Excerpt From The Mad Scholar's Wall—

Piles of beastmen bodies carpeted the ground our legionaries were forced to retreat from. And it was a retreat. If the legionaries did not step back, they would be overwhelmed and killed.

The weight of numbers was too strong, and injuries continued to mount as the hours passed.

When the outermost ring of earthworks fell, our knights stepped forward, blasting the front ranks of the flood with their elemental powers and pushing the beasts back for the moments the cohorts needed to retreat in good order.

Less than an hour later, we were forced off the second earthwork, and the knights stepped forward again. They threw their conjured balls and blades of fire, water, earth, wind, and lightning into the massed ranks of beasts, causing their advance to falter.

Though the second retreat was not as organized as the first, the knight's efforts were enough for the legionaries to make it back to the third and last line of earthworks.

But then the birds descended on us, and it was all the knights and archers could do to keep the birds from tearing apart the lines as they fell from the sky.

Though it was not a constant need, the support of the knights was required to reinforce areas along earthworks with their explosive powers. To stem the tide of breaches in the line as the legionaries reformed.

Without the knight's support, the death toll along the line began to mount.

And the muddy field, already soaked with the blood of the beastmen, had its first real taste of human blood.

**********

The older man stood in place, arms crossed, as I walked up to him. He did turn his head slightly as I approached, but he never took a step from where he stopped with his men. Didn't even really turn his body.

Giving him a salute, I said, "Centurion."

I was kind of surprised that he was here. In the Fish Camps, the majority of people, who were not the actual fish, were commanders — or guard commanders if you are getting technical — who were the leaders of the squads making up a century.

Though in a Fish Camp, three commanders are usually placed in charge of anywhere from twenty to a hundred fish to whip them into shape for basic training. However, there was hardly ever a hundred fish in a training group as they were typically broken down into smaller units or had more commanders assigned to help out.

Within an actual legion, there were around sixty centurions. But in a fish legion, there might be ten, but more likely around five. All of which reported to a single tribune overseeing the camp with his sub-tribunes.

I hadn't seen any sign of the tribune, and the two subs and one centurion I saw all had their necks torn out. A stark difference from the usually none serious wounds inflicted on the fish I was finding. Might be taking a leap here… But I think they were targeted.

Glancing at the long strip of red running along the man's pants leg, signifying the rank of a centurion, I reassured myself that I wasn't seeing things. Apparently, the beastkin didn't do a good enough job disrupting the fish camp's command, as they missed at least this one.

I stood, shoulders slightly slumped, as the steal gaze of the man raked over me once before he went back to looking at the wounded all around us.

"What's a scout doing here and not looking for the enemy." His voice was calm, but there was steel laced through his words. An iron-clad resolve that others would bend to or be broken by.

A slight feeling of amusement filled me at his words. He was accusing me of shirking my duty during wartime without actually saying it. It was a legitimate question. Finding a camp in camp was strange.

Understandable that emotions were high at the moment. Hundreds died, and more than a thousand were wounded. And they were mostly fish.

I mean, it could be a problem if I was actually shirking my duty, but I wasn't this time, so I had nothing to be concerned about. Making the comment fall into the amusing category.

Amusing it might be, but I was too tired for it to affect me.

"I was training the scout trainees out on the Grounds." I tiredly said, "And when I saw them coming, I sent out the pulse message. Glad it did something," I said, looking over the organized century of men behind the centurion.

"Humph." The man grunted and gave me a look of surprise and slight skepticism, "That was you?" He asked, and I felt a slight brush against my mind as he sent out a tendril of energy. “Huh… Thought for sure whoever sent that would die. Too far from camp."

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I knew he wasn't questioning my claim, as his tendril would have felt the same signature as the message from me. If he knew enough to look, he could sense the difference.

A brief smile of pride flashed on my face at his tone of mild surprise before I answered his unasked question. "We gathered around the pitfalls and had a team dig out a bunker while the rest of us held them back. Once the bunker was made, it was easy to hold out with our swords and new ammunition."

The man let out a grunt of approval as he asked, "You used the compressed dirt from digging as ammunition? Haven't heard of that trick being used in decades."

"Yes, Centurion. My dad told me of it from his time in the 16th."

"He was in the trenches at Mara's Gorge?"

"No, he was one of the scouts working the cliffs." I said with more than a hint of pride.

"Damn," The older man drew out the word while giving me a look that could almost be called respect and was definitely a reappraisal of my skills. "Not many scouts made it through that mess. Not that those of us in the trenches did much better. Though they damn well always needed us to save their asses when they got caught coming back with their reports. What was his name, I might know him.”

There was an air of normalcy in the air between us, and it was spreading outwards as we spoke.

“His name was Speckle. And I wouldn't know about that you saving anyone. But my father always said that without the scouts collapsing the cliff face, the right flank would have been overrun long before relief ever came. He always told me how the grunts couldn't ever seem to hold a trench 'longer than a damn hour'." At the end, I tried to mimic my father's voice.

“Hmm? I don’t recall him. And is that what he told you?" He asked, his mustache twitching in what might be a smile.

"Well, my experience might be limited and relatively recent, but from what I have learned, holding a trench or tunnel isn't that hard. So I could understand his opinion if the grunts were having an overly hard time lasting."

"Huff! Complete and utter Kawra crap!" He said with a sweep of his arm, gesturing behind him. "These legionaries aren't even half-trained, and I bet you'll drop before long them! Though I do appreciate you doing the easy part and informing us of the enemy. A little more warning would be nice, though."

There was a rustle of movement as the century behind him stuck out their chests in pride and nodded in agreement with the Centurion's statement.

"You might be right. I'm feeling a little tired," I said, making a show of rolling my shoulders and yawning, "I should take my trainees and go, still need to teach them how to waltz through a forest properly and finding pleasant beds of moss to sleep all day on. You know, scout stuff."

"Leaving these fine boys and me all the hard work of picking up this mess?"

"You know what they say, Centurion."

"Scouts are only around when there's no work, or they got bad news?"

I saluted him before taking a few steps back, saying, "Took the words right out of my mouth, Centurion. I got no more bad news, and to me, this looks like hard work."

With that, I spun and shouted over the growing grumbles, jeers, and snickering of the century behind me, "Scout trainees! Gather at the camp's entrance. We're leaving!"

Behind me, more and louder jibes and jeers were thrown out as it became apparent that I really was leaving, but I ignored them. It would defeat the whole point of the conversation with the Centurion if I tried to punish them after all.

“What’s your name scout?” The centurion call to me as I left.

“Scout Green.” I called over my shoulder as I kept walking headed towards the exit. I figured out pretty fast what the Centurion wanted when he first called me over.

It wasn't a report on the wounded and dead. Anything of that nature would be too soon to be accurate. And while he was trying to take over command of the wounded collection area, he was also looking for a conversation to lighten the mood of the troops and maybe put some fire inside them.

Since I was a scout and was basically outside of the common command structure, and with the well-known tension between scouts and legion grunts, it was a perfect chance.

Besides, I was wasting my time here. Someone needed to help out and set up a casualty collection point, but everything was already rolling, and others could take over. I had other things to do.

Either I would be training the potential scouts to the limit they could bare, or we would all head out into the forest for real scouting. Those were the only options, and the sooner I found out which one would be demanded of me, the sooner I could rest and prepare for what was to come.

I watched as the Centurion started handing out duties to the squads of the century and anyone that looked like they were standing around.

Three of the squads he told to help the wounded and carry those on stretches back to The Triad, while the rest he sent out searching for wounded in the destruction.

Any and everyone could hear his voice barking over the groans of the wounded as he set a fire under their asses to get to work.

As the Centurion took control of the chaos, word spread that I had called for my trainees to gather at the entrance. And those who didn't hear my shout and immediately wrapped up what they were doing and joined me quickly heard the grumbles of the legionaries about me and sought me out.

Once we were all gathered, I led them out of the Fish Camp and along the dirt road leading from the camp to The Triad.

The road was only half a mile long, and even in the moon's dim light, we were quickly covering the distance.

Halfway, when the din of the wounded faded and the shouts and noise of reconstructing the main entrance to the northeastern fort were building, I spoke to the trainees.

"We are heading to the scout section of the barracks inside Fort Fish. You will settle in and rest, and in the morning, I will tell you what to expect. Understood?"

"Yes, Instructor!" Shouted a chorus of voices. At least their actually treating me like an Instructor now. Silver lining, I guess.

As I turned and continued to walk, I internally groaned. I wanted to find a bunk and sleep, but I still needed to find out what we were supposed to do.

Fucking hate being in command, I complained to myself.