The Captain blew into his exposed hands in a vain effort to stave off frostbite. He sighed contemptuously before continuing his brief stroll through the northern camp. Scowling, he rested his left hand instinctively on the hilt of his engraved sword, rubbing the pommel fondly. His freshly polished and decorated armor glittered under the soft torch light, the falling snow sparkling around his bulky form like white confetti. The weight of his full gear forced him to leave deep impressions in his wake. Sentries and patrols stopped to salute him as he passed, but he ignored them in favor of arriving at his destination before daybreak.
Legate Iris, his superior, was found instructing her group of peasants in sword sparring. His scowl only deepened upon seeing her, the pompous brat. He rose to his station after slaughtering hundreds of the Republic's enemies. Yet this pup flew above him just because her father was the General of the northern forces. He would never accept that a woman could lead men, real men, into battle, much less this rabble of paupers.
"You call this lot soldiers," he scoffed, just loud enough for everyone to hear. He took in their rags and mismatched armor, some wore none at all. "Pathetic!" Each of the recruits glanced at each other hesitantly, wary of drawing attention. The Legate tilted her head slightly, frowning, before brightening quickly with painfully clear mirth.
"Everyone gather round," she started, gesturing for everyone to form up. "Captain Brack is offering his experience and wisdom, a rare occasion indeed!" Captain Brack glared openly at the Legate Iris, hand tightening on his blade. Gritting his teeth and biting back several colorful insults, he wisely decided to play along instead. At least he could vent some anger.
The recruits were now lined up and fearfully glancing at the Captain, shuffling slightly in place so they didn't freeze where they stood. The Captain slowly paced up and down the line of twenty, examining every inch of them for flaws. He halted in front of a lanky man who looked to be in his thirties. His posture was terrible, he held much less armor than the others, his sword had several chips, and he was wearing straw sandals.
Perfect.
"You there; step forward," he ordered. The man sluggishly stepped forward, looking dejected, but resigned to his fate. " Draw your weapon. Count yourself lucky to learn from someone with actual combat experience." Brack commanded as he drew his pristine gladius with practiced fluidity. Meanwhile, the man fumbled to get his sword out of his belt, and it took several seconds before he could hold it still without shaking. Brack's grin grew unnaturally wide. "Come."
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The Legate had grabbed a chair from her tent along with some warm tea before sitting down to watch the fight. It wasn't pretty. Iris watched Brack brutally batter the obviously inferior man with indifference. In the first bout, Brack knocked the sword clean from the man's grip, scoring a deep cut across the left tricep. Brack the Black lived up to his reputation. He didn't stop for tears. The second match ended with a similar result while Brack belittled the greenhorn with insults and obscenities. The third, fourth and fifth concluded the same way. As did the all the rest.
Frowning, Iris looked down into her cup. She was out of tea. She had refilled it several times to the tune of swords clashing and finally ran dry. Sighing, she set down her cup and looked at the training ground. Brack's breath was clearly visible with each exhale of his heaving chest. His plaything lay crumpled on the ground, the snow stained red around what remained, sprinkled with shattered steel.
"Finally," Brack stated, wiping the blood off his blade with an embroidered handkerchief. "Dogs should stay down." He spat. Turning away, he shethed his sword and smriked as he strutted past the shiverring recruits. "You mutts aren't even worth being fodder!" Fear drained the remaining color from their frostbitten cheeks. Brack was pleased with himself until the sound of crunching snow tickled his ears. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck caused him to creak his head back to observe the pile of bones he'd left to rot.
The corpse was standing.
The encroaching dawn easily illuminated the hellish scene. The nameless man stood, broken hilt in hand, left arm limp and oozing blood onto the frozen earth. Barefooted, a gash along his right thigh bubbled and gasped irregularly as morning fog swirled up to reveal a battered face. His left eye was swollen black and a cut across his temple ran blood into his one functional eye, a piece of his right ear... severed, while the flesh on his right cheek dangled off like peeled apple skins. His gaze bore into Brack, promising retribution.
Brack took an involuntary step back. He did. Him! Enraged, Brack began to draw his sword again when the man spoke through wheezes.
"Dogs," he croaked, barely audible. "Dogs," he repeated, coughing this time. Dropping his useless weapon to the ground he took a shaky step forward, his remaining eye fixated on Brack.
"DOGS!" he bellowed.
The recruits retreated and stumbled.
Brack stiffened from the sudden roar.
Iris crossed her legs, leaning back with a smirk.
"We are Sons! Daughters, Brothers, Sisters, Fathers," each word grew in pitch and was punctuated with indomitable will. His stumble forward was like the march of a wrathful King.
"We happily launch ourselves onto their swords," he continued softly. "So that you may strike the killing blow," he accused, spitting venomously. "Our blood and sinew will drown your enemy!" Coughing blood, he pulled back a trembling fist... and punched ineffectively into Brack's untarnished ornate breastplate.
"Dogs, you say..." he murmured, a secret between only them, before collapsing to the ground, leaving a bloody trail down Brack's body.