The Choice of Magic

by Michael G. Manning

  Someone laughed, and the sergeant turned on Tiny, who was standing on the other side of Sven. “What’s your name, trainee?”

  “John Shaw, sir, but most call me Tiny,” said the big man.

  Sergeant Nash responded instantly, “Why? Is your dick that small, soldier?”

  Tiny seemed stunned, but he answered anyway. “No, sir.”

  The sergeant let out a dramatic exhale. “Well Mister Shaw, I am sure that is a relief to sheep everywhere. Did you find what I was saying to Trainee Wilson to be funny?”

  If the insult bothered Tiny, he didn’t show it, since he smirked faintly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why you would find that funny is a mystery, Trainee Shaw, since by the look of you I expect your mother shat you out one day rather than give birth,” said the sergeant.

  Tiny didn’t answer, but his face hardened and his ears turned red.

  “Did that make you angry, Mister Shaw?”

  “No, sir,” said Tiny.

  “Really? I find that surprising, Mister Shaw, since from the look in your eye I would strongly suspect you’d like to stick that spear in my gut. Isn’t that true, Mister Shaw?”

  Tiny shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’re worried about being whipped. I’m sure you know that striking a superior is a mandatory flogging. Wounding one is punishable by death,” said the sergeant, his voice growing calmer. “In your case, though, I’ll give you permission. Would you like to hit me now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Corporal Grim!” shouted the sergeant. The corporal hastily responded with a ‘yes, sir.’ Sergeant Nash went on, “Corporal, please make note that I’m giving Trainee Shaw permission to take a swing at me.” Then he turned back to Tiny. “Mister Shaw, would it surprise you to learn that the reason you’re so fucking big is because your mother was in fact the biggest sow on—”

  The sergeant never finished his sentence, because Tiny dropped his spear and unleashed a wild haymaker. Sergeant Nash was expecting it, though. The sergeant leaned back and tilted his head, letting Tiny’s fist glance off the top of his helm, then he stepped forward, putting one hand on the back of Tiny’s arm and shoving while he kicked the big man’s leading foot out from under him.

  Tiny fell like a ponderous oak, and the men behind him tripped over one another as they hurried to get out of the way. Meanwhile the sergeant caught Tiny’s spear as it started to fall and whipped it around with one hand. The point stopped just below Tiny’s chin. Sergeant Nash stood over him with a look of malicious glee in his eyes.

  “I would dearly love to put this through your ugly neck, Mister Shaw, but until this war is over you are the property of Lord Fulstrom, and he needs your fat ass to help fulfill his duty to the king.”

  Will couldn’t stand it any longer. “Sergeant—”

  Quick as a whip, Sergeant Nash turned and focused his attention on Will. “I did not give you permission to speak, Mister Cartwright, but seeing as I respect your opinion, I will let it go this time. Did you have something to say?”

  All eyes were on Will, and he suddenly felt uncertain. Swallowing nervously, he answered, “I just don’t think you should goad him about his mother, sir.”

  The sergeant took a moment and seemed to fall into deep reflection before saying, “Is that so?” Then he looked down at Tiny. “Mister Shaw, according to Mister Cartwright I owe you an apology. Did it hurt your feelings when I suggested that the reason you’re such a colossal turd is because your mother was a farm animal?”

  Facing the sharp end of a spear had caused Tiny to calm down quickly, but he still answered honestly, “A little bit, sir.”

  Sergeant Nash planted the butt end of the spear in the ground and offered his other hand to the fallen soldier. “Then I apologize, Mister Shaw. Let me help you up.” Once Tiny was back on his feet, the sergeant addressed the company again, “I hope you all learned a lesson in courtesy from Mister Cartwright here.”

  Will’s shoulders itched as he felt everyone’s eyes on him.

  Chapter 38

  That evening Will managed to save a few extra bites for Tiny, but it was an exercise of willpower for him. The long day’s labor had given him a tremendous appetite. But if I’m this hungry, how bad is it for him? he asked himself.

  Dave glanced up at them. “Ain’t that cute. Will’s got himself a girlfriend.”

  They ignored the remark, but Corporal Taylor took notice, staring at Tiny for a second as though he had just remembered something. Finally, he said, “They want you lean, Tiny, but given your size you probably need a little more.” He offered the big man the last portion of his pottage. “I’ll talk to the mess sergeant later and see if they can give you a little more from now on.”

  Tiny seemed embarrassed, and he stared at his knees. “Thanks, Corporal.”

  Dave spoke up again. “Sergeant Nash really seemed to love you, Cartwright.”

  Before Will could reply, Sven jumped in. “Just his bad luck. They always single someone out like that.”

  Corporal Taylor nodded in agreement, but Will was confused. “What do you mean?”

  Sven waved his spoon as he talked to emphasize his point. “This ain’t my first time in the army. I served five years as an enlisted soldier when I was a lot younger. They always pick someone and praise them like that. They try to make the others jealous. If he’s a good instructor he’ll switch to someone else in a few days, before the men get so mad they start laying for you at night. He’ll probably turn you into his problem child just to fuck with your head.”

  Will didn’t like the sound of that. Either way, it seemed like he was in trouble. Either the sergeant would start picking on him, or the other men would start trying to catch him alone. Pushing that thought aside, he asked, “What about Tiny? Why’d he go after him like that?”

  “He was the best example, given his size,” answered Corporal Taylor.

  “Example?” Will was confused.

  Sven pointed at Tiny with his spoon. “Look at him, he’s huge. Probably the biggest guy in the whole cohort. The sergeant needed someone to teach the hotheads in the company a lesson. Otherwise someone might decide to take a shot at him when he isn’t looking.”

  “At who?” asked Will.

  “At the sergeant, dumbass,” said Sven. “Everyone hates them, or at least they will by the time they get through breaking us in. So what they do is pick out someone that looks big, or maybe someone who seems especially tough. They push ‘em until they have no choice, and when the poor guy snaps they put him down fast so nobody else will get the same idea.”

  “That’s stupid,” said Dave, spitting out a piece of gristle.

  “Would you take a shot at the sergeant then?” asked Sven.

  Dave huffed. “I’m not afraid of him, but I guess I’d think twice about it after today.”

  “I’ve made my point,” said Sven smugly. “You’re exactly the sort of asshole that demonstration was meant for.”

  Dave started to jump up, but Corporal Taylor grabbed his arm. “Simmer down, Wilson. You’re gonna have to grow a thicker skin if you want to survive around here.”

  Dave glared at the corporal and then relaxed. Picking up his bowl, he turned it up and swallowed the last of his food before leaving by himself. Corporal Taylor watched him go, uncertainty written on his face.

  Sven was the first to speak, glancing at Will. “He won’t last long at this rate. He got into two fights the day before you got here.”

  “Didn’t they punish him for that?” asked Will.

  “Only if an officer or sergeant sees it,” said Sven. “Most guys try to avoid that, even if they get their ass kicked, and if you snitch the other guys will do worse to you.”

  “That doesn’t seem right.”

  Sven shrugged. “Fights happen when you cram this many men into one place. The sergeants know that. They prefer it this way. If they started paying close attention, they’d have to have half the men whipped before they even finished trai
ning. They’ll turn a blind eye unless someone gets hurt bad.”

  The next days were similar to the first, except that the men spent more time digging trenches and creating long rolling mounds of soil for the earthworks. The idea was to create a wide, sloping trench and pile the earth on one side, effectively creating a wall they could shelter behind. It wasn’t too good against arrows, but for that reason they would erect a small timber wall at the top once the earthen portion was finished. Even without the wall, any enemy charging at them would be forced to first run down into the trench and then up the sloping earth, putting them at a serious disadvantage.

  They spent the afternoons drilling, marching, and occasionally sparring. During most of the breaks, one of the sergeants would lecture them on the importance of this or that. Will was particularly interested in a demonstration given by Sergeant Eckels from the Third Platoon.

  Eckels was a burly man with an exceptionally thick beard. He stepped out in front of them while they were resting after a particularly long drill session. “I’m going to talk to you about the drills we’ve been doing and why we do them.”

  No one said anything.

  “You may wonder why we spend more time practicing holding lines and using the spear and shield when you have a perfectly good sword at your side. The main reason for that is because we fight as a team, not as individuals. The sword is a backup weapon for when you’ve either lost your spear, or the enemy has gotten too close for you to use it effectively. We don’t spend as much time on sparring because if you do wind up that close to the enemy you won’t be sparring. There’s no fancy swordplay involved when you’re shoulder-to-shoulder and face-to-face. The only effective thing you can do at that point is thrust, and we’ll make sure you get plenty of practice at that. Any questions so far?”

  Again, no one spoke.

  The sergeant gestured to two men standing off to one side. They carried a large, weighted pell onto the field. While most of the practice pells they had seen before were wrapped with leather and padding, this one was different in that a standard padded linen gambeson had been placed over it and tied in place.

  “Do any of you know why the padded jack is the one piece of armor we issue to every soldier?” asked the sergeant.

  A voice from the back answered, “Because they’re cheap.” A ripple of laughter followed.

  “That’s true,” said Sergeant Eckels, “but it isn’t the only reason. Anyone else?”

  “They’re warm,” said someone else.

  “Also a good point,” said the sergeant amiably, “but we use them even in summer. Why do you think that is?” He waited a long minute before continuing. “The main reason is because it is the single most effective piece of armor you or I will ever wear. Short of something solid, such as a breastplate or helm, it is the only thing that will protect you from blunt impact.”

  “I’d rather have the breastplate,” said a bolder voice in the crowd.

  The sergeant tapped his own highly polished breastplate. “As would I, but you don’t wear one of these without first putting on an arming jacket or similar padding. The same is doubly true of mail. A thick gambeson will stop most cuts, lessen the impact of a sword blow, and sometimes even save you from more dangerous things. The biggest danger to you while wearing it is a thrust, or an arrow.” He pointed at one of the men sitting close to the front. “Lend me your sword, trainee.”

  The man unsheathed his weapon, which was standard for most of them, a short falchion with a blade no more than two feet long. The sergeant inspected the edge with his thumb and then whipped the sword across in a fast cut that hit the pell so solidly that it rocked back despite its weighted base. The gambeson had only a shallow cut in it.

  “The falchion is one of the most effective types of cutting swords, but as you can see, it wouldn’t have gotten through. In an actual fight, it probably would have been even less effective, because men don’t generally stand still when you swing at them. That’s one reason we will be teaching you how to effectively sharpen them. These swords need a very sharp edge if you’re to have any hope of cutting through padding.”

  Sergeant Eckels returned the sword to its owner and unsheathed his own weapon, which appeared identical. He repeated his slash, but this time the sword cut through the gambeson entirely, though it only lightly scored the leather underneath. “With a very sharp blade and good technique, it is possible to cut the man wearing a padded jack, but it still isn’t much of a wound most of the time.” Then the sergeant stepped in and stabbed the pell, causing his sword to sink deeply into the pell. “As you can see, a thrust is much more effective, whether your sword is sharp or not.

  “The enemies we will face are all wearing similar armor to what you have on now, and the most effective weapon you have for getting to them is the spear you carry, or failing that, a sword thrust,” finished the sergeant. “Questions?”

  “What if they’re wearing mail?”

  Sergeant Eckels nodded. “Good question. Mail does give a man better protection, so long as there’s padding beneath it. The principle is the same. If he’s got mail, a cut won’t work. Ever. Your best bet is still the spear. A solid thrust can pierce mail, though you probably won’t get as deep as you would otherwise. Failing that, your best bet is to hit them with something heavy enough to break the man under the armor. Anyone else?”

  “If they’re using spears, and we’re using spears, and everyone is stabbing, what’s the point of wearing padding?” asked a man somewhere in the middle.

  “In the middle of a battle, you may get hit several times, but most of those hits won’t be good ones. With a padded jack, your chances of getting wounded are much lower, but the gambeson isn’t your only protection.” He gestured to one of his other assistants, who carried a shield over to him. “This is your first and best line of protection, a shield. Given the choice between no shield and the best armor, or a shield and no armor, you’ll usually want the shield.”

  He went on for some time after that, emphasizing the importance of prioritizing the placement of the shield depending on whether one was in the front, second, or third row of a battle line.

  Once their rest was over, they did in fact practice sparring for a while, despite what the sergeant had just told them about its relative importance. Will learned how to make effective cuts and thrusts and watched practical demonstrations regarding when he should consider switching to the sword or continue using his spear.

  In the last hour before the evening meal, they were shown how to sharpen their swords to a fine edge as well as how to maintain their other gear. Will was exhausted by the time they were finally released to go eat.

  As they sat in the mess hall, he noticed that Dave’s cheek was swollen on one side. “What happened to you?” asked Will.

  Dave grinned. “Hah. You should ask about the other guy.”

  Sven shook his head in disgust. “That shit’s going to come back to haunt you.”

  “I’m the one they should be looking out for,” bragged Dave.

  Will couldn’t help but agree with Sven, but he stayed silent. He knew from experience that Dave wasn’t one to take advice, especially if it was good advice.

  Through the rest of the week Will began to get used to the routine, though it still left him bone-tired at the end of every day. Latrine duty, breakfast, and then digging for the earthworks took up the mornings. After lunch, the entire company would practice marching and formation drills for a couple of hours before moving on to either sparring or learning yet another procedure. Some days it was learning to set up and repack their camp before or after a march, other days it was maintenance of their equipment and weapons.

  Through it all Will was constantly hungry—hungry for sleep, and hungry for food. He had never had much fat on him, but what little had been there started to melt away. He was pretty sure he had lost weight, but when he looked at his arms, they definitely seemed more muscular. Then again, maybe it was his imagination.

  The changes in
Tiny were more noticeable. The big man had definitely been a little chubby, but he was losing weight quickly, revealing the incredible muscle that had been necessary to move him around in day-to-day life. Tiny was still massive, but he lost the almost baby-like roundness to his face and began to look positively dangerous.

  Will still thought they would all be gaunt and skeletal by the time spring arrived, however. His belly continually reminded him he wasn’t getting enough food for all the labor that was expected of him. He began to have dreams about the meals at his grandfather’s house, especially the ones that the old man had made personally.

  He doubted he would ever have the chance to learn any more about magic, but he kept the source of his turyn tightly compressed, and he occasionally practiced the runes his grandfather had taught him. He did it in secret at first, until he realized no one could see the runes besides him. To the others in his tent, it just looked as though he was sitting quietly. He gained a reputation for being quiet and introspective.

  It was almost two weeks after Sven’s warning that he found out what the old soldier had been scolding Dave about. Will heard a strange scuffling that roused him from his sleep. The tent was dark, so he wasn’t sure what time it was, but he could see dark shapes moving nearby. It looked as though someone had been wrapped in something and was struggling.

  Will sat up. The back wall of the tent had been unpegged, and several dark shapes were dragging a figure wrapped in a blanket out through it.

  “Don’t get up. He ain’t worth it,” advised Sven’s voice quietly.

  “Who?” whispered Will.

  “Wilson,” answered the old soldier. “Looks like some of them got tired of his bullshit.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Probably just beat the shit out of him. Depends how much they hate him. Sometimes people get a little too excited,” said Sven. “Go back to sleep.”