Chapter 18

Day Six – Night

“Pikes up!” yelled a stout but strong man in a chipped breastplate. “Faster! Faster!” he repeated, as the new recruits were lagging behind. They carried blunt poles and were still wearing their old peasant attire. The slowest of them got hit by a stick over and over again, while their sergeant continued screaming. “You sorry bunch, when I say something, it is an order. What did I tell y’all a soldier does when he gets an order?!”

“He does as told!” rang their voices in unison.

The village was under the rule of a liege whom Zaber wasn’t able to remember anymore. He called him Nose Lord in his mind, a nobleman blessed with a sudden inrush of coin. Zaber only pictured him as a giant nose instead of a full face. The man allowed these soldiers to take up quarters around the settlements of the great city of Collam, as they were on their way to the next battlefield. Not all common men and women were glad to see them around after their last campaign. But what say do they have in this matter? The winters had become colder and colder and they would do what it took to keep going. Though for the boys and girls of the village, it had been a great time. At least for Zaber it was. If it wasn’t for that Lossa or Jossa woman or whatever her name was, dragging him back home.

“Lonya,” she yelled and knocked and yelled some more. “Lonya, do you know what your son did to my boy?”

All of them were inside, a dark and unrecognizable place without any furniture or light. Zaber clearly remembered that they had animals. But not what they were, or how their door looked. The mother that wasn’t his own barely had any features either.

“Please–” Lonya sighed. “What is it? Same as always?” She sat at a table and shredded cabbage with Zaber’s grandmother. Her hair was long, and stunning, and the same as her son’s. The same eyes as well, including the hidden mole inside their brows.

“He broke Bram’s finger,” said the unknown woman. She wasn’t touching the boy of six anymore. Her voice was still there, but came from the shadows.

“I don’t–” said Zaber.

“Don’t worry,” interrupted his own mother, while his grandmother was staring him down. “He ain’t going to cause trouble for long anymore…”

To Zaber, Lonya’s voice had become more and more distant, unsure if that was how she sounded. The dark room swallowed them up and left nothing but a cold hurt in the boy’s chest. When he opened his eyes again, startled by the sound of drilling pikemen, he and the other kids were being led through the camp. There was so much to discover, so many exciting things to see. Grizzled soldiers, shining armor, dogs and horses. A bare-chested smith next to a bare-chested woman. And many other children that helped and worked and played. He may have been the youngest, but he wasn’t alone. Many more like him were here, older but not old enough yet. And there was that man that had laughed so loud when Zaber wrestled his older brother back in the village and when he kicked the neighbor’s boy in the nards. He, the general, took a liking to him. Nobody ever did that back in the village.

“Stop staring,” said the sergeant who showed them around, and smacked the oldest boy among them over the head. A gnarly man in good gambeson, tall and with teeth of gold. His skin told the story of many battles and his voice burned itself into the back of the kids’ heads. “Y’all ain’t ready for the drill. It’s rear guard for y’all.”

“I’m sorry, Serg–” said the oldest boy and got another smack.

“Soldier ain’t sorry!” Spit sprinkled from between the golden teeth. “He asks how to do better,” said the sergeant and walked up and down in front of them. “This’ y’all first day. You’ll learn how to form a line, stand right, walk right and talk right.” He looked around the crowd of children who hadn’t reached manhood yet, impatiently, until he clapped twice. “Form a line! Oldest to youngest, then tell me y’alls names. Roll call!”

It took a while before the oldest spoke. “Yann!”

“Vhal!” yelled another one, in-between those that Zaber had forgotten.

“Reon!” was the last before it was the youngest’s turn. They had to figure out each other’s birthstars to make this work.

“Zaber!”

“I’m sergeant Brenz of the second banner of the first regiment of our Honourable Grand General.” His voice was sizzling, but loud and unmistakable. Flanked by two faceless men, he continued, “And these are my corporals. We’ll teach y’all what it means to be good soldiers!”

Zaber had been very proud of himself for getting it right. However, now that Brenz stood behind him, months later, everything was different. Half the boys weren’t capable and got their punishment for insubordination. But Zaber was special, so he would get it even worse if he failed.

“This is an order,” said Brenz and grabbed the boy by the neck. His voice had gotten louder and he pointed Zaber’s face at the bound and gagged men in front of the recruits. Prisoners of war from Galázion and local criminals, some already bleeding. “General Airich will be pissed if you ain’t following.”

“Please, I–” uttered Zaber and looked at the knife in his hands, and his beaten comrades. Yann, the oldest of them, did as told and nodded at Zaber with a pale face. The man in front of him, unable to speak, had his eyes widened. He was pleading and Zaber could hear it. “No. I ain’t–”

“If you do it now, it’ll be easier when it counts,” said Brenz and grabbed Zaber’s wrist. “I told you, this is an order.” He was bigger and stronger than a mere boy of seven. There was nothing to do against him pushing and guiding Zaber forward, pressing down on his neck. “Kill him,” sizzled Brenz.

“I ain’t doing it,” cried Zaber, unable to move.

“Kill him,” said the voice. “Kill him.”

Struggling for breath, Zaber stabbed the man over and over again. The neck, the belly, the chest, over and over. His victim’s eyes cried for help until they didn’t.

“Kill him,” said the voice.

“Kill him.”

“Do as ordered,” said an officer in a light baritone. “Address him as My General or Honourable General.” Wearing a green arming coat and a feathered hat, the man had an old and young face at the same time. His sword bore a crimson coat of arms with three white gauntlets on it. Beneath that lay the imperial griffon, the green colors of the first regiment with the first’s numeral on it and the slain head of a female monstrosity. At the very bottom was the same coat of arms as the top one, but with an added sword made from lightning. “You’ll tend to his horses, run his errands, serve his food and prepare his arms until he finds another squire; understood, farm boy?”

“U–, understood,” said Zaber, still shocked from the blood on his hands… that was now gone.

“That means ‘Yessir’!” The officer smacked Zaber in the face, making the whole world black out.

Punched in the face, Zaber raised his arms in front of him. Taken to the ground, wearing maille and a skullcap, an imposing figure in full plate mounted him. Dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes with an imposing mustache. The nobleman that pummeled the boy into the ground showed no smile. Zaber tried to grab his gauntlets or shake him off, but it was futile. “Stop–” he said, defeated. “Please, I got it. I’m y–”

“I do not raise weak men, boy,” said Airich in the deepest and most profound bass. They were alone in an empty field, surrounded by nothing. The general pressed down on his orderly’s throat, showing no mercy to the preadolescent boy. “There is no yielding on a battlefield.”

“Airich, please,” whispered the boy, as he looked up. Surrounded by the noblemen’s horses and hay, young Zaber sat on the floor, with his back against a wall. “I didn’t mean to–” He tried to retreat further back, but couldn’t

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“You did so well until now,” said Airich. He wore a well-tailored red doublet and a leather chaperon. Simple yet elegant, bringing forth his imposing figure, accompanied by a bass that was able to penetrate as deep as bone and marrow. “Your mother told me you knew how to handle animals. And you still fucked up.”

“Sorr–” Zaber halted. “H–, How can I do better?”

“Oh.” Airich also halted and a smile flashed through his mustache. “So you were listening to the sergeants and corporals. Good.” He stepped in front of Zaber, sturdy riding boots shining right in front of the kid’s face. The general’s hand flicked forward, quick and strong, slapping Zaber to the side. “I’ll let you off lightly, this time.”

“Thank you,” said the boy and swallowed the pain. His face was sprinkled with hay and close to the horses’ droppings when he looked up again. “Thank you, my General.”

“You’ll spend the night here and think about what you did wrong.” Airich turned around and walked out. “I’ll have my breakfast before the rooster calls. You should have a sense for it, shouldn’t you?” He laughed. Even his back seemed threatening…

“Kill him,” heard Zaber. “Kill him.”

The horses had never treated him ill. The destriers weren’t nice animals, but none of them ever bit Zaber. He sometimes snuck some extra bread or greenery with him into the stables or fenced-in areas, to make sure all of them liked him. Those for daily use, the rounceys, were easier to handle and clean up around. No threat of getting kicked in the head. Zaber even had the opportunity to sit on them every once in a while, when nobody else was around. This felt way better than the village’s donkeys, even though Buckeye, Walnut and St. Agastria had been great. The rest of the new bunch, too young to be proper recruits yet, were doing chores for the soldiers and helped the camp followers. With everything happening, spending more time with the other boys would have been fun. Soon they would go on campaign again. The sergeant had told them that they would help behind the lines and accompany the older and less able soldiers on supply runs and…

The hay caught fire, and soon Zaber was old enough to go marauding. The houses around them, the trees, everything were set ablaze. With his hands pressed down, painted red, the young soldier looked at them. His knees were sinking into a puddle of blood, with a faceless adult lying dead next to them.

“C’mon,” pleaded Zaber. “Stay with me.” He stared right at Yann, but nobody stared back. “Stop bleeding. You can’t do this to me.”

Some of the horses were hurt too, but it was Zaber’s duty to take care of them. The young boy himself wasn’t doing too bad, only a couple of scratches and a swollen eye from the drills. No good soldier was left unscarred; it was a mark of honor to most of them. To survive the impossible. But first, Zaber needed to take a look at Airich’s destrier. See if he was doing fine. He, Patina, was the greatest warhorse among them. White, with a taint of gray spots here and there, strong and unstoppable. A beautiful sight, in and outside of battle. Zaber knew this horse better than anybody else, even his owner. If Patina ever got his legs hurt… no. This was impossible. Patina was an invincible steed.

“Yann,” whispered Zaber when he placed his bloody hands on the older boy’s face. Just a couple of Constellations more and he would have been old enough for formation. They’ve drilled together already, they were doing good. “Please.”

Gladly, Patina was unharmed, the perfect beast he was. Zaber placed his bloody hands around the horse’s muzzle and scratched him where he liked it. The boy inspected the inside of Patina’s mouth, where the bits for the destriers poked them to provoke them. To drive them into battle, stomp and bite their enemies and be good little soldiers. Happy to see Patina alright, Zaber laid his forehead on the horse’s snout.

“Please Yann, I can’t do this alone,” whispered Zaber, desperately.

“We’ll stay together, forever,” said Zaber to Patina and closed his eyes.

“Friends ain’t leave each other behind, man,” said Zaber to Yann and let go of his face, slumping down.

“Please, you’re my best friend,” said Zaber, fully tinned, looking at Asher’s lifeless body.

“You’re my only friend…” repeated Zaber to Patina and got his face licked clean from the blood.

A burning sensation spread through the boy-veteran’s body, into his head and neck. Like an iron grip that strangled him. He heard the sizzling, when he turned his head away from Yann, Asher and Patina, looking directly at the faceless soldiers that did this. Beotold, Airich, all of them…

“Kill them,” said the voice, and a soothing melody played in the background, drowned out by a burning sensation. Zaber’s neck, head and chest ached. As if poked by needles. He clenched his fist and reached out for them, huffing in rage. “Kill them, I said,” repeated the voice. “Like a good soldier does.”

“Let go of her!” Torm held onto Zaber’s wrist. “Listen to me, Zaber!”

All noises and voices were blended together and Zaber felt his grip around furs or hides loosen. He was drenched in sweat, and his lungs felt heavy and restrained. He gasped for air when the world became real again. The first thing he saw was a scared and overwhelmed face, close to tears.

“He didn’t mean to, he can’t–” said Torm and lowered Zaber’s fist for him. “Give him a moment.” The boy tried to put his other hand on Thyra’s shoulder, but that only made her flinch.

“Is he deaf?” asked the rugged woman after taking a deep breath. She wasn’t hurt and her clothes were sturdy. But she kept her distance.

“I swear, he’ll be with us soon,” pleaded Torm. “This is normal.”

“Normal?” asked Thyra, blinking repeatedly. “I haven’t seen a lot, but I am sure this is not normal.”

His senses returned to Zaber the longer he was awake. A foul taste was in his mouth, and they took off all his clothes. Just a fur blanket that kept him warm on this mild night. The heat was unbearable though. And he stank. The veteran looked around himself, probing for any danger around him. Another woman, sleeping across the room, the boy, and the one in front of him. He recognized her sharp mezzo and felt threatened by it, but her gray eyes were kind. The likes who weren’t able to stand his stare for even a second. Now that he was awake, Zaber knew what he had done. And he remembered where all that pain he felt came from. Memories of his dream and memories of the ambush became separated and he saw the woods out the window and the chaotic mess around him made sense.

The door opened out of nowhere and two naked, steaming men looked down at him, dripping onto the hides. Stabs and slashes across their bodies, one wiry, and the other one thick with muscles and a strong core. A scar along Buron’s left knee stood out even among these three. This familiar sight brought Zaber back, finally, and his eyebrows rose.

“You motherfuckers,” he said with a smile. “Why are your damned dicks out?”

Thyra burst into laughter but tried to restrain herself by putting her hands on her mouth. Her entire body cringed, but she didn’t want to wake up her mother. Not after what had happened a second ago. She looked at Torm, who only held the ridge of his nose and rubbed it in disbelief.

“Head witch over there didn’t like the reek,” said Buron and pointed at the beds. “Only lets us stay inside if we smell like garden flowers.” He and his colossal companion moved around, dangling and dripping, without shame.

“Nah, she ain’t liking his reek,” corrected Breg and smirked at Zaber. His beard and long hair had to be tamed with both hands, wrung out. Breg’s whole body was as hairy as his birthstar. “The shitbrat dipped you into the sewers good.”

The blanket across the room moved, and the older woman sat up. “That is not what I said.” She looked tired, and her gaze met her daughter’s first. Letting her deal with these three, now four, while she rested, had been a hard decision. But Thyra wanted the first shift and there was no difference to it, both of them needed to sleep at some point. That way, she could get these men out of her home as quickly as possible.

Zaber felt hot and dizzy, but seeing his friends after all that’d happened was exactly what he needed right now. Moving hurt too much after just one try, so he stayed down. He heard what Breg and Buron had told him. They knew how to look out for each other and keep it to themselves. These women had to be watched, no matter the reason why Zaber ended up here.

“Scrub up, we got a long march ahead of us. Be ready at sunrise,” said the beaten veteran, smelling his own shoulder. Which was too much for even him. “You too. Y’all you rest up.” He nodded at Torm, his voice riddled with guilt.

When he tried once more to get up, six hands reached for him and pushed him down. Twitching and grimacing in pain and discomfort, a seething hiss whistled between his teeth.

“You’re in no condition to ride and certainly not to march,” said Tonna from across the room. Zaber remembered that kind of tone from a long time ago, and didn’t like it at all.

“Not much time has passed,” said Torm and pulled Zaber’s blanket up. “We’re on the other side of the lake. A good head start; we should use it to rest up to full strength.”

“You must be hungry.” Still giggling, Thyra pushed herself up from the ground. “Stay down, I’ll get you–”

“No, I will,” said Tonna and got up. She filled a bowl that was kept lukewarm by the embers. “You go back to singing, fawn. This is good practice.” She smiled and put it into Torm’s hands, with an urging raise of her brows. Her burned hands were on full display but her neck was hard to see under the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders. “Help him, then do as your master said, boy. Scrub up and go to sleep.”

“What?” asked Zaber, aggressively confused. “I ain’t his damned master. Do I look like I shit gold?”

The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion smirked at Zaber and waved him a sloppy salute. They left and finished their bath, sleep was the right thing to do now. Thyra had to chuckle again, though, and Torm was infected by it. Seeing his mentor so cheerful after what had happened wasn’t what he had expected. Especially after one of his hauntings. Maybe it was the length of uninterrupted sleep, or the fact that the greasy and unkempt man always felt better after any kind of fight. No matter the result, deep inside him, Torm hoped it was that Zaber was happy that they’d survived. Together. But soon enough, they needed to talk about what happened. And about Asher.

“No, you do not,” answered Tonna and also grinned. A humorless and short-lived grin that soon enough made room for the cold expression that Buron and Breg faced. She pulled off the blanket, revealing her neck, and went back to bed. “You look like a bloody murderer.”