Legionnaire

The next day was more of the same.

Walking. Riding. Tovan screwing with me.

I did find out he and I were about the same age. He had served in the Legion from eighteen until he was thirty. Apparently, ten years in the Legion earned you a pension. Once he had his, he got out and became an adventurer.

“Better money,” he said.

He had nothing but good things to say about the Legion, assuming you had a good commander.

That was doing a lot of work.

I found out mages ran all the commands. Every Legion unit had a mage in charge, and according to Tovan, some of them had very little regard for the lives of legionnaires under them.

That made me feel really good about my chances.

There was more training. More studying. More language lessons.

The days started to blur together.

Walk. Ride. Eat. Learn words. Get hit with a stick. Study with Vale. Sleep. Wake up sore. Do it again.

By the fourth day, I was sitting with Tovan after another one of his world-class ass whippings. We were near the fire, eating whatever Rusk had managed to turn into dinner. Some kind of stew with tough meat, root vegetables, and enough salt to make it edible.

My arms hurt. My legs hurt. My ribs hurt from breathing too hard. I had stopped trying to keep track.

Tovan finished chewing, reached into a small pouch at his belt, and pulled out something about the size of a marble.

It glowed faintly between his fingers.

Not bright. Just enough to catch my eye in the firelight. Pale blue-white, like moonlight trapped under glass.

Then he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it.

I stopped with my spoon halfway to my face.

“What was that?”

“Monster core,” he said.

“A what?”

He let out a short laugh.

“Monster core. Those are why the money is better.”

He pulled up his sleeve and showed me his forearm.

The tattoo was there, same as mine. Six numbers burned into the skin in a straight line from wrist toward elbow.

72 | 81 | 66 | 58 | 41 | 18

I watched as the third number changed.

66 became 68.

I stared at his arm.

“So wait. That just increased your stats?”

“Just the one,” Tovan said, pulling his sleeve back down. “Different creatures leave different cores. That was a Grade I. Nothing special.”

“There are different grades?”

“Up to five.”

He picked his plate back up.

“Though Grade IV and Grade V cores are usually saved for nobility, high officers, and anyone rich enough to matter. If we kill a monster and it leaves a core IV or V, we are required by law to turn it in to the Adventurers Guild.”

“That seems like some bullshit,” I said.

“It is,” Tovan said. “But we are compensated in coin. Good coin, depending on the core. Another reason the money is better.”

He took another bite, chewed, then continued.

“If you have a decent commander in the Legion, you will see some cores there too. That is one of the perks. A good commander shares enough to keep the unit strong.”

“And a bad commander?”

Tovan gave a small shrug.

“Greedy pricks keep them. Use them for themselves, sell them, trade them for favors. Whatever gets them more.”

I sat in silence and thought about that for a while.

It was interesting, but the more I thought about it, the less surprising it became.

Of course there was something like that here.

Magic rings. Healing potions. Light stones. Truth stones. Monsters. Dragons. A tattoo that measured your body like a character sheet.

Why not glowing monster marbles that made you stronger?

The next few days were more of the same.

Walk. Ride. Language. Binding theory. Tovan. Sleep.

Then we reached the second week of Tovan’s training plan.

Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

Not easy. Not even close. But my body was adapting. The first few nights, everything hurt. My shoulders, hands, hips, legs, places I didn’t know sword-and-shield work could hit. But by the second week, the soreness changed.

It was still there, but it was cleaner somehow.

Less like injury.

More like work.

My legs stopped shaking as much after drills. My shield arm lasted longer before it started dropping. The sword still got heavy, but not as fast. Even the footwork started to make sense.

Not good.

But better.

It was the end of the second week when the first truly interesting thing happened.

Tovan and I were walking and talking behind the prison cart when Mira came running back down the road, hailing Dain.

They stopped and spoke for a few moments. I couldn’t hear what was said, but whatever it was made Dain sit a little straighter in his saddle.

Mira turned and bolted back down the road again.

Dain turned his horse and galloped back toward the caravan.

“Everyone front!” Dain yelled.

“Come on,” Tovan said.

He started running toward the front of the caravan.

I followed behind him, one hand on the hilt of my sword to keep it from bouncing around as I ran.

The prisoners started yelling as we passed.

“What’s going on?”

“Let us out!”

“We can help!”

We ignored them and kept moving.

Tovan and I were the last to reach the front.

Dain wasted no time.

“Gnoll war party heading our way,” he said. “Looks like they just sacked the village about four miles from here. Mira counted at least twenty.”

He pointed down the road.

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“There is a bend in the trail up ahead, and those fuckers are strolling along like they own it. We set the ambush there. Ranged weapons first. Fire as many shots as you can. If we drop enough of them, we pull blades and charge. If we do not, we fall back in a bounding retreat.”

A bounding retreat.

That one I knew.

At least, I knew the idea. One man fell back, took a new position, and covered the next man while he moved. Then the next man fell back past him and did the same. One at a time. Over and over until everyone was moving backward without turning it into a panicked run.

Different weapons, same basic idea.

“Wade,” Dain said. “You stay with the caravan. Protect the carts, the prisoners, and Senior Vale.”

I nodded.

One of the adventurers had already driven thick iron stakes into the road near the carts. Heavy ropes ran from the wagon frames to the stakes, wrapped tight and knotted down. It looked rough, but solid enough. A field parking brake, basically.

“They should not go anywhere,” Dain said. “But keep an eye on them.”

“Got it,” I said.

Dain looked over the group.

“Everyone understand the assignment?”

“Yes, sir,” we all answered.

Tovan turned and slapped a hand on my shoulder.

“Remember what I taught you. You will be fine back here.”

Then he turned and ran after the others.

I watched them move toward the bend. Dain in front. Tovan behind him. Sella moving quicker than I expected with her satchel bouncing against her side. Mira was already gone somewhere ahead in the trees.

Then they were out of sight.

I turned back toward the caravan.

Two carts. Four karroks. Prisoners in one. Vale in the other.

And me.

I moved to the center of the convoy so I could see as much as possible and react if I had to. I pulled the shield onto my arm and drew the sword.

The blade came free with a scrape.

My hand tightened around the grip.

For a second, I realized I felt almost excited.

Scared too. No shit. But there was something underneath it. Something sharp. My hands shook a little, and my palms started to sweat. Hell, my whole body was probably sweating.

I took a breath and tried to settle it.

Feet.

Shield.

Do not overreach.

Do not chase the weapon.

The prisoners had gone quiet.

Vale sat on the supply cart with his hands folded over his walking stick.

He looked calm.

Of course he did.

Then I heard it.

Howling in the distance.

Not wolves. Not dogs.

Something harsher. Laughing and screaming at the same time.

A few seconds later came the first shout from down the road.

Then the snap of bowstrings.

Then more howling.

Steel clashed somewhere beyond the bend.

Men yelled.

Something barked out a sound that turned my stomach.

I shifted my feet and stared toward the trees.

But after a while, nothing happened.

At least not back where I was.

The fight stayed out of sight, and somehow that made it worse. I could hear it happening, but I couldn’t tell if they were winning, losing, falling back, or getting torn apart thirty yards past the bend.

My shield arm started to ache.

I adjusted my grip.

One of the karroks snorted and stamped hard enough to make the cart creak.

“Easy,” I muttered, like I had any damn idea how to calm a four-horned murder cow.

A branch cracked somewhere to my left.

I turned toward it.

Nothing.

Just trees. Brush. Shadows under branches.

Then another crack.

Closer.

The brush moved.

It came out of the brush low and hunched, moving on two legs but not like a man.

The first thing I noticed was the head.

Long muzzle. Black nose. Round ears twitching toward every sound. Patchy gray-brown fur covered most of its body, darker along the shoulders and spine where a rough mane stood up in greasy clumps. Its jaws hung open, showing yellow teeth too big for the mouth they were in.

It made a sound halfway between a growl and a laugh.

Not funny.

Not even close.

The kind of laugh that made every old part of your brain remember there were things in the dark that used to eat people.

Its arms were too long, hanging almost to its knees, with clawed fingers wrapped around a crude spear. Bits of leather and stolen cloth were tied around its chest and waist. A broken pot lid or shield hung from one arm, dented and smeared dark with old blood.

It sniffed the air.

Then it looked right at me and laughed again.

High. Barking. Hyena-like.

The sound made my skin crawl.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck ran through my head over and over.

I was not having fun anymore.

This was real.

This was a monster.

What.

The.

Fuck.

The gnoll let out a yip-yip-yip sound, high and excited, like a hyena that had just found something cornered and bleeding.

Then it charged.

Sword up. Mouth open. That horrible laugh ripping out of its throat.

My body wanted to move backward.

Tovan’s voice rang in my head.

Feet.

I planted them.

The gnoll came in fast. Faster than I expected. Its sword came down in a wild overhead chop, not clean, not pretty, but hard enough that I knew taking it wrong would end the whole conversation.

I got the shield up.

The blow hit like a hammer.

Pain shot down my arm, and the force drove me back a step. My shoulder screamed. The shield held. The gnoll slammed into it right after the strike, all stink and fur and teeth, trying to push through me.

I shoved back on instinct.

It snarled in my face.

Not a movie snarl. Not some animal sound from a screen.

Wet. Hot. Rotten.

Its breath smelled like old meat.

I swung.

Too wide.

The gnoll leaned away, and my sword cut nothing but air.

It laughed.

Then it stabbed low.

I barely got the shield down in time. The point scraped along the rim and skipped off, close enough that I felt it tug at my pants.

“Fuck!”

I stepped wrong.

The gnoll saw it.

It came in again, chopping at my head. I lifted the shield, caught the hit, and this time remembered not to just stand there and eat it. I turned with it. Let the blow slide off instead of taking all of it straight through my arm.

The sword glanced away.

The gnoll overcommitted.

For half a second, its side was open.

Tovan had beaten that lesson into me for two weeks.

Openings did not stay open.

I stepped in and thrust.

Not a big swing. Not heroic. Just point forward and drive.

The blade punched into the gnoll below the ribs.

It made a sound I felt more than heard. A sharp, barking gasp.

I froze for half a second with the sword buried in it.

The gnoll did not.

It dropped its broken shield and grabbed at my arm, claws digging into my sleeve. Its jaws snapped toward my face.

I yanked back.

The sword stuck.

Of course it fucking did.

The gnoll pulled against me, teeth clacking inches from my cheek. I could see spit hanging from its mouth. See the black gums. The yellow teeth.

I slammed the edge of my shield into its muzzle.

Once.

Twice.

The second hit cracked something.

The gnoll staggered.

I planted my boot against its stomach and pulled with everything I had.

The sword came free with a wet drag.

The gnoll stumbled back, one hand pressed against the hole in its side. Blood ran between its fingers, dark and thick.

It looked at the blood.

Then at me.

The laugh was gone.

It tried to raise its sword again.

I did not give it time.

I stepped forward and swung at its neck.

Bad angle. Ugly cut. More luck than skill.

But the blade bit deep.

The gnoll dropped to one knee, choking on a sound that was half growl, half laugh, like its body had not figured out it was dead yet.

I hit it again.

This time it went down.

It twitched in the dirt beside the prison cart, one clawed hand opening and closing around nothing.

I stood over it, breathing hard, sword shaking in my hand.

For a second, all I could do was stare.

Then I realized I had actually killed it.

“Behind you!” someone shouted from the prison cart.

I spun.

Shield up.

The sword came down at the same time.

It hit my shield hard enough to knock the edge into my own face. Pain flashed across my cheek, and I stumbled sideways, boots slipping in the dirt.

A second gnoll stood there.

Bigger than the first.

This one had darker fur, almost black along the mane, with strips of leather tied across its chest. One ear was torn in half, and old scars cut through the fur around its muzzle. It held a notched sword in one hand and a small axe in the other.

It barked out that hyena laugh.

I backed up a step and got my shield between us.

The gnoll came in fast.

Sword high. Axe low.

I caught the sword on the shield, but the axe hooked around the side and bit into the leather near my ribs. Not deep. The jerkin took most of it, but it still felt like getting punched with a brick.

I shoved forward.

It moved with me, stronger than it looked, snapping its jaws close enough that I could smell blood on its breath.

I stabbed at it.

It knocked my blade aside with the axe and slashed at my face.

I jerked back.

Too slow.

The tip cut across my forehead, shallow but hot. Blood ran down into one eye almost immediately.

“Son of a bitch” I growled.

I blinked hard and raised the shield.

It hit me again.

And again.

No wild overcommitment this time. This one knew what it was doing. It chopped at the shield, then the leg, then the shield again. Every hit drove me back. Every block made my arm weaker.

The prison cart was behind me now.

I tried to step right.

The gnoll followed.

I tried to cut at its leg.

It hopped back on those springy hyena legs and laughed again, like the whole thing was funny.

Then it rushed me.

I got the shield up, but it slammed into me with its whole body. My back hit the iron bars of the prison cart hard enough to knock the breath out of me.

Hands pulled away from me inside the cart.

The prisoners wanted no part of this.

Couldn’t blame them.

The gnoll stabbed over the top of my shield.

I twisted, and the blade scraped along the cart bars beside my head with a shriek of metal.

I swung back, but there was no room. My sword hit the side of the cage before it got anywhere near the gnoll.

The thing grinned.

Then it hooked the axe over my shield and yanked.

My left arm was pulled wide.

Open.

The sword came up.

I knew I was dead.

A hand shot through the bars behind the gnoll and grabbed a fistful of its mane.

The gnoll’s head snapped back.

Its sword missed me by inches and slammed into the cart instead.

For half a second, none of us moved.

The prisoner behind the bars had both hands buried in the gnoll’s mane now, teeth clenched, arms shaking as he hauled backward with everything he had.

“Kill it!” he shouted.

The gnoll shrieked.

Not laughed.

Shrieked.

It twisted, trying to pull free, but the prisoner held on.

I drove my sword forward.

The blade went into the gnoll’s side, just under the ribs.

It howled and dropped the axe.

Then it turned its sword and stabbed backward through the bars.

The prisoner grunted.

His hands stayed locked in the mane.

I pulled my sword free and stabbed again.

Higher this time.

The gnoll’s yellow eyes snapped back to me.

I shoved with everything I had.

The blade punched in deep.

The gnoll went rigid.

Its mouth opened, showing black gums and long teeth. A wet laugh bubbled out of it, broken and wrong.

Then its legs folded.

It dropped against the prison cart and slid down the bars, dragging my sword with it.

The prisoner let go and collapsed inside the cage.

For a second, I just stood there, breathing hard, one hand still on the sword hilt.

Then I heard the prisoner groan.

Blood spread across his shirt.

“Shit,” I said.

There was nothing I could do except shove bandages through the bars and tell the other prisoners to press them against the wound.

I didn’t have the keys to the damn door.

The man was pale and sweating hard, his shirt soaked dark around his side. He kept moaning and swearing, one hand pressed over the bandages while another prisoner leaned into the wound with both palms.

“Keep pressure on it,” I said. “Do not let up.”

I had no idea if they understood how bad it was, but they understood enough.

I stopped watching him and turned back toward the trees.

I was not getting caught off guard again.

Then again, if the next gnoll was as good a fighter as the last one, I was probably dead anyway.