Legionnaire

That night, when we stopped for camp, I was proven right.

Tovan beat the shit out of me.

Not with the mace, thank God. He found a stick about as long as my forearm, stripped a few little branches off it, and apparently decided that was good enough for teaching.

Every time my foot was wrong, he hit my leg.

Every time my shield dropped, he hit my arm.

Every time I leaned too far forward, he tapped me in the chest hard enough to make me step back and start over.

“Feet,” he said.

Whack.

“Shield.”

Whack.

“Again.”

I reset.

“Again.”

I reset.

“Again.”

By the time the fire was going and the carts were circled near the road, I hated that word.

I had the shield strapped to my left arm and the sword in my right hand. The sword had felt fine in the storehouse. Heavy, sure, but manageable. Out here, after holding it up for more than a few minutes, it started to feel like it weighed fifty pounds. My shoulder burned. My forearm tightened. My grip kept wanting to loosen. The shield was worse. It pulled at my arm and made everything awkward. I kept opening my stance too wide, then too narrow, then turning my body wrong.

Tovan corrected all of it.

Mostly with the stick.

I was pretty sure every dude who had ever watched Lord of the Rings, or any movie with sword fighting, had imagined picking up a sword and fighting in a big battle. Standing on a wall somewhere. Armor shining. Music playing. Cutting down enemies like it was all instinct and destiny.

I could officially say it sucked.

There was no music. No glory. No clean heroic bullshit.

There was just my shoulder burning, my wrist aching, my legs getting smacked with a stick, and Tovan telling me I had the balance of a drunk mule.

But he was an excellent teacher.

That was the irritating part.

He didn’t just hit me and tell me I was wrong. He showed me why. When my shield sagged, he stepped in and tapped the opening beside my head.

“Dead,” he said.

When I swung too wide, he knocked the sword aside with his stick and put the end of it against my ribs.

“Dead.”

When I crossed my feet, he shoved me lightly with one hand, and I almost fell on my ass.

“Dead.”

“Getting a theme here,” I said, breathing hard.

“Good,” Tovan said. “Maybe you will remember it.”

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.

Instead, I fixed my feet.

When we were done, Tovan walked me back to the fire, where I collapsed against my pack.

The camp had settled in around us. The carts sat off the road with the karroks still harnessed nearby, their big shapes dark against the firelight. One of them snorted every now and then, and the sound carried through the trees. The prison cart was a little farther back, close enough to watch, far enough that no one had to sit beside it.

The fire was low but hot, built between a few stones. It threw enough light to catch faces and gear, but not much beyond that. Past the camp, everything was black.

A few minutes later, Tovan came back with two plates of food and sat beside me.

“Here,” he said, handing me one.

I didn’t think I could lift my arms enough to grab it, but then I realized how hungry I was. My body found the strength.

The food was simple. Thick bread, a piece of meat with char on the edges, and something like beans or grain cooked down until it stuck together. It was hot, salty, and good.

We sat in silence for a while, just eating.

“You’re not bad,” Tovan said, breaking the silence.

“I’m pretty sure my bruises would disagree.”

He let out a short laugh.

“If you think you’re sore now, wait until tomorrow. This first week, we work footwork, stance, and shield. Next week, swings and strikes. Last week, sparring.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” I said.

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“It is.”

We finished our meals without saying much else. When we were done, Tovan took the plates and walked over to feed the prisoners.

The men in the cage shifted when he got close. Chains scraped against the wooden floor. A guard opened a small panel in the bars, and Tovan passed the food through one plate at a time.

I watched him for a second, then pushed myself up.

As much as I wanted to pass out right there, I still had to find Vale and study.

The first half of training with Vale was the hardest.

He made me hand over the translation ring.

I stared at him for a second.

He held out his hand and waited.

I pulled the ring off and dropped it into his palm.

The change was immediate. The camp did not go quiet, but it might as well have. Words turned into noise. Voices still had tone. I could hear irritation, laughter, boredom, all of that. But the meaning was gone.

Vale tucked the ring away.

Then he pointed at himself.

“Vale.”

He pointed at me.

“Wade.”

I repeated both.

He corrected the way I said his name, then made me say it again.

After that, he started with things around the fire. Cup. Hand. Fire. Pack. Sword. Shield. Cart. Road.

Nothing complicated. No long explanation I couldn’t understand anyway.

He would point, say the word, make me repeat it, then move on. A few minutes later, he would point at the same thing again and wait.

If I got it wrong, he corrected me.

If I got it right, he nodded once and kept going.

It was slow, boring, and frustrating as hell.

It also worked.

The second half was more interesting.

Vale gave me the ring back, and the words around me snapped back into place.

We talked for a while about the nation of Asterra. Or, more officially, the Kingdom of Asterra. Most of it was basic history. Kings, borders, old wars, noble houses, the kind of shit I knew I needed to learn but had a hard time caring about after getting beaten with a stick and drilled on words like cup and road.

The most interesting part was learning more about what happened when I woke up here.

I asked him about the battle.

What it was. How I was found. Who the woman was.

Vale sat across from me near the fire, his hands folded in his lap. For a moment, he did not answer.

“We have been at war with the Dominion of Ravaryn for the last thirteen years,” he said. “It has been a very bloody war. Ravaryn troops crossed our border without warning and struck three holdings along the eastern marches before anyone understood what was happening.”

“We have been at war with the Dominion of Ravaryn for the last thirteen years,” he said. “It has been a very bloody war. Ravaryn troops crossed our border without warning and struck three holdings along the eastern marches before anyone understood what was happening.”

“Why?” I asked. “Land grab? Warmongering king? Some insult no one could get over?”

Vale looked into the fire for a moment.

“We do not know,” he said. “To our knowledge, we had done nothing to stir the ire of King Raynold. Our two kingdoms were allies once. Prosperous ones. Trade moved freely. Our soldiers trained together. Noble families married across the border.”

He paused.

“Then King Raynold withdrew from the world. He stopped receiving envoys. Stopped answering letters. Stopped attending councils. For months, Ravaryn went silent.”

“That sounds ominous,” I said.

“It was,” Vale said. “Months later, the invasion began.”

I let that sit for a second.

“And the battle?” I asked.

“That was Karthwatch,” Vale said. “Two thousand Ravaryns attacked. Infantry, archers, and cavalry mounted on the lizards they ride. Ka’rakith. Most shorten it to kith.”

I remembered the dead thing I had hidden under. The claws. The teeth. The stink of it.

“They are fierce predators,” Vale said. “Fighting a mounted kith rider is like fighting two warriors at once. You must mind the sword, the claws, and the teeth.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I got a close look.”

Vale studied me for a second, then nodded.

“And the woman?” I asked.

“Ah, yes,” Vale said. “Isolde Varyn.”

“Soon to be Commander Isolde Varyn,” Vale said. “Mage of Asterra.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Mage as in magic? Like spells and stuff?”

“Spells,” Vale said, as if tasting the word. “Interesting choice. That word has not been used to describe magic in thousands of years. But yes. Spells. They are called core sigils now. Or just sigils.”

“Wow,” I said with a short laugh. “I suppose you have goblins and dragons too.”

I laughed again.

Vale did not.

“We do not joke about dragons, Wade.”

The way he said it killed the smile on my face.

“They are nothing to laugh about,” he continued. “They are fearsome. Intelligent. More intelligent than you, or I, or all of us here together. And they are powerful. If they are offended, attacked, or even believe they have been insulted, they have been known to burn countries to the ground.”

I looked at him.

“As for goblins,” Vale said, “those pests are here and there. Do you truly not remember any of these things?”

I sat there with my mouth open and tried not to look up at the sky like a damn dragon was about to drop right on top of me.

“I… uh…” I stumbled out. “No. I can’t remember much of anything, really. I used to be a warrior of some kind. I know my name. That’s about it.”

I trailed off and let the lie hang in the air.

“Yes, well,” Vale said. “That can be common. We will add it to your lessons. Monsters are an issue, and you will likely see them sooner rather than later. That is why we have adventurers escorting us.”

He shifted slightly by the fire.

“Now, back to your question. Isolde. In Asterra, the hierarchy is as follows. King or queen first. Nobility beneath them, though that is its own mess of tiers. Dukes, barons, and so on down the list. Then mages, like Isolde. Then legionnaires. Then adventurers. Then the standing army, if they are not serving by force. Then everyone else.”

He looked at me.

“Are you following?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Now, mages such as Isolde are rare. Perhaps one in a thousand has the ability to become a full mage. Others are like Sella. They have enough talent to imprint a few sigils onto their core. Useful sigils. Practical ones. But limited.”

He folded his hands again.

“Full mages can learn dozens. Sometimes more. They are considerably more powerful.”

“So she was important,” I said.

“In a way, yes. She is about to graduate her field training. Hence, soon to be commander. So yes, she is valuable.”

Vale glanced toward the road, though there was nothing to see beyond the firelight.

“The men who found you were her soon-to-be command. They were searching for her. The man you met earlier, Kael Marric, is her second in command. They were searching the other side of the field when, as he described it, he felt a pull in your direction.”

“A pull?”

“That was his word.”

“Lucky.”

“Yes,” Vale said. “Luckily he did. Otherwise, you both likely would have been killed.”

I looked down at my hands for a second.

“How do you determine if someone has the ability to be a mage or not?” I asked. “Could I be one?”

“It is not likely. As I said, they are very rare. But you have the potential to be a Binder, so there is a chance. A small one, but a chance.”

He shifted where he sat.

“When we get to Rifthold, I will see about borrowing a core glass. It will allow us to examine your core potential more closely. It should tell us what abilities you have, or at least what your core may allow.”

“That’s a lot to take in,” I said.

“Yes,” Vale said. “I imagine forgetting everything would be. Friends. Family. Everything about the world. You are doing remarkably well, Wade.”

I looked at him and didn’t say anything.

“I have heard stories of people injured as you were who later recovered their memories,” he said. “Perhaps that will happen for you. We can hope.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Vale studied me for a second, then nodded.

“Now you need to rest. We have more training tomorrow, and you have sword work as well. Go get some sleep. The adventurers are taking turns on watch. You have nothing to worry about.”

With that, and my head spinning, I made my way back to my bedroll.

I was overwhelmed. Exhausted. Sore in places I did not know could be sore.

I crawled inside, pulled the blanket over me, and was asleep almost as soon as I stopped moving.