The scorching sun baked the ground, causing steam to rise off the shit in the open ditch latrines. The smell hit Nathye as he walked with Gyles Gelnne and Edmugh in front of the men. Gyles had invited him to view the current state of the trainees. Nathye, curious about his army and thinking about the glorious legion he would march on Duke Drewill, had readily accepted.

He was coming to regret this now. The men stood before him, looking more like meandering rows of ants than the orderly lines he saw in paintings in his family’s home. They were wearing the ragtag farm clothing they had arrived with since Nathye did not have the funds to equip them with uniforms. He felt he was more at risk of being mobbed by sheep than of being attacked by an army.

“We have eight hundred left, Your Grace,” said Gyles Gelnne.

“We had more than a thousand. What happened to the rest?“

“Some of them died. We do not have great conditions here, though, in truth, it is good training for the field.”

“I can smell that.” Nathye had a kerchief tied across his nose and mouth despite the heat. The horrible smell was getting to him.

“Some ran away when they could not handle the training.”

“Ran away?”

“Yes. We caught some of them, the rest have disappeared, probably back to their parent’s farms.”

“Are any of them here?”

“Yes, Your Grace. That group over there, being guarded.” Gyles pointed to five men who were standing at the end of the first row.

Nathye walked over, looking at the men. There were armed guards next to them.

“Draw your swords,” he told the guards, who did so.

The prisoners, four men and one woman, looked at the guards behind them, then at Nathye.

“You“—Nathye stood in front of the first, a boy of about sixteen. “I understand you want to go home.”

“Yes, sir. I am not ready for this..this...this life,” the boy was shaking, eyes down, not daring to look Nathye in the eyes.

“Kill him,” he told the guard who was standing behind the boy.

The guard, sword drawn, looked at Nathye to make sure he heard right. Nathye nodded.

“No, no, please, sir, I will—” the sword cut into his neck, severing his jugular and windpipe and cutting off his speech. Blood sprayed out in a half circle to the side where the sword had cut. The man blinked while the guard used his boot for leverage to pull the sword out. His body collapsed to the floor, blood pumping into the ground.

Flicking blood off his vest, Nathye moved on to the next in line, a girl slightly older. “And you, are you ready to serve the duchy?”

The whites of her eyes were clearly visible as she looked at the body on the floor next to her. She looked to Nathye and said, “Yes, sir!”

The rest of the men also had no compunction serving.

“If they run again,” Nathye told Gyles, “kill them. How are the rest of the men? Are they ready to fight?”

“As ready as we can make them. They need to be bloodied, Your Grace, but I worry that we cannot take a walled city with this force. Ser Dafeld said we needed a lot more soldiers.”

Stolen story; please report.

“Ser Dafeld is not in charge!”

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“The traders are complaining about the raised taxes, Your Grace,” Ser Ancis said. Ever failing to lighten the mood, he was bringing up the next order of business at the war council.

“Raised taxes make raised voices, Ser Ancis. It is your job, and that of the tax collectors, to mute them,” Nathye said.

“They are saying that they cannot run their trade with taxes so high and without raising their prices, which you have also not allowed.”

“Allow me to make an example of one or two of them, Your Grace. The rest will fall into place,” said Baron Hany.

“Very well,” said Nathye. “Edmugh, support the baron with troops as needed.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the new commander of the army.

“Your Grace—” Ser Ancis said.

“No! I don’t want to hear more about these petty complaints.”

These endless meetings were grating on Nathye’s nerves. He’d started raising an army a few months ago. His plan was to ride gloriously into battle, but instead, he was going in reverse. His army was shrinking, he was dealing with unhappy farmers and traders, and he had to walk through fields that smelled as if someone had died in them. In fact, people have died in them. Did all heroes have to deal with this?

“There is another matter, Your Grace,” said Edmugh. “Duke Drewill had sent emissaries.”

“He was bound to hear we are raising an army,” Nathye said. “What does he want?”

“To meet with you, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I will receive them in the great hall. Tomorrow.”

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Nathye sat on his high chair in the great hall. He had opted to receive the messengers formally but had not dressed for the occasion, wearing simple pants and a tunic. He was sitting sideways on it, legs dangling from the side, a wine glass in his hand.

Ser Ancis led the two men in, and Nathye guffawed. The duke had sent a diplomat, some elderly men who looked as officious as his own castellan, with thick mustache and nose in the air. The other person coming in was not a man at all, but the boy Georguy Drewill, that discoverer of snot.

The boy was dressed in fineries, a red coat with the Drewill coat of arms on its breast, matching pants, and boots. The look was ruined by the fact that he barely reached Nathye’s navel, and his mousy brown hair had been undone from sleeping against something while waiting for Nathye to receive them.

They approached, and Ser Ances announced, “Lord Georguy and Ser Robert, on behalf of Duke Drewill.”

“Welcome, cousin,” Nathye said, smiling at the boy.

Georguy visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping as he allowed himself a deep breath. “Your Grace,” he gave a small bow as appropriate.

“Your Grace”—a deeper bow from Ser Robert.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Nathye asked.

“The Duke bade us come with two goals, Your Grace. The Duke understands offense might have been given, unintentionally, at your ascension. If so, I would like to offer my apologies, as would young Lord Georguy.”

“I see,” said Nathye, straightening up in his chair, legs on the floor now. He placed the cup on a nearby table, then leaned in. “What offense might that be?”

“Your Grace, the young lord here might have drunk a bit more than appropriate, celebrating your ascension. He wanted to offer an apology for any, eh, unlordly behavior.”

Georguy Drewill bobbed his head, not saying anything.

“I understand. We did bring out our father’s best wine that night,” said Nathye.

“Good,” said Ser Robert, his arms that were clasped behind his back now coming to rest by his side. “The second reason my Duke had me come here is the rumors he heard about the army you are raising.”

“The army?” Nathye asked.

“Yes, the one we saw when we rode into town.”

“I had not realized rumors had reached as far as Owdale, Ser Robert.”

“Your Grace, to put it plainly, the duke would like to know who you plan on fighting.”

“I see.” Nathye stood up from his chair. ”There was a conversation at the dinner table the night of my ascension. The young lord here gave me the idea. Come, Georguy, let me show you something.” With that, Nathye walked down from the dais and extended his arm to Georguy.

The boy looked to Nathye, then to Ser Robert next to him. Smiling, he walked over to Nathye.

Nathye turned towards a side door. When Ser Robert, Ser Ancis, and the guards made to follow, he said, “Allow my cousin and I a few moments.”

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Nathye returned to the great hall a few minutes later, carrying a canvas bag. The conversation died down as he climbed back up to his high chair.

“Your Grace, where is the young lord?” asked Ser Robert.

Nathye held out his hand, forestalling any further pleas. “At dinner that night, young Georguy suggested we raise an army and go fight the mountains. I understand the duke has an older daughter?”

“Yes, Your Grace. What has that do to with—”

Nathye made a throwing motion with the canvas bag, holding onto the material. A head came out of the bag and rolled down the stairs, coming to rest on the floor before the Ser Robert. Both of Georguy’s fingers had been severed and stuffed into his nostrils, the grotesque face looking up at the man.

“There, a gift for the duke. I’ve simplified his succession.”