Through the Darkness

Another shout from the Algarvian drillmaster: “Keep moving!” He added something to the standard command this time, something Sidroc didn’t quite catch. He did gather the last man from the company into the camp would regret it.

He made his legs pound on. Already he was discovering he could get far more out of his body than he’d ever imagined. I shouldn ‘t have let Leofiig give me a hard time for as long as I did, he thought. I should have whaled the stuffing out of Ealstan, too. Well, maybe the day will come.

As he neared the arch, he noted with fierce pride that only a couple of dozen men were still ahead of him. Passing another one, he looked back over his shoulder. The rest of the company was strung out almost all the way back to the woods. Whatever the Algarvian had threatened, he didn’t have to worry about it--this time.

Above the arch stood a sign whose stark black letters on white announced an equally stark message: WE ARE BORN TO DIE. Sidroc wished he didn’t have to look at that message every time he came in from an exercise. He liked the slogan on the other side of the sign, the one he saw going out, better: WE SERVE PLEGMUND’s BRIGADE. That was what he’d signed up to do, and he’d cursed well do it.

He stopped running as soon as he passed under the arch. What he wanted to do next was fall on the ground and pass out. Had he been foolish enough to try it, an Algarvian drillmaster or one of the men in the company would have booted him to his feet. He could go over to the unicorn trough and splash cold water on his face. Then, dripping, he took his place in the ranks and waited for the rest of the company to come in.

The last staggering soldier did collapse once he got under the arch. And, sure enough, the Algarvian drillmaster who’d gone with the company on its run--and who hardly seemed to be breathing hard--kicked him till he managed to force himself upright again. “Tired, are you, Wiglaf?” the drillmaster said in fluent Forthwegian. “You just think you’re tired. Maybe after you dig us a new slit trench you’ll really be tired. What do you think?”

Even Sidroc, who liked to mouth off, knew better than to answer a question like that. But the luckless Wiglaf said, “Have a heart, sir, I--”

Without visible malice and without hesitation, the redheaded drillmaster kicked him again. “No back talk,” he growled. “We are going to make you the finest fighting men in the world--after Algarvians, of course. Orders are meant to be obeyed. Get moving! Now!”

Wiglaf could barely move, but stumbled off toward the latrines. Sidroc nudged the fellow next to him, a scar-faced bruiser name Ceorl. “Poor miserable whoreson,” he murmured. Almost imperceptibly, Ceorl nodded.

“Silence in the ranks!” the drillmaster bellowed. Sidroc and Ceorl both froze into immobility. If the Algarvian--who might have had eyes and ears in the back of his head--had spotted them, they were liable to end up digging slit trenches with Wiglaf. But luck was with them. The redhead contented himself with glaring this way and that before snarling, “Dismissed to queue for supper.”

Till he heard that, Sidroc would have bet he was too worn to want anything to do with food. His belly had other ideas. Somehow it propelled him forward, so that he was third in line and had his tin mess kit out and waiting. Ceorl was right behind him, and chuckled a little. “Wiglaf’s going to miss supper, too.”

“Too bad.” Sidroc had scant sympathy to waste on anyone but Sidroc. “If he’s not worth anything in drills, odds are he won’t be worth anything in a fight, either.”

He held out the mess tray. A Forthwegian cook filled it with barley mush with onions and mushrooms and with a sharp, rather nasty cheese melted into it. Sidroc hardly cared what the stuff tasted like. He wolfed it down and could have eaten three times as much. He needed fuel for his belly no less than a baker needed it for his ovens.

Somebody with a soft heart, or more likely a soft head, went off to share his supper with Wiglaf. Sidroc wouldn’t have done that. He didn’t suppose anyone would have done it for him, either. Expecting nothing from those around him, he seldom found himself disappointed.

After supper came language drills. The Algarvians were even more ruthless than schoolmasters about pounding their language--or standard commands in it, anyhow--into the men of Plegmund’s Brigade. “You’ll be serving alongside Algarvians, likely under Algarvians,” the instructor growled at them. “If you don’t understand orders, you’ll get them killed--and yourselves, too, of course,” he added as if a few Forthwegians were of but small import.

By the time language lessons ended, it was dark. Sidroc found his cot, pulled off his boots, and was instantly asleep.