Chapter 13
The day began much the same as any other—with a rude interruption. The mattress was rustling, and a woman’s hushed voice was saying, “My lord prince,” again and again.
Marcus cracked his eyelids. “Morning already?”
“A hour ‘til dawn, your highness,” the maid’s unresolved shape replied.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, still exhausted—because in truth, he hadn’t slept at all. The past two nights had been the same. He had spent each tossing and turning on his bed, bathed in cold sweat. Even if he had been capable of sleeping, he wouldn’t have. The nightmares were bad enough when he was awake.
Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed while the maid set about lighting the lanterns. He went over to the dressing table, where a clean set of folded clothes were arranged. He recognized the plain blue of the Royal Watch.
“Your highness? Are you alright?”
He frowned, wondering what the woman could possibly be worried about. Then he noticed he was gripping his belly, just below the sternum. Feeling sheepish, he dropped his hand. “I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. He was trying not to think about the gash in that lad’s belly, about twisting his sword and feeling the warm blood gush all over his hand…
“I’m fine,” he repeated, if only for his own reassurance.
The maid nodded and stepped to his side. She unfurled his clothes and helped him dress, one garment at a time. He let her, grateful for the simple task to be concentrating on. First came the white undershirt, then the woolen blue trousers and matching tunic. He tugged on some marching boots—thick-soled, hobnailed—and tucked his pants into them, then clamped thick leather gaiters around his ankles to keep the mud out on the march. Next came a chainmail vest, which he made as tight as the leather side straps would allow before knotting his sword belt over it. The maid handed him a leather cap, but he tucked it into his belt. He wouldn’t need it until it came time to don a helmet.
“You look very handsome, your highness,” the maid commented, standing off at a discreet distance while Marcus inspected himself in the mirror.
He stuffed his hands into his gloves. “Thank you. My sword?”
She came forward with her eyes lowered, holding out a sword in both hands. It was a familiar blade—the same one that had done him so little good on Old Granite just three days ago. He lifted it carefully, eying its laminated blue steel—unmarred by blood and death. He was thankful for that, though he knew it wouldn’t be the case for long.
Face grim, he slid the weapon down into its sheath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the maid take an involuntary half-step back. It stung, but he supposed she had a right to her fear.
“Thank you. You may go.”
Curtsying, the woman made for the door. She hesitated on the threshold. “Good luck, your highness. May the Aspects protect you.” The door shut behind her.
Marcus studied his reflection again. He was glad that was the only farewell he would have to endure today. He didn’t want anyone to see this new look in his eyes. They frightened even him.
He had said his goodbyes yesterday, and precious few at that. His father had been one, though Marcus had gone out of obligation rather than desire. The dinner had been profusely awkward, with just the two of them sitting at a table in Audric’s chambers, eating little and talking less.
“You’ll do fine,” his father had promised. Marcus would have believed him, if he hadn’t pronounced the words like a death sentence. “You’ve always been the best at everything you did.” He had added other assurances, all equally valueless. Toward the end, Roslene joined them. She wished Marcus the best, asked if there was any favor he wished of her, behaved amiably all the while—as if sending Marcus off to war hadn’t been her idea. Sickened by her presence, he had politely excused himself, but not before his father enfolded him in a rough embrace.
“Come back, son.” The king’s voice was husky with tears, but he didn’t shed a one. He held Marcus at arm’s length and looked him up and down, as if savoring the sight of his flesh and blood one last time. He wouldn’t be joining the campaign as he had planned; half a dozen campaigns had taken their toll on his body, and recently, he hadn’t been able to keep a saddle. A king who couldn’t ride had no place on the campaign trail. The Council of Highest had made that plain enough—though Marcus suspected their true motive was far short of altruistic: they wanted to keep the king apart from his son.
For the first time in his entire life, he was grateful to them.
Marcus masked his thoughts with a formal bow. When he rose, the pain in his father’s face was clear—but he let him go.
So had Vernon, with extreme reluctance. His best mate had steadfastly refused to believe he, Marcus, was being punished for acting justly. But it didn’t matter whether Vernon believed or not, just that he knew to do Marcus one last favor: to tell Jacquelyn not to wait for him. Vernon’s confusion had been clear, but Marcus pleaded with him until he relented and agreed to the task. They shared a last jug of wine, a hug, and a handshake—and the farewell was done.
Which left Marcus here, alone in his chambers. He was dressed as a soldier, ready to go to war, and truth be told, he was scared. But anywhere was better than here. He reminded himself of that now. He had to escape—from the waking nightmares, from the court games… from Jacquelyn.
An envelope lay on the dressing table, her name etched tidily on its face. It was empty. Instead, a sheet of parchment sat beside it—blank except for a great ink blot where he had rested his quill, debating what to write. It was a strange question that faced him: How do tell someone not to love you anymore, and mean it?
The answer had eventually come on its own: You don’t.
Mournfully, he had set the quill down, pushed the unwritten letter aside, and laid down for a third sleepless night. He would let Jacquelyn’s love for him die on its own, and she would be happier for it. That knowledge, at least, was some miniscule comfort.
But it was a new, terrible day now, and with it came a momentous realization: he was really leaving. He had said his goodbyes—to his mother whom he had loved, to his father whom he barely loved at all, to his best friend Vernon… and looking down at this last goodbye that he would never say, the one that mattered most, it occurred to Marcus that he had never felt so sad and forlorn in all his life.
Tears threatened. He rubbed his eyes, both of them welling. It’s your fault, he reminded himself. That thought made him angry enough that he didn’t cry. Which was fortunate. He had a long day ahead of him, and bawling was a poor way to start.
Clearing his throat, Marcus left his bedroom. He found a shield resting against the wall beside the chamber door. Its face was royal blue, with the fist of Ancel painted in yellow on the center. Marcus hefted the shield’s bulk, testing the straps as the Novitiate had taught him. Satisfied, he slung it across his back.
He turned around for a final look at his chambers. There were fond memories here—his mother, smiling as she taught his young self to read; Kaelyn, sneaking in as a girl to share his bed each night, seeking shelter from bad dreams; Vernon, all the debauchery the two of them had enjoyed on those couches, whether drinking or jesting or entertaining girls; and Jacquelyn.
But he didn’t have them anymore. He remembered that, and abruptly the recollections turned sour.
Marcus worked the door latch and with one last, regretful look back, he left.
It was so early that even the servants hadn’t woken up yet. The hall was cold, empty except for the scores of watchful statues. The flickering torchlight cast their faces into eerie relief, their shadowed eye sockets staring Marcus down as he walked past. He ignored them. He slowed only to brush his fingers along his mother’s old door, breathing deep, hoping for a last hint of his mother’s scent. But like her, it was long gone.
As Marcus walked, he kept reminding himself that this place was his home, and it would be a long time before he saw it again. He tried to appreciate it, view it throu
gh a different lens—and failed. He knew every statue, door, and tapestry—as he had for years. This place held no new wonders for him.
Jaded, he made his way down the halls with only his clicking footsteps for company. Before long, he found himself in the Atrium. He gazed up at the giant columns, the gilded ceiling, willing himself to feel something. Again, it was a fruitless task. Pulling the shield tighter around his shoulders, he started across.
The winter palisades were still up and most of the lanterns were unlit. It was dim—so much so that he went past a bench without even noticing the figure sitting on it.
“Marcus.”
He stopped. “Kaelyn.”
The young courtesan rose, but she stayed put. Her eyes flickered across him.
He just faced her and waited, his emotions swirling in a maelstrom of conflict. Caught between tenderness and hatred, he didn’t trust himself to say a word.
From her hesitation, she felt the same way. “I…” She bit her lip. Unclenching her hands, she held out a palm. Metal twinkled there—only this time, it wasn’t a ring; it was a golden strike. “Would you take this?”
Marcus furrowed his brows. It wasn’t so much the gift that surprised him—more the way her voice trembled. He’d never heard it do that before. There was a lengthy pause. “I can’t,” he said at last.
Kaelyn was still holding it out. “Please,” she murmured without looking at him, “just take it.”
He complied. He weighed the coin in his hand, rubbing his thumb along its face. Evidently the coin had endured the same treatment quite often; the whole side, which had once borne Elessa’s wings, was worn smooth. “Thank you,” he said automatically. In reality, part of him wanted to hurl the coin off.
The courtesan smiled bleakly. “It’s yours. I stole it years ago. That first night we spent together.”
Marcus didn’t remember, in truth, but he kept quiet.
“It’s always brought me good luck… When I don’t leave it lying around, anyway…” She bit her lip. Finally, she settled for, “I thought you needed it more than me.”
For several long moments, there was silence between them. Marcus wished Kaelyn would just go, but she stayed rooted in place, watching him through moist eyes. He supposed it was his turn to speak—though there really wasn’t all that much to say. Except for one thing. Gathering his breath, he told her, “I have a favor to ask.”
“What, the strike wasn’t good enough?” She made an odd little sound, part chuckle and part sob. “Ask, then.”
“Look after Jacquelyn for me.”
She looked mortified. “That wasn’t exactly asking,” she stammered.
Marcus shrugged. “It’s not in the way you’re thinking. I want you to keep her away from court. Keep the court away from her. She’ll be happier for it. So will you, I imagine.”
It was a strange moment they found themselves in—two corners of a love triangle scheming to help the third. Even shrouded in darkness, Kaelyn looked anything but pleased.
“Can you do that for me?” he insisted.
“Yes,” she said quietly. Another awkward silence passed between them as each waited for the other to say goodbye.
Marcus jerked his head at the far entrance. “I ought to be on my way.”
Kaelyn nodded. She scooped a stray lock out of her eyes. “Be careful. Come home safe.”
Grasping her final gift, he walked off without a backward glance. His first love watched him go, having gained nothing by her jealous schemes save a twice-broken heart.
†††
Outside, the purple horizon provided the merest hint of dawn. Ancellon was a formless black stain spread at his feet, its people still cozy in their beds, as they would be for another hour at the least. Marcus turned up the collar of his tunic against a cool breeze, envying their comfort.
He walked down the hidden staircase that led to the stables, where a pair of grooms had saddled a horse for him. Though he already knew it wasn’t Breggo he’d be riding out, it still saddened him to see a skinny gelding standing in place of his great white stallion. The horse eyed him warily as he approached. A groom held the reins while Marcus inspected the load, making sure all his equipment and provisions were tied securely to the saddle.
“Good,” he said once he was done, to which the grooms both inclined their heads. “You’ll keep a special eye on Breggo until I’m back?”
The older of the two bent once more. “Aye, your highness, and both hands. He’s a proud one, that horse.”
Marcus smiled. “Stare him in the eye until you’re firm in the saddle. He won’t throw you then. Probably.” Advice spoken, he climbed onto the gelding’s back. It snorted haughtily in an ill imitation of its better cousin. “Shut up,” he growled.
The younger groom handed him the reins, and a spear. “Good luck. Stick some Ivans for us, your highness.”
He thought of spurting blood and crunching bone, and he suppressed a shudder. “I will,” he promised nonetheless, and kicked the gelding forward. With hooves clattering beneath him, he sped out of the courtyard and into Ancellon.
Heroes’ Square passed him by, its statues saluting as ever, the draped banners flapping in the breeze. He rode under Ancel’s arch with the names of countless victories chiseled into its black stone, then onto the Royal Way. The leaves rustled on the trees, masking the sound of Marcus’s passage. The horse was slight but swift, and it made short work of the mile-long fairway.
At the end, the North Gate loomed, its edges highlighted purple in the predawn light. In its shadow, Marcus spotted movement. He tensed, already expecting that the aggrieved lords were making a last bid for revenge.
“Oy!” Vernon trotted his horse into view, grinning. “You thought you were just going to slink out of here on your own now, did you?”
“Vernon?” Marcus couldn’t hide his astonishment. “What are you doing here?”
“The hell do you reckon I’m doing, mate?” his best friend asked by way of reply, sounding affronted. “I’m coming with you. Look!” He brandished a spear. With his free hand, he half-drew his sword—an austere Watch blade, not the overelaborate one he had always preferred. “Ready to go!”
Marcus drew his horse to a stop thigh-to-thigh with him. “You can’t do this,” he protested, though the joy he felt was a tough thing to fight.
“Well, looks like I can. Paperwork’s already signed. Turns out there are perks to having a high lord for a father. Who knew?” He leaned over to punch Marcus’s arm. Chainmail clinked. “Took some doing but there it is, mate. You’re stuck with me.”
His eyes welled as Vernon clasped his hand. “I’ll never know a better friend.”
“Don’t you dare start crying. It’s hard enough being out of bed this early without you getting all weepy on me.”
Marcus nodded, swallowing and blinking the tears away. He forced a smile. The expression felt unfamiliar, and it fled quickly. “Well. I suppose we should be off.” Vernon gave a nod of his own. With a jerk of their reins and a kick of their heels, they started down the long, straight road to Fort Arlimont. They exchanged some conversation, which they kept light, though falsely so. After a while, Marcus fell into a glum silence, one that even Vernon didn’t seem inclined to fill.
Behind them, Ancellon’s walls gradually diminished to a faint white line. A few miles more and it disappeared altogether. That left the pair to confront Arlimont, a granite square squatting on the distant river bend. As they drew closer, a new feature resolved itself out of the darkness: the army camp.
It was a city in its own right, though made of canvas rather than stone. The limits were a cluttered mess, an amalgam of tents and lean-to huts. These were home to the opportunistic folk who had made their living off the army since the start of winter, selling everything from bread to blankets to bedding. The last, it had to be said, seemed the most prosperous trade by far.
“Fancy a go, lads?” a woman called, leering at them from the front step of a ramshackle building. She pulled
up her skirts in what she meant to be an enticing manner, but one look at her filthy, bruised thighs would have turned Marcus away at his most desperate.
Vernon made no secret of his appalled expression. “Elessa’s tits,” he muttered. “I’d rather stick my cock in a knothole.”
There were many more like her. Gaggles of prostitutes trailed in the two lads’ wake, some offering themselves for less than the price of two loaves of bread. For that price, they promised debaucheries that a courtesan would flush to mention.
The peddlers were no less troublesome. “Rabbits! Rabbits here, straight out of the burrows and freshly skinned, lads!”
“Homespun jackets!”
“Dice! Marbles! Cards! Ease your boredom on the march!”
It took some persistence, but the two noble sons gradually forced their way through the press of people. After what seemed an hour, the posts of a large wooden gate rose up over the crowd. To either side stretched a palisade of sharpened poles, with a complement of archers lining the parapet at intervals.
Half a dozen armored men were guarding the gate itself. They formed a tight barrier, shoulder to shoulder, to hold back the crowd. They parted to let Marcus and Vernon through, but the looks they gave them were suspicious. All the same, Marcus was happy for the reprieve.
“Right, and who would the both of you be?” It was a sergeant who spoke, stepping into the horses’ path. He studied the two strangers, frowning. “Your names and units.”
“Marcus.” His habit had always been to give his full name, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop there. Commoners, he remembered, had rare occasion to use their surnames—usually to sign tax paperwork and the like. “24th Regiment, 1st Battalion, Sword Company.”
“Vernon, same unit. Want to kick us in that direction there, sergeant?”
The man grunted, rolling his eyes. “Fresh cuts, you. That’s Bloodied Regiment you’re looking for.” He spat in the mud. “Only no one told us they’d lost a pair of girls.”
Marcus held up a placating hand to Vernon, who looked set to detonate. With the same hand, he dug into a saddlebag and retrieved a parchment. “These are my orders.” He passed them down. “My friend has the same, if you want to see them. We’re to report to that regiment this morning.”
After a brief scan of the document, the sergeant handed it back. His mouth still had a twist to it, but his next words had lost their snide quality. “Right. Bloodied is on the other side of camp, straight on from here. Best move your arses. They’re the first order of march.”
Marcus thanked him, to which he received a grunt, and rode his horse through the gate with Vernon close behind.
It was dawn by now, and the brightening sky only served to highlight one fact: the camp was little less chaotic than the shanty on its outskirts. Though Marcus hadn’t heard them above the clamor, the morning trumpets had already sounded, and the army was shuffling into wakefulness. Men were stumbling out of their tents bleary-eyed and half-dressed. Shouts filled the air as sergeants put their own morning grouchiness to a practical purpose: getting their men moving.
“Up and out, lads, up and out,” one bellowed, punctuating his words by hauling a young soldier out of a tent by the back of his collar. Even as the lad went rolling in the dirt, the sergeant tugged a stake out of the nearest tent, which promptly collapsed. “Stop whining!” he yelled at the occupants thrashing beneath the fallen canvas. “Next ones I catch in their tent get a bucket of water, now wake the hell up!”
Similar scenes were playing out on all sides as Marcus advanced. It bewildered him, somewhat, seeing the army up close and personal once again—but then, it felt oddly refreshing in some indefinable way.
The camp was a hive of activity, with men scurrying to and fro. Some dismantled tents. Others stuffed their rucksacks, squeezing their things in as tight as they could before securing the sacks with belts and lengths of cord. Still more labored with shovels to fill in latrine ditches, among other menial tasks. Most worked with one hand, ate with the other—because they knew they would need all the energy they could get for the day’s march.
Many stole surreptitious glances at the two horsemen riding along the main avenue. Dragoons? No, they didn’t have the armor, neither did the horses. Officers, then? That couldn’t be, they didn’t wear the rank. They couldn’t be couriers either, they weren’t in any kind of hurry…
On the debate went, but neither Marcus nor Vernon took much notice of it. Their business was on the far side of camp.
They found 24th Regiment clumped on the bank of the Anora. Whereas the rest of the army was just rousing, this unit was already in formation along the road—and had been for some time, it seemed. Most were sitting on the ground against their rucks, gnawing at hardtack and jerky. The sergeants weren’t yelling, just stepping up and down the rows, chuckling and joking as they inspected their men’s gear.
Vernon sighed. “Well, we’ve found them. What now?”
“We get rid of these.” Marcus patted the gelding’s neck.
Fortunately, the regiment’s baggage train was clustered nearby. There they found a spare hand who was willing to take the horses back to Ancellon—for a small fee, naturally. After a few minutes, they managed to wrestle their equipment off the saddles, if only to encumber themselves in turn. Shouldering his load, stuffing his helmet on, Marcus tossed the young lad a silver trice, and he watched as the horses were led away. Thus freed, he and Vernon turned back toward their regiment, near-staggering under the added weight of their rucks.
“Right,” wheezed Vernon. He looked down the line of company battle standards stuck in the ground along the road, ten flags in all. Each had a numeral in the top left corner denoting its battalion, and a symbol in the bottom right marking the company—each named for an implement of war, whether Sword, Shield, Hammer, or the like. “1st Battalion, Sword, isn’t it?”
Marcus gave a nod, and the pair set off along the road. They trotted past company after company, many of whom had no compunctions about staring openly. They saw archers with their light mail, knives, and longbows; pikemen, whose barb-tipped polearms were easily three times a man’s height, and the bane of any cavalryman; and chevaliers, the majority, distinguished by their deadly longswords, broad shields, and segmented plate armor—though the latter two had been strapped to their backs for the time being. They were the standard infantry—and the shield on Marcus’s back reminded him that he would soon be among them.
But the ones he was passing were the wrong battalion. His company, he reasoned, had to be at the front. Brilliant, he thought: first to march, first to fight, first to die.
Halfway down the line, wedged between the two battalions, they encountered a strange sight. “What in the hell are those?” Vernon sounded flabbergasted, and he certainly had a right to it.
“Firelancers, I’d suppose,” hazarded Marcus. It wasn’t a company of them, hardly even a battle line—but still, fifty was more than enough to make for a sight. Their armor was much like any archer’s, but that was where the similarity ended. Each carried a stick of wrought iron—what looked to be refined versions of Horace Smithson’s firelance. At their waists and across their chests, they wore a bewildering array of pouches and satchels—and unlike everyone else in the whole army, they didn’t carry any rucks at all. Those, they had dumped in a pair of wagons at the rear of their formation.
Marcus smirked. “It seems Commander Durand has some say with the lord marshal.”
“Who?”
He waved a hand. Throwing the firelancers a last look, he moved along.
The 1st Battalion lay just beyond. It was a column of five companies laid out beside the road. Judging by the way they were wolfing down their food, they had just been informed that they would soon be on the march. With that observation, Marcus redoubled his pace.
The first he saw of Sword Company was its standard: a blood-streaked sword sewn onto scarlet cloth, embroidered around with golden thread. Battle honors filled every available s
pace—the names of dozens of victories Swords had helped win, and defeats, though each of those had a strike through it.
Beneath the battle flag rested Marcus and Vernon’s brothers, all two hundred of them. A winter spent in the field had left its mark. Their armor was weather-worn and dented, but their movements were crisp, efficient, and sure. They were a picture of professionalism, of competency, and though that should have comforted Marcus, it only made him wonder how he could hope to match up.
“Tough-looking bastards,” Vernon remarked. He let his breath out long and slow. “We’re going to get ass-reamed in our sleep tonight, aren’t we?”
Before Marcus could say anything, they got noticed. A man detached himself from formation and stalked in their direction on wiry limbs. Even from a stone throw’s distance, Marcus could see the way his eyes smoldered. “And just when I get my head count, a pair of lost sister-fuckers come wandering my way. Who the hell would you two be, eh?”
Marcus creased his eyebrows. He knew that voice.
“I asked you—” The sergeant stopped dead. His jaw went slack.
A wry smile reached Marcus’s lips. He recognized the man, too. His cheeks had lost some of their gauntness, and he had hidden his jutting chin beneath a layer of stubble, but the eyes were unmistakable. “Well met, sergeant.”
Jebril Carpenter stared in disbelief. Marcus didn’t say so, but the man’s appearance had certainly improved since they had last met; a sergeant’s rank looked far better on his collar than a noose. It was a strange moment that passed between them—because Jebril was likely thinking exactly the opposite of his former prince. The mighty had fallen, indeed.
A trumpet call pierced the morning. Another sounded nearby, and fainter ones after. The sergeants were shouting again, but there was no need. A ripple of motion passed through the seated ranks. Men shrugged on the straps of their rucks before lurching upright, bending to help their fellows do the same. The air was suddenly full of commotion as every soldier in the army rushed the road at once. For several moments, pandemonium seemed to reign. But months of onerous drilling had done their job, and the men quickly found their places in line. Soon enough, Sword Company had arranged itself into four neat columns—one for each battle line—with the rest of the 24th falling in behind.
Recovering his wits, Sergeant Jebril told Marcus and Vernon, “You’re both in first line. That’s mine. I trust you have everything?”
“We do,” confirmed Marcus.
“Hope so. Come on.” The men strode off toward the company, leaving the pair of them to hurry along in his wake. He led them to the trail end, where he pointed them to the leftmost column. “Fall in.”
They obeyed. Marcus found himself in the second to last spot, with an enormous specimen of soldier encompassing his vision. The soldier looked partway over his shoulder, studying him with the air of a dog sniffing a morsel it hadn’t yet deemed edible. Marcus met his eye and held it.
The sergeant came between them. “You give either of these two a fleck of trouble, Jorel, and I’ll rip the hide off your back.” He raised his voice for the benefit of those nearby. “That goes for the rest of you, and I don’t give a damn if you’re in my line or not. You hear that, chevaliers?”
“Aye,” came the gruff chorus. Not one pair of eyes strayed Marcus or Vernon’s way as Jebril sauntered down the line. It was a mark of his authority that even after he was gone, not even a mutter arose—but Marcus felt eyes on him.
Around them, all was still. The army stood ready, awaiting the fateful order to take that first step away from home. A cool breeze blew, whistling through ruler-straight rows. Every helmeted head pointed forward, staring rigidly at the hulking shape of Fort Arlimont on the opposite bank of the river.
Hooves sounded behind Marcus, and a dozen or more horsemen galloped into view. The great feather plumes on their helmets marked them out as officers, the heraldry on their capes spoke of noble birth, and their gilded armor and jewel-encrusted swords flaunted wealth beyond most men’s reckoning. One carried aloft a great banner, scarlet like Sword Company’s, only larger by far. Its cloth bore a Goddess armored for battle, standing proud and undaunted despite her tattered robe and dented shield. Inscribed at her feet were the words, “Jactura, triumphamus”, and below that, the numerals XXIV.
The regimental staff came to a halt beside the company. They didn’t have to wait long before a brace of officers rushed over on foot—the captain and his two lieutenants, Marcus guessed. They came to attention and saluted as one. One rider eased forward and calmly returned the salute. Even from this distance, it was obvious that he was the man in charge—the regiment’s commander. But his breastplate was austere silver, and his cape was plain red, the same as his regiment’s banner.
And with a start, Marcus realized that he knew this man as well.
“Report, Captain Rowley.”
“Yes, Commander Durand. We have all men and equipment accounted for. We’re heavy two chevaliers; they just arrived this morning. We’ll march on your command, sir.”
Durand’s gaze roved briefly in Marcus’s direction before returning to the captain. “Good. If you would allow it, I would say a few words to your men.”
“Sir.” Captain Rowley turned to his men. “Company!” he boomed, “Left, face!”
Two hundred soles scuffed the dirt road as the company rotated in place; two hundred pairs of heels snapped together.
Durand surveyed them from atop his horse, his expression almost tender. He raised his voice and called, “Sword Company! It has been a long winter. Now we have come to it at last: the moment of crisis, when we leave behind all we hold dear and venture off, together, into the unknown. Unknown but for one given fact: peril. But that is our lot, chevaliers. While there are those who make their living selling fruit, or tilling earth, or forging metal—our profession is war. Ours is defend our country so that our families may live in peace. Remember that when your spirit reaches its crossroads, upon which it shall either break or endure. Remember, men, that every step you take is another foot between your homes and the enemy. Each cold night you stand watch is one your children will spend warm in their beds. Each strike of your blade wins peace for your families. Remember, in your moments of doubt, that Ancel watches, strengthens and guides you. Sword Company, you are the tip of the blade. It is you who shall first meet the enemy, and you who will deliver him the first lash of Ancel’s fury. Remember, brave chevaliers, that you are here at our army’s head because I have put you here. Be worthy of my pride, Sword Company! Forward, for Ancel!”
“For Ancel!” two hundred throats howled. Marcus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright.
Making a fist over his heart, Durand brought his horse about and rode back the way he came, his staff officers in tow. Captain Rowley ordered the company to right face. Then he and his lieutenants resumed their place alongside the marching column.
There the company waited in silence, its standard fluttering in the wind. As the minutes stretched on, the men’s excitement dwindled into tension. Why the delay? Maybe a wagon axle had broken in the rear somewhere, or a lieutenant had gotten lost. Even in a unit as small as a company, the possibilities were infinite—and this was an army of thirty thousand men.
But just before the mood devolved into agitation, a lone trumpet sounded, deep and long. “For…ward!” yelled Captain Rowley. The command went juddering down the road, replenished by each captain in turn. Then, “March!”
The 24th Regiment stepped forward in unison. The suddenness startled Marcus; it seemed to him that he had been standing in place one instant, then marching at a full trot the very next. The formation tramped across the bridge on the Anora, under Arlimont’s southern gate, then through the fort itself. The garrison cheered them from atop the battlements, brandishing swords and waving banners. Then the company slipped through the northern gatehouse and out onto the corpse garden, framed between the cruel angles of Arlimont’s walls. Escaping even that, they were free. Open co
untryside beckoned.
The column beat a brisk pace across it. In the brief removes between each synchronized step, Marcus heard the distant clatter of wagons rolling along behind the regiment. Their supply caravan was two dozen wagons long, but it wouldn’t even last them that many days.
Marcus did not think much ahead, more focused on the matter at hand. He had not quite bargained on the weight of a full armor set; it had been years since his Novitiate, and his body was no longer accustomed to burden. But he drew his straps tighter against his shoulders and plodded on, ignoring the discomfort.
Unlike his body, his mind was not so easily brought to heel. The task of putting one foot in front of the other was not enough to distract him, by far. So his thoughts kept wandering back to Ancellon, back to the girl he loved.
The sun was shining bright, though the cold was still strong. Jacquelyn, always an early riser, would surely be awake by this time. Marcus caught himself looking back at the city’s ivory walls more than once. Steadily, they were shrinking, becoming obscured by the earth’s gentle curve. He wondered if she was looking his way right now—if she was missing him as keenly as he missed her.
He thought about Durand’s words. Maybe the commander had given the men heart, but Marcus could only envy them. There was no just cause for him—merely his own selfishness, and the foolish things it had made him do.
Sighing to himself, he plodded on, trying to occupy his thoughts with his surroundings. Not even an hour into the march, the terrain was already beginning to alter. The hills became steeper and more commonplace. Rocky outcroppings were now visible—flat, winding areas where the Anora’s tributaries had iced over. Frozen water glittered in the sunlight.
Marcus found himself admiring the beauty of the landscape around him. Winter had stripped the trees and browned the grass, but the land still had an element of untamed beauty to it. The only thing out of place was the dirt road that cut through the country. That, and the armored men marching it.
Marcus fancied the army a creature—an immense beast bristling with upright thorns, its steel hide glittering in the sun. Its innumerable legs stepped in unison, sending a thunderous beat across the grassy hills. And in one rumbling voice, it was singing.
“Shoulders wagging to and fro, away from home and wife I go, leave my crop and babe to grow, pray you Lord to save this soul!”
A good marching song. It made the men’s fading heartache and impending hardship into a work of art—a crude one, but heartening as all good art is. Marcus knew the words to it; his father, like so many Elessian fathers, had sung it and other soldiers’ tunes to him in lieu of lullabies. He had loved those songs of toil and bloodshed as much as the soft, soothing ones his mother had used to coax him to sleep.
He sang along, as did Vernon, both of them adding their youthful tones to Sword Company’s gruff one. The song had a functional purpose, as most anything in the army did: it set a step for their march. It kept the pace strong and unwavering, and it kept the men who sang it hearty and spirited.
For a while, at least. As the sun passed its zenith, the air became increasingly chill. Throats sore from singing and cold alike, the soldiers gradually fell silent but for the sergeants’ cadence. “Left… left… left right…” Their pace neither slowed nor quickened; they marched as lively as they had when they set out.
Marcus was reminded once more of his load’s weight as it began to bear down on him. His knees were growing sore from the strain, and if his legs were not burning yet, they soon would be. Every frigid breath sent a dull ache through his lungs. Silently, he cursed the sun for lighting the earth but keeping it cool. Its rays were scorching his neck, yet the cold endured.
“Queer weather,” Vernon remarked.
“Chilly,” agreed Marcus, glad of the chance to complain.
They were talking as lowly as they could—quite the task, since they also had to make themselves heard over the clamor. Vernon looked up at the sun, squinting. “Not so much the cold, I’d say. Summer’s worse. You can escape the cold—you know, bundle up, dress warm. Heat, though… best you can do is fan yourself. Doesn’t help when the air’s humid.”
“True.” Marcus paused for breath; he was already gathering the difficulty of carrying on a conversation during a quick march. “Maybe Kydona will be an improvement.”
“It’s bloody awful, I hear. Their summers are twice as hot—their winters are thrice as cold.”
Marcus nodded glumly. He had heard the same. Gail had told him all sorts of tales—of nights so cold that in the morning, he’d awoken to find the pack horses frozen to death still standing; of men losing fingers, toes and entire limbs to frostbite. The summers were supposed to be so hot that you could fry an egg on your breastplate. But Marcus didn’t tell Vernon any of that. He felt badly enough that his friend was here, as it was.
The march wore on for hours. Marcus had thought his Novitiate had been tough, but compared to this, it was naught but a country stroll. His feet were sore and blistering in places, despite the calluses he had carefully cultivated, and the cold only compounded the pain. It hurt to breathe. His lips were chapped; licking them made it worse. His ruck’s straps were rubbing his shoulders raw. He was in a bad way, all in all. And it was only the first day of marching.
When the officers called for a halt near sunset, Marcus’s stamina was barely enough to keep him standing; twenty five miles in a day, a pace he had scarcely thought possible—and without so much as a breather.
The day’s march was over, but the sun was still up, and there was work to be done. Marcus and Vernon soon had reason to give thanks for their Novitiate, which had betimes called them to strange trials such as erecting a tent with a partner in under three minutes, or digging a deep hole and filling it up again. All of a sudden, those skills had a use.
They built their canvas tent in the northwest quadrant of their division’s camp—a square arrangement, split by two perpendicular avenues running through its center. That setup would remain identical wherever the division made its camp. It lent an element of familiarity to lands far from home—an idea the Elessians had borrowed from the long-gone Imperium, whose legions had been the envy of the world for millennia.
Once all the soldiers’ tents were pegged, Bloodied Regiment was set to work digging a trench spanning the camp’s perimeter. Other regiments within their division soon joined them. It was an arduous task. He labored until well after sunset, cutting deep into earth with a pick while Vernon shoveled it away. Despite the night’s chill and their fogging breath, the two were soon drenched in sweat—but by the end, their efforts were rewarded with the sight of their trench: as deep as a man was tall, and twice as wide. Dirt had been piled on the trench’s inner edge to form a high embankment, the top of which was lined with sharpened wooden stakes. It was a makeshift wall and moat, which, in theory, would hinder an attacking foe long enough for the division to muster a response.
By then, Marcus didn’t care for much else but food and an eternity’s worth of sleep. He threw his shovel onto a pile of its counterparts and made his way back to the 24th Regiment’s section of camp, where Hammer Company was doling out rations. ‘Rations’, they found , was a slight overstatement.
“Eh? What the hell is this?” Vernon held up a cracker, which was about the size and thickness of a human hand. He frowned and banged it on his knee. Not a crumb fell off.
“Hardtack.” Against his better judgment, Marcus tried to gnaw a corner from his cracker but gained little more than a toothache.
Vernon eyed a strip of dried pork warily before wrenching off a piece with his teeth. He grimaced, chewing with effort. “Well this is edible, but that’s about all I can say for it.” He managed to swallow the chunk, though it made his eyes water. “So what now?”
“Now it’s time to make some friends.
Marcus and Vernon wandered for a while, observing the men of their company. Most had evidently been in the unit for some time. There were noticeable cliques formed, various g
roups that quickly migrated to their usual spots around the little peat fires, jawing and laughing with their friends. Some groups were louder than others. The noble-born pair passed a silent group of round-eyed lads.
“They look new,” Vernon piped in hopefully.
Marcus wasn’t impressed. “Which is exactly why we’re not sitting with them. They’ll be here for us tomorrow.”
“Who are we looking to sit with, then?”
A chorus of laugher erupted over a row of tents. “Them.”
Them turned out to be an indefinable lot with little in common but their loud mouths. One immediately drew the eye—a immensity with arms as long as a yoke, and a torso wider around than a keg. Marcus recognized him as Jorel, the man who’d marched in front of him in formation. Seated across from him was a scraggly-haired highlander, his cheeks covered in blue whorls. There were a pair of burly fellows too—identical twins, if the firelight didn’t deceive. The last was seated on a cheese box, tuning a mandolin.
Marcus strolled up to their fire—not a little one, either, but a roaring blaze, every bit as hearty as their laughter. “You have room for me and my friend here?”
They fell silent and scrutinized him. The challenge in their eyes was subtle. He was an intruder, but they weren’t quite sure how to confront his audacity.
One of the twins spoke up first. “Who’s asking?”
“Someone who’d rather sit with a quieter lot, only you have the knack of building a fire.” Uninvited, he sat. Vernon, wearing a grin that only Marcus would recognize as anxious, did the same.
The other men exchanged looks, but Marcus just ate in silence, projecting an air of nonchalance. He made no secret of studying each in turn. The big one, Jorel, was an ugly sort of bastard. His teeth were like chips of rock, and they were half-bared in a show of instinctive dislike. He had thought the twins were tan, but closer inspection revealed a mass of freckles—in matching spots, he noticed. The highlander had flint grey eyes and a collection of short blades spread at his feet, from skinning knives to a Kydonian kindjal.
It was he who spoke next, in a rolling highland accent. “Might be we don’t want your company. Might be we were having us a good chat before you showed up.”
Vernon put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
“Now you’re just being rude. We’re pleasant fellows. Vernon here, he’s bedded some of the loveliest women this side of the Utmars. Hundreds. I’m honestly amazed his cock hasn’t rotted off or just plain given up. He’s got a story for every one too, and you’d be lucky to have wind in your lungs by the time he’s through.”
A few wary eyes glanced over Vernon, licking their lips.
“Well,” the highlander asked, “what of you then?”
Vernon leaped in. “Finest swordsman west or east, north or south, this bugger. He could shave the hair off your balls with one good flick, and never even graze ‘em. He’d get the grundle too, he’s just that decent a man.”
That got them laughing. It was good, strong laughter too, right from the belly. These were men accustomed to talk, and that was exactly what Marcus wanted of them. He was no Owen, to suffer in silence and anonymity.
He undid his waterskin and took a swig. As he passed to Vernon, a twin pointed. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Vodka,” Vernon squeaked, coughing up the overlarge draught he’d just taken.
An eager look came over the group—though the giant still stared with that same expression as before, one of intense suspicion. “Well?” the first twin asked.
“Call it a trade,” Marcus offered, smiling for the first time. He held up the skin. “Your fire, my drink.”
The highlander nodded vigorously. “Aye to that!” He snatched the vodka and drank deep. Licking his lips, burping, he asked, “Your names?”
“Vernon.” Eyes snapped onto him again, recognizing the name as noble.
“Marcus.” This time the eyes went wide. Marcus raised an eyebrow. “What?”
His tone seemed to put them off the question they had been about to ask. Instead, they just took the vodka. They gave their own names as they drank. The highlander was Tristan, a one-time sheep shearer hailing from Elessia’s mountainous hinterland. Aidan and Damon were the twins. Reggy played the mandolin but spoke little. Jorel was simply gargantuan. He opted to finally drop his glower as the vodka came his way. As he took his drink, the men let out a cheer, and just like that, Marcus and Vernon were part of the group. There was more vodka than he had bargained for, and the skin went around six times before it ran dry.
It didn’t get anyone drunk, but it got the men in a good enough mood that they insisted on opening up their rum in turn. Marcus abruptly found himself undertaking a rite of passage, of sorts. More men approached the fire as word spread of this oddly-named noble pair that had stumbled into their midst. Most insisted on sharing their drink—which meant a lot of rum, and he couldn’t take small sips either, not with them looking on. There was talk throughout, and not all of it friendly.
“Swordplay’s your talent, eh?” Jorel the giant asked Marcus, gazing down at him. “Looks like it’s mostly play, with that girl face of yours.”
Marcus’s temper flared, but he grinned despite it. “What was your name again? Gore, right?”
“Jorel.”
“Well, Jorel, this face got me your mother, and I played with her all night.”
The big man tucked his lip into a snarl, but a then the twins forced themselves between them. Their thick frames belied their grins. “Now Jorel,” chuckled Aidan, “no need to measure cocks now, you know yours is the shortest of anyone’s.”
Damon added to Marcus, “And not another word against Jorel’s mum, you. Mrs. Weaver is a saint!”
Shooting off a last scowl, the big man lumbered off. Marcus watched his retreat for a moment before turning to the closest twin. “My thanks,” he said.
“No problem,” Damon replied. He was still in the grip of youth, but his arms were as thick around as most men’s thighs, and that more than made up for the difference in age. “Jorel’s a sour sort. His pap didn’t give him enough attention, we reckon.”
“Aye, true,” agreed his brother. They gave him identical queer looks. “The Marcus?” one asked slyly.
Marcus quirked a lip. He was somewhat surprised the question hadn’t come up sooner. “It doesn’t exactly matter now, does it?”
Aidan—or Damon—groaned. “I hate it when people do that.”
His twin nodded vigorously. “Right impolite. But you keep your secret, Marcus, you’ll slip sooner or later.” With a good-natured toast, the twins departed—and the mob descended on Marcus once again, eager to drown their newest comrade in rum.
The rest of the night passed quickly. Marcus exchanged words with nearly everyone—Jorel was the notable exception—and soon had fifty new names memorized. They plied him with drinks all the while, and all told, his liver took a terrible pounding. But he had been a copious drinker for a long time, and he stayed cogent enough to realize these simple soldiers were cleverer than they let on. Every so often, one would slip in an offhanded question as to his birth, but he deflected the inquiries with ease born of a lifetime of intrigue. Remarkably, Vernon did the same. Like Marcus, he sensed that noble status could be of little help here. All the same, it was a good time. There was drinking and laughter aplenty—music, even, when a bagpiper by the name of Gwin joined Reggy, with the rest of the men providing the beat and vocals.
By that time, though, the night was drawing to a close. The last purple hues faded from the western horizon, and just before the evening trumpet call blew, Carpenter came around to kick his line off to bed. Grumbling, the men slunk to their tents.
Marcus and Vernon crawled into theirs with cotton mouths and spinning heads. “What a night,” Vernon moaned, flopping onto his bedroll.
“Drink some water,” advised Marcus. “Long march tomorrow.” He had spoken too late, though; his friend was already snoring. Shaking
his head smilingly, Marcus bunched up a tunic and slid it under Vernon’s head.
He was drunk, and it was dark, so he was sloppy in his hygiene. He changed his drawers and stockings, scrubbed his teeth with some leftover water, and rinsed his armpits and groin using the same. The icy water made him shiver. That done, he curled up under his blanket—a thin, raggedy thing, no help at all against the cold.
He lay there uncomfortably for a long while, willing sleep to come. Gradually, Vernon’s snores deadened, the tent canopy shrank into darkness, his mat grew softer beneath him…
Iron. The taste was overpowering. He felt it, too—running warm and sticky on his hands. There was a sword clenched in his fist, pulsing gently. He knew why, he didn’t want to look, but his unwilling gaze came up, up—until he saw the ripped human belly he had driven the blade into. He felt every dying heartbeat running up through the sword as the blood spurted—and those eyes were staring wide at him in the agonized knowledge that he was the last thing they would ever see.
Marcus jarred awake. He was sweating despite the cold. He made up his mind, then: no sleep for him tonight. Still trembling, he reached for his ruck.
A few minutes later, he stepped out of his tent, the moon gleaming off each segment of plate that decked his torso. He adjusted his helmet; the nose guard was rubbing painfully. With a deep breath, he started walking.
The camp seemed deserted, except for the snores and the feet poking out of the tents. The full moon illuminated the avenues, so he found the perimeter with ease. Men were standing guard on top of the earthen walls—the unlucky ones who had drawn sentry duty. Marcus picked out the one from his line without much trouble; he was the one swaying on his feet.
Hearing him struggle up the dirt slope, the soldier turned. “Oh. You,” he breathed, dropping his spear back against his collar.
Marcus assumed the man’s side. His mind picked up the drooping mustache, and a name came to him. “How fares the watch, Atwood?”
“Dull. Shouldn’t change ‘til we hit the border.”
“I’ll enjoy the dullness, then.”
Atwood peered at him from under his helmet. “You alright, lad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Closer to the mark than you think,” he muttered under his breath.
“Running from nightmares, eh?” the aging soldier chuckled.
Marcus stared out over the hills. Even white lines trailed down their slopes, and at the crest of each sat a giant canopy where the commanders had made their headquarters. There were over a dozen regiments spread across those hills. By the time the army reached Kydona, that number would almost double.
Beside him, Atwood shifted his weight. “Big army. A lot bigger than the one we had in the north this past year.”
“You were in the north?”
“Aye. Me and most of the regiment. Tough fighting, that.”
“I heard as much.”
“Well, you’ve got to see it. I’ve seen a lot, but nothing unmans you like a sea of Glats coming down on you with axes waving. And there’s that wail of theirs—like demons howling in a gale. Keeps you awake at night, if you think on it.”
Marcus had no stories to match that, so he said nothing.
Atwood glanced at him. “What’s a young pup like you have to get nightmares over, anyway?”
“Nothing that bad, I’m sure,” he answered after a long moment. “Go on back to your tent. I’ll take your watch tonight.”
“If you expect me to trade half my watch for a whole one of yours, you’re sorely mistaken, lad.”
Marcus said quietly, “No, you owe me nothing. Go to sleep, Atwood.”
The man mulled it over, debating if a few hours’ rest was worth his trouble. “My thanks, lad.” With a little salute, Atwood slid down the slope and trotted off into the night, humming to himself.
Marcus listened to his footsteps fade. Alone now, he leaned wearily against his spear, watching the silent camps huddled on the hilltops—wondering to himself why, awake, he could still feel that sword juddering feebly in his palm.