Antoc, him on foot and Antoc astride a horse.
The daemon had frequently broken into his thoughts, awakened from fifty years of dormancy in his subconscious, where it had retreated to, first when his death approached, but then to escape his madness. It had slept in the depths, barely a whisper in his dreams.
Now, however, the blood from Meech’s broken skin, the essence of life that it held, had awoken the daemon, rested and ravenously hungry from its hibernation and it was relentless in its assault.
As he’d followed Antoc, he’d seen people working the fields in the distance, and the urge to go over and open their throats, to kill, to drink their life, had been hard to resist. One moment he would be thinking of whether Antoc would even make it and the next instant he would find his sword in hand, his footsteps taking him to end lives.
He needed the daemon, needed the youth it could give him, the strength, the speed, the ability to fight on with wounds that would incapacitate a normal man. How else would he be able to have a chance of killing the Witch-King? He sighed then, for he knew in his heart, there was little if no chance. Even when there were nigh on nine hundred of his brothers by his side, they couldn’t do it, and now there was just him left.