The large room was dark and the air was stale as seven days old bread. The orange light of the fake dawn peeked through the hemp curtains that hung in front of the window slats, the only light points along the walls of this dark room, the rest indiscernible.
The darkened room was filled with the sound of sleeping people, twisting, mumbling in their sleep, snoring, and turning.
A door opened and a man wielding a lantern in one hand and a cowbell in another entered the room. He was dressed in military leathers and bore the tailfeathers of a darkhawk on his leather bandolier to signify him as a trainer-commander of the military. His head was completely bald and clean-shaven. The only hair on his face that wasn't meticulously shaven away were his eyebrows and eyelashes. Stark shadows cast by the lantern contrasted on his face accentuating the straight planes that made up his face. A staff was strapped against his back and a small leather-clad shield affixed to his left arm. His sinewy body gave the impression of a spring ready to uncoil at a moment's notice.
Holding up the lantern above his eye level he let his gaze slowly wander over the sleeping soldiers. Nobody stirred in the light provided by his lantern or gave any indication of waking up at the not so silent entrance he had made. With short purposeful movements, he rang the cowbell three times and then waited.
Suddenly there was movement all over the room and blankets were thrown off and people scrambled out of their beds and jumped to attention as soon as they could next to their cots.
The scramble for attention finished, the trainer walked forward slowly, inspecting the sleepy faces staring back at them. The stubble on their heads deepening the shadows on their faces in the lantern light.
Having reached the end of the cots, he stood there for a moment, staring at the wall, unmoving. Nervous glances were cast at his back, but nobody dared to move an inch of their body. They had learned not to move at all at attention, except for their eyes, and those only when he wouldn't notice.
The trainer-commander turned around faster than any of them could see and suddenly stood facing them. His face twisted in a scowl of displease. His piercing green eyes, set in his tight face above hooknose with a deep scar crossing diagonally over it, stared with contempt at the soldiers.
Involuntary nervous shuffles made for a wave of slight movement through the ranks. This deepened the scowl of contempt even further. He took a breath between his teeth, causing a hissing sound to travel throughout the room that froze everybody on the spot before he burst out in a loud angry voice.
“Alright, you incompetent good for nothing maggots! You are now all dead! If I had been a monster you would have all died on the spot!”
He paced forward with purposeful strides and stopped in front of a young, well-muscled girl that had been slowest to get out of bed.
“You are slow, and you are dead.”
The sound of a cowbell resounded with a loud clang, and everybody in the room winced, as the girl was sent flying against the wall from the strike with the cowbell.
She hit the wall with a wet thud and slid down into a limp heap. Nobody moved, but all eyes were fixed on her. After a few seconds, she made a loud gasp and opened her eyes. The trainer looked at her with cold uncaring eyes, the message clear that she should get back to attention. She got up groggily, supporting herself against the wall, taking deep gasps of breath to force air back into her lungs.
Wavering she made her way back to her spot and straightened herself and stood back at attention, taking pained breaths. The trainer nodded ever so slightly and moved back to the center of the corridor, making a slow pass with his piercing eyes over all the soldiers assembled here.
“Sniveling weaklings, all of you. You let yourself be eaten by monsters, beaten into a pulp by a baby kitten. You’re all good for nothing freeloaders!”
Marching towards the entrance of the room, his eyes fixed on the exit, not facing any of the soldiers he continued his litany.
“Your mothers would be disappointed with such lazy kids. Your fathers would disown you for your pathetic weakness. You're soldiers, behave like it!”
Having arrived at the entrance of the barrack he turned around, his stare transfixing the room, all the soldiers standing straight to attention, eyes forward.
“Five minutes to get dressed and arrive at the training field. GO!”
With that, he stepped out and the door closed behind him, casting the room back in darkness.
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The trainer stood on the muddy training field in the pouring rain. Behind him, there were soaking wet practice dummies equipped with cudgels and blunted rusty swords. The dummies were mounted on a gear system that hooked into some kind of track via belts.
From the barrack, the soldiers, now fully clothed in ill-fitting leather armor that were full of scrapes and dings. Coarse short staffs with iron caps at the ends were mounted on their backs with the aid of the bandoliers that were slung over their shoulders, marched out into the rain, and marched towards the trainer leaving deep muddy footprints that filled with water.
They assembled into straight ranks and stood there, rain pouring off their unshaven heads, their eyebrows directing the water away from their eyes. Only the sound of rain could be heard, and the pained wheezing of one soldier, who stood to attention nonetheless. They stood there silent and unmoving, facing forward, rain pouring down on them, slowly washing away their fresh footprints in the mud.
After a few minutes of standing in the rain, getting soaked thoroughly, and mud splatters from their march being washed off their boots, the trainer spoke up with a half-grin on his face.
“Alright, you disgraceful mewlings! You need to toughen up to be fit for duty! So I’m sending you through my favorite course again.”
Mild groans could be heard from the ranks but were ignored by the trainer.
“Prepare to be beaten to an inch of your life, get healed, then we rinse and repeat until the sun sets! At least you'll provide a diversion to the dummies, which are more capable than any of you will ever be.”
The trainer lifted two fingers and raised them above his head.
“Divide into groups of two for the melee, stay together, work together. Working solo or against your teammate is risking your own life. Have each other's back at all times.”
The trainer pointed to a gazebo where a man dressed in healer garb was sitting down on a bench, a table with pen and quill, a sandbox, and a stack of paper in front of him.
“When your comrade collapses because they are almost dead, get them to the healer, get healed, and then jump back into training.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The trainer put two fingers in his mouth and whistled a short hard tone, and a muffled “Hyah” could be heard from a barn in the corner of the practice field. Behind the trainer, the field of training dolls started to move, twisting and swinging their weapons around in random patterns. Then they started moving from one side to the other side and back, all the while twisting and swinging the weapons up and down and sideways. The clang and crashes of cudgels and swords hitting others mixed with the sound of wood groaning and squawking and gears turning and leather humming.
Raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of noise, the trainer shouted whilst pointing at the moving deathtrap.
“Defend each other there. Communicate incoming threats, work as a team. Focus on defending, not attacking. GO!”
With that, the trainer clapped in his hands, and the soldiers looked around, building quick teams with just a glance at each other, then marched two on two towards the training battle, taking their staffs off their backs.
Having reached the moving madness they dove in, team after team, using their staffs to ward off incoming attacks to the best of their ability, find a spot within to try to stay safe. It didn’t take long however for the first blood to appear as weapons connected with the soldiers, tearing open exposed skin.
Soon the mock battleground noises were supplemented groans, shouts, and the sound of wooden staffs connecting with weapons. Soldiers were bent over in pain where they had been flung into a group of dolls by a hit that had connected, unconscious soldiers being slowly dragged out from the melee by their companions, which had to stop the rescue repeatedly to defend against incoming attacks from the dolls, towards the healer. If both would succumb to the dolls, another group would work their way towards them to continue the rescue.
It was an awful scene if you were to look into it, with blood covering faces, white teeth flashing in grim determination, groans of the wounded as they collapsed with broken bones or worse.
Every ten minutes or so a team of soldiers would emerge from the melee, one member dragging the other towards the healer.
The healer would ask questions to the companion, make meticulous notes, then start work on the soldier. Then when the soldier was conscious, the healer would ask questions to the revived soldier and make new notes as they made their way back into the melee. The notes would get sand sprinkled on them and shaken off back into the sandbox, and then handed to a page who would bring the notes towards a building.
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“Fuck that hurt.”
“You tell me. I needed to have my teeth regrown, that hurts like a bitch when they piece back through your gums, you only needed your scalp restored.”
Mereah punched her companion in the shoulder.
“Shut up Flut, My entire skull was exposed by that rusty blade, with my skin hanging over my eyes. I couldn’t see, and I still dodged that cudgel that hit you square.”
With an indignant look, Flut set himself to finish his breakfast. He still had half a chicken and some cauliflower left on his plate. Tearing pieces of meat from the chicken with his long fingers, and stuffing it in his face with little regard for etiquette.
After their early morning bout against the practice army, they had been gathered, exhausted, been healed multiple times, covered in scrapes, blood, and pieces of flesh. They had been patched up by the healer and sent to get washed, shaven, maintain their armor and gather in the dining hall for breakfast.
They didn’t have long before another grueling bout against the practice army would be up, and being tardy with eating was a good way to spend the next battle on an empty stomach, you never knew when they would be ordered to march out again. One time they had even just sat down with their food still steaming hot when they had been ordered to move out. That was yesterday.
“So why did you join the army in the recruitment drive last week Mareah?”
“Mhh I newdwd two gjet outta thwe slums.”
“Ugh, finish chewing your food and empty your mouth before answering.”
With a demonstrative swallow and smacking a few times, she emptied her mouth. Then picked at a piece of meat between her teeth with her pinky before answering.
“As I said, I needed to get out of the slums. The army is a sure-fire way to make some cash. The alternative was crime, and with the city guard being manned by the army, crime either pays or kills you.”
“Ah, so you will go down hunting your old buddies eventually?”
“Yea, basically. They won’t like it, but then again, they always excluded me from their things because I’m a girl.”
Flut nodded sympathetically. He had been the son of a blacksmith, not a street rat, but knew how kids would say girls were weak. His lanky build had led him to join the army instead of pursuing a career as a blacksmith like his father. He would never build up the required muscle for the heavy work.
“Good thing the army doesn’t discriminate. How did you manage to stand up after that hit that Nimra gave you?”
Mareah rubbed her chest at the memory where the cowbell had struck her unarmoured flesh. The healer had patched up the broken ribs from that encounter at her first visit to the healer, but it had still hurt like hell to take any breath or stand up straight after that.
“I leveled up to level three yesterday, and my endurance got a boost with [Fortified endurance], which enabled me to push beyond the pain. Wouldn’t recommend getting clipped by that cowbell though.”
Flut whistled between his teeth in appreciation. Then resumed stuffing his face before responding.
“Do you know why they are pushing us like this constantly? I mean we need to level of course, but why with so much pain, aren’t there easier ways?”
Mareah shook her head, her brown eyes glancing over at the entrance to the mess hall, then casting a glance around her.
“I don’t know for sure, but it probably has to do with our endurance, so we can keep on fighting even when wounded. That’s what I would focus on anyways. Would do no good to be paralyzed with pain so you can’t use your skills in the middle of the battlefield.”
Flut considered her words briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. Any reason would do honestly, it wasn’t as if they had much choice in the matter. They were drafted now and had to do whatever was ordered. Quitting now would mean losing their class and having suffered the past week for nothing, and they wouldn’t get paid until they were out of the trainee stage. A few had quit though, not willing to stand any more of the painful exercises the army inflicted on them.
“Do you think Nimra enjoys inflicting pain on us? I can’t get a read on the man.”
Casting a few looks around her to check for the trainer, and after not spotting him she hit Flut on the back of his head.
“Do you want to be hit by a cowbell? Watch your mouth idiot”
She sissed to him. Flut rubbed the back of his head and shook his head sheepishly. He would have to learn to be more careful with his mouth around here. He did not fancy a close encounter of the ringing kind. He would never stand up against that cowbell as good as Mareah, with his level two skills. Plus he was just bones with skin, instead of the sturdy muscular frame Mareah had.
“Yea, not particularly interested in that no. I’ll shut up.”
He cleaned the last juices from his now empty plate with his finger, then suckled his finger clean, savoring the taste. The mess hall was filled with recruits that had endured a similar beating as they had, and they were cleaning their plates with the same eagerness and haste as them. Nobody wanted to spend another day on an empty stomach again.
Cooking aides went around between the tables collecting the bowls with chicken bones on the tables for the stew that would be served this night. There was still plenty of meat left on the bones in the bowls. They had learned quickly that if they left meat on the bones, they’d have a bit of meat for their evening stew, otherwise, it would just be tasty water with beans and veggies.
Mareah sat back and rubbed her stomach with a satisfied grin.
“That feels better than yesterday. It surprises me that he hasn’t interrupted us yet like he has done the past few days.”
“Maybe he got tired of staring at our worthless miserable faces.”
Flut answered with an imitation of the trainer’s voice, whilst looking down at his nose at Mareah. She chuckled and flicked his forehead with her finger.
“Behave. Anyways, what kind of specialization are you going to try for?”
“I think I'll go with [scout]. I’m not that great for battles you know.”
Flut waved his long lanky arms around, then demonstratively moved his hand over his body, where there was a definitive lack of bulk.
“Yea, I guess you have a point there, and scout would probably suit you if you can manage to keep your mouth shut for a second.”
“Haha, very funny miss wall splatter, tell me, what will you do?”
“Probably just going to stay a generalist without specification. Gives the most flexibility on the battlefield I’d wager.”
“Bold move, it could hamper career opportunities early on you know”
With an uncaring shrug, Mareah got up from the table.
“I came from the slums, I’ve got low standards”
In the doorway the frame of Nimra had appeared, darkening the doorway. The chatter stopped in the dining hall and the sound of hastily scuffling to their feet filled the hallway.