Loopbreaker

"You're certain you want a helm?” the armorsmith, Tom, asked. “If you haven't trained with a metal one, it might be harder to fight with one."

"I'm certain," Francis stated as the armorsmith stared at him, arms crossed over his large chest. "Tell me I'm wrong. Not having one would be foolish in a fight like what we are headed into."

"No... you're right... which is surprising, because I'm certain most of your companions spent all their money last night at the local house of pleasure."

Sighing, Francis shrugged.

"I'd like to consider a lifetime of enjoyment versus one single night. Besides, a brother of mine got a bad rash using his money at the brothel, and I really didn't want to risk that before a battle."

The large man nodded, chuckling as he turned around and pulled three different types of helmets from the shelf behind him.

"No, that wouldn't make for a good time at all. Very well, let's try these three."

Two of the three helmets that the armorer had sat on the counter were padded leather variations. They would not do much against an arrow or sword, but they might help against a shield or an off-strike from a club.

"This last one is actually more than you have,” Tom said, “but I'll be honest. A part of me wants to offer it if you're willing to give me all your silver."

"All my silver?"

Holding up a chain helmet with a padded cap underneath, the armorer nodded.

"I know you got seven silver. I also won a little bit last night at the gate, betting on you. I could see the fire in your eyes as that older one chased you down. For that... let's assume you have six silver, as I know you likely spent some last night at the Dancing Bear. I'll let you have it for five, which means you can enjoy one more night of drinking and eating. If you live, promise to come back one day and give me the other fifteen silver I would normally need for such a helm."

"And if I die?"

"Just make sure it happens from a blow to some other part of your body," he replied with a grin.

Not waiting, Francis pulled out five pieces of silver and set them on the counter.

"Sounds like a deal. Hopefully, I can pay you back someday."

The older man nodded and frowned.

His large, stubby fingers slid the coins off the wooden counter and into his other hand.

"Truthfully, if you live, it means we won a battle. That alone would give me hope that we can win this war. You know what we're facing, don't you?"

Grimacing, Francis shrugged. "Kind of... lots of casters, very fast and armed men, and--"

"No... not men," the armorer replied, leaning against the counter and motioning for Francis to come closer. Quietly, with a glance out the door, the man said, “Beastmen... they call them beastkin, but those creatures are different. Something none of us has ever seen or heard of. No one knows where they come from, but the rumor is they aren't of this world."

Those were only rumors... surely this guy can't be serious...

"Are you certain?"

Both green eyes locked onto Francis, and the man's weathered brow drew together. Gone was the jovial expression, now replaced with a tight frown as his lips pressed hard together.

"I would bet my shop on it, boy. The gods have been quiet. None has answered our prayers. Even our mages and other masters have found no success. Surely you know what I'm speaking of?"

"I do... but what about the two sages?” Francis asked.

“They haven't come, and the grandmasters are all quiet."

Neither spoke for a few seconds as the sounds of a hammer on metal from across the street carried into the shop. Dozens of times it rang out, yet both of them stood there, continuing to watch the other.

"I have no idea,” the smith said. “Just be safe and pray the grandmasters or sages answer. Surely the King has called them. I know the noble houses have also asked their patriarchs to assist. If no one answers the call, we are destined to fall." Pounding his fist on the counter, the older man stood up and tapped the helm. "Let's get you fitted. Perhaps you can be the one we're looking for."

Laughing, Francis shook his head.

"I'm the ninth son. You know what that means."

Groaning, the armorer bounced the coins together in his meaty palm and smirked.

"Perhaps I shouldn't sell you the helmet, then," he joked. "It just means I'm donating that helmet to the next guy!"

"Exactly!" Francis exclaimed as he grabbed the padded cap and started putting it on. "With my death, you're helping someone who’s probably the sixth son instead!"

***

Poking at his food, Francis looked up at his brother, who sat across from him in their room.

It was tiny. Two beds were crammed together, a chamber pot sat between them, and there was a tiny shelving system where a single chain coif waited for its first battle.

"You're right,” his brother said. “Eating downstairs doesn't feel like what we should be doing. We could still run off together and try to get away. Perhaps now with our training, we’d have a chance as a pair."

"Seriously, Michael?” Francis replied. “We both know how that turns out. Every major city would get our description. Besides, that would mean traveling through the forest, and I don't want to be out there with those freaking pumas."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from NovelFire. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

His older brother shuddered and nodded once, rubbing his hand through his blond hair.

"I guess that means tomorrow we'll face an army we both thought wasn't real. I mean... why hasn't Sir Asshole talked about them more? Aren't the generals worried about how we might react when we get there and find out?"

"No... it makes sense. If they wait till then, we're there, which means fleeing the army would be much harder. At that point, what else can we do but fight? I... no. We both know if you had to trick people like us, this is the way."

Smacking his tongue against his teeth several times, Michael nodded as he poked at the smoked meat with his fork.

"Kind of makes me not hungry,” Michael said.

"And yet we're both going to eat it all, because we know it will be a long time before we see this kind of food again."

"True," the older brother stated. "Still... know that you've always been my favorite brother."

Acting shocked, Francis leaned back against the wall, his mouth open as he winked.

"Not your favorite sibling?"

"God no, Isabella is so much better than you."

Each of them chuckled and then continued to eat, able to enjoy the meal a little more and knowing that tomorrow would change everything.

***

"Look out there, men!” Phillip shouted. “That is where you shall try to earn glory!"

Long, steady lines of wagons ran both ways toward the horde of troops stationed in a clearing. Brown tents were set in rows upon rows, numbering in the thousands. Farther back were larger tents, with one that looked like it was at least a quarter mile long rising up above them all. The wolf banner flapped in the wind, its red and gold coloring accentuating the white fabric that marked the spot where King Baxter’s section was.

Other carts like theirs were along the widened road. Young men, all wearing leather armor, each with a sword and wooden buckler, were going the same direction as them.

All that walking to get here...

A group of four warriors moved near them, each man wore chain armor with a sigil of the wolf on their shoulder in red. As they walked, those like Francis and his fellow trainees moved to get out of the way of the four. The grim look, combined with the way they moved, told everyone they weren’t a typical recruit.

“Those have to be elite troops,” Michael whispered. “Look at how they move and the equipment they carry.”

“It’s the mark,” Henry said. “Phillip mentioned once that those who wear it aren’t normal troops and not to piss them off.”

Francis glanced at a sea of black and blue tents that housed a good chunk of the kingdom’s army. Far off in the distance, a silver and gold tent shimmered in the afternoon sun, marking the location of the leader or whoever was in charge of this army.

"Tens of thousands.... maybe even a hundred thousand out here," Gregory muttered. “And we’re scared of those four.”

Francis nodded, seeing others mimic his motion; everyone apparently thinking the same thing.

Black smoke billowed up from the battlefield in the air, and carrion birds swooped down, a dark cloud that shifted and moved as they came to enjoy the spoils of battle.

Sniffing, Francis rubbed his nose.

I can smell the burnt flesh... How many have died here already?

"Don't be afraid, men!” Phillip called out. “Reports say that we have almost defeated the enemy! A few more pushes and the entire kingdom will be in your debt! Think about the glory and honor you will earn for your families by serving, but think about this even more!"

A smirk, that bastardly smirk that Phillip always had when the man believed what he was motivating, appeared.

"If you survive, think about how much fun it will be to return home and demand a share of the rewards the king has promised to any family whose son serves here! Think about the look on each of your father's faces as they hand over gold to you and acknowledge that you have earned it. Never forget that moment when you prove to them that you are worth more than they ever imagined!"

A few cheers came at first, and then more joined when the thought of that moment set in.

Even with everyone nervous, each of them knew that longing—the desire to prove they were worth something.

To stand out above the chosen three... To have skills… Power… Respect… That would be...

Words couldn't describe how Francis felt. All he knew was that there wasn't much he desired more than that.

***

"Four to a tent this size?” Michael asked. “What do they want us to do? Spoon with each other?"

Gregory and Henry both chuckled at Michael's comment. They were brothers from a lesser noble family, being sons number six and seven. Their family handled fabric, taking what was produced and creating what the kingdom needed.

"I'm not sure what you do in your family, but we're not looking for that," Gregory stated.

He was the older of the two, tall, with dark hair, brown eyes, and about as muscular as Michael.

Henry was only a few inches shorter but was stocky. In the face, he looked almost exactly like his brother, but his body seemed like it hadn't missed a meal.

"I think we're supposed to get settled and meet at the mess tent. After that, we wait around until the horn sounds," Francis said. "Though Phillip didn't say when that might happen."

"But we know we're on this side," Henry said as he pointed to the left flank. "It's not in the middle, which is good, but we're still kind of near the front. I mean, look at the number of tents behind us."

"Yeah, those are all the fifth sons," Michael joked as he tossed his bag inside the tent. "Alright, drop your stuff, keep your weapons and shields. We need to go."

The four moved through the maze of tents, keeping note of the tall poles that marked each section.

Red, yellow, orange, red, yellow, orange... seventh row back.

Mentally having marked their section in his head, Francis strode toward the circle of brown flags atop the poles, which marked where food could be acquired.

The smell of something being cooked would draw anyone toward it, even if they weren’t aware of what the flags meant.

***

"Geh yer bowl and spoon!” an assistant cook shouted. “Lose it, and you’ll have to pay for it!"

Each of them took the items provided by the skinny man, who was missing about seven teeth. His hair looked greasy, and Francis couldn't help but wonder about his appearance.

"If he looks that bad, what will this food do to us?" he whispered to his brother.

Michael chuckled and pointed at the larger man pouring something into the bowls of the soldiers in line before them. "I think that one eats the other one's food."

Both were laughing… until they got close and held out their bowl.

A mush of something gray with chunks of brown filled their bowls.

"This ain't the palace, so don't ask for seconds or what it is!” the man handing out food yelled. “Next!"

Francis felt his brother pushing him from behind. He carefully poked his spoon into the mixture, watching as it seemed to grab hold of the wooden utensil and not let go.

"Look at those guys. They're sucking it down," Michael said, pointing with his spoon.

Sure enough, a group of six soldiers was holding the bowls up to their mouths, using their spoons to shovel the food in.

"I don't think they're even chewing,” Francis said.

"Macenburg men! To me!" Phillip called out.

Their foursome turned and saw Phillip standing on a small tree stump, his eyes locked on them.

"Looks like we've been saved," Gregory said after he caught up with them, bowl still full and in his hands.

"What in the four kingdoms are you fools doing? Eat up! You need the bonus it provides!" their leader shouted.

The four of them glanced at the others from their original seventeen, who were all bobbing their heads, empty bowls in hand.

"Here goes nothing," Francis muttered, mimicking what he had seen, as he lifted the bowl and tipped it toward his mouth.

Shoveling the goop in, he tasted nothing at first, and then suddenly, it transformed into a flavor of fresh watermelon. Memories of his childhood and how he had liberated a few of the fruits from a person in their father's land replayed through his mind.

Before he knew it, the bowl was empty, and a message appeared.

[ Well Fed - 1439 Minutes Remaining ]

[ + 1 Strength ]

[ +1 Endurance ]

"What in the kingdoms? A bonus for eating this?" Francis asked.

"Aye, you all fools?” Phillip asked. “What army wouldn't be smart enough to use magical power to keep an army fed? One meal a day and the bonus to stats! Now stop acting like idiots and making me look bad. Finish your food, and then it is time to prepare for what's coming."