Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  Three weeks had passed since the group had left the encampment just east of Bodig’s city walls. Crowds and much fanfare had accompanied the battalion’s departure. Women had thrown flowers. Men had shouted phrases of strength. Monks had cast blessings upon them. Watching over it all was the High Priest and Emperor of Heorte, Godwin.

  It had been the annalist who had convinced the emperor to move east. He had told Godwin that the Kan Savasci may have returned to the Gwhelt. In turn, it was the emperor who had insisted a battalion of a thousand soldiers, comprised of three companies, the Heavy Infantry, the Light Infantry and the Ranged Guard, accompany him. This battalion was led by the emperor’s son, First File Commander Rory Tirrell, the hero of the Siege of Sawol.

  There was little recourse but for the annalist to acquiesce and join the battalion. Yet, in three weeks, little had been seen of him. He was a shadow in the wind. He had been whispered about among the burning campfires and talked about during long bouts of marching. He was an enigma. He was a man to be feared. He was a member of the arkein.

  The days fell away under the marching boots of the Bodigan battalion.

  The great plains and grassy fields of Bodig yielded to the Dath River. They marched alongside its length, as it snaked its way from its source. The battalion passed farms and fields and towns and monasteries, before coming upon the foothills of the Shrouded Mountain Range. A massive spur descended from the clouds that perpetually cast the mountains in mystery and broke the even terrain with boulders of granite and rough footing.

  The cold breath of the Shrouded Mountains greeted the soldiers as they climbed, as did bouts of rain and slick, fallen leaves. Boots grew damp and spirits fell.

  In three weeks, the collective mood of the battalion had grown from excitedly warm to starkly cold. As the battalion gained elevation, the rain turned to sleet, forming partially frozen pools of mud and damp. Socks were wet. Feet grew cold, and a few lost their toes to frostbite.

  A military’s morale can be measured by fed bellies and dry feet. The Bodigan battalion’s morale was slipping with each passing day.

  Night descended on the third week. It is here, where we truly begin our story.

  That night, each company staked their claim upon the slopes of the great Shrouded Mountains. Fires burned, keeping Vintas at bay, and blotted out the light of the stars. The Heavy Infantry sang. The Light Infantry huddled more quietly about the fires, and the Ranged Guard joked about soldierly things.

  Standing witness to Bodig’s show of strength, was a young man named Proctus.

  He was a teen on the verge of manhood. He had been more than old enough to take the king’s coin and old enough to have learned how to live off the land.

  It was this skill, living off the land, that had earned him a coveted spot in the elite Ranged Guard. Proctus had been forced at a young age into the service of a verder, a steward of the king’s lands, and over time had been adopted by him. Proctus had learned to live for days, then weeks, and even months in the wild. Trapping, hunting, shelter building, fire making, fishing, tracking, and simple medicine had become his trade. It was with these eyes that he took in the failure of the troop movement.

  He shook his head in dismay.

  A bout of wind whispered Vintas’ song. Proctus felt its cold fingers play with his exposed cheeks. The weather was on the cusp of turning. There was a damp crispness to the air that spoke of bleak and danger. Yet, none seemed prepared.

  Everything here was wrong.

  Men failed to conceal their fires. Food wasn’t suspended properly from trees. Tents, although properly erected, weren’t well insulated against the cold, or efficiently spaced about the scattered campfires.

  He worried for these men. Many of whom he had grown fond of. Many of whom he despised. Some were hard men with little imagination. Others were teenagers looking for adventure, or simply a warm meal and coin. Few shared his enthusiasm for tales of fiction, myths of old, and stories of the arkein.

  His musings fell away as he saw a group of men approach. Proctus recognized the quick, angry march of the commander and slinked behind a large tree. The commander was not a friendly man.

  He watched the First File Commander, a man in furs, with a red Bodigan sash, and a bodark bow, get closer. This man oversaw the battalion through brooding eyes. His dark hair had turned partially gray, not so much from age, but from anger and stress. His face was a pinched amalgam of impatience and distaste. His gait was quick and confident.

  Three men followed at a hurried pace.

  Proctus listened as the voices carried on the edge of the Shrouded Mountain’s wind.

  “Get your units in order, and your men under control,” the red-sashed man growled, “or this whole operation will fail before it even begins.”

  Proctus squinted to make out the men trailing the First File Commander. He recognized the captains of the Heavy Infantry, Light Infantry, and the foul-mouthed Captain of the Ranged Guard.

  “Commander Tirrell,” Weil, the Heavy Infantry Captain spoke, “with all respect, these men are hungry, we’ve underestimated the provisions needed for this mission.”

  Proctus watched as the Light Infantry and Ranged Guard captains glanced from Commander Tirrell to Weil.

  The file commander stopped. The trailing men paused an arms-length away. They were just beyond a set of trees and within several paces of Proctus. He was close enough to see the angry glare in Tirrell’s eye.

  “Then hunt some damn food!”

  All but the Ranged Guard’s Captain, took a half step back.

  “Commander,” Jakob, the ranged captain said, “We’ve scoured the mountainside and found nothing. Our traps come up empty. Our hunters have found no sign. It’s as if these damned woods are cursed.”

  “I don’t want your excuses,” Commander Tirrell shouted, before taking in a calming breath. “I want solutions. I will not quit until the Kan Savasci is dead.”

  The captains of the Heavy and Light Infantry, made a quick sign to invoke the power of Salvare and ward off evil.

  “You mean captured,” Jakob responded, “as our emperor has ordered.”

  Weil and the Light Infantry Captain took another step back, leaving Jakob further isolated. If Jakob had noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, the old, gnarled captain continued.

  In the distance, campfires crackled. Soldiers peered out of cold tents. Others stopped their conversations and glanced up discreetly. Voices carried easily in the woods. Especially the angry growl of the First File Commander. It was the sound of glass scratching stone.

  “I know what the emperor said, and I know why we are here,” Jakob’s voice was low, and Proctus only just overheard, “but I will not sacrifice my men for your personal vendetta.”

  If Rory Tirrell had looked angry before, he now fumed with furious indignation.

  Silence fell between them with the weight of a fallen manticore. It was a desperate, wrathful silence as palpable as the cold about them, painted with each fog-filled breath.

  “Perhaps, we could send out another hunting party,” Weil offered, in an attempt to placate the file commander.

  “The Kan Savasci is a plague…” Rory Tirrell hissed through his teeth, “He is a scourge that must be stopped. He’s the reason for the draccus fiend attacks. He’s the reason for the old gods return…”

  The First File Commander stopped himself there, as if just realizing his words. He glanced about. His eyes were dark with malice. Rory paused, focusing on something in the distance.

  Proctus twisted around to follow the First File Commander’s gaze.

  In the distance, stood a lone man. He was tall and radiated confidence the way the sun radiates heat. It was the annalist. Proctus’ heart skipped a beat.

  The annalist briefly caught the eye of the First File Commander. If he felt any fear of Tirrell, he didn’t show it. Instead, the annalist waved him over. The commander nodded once in acknowledgement, his face turning a darker shade of red.

 
“Fix this, or I’ll fix it for you. We make our next movement tomorrow,” Rory spat, before turning on his heel.

  Proctus watched as the First File Commander, Rory Tirrell, stormed off. His long strides taking him toward the waiting annalist. He watched as two of the captains distanced themselves from the Ranged Guard Captain.

  The Ranged Guard Captain looked about and caught Proctus’ eye.

  “You,” he shouted to Proctus.

  Proctus had no choice but to slip out from behind the tree. He stepped forward as Jakob walked toward him. Proctus continued to glance back toward the annalist and the First File Commander.

  What did the annalist want? Was he the one in charge? Would his friend Sabin believe that he’d seen him? He knew that his squadron leader, Derek, would not. His buddy Jon would be skeptical, and Nell would spread word of the entire encounter.

  A heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, you little shit,” Jakob spoke, “Stop staring, you’ve work to do.”

  Proctus tore his attention away from the departing commander and from the annalist. His mind, still forming questions, attempted to pull awareness from the present.

  “I think he has a thing for the commander,” Captain Weil said.

  “You can fantasize about him later,” Jakob commanded, “and nowhere near my tent, I’ve got enough pricks standing uselessly about. Get to work and stop my men from freezing off their damned usefulness.”

  “Yes sir,” Proctus said, a fist to his chest.

  His mind turned in a new direction.

  “Well, what’re you waiting for, a kiss goodbye,” the Light Infantry Captain yelled.

  Proctus didn’t need further goading. He hurried away from the officers, into the depths of the forest and the camps upon the mountainside.

  He knew what Captain Jakob wanted, for he was notorious for being meticulous and methodical. Captain Jakob had helped lead Bodig to victory in several battles, the most famous of which was the Siege of Sawol. Mostly, the captain wanted order among the battalion. Proctus had heard him often enough, “This is a walking shit show, I’ve eaten soup sandwiches that’ve been less messy than this…”

  It was true. Latrine pits were only half-dug and only partially adhered to. This would normally invite unwanted wildlife into the campsite. Smaller animals draw larger animals, which would draw in top predators. Even Proctus knew what that meant in these mountains. Shroud cats.

  A single shroud cat could kill enough men to completely destroy unit morale. But there were no animals. The mountainside was strangely barren. It was as though they were deep in the A’sh, not the Shrouded Mountains.

  Yet, the mountain provided a rich forest that should have been full of squirrels, mice, rabbits, fox, bears, elk and deer.

  It didn’t.

  Every single trap Proctus had set, came up empty. Every hunting party sent out had yet to find a single track, let alone something to kill.

  Still, his captain expected him to do something.

  Proctus shook his head as he walked. How was he supposed to help these men when he knew their survival hinged on finding more food? How was he supposed to motivate them? Many were older than him. Many had served for far longer than him. Some had even seen battle.

  What could he say. Build more traps? Search harder for animal sign? Build better latrine pits, otherwise we might draw in animals? That was the problem, even the obvious mistakes weren’t having the normal consequences. It was as though the standard rules of the forest didn’t apply here.

  “Proctus,” a voice reached out to him.

  Proctus dropped his thoughts. They fell stickily about him, clinging to the fabric of his clothes. Thoughts about the annalist. Thoughts about his role here. Thoughts about starvation and hunger.

  Proctus turned and saw his friend Sabin approach. A smile touched his lips. They were part of the same squadron, a team of seven, within the Ranged Guard.

  Sabin was from Barling and had the sarcastic countenance those from Barling were renown for. He was one of the few Proctus enjoyed talking to. Proctus knew Sabin didn’t fit into the soldier’s life. It didn’t matter, it was too late, for he had already taken the King’s Coin. Sabin belonged to the military now, as much as Proctus did.

  “Did you see him?” Sabin asked as he approached.

  “Who?”

  Proctus’ mind was still reeling from the weight of excessive thinking.

  “The High Priest,” his friend responded sarcastically.

  “What?” Proctus questioned.

  “The annalist, you idiot.”

  Proctus smiled.

  “Yes, he was with the commander,” a hint of excitement welled up in his voice.

  Proctus had been drawn to the idea of magic, to the arkein, at an early age. He’d read everything he could. One book in particular formed the crux of his excitement, The Lost Scroll of Dimutia.

  “The commander?” Sabin shook his head, “That guy’s a dick.”

  Proctus only nodded. Part of him feared Commander Tirrell, the other part despised him.

  “Did you talk to him?” Sabin asked.

  “Who?” Proctus said with a smile, before responding, “Of course not!”

  Sabin jabbed him in the arm.

  “You’re a chicken shit. You talk a big game, ‘I’m going to be a famous arkeinist one day,’” Sabin said the last impersonating Proctus, “and you can’t even talk to the only arkeinist you’ve ever met!”

  Proctus looked away as his face colored in shame. It was true. He had a fascination for the arkein. It was also true that he was afraid to talk to the annalist. There was an air of dangerous confidence about that man. It shimmered about him like a second skin.

  Proctus shrugged off his thoughts, as he remembered his orders.

  “We’ve got to get this camp better organized,” Proctus mumbled, looking about.

  Sabin held up his hands defensively.

  “I don’t want any part of that shit show.”

  Proctus looked up to argue his point, but Sabin had already turned to walk away. He was always good at disappearing when work needed to be done. Proctus would just have to pass the message along himself.

  Chapter 3

  “A man’s achievement manifested, makes for a hero to be followed.” Humanistics - Library of Galdor

  The firelight played with the night under the watchful gaze of a partial moon. Crimson embers glowed warmly, bringing a sense of warmth to an otherwise frigid mountainside. And a group of men sat about the campfire, joking, boasting, and storytelling.

  These men were part of the Ranged Guard. It was a unit smaller than either the Heavy Infantry or the Light Infantry. It was a specialized group, in which every member had to endure greater levels of hardship and training. It was a group that was often disparaged by others, for in battle they attacked from a distance. They attacked from cover and concealment.

  Yet, as the fire burned bright, none focused on their own hardship, on what they truly missed. Those thoughts were locked away in their hearts only to be glimpsed through jest and to be uncovered in quiet moments of solitude.

  For Proctus, he missed his books. He missed reading. He missed disappearing to some warm glade and losing himself in story.

  Instead, he was living in a story. It was oddly fascinating and far more disappointing than he could have imagined. So, he sat by the fire, wiggling and warming his toes as he glanced about, taking in each member of the squadron.

  There was Jon, a slightly overweight, strangely intelligent soldier. He sat, watching the fire with a grin as he clearly contemplated something. Beside him sat Edon. Edon was currently stroking his beard, a recent development he was rather proud of.

  Nell and David sat on a separate log. Nell was small but outspoken. David was quiet, and often teased for being a touch creepy.

  There were others, but time had torn their memories from Proctus. Except for one. He was hard to forget. His name was Derek, he was louder, often more obnoxious, and
frequently more boastful than the others.

  It should come as no surprise that on this night around the campfire, it was Derek who set the scene.

  “I have another one,” Derek said.

  A couple of soldiers rolled their eyes. Derek hardly noticed. Proctus sat within the circle, beside Sabin, watching and listening. He rarely partook in these exchanges, but he enjoyed the comradery. It was starkly different than living alone in the woods, with his ‘adopted’ father.

  “Derek’s a horse’s ass,” Sabin whispered to Proctus.

  Proctus merely smiled as he listened to Derek continue. Yet again, Sabin spoke the truth. Derek had the incessant need to be the center of attention, with an underling desperation to prove his manliness.

  “Hold on,” Derek said, waving his hands for silence, “This is a good one. Would you rather suck the commander’s cock for one good night’s sleep in the Red Castle, or take it in the ass, and be given the best meal of your life?”

  A few around the fire laughed. Derek smiled broadly and laughed at his own question. He sat with his legs splayed apart, as though the log were too small for his massive genitalia.

  Sabin leaned toward Proctus and whispered.

  “How about I go home right now, and leave the cock sucking to Derek.”

  Proctus smiled. It was a genuine smile that fell away, revealing a tired face.

  His life had changed dramatically. He had been the bastard son of a monk, who’d discarded him. He’d been sold into the king’s service, to lead the life of a verder, watching over the forests, reporting poachers and bandits alike. It was a slow life. He’d craved adventure, and when the king’s men came calling, he took the King’s Coin.

  Proctus had always thought being a soldier meant battles and adventure. Instead, it was nothing but endless formations, hunger, a lack of sleep, and long bouts of boredom.

  “I’d take a good, hot meal,” David responded.

  Derek jumped on the opportunity, “So you’d take it in the ass! I knew you would, you’re more of a lily than Edon,” he said, as he pointed to the bearded soldier across from him.