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Ch. 1 pt. II
It is a quick trip back. Beyond breaking camp is combat and all the chaos that may or may not involve. His fist grips instinctively at the well-worn hilt of his sword. He doesn’t have to try hard to be ready to kill so instead he does the breathing exercise that he has been practicing and tries to relax. He doesn’t have to be in combat until he is.
The breathing helps and he finds himself enjoying the short hike. They are on the cusp of the wetlands where birds sing their celebration of the early morning sun and the smells of the pine forest welcome the warmth of the new day. The dew from the night before is drying in bright sparkles. The forest is alive with leaves dancing in dappled light and chirps and rustles in the bushes. He almost wishes he could just stop here and call it home. Or just stay for a few days more and do a little hunting and rest, which means training and exercise. To the chagrin of his soldiers, he actually loves working the kinks out with some heavy sweating. In fact, that’s his plan, a little kink working out then off to save a baker.
His people come from the mountain clans. By Moroden’s will, he was saved by random chance by the now long-dead former captain of the King’s guard. His master and teacher. A legendary paladin that will never be forgot. The Baladorian king had sent a couple of companies of his guard to assist in the war. Geon was almost killed as an infant, if not for Ser Bradley. The old paladin saved him and took him back to camp and quickly learned if you touch a war orphan, it’s yours, forever.
As the dwarves dug deep into the mountain and many caves and clans offshoot from the originals, he was raised in the Baladoran capital and trained as a holy warrior of Moroden. He has taken many pilgrimages to the Mountain, and if it weren't for his devotion to Moroden they all would likely have rejected him. Not that he goes back often. Last visit was more than a half a century ago. Two kings ago. So different than when he was at his family hearth. A cave that was stripped clean of all clan life by the invasion of trolls.
Most refugees went to another cave but war was brought to the mountain. And many more lives were lost. Peace was made when every last vestige of those foul creatures was destroyed.
With his promise to Moroden, Ser Geon also has declared trolls extinct and any who violate that edict will meet his sword.
Then he is at the edge of the clearing in which they camped, he finds his horse tied up as he left her last night. The sleeping spot he chose is nearby. He stops to brush the nag, a white horse blessed by the Clerics of Moroden. Already a stunning specimen of war horse, the blessing gave her a long life and increased her use by adding stamina and strength plus a degree more intelligence. She can’t talk or any such bollocks, but he swears sometimes it’s like she can read his mind and a horse that can sense and adjust to danger was invaluable when it came to ending threats to the kingdom.
He fishes out a few carrots from his saddle bag resting nearby, and slowly feeds them to her. This horse is a veteran of many adventures and battles and almost as important to him as his sword. That piece of sharpened metal was a family heirloom that will be buried with him, she will probably die on some battlefield and be replaced, if he makes it. Chances are if she dies, he dies, and then they all, sword included, get buried under the short memory of history. He’ll be the last of his line.
He hears Jem and that beast of a female dwarf, both on the last night watch, start their wake-up duties. A fire begins to crackle and a camp kettle is laid on new flames to heat for tea.
Then duo do their best to wake the rest of the group. Geon watches, always on the lookout for good Sergeants. Jem was a smithee and not a bad one either, but the dwarf, if not so volatile, would be a great motivator. But her drinking when in town would be a huge problem.
He lets them drink a bit at camp. No overindulging, but he has learned that by allowing them drink he is less likely forced to have to go find them by sun up after they go looking for a score. Plus hungover troops make good killers and good killers can turn a battle. He knows that last part is a bit bullshite because winning battles takes good communication and absolute loyalty joined with brutal training, but it’s because he trusts that training that he allows for a little Bandalorian Whiskey at the fire.
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It's one of his few indulgences also. Drinking is the one thing most soldiers look forward to in the barracks back at the citadel. So now they have nothing to miss. Except food.
Field food is never good and always leaves a belly wanting more. After they train, they will eat the same meal they’ve been eating every day since the first. Pemican cakes toasted in bacon grease by the mess cooked three days ago the night before they left. No one is in a hurry to tear into another one.
Jem says, "Steven, dear, it is time to start a new day." His efforts result in no new condition for the man asleep in front of him, deeply snoring. Stephen is a solid archer. He is strong and capable and not afraid to wield a spear when out of arrows. Some archers can’t kill up close but Stephen could slit throats with the best of them. But he could be a bear to wake.
Geon sighs. Jem will never succeed like that.
Most soldiers on the watch consider Jem a bit of a dandy. He knows the lad does not appreciate the description either. So, when Stephen doesn't wake, Jem makes an attempt to correct his reputation by placing the toe of his boot to Stephen's bottom. Comically the man just snuggles deeper into his sleeping-roll, and Jem moves on to Tom, Peter, and Harold, three brothers from the Smithees brood of eight. Freckled with red hair, each child spent time in turn on the watch. Now it was these three's turn, staggered a year apart from eighteen to twenty. Jem attempts to wake the youngest.
"Hey, whichever-one-you-are, wake up," he nudges softly at the sleeping-stockinged foot as if wishing, idiotically, not to wake the next one over.
Greck has no problem waking the whole swath by kicking a bladder bag of cold water into the faces of all of them at once. She cackles and readies herself for the results by quickly ripping a pine branch from a tree and placing herself on guard.
Those three men, well, boys to be fair, shoot to their feet and begin circling the stocky dwarf, stepping on each other as they go, not moving as a team. As if even even then, they’d stand a chance against her.
"Come and get some, whore sons!" she chides, cuffing one on the ear when he gets too close. He falls over head first and remains down rubbing his head, moaning.
Another of the brothers aggresses but trips over his own feet in too much of a hurry and fails to get a shot in. He quickly finds himself prone, not expecting a whirling defense that sends him flying ten paces out of camp and nearly falling head first into the open cat hole.
"Cover that while you're over there, would ya, sweetie," Greck asks, knowing even though they are the same rank- conscript- the youth will follow her orders. That or he will get his ass buried with the piss and shit.
A long ago Mountain pig farmer, with her bulbous belly, and a thick white scar running the length of the right side of her face, she faces off with the remaining three. They know she is the best bar-room brawler in all of Banalor. It’s complete crap, though, because even if she weren’t in Banalor she would be the best brawler and she’s mentioned this several times to anyone who will listen. It just isn’t fair.
She has proved her point so often, that eventually she got sloppy and killed a minor city official.
“I hear dwarf ladies give good head,” he demanded, so drunk that the words that got him killed were almost incomprehensible. Maybe the words could have been laughed off, she was a merchant's guard, after all. Not a bad job and she managed to get a contract with one of the biggest outfits around. It’s how she grew her rep. Then he grabbed her left tit. Or, well-hardened pectoral muscle tipped with soft feminine flesh. She was offended. Now he not only had a big mouth but also had disrespectful hands. In less than a moment, she cut him from gut to gullet. Destroyed that tavern’s floor in the process, she did. The wound left the official gaping like a fish, he lived long enough for her to tell him why he had to die.
The killing almost sent her to the gallows and would have if Geon hadn’t seen potential. He drafted her. Today, she’ll serve as an expert because when one needs to kill a pig, one uses a pig killer.
The four go round and round for a few minutes until Ser Geon steps in and organizes some training. First; they go on a 10,000-pace run finishing back at camp. Stretching and some minor resistance put them into drills. Stephen, as the squad's archer, goes off to rub some bear fat on his string and sharpen his arrowheads. He draws his bow a few times working those well-worn muscles. He does no target practice because in the field arrows are precious. He has done enough target practice back in garrison Geon has no doubt about his abilities.
Two of the brothers pair off and the third faces the dwarf female, she smiles and Geon yells out, “Half speed. Don’t kill each other.”
They don’t kill each other but they do warm each other up and when Geon makes the decision to quit for breakfast, he is certain Moroden is with them today, and soon they and Thomas Loaf will be heading home.