Harren took a deep breath as he stood outside the Marshal’s door. He was certain the man already knew what happened from the cold silence with which he was greeted upon entering the estate. He winced as he raised his arm to the doorknob. That fucking Rillman broke one of his ribs and damn near broke his skull. He gritted through the pain as he grasped the handle and twisted the door open. Harren walked inside as it swung open on soundless hinges.
The Marshal sat at his desk on the far side of the room, his eyes rising to meet Harren’s with a simmering anger. Harren opened his mouth to speak.
The Marshal raised his hand, cutting him off. Harren swallowed as the man rose to his feet. “Prefectus, do you not salute in the presence of your commanding officer in a time of war?”
Harren snapped to attention, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
The Marshal walked close enough to him that Harren could smell the hints of whiskey on his breath. “Do you know what is done to officers in the Venaran Army who fail as absolutely as you just did?”
Harren shook his head, not daring to speak.
“In the last war, I had a junior officer given his wings for sending his men into an ambush,” the Marshal said. “He didn’t lead them, he sent them.”
Harren looked to his feet, a shiver of fear running down his spine. “I-”
“You will not fucking speak,” The Marshal roared.
Harren winced, fighting the urge to step backwards.
“On your first fucking day, you let prisoners incite a riot that left twenty dead Venaran citizens, you ordered your men to pursue the prisoners into the Outwalls, and then you gave the remaining prisoners their wings.” The Marshal gritted his teeth, fists clenched. “You made us look not only foolish, but cruel as well. Cruelty without strength is a brittle tool, likely to snap when you need it most.”
The Marshal sneered and shook his head, turning from Harren, picking up the brown glass of liquor on the table and downing the dregs. He very carefully placed the glass back on the desk. “What do you think I should do with you, Barrington?”
Harren forced the words out, “Will I be given my wings, sir?”
The Marshal turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “All that saves you from that is your father’s name.” The Marshal paused, letting that sink in. “Instead, you will personally oversee any patrol into the Outwall and be responsible for ensuring the Kings Road is kept safe from the Sons.”
“So, I’ll manage the operations?” Harren asked. It was beneath him to work beyond the wall, but he would do his part to keep the Marshal happy.
The Marshal shook his head. “Personally oversee. If there are two patrols operating beyond the wall, you will be at the very front of one of them,” the Marshal said, “If we raid a rebel operation, you will lead the vanguard. Is that clear?”
Harren met the man’s eyes. “This is a delayed death sentence.”
“But an honorable one,” the man spat, “worthy of a Barrington.”
Harren said nothing for a long moment. There was nothing to say. To run would be desertion and nothing would protect him from the King’s justice. “Understood, sir. I’ll return to my quarters and prepare for my new role.”
“You have no quarters here and no personal belongings,” The Marshal said, “All that you own from here on will be standard army issue. Your bunk is in Barracks number three, and your men are expecting you. Don’t expect a warm reception.”
Harren’s eyes widened at the insult, anger welling up inside him. His fists clenched at his sides, “Sir,” he growled.
“Get out of my sight.” The Marshal turned away, dismissing him.
Harren turned on leaden feet, and forced himself to leave the room, stepping into the hallway.
A voice called to him in the hall, “Fuck me, I could hear that from out here.”
Harren turned to see Rafe leaning against the wall outside the Marshal’s office. He scowled.
Rafe smiled in return. “Gonna be awfully hard to woo the Marshal’s daughter from the barracks, eh Barrington?”
“Go to hell, Rafe, and leave Carys out of this.” Harren responded, very much not in the mood for the man.
“Why? You gonna let the Sons nab her too-”
Harren cut him off with a sharp jab to the face. Rafe stumbled backwards, hands pressed to his face, blood trickling from his nose. “The fuck, Harren?”
Harren drew the sword at his hip and raised the tip under Rafe’s chin, pushing him backward until he was pressed against the wall.
“Divines man,” Rafe breathed, “I was only trying to add some levity.”
Harren spoke coldly, “I’m already dead, so tell me what I have to lose by stopping the tide of shit falling from your lips?”
Rafe smiled a bloody smile, “The only man of consequence who will ever speak to you again outside the gallows.”
The only thing that kept Harren from driving the blade through the man’s throat was the knowledge that he was right, and that further disgrace would only tarnish Brian’s name further. He pulled the sword from Rafe’s throat and put it in his scabbard.
His hand had hardly left the hilt when Rafe’s fist crashed into his face. Harren staggered backwards and Rafe shoved him, sending him tumbling to the ground.
Harren landed in a heap and struggled to his feet, wincing as his ribs ached in protest. By the time he found his feet, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword- Rafe was gone.
Harren took a deep breath, rubbing at the new bruise on his cheek. He supposed he should have seen that coming.
He was alone in the hall, and he found that his hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists and set off down the hall. If he ever got his hands on that Rillman from the trial, he was going to kill him slowly and enjoy it.
As he walked down the halls, a hushed silence followed him. Conversations died at the mere sight of him, and the stares of his peers haunted him like ghosts, exacerbating the bitter taste of shame. Men and women who just this morning sought his praise and attention now stared at him as if he walked the gallows. News certainly spread fast.
Harren rested his hand atop the hilt of his sword and held his head high, trying his best to appear unconcerned as visions of dead men in green cloaks drifted through his mind. Divines, he wanted to vomit.
When he reached his old quarters, he found them emptied of his belongings as the Marshal had said. Brian sat in one of the foyer’s two chairs, wringing his hands. At Harren’s approach he raised his gaze and stood from the chair.
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“Thank the Goddess you’re okay,” he said, crossing the distance and embracing Harren.
Harren was taken aback and stumbled as his brother hugged him. He choked a moment as the weight of the day threatened to crack his façade of control. He coughed and pushed his brother off him. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m no worse for wear. This is just a setback.”
Brian frowned and nodded. “Of course.”
Harren looked around the stripped room. “They take everything?” he asked.
“King’s property now,” Brian confirmed.
That made Harren grimace. “They should have given you stewardship of my belongings.”
Brian shrugged and fell back into his chair with a sigh. “Marshal said they’re being requisitioned to help pay the king’s tithe to the families of the men who died today.”
A pang of guilt ran through Harren. “A worthy cause,” he muttered, taking a seat in the other chair, leaning forward and holding his head in his hands.
Harren sighed after a long moment, looking to his brother. “I’m to be quartered in the barracks as punishment and will be occupied with keeping order beyond the wall. You’ll have to navigate court on your own.” Harren paused a moment. “You’ll have to ensure our name survives this.”
Brian bit his lip. “That bad?”
“That bad,” Harren confirmed with a sigh.
Brian shook his head. “Bullshit.”
Harren arched an eyebrow “Bullshit?”
“Bullshit,” Brian confirmed. “The brother I know would never accept defeat. What happened to your spine?”
Harren grimaced. “Watch it.”
“Or what?” Brian asked, “You’ll sigh again?”
Harren fought the urge to sigh. “Fuck off.”
Brian chuckled. “That’s more like it.”
A small smile crossed Harren’s lips.
Brian leaned back in his chair. “It’s not over yet.”
“It’s just beginning,” Harren confirmed.
***
Harren stood outside the wooden door set into the polished stone of Barracks #3. Inside were the five-hundred commoners he’d be rooming with. He’d never lived with anyone outside the nobility.
He got strange looks from soldiers passing by. His equipment was a cut above the standard issue bronze plated leather jacket and short sword and marked him as an officer and a noble. He didn’t feel particularly noble today.
As he was about to enter the building and figure out where he was bunked, a voice called out to him, “Lord Barrington?”
Harren turned his head to see a thin soldier approaching him. The man was dark featured with a narrow face and a pair of seeing lenses rested atop his nose. A small bronze locket hung around his neck.
“Yes?” he asked.
The man gave him a slight bow, which Harren would have found insulting yesterday. “I’m quartermaster Gavin Acron of the sixth legion, fifth cohort.”
He paused and Harren stared blankly at him. As pause grew uncomfortable, Gavin raised an eyebrow and continued, “Which you now command, no?”
Harren cleared his throat. “Of course.” He fought down his annoyance. Was the Marshal intentionally light on details to make him look like an idiot?
Gavin nodded. “Great. I’ll show you to your quarters, sir, and there we can go over a number of issues requiring your immediate attention.”
Harren nodded, relieved to finally be getting some direction. “After you.”
Gavin set off at a brisk pace, throwing open the door of Barracks #3 and walking inside. Harren followed in his wake, emerging into a large common room. Four long tables occupied the corners of the room and dozens of men sat at them, playing cards, rolling dice, and drinking.
As Harren entered, the merry atmosphere began to sober. Heads began to turn to him and Gavin as they walked toward the center of the room. Gavin hardly seemed to notice, but Harren felt noticeably out of place. Some of the gazes seemed to border on hostile. He did his best to ignore them as he followed Gavin past the tables. Three hallways branched from the common room, emptying into a west and east wing whose walls were lined with dozens of cots stacked three high, the soldier’s meager belongings stuffed under the beds or hanging in sacks from the bedposts.
Gavin led him to the north hall which opened into a mess hall. It was near dinner time, and there must have been a hundred men lined up. At the head of the line, a cook slopped some form of gruel into bowls. The sight and smell turned Harren’s stomach, but the soldiers seemed grateful, taking the bowls as quickly as the cook could dish them.
Gavin didn’t spare the sight so much as a glance as he weaved them a path through the men. While he received curious and hostile looks in equal measure, it did not escape his notice that the men sharply deferred to Gavin, granting him the right of way when their paths crossed.
Halls branched from this room in a similar fashion to the common room, with more bunks lining the walls of the wings. Harren never imagined the possibility of so many men living in such close quarters. There must have been room for two or three hundred just in this barracks, and there was a total of thirty just like it stacked on the estate’s grounds.
Gavin led him down a final hall from the mess which ended in a long corridor stretching the length of the building with three wooden doors set into the stone. Gavin led him to the leftmost door and turned to face him, pulling a ring of keys from his belt and passing them to Harren. “These are the keys to your quarters, mine and the storage room for this barracks and the other three belonging to the fifth cohort. Only you and I possess these keys to prevent the men from getting,” he paused, “curious.”
Harren nodded, taking the offered ring and holding it tightly. “I’ll keep them close,” he said.
Gavin nodded, seeming satisfied with that. “I’d understand if you’d prefer to rest after the,” he paused again, “events of the day,” he finished.
Harren scowled.
Gavin didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “However, your busy schedule permitting, I would like to discuss the issues currently facing our operations.” He turned to the door of the room they stood before and began flipping through the keys on his rings. “It’d be best for everyone involved if you’re abreast of the predicament your predecessor left us in before-” he bit his lip as he found the correct key and twisted it in the lock. “His untimely demise,” he finished.
Harren pursed his lips. “By all means.”
Gavin nodded, pushing the door open and entering his quarters. Harren was surprised by the size. It was small by the standards he was used to, but had room for a bunk, a small table with two chairs and a washbasin. Each was as unremarkable as the last, but they would serve for now.
The table was layered with neat sheafs of parchment, many of which bore the Marshal’s seal. “Please, take a seat,” Gavin said, gesturing to one of the chairs.
Harren took a seat and Gavin followed suit, sighing and pushing his lenses up his nose as he looked down at the sheafs of parchment. “Sir, how much do you know of our operations in the fifth cohort?”
“We guard the King’s Road and perform operations in the Outwalls. It’s-” Harren paused, “An unenviable job.”
Gavin nodded, meeting his gaze. “Indeed. Nobody seeks assignment to the fifth cohort intentionally. Our ranks are filled with the undesirables from the Fifth and Sixth Legions. As such, our ranks are constantly understaffed. There’s currently barely over six hundred men in our cohort.”
Harren’s eyebrows raised. That was well under half-strength. “It sounds like we’re set up to fail.”
Gavin shook his head. “We’re not set up to do anything. I wanted to dispel any notions you had that this is anything but a punishment duty.”
Harren scowled, leaning against the table. “I was well aware of that.” He sighed. “Is there any good news?”
Gavin shrugged. “I have yet to hear any of the men plotting your demise, if that counts?”
Harren snorted. “Maybe you’re not listening hard enough.” He shook his head, and hesitated as he saw no mirth in Gavin’s eyes. “You’re not serious, are you?”
Gavin presented him with a thin smile, raising the corners of his lips. “No one dies in a vacuum, sir.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice, “Some die because the Sons know where they’ll be drinking with their fellow officers.”
Harren felt a chill run down his spine as he met Gavin’s hard eyes. His hand instinctively fell to the sword at his hip as he heard the floorboards creak beyond the door. “So that’s how this is going to be?” he asked.
Gavin pushed his lenses up the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “I find it’s important to outline the terms of our relationship from the start,” he said, “To cease the mincing of words and be as clear as possible, the fifth is mine. You will be my voice, or the cohort will find another.”
Harren felt the anger building inside him. He didn’t know what to expect, but he’d never imagined this. “And what’s to stop me from telling the Marshal of this?”
“Tell him what? That your men hate you and threaten your life, that your quartermaster undermines your authority, and that you’re a failed officer?” Gavin shrugged. “Be my guest. There is no wrongdoing here that you are not complicit in,” he paused, “You may see me lashed for insubordination but, ultimately, it’s your word against your men’s. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Harren forced his hand from the sword at his side, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm himself. “What’s in it for me?”
Gavin’s smile returned with a hint of triumph. “Gold, the acclaim of your men, and a damn fine appearance before the Marshal.”
Harren raised an eyebrow. “And how will you get me that?”
Gavin pushed a sheaf of papers his way. “With a few signatures in the right places.”
Harren looked down at the papers, skimming their contents as he flipped through them. They were supply requisition forms for a Cohort at half strength. “I thought you said our strength was six-hundred strong?” As he said it, the pieces clicked together. He met Gavin’s gaze. “Where does the surplus go?”
Gavin’s smile hadn't fallen an inch. “I’m the quartermaster. Let me handle the details.”
Harren took a deep breath, “Where do I sign?”