Legionnaire

The night air hit like a wet slap. The command tent had not been warm exactly, but compared to the wind outside, it might as well have been a tavern with a fireplace and decent whiskey.

Kael did not slow down.

I matched him because apparently that was my life now.

His shadow.

We crossed the camp without talking. Soldiers moved around us with purpose. No one wandered. No one lounged where work was being done. A pair of men carried bundled spears toward the lower side of camp. Someone laughed near the cook fires, but even that sounded tired.

Kael stopped near a row of smaller tents set between the main sleeping line and the horse pickets.

“That one,” he said.

I looked where he pointed.

Plain canvas. Low to the ground. Staked hard against the wind. A dim glow showed through one seam.

“You’ll bunk with Dall.”

“Corvin?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know that?”

“He will.”

That was probably as close as Kael came to humor.

I looked at the tent again. “Yes, sir.”

Kael’s eyes moved to me.

“After you eat in the morning, come back here. Stay here. I will collect you after I dispatch the patrol, then take you to Lady Varyn for whatever she wants bound.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do not go wandering.”

“No, sir.”

“You do not decide you want to see the camp.”

“No, sir.”

“You do not follow interesting noises, helpful people, pretty smiles, strange tracks, or your own curiosity.”

I looked at him.

He looked back.

“That happen often?”

“With new men?” he said. “Yes.”

“Fair.”

His face did not move.

“Your gear?”

“Corvin had my horse.”

“It will be brought here.”

“My shield?”

“With it.”

“My sword?”

His eyes dropped to my belt, then came back up. “Still there.”

“Right.”

“Try to keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to leave, then stopped.

“Archer.”

“Yes?”

“Lady Varyn requested you. That means you have her attention. Do not mistake that for belonging here.”

I felt that one settle somewhere behind my ribs.

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

Then he walked away.

I stood there for a moment in the dark, listening to the wind move through the camp and canvas snap against rope.

Then the tent flap opened.

Corvin Dall looked out at me from inside, hair mussed, one hand holding a heel of bread and the other resting on the frame of the flap.

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He looked at me.

Then past me.

Then back at me.

“Please tell me Marric did not just assign me a stray.”

“Depends,” I said. “You got room?”

Corvin stared for another second, then sighed and stepped back.

“Of course he did.”

I ducked into the tent.

The tent was low enough that I had to stay half-crouched until I found the open space near the back.

There was not much of it.

Two bedrolls. Two packs. A small lantern hung from a center line. A couple spare cloaks folded near the wall. A short spear lay within easy reach of Corvin’s bedroll, and a curved sword rested beside it in a worn scabbard.

Corvin dropped back onto his own roll and tore another bite from his bread.

“You always arrive with officers behind you,” he asked, “or am I special?”

“First day with the unit,” I said. “Trying to make a strong impression.”

“You made one.”

“Good or bad?”

He chewed for a second.

“Interesting.”

“That sounds like bad with room to get worse.”

“That is most interesting things.”

I looked at the empty bedroll.

“That mine?”

“It is now.” He pointed with the bread. “Do not put wet boots on it. Do not touch my kit unless I am dying. If I am dying, still think about it first.”

“I figured I'd just pick through it.”

“Piss downhill. Shit trench is past the cook fire, left of the mule line, and if you step in it at night, I will laugh before I help.”

“I'll defiantly start picking through your gear.”

“That will get your fucked up, he chuckled. anyway Breakfast is hot.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It is not.”

I sat on the edge of the bedroll and started unbuckling my belt.

Corvin watched me for a moment, then nodded toward the flap.

“Marric looked cheerful.”

“Does he have another setting?”

“Dead, maybe.”

I snorted before I could stop myself.

Corvin grinned.

It made him look younger. Not green, exactly. Just less like the scout who had ridden through cold wind to collect me off the road and more like a man who still remembered how to be a person when no one was trying to kill him.

“He tell you not to wander?” Corvin asked.

“Several different ways.”

“Good.”

“Is that a common problem?”

“With new blood?” He leaned back against his pack. “Always.”

I set my sword beside the bedroll where I could reach it.

Corvin noticed. He did not comment.

“They get here from selection,” he said, “and half of them think surviving Rifthold means they know something.”

“It does not?”

“It means they know how to survive Rifthold.”

I pulled off one boot. My foot immediately informed me that the day had been longer than I had admitted.

Corvin kept talking.

“This is different. Selection wants to see if you can be made into something useful. Out here, the mountains do not care what you might become. Monsters do not care who passed you. Weather does not care if you had a hard childhood. A loose rock will kill a brave man just as quick as a coward.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Your old service?”

I paused.

He had asked it lightly, but he was watching me.

“Something like that.”

Corvin took another bite of bread and let the answer be enough.

I liked him a little more for that.

“Marric is hard on new men because new men are dangerous,” he said.

“To everyone else?”

“To themselves first. Then everyone standing close.”

I pulled off the other boot.

“He seems like he hates me.”

“He might.”

“Comforting.”

“He hates most people until they prove they are not a waste of food.”

“Even then?”

“Then he hates them quietly.”

That one almost got a real laugh out of me.

Corvin smiled again, but it faded after a second.

“He is not trying to make you feel welcome, Archer.”

“Noticed that.”

“Good. Because he is trying to make sure you live long enough to become welcomed.”

I looked at him.

Outside, someone called an order near the horse line. A mule complained about it. Canvas snapped in the wind.

Corvin turned the heel of bread in his hands.

“Marric has dragged too many new bodies out of stupid places,” he said. “Men who wanted to help. Men who wanted to prove something. Men who saw tracks and followed them because they wanted to be the one with the answer. Men who heard a noise and stepped away from the line.”

He looked at me then.

“Most of them were not bad soldiers. That is the ugly part. Bad soldiers are easy to dislike. Stupid brave ones are worse. You can see what they might have become if they had waited ten damned seconds.”

I did not say anything.

There was nothing useful to say.

Corvin nodded toward my gear.

“So when Marric tells you not to wander, he means it. Not because he thinks you are a child.”

“He does not?”

“Oh, he absolutely might.” Corvin shrugged. “But that is not why.”

I huffed.

He grinned again.

“He is keeping you alive in the way he knows how.”

“By being an asshole.”

“By being an effective asshole.”

“That is an important distinction?”

“Around here? Very.”

I leaned back carefully and felt my spine complain from tailbone to neck.

Fuck you too, back.

Corvin noticed the movement. His eyes flicked over me, quick and practiced.

“You hurt?”

“Old hurt.”

“That means yes.”

“It means old.”

“It means yes with history.”

I looked at him.

He held up both hands. “No digging. Just good to know if I have to drag you somewhere.”

“You planning on dragging me somewhere?”

“Not tonight. I am tired.”

“Appreciate that.”

He reached beside his bedroll and tossed me a wrapped piece of something.

I caught it.

“What is this?”

“Dried apple.”

I looked at it.

He watched my face.

“It is not poisoned.”

“That is exactly what a man with poisoned apples would say.”

“If I wanted you dead, I would let you eat breakfast.”

I stared at him for a second.

Then I ate the apple.

It was tough, sour, and one of the best things I had tasted in days.

Corvin looked pleased with himself.

“You always this generous with strays?” I asked.

“No. Most strays smell worse.”

“Give me time.”

“I would rather not.”

I folded my cloak near the head of the bedroll and stretched out as much as the tent allowed. Which was not much. My feet almost touched the canvas.

Corvin lowered the lantern a little.

“First meal is early,” he said. “If Marric says he will collect you after he sends the patrol out, he will. Do not make him come looking.”

“I will be here.”

“Good.”

He settled into his own bedroll, one arm behind his head.

After a moment, he added, “And Archer?”

“Yeah?”

“Lady Varyn requesting you means something.”

I opened my eyes.

He was staring up at the tent roof.

“Does it?”

“It means she saw enough to take a chance. She does not do that often.”

“No pressure.”

“No,” Corvin said. “Plenty of pressure. Just not the useless kind.”

That sat with me longer than I expected.

I lay there in the dim light, listening to the camp breathe around us. Men talking low. Horses shifting. Wind moving over canvas. Somewhere outside, someone laughed once and got told to shut up.

The tent smelled like wet wool, leather, cold dirt, and another man’s socks.

It was not comfortable.

It was not home.

But it was dry, guarded, and no one was screaming.

Lately, that counted for a lot.