The wind parts as the weapon is swung in a cleaving arc. The wooden stick strikes the coarse leather of his vest, and the resulting blow knocks him to the grassy cobble. The young man drops his wooden stick to cover the wounded area with both hands, his exhausted face maintaining a shred of dignity.
The lady victorious kneels to lend a hand. A somber smile adorns her words.
“Better this time; at least ya ain’t crying.” The content seems insulting, but the tone carries with it genuine appraisal.
“I’ve gotta start somewhere, and I’ll practice till I can hold my ground, Melory.” Grabbing her hand, he stands one boot up before using her help to stand on both feet. The man dusts off his trousers and picks up the meter-long stick off the ground, his left hand still clutching his painful chest.
Melory grins before standing half a dozen paces back, adopting a readied stance.
Suddenly, a taunting voice from one of the other training bouts arises to her ears.
“Hey! Go easy on Avice. He’s not strong enough to face a woman in combat.” His sly smile shows his palpable amusement at their duel; his foe still recovering from a nimble leg swipe.
“Stiff it, dalcop. You might be able to beat me someday, Jaque, if you focused your eyes on training.” Jaque’s playful taunt grows silent as he turns his head to his foe. Unfortunately for him, the lunging figure swings down wildly at him with the force of vengeance. A swift wallop to his shoulder sends him staggering.
“Ha! You best pay attention to me if you wish not to be a grander fool.” The figure stands upright from her lunge, her victorious smirk apparent from yards away. Avice recognizes the woman to be Ella. The lad is unbeknown to her as much as she is to him. The most poignant observation he could make is that her attitude is akin to that of a piquant summer.
The training is quickly halted as a portly old man trudges his way to the center of the courtyard. The instructor, a man at least in his forties, has a wiry thin mustache and the sharp eyes of an eagle. He stared daggers into the training recruits before barking the next slot of schedule. Avice winced as he knew that physical workout came next, and with it numerous sores and splitting muscles.
It is only with sheer diligence and youthful recklessness that the man persevered training thus far; a frailer child could not have been cursed into creation. The prepubescent boy was sick and bedridden the majority of his childhood. A withering child as opposed to the jubilantly playing kids his age. It was a miracle, conceivably a scornful curse, that his being persisted to maturity.
As always, he struggles during physical exercise. The instructor berates his existence in the army. The motivational words do little for his morale. It is alright in Avice’s mind. He is making small but noticeable improvements in his personal physical attainments. However, he does not consider strength prowess to play a major role in his service.
The truth is, the boy had already tried to volunteer for enlistment at 16, but the recruiter simply shook his head as he witnessed Avice struggle to hold up the long musket. Only after months of exercise could he pass the minimal standards of army service, and even then he was most assuredly the frailest creature in the ranks.
His role in this war was to be a musketman, to deftly load shot and fell target from a distance. The muscle to wield a sword and cover was not needed; that honor was doled out to the truly strong like Jaque and Melory. There was an even greater honor in mages, but he had not seen one in the five years since they’ve started popping up over the continent.
Pull-ups, sprints, push-ups. By the tenth push-up, Avice barely holds form. He is bailed out as the portly instructor blows a horn, signaling the end of physical training. His arms give out mid-push-up and he slumps onto the cool cobble ground. Sweat beads swell around his whole body with palpable concentrations on his pits and forehead. A foul stench emanates from his body. A more appropriate time to bathe could not present itself. Avice pushes off the ground with what little vigor he can muster and meanders the barrack grounds. He is considerably parched, so he makes a quick respite at the well. The humble stone water well resides at the heart of the encampment, with many a recruit already queued to quench thirst. They each take turns raising the bucket to their mouths and drinking. After it is depleted of its contents, the recruit next in line pulleys the bucket for a refill.
Once Avice has waited long enough in line for the bucket, he raises it with both hands to his mouth and takes a big gulp. The water tastes of its usual acridity. The taste was displeasing when Avice first joined a week ago, but it has started to grow on him. He takes another gulp before leaving the ever growing line, making his way to the encampment’s entrance. Many recruits are also meandering about the premise, all at least younger than 25, full of youth and vigor to face the war. The gender breakup was likely a 60-40 male/female split. Occasionally, Avice can see a cocky new recruit trying to hit on another. This is done out of sight of the officers and ends in a slap if the man was lucky. Other times it leads to a position of authority being informed and the lecherous recruit receiving disciplinary action.
As it should be, thought Avice. We are here to grow as soldiers and build camaraderie, not ogle each other.
He reaches the entrance gate and gives a salute to the guard. The guard stands slanted with his back against the wall. A bottle of ale sits by his desk and his long pike rests against the wall. The four guards working at the encampment rotate in shifts, all seeming to be wounded veteran infantry discharged from frontline service. All having the same disconsolate eyes. Eye, in this case. The guard has lost his left eye and a small piece of wrapped cloth covers the wound. Avice didn’t want to pry him about it, assuming he wouldn’t want to disclose his pain.
“Where ya headin, lad?”
“To the stream. Want to cleanse myself head to toe”
The guard’s weary eye looks Avice up and down, before reaching for his ale to take a swig.
“Bathe, ay? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the smell of work ’n fear. You’re gonna hav’ta get used to it after trainin’.’ The veteran gives a foreboding chuckle as if the thought of the fresh recruits facing soldier life was amusing to him.
“Can’t stop your way, tho make haste for lunch after. There won’t be scraps if you’re late.” Avice nods before walking briskly away; he does not like looking in the eye of the veteran. It feels as if he were staring into a potential future, a crestfallen Avice who wants to drink the pain of it all away. He assures himself that the willpower he holds inside is strong enough to persevere. After fighting his sickly nature his whole life, this too will be nothing.
I will prove I have the right to exist in this world, thought the boy, now a young man.
With those thoughts of self-affirmation, he trudges past the greenery scene that the spring of 760 is filled with. A vast field of grass and meadow sprawls out, encompassing the man’s field of vision till the horizon. A trodden dirt road splits the field. A wooden sign reading “Brezin Training Encampment” stands by the side. He follows the dirt road a short ways before reaching a fork in its path. The left leads to a forest and the dirt is quickly replaced with grassy roots. The right is a continuation of the road as far as the eye could see. Avice traverses the left path and becomes encompassed within the forest’s trees. Insects and birds buzz about. The air smells significantly more aromatic and refreshing here than in the stuffy barracks.
He can quickly hear the flowing water of the stream up ahead. He steps carefully around overgrown tree roots and climbs up the inclining dirt to reach the clearing. Poking his head around the cacophony of trees, he can see the pristine water of the natural stream flowing westbound.
The sound of a man’s humming accompanies the rushing water’s gentle noise, he knows it belongs to Jaque as he walks out of the woods and into the clearing, seeing the figure of a man bathing in the water, clothes tucked neatly on a rock. Jaque has always been here everyday after physical training since Avice got here.
Jaque hears the approaching footsteps and turns to meet Avice’s advance. Out of military uniform and glistening with water, the man’s features are more prominent. A tall figure, crowned with a bushel of long blonde hair extended to his shoulders, blue eyes, a fine sharp jaw and a muscular physique. He is the stuff a peasant lady dreams of long into the night to be a suitor. Avice is mildly envious of his looks. Himself being an average-height individual with short black hair, dark hazel eyes, pale complection and a physique similar to that of a stick.
“Greetings, Jaque. Fair day ain’t it?”
“About as fair a day as any. Least it didn’t rain.” Jaque responds in a flippant manner.
“If it rained, wouldn’t need to come out here for a bath now would I?”
Avice responds with a small coyness in his voice, before undressing his clothes and setting them gently aside on another rock. He wades deftly into the stream. A small jolt spreads across his nerves and muscles as his body adjusts for the coolness, but soon he finds it pleasant.
“Gods I miss the private bathhouse at my family’s estate. The aromas of the oil would make any peasant faint in awe.” Jaque’s family was clearly affluent, and his speech and mannerisms reflect it in many ways to the ears of Avice.
“Think of this stint of training as a lesson in humility; cleanliness is gonna be much more deficient on the field.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“I dread that day severely, all the recruits already reek akin to excrement. Hell, most bathe at best once a full moon! My daily bathing self can’t tolerate the stench longer.” He bellows a hearty sigh, placing a hand to his forehead to further dramatize his plight. “It is only a man such as yourself that I can somewhat tolerate, bathing as frequently as I.”
“Cleanliness and good smells are key to health. It’s what most doctors advised for me in youth and now.”
The men bathe in a thoughtful silence. Avice could feel his body being rejuvenated and fatigue dissipating as he spends more time cleaning himself. Avice considers Jaque to be the closest thing he has to a friend at training. Even though he is insufferable at times, he often can hold an insightful and thought-provoking conversation. The creative Avice could appreciate the noble, as he too had a tutor who edified him.
Avice is nearly finished in his bath when Jaque chimes up.
“I still think it’s a mistake for the king to authorize female soldiers in the army. It makes us look desperate and scrapping for manpower after the last war. I also can’t trust the nature of women to make adequate soldiers in the war”
“Perhaps, but isn’t it true? We’re running low on soldiers and needed to recover so much after the war last decade. I respect all those who wish to defend our kingdom in its time of need. Additionally, I suspect you’re just vexed after being wacked by Ella.”
“Shush you!”
Avice can’t help but chuckle after seeing the flustered Jaque splash about in the water, making a pitiful defense for his noble honor. Avice wades out of the water, waits to dry himself off a bit before garbing himself.
“Shall we head back for lunch?”
“After you.” Jaque says as he too finishes his bath
-
Returning back to the encampment, Avice and Jaque make their way into the mess hall. They are not the first by far; most of the mess hall is already crowded with recruits. The officers sat at a different table, away from the rest.
The chef produces a bowl of porridge, a slice of bread and a cooked potato for each of the men. Avice is content with the food, but Jaque looks at it for a moment in pure displeasure, before begrudgingly accepting his meal.
The two meander about the mess hall looking for a decent place to sit, before spotting Melroy and Ella idly chatting by themselves at one of the tables, their food half-eaten. Avice goes closer to sit with them, Jaque looks around, shrugs, before following.
“You two clean yourselves up again?” Melroy says, addressing the two as they sit down. Here, sitting at the table across from her, Avice can make out her details better than in the frantic bout. She is a medium-height brunette with long eyelashes and green pupils, her hair cut just below the chin. Impressive biceps and vitality for a lady
“Aye, twas nice as usual. A man such as myself must make sure his dashing looks are always maintained.” Jaque does an exaggerated hair flip to further emphasize his point.
“Right, and also wash away your shame.” Ella says with a slight giggle as she verbally prods the flamboyant man.
“Silence Harlot!” Jaque points an accusatory finger in her direction, but she starts laughing jubilantly and couldn’t stop. Avice takes in her looks at this moment. She is a short black-haired lady with hazel eyes and a wide grin. Her hair flows past her shoulders. Her limbs are thin and slender. She is surprisingly agile from what Avice saw of her in sparring bouts.
“I jest, I jest!” Her cheery attitude calms down the enraged Jaque.
Avice and Melroy can’t help smiling at the two’s interactions with each other. They are almost always amusing to spectate.
“So, what have you two been gossiping about prior?” Avice inquisitively asks, taking a big spoonful of porridge.
“Oh, just our time in training, how we joined the army, usual mundane banter.” Melroy responds nonchalantly.
“Pray do tell if you could so kindly. I don’t remember hearing either of your reasons for joining the effort.”
“I joined to prove to my enlisted brothers that I was on par with them, both physically and mentally.” Melroy puts a fist over her heart and holds a stoic look as she explains. “Even though I am born a lass, I still yearn for knighthood on equal footing.”
Avice can understand her sentiment. Even if life seems to guide you a certain way at birth, to challenge it and pursue your dreams regardless is noble. Ella gives a small clapping applause, clearly moved by her announcement. Jaque gives a sly look in disregard, as if to say “Good luck with that.”
“I’m not here for anything special like that”, Ella starts, “I was conscripted. My village sits on the border and is at risk of invasion. My parents made a deal with the lords, to have the right to conscript their children in exchange for the land they reside in now.
Avice nods solemnly, conscription is becoming more widespread now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be, I hold no ill will. It was a necessity given our soldier deficiency since the first war.”
“We lost a lot of good men.” Jaque adds. Everyone at the table became silent. They had all lost loved ones during the first war. Avice was no exception.
Ella rises from her seat, holding a fist up and adorning her pleasant-on-the-eyes smile. “Bear up! I want to make the most of the situation, and see more of the world now than I ever could’ve back home.”
“Spoken proud and strong”
“You said something I can tolerate for once”
“…….Ey, i kn acri tu dat” Breadcrumbs trail out of Avice’s mouth as he had just taken a big bite from his bread loaf, his cheeks full of wheat.
Everyone else at the table bursts out into laughter and snickering, the sight of Avice’s mouth trying to speak and chew being too funny. The silent atmosphere is obliterated.
-
After some time passes, everyone finishes their meals and sits up from the table. They are all heading off to their final fit of training, branching into different unit specializations. Jaque and Melroy head over to the frontline skirmish training course. Ella follows Avice to the marksmanship course.
It takes a bit to get there. Ella jaunts and skips playfully on the way.
“So Avice, why are you in the army? You’re quite young.” Ella remarks, intrigue clear in her tone.
“Cause I wanted to prove myself, that I could support my homeland in its crisis” Avice tries to match the stoic address Melory typically does, but it falls flat coming from him.
“Prove yourself, ey? I don’t think you needed to join the army to prove that.” Ella looks at him with a smile. Avice tilts his head in confusion looking at her. “What I mean, Avice, is that there’s plenty of other ways to support a war effort other than being a soldier. Farmers and architects are as vital as soldiers y’know?”
The man contemplates the thought, mulling it over. He knows precisely why he volunteered, but doesn’t quite feel comfortable sharing something so personal, thus he shares part of the truth.
“Perhaps, but I felt it was my duty to become a member of the ranks. If people had to risk their lives for my loved ones and friends, I want one of them to be me.”
Ella seems content, about to add something to the conversation before realizing they had reached their destination. The marksmanship instructor stands in front of a line of recruits, who are holding muskets pointed up and saluting, giving concise instructions before spotting the two people arriving. He points at the musket rack, suggesting to take one.
Avice and Ella both oblige, taking a musket and bandolier each. The heft of the matchlock was unwieldy the first time he held one, but now he has grown accustomed to its weight. The bandolier belt also felt like a weird accessory, but it too feels fine now. He moves to stand in line, planting his musket down by his feet with the barrel pointed up.
The instructor runs through the basic procedures. Light the slow match with the torch, line up, load shot, face your practice target, and fire. Afterward, you reload and repeat firing.
He then motions the column to move to the range, Avice can see the targets in full display. They are piles of entangled twine, with a neutral face smeared on the head with chalk. Avice doesn’t quite understand who put the faces on the targets or for what purposes, but it doesn’t ease his nerves.
Each recruit goes to the torch and takes a turn lighting their slow match. The cord is lit and its end glows an orange tint. Its light flickers softly and with utmost humility. It does not roar with the strength of a hearth or campfire, but it is enough for the task at hand. They all part from the line and separately look for a spot at the range.
Avice stops moving when he reaches his firing place. Ella stands next to him. The musket suddenly feels a lot heavier than normal as he is about to load it; the fear of a misfire or accident is always on his mind. He has heard stories of hands being blown off due to early powder ignition, and hopes today will not result in such a story happening.
Avice takes a charge from his bandolier and starts pouring in the gunpowder. He watches the finely ground black dust going down the muzzle. He nearly spills some of the powder, finally realizing that his hands are shaking slightly. Fear of using this weapon has always lingered.
He takes a deep calm breath and remembers why he volunteered. His hands grow steady as he finishes pouring down the muzzle. He pulls out the loading rod and rams it down the muzzle, packing the powder tight. He then produces an 18-millimeter musket ball from the belt pouch and rams that down the barrel as well.
Afterward, he fills the flash pan with the rest of the gunpowder in the charge, before closing it off.
Last step is the match. Avice takes the still burning slow match, the full length trailing the underside of the musket. He blows the orange lit end of it multiple times. He keeps blowing until the color shifts to cherry red. The match is ready and is primed against the serpentine lock, ready to hit the pan with a trigger pull.
The entire loading phase is arduous work in the heat of battle, but the result is devastating. Avice presents the musket down range, opens the flash pan and puts his itching finger against the trigger.
In a single moment a thunderous crack booms from the musket as the burning match makes contact with the gunpowder charge. Smoke bellows out from the top of the pan in front of the young man’s face and out the barrel. He waves the smoke out his view to observe the result: the pine target has a new hole through its center, part of the entangled twine splintering and falling out with the sheer impact the matchlock produced.
The range erupts into a cacophony of gunshots, each recruit firing at their own targets. Avice nearly goes deaf in a heartbeat as he covers his ears. He takes a moment to examine how Ella is performing. She is doing quite well. Her hands are steady and she is preparing to discharge the weapon. Avice watches carefully as she fires shot down range, the ball erupting out the barrel with extreme speed as the smoke propels it.
The shot hits the center of the target’s neutral face, blowing off the top part and sending it flying across the air and stopping only upon impact with the wall.
“Nice shooting!”
“What?” Ella couldn’t make out what Avice said despite being next to him; the musket firing was deafening. He instead opts to just show her a simple thumbs up, which she reciprocates.
The matchlock is a relatively new invention to have been introduced to warfare, and it has changed many pre-existing infantry tactics during the last war. Despite its noise and painstakingly long reload, Avice could not have wished for a more perfect weapon.
With this firearm, I finally have an instrument to play in this war, he thinks contently.
The two both continue practicing their load and aim for the duration of the training. The daylight fades as night approaches. The recruits have a moment of free time to do whatever they desire.
Avice takes this free time to go to bed early. He crawls into his lone cot and has his exhausted body curl up. Today, and every other day at training was painful. The young man misses his room back in his village, misses his mom’s stew and care. Here, he feels like whatever was propping up his feeble life force is being drained from him, slowly but surely. The worst part is the fact this is only training. The real soldier career will produce an enervation unlike any he has felt prior.
It is with these gloomy thoughts the boy’s tired mind passes out, entering a deep slumber. Tomorrow is a day as typical as any other day in the encampment, so too is the rest of the week. Avice trains his physicality, eats mundane food with his fellow recruits and practices with the matchlock. His skills and stamina slowly improve throughout the endeavor.
A small hope is present within his heart. A buoyant Avice prepares for his training's conclusion, he feels ready to take on the war as a soldier.
Unfortunately, no one is ready for this war.