Chapter 31

Day Zero – Sunrise

The cold of winter had settled in, as the Constellation of the Lion was coming to an end. The Day of the Dragon, followed by the Kraken’s Grasp, was coming soon. Frost had clawed itself into the ground and covered the last remnants of moss, grass and flowers. The three regiments under General Airich’s command had set up camp in the upmost northern parts of the Duchy of Brummon. About eighty miles south of the royal capital – Kromladen – in Nornberk. They had returned from the Second Yesilian War over a month ago. The three Kingdoms of Father Sun had signed a pact to defeat the heathens that threatened the civilized world.

It was a perfect time to gain new recruits, as the Grand General was summoned by High King Theogreif II. Banners not under His Majesty’s direct command were forbidden from entering the capital. And that is why Airich took as much time as he could on his march back. He planned to see the King on the Day of the Dragon. To be prepared.

“Line up!” yelled an old sergeant with a missing eye and gold teeth. “Roll call! Means: you sorry bunch count upwards – starting from my left.”

The man was flanked by two younger soldiers – one in his thirties, one barely in his teens. Both wore a fibula with a shield and sword that made them out to be corporals. The scrawny old soldier held a list with names, places of birth, and pay. He listened to them counting to ninety-seven.

“Welcome to the elite!” His grizzled voice boomed throughout the moor, close to the tents and wagons of the camp and its followers. He snorted loudly and spit on the ground. “I’m First Sergeant Brenz, and you have joined the men among men, the Honourable Airich of Belge’s own Greenfeet Regiment. If you ain’t filled with pride already, I promise you that you will after we’re done with you sorry bunch,” said Brenz. He rolled up the paper and put it inside his half-open green gambeson that bore the banner’s colors. “Everyone of age sixteen or above will stay with me. Everyone under the age of ten will follow Corporal Grenn here,” he said, and the older soldier stepped out.

The padded coif on his head could not hide a missing ear. Grenn looked tired and worn-out, with a beaten up face and slash marks on his padded jack. Whatever happened in the last two years had to be ruthless. Though most of the children weren’t able to see these signs and focused only on the sturdy sword that hung from his hip, a falchion.

“Everyone between these ages follows this boy,” said Brenz. “Corporal Zaber.”

Both corporals got a slap on their shoulders before the fresh meat was divided. Zaber walked an uneven eighty feet over the wet cold pasture, with fifteen boys in tow. One of them might have been older than him, with most of them around the same age. Only a few hadn’t reached manhood under the Stars.

“Halt!” ordered Zaber, a fist raised. His eyes twitched from left to right, counting and mustering the lot. “Line up, oldest to my left, youngest to my right,” he said. Most were just looking at each other, confused. “Figure it out!”

The young recruits were talking to each other, walking up and down. When the oldest found his place at the top, he asked: “Why should we take orders from you? You’re our age.” He was built like a true farmhand, wiry, but not of unusual height. Clad in simple clothes and a bowl cut a mother or grandmother would make.

“You’ll see soon enough,” replied Zaber and stepped in front of the oldest boy. “But here’s your first lesson.” The young corporal came nose to nose with the recruit. His stare radiated the tension of an old man, not only tired but sick of everything. Unbearable to stand for the older one. “When in line, you shut the fuck up. You speak when I ask you to speak. Got it?” Zaber waited, but only a gulp returned to him. “I asked: Got it?”

“Y–” stuttered the oldest boy. “Y–yessir.”

“Don’t sir me. I ain’t no squire.” Zaber turned on his heel and stepped in front of the lot. “Eight years ago, I stood where they stood.” He pointed over at the field where the youngest group stood. “I’m the only one left of my batch. Everyone else got their payout or worse!” He yelled like the sergeant. “I have one goal – and only one! Y’all are going to survive. Either run away, or toughen up!” With clenched fists and trembling shoulders, a cold wind accompanied the young corporal walking up and down. “First: I gotta see what we’re working with.”

One by one, Zaber sized them up. He circled around them, grabbed their muscles, pushed them a little… and most importantly, made eye contact. As the first boy was a peasant type, the next one had to be from a city. A pointy chin, with inquisitive eyes, working hands, but not a working body. The third in line though was something else and had demanded Zaber’s attention from the very beginning. As tall as a grown man and built like a tree, he had an impressive patch of hair around his lips. Except for the three oldest, the rest were unimposing and mundane. The young corporal knew that he had to work rather hard on these peasant boys.

“Who has thrown proper hands before?” asked Zaber, returning to the front. “Don’t lie to me. There’s no shame in being a wimp. And I don’t mean with your brothers or cousins for fun.” He raised a fist and looked at each and every one of them. “I mean a real fight.”

After all hands went up, half of them went down again. Two, three, six, nine and a hesitant twelfth. The lot’s eyes were wandering left and right, curious like the kids they were. Except for that man-boy, whose eyes were piercing Zaber.

“’aight, let’s get to the good part,” said Zaber. “Bragging.” His eyes pointed at the second in line. Wearing an artisanal but worn-out leather vest, the linen tunic and chausses beneath it didn’t show much wealth. The city-boy let his hair grow out recently it seemed. “Number Two; you first. Name, age, and what’s your story?”

“Story?” asked the kid with the long pointy chin befuddled. “Of what?”

“First throw-down, getting mugged or beaten by your pa,” replied Zaber, raising a fist. “You raised your hand. What’s it?”

“Uh–” The city-boy fought the urge to fiddle with his face. “Fourteen; Asher. My father’s a cobbler in Vellorn, Duchy of Baerya. Got two sisters with many grubby fingers around, including the master’s sons,” said Asher, grabbing the fabric of his chausses. “Now I’m here and my father can open his own shop from the coin.”

“Punch me,” ordered Zaber without wasting any time. He jutted his chin forward as an invitation, to the befuddlement of most recruits. Nobody believed what they had just heard. The recruits mustered the young corporal, figuring out if they were being tested. Zaber’s nose was recently broken and still healing, with neither his face nor hair washed. What really stood out though, was the empty stare on their fellow boy.

“I–” Asher thought about which words to choose. “You are currently in charge of us, and I was told there is severe punishment for disobedience. Would this be considered such an offense?”

“Big words, wimp.” Zaber tapped his chin with his own knuckles. “This is an order.”

“Well–” uttered Asher, stepped out of line and massaged his shoulder and upper arm with a smirk. “Can’t be insubordinate.” His fist connected with a quick ‘thud’, and Zaber weaved his body and face with it.

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“’aight,” said the young corporal, turning his head back. His fingers ran over his chin, as if he was feeling the punch. “This ain’t bad; good posture. I believe you, we can work with that.” There was no sign of pain or sympathy. Zaber’s voice was dry and emotionless, but his mind was at ease. “Next up: Big boy. Name, age, story.” The lot under his command grew nervous, looking at each other. They smelt that something was odd about their instructor. That this wasn’t really about them…

“Breg; thirteen,” said the unusually tall boy in a thick eastern accent. “Father’s a blacksmith, I held weapons before woddling.” Before the order was spoken, the man-boy stepped forward with clenched fists.

“Damned, you look twenty,” said Zaber, sizing up the recruit. He wore a woolen cloak with a nice iron fibula, sturdy boots and a long garment beneath. All rags now, covered in specks of mud. “What’s that accent? And first and last beat-down.”

“First was my bastard brother, last was my bastard father.” Breg got straight to the point, his voice nearly cracked with anger. He wasn’t trembling from the cold. “Gvennish. Fled from the bastards.”

“Damned, a baltak,” said Zaber and set his jaw. “How far is that? Five hundred miles?”

“Seven,” replied Breg and got into position, fist raised. “Do I get to punch you now?”

“No!” A high pitched voice screamed across the field. A scrawny girl in a simple green dress and brown bodice pressed herself through the lined up boys. Her short brown curls were not well cut, and she looked like she had just fallen out of bed. “Stop it, why are you even out here?” she yelled. “Does the Sarge know about this? You’ll get in trouble with the General if–”

“Shut it, Aume,” interrupted Zaber, without even looking at her. “Get lost, there’s no place for camp fo–”

“Have you lost your starforsaken mind?!” shrieked the girl, squeezed herself between Breg and Zaber, pushing the young corporal away with what little weight she had to offer. “Look at this meathead,” she said, and swatted against the man-boy’s arm. “He’ll punch you clean out, Airich’ll be told and y’all get punished.”

The unusually tall boy glanced at Aume’s hand and swatted her back. So hard, the girl grabbed her arm afterwards, but didn’t say a word.

“Never do that again,” said Zaber, and he and Breg stared at each other. Until the young corporal turned his head at the girl again. “And you: Fuck off,” ordered Zaber, showing a hint of emotion; anger. “Old man gave me this and now he has to deal with it. I’m in charge.” He pointed at the shield fibula that also bore a sword, his rank insignia.

“Zaber–” the girl choked up. “You can’t keep doing this. You avoid us ever since we marched back, you haven’t spoken to anybody, and–” She paused as Zaber ignored her. “He’ll not come back from this. No one will…”

A wave of silence swept through the recruits, as their young corporal’s stare stopped connecting with that of Breg. It phased right through him into nothingness, and everyone saw how Zaber was gone for more than a moment. Aume spoke on, but only an unsettling, dreary noise rang in the young corporal’s ears… until his neck burned up.

“Corporal?” asked Asher. “May I remove that woman for you?”

Zaber shook his head and snapped at the recruits. “If you touch her, I’ll kill you.” He ran his hand over his face, twitching briefly when he touched his broken nose. “And stop kissing my arse, city-boy.”

The line closed again and everyone straightened out after hearing that threat. The only one who was still out of line was Breg, raising his fist. His expression still held a dark question.

“Change of plans,” replied Zaber, waving the man-boy back at the rest of the recruits. “Everyone’s telling me their names and age; then pair up. Y’all are going to serve as rear-guard and marauders at first. I’ll teach y’all how to march, ride and what to expect behind enemy lines.” The unwashed and battered boy in charge felt the girl’s eyes on his skin. Whenever he looked at Aume, he saw her mother and thought about Airich. And there was no time for this. “Scouting, looting, burning crops and houses. I’ll teach you how to become terror. I’ll lead you, kids like us provoke less suspicion,” said Zaber, listing each point off his fingers. This batch’s gonna make it, he thought…

“Stop ignoring me!” yelled Aume into Zaber’s ear. “You promised me–”

“One more word and I’ll report you to the camp master,” uttered Zaber, still not looking at her.

“Never talk to me or the other girls again,” said Aume and spat Zaber in the face. “You’re dead to me.” Pulling up her skirt, she walked away, pressing herself through the line of boys. “Dead, dead, dead,” she repeated, and turned around one more time. “Dead I said! I’ll have you poisoned if you dare come to me or my mother!”

Zaber heard her voice, overflowing with spite, and her eyes, overflowing with tears. He inhaled once, before wiping away the spit that ran down his cheek and neck. All the recruits could see the torn skin on his knuckles and dried blood.

“You three show promise; might move up soon if you do well,” said Zaber. He pointed sidewards over the field where the adult recruits were drilled by Sergeant Brenz. “I’ll focus on y’alls survival. Feisty peasants, guards, bandits or other marauders are what y’all will encounter. Pair up. We’ll start with wrestling and striking, go on daily marches and soon move to daggers.”

It took some time before everyone found someone they thought was within their weight class. The oldest among them was Haune with fifteen. The next oldest behind Asher and Breg was a wiry boy of thirteen with dark blonde hair, stubbly like he was fresh out of prison. Four boys of age twelve – Sall, Bode, Eyar and Garst. Followed by five aged eleven: Ertz, Urlf, Pyron, Treve and a boy who called himself Blacken by the color of his teeth. The two youngest were only ten, Dolf and Joyen. The latter wanted to be called by his mother’s nickname for him: Snappy.

“Want to partner up?” asked the wiry boy with the stubbly hair, looking up at Breg. “Only had one fight, but it was also with my drunkard of a father.” He smiled awkwardly and rubbed his head. But he got himself a nod as a reply.

“Big boy here’s coming with me.” Zaber intruded their exchange. “We an odd number and I need someone to show with. He’ll just crush you anyways.”

“I learn best under pressure, fighting uphill,” said Asher, waiting patiently next to Zaber. He ignored the oldest boy, Haun, who had asked him out. “Demonstrate with me. I want to get into formation as fast as I can.”

The young corporal sighed annoyed, turning his head towards the city-boy. “To get your arse murdered quicker?”

“Better pay,” replied Asher. “More coin means better gear, means better chances of survival, means better pay.” He smirked like the worst kind of gobshite.

“’’aight,” said Zaber. “Sweat today and you ain’t bleeding tomorrow.”

“Yessir!” Asher mimicked the salute he had seen from the career mercenaries over the last days.

Before the city-boy could lower his hand, Zaber had wrapped his arm around his shoulder and threw him on the cold ground. With an ‘oomph’ and cough, all air left Asher’s chest, while Zaber got into an upright position.

“First lesson: Most fights are won by the fella who strikes first,” stated the young corporal dryly. “Y’all will learn how to fall and throw today. Punching and kicking is easy and might not fell an enemy. Standing means winning.”