The announcement they would be leaving for the front was simultaneously anticipated and unexpected. As they approached the halfway point in their training there had been rampant speculation amongst the Militia Recruits as to when they would be heading to war. As the days went by with no announcements the tension settled into a steady, underlying rumble.

Therefore, when Lieutenant Bligh stepped out to address them at morning parade, Niall did not suspect anything and allowed his mind to drift. However, after her first few words she had his full attention.

“Recruits. We leave for the Forward Base Glaive an hour before dawn tomorrow morning. The rest of today will be spent preparing.

“The march will take around two weeks. Those of you who have not yet achieved your Militia class I suggest you use the time carefully. You will not be excused from any duties when we are at the front simply because you have not advanced fast enough.

“One final thing. This marks the end of the main period of your training. As such you will now be known as the 3rd Regiment, Duke of Lanton Militia. Congratulations.”

There was a ripple of excitement and nervousness that characterised the recruits for the rest of that day. Niall shared it. There was little time to dwell, though, as there was much to be done before they left. Bed rolls, rations, waterskins and a dozen other items were issued by the quartermaster and his team. Backpacks were packed and the Sergeant insisted the barracks were thoroughly cleaned before they left.

However, eventually the recruits went to bed. There was a thrum of excitement but, in time, the barracks were filled with even breathing and light snores.

In his cot, Niall found sleep eluded him. He sat up in bed and called up his Testimony. His efforts over the previous weeks had led to noticeable improvements. Not only was he one of only half a dozen people that had reached Militia 5 but he had also increased his Spear and Short sword Skill to the extent that he was able to occasionally beat Tierra with the spear and, once or twice, held Trintor to a draw with the sword.

He stared at his numbers then, with an irritated gesture, swiped them away. His sword lay in its rack next to his bed. He stared at it for a moment then picked it up. With a near silent whisper, he pulled it out of its sheath and examined it.

The light from the moons outside reflected off the blade. This was not a game. Somehow in the process of working and training he had managed to supress the knowledge that this was all preparation for battle. Tomorrow they were going to head to a fight from which he may not return. He could feel the anger rising within him as he recalled Mak, Fangast and Rafaela.

A wave of longing for home swept over him. He just wanted to hug his parents and tease his sister. In the last few months, he had become a killer, an efficient and effective one to boot. How was that possible?

“Is Niall alright?” Pobble’s voice was hesitant in his head.

“I asked you for help with this war once before, Pobble. I’m going to ask again. Help me save my friends.” Niall stared at the moonslight glittering on the blade as he thought his reply rather than speaking out.

There was a long silence before Pobble spoke again. “There are rules, Niall. The same rules that govern the promise L’Mor made. Pobble can only help in specific ways. The consequences if Pobble saves Niall from death are severe.”

“Severe? More severe than death? Really? I’ve seen how things work. Skills just appear. If you can manipulate Spirit like you say you can, then you can just give me the ability to blast firebolts or whatever. But, instead, you’d rather just let me, and all those around me, die. I need strength.”

“This is about Rafaela, Mak, and Fangast.”

Niall did not say anything but, instead, simply stared at his reflection in the sword.

Eventually Pobble spoke again. “Arcane knowledge does not work like that. Even if Pobble gave Niall the knowledge of how to do something, he would not be able to carry it out.

“It would be as if Pobble handed Niall a comprehensive tome on amputating a leg. It would tell him exactly what he needed to do in every respect, but it would ultimately be useless. Without the hours of practice and the associated knowledge and experience Niall would end up killing someone the first time he tried.”

There was another long silence.

“Niall has the Skills he needs.” said Pobble. “Pobble is not lying about Niall being clueless. In so many ways Niall still is an idiot. But, when it comes to fighting and war, Niall is neither clueless, nor an idiot. He is already far better than most Militia and even many soldiers. This time in the field is likely to be dangerous and unpleasant. But, if he gets through this war, it will give Niall the best possible chance of survival in the longer term. The best possible chance to get home.”

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There was a pause and then Pobble spoke again. “And Pobble does care. Despite an existence that has lasted longer than Niall can imagine, Pobble has not experienced emotion directly before now, only observed it. Being part of Niall means Pobble cares about what Niall cares about: his friends, his family, his patrol. Pobble wants Niall to survive so they can play together for longer. When Niall acquires the right type of knowledge, Pobble can do more. But Pobble is constrained until then. When Pobble can help, Pobble will help.”

Niall sat there, the words from the strange being in his head strangely comforting. He put his sword away and got back into bed.

As Niall lay there, he felt Pobble’s presence remain rather than slipping away as it usually did. It remained close, even as he drifted off to sleep.

***

The false dawn lit up the sky the next morning, its grey light illuminated the recruits as they lined up on the parade ground. This time, each of them wore an identical pack over their leather armour. Short swords were strapped to their sides and each carried their shield and spear. Lieutenant Bligh looked over them all and nodded. With a shout Sergeant Strang ordered them out and the recruits headed off in a well-practised march.

There was a summer mist that accompanied them as they headed out of the camp along familiar roads. However, by the time the sun rose, everything Niall saw was new.

They marched for the whole of that day with only brief stops for cold meals and to refill their water skins. The inhabitants of the villages they marched through only gave them cursory glances as they passed through. This close to the army barracks, it was clear that marching troops, even if they were just militia, was a common sight.

After ten days or so things were very different. The villages they passed now had walls around them with gates manned by hard-eyed guards. While there were still farms, every so often Niall saw a burnt-out farmhouse surrounded by overgrown fields.

That afternoon the Lieutenant called a halt and the order came down the line to step off the road. Niall moved his Patrol as instructed. A column of men and women marched by. At first glance they looked like ordinary soldiers, their equipment well maintained and their steps steady. However, quickly, Niall realised they were the walking wounded. Despite not having any superficial injuries, each of them missed some part of their body. A hand or a foot or an entire limb. A number of them were missing eyes or ears.

Niall squared his shoulders and made a vow to himself as they passed: he was not going to become one of them. The former recruits, now fully fledged Militia, watched from the side of the road until the last wounded soldier had disappeared around the corner.

“Mark them well.” The Lieutenant stepped out into the centre of the road to face the militia column. “Those are the lucky ones. Even though they were found too late to heal their injuries, they are the ones that get to go home. When you’re thinking of dozing off on watch. When you’re thinking of sneaking an extra break during training. When you’re thinking you can leave the nicks in your sword for one more day. Remember the ones that didn’t return.”

With that the column was back on the road. As they progressed, they passed more groups of wounded heading in the opposite direction, while also overtaking numerous carts and wagons as they passed. Niall looked in as they passed. They contained everything from food, and building supplies to weapons. One even contained all of the pieces of what looked like a dismantled siege weapon of some sort. They were also briefly stopped on two occasions by patrols that spoke to the Lieutenant before they were allowed to continue on their way.

As dusk fell on the last day of the second week, they crested one final hill and looked down on an army camp the size of a small town. Each part of the camp had a purpose that was obvious even from above. The whole site was surrounded by a ditch and a tall wooden wall with manned watchtowers set at regular intervals.

Clear, well-maintained paths, separated one section from another. The centre of the camp was dominated by a number of large wooden buildings. There were numerous people flowing in and out of that area, most with that particular confident walk Niall associated with officers. Tents were pitched in neat rows with latrines a suitable distance away. Another area looked to be assigned to medical care. Separate areas were allocated to horses. Other, edible, livestock was penned behind large pavilions that looked to be for cooking and eating.

On the downwind edge of the camp were a large number of temporary smithies, their smoke rising straight up into the darkening summer sky. Even at this late hour, the sound of hammers on metal cut through the hubbub. For a moment the sound transported Niall back to the peace he had known at Devon’s homestead.

Between all those areas thronged numerous soldiers and support personnel. All of them were busy with the various tasks needed to win a war.

There was one anomaly to the bustle of the camp. To the western edge of the camp were a few large tents spaced well apart, both from each other, and from the rest of the camp. Of those seven, one was notably larger than the others. Even from this height, Niall could tell it was more opulent than the rest. Despite the activity in the rest of the camp, this area was quiet with only two or three people moving around within it.

Outside the camp, soldiers entered and left in groups that ranged from half a dozen to entire battalions of several hundred. The majority were moving to, and from, a range of hills to the north. However, there were small patrols that headed off in all directions both on and off the roads.

“Welcome to Forward Base Glaive,” said Sergeant Strang. “This is your home for the foreseeable future.”

The Militia column wound its way down the hill. They marched past the short queue of carts that were lined up at the nearest gate to the camp. A brief discussion and check of paperwork with the officer at the gate and the Militia marched into the camp.

Up close, the camp was as organised as it appeared from above. Niall did not see any rubbish lying around and the officers and soldiers that moved around the camp did so with purpose and urgency. Even those soldiers who were clearly off duty were often busying themselves with maintaining their weapons or armour. While the atmosphere at the camp where they had been training had been efficient, there was a level of urgency and alertness that underlay everything that was done here.

After around a quarter of an hour the column stopped at an empty plot of land. The discoloured rectangles of grass suggested it had recently been occupied by a number of other tents.

“Right,” Sergeant Strang said. “Set up camp. Report back in thirty minutes. Once you’re done, you get to find out what being a real soldier is all about. Playtime’s over.”