Legionnaire

The next morning, I woke to banging on the door.

At some point during the night, the guards had changed. These were two new men. One opened the door, and a younger man stood in the hall, maybe mid-twenties, holding a large leather pack.

He handed it to the guard.

“This is from Senior Vale for the candidate,” the man said. “He is to dress and meet the Assessor out front as soon as he is ready.”

The guard took the pack and carried it over to me.

I was already sitting on the edge of the bed.

I grabbed the pack from him, set it beside me, and started dumping everything out onto the blanket.

Two pairs of pants came first. They were made from thick dark wool or canvas, heavier than jeans but cut loose enough to move in. Reinforced patches had been sewn over the knees and seat, and the cuffs were meant to tuck into boots.

Then came two shirts. Plain linen or something close to it. Off-white, long-sleeved, loose at the wrists and neck. Not fancy. Travel clothes.

Four pairs of underwear, which I was thankful for and also not emotionally prepared to inspect too closely.

Four sets of socks. Thick wool. Better than I expected.

Then the boots.

They were brown leather, stiff-looking, and tall enough to stop just below my knees. Travel boots, not dress boots. Heavy soles. Buckles along the side. Scuffed enough that they looked broken in, but not falling apart.

There was also some kind of leather jerkin. Sleeveless, dark brown, with a few hardened panels sewn into the chest and ribs. Not armor exactly, but enough to make me feel slightly better about not only have just the shirt…I wonder what they did with my stuff? Probably burned it…well if they could even get that amount of mud to actually burn there was no saving anything I was wearing.

I pulled out a belt next. Wide leather, plain buckle, a few empty loops and tie points.

Then the hat.

I picked it up and stared at it.

It was wide-brimmed, made of dark felt or some kind of treated wool, with one side pinned up by a small metal clasp. Not quite a cowboy hat. Not quite a ranger hat. More like something Jake from The Rescuers Down Under would wear if he mugged a fantasy border scout.

I got dressed, shoved everything else back into the pack, and was escorted outside.

My first look beyond the room was more stone and more of those glowing light rocks. A hallway. Thick walls. Heavy doors. Nothing fancy. Nothing awe-inspiring.

Then we stepped outside.

That changed.

It wasn’t a castle.

Not really.

It was more like a fort. Or a FOB. A forward operating base, if the Army had built one out of stone and decided comfort was a moral failing.

Well, the Army did that anyway.

The whole place sat inside a thick stone wall, maybe fifteen or twenty feet high, with a walkway running along the top and square guard towers at the corners. The wall wasn’t pretty. No banners snapping dramatically from perfect white towers. No fairy-tale bullshit. It was old gray stone, patched in places with newer blocks, stained by weather and smoke and whatever else years of use had thrown at it.

Inside the walls, several squat stone buildings hugged the perimeter. Barracks, maybe. Storehouses. An armory. A stable-like structure near one side with a long roof and open front. Smoke rose from a chimney on a larger building that smelled like food and wood ash.

The center of the yard was open and beaten flat from boots, hooves, carts, and probably a thousand years of people being told to hurry the hell up. Mud filled the low spots. Straw had been thrown down in places to keep the worst of it under control. Soldiers moved through the yard in small groups, some carrying spears, others hauling crates.

It looked permanent, but not important enough to be comfortable.

The kind of place built before a war, then used hard once the war found it.

I stopped just outside the doorway, taking it in.

Stone walls. Armed guards. Morning air. Smoke. Mud. Men in armor.

“Ah, Wade.”

Senior Vale walked up to me, looking me over with a pleased little nod.

“Good. How does everything fit?”

“Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

“The boots?” he asked. “You will want a good fit. We have others in supply, and we are stopping there before we leave anyway. That pair simply looked like the best broken-in set I could find. You do not want to start a three-week journey with poor or stiff boots.”

He chuckled.

“They fit perfectly, actually,” I said. “They’re comfortable. Thank you again.”

“Think nothing of it. Come on.”

He turned and started walking toward one of the larger stone buildings on the far side of the yard, built directly against the inside of the wall.

I followed.

Inside was another room of stone, another heavy door banded in iron, and a guard sitting at a desk beside it.

Senior Vale handed the man a slip of paper. The guard glanced at it, stood, and pulled a key from a lanyard tucked beneath his breastplate. He unlocked the door with a heavy metallic thunk.

“Just be sure to give me a rough idea of what you’re taking,” the guard said. “We don’t need a full log for you, sir.”

Senior Vale patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, young man. Come on, Wade.”

We walked into the storeroom.

It was much larger than I expected.

Rows of shelves stretched back into the building, packed with folded clothing, blankets, leather bags, tools, coils of rope, lanterns, small boxes, waxed parcels, and enough random supplies to make the place feel like a medieval quartermaster had been hoarding for the apocalypse.

“All right, Wade,” Vale said. “Take a look around and grab whatever looks useful to you. Make sure you take one of those daggers over there.”

He pointed toward a table against the far wall. Daggers, swords, axes, hammers, shields, and several weapons I didn’t have names for were laid out across it.

“I can have a weapon?” I asked.

“Normally, no,” Vale said. “But a dagger is more tool than weapon. And since we will be traveling with a small escort, you will be permitted to carry arms. It would be in your best interest to train with whatever weapon catches your fancy as we make our way to Rifthold.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“How will I do that?”

“With the adventurers, boy.”

He smirked.

“Right,” I said.

“Well, get to it. I have my own supplies to gather. One always needs a few bottles of good brandy for the road.”

He chuckled and started down one of the aisles.

“Oh, and food for the escort is already handled. You only need basic supplies, snacks, and whatever pack food you want to carry yourself.”

I made my way over to the weapon table first.

The dagger seemed like the obvious place to start. I picked out the best-looking one on the table, a plain blade with a solid grip and no fancy bullshit, then found a sheath that fit it well. I tucked both into my bag.

Then I started picking up weapons.

I weighed them in my hands, pretending like that told me anything.

I had no fucking idea what I was doing.

I found two short swords and gave each a few careful swings. They were light and fast, but that was part of the problem. I didn’t think I was coordinated enough yet to use something that depended on speed and precision. Part of me also thought a shield might be a better idea for someone whose current fighting style had rapidly changed from shooting to I really don’t wanan get stabbed.

I found a round shield that wasn’t too heavy compared to the others. Wood, rimmed with metal, with a leather grip and forearm strap. I set it next to my bag and kept looking.

Hammer.

Mace.

A thing with chains and three spiked heads that I was pretty sure was called a flail.

Hard pass.

Then I found a sword I recognized.

Or thought I recognized.

A bastard sword.

Longer than a normal one-hander, but not as ridiculous as some of the greatswords on the table. The grip had room for two hands, but I figured I could maybe use it with one hand and a shield if I had to.

I hoped, anyway.

Have I mentioned I had no idea what the fuck I was doing?

I set the sword next to my bag and moved on to the shelves.

I grabbed a canteen, some dried jerky-looking meat wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle that smelled like whiskey. That went into the bag wrapped inside a thick wool blanket I found nearby.

Vale pointed out a cloak and said it was waterproof.

“Take one,” he said. “We may need them.”

So I did.

I also grabbed a pair of deerskin gloves and what Vale called a hygiene kit. Soap, small scissors, something like nail clippers, a little comb, a cloth, and a few other items I didn’t recognize but hoped were self-explanatory.

On the way out, I grabbed a few more wrapped food items without checking what they were and shoved them into my bag.

Worst case, I’d find out later.

I left the storeroom with the pack heavier than it had been when I walked in.

Senior Vale led me across the yard toward the front gate. The place was already moving. Men carried crates between buildings. A pair of guards walked the wall above us. Somewhere nearby, something metal rang against stone.

The gate was bigger up close.

Two thick wooden doors sat between square stone towers, each door banded with black iron straps. A heavy beam rested in brackets across the middle, thick enough that it looked like it would take a team of men just to move it. The hinges were massive, dark with old grease, and the bottom of the doors were scarred from years of scraping over packed dirt and stone.

A guard above called down. Another answered from inside the gatehouse.

Chains clanked.

The beam was lifted free, and the doors opened slowly with a deep groan.

Outside, the road waited.

So did the caravan.

There were two carts. The first was loaded with supplies: barrels, crates, sacks, rolled canvas, and bundles tied down with rope. The second cart had iron bars running along the sides.

A cage cart.

There were men inside it.

Five that I could see. Dirty, tired, and quiet. Their wrists were chained, and a few of them watched us as we came through the gate. One stared at the floor of the cart like he had already given up. Another looked at me with dead eyes and then looked away.

I glanced at Vale.

He kept walking.

The animals pulling the carts were the next thing that made me stop.

There were four of them, two hitched to each cart. They looked like oxen, kind of, but only if oxen had long black shaggy fur, blue-gray faces, and four horns. Two horns swept out from the sides of their heads. Two shorter ones curved forward above their eyes. Their bodies were thick and low, their shoulders heavy, and their breath steamed in the morning air.

One of them shifted its weight and snorted.

I stared at it.

Vale noticed.

“Karroks,” he said. “Draft beasts.”

“Right,” I said.

A man appeared from around the other side of the prison cart.

He was lean and weathered, maybe mid-forties, with a short gray-streaked beard and the kind of squint people get from spending too much time staring down roads in bad weather. He wore dark leather armor with metal plates sewn over the chest and shoulders. A short sword hung at his hip, and a long knife sat on the other side of his belt. A round shield was strapped to his pack.

He looked like a man who had been in plenty of fights and had no interest in making one look pretty.

“Senior Assessor Vale,” the man said, smiling. “It has been a long time.”

“Yes,” Vale said, studying him for a second. “Dain Orvek, was it?”

The man laughed.

“Your mind is as sharp as ever, I see.”

Vale gave him a small smile.

Dain’s eyes moved to me.

“This your escort?”

“Yes, yes,” Vale said. “Wade Archer, this is Dain Orvek. He leads the adventurers escorting us to Rifthold.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

I held out my hand, then immediately felt stupid.

What if they didn’t do that here?

Dain looked at my hand for half a second, then reached forward and grabbed my forearm instead. His grip was strong. Rough palm. He gave my arm one firm jerk and let go.

He didn’t bother saying anything.

“I was rather hoping you had someone who could train him while we are on the road,” Vale said. “I could pay, if necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Dain said. “I would not hear of charging you for that.”

He looked past us toward the carts.

“I believe I have just the person.”

Then he raised his voice.

“Tovan!”

A large man near the supply cart turned at the sound of his name. He had been tying down one of the canvas-covered bundles, but he dropped the rope and started toward us at a jog.

He was big broad chest, thick arms, shaved head, and a short brown beard. He wore a padded jacket under a leather vest reinforced with metal studs, and a round shield hung across his back. A mace rested at his hip, heavy enough that I didn’t want to be anywhere near it when he swung.

He slowed as he reached us.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

Not military formal. Just respectful.

Dain pointed at me.

“This is Wade Archer. Candidate for Legion selection. He needs road training. Sword, shield, footwork. Basics first.”

Tovan looked me over.

His eyes dropped to the sword and shield near my pack.

Then back to me.

“You ever use those before?”

“No,” I said.

He nodded once.

“Honest, Good. Then I don’t have to beat bad habits out of you.”

I stared at him.

He grinned.

I could tell he was serious.

There had been an instructor at my combatives level two course who had that same grin. The man lived to beat the shit out of students. Not in a sadistic way. More like he had decided pain was the best teacher, and he was just there to help pain with the lesson plan.

Shit, I thought.

There were a few other members of the adventurer party moving around the carts, finishing whatever had to be finished before we left.

The first was a woman checking straps on the supply cart. She was smaller than the others, lean, with dark hair tied back under a hood. A short bow rested against the cart beside her, and a long knife sat low on her belt. She moved quietly, even in the mud. Not sneaky in a dramatic way. Just quiet enough that I had to pay attention to notice her.

Dain pointed at her.

“Mira Fen. Scout and archer.”

Mira looked over at me, gave a small nod, then went right back to checking the cart.

Friendly.

The next one was an older woman kneeling beside one of the karroks. She had a leather satchel open on the ground beside her, full of cloth rolls, little jars, tied bundles of dried plants, and a few glass bottles wrapped in padding. Her gray hair was braided tight against her head, and she was rubbing something thick and yellowish into a scrape on the animal’s leg.

“Sella Varr,” Dain said. “Healer. Alchemist. Meaner than she looks.”

“I heard that,” Sella said without looking up.

“Good,” Dain said.

She finally glanced at me. Her eyes moved over my face, then down to my knee, then back up again.

“You the one they healed in the fort?”

“Yeah,” I said.

She grunted.

“Try not to waste it.”

I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I kept my mouth shut.

The last one was by the lead cart, arguing with one of the karroks like the animal could understand him and was choosing not to. He was older, ugly in a way that looked earned, with a crooked nose, missing teeth, and a thick wool cap pulled low over his ears. A crossbow hung from the side of the cart near him, and he had three different knives visible, which made me wonder how many I couldn’t see.

“That’s Rusk,” Dain said. “Handles the beasts, the carts, and most of the cooking.”

Rusk looked over.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing yet,” Dain said.

“Give it time,” Rusk said, then went back to fighting with the harness.

“Give it time?” I asked, looking at Vale. “What does that mean?”

Dain answered instead.

He pointed toward the prison cart.

“They did something,” he said. “They are not going to Legion selection. They are headed to the standing army. Forced service for crimes committed.”

I looked back at the men in the cage.

I really had nothing to say to that.

I had heard stories from old Vietnam vets and a few old World War Two guys about judges giving men a choice. Jail or service. I had no idea if any of those stories were true back home.

Here, they clearly were.

We set out shortly after that.

Vale climbed onto the supply cart, moving slower than he had in the yard but still refusing help when one of the guards offered it. Dain took the lead on foot beside the first team of karroks. Mira drifted ahead of the carts without anyone telling her to. Tovan walked near the prison cart, mace at his hip, shield on his back. Sella rode on the edge of the supply cart with her satchel tucked beside her legs. Rusk climbed up front with the reins and muttered something at the karroks that sounded insulting.

The animals leaned into their harnesses.

The carts creaked.

Iron chains rattled behind us.

I could have climbed up with Vale, but I decided to walk for a while.

I had been healed. Fed. Given clothes. Given weapons I barely knew how to use. Now I was walking out of a stone fort in another world with an old assessor, five adventurers, four horned ox things, and a cart full of criminals being sent to fight in an army.

A week ago I had been sitting in a VA office pissed off at my therapist.

Now I was on the road to Rifthold.

Fuck it, I thought.

At least it wasn’t a vacation.