Interlude: Perspectives
“Why are you looking at the food like that, pukie? No need for such a long face, it’s not goin’a jump out and bite you.”
Miko glanced up, taking a moment to identify the man who’d spoken as Hendrik Halfboots (he didn’t know where that nickname came from and hadn’t dared ask yet). The older man was a corporal, not just a common soldier grunt like him, but he sure didn’t act like he was a wise and dignified leader. At least he allowed backtalk, though.
“Why do you keep calling me that? It doesn’t even make sense,” Miko complained, stirring the pot. They had to share a beaten-up old bronze thing, and the fire was so low it would barely warm it up. But at least their rations were compact, with a lot of ‘cal-kals’ in them, and it would feed the whole squad; minus two, who weren’t with them.
Halfboots scratched at his stubbled chin. “Huh, it’s just what we call newbies like you, I guess. Something about you being green enough you puke grass. Which you are, boy. It’s better than ‘greenie’, isn’t it?”
“Greenie just sounds like you’re from the east,” Tino pointed out. “Also, is the food ready, greenie?”
Miko scowled at them. Just because he’d only left training a few weeks ago — that didn’t mean he was less of a soldier than they were! He’d even gotten a real mission, along with the squad. Even if it was just a routine patrol, it was the long one that called for an overnight camp, and there was actually a possibility they might run into enemies. Or, at least a monster or something.
“It’s always ready to eat,” he pointed out.
“Sure, and that’s great, but I prefer it if it’s warm,” Tino said easily. “Scoot over.”
Miko stopped stirring and instead wrangled the single large spoon he had to ladle it into bowls. The rations were usually solid, but they tended to get mushy if you warmed them up with water, becoming more of a stew, and at least they’d managed to collect a few herbs to sprinkle in.
They might be in some random corner of the Western Confederation even the lieutenant would have trouble finding on a map, but it really didn’t look that different from home — just fields and forests, this one clearly coppiced to harvest firewood, but there were a few wild-growing herbs he knew. And he was sure there were still monsters around somewhere who’d be an issue. Probably.
“Do you really like it that much?” he asked, watching the other soldier take a bite and hum approvingly.
Halfboots scoffed and Tino smiled. “This, my dear lad” — He couldn’t be older than thirty, the joker — “is a real great invention. Say what you want about printing presses and whatever, the Empire really knows what logistics mean. Used to be, our rations were just tack you had to chew on for hours, if the bugs didn’t get it. Or more often, some grain and salt and jerky if you’re lucky, and we had to make our own bread.”
“Or you had no rations at all and had to go foraging,” Halfboots put in. “At least half of us were adventurers, so we knew how to prepare.”
“Yeah,” Tino agreed. “Now we’ve got everything we need right there, it keeps for years, you don’t need a fire or a handmill, it even tastes good enough, and they’ve always got more. Sure we’re not allowed to steal from locals, but I’d rather not have to.”
“Even if they’re idiot godsblinded temple-lickers,” Gram agreed. “Still right.”
Miko didn’t answer, just started eating his own portion. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. He used to think the adventurers were, something like glamorous, daring men who’d found true purpose and signed up for the Empress’ army, but it sounded like they’d been mercenaries before and cared more about the food than the cause. Not that food wasn’t important, of course.
“So, why’d you sign up?” Halfboots asked conversationally.
Miko glanced up, noticing that the man was looking at him. He chewed and swallowed, thinking about his answer. Somehow, it felt almost harder to put into words than when he’d talked to the recruiter.
“Because I want to do something that matters,” he finally said. “Fighting for the Empire is that. Better than weeding the fields. My brother got a job in a factory and got me a job too, but — Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have minded working there, but only half the bottles they make even go to the army, can’t I help much more by actually going out and fighting the Empress’ enemies?”
Most of the others muttered approvingly at his reasoning. Tino nodded, Halfboots grunted, and Gram and Lis, the only woman in their squad, said, “hear, hear”. Miko smiled at them, feeling a bit proud.
“Alright, that’s enough chatter.” Halfboots finally stood up, stowing his bowl. “Get some sleep, we’ll set out before dawn tomorrow. Tino, Miko, you’ve got first watch, then me and Gram, then Lis and Ed, and Til and Messy, so wake us in three hours.”
“Got it, boss,” Tino replied. They finished eating and cleared up, then Miko shook out his cloak and got ready to stand watch.
It was as boring as always, even if he tried his best to stay alert. They’d already dug trenches around the camp and put up a few stakes, but he knew that wouldn’t stop more than a wildcat or something. That’s what sentries were for, and he knew how to keep a look out. Halfboots had a pocket watch which he’d left out, so at least they’d know when their shift was over. So Miko kept an eye on his assigned half, occasionally pacing around and heading a short distance from the camp when he knew Tino stayed put, in random patterns.
The last time, when he returned, he saw the other soldier turned half-around — not looking at the fire so he wouldn’t lose his night vision, but not looking out either. Miko approached curiously.
“Hey, is that a charm figurine?” he asked, looking over Tino’s shoulder. Then Miko frowned as he recognized what the small statue, carved from wood and painted, represented — the white dove feathers and the ruler in its hand. “Is that Deirianon?”
Tino flinched and quickly hid the figure away in a bag. He cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s —“
“It definitely was.”
Tino sighed. “Alright, but don’t tell Halfboots, alright? I’ll stow it away and we can go wake up the others, it’s time anyway. Just do me a solid?”
Miko hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. I won’t mind if you worship the gods if you don’t mind when I worship the Ancients, I guess.”
“Thanks. That’s a good lad.”
Miko grimaced, turning to check the watch. Their shift was indeed over. “I don’t get it, though,” he asked after a minute. “Why? Why’re you a soldier if you follow the gods like that?”
The older man shrugged. “Listen, I might not be all into apot—apostasy like you folk, but this is still my home. Just because I think it’s stupid to blame the gods for the war doesn’t mean I want to see my home burn down. Plus, I’ve been in the army since before all this started.”
“Fair enough, I guess,” Miko muttered.
After waking his replacement, he slid into the bedroll and turned around. “Progenitor preserve the truth,” he prayed in a whisper before shutting his eyes and going to sleep.
“Niklos, where’s my food?” his master called.
Niklos of Twills sighed. “Coming, milord!” he hollered back, then turned to put down the crate he’d just lugged up onto a table.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, Niklos glanced around. Other servants were swarming around, and he could see several men serving other lords pass by the tent with trays and clay vessels. Swearing softly, he scrambled for the tray and cutlery he’d marked earlier, then pushed past the others who’d been unloading the wagon and out into the camp proper.
Normally, every lord would be responsible for his — and his household’s — own meals, just like units of soldiers usually were. But the general had thought that was inefficient and set up a communal mess where the gentlemen would get their food; though they mostly sent servants to fetch it. Niklos supposed it had probably sped things up, even if he didn’t like the extra duties. Better than having to help with the cooking, though.
He had to wait for a little while as other servants were in line before him, before the cooks got him a trencher of food for his tray and ladled some soup into a bowl. There was even some kind of glazed dessert. Niklos filled the wine goblet and then departed, carefully focusing on balancing the tray.
Lord Cern’s tent was a little far from the command pavilion, but that just meant they had more space to work with. And the others had finished unloading and stocking everything. Niklos nodded at Leon, who was mending a hole in a shirt while keeping an eye out, and entered. “Your meal, Milord?”
“Put it on the desk,” Cern answered. He looked distracted, and was moving his lips while he read some kind of missive, seated on a cushion put over the clothing chest.
Niklos did as instructed, then glanced around to see if anything else needed to be done. It looked like everything was in place, and the others had already hung up fresh herbs and discarded the old ones kept among the clothes.
Seeing that he wasn’t needed, Niklos left again, closing the tent flap behind him. He looked around, at the other tents spreading out in crooked rows from the center of the camp.
He wondered how long they’d stay here. They hadn’t unpacked this much for the last two weeks or so, so it was probably a longer stay. This was a nice spot, a valley beside a river, even if the weather was getting cool and there might be a storm soon. But he supposed it was the kind of place where you could keep an army of several thousand men for a few days; and there probably wasn’t a town close by, anyway, they were rather sparse here. Niklos wasn’t even sure where they were going, exactly, the general and his staff were keeping all of their plans very hush-hush.
He should probably be grateful. Better to be sitting around here than going into battle against these godless Imperials. Besides, the food was still good and the workload was pretty light, really. And he didn’t have to worry about someone demanding more information from him, only serving Lord Cern.
He needed to see about some food for him and Cern’s other servants now, though, so Niklos walked off to find the others, whistling a little on the way.
“I brought food,” the watchmaster said, hefting a wicker basket he was carrying.
He earned a round of cheers from the assembled men (and a few women). Nestor looked up, trying to see, while the others crowded forward. He was missing dinner, like all of them probably were, so food was welcome.
They passed around the contents of the basket quickly; small loaves of bread with nuts and vegetables baked into it, and what tasted like smoked fish when he started eating; so they didn’t need plates or spoons. Nestor would’ve still preferred to eat with his family at home, but he knew this had to be important.
“That means we’re going to be here for a while, right ‘sarge?” Oliver asked.
The older man had been a soldier, and supposedly a sergeant himself, before the injury that caused his limp saw him retired from the army and he decided to start a new career here instead. He tended to use military terms as some kind of long-running joke. It earned him a dirty look from Watchmaster Cameron, who definitely wasn’t a sergeant.
Word on the street had it that, when they’d restructured the public watches and militias and sheriff’s offices and created the new public law enforcement — abbreviated ‘police’ for some reason, but who cared about that — they wanted to model it on the army. But the Empress gave strict orders that the two organizations should be separate. This wasn’t like a militia that could and would function as a fighting force. So she had, they said, insisted that they come up with their own terms, and if one was already used by the army (because it’d been used for both roles before), they were out of luck. And this extended to much more than words, too.
Nestor didn’t know if that was true, but he knew quite a few of his fellows were proud of not being soldiers, proud that they’d completed the courses on public law and how to enforce it rather than just learning how to swing a blade better. But everyone gathered here today had a Class that would be useful in combat and had been through a few scrapes.
“We’ve been tapped for a major operation,” the watchmaster said. He sat down sidways on a chair, tipping it a bit, to look over the group. “The kind that comes straight from the top. It’s a huge thing, and we’re only a small part of it. You should be glad, boys and girls; all of you gathered here have been judged to be sufficiently loyal to the Empire.”
There were some smiles, and Nestor grinned too. He supposed that might explain why a few other veterans hadn’t been called to this room with them. As it was, it had to leave barely enough people for normal operations if everyone present here was tasked with something else.
“Don’t think that’s it, though,” their boss warned them. “You will keep mum about this. Anyone who lets details slip, you won’t just be demoted to nowhere and forced to shovel shit for a few years, you might just get kicked out with a bit less skin than you have now, or even hung for treason. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” Nestor answered, echoed by others. He sat up straighter. If Cameron wanted to show how serious this was, well he did.
“As it turns out, several important men have been conspiring against the throne. These traitors were planning to sabotage our war effort and even to outright rise in rebellion against Her Imperial Majesty. Naturally, this will not stand.”
“Empress ward us,” one of the others, maybe Timothy, muttered.
Nestor almost scoffed. When did people start speaking about their ruler like she was a god? Not that he disliked Empress Regina, she was a good one. But even the best ruler was still mortal, and would treat peons like them like tools; at best useful tools one shouldn’t discard. Some of the stories he’d heard from their fellows in other branches about certain nobles, though …
“So we’re arresting traitors?” Oliver asked what they were probably all thinking. He almost sounded eager.
“We will be,” Cameron confirmed. “This will need care and probably the use of force. They’ll have guards, probably ones loyal to their treason or at least misled, so they’ll fight. And the traitors must have taken measures to protect themselves. A guilty conscience often drives people to paranoia, and it’d be hard to be more guilty than this. So don’t take this lightly. But we’ve got it planned out. And luckily, we’ll have backup.”
“Some army men?” Nestor asked. It would be interesting to work with them, he supposed.
“No. Well, yes, but our team probably won’t get them. Instead, it’s even better: We’ll have help from the Star Guard themselves.”
Nestor whistled slightly, and he wasn’t the only one to react like that. The Star Guard? If half of the stories about them were true, he had much less to fear about this operation.
The watchmaster clapped his hands. “Yes, we’re all very eager to see them. I expect you to pull your weight, though, we can’t have anyone show us up completely. Now then, to the details. Listen closely, lads …”
Nestor leaned forward, curious about what was going to happen. This could be the case that made his career. Besides, he’d be helping to protect the Empire against traitors. If this went well, he wouldn’t have to buy his own beer for years. Well, after they’d been cleared to speak about it.