"Up, up, you lazy Quadav bootlickers!" the training instructor bellowed, slamming his cudgel against the brass gong at one end of the barracks. The metal resounded loudly, dragging the recruits into wakefulness and forcing them to feel their aching muscles. Several groaned in protest—but the more sensible ones did so quietly; Decurion Torin was notoriously abusive.
"I don't get it," Kimal murmured to Grelda as the two donned their training uniforms that marked them as recruit Legionnaires of the Republic of Bastok. "Quadav don't wear boots."
"It's a figure of speech, dummy," Grelda growled, stomping her feet into her boots and huffing as she pulled her armor on. The leather padding beneath the bronze reeked of old sweat and had a suspicious bloodstain under one arm—the legacy of whatever recruit it had belonged to before coming into Grelda's possession. Kimal's was the same, minus the bloodstain. The rest of their ten-soldier contubernium dressed around them, swallowing yawns and rubbing the grit out of their eyes in between hurried motions. They had less than a minute to ready themselves before Torin trooped them out of the barracks and into the vast, pre-dawn training square.
A few contuberniums of Iron Musketeers were training at the far end of the square, drilling in silence. The only noise was the thud of their boots on the cobbles and the hiss of their swords into and out of their scabbards. They moved in perfect sync with one another, decimating a squad of wooden dummies with ruthless efficiency. The recruits watched them enviously.
Kimal nudged Grelda's shoulder. "That's gonna be you someday, huh?" the male Hume said.
"Oh, yes," Grelda hissed, her eyes shining with delight as she watched. She clutched the hilt of her cheap, mass-produced bronze training sword, lost in dreams of glory.
"Attention!" Decurion Torin screamed, slamming the butt of his cudgel against the cobbles. "Ten laps of the square for gawking! Go!"
"Oh dearest of friends, please remind me why I joined the military," Kimal said, falling in step beside Grelda as they started their first lap.
Grelda grimaced, but replied: "Good pay, amazing retirement benefits—"
"If you live to get them!" Baleful Wind growled. The Galka was the most massive of all the recruits in the contubernium, but struggled to keep up with his Hume companions with his shorter legs. Running long distances was hard for him, but unlike Kimal he had yet to utter a complaint.
"People buy you drinks sometimes," Irina pointed out, "and there's military discounts at shops."
The talk died down as the number of laps progressed, replaced by increasingly ragged panting. Irina stumbled and was dragged upright by Baleful Wind before she could fall. Grelda stayed at Kimal's side, growling encouragement and occasionally threats to keep her friend from falling behind. As the sun peeked over the massive rock walls of the city, the recruits completed their tenth lap and fell into position in front of their decurion.
"That was disgusting," Torin snarled. "You're a disgrace to the Legions of the Republic! If I had my way I'd send you all home this very moment with a kick to your flabby behinds. Unfortunately, the Quadav are increasing in number, so the Legions must scrape the bottom of the barrel for recruits like you. Now, it's time to drill. If you can by some miracle perform decently, I'll consider letting you eat. Pair off!"
Grelda turned towards Kimal, standing the designated three paces away from her friend. She pulled her sword from its scabbard.
"Did I say 'draw swords'?" Torin screamed. "You! If you're so eager for action, pair with that brute of a Galka rather than a wimpy Hume." He pointed, and Grelda pushed her sword back into her scabbard and went to stand before Baleful Wind. They gave each other businesslike glowers.
"Draw swords!"
They drew them.
"Attack!"
Grelda darted forward, her sword like a bronze serpent striking towards the Galka's unprotected underarm. He parried the thrust and swung towards her side, causing Grelda to jump backwards. She almost collided with another pair, but spun out of the way and darted forward again, taking Baleful Wind's blow on her shield. She winced as the sword connected with the lauan boards; the Galka wasn't holding back, and his strike numbed her arm. His sword swung towards her knees, and Grelda parried desperately.
"Enjoying yourself, recruit?" Torin demanded.
"Yes, sir!" Grelda panted. "Couldn't be happier, sir!"
She tried to think as sweat plastered her cropped blonde hair to her skull under her bronze cap. Baleful Wind was easily twice as strong as her, and only a little bit slower. He stood planted in place, as immovable as a mountain, while Grelda flitted around him like a demented fly. What could work against him? Grelda parried another stroke and took another blow on her shield—which was starting to splinter, cheap thing that it was.
Grelda ducked under a high blow and went for the Galka's legs, scoring a hit against one knee that made Baleful Wind wince. That was sure to bruise. He wobbled but didn't stumble, and Grelda darted to her partner's shield-side. She thrust at his knee again before Baleful Wind could pivot to meet her, and this time the leg gave out beneath the blow.
"That was almost passable, recruit," Torin said. "A true Legionnaire would have done it in a quarter of the time and not have wasted half her energy dancing around. And you, Galka—remember to move your feet next time."
Baleful Wind grimaced. "Yes, sir," he rumbled, and accepted Grelda's hand in helping him to his feet.
Off to one side, Kimal was fighting for his life against Irina, who had been a tavern dancer before waltzing into the recruitment office. She was smaller than Grelda and also quicker, and possessed a Mithra-like grace that lent itself well to one-on-one combat—but she tired easily, and was panting hard as Kimal's clumsy strokes slowly but surely drove her to an exhausted surrender. Torin turned his attention to berating them, and Grelda and Baleful Wind took their moment of respite to grin wearily at each other before facing off again.
"What do you see in that Hume man?" Baleful Wind asked beneath the noise of their blades clanging together.
"Kimal? We were neighbors growing up, friends from infancy. I've always looked after him," Grelda said, parrying another stroke. Now that the Galka was more interested in refining his technique than winning, he was much easier to fight. He was making an effort to move his feet now, and Grelda obliged him by exaggerating her own movements, allowing his eyes to follow her feet and mirror her varied stances.
"He followed you into the Legion?"
"He doesn't want to be a shopkeeper like his parents."
Kimal's family's business involved importing teas, spices, and luxury goods from Aht Urgan, and it wasn't exactly flourishing—to the point that Kimal's mother was meeting with Tenshodo representatives, which had caused her son to storm out of their home and sleep on Grelda's floor for a week before tagging along to the recruitment office. But the Galka didn't need to know all that.
"And you?" Baleful Wind asked.
"I want to be an Iron Musketeer."
The Galka laughed softly. "Don't lie, Grelda."
"What—"
"Stand down and sheathe weapons! You've earned your breakfast," Torin said, and sniffed. "Barely."
The recruits formed a column and marched to the mess hall, where they received cups of water and bowls of barley porridge. The porridge was unseasoned, but the morning's exertion ensured they ate hungrily. They did so in silence, knowing better than to chatter under Torin's hawkish gaze, and then assembled in the square again. Torin paced in front of them, looking them up and down.
"Today," the decurion announced, "we are leaving the city and going out into Gustaberg for some field exercises. You will learn how to make camp in hostile territory, as well as how to eat, sleep, and stay alive with goblins and Quadav breathing down your scrawny necks. Disappoint me, and you might find yourself with a blade through your neck tonight."
"Is he going to do it himself or let the goblins at us?" Kimal asked, his lips barely moving. Grelda stepped on his foot.
The contubernium marched through Bastok Markets. They were largely ignored by the populace; military formations going through the city were becoming more and more common as the Quadav increased their presence in Gustaberg and the Palborough Mines. A few civilian Humes waved, but the recruits knew better than to break discipline by waving back. They went through the gate to Bastok Mines, where the demographic of the city shifted: there were more Galka than Humes now, and they were poorer. The contubernium received glowers and glares rather than cheerful greetings, and it was almost a relief to march out the gate into South Gustaberg.
Grelda was all but vibrating with excitement as she marched into the dusty sunshine of the wasted landscape. Gustaberg! A place to venture forth and do battle in the service of the Republic! She glanced around surreptitiously, and saw the other recruits doing their best to take in the landscape without attracting Torin's attention. Horatio was betrayed by the twitching of his head, but the other recruits only moved their eyes. Most had never been outside the safety of the city walls before. They marched east, into the glare of the rising sun.
Grelda startled slightly as a worm surfaced under her foot, performing an awkward hop in full armor to avoid tripping. Behind her, Lowen wasn't so lucky; he kicked the worm in the head before it could slide back underground, and it began casting Stone. The Hume fell over as a large chunk of quartz shifted under his feet, causing Torin to look back from the head of the column.
"Contubernium! Battle formation!" the decurion barked.
After four weeks of training the response was automatic: the recruits drew their swords and formed a circle around the worm, which seemed confused by all the vibrations of booted feet moving around it. The face-off felt silly—ten Bastokers against a lone worm—but Grelda consoled herself with the knowledge that their numbers ensured nobody would be seriously injured by the creature.
"Blondie and the Galka, attack! The rest of you corpse-maggots prepare to provide support," Torin said.
Grelda didn't have time to allow herself to feel offended by the nickname. She stepped forward as Baleful Wind stomped his huge feet and drew the worm's attention, slicing her sword towards the creature's head... and missing.
"Should I have picked someone else, Blondie?" Torin demanded.
Grelda gritted her teeth and tried again. This time she made a deep gash along the worm's ribbed side. The worm turned and swung its body towards her. She raised her shield, but staggered as the worm's body struck the wood. Baleful Wind sliced the creature's exposed length in half.
"Congratulations," Torin said, his voice dripping with disdain, "you barely survived a Stone Eater attack. Form ranks! We have ground to cover before sunset!"
Once more, the contubernium formed a column. They resumed their march eastward, now paying more attention to the ground under their feet. Puffs of dust were kicked up with each step, and Grelda found herself licking her chapped lips and thinking wistfully of the lukewarm water sloshing in her canteen. The sun glared down as it advanced across the sky, rising higher and higher and eventually reaching its zenith. Vultures cried mournfully overhead, and hornets buzzed around their hives in the rock.
Grelda's feet ached. Her shoulders ached, too, and her knees and hips and back. She felt uncomfortably warm under the weight of her bronze armor, and every inch of her seemed sticky with sweat. The rest of the recruits were starting to drag their feet a little, their marching steps losing their crispness. Kimal especially seemed on the edge of complete exhaustion, though it wasn't a particularly hot day.
"Are you alright?" Grelda hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
"Not really," Kimal admitted. "I want to rest."
"Fat chance," Baleful Wind growled. "Now quiet before you get us in trouble."
They passed from South Gustaberg to the eastern portion of North Gustaberg, heading towards Zegham Hill. Quadav eyed them from a respectable distance, but seemed to decide against attacking in the face of superior numbers.
"Wish I had a bow to shoot those beastmen," Lowen murmured, "my Da was killed by one of those things."
"We should have wiped them out after the Crystal War," Kimal said. "The Windurstians actually make treaties with the Yagudo, can you believe that? Consorting with beastmen."
"And the Aht Urganites employ them as mercenaries," Lowen hissed back. "Shut your face, you hypocrite."
"I left the Empire before I was old enough to walk," Kimal growled. "I'm a Bastoker, same as you."
"You'll never be a real Bastoker, you—"
"Quiet in the ranks!" Torin said.
They reached the base of Zegham Hill and toiled up its slope, wending their way around the few stubby trees that clung to life in the arid valley. Protected by the Hill's flanks, a sparse carpet of tough grasses grew here, grazed by feral sheep that gave the contuberniun a wide berth. The recruits reached the summit, panting, and looking around at the headstones and monument.
"This is where the Palborough Pioneers were laid to rest," Torin announced, standing in front of the monument with his hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight gleamed on his armor. "This was once hallowed ground, but has now become a refuge for goblins. Over the course of the next week we are going to destroy every filthy beastman that dares to set foot on Zegham. If you survive, you'll become true Legionnaires. If not... your comrades will have to drag your worthless carcasses back to Bastok for your mothers to weep over. And now we entrench."
Grelda swallowed a sigh and unstrapped her standard-issue pick and spade from her pack, then began digging as directed. The decurion wanted a ditch that was two spade-lengths wide and one spade-length deep—or six feet wide and three feet deep—across the entrance to Zegham's summit, and the dirt produced to be compacted down into a low wall on the interior side. It was hot, filthy work, and she was soon sweating harder than ever. Kimal panted beside her, while Baleful Wind worked in silence on her other side. Grelda was fortunate: her hands were already callused and tough from working in her father's forge, and the rough wood of the spade's handle didn't cause her to blister. Kimal and Irina weren't so lucky, and after an hour or so were wincing with pain as they shoveled. Horatio was the luckiest of all, however; he was on watch duty, surveying the surrounding terrain for beastmen.
By late afternoon the crude fortification was complete. Torin walked back and forth around it, judging their work.
"Do you think the goblins roaming Gustaberg are all decrepit cripples?" he demanded. "Deeper! Deeper! Blondie, take up watch duty."
Grelda strapped her pick and shovel back to her pack and shouldered it, took a quick swig from her canteen, and hopped out of the ditch. She marched along the perimeter of Zegham's summit, looking out over the brown and rocky expanse of Gustaberg laid out before her. A few tiny Quadav moved around below, and a trio of Goblin Fishers were casting their lines at Obere Creek. One caught a fish and began gutting it on a flat stone with a tiny knife. The Fisher was interrupted by a Mithra adventurer coming up and shooting it in the back with a bow, causing it to abandon its task and take up its ax. Its friends joined it, and the adventurer turned and began running to the entrance of Port Bastok.
"Adventurers," Torin said, coming to stand next to her. "No discipline, no sense, and the Republic treats them all as visiting heroes for doing the most menial tasks." He sneered down at the retreating Mithra pursued by the trio of goblins.
"Yes, sir," Grelda said, knowing she wasn't being asked for her opinion. "Should we take up arms and help, sir?"
"No need; she'll make it to the gate," Torin said, then cast a disapproving eye towards Grelda. "We're too far away to provide aid, recruit."
"Sorry, sir. Kneejerk reaction to seeing a person in trouble, sir."
"Use your head before you move your mouth, Blondie," Torin said, but with an odd lack of venom.
"Yes, sir."
"Besides, we'll kill all those goblins tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
The ditch and wall were completed to the decurion's satisfaction by late afternoon. They left behind Gerrin and Lowen as sentries and marched up and down the pathway traversing Zegham's slopes, but found no goblins. Privately, Grelda believed the beastmen had cleared out of the area following the contubernium's arrival; what lone goblin, or even a trio of goblins, would want to face ten Legionnaires-to-be of the Republic of Bastok?
As the sun was setting they reluctantly returned to Zegham's summit, kindled a fire a respectful distance away from the headstones and monument, and ate a frugal meal of stewed meat, hardtack, and water. A rotating watch was set for the night, and as the moon rose the recruits bedded down for the night.
Lowen paced in a circle around the perimeter of the hill's summit, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The moon was full tonight, washing everything in pale, greenish-silver light, and the stars were bright. Lowen could look up and clearly make out the North Star, and, around it, the constellations of Sleipnir and the Behemoth.
The campfire had burned down to barely-glowing embers, and the recruits were asleep in their bedrolls. In the encampment's lone tent, decurion Torin was silent and presumably asleep as well. Lowen spared a glance towards the tent flap, then sat down with a soft sigh of relief at the edge of the summit to rest his aching feet. His eyes flicked from bedroll to bedroll, watching Grelda snore for a moment and then seeing Gerrin roll over. Irina muttered something, caught in the grips of some dream, then quieted.
All was well.
Lowen looked back up at the stars, then grunted as a wire garrote was slipped around his neck and tightened.