Legionnaire

It was probably five minutes later when the door opened again.

The old man and the younger man walked back in.

I stood.

“Well,” I said. “Are you going to kill me or what?”

The old man chuckled.

The younger man didn’t move.

“Now that we know you are no liar,” the old man said, “allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Senior Assessor Vale. This fine specimen of war here is Legionnaire Marric.”

The younger man’s eyes shifted toward him.

Vale ignored it.

“You have two options before you,” he continued. “Neither of them is death.”

“I’m listening, Senior Assessor.”

“Just Senior Vale, if you would, please. First, what is your name?”

“Wade,” I said. “Wade Archer.”

“Interesting name,” Senior Vale muttered.

“My father thought he was funny.” I shifted on the edge of the bed. “Sir, what are my options?”

“The first is simple. We give you some gold, clothes, food, and send you on your way.” He tilted his head slightly. “Though seeing as you cannot remember much after your accident, it would almost seem a disservice to do so.”

What the fuck?

I hadn’t expected that. A kick in the ass out the door, maybe. A cell. A rope. A sword through the gut. But gold, clothes, and food sounded generous as hell.

“The second,” Vale continued, “is that we test you to see if you meet the requirements for selection into the Legion.”

“What?” I said, dumbfounded. “You want me to join this… Legion?”

The younger man, Marric, seemed to bristle at that question, but he didn’t say anything.

“The woman you saved was a senior initiate mage,” Vale said. “She was about to graduate and receive her own command. I am not sure where you are from or what you know, so I will make this simple.”

He lifted his hand high, palm down.

“King.”

His hand lowered slightly.

“Nobles. That section becomes complicated depending on rank, house, title, bloodline, and influence.”

His hand lowered again.

“Mages.”

Again.

“Legionnaires.”

Again.

“Standing army.”

Again.

“Reserves.”

Finally, his hand dropped near his waist.

“Citizens.”

“So she was important?” I asked.

“She was,” Vale said.

“And now you want me to join your Legion?”

Marric spoke then, sharp and immediate.

“No. You do not simply join the Legion. We are the elites of the kingdom. You do not get a pass. You go through selection like everyone else. If you pass, you may become a legionnaire. If you fail, you wash out. You will be paid for your time in training and sent on your way. No longer our problem.”

Senior Vale gave Marric a sour look.

“In so many words, yes.” He reached into one of the pouches at his belt and produced a slab of black stone. Obsidian, maybe. Smooth, flat, and dark enough that it seemed to swallow the light around it. “First, however, you must test with this. An assessment tablet. It will tell us what your indexes are and whether you meet the minimum requirements for selection.”

“So my choices are go on my way, or try this selection of yours?”

“Correct.”

“Why would you even ask me?”

Marric answered this time.

“Because I was taught you do not leave people behind.”

I went still.

He had thrown my own words back at me.

“You risked your life for someone you did not know,” Marric said. “You protected someone you did not know. You dragged her as far as you could with that knee, then hid her when the Ravaryn soldiers were almost on top of you.”

His expression didn’t soften.

“That is Legion material. That is what the Legion looks for. Criminals can be forced into the standing army. Desperate men can be pressed into lesser service. But the Legion is different. We want the best. Not only in skill, but in character.”

He held my stare.

“You have shown character. Now it is your choice whether you want to learn and show skill.”

This was too much.

“Can I sit?” I asked.

Senior Vale nodded.

I collapsed back onto the bed and put my hands in my hair.

If I didn’t join, they’d let me loose. That was nice. More than nice. But where the hell would I go? I didn’t know this place. This continent. This world, if that was what this was. I didn’t know the rules, the money, the language, the laws, the roads, the people.

And I had no idea how to get home.

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If I even could.

Senior Vale cleared his throat.

“There is another reason.”

I looked up.

“You have shown potential as a Binder.”

“A what?”

“A Binder,” he said. “The ring. What you described is called Binding. You have an ability to bind items to a person. Either yourself or others. If trained, that skill could be highly valuable to the Legion.”

“What does it do?” I asked, looking down at the ring. “What did I do?”

“Binding is a more rare skill,” Vale said. “Useful, especially among legionnaires and mages. Mages often carry very expensive enhanced gear. Binding it to them keeps it from being stolen, lost, or used against them. The same is true for legionnaires as they acquire enhanced weapons, armor, tools, or other equipment.”

“So that’s what happened with the Ravaryn soldier guy? I somehow bound his ring to myself?”

“It would appear so,” Vale said. “Based on your description of events, and our inability to remove the ring from your person, yes. It is bound to you.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Some junk copper or bronze ring?”

“It could be,” Vale said. “It could be more. Until you train the skill and learn to control your Binding, there is no real way to know.”

I sat there with my elbows on my knees, hands in my hair, staring at the floor.

Breathe, I told myself.

Just breathe.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “What do I do?”

I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I looked up.

It was Marric.

“You’ve fought before,” he said. “I don’t know where or when, but I can see it in you. You’re a warrior, Wade. No random citizen would have done what you did. Not to the extent you did.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I believe you have what it takes to be a legionnaire,” Marric said. “There are higher callings in life for some people, and I believe you are looking for one.”

I looked him in the eyes.

“I’ll test.”

I had gone into that mountain pass looking for a challenge. Looking for a higher calling. Looking for something.

I didn’t know if I had died, fallen into the past, slipped into some alternate reality, or crawled through a portal into a new world.

But it didn’t matter.

Marric was right.

I was looking for something more.

So fuck it. Why not give it a chance? If I found my way home later, all the better. But right now, I was stuck. I needed a living. I needed skills. I needed answers.

And maybe I needed something more than all of that.

“Good,” Marric said.

He stepped back, and Senior Vale walked forward with the tablet in his hands.

“Hold out your right arm, please,” Vale said. “Palm up.”

I did as he instructed.

He placed the black tablet against my forearm.

“There may be some slight discomfort,” he said.

“That’s never a good sentence.”

The tablet began to glow.

The black surface turned white-hot, bright enough that I had to look away, but there was no heat. No burning. Just pressure under my skin, like invisible needles pushing beneath the surface and dragging lines through my arm.

I clenched my jaw and forced myself not to pull away.

Then it stopped.

Vale lifted the tablet.

Numbers had appeared on my forearm, running from near my wrist toward my elbow.

Not written in ink.

Not scratched into the skin.

Branded.

Tattooed.

Something in between.

Six numbers, dark against my skin, arranged in a clean vertical line.

48

52

36

44

84

7

“What do these mean?” I asked.

“Does he qualify?” Marric asked.

“Yes,” Vale said. “He qualifies cleanly, though this fifth number…”

He trailed off.

“What?” Marric and I asked at the same time.

“It is unusually high,” Vale said. “Extremely high.”

My stomach tightened.

“That is not bad, son,” he said, looking at me. “It is actually very good.”

He pointed to the first number.

“The first is your Physical Index. Forty-eight. How strong your body is.”

He moved to the second.

“The second is your Constitution Index. Fifty-two. How much punishment your body can take and keep moving.”

Then the third.

“The third is your Endurance Index. Thirty-six. How long you can keep doing whatever it is you are doing. Fighting, running, working, marching.”

The fourth.

“The fourth is your Reflex Index. Forty-four. Your ability to react. Your perception. Your agility.”

Then he stopped at the fifth number.

“The fifth is your Mental Resistance Index.”

He looked at it for a moment longer.

“Eighty-four.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“No,” Vale said quickly. “No, it is very good. Most people are far lower. Many trained soldiers sit somewhere in the twenties or thirties. Yours is exceptional.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I kept my mouth shut.

I looked at Marric. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.

Vale moved to the last number.

“Your sixth number is your Mana Index. Seven.”

“That doesn’t seem good,” I said.

“It is not,” Vale said. “But Binding does not require a great deal of mana to begin with, so it is acceptable. If you practice your Binding and grow into the skill, your Mana Index may increase with training.”

“So he qualifies?” Marric asked.

“Yes,” Vale said. “He qualifies. The decision is his now.”

The decision didn’t really seem like much of a choice.

“I’m interested,” I said. “But I have questions.”

“Yes?” Vale asked.

“Pay. Terms of service. Gear. Do I have to pay for it, or is it provided?”

“Pay depends on you,” Vale said. “It depends on your graduating indexes, your useful skills, and whose command you are assigned to. On average, a standing soldier earns five silver a week. A legionnaire with only qualifying skills and no rare abilities will usually earn fifteen to twenty silver a week.”

He glanced at the ring on my hand.

“A legionnaire with an ability like Binding could earn thirty or forty silver a week. That is a good sum. As far as terms of service, if you pass selection, you are bound for five years.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Then I’ll try selection.”

Marric nodded once.

“I want you to understand what you are agreeing to.”

I looked at him and nodded.

“This is not a vacation. It is not a fun little ability course. Selection is hard from dawn to dark. You will work until you are ready to collapse, then you will work more. You will be hurt. There are healers on site to treat serious injuries, but do not mistake that for mercy.”

He stepped closer.

“You will be miserable. You will be sore. You will want to quit. That is the point.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You are not there to make friends,” Marric said. “You are there to learn, train, and earn your place as a legionnaire. I do not often give advice to new candidates, but I will give you this.”

His eyes held mine.

“When they give you free time, it is not free time. That is when the weakest wash out. Train every day. Study every day. Even if all you can do is drill footwork, practice the language, clean gear, or pick a fight with someone better than you, do it.”

He let that sit for a second.

“Train no matter what.”

“So now what do I do?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” Vale said, “you and I will set out for Rifthold. The journey will take three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yes,” Vale said. “During that time, I will instruct you in our native tongue. Fluency is a requirement for entry into the Legion. The translation ring is temporary. It will not be permitted once selection begins.”

Of course it wouldn’t.

“I will also begin training you in Binding while we travel,” Vale continued. “Once we reach Rifthold, if you have not yet mastered the language or gained control of your Binding, we will continue those lessons every day after you are released from your primary training.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It will be,” Marric said.

I looked at him.

“Until you are a legionnaire, you are confined to this room,” he said. “If you need food, drink, clothing, or anything else reasonable, tell the guards. It will be provided.”

“Anything else reasonable,” I repeated.

His face didn’t move.

“Do not test the word reasonable.”

Fair enough.

Marric turned toward the door.

“Try to get some rest. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Vale gave me a small nod as he followed.

“I will see you in the morning, lad. Sleep while you can.”

Then they left, and the heavy door shut behind them.

I sat there staring at the guards.

“Soooo,” I said. “You guys are just going to be here all night?”

Neither of them said anything.

“Okay then.” I pointed toward the door. “Can I get some of that food and water the other guy mentioned?”

One of the guards left without a word.

The other stayed exactly where he was, spear in hand, watching me like I might try to make a run for it in bare feet and medieval pajamas.

After a while, the door opened again, and the guard returned with a large plate. He set it on the small table beside the bed, then stepped back.

There were two cups. One held water. The other smelled like beer. Or something close to beer, anyway.

On the plate sat a big chunk of bread, a wedge of hard yellow cheese, and a drumstick the size of something that had no business belonging to a chicken. I didn’t know if they had turkeys here, but if they did, one of them was missing a leg.

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled it.

I had no idea how long it had been since those tortillas.

I picked up the bread first. It tasted like bread. Real bread, I mean. Dense, chewy, a little sour, with a hard crust that actually fought back. Not that sugar-packed Wonder Bread shit that was closer to cake than real bread.

The cheese was different.

Hard, salty, and sharp enough to bite the back of my tongue. There was a nutty taste under it, almost like aged cheddar mixed with something earthier. Not bad. Strong as hell, but not bad. The kind of cheese that made me understand why people used to eat it with beer and bread and call that dinner.

The giant drumstick tasted exactly like chicken.

Of course it did.

Different world, magic rocks, healing potions, tattoo numbers in my arm, but the giant mystery bird still tasted like chicken.