Legionnaire

I do not know what plain of hell drill instructors are born on, but across time, space, and realities, they must all come from the same ugly little corner of it.

Day one started in the dark.

I guessed it was around five in the morning, but that was mostly because my body hated me in a way that felt familiar.

The barracks doors slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Then came metal.

Pots. Pans. Buckets. Something big and hollow getting beaten like it owed money.

The sound ripped through the room and hit every sleeping body at once.

“UP! UP! UP! FEET ON STONE! MOVE!”

I came off the bunk before I was fully awake.

Old habits did not care what world I was in.

Around me, candidates panicked, cursed, stumbled, and fought their way into clothing. One man got tangled in his blanket and hit the floor. A woman two bunks down was already halfway dressed before her eyes looked open. Joryn sucked in a sharp breath when he moved too fast and clamped a hand to his side.

The instructors did not care.

Of course they did not care.

That was the point.

A drill sergeant throwing a trash can down the bay had nothing on a grown man in black armor smashing two iron pots together while screaming like the sun would refuse to rise unless we disappointed him personally.

“YOU CALL THAT MOVING? I HAVE SEEN CORPSES WITH MORE URGENCY!”

“BOOTS ON! BELTS FASTENED! IF YOU ARE NOT OUTSIDE WHEN I TURN AROUND, I WILL ASSUME YOU DIED AND TREAT YOU ACCORDINGLY!”

Nobody was moving slow.

They yelled anyway.

Because it was not about speed.

It was about pressure.

It was about finding out who froze, who thought, who helped, who shoved, who folded, and who could still follow simple orders with fear chewing on the back of their neck.

Different world.

Same game.

We formed outside in the cold gray before sunrise, half-dressed, half-awake, and fully hated by the two instructors pacing in front of us.

The first one was tall, wide through the shoulders, and built like someone had carved him out of old campaign wood and bad intentions. He wore the same dark Legion uniform as the other instructors, but over it he had a black hard-brimmed hat with a strip of iron worked around the crown. Not decoration. Marking.

Drill instructor.

Even if no one had told me, I would have known.

His face was a map of old violence. Scars crossed one cheek and ran down the side of his neck where his collar did not hide them. His left eye was covered by a black patch strapped tight around his head. The right one looked mean enough to do the work of both.

And because the universe apparently had a sense of humor, the man had a thick, hard mustache that belonged on a recruiting poster for people who wanted to die tired.

He stopped in front of us.

“I am Senior Drill Instructor Walker.”

His voice filled the yard without needing magic.

“This is Drill Instructor Marr. You will learn our voices. You will learn our steps. You will learn our expectations. Or you will leave.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed too loud.

Walker paced once, slow, letting that one eye pass over us.

“This is your orientation day. Do not mistake that for mercy.”

That sounded about right.

“Take a look around you.”

No one did.

Walker’s head snapped slightly.

“I SAID LOOK AROUND YOU.”

We looked.

Rows of candidates. Men and women. Young, older, scared, hard, wounded, proud, stupid. Some looked like soldiers. Some looked like thieves. Some looked like farm kids who had made a terrible choice and were beginning to realize the gods had accepted it.

“Half the people you see here will not be here when this class is over,” Walker said. “Some will quit. Some will fail. Some will be removed. A few may die. You are Class Two-Two-Five. When addressed as a class, you will answer as one. Do you understand me, Class Two-Two-Five?”

“Yes, sir!”

It came out ragged.

Walker smiled.

That was worse.

“Again.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Again.”

“YES, SIR!”

It felt strange not saying drill sergeant.

Different world. Different rules.

Same stomach drop.

“Better,” Walker said. “Not good. Better.”

From there, they moved us like livestock with boots.

Formation to the wash line. Wash line to inspection. Inspection to the chow hall.

Breakfast was fast and ugly. Thick barley porridge, black bread, hard cheese, and strips of smoked pork so salty they probably could have preserved the man who cooked them. Nobody talked much. Nobody had time. The instructors stood at the ends of the tables and reminded anyone chewing too slowly that food was fuel, not a hobby.

Then we were moved again.

Out of the chow hall. Across the yard. Into one of the lecture halls built into the lower part of the keep.

Stone benches. Long tables. Narrow windows. A raised platform at the front. No warmth except bodies and bad news.

Walker stood on the platform with Drill Instructor Marr a few steps behind him.

Marr had said almost nothing so far.

That did not make him seem nicer.

Walker put both hands behind his back.

“I am going to lay out the rules clearly, so no one in this room can later pretend confusion.”

That was never a good opening.

“Rule one. You will be where you are told to be, when you are told to be there, carrying what you are told to carry, wearing what you are told to wear.”

He let that sit.

“Rule two. You move as a unit unless ordered otherwise. You eat as a unit. You train as a unit. You suffer as a unit. If one of you fails through weakness, we will correct the weakness. If one of you fails through selfishness, we will remove the selfishness.”

That could mean a lot of things.

None of them sounded comfortable.

Walker turned his head slightly.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Look around you again.”

This time we did it faster.

“There are men and women in this class. There will be men and women in your squads. There will be men and women in the field, on the wall, in the mud, in the blood, and under the same ugly sky when something tries to kill you.”

His eye moved across the benches.

“There is no delicate privacy in selection. You will sleep near each other. You will wash near each other. You will treat wounds near each other. You will carry each other when legs fail. You will bleed together. If war finds you, some of you may die together.”

The room stayed silent.

“If you are too childish, too stupid, too soft, or too undisciplined to handle that, the door is behind you.”

No one looked.

No one wanted to be first.

Walker nodded like that disappointed him.

“Good. Then hear the next rule well.”

His voice dropped a little.

That made it worse.

“There is no bedding your battle buddy. There is no bedding your squadmate. There is no bedding another candidate in this class. I do not care if you are lonely. I do not care if you are in love. I do not care if you have found the one true flame of your heart between morning drill and latrine duty. Keep your hands to yourself.”

A few candidates shifted.

Walker’s eye cut across the room.

The shifting stopped.

“If you are found violating that rule, both candidates are washed out. Immediately. No appeal. No speeches. No tragic farewell under the moon.”

That got through.

Then his face went colder.

“Now hear this part clearly. Rape, coercion, forced touch, threats for favors, using rank, strength, magic, debt, or fear to take from another candidate will be answered one way.”

He paused.

“The offender will be mutilated and executed.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody even pretended to.

Walker’s voice stayed flat.

“There is no place for that filth in the Legion. Not in my class. Not in my yard. Not under my colors. If you see it and hide it, you are part of it. If you laugh at it, you are part of it. If you protect it, you are part of it. And you will be treated accordingly.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Do I make myself clear, Class Two-Two-Five?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Do I make myself clear?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Good.”

He straightened.

“Then we may continue.”

The next part was money, rules, and consequences.

Important, but not complicated.

One hundred silver made one gold. Joryn’s draught was seventy-five silver against his account. If we passed, our first true Legion field kit would run near ten gold once armor, boots, straps, oil, repair tools, weapon harness, field cloak, and everything else got counted. Base pay was better than the standing army, but assignment pay was where legionnaires made real coin. Warfronts. Monster zones. Deep patrols. Ruin recovery. Siege work. Breach duty. Dangerous escorts. Special tasking. Hazard bonuses. Core recovery shares.

Survive bad work, get paid for bad work.

Injuries had to be reported. Theft got you removed. Fighting outside approved training got you removed. Hiding something that could get your squad killed got you removed. Quitting was only allowed at review points, not whenever your soul got tired. Translation rings were tools, not excuses. If you could not understand orders by the time understanding mattered, you were not unlucky.

You were gone.

Walker said all of it like he had said it two hundred and twenty-four times before and hated us for making it necessary again.

Then he set the chalk down.

“Enough talking.”

Thank God.

He pointed toward the doors.

“Outside. Let us find out what kind of raw material we have been cursed with.”

The room exploded into motion.

We formed in the yard under a sky that had finally started turning gray.

That was when I got my first real look at Class Two-Two-Five.

Most of them were young.

Not children. Not all of them. But young enough that the ground probably still forgave them. Young enough that sleeping wrong did not ruin a day. Young enough that their knees had not started keeping a record of every stupid thing they had ever done.

I was thirty-six.

Back home, that was not ancient.

In that yard, surrounded by sharp-eyed twenty-year-olds with fresh joints and stupid confidence, it felt close enough.

Experience mattered.

Discipline mattered.

Knowing how to be miserable and keep moving mattered.

None of that made my back new.

Walker paced in front of us while Marr stood off to the side with a slate.

“Today is measurement,” Walker said. “Not selection. Not yet. We are not asking if you are good enough. We are finding out what kind of disappointment you are.”

Nobody answered.

“Run route. Wall. Carry. Climb. Strike. Shield line. Command recall. Medical check. Station to station. You will do what you are told. You will fail loudly or succeed quietly. Either way, we will write it down.”

He stopped.

“Class Two-Two-Five.”

“YES, SIR!”

“Run.”

We ran.

The first mile was not bad.

That was the trap.

Cold air hit my lungs, but my legs found cadence. My breathing settled. The yard, the wall, the hard-packed road around the training grounds, all of it became rhythm.

Some of the younger candidates surged ahead.

Walker let them.

That told me enough.

By the second mile, the racing stopped.

By the third, the yard had gotten much quieter.

Boots slapped dirt. Breath came harder. Someone puked near the outer wall and kept moving because Marr was behind him and apparently death sounded easier than stopping.

I stayed in the middle.

Not the front.

Not the back.

Middle was smart.

Middle let me watch.

My lungs were fine. My head was fine. My discipline was fine.

My back started talking.

Not screaming. Not yet. Just that deep ugly warning low in the spine that said it remembered me and had been waiting.

Fuck you, I thought.

It did not care.

We came back into the yard in a broken line of candidates trying not to look broken.

A young man near me bent forward with his hands on his knees.

“Stand up,” I muttered.

He looked at me like I had insulted his bloodline.

“Stand up,” I said again. “Hands on knees tells them you’re dying.”

He straightened just before Walker’s eye reached us.

Walker saw anyway.

Of course he did.

“Archer.”

My stomach dropped.

“Yes, sir.”

“You giving instruction already?”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“I was correcting a breathing problem, sir.”

Walker stared at me.

The yard went quiet around us.

Then his mustache shifted slightly.

“Were you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stepped closer.

“You have been trained before.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

That did not sound good.

“Then you have fewer excuses than the rest of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Walker turned away.

“Wall station. Move.”

We moved.

The wall was twelve feet of rough timber and hate.

The first few candidates attacked it like courage was a ladder. Some made it. Some bounced off. One hit the ground flat on his back and lay there blinking at the sky until Marr informed him that the sky did not care.

When my turn came, I did not jump as high as the younger ones.

I did not have to.

Foot. Hand. Pull. Knee. Shift weight. Over.

Ugly, but over.

The landing sent a hard shock up my legs and into my spine.

I kept my face still.

That was half the work in places like this. Hurt if you had to. Just do not advertise it.

Joryn came after me.

The draught had done its job. He was not moving like a dying man anymore.

He was still hurt.

I saw it in the way he guarded his side. Saw it again when he reached high and his face went pale for one sharp second.

He made it over anyway.

Not fast.

Not pretty.

But over.

Walker wrote something down.

After the wall came the carry.

Sandbags first. Then logs. Then another candidate across the shoulders.

That was where the young ones started paying for all that early speed.

Strength helped. So did being twenty.

Knowing how to carry weight without wasting movement helped more.

I was not the strongest man in the yard. Not even close. There were candidates built like blacksmiths and farm oxen. But I knew how to settle weight. How to breathe under it. How to take small steps and not fight the load like it had feelings.

By the end, my shoulders burned and my lower back had moved from complaint to formal grievance.

Still standing, though.

That counted.

The shield line came next.

They gave us practice shields and shoved us into ranks before most of us had caught our breath.

“Hold,” Marr said.

Then older candidates from another class hit us.

Not hard enough to break us.

Hard enough to teach.

The first impact drove through the shield and into my bones. The line bent. Someone cursed. Someone slipped. Walker started yelling before anyone even fell.

“FEET! LOCK YOUR FEET! YOU ARE NOT TREES IN A BREEZE!”

We corrected.

Too late.

The second hit broke the left side of the line and dumped three candidates into the dirt.

We reset.

Hit again.

Reset.

Hit again.

By the fifth time, the line was learning.

Not winning.

Learning.

There was a difference.

Joryn ended up two men down from me, jaw clenched, face damp with sweat. Every hit hurt him. Every reset cost him. But he did not step out. He did not ask to stop. He did not look at me for help.

Good.

That mattered more than if he had been strong.

At the strike station, they put a wooden sword in my hand and told me to attack a post until told otherwise.

No flourishes. No pretty footwork. No heroic nonsense.

Strike. Recover. Strike. Recover.

Again.

Again.

Again.

My shoulders wanted to quit before Walker did.

Walker did not quit.

By the time he finally called halt, my hands felt thick around the grip and sweat had soaked through the back of my tunic.

Marr walked down the line, looking at stance, grip, breathing, and whatever else drill instructors saw when normal people saw misery.

He stopped in front of me.

“Older than most,” he said.

It was not a question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Body holds old damage.”

Also not a question.

“Yes, sir.”

His one good eyebrow shifted slightly.

“Can it keep up?”

That was the question.

I wanted to say yes.

I knew better.

“It will have to, sir.”

Marr stared at me for a moment.

Then he moved on.

By the time the medical check came, Class Two-Two-Five looked a lot less shiny than it had at sunrise.

People limped. People bled through scraped palms. People tried to hide shaking legs and failed. The healers moved down the rows with the bored efficiency of people who had seen every version of stupid.

Senior Healer Brenn checked Joryn herself.

She pressed near the wound. He hissed but did not pull away.

“You tear this open,” she said, “and I will sew it shut with your own poor judgment.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You report heat, swelling, fever, wet bandage, or blood.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at him for one more second, then marked her slate.

“Fit for restricted full participation.”

Joryn blinked.

“Restricted full participation?”

“It means you train,” she said. “And I watch you fail to be clever.”

He shut his mouth.

Smart man.

When she checked me, she took longer than I liked.

“Old back injury,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Old surgery?”

I kept still.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes lifted to mine.

That had not been a guess.

“Pain now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How much?”

“Manageable.”

“That is not a number.”

“No, ma’am.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Finally, she made a mark.

“Report numbness, weakness, or loss of bladder or bowel control immediately.”

That was a fun sentence to hear in a fantasy fortress.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And do not be proud about it. Proud men become dragged men.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She moved on.

By evening, I had learned several things.

Rifthold did not care that I had been a soldier.

Walker cared even less.

My experience helped.

My age hurt.

Joryn was tougher than he looked.

And Class Two-Two-Five had started bleeding people before selection had even properly begun.

One candidate quit before supper.

Another was carried to the infirmary with a broken wrist after trying to catch himself wrong coming off the wall.

A third got removed for swinging at another candidate after the shield line.

Walker watched him get dragged away and did not raise his voice.

That was worse than yelling.

After supper, Vale found me in the barracks with my children’s book open, my slate beside it, and my body trying to convince me that lying down was the only reasonable future.

“Language,” he said.

I looked up at him.

“You saw the day we had, right?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And the language remains unlearned.”

I stared at him.

He waited.

I sighed and picked up the chalk.