“Why do we have to worship the ground he walks on? Why is he in command? He’s some high tiered whore’s get,” the third man said, soft as a trickling brook.
“How do ya know that?” asked the second man, his voice shrill. As if locked in a perpetual state of surprise, his eyes were wide, unblinking.
“I’ve heard stories.” The third man’s face split into a lewd grin. Gesturing about his chest with calloused hands, he said, “Got tits the size-”
Pell heard enough. His croaky voice interrupted, “Captain Krell earned his rank due to skill alone. He is a Master of Steel, and Lord Vandyr Kaide personally chose him. Who his mother is, and where he was raised, makes no difference. He is our captain.”
Silence befell the trio like drifting snow; they glared at Pell, shooting nettles his way.
“Master of Steel?” The willowy second man asked.
“Aye,” Pell said, walking toward them. “Lord Vinganz himself proclaimed the captain a weapons-master, someone who can heft any weapon and wield them with lethal expertise. I would hesitate before attempting to ‘stick’ him.”
“Oh?” said the first, rising to a bellicose stance. “Well, why don’t ya piss off?”
“Lon, careful! He’s a Baron.”
Lon, who had stalked forward as if to shove with Pell, paused.
“Aye, I am,” ceded Pell, “but you heard the captain — rank, and titles hold no weight in the Quest.”
“Oh yeah,” Lon derided, “then I suppose if I kicked your arse, I wouldn’t get my flesh stripped, eh?”
A mighty chortle erupted behind the trio; they turned. Boor, barrel-chested, sauntered their way, a wide grin showcasing his pearly-whites. A meaty hand scratched tusk-like chops; his chestnut orbs sparkling with amusement.
“Oh, I bet if ya even tried lad, ya’d find yerself hurtin’ bad,” Boor said. “All three o’ ya’s.”
Hastily, the scrawny man stood, hands waving in front. “Not me, I’m not a part of this.” He backpedaled, pausing only to retrieve his gear. The third was quick to follow, leaving Lon alone to face Boor. It was like pitting a wolf pup against a giant boar.
“What do ya say, eh?” Boor’s grin widened, his chestnut eyes hosting a maniacal glint. Now in front of the man, he stood well over a head taller.
Lon spat, but ceded and followed in his companions' footsteps.
Pell sighed. Causing an altercation was the last thing he desired.
“Oh, it’s alright milord.” Boor turned his toothy grin on Pell. “After they get so’ sleep.”
“Thanks, Boor,” Pell said, running a hand over his face. “And please, don’t call me ‘my lord’. I’m a ‘melting Flake’ just like you.”
Again, Boor loosed a hearty chuckle from the gut. “Aye. Who’d have thunk it.”
“What?”
“A baron, rulin’ Lord o’ Hevnkalt no less, tellin’ a boar from the Sanguinary Archipelago not ta call him milord! Ha!” Boor seemed positively tickled. “Welp, me fella scum, goodnight!”
“Same to you, Boor.”
Before they separated, a resounding shout cracked the air and shattered the quietude of rest.
“Form ranks! Let’s go! Move, move, MOVE!”
“What’s that?” Boor asked, eyes squinting.
“Not sure,” Pell said, glancing around.
Like a beehive, frenetic energy bristled the makeshift camp. Three hundred men scrambled to their feet, collecting their equipment.
“I suppose we should gather our gear.”
“Aye,” Boor agreed. He hustled off.
Trembling in his haste, Pell consolidated his strewn-out gear. He hefted the ruck onto his back as Boor rushed his way.
“You set, Boor?”
“Aye.”
Together they sped toward the blossoming formation, pulling short a few steps later. Despite the commotion, a grizzled man slept on a bed of grass, snores sawing the air.
A younger man, with similar physical traits, frantically packed two rucksacks while shouting, “Father, wake up!”
The man did not stir.
“Oi!” Boor yelled, kneeling beside the elder. He placed a meaty hand on the prone candidate’s shoulder and shook, shouting, “Wake up, Grandfather! Ya can make it!”
“Course I can, ya ruddy idiot!” Steely gray eyes flashed wide; the older man rose in a swift jolt. Cracks resonated from his knees and back. Silver at the temples, his black hair was cropped short for a helmet; three-day salt and pepper scruff marred his chin and cheeks. Though not nearly as tall as Boor, he was as burly and muscular. “Shut yer gappin’ trap, runt. I just needed a spell; my bones are old and brittle.”
Then, father and son pelted away.
Boor was taken aback, nonplussed at such vigor from one so aged. “Er…right, o’ course,” Boor mumbled. He glanced at Pell, who shrugged. They followed in the pair’s footsteps. “Yer sprightly fer such an ole man!” Boor called, a snicker riding his lips.
The son tossed his head back, laughing in response. His black-cropped hair was pure.
“Don’t ya think I won’t whip ya lad,” Pell overheard the father grouse at his son. “And that goes fer ya as well, ya boorish lout!”
“Aye, Grandfather, just havin’ a bit o’ fun.” Chestnut orbs found pale blue ones and winked as they kept pace.
Riotous guffaws expelled from the son, just as vast as the father.
“Don’t ya be gettin’ any ideas boy. Ya hearin’ me, Mersh?” Though gruff, the castigation held no bite.
Pell could see the loving familial relationship and couldn’t help his thoughts drifting to his wife, Lady Reese Grundhalver. One day, Pell hoped he could become the caring father he never had.
Pell’s mind returned as the son responded.
“Aye,” Mersh chuckled. “Of course not…Grandfather!”
Boisterous laughter expelled from Boor’s gut, as the old man growled in frustration.
Pell grinned, Grandfather.
◄►◄►◄►
In formation, thirty abreast and ten deep, the candidates awaited their captain’s orders. Crisp, silent, and motionless at the position of attention; they stood ready, or so they hoped.
At random, silver spears punched through the low clouds, shedding deficient light on the ground. Natural night sight along the moon’s cycle provided the trainees with enough light to see silhouettes — nothing more articulate. Thus, the initiates relied upon grasping one another’s shoulders to achieve proper dress-right-dress.
Lassitude embraced the ranks like a caring mother. The past several weeks had been physically brutal, let alone today’s particularly grueling forced march, and their muscles cried out for a much-needed rest. As silent moments matured into minutes, snores of the drifting — still at attention — echoed in the night. Deprived of sleep, candidates wavered on shaky legs.
Pell repelled a yawn, forcing himself rigid in military decorum. Pale orbs squeezed, swift to reopen lest the threat of sleep overcome him.
Like dancing fireflies, sparks flickered before the aspirants. A torch flared, blinding those still alert, and waking the sleeping few. Flaming tendrils cast cavorting shadows over the aspirants as Captain Krell hoisted a firebrand. Beside the young captain, Hess vaunted his own torch.
Light shed on the weary-eyed soldiers, Pell saw exhaustion savaging the initiates like an incurable blight.
Whatever this is, Pell thought with dread, it won’t be warmly accepted.
He was correct.
“I’m glad everyone had a wonderful night’s rest,” Krell yelled. “Alas, we’ve many leagues to cover. Double-time march!”
Lethargy-ravaged, bleats rode the horde. Yet, when the captain turned — followed closely by Hess and the ever-looming Lord Vandyr Kaide — and set a grisly pace, they followed suit. This was their lot in life, no way to change it.
Lest we eliminate ourselves from the Quest, Pell pondered. Quitting was never an option before, nor was it now.
Hours passed as they ran
in the dark. More than once, grunts exploded from candidates tumbling, a foot snagged by an obscured rock or ensnared by a badger hole. Many times, Pell leaped over the soldier before him to avoid stumbling.
Harsh breathing chorused over near-cadenced footfalls; exhaustion promised to overcome everyone. Staggering left and right, sluggish trainees slowed, so much so to fill Pell’s mind with concern. His anxiety was — gratefully — unable to mature.
The captain’s and Hess’ torch halted a short distance ahead. Pell found himself in the lead row, along with Boor and another man — lithe and slender, he stood like a shadow himself. It was as if an inky void enveloped this soldier. Pell only saw his silhouette because it hosted a shade deeper than the lusterless moon’s cycle.
Pell shook his head; he was sure he imagined things. His manor laech-healer once told him sleep deprivation could trick the mind into seeing things which escaped reality. Pell disbelieved the physician, yet he was now revisiting the notion.
The trio halted several feet from the captain, and with natural ease, assumed the position of attention. Hess and Lord Kaide conversed behind Krell in whispers.
Pell’s breaths fell heavy, his side stitched with a twang. Stalwart, he confronted the young captain’s dour glare. Pell felt he knew the reason for Krell’s ire, and the nobleman took what morbid pleasure he could muster.
Your castigations stick in your throat and cannot assail me if I’m keeping pace, eh captain? Pell croaked a laugh, passing it off as a harsh gasp.
“Wipe that idiotic grin from your face, Cur! And quiet that ruddy mouth breathing,” Krell snapped.
Pell gusted a sigh, By the Realm of the Damned, of course, he found something!
The nobleman gazed beyond the cadre and found himself studying a forest of maple trees. Thick boles stood erect, like silent sentinels. Leafless, despite being summer, the multitude of limbs splayed to form an impenetrable canopy — the minute flanges weaving together.
Pell’s mind strained as he recalled a map of Vinganz Province. From the Grodalry Hills, traveling northwest, what was the first substantial forest?
Bracken Grove, Pell mused. He continued his survey while stumbling men failed to dress-right-dress. Ragged breathing echoed around him, but Pell’s mind fixated on the barren coppice. The nobleman struggled to remember the explanation for such a phenomenon. His soul wrenched back to the present, rumination shattered by the captain.
“MOVE!” Krell’s jaw bulged, brows knitted in a ‘V’. “Quit wasting my time! Let’s go, let’s go, LET’S GO!” Pacing back and forth, chest heaving, fists clenching — Captain Krell’s agitation burgeoned into fury, and then boiled over. “Front leaning rest, MOVE!”
Those few in formation lurched into a rigid plank, awaiting their fellow initiates. The laggards created a gap as they fell behind in the run, which ignited Krell’s ire. The hopefuls trickling in joined the formation and assumed the push-up position.
Pell’s shoulders ached, corded muscles burning and wailing from exertion. Tremors rippled across his arms, threatening to collapse. The additional weight of the rucksack strapped to his back added detrimental agony. Pell’s already strained constitution wavered. A growl of perseverance escaped him, and he was not alone. Groans found fellowship as they ripped from the Flake’s throats.
“Suffer in silence!” Hess bellowed, storming between the ranks.
“You will remain there until the rest of your cohort arrives!” Krell’s voice was like frosted iron.
An upheaval of moans surged, only to be silenced with curt reprimands.
Sweat beaded Pell’s face, stinging as droplets ran into his pale orbs. In hopes to assuage his eyes, he blinked. Alas, the only balm for him and his companion’s tribulations seemed to rest in the hands of the laggards.
“Come on boys!” Pell choked from the strain. His voice lacked the harsh bite used by the cadre. “You can do this! Dig in men! Come on!”
Despite nearly kissing the dirt — arms and back roaring in mutiny — others joined Pell’s encouraging shout.
“Meltore’s balls, lads!” Boor roared beside Pell. The nobleman’s eyes flared at the burly man’s blatant disrespect toward the Synod’s Lord of War. “Ya, can do this! Let’s go!”
Pell was convinced they would be cursed into silence at any moment.
He was wrong, pleasantly so.
A quick glance forward confirmed Captain Krell and Hess stock still, reticent. Hope flamed within; Pell renewed his inspiration with a vigor mined from deep within.
As the final footfalls stilled, agonizing moments later, Pell knew everyone had joined the formation. To everyone’s despair, the order to recover was withheld.
“I am sick of you wasting my time!” Krell roared, waving the torch high above his head. “If you don’t wish to be here if you want to go home, or get a decent night sleep; recover.”
Everyone remained in the front leaning rest, arms quivering.
“We have a long night ahead of us,” the captain continued. “Your weakness is poison! Save your fellow Flakes some pain and eliminate yourselves!”
Pell heard rustling commotion; several men took to their feet.
“Hess, you know what to do with these wastrels.”
A handful of men followed Hess out of sight.
“Any others?” Krell inquired.
“Don’t give in lads!” Boor yelled. “We seen it afore! Just hold on!”
Pell and a handful of other voices joined Boor.
Captain Krell recovered them. The candidates wobbled, legs threatening to give.
Then, all hopes and dreams of collapsing into a bedroll shattered.
“Welcome to Bracken Grove!” Krell barked a cackle. “Our night has just begun, Flakes.”
◄►◄►◄►
Urgency surged into Pell’s being like a stampeding horde; he stowed his gear claiming a position in ranks. The other rucksacks, meticulously placed in-line with his, created a formation of their own. Fueled by fear-inspired adrenaline, the Flakes fought through the fugue of exhaustion. The bedraggled candidates raced after an unfaltering Captain Krell into the coppice.
Upon crossing the fringe of Bracken Grove, the recruits staggered to a stop. Fallen maples blocked their path.
Pell refused to hope this would thwart whatever devious punishment Captain Krell planned. Sure enough, it seemed nothing would deter the man.
“Everyone, bring it in and claim a log,” Krell commanded. “NOW!”
With an explosion of action, the men jostled into position. Trainees separated into groups, each taking charge of a fallen tree. Due to the size of the trunks, each team consisted of nearly a score.
“You have five minutes to hoist the logs and get back into formation.” Krell about-faced and disappeared into the shadows like wisps of smoke.
“Alright men,” Pell croaked to his group, “you heard the captain. Let's move!” He bent over the massive maple, halting as his team remained frozen like statues. Pell cast his gaze about; reproachful glowers pelted his skin.
“An’ who made you cap’n?” an aspirant groused. “Just ‘cause you’re some high an’ mighty noble out there, don’t make you shite in here.”
“I am not trying to impose rank, Arentz,” Pell’s voice dry and brittle. “I’m trying to get us to the finish line!” Pell stood, back straight, chest heaving, and none-too-willing to accept second-hand advice on the matter. “We have to work together to complete this task.”
“Yeah, well maybe I’m sick o’ working with highborn fops.”
“Then why are you here?” Pell asked, irritation clawing its way into his voice. “This cohort was specifically created for low and highborn to work seamlessly.”
“It’s never goin’ to work,” Arentz snapped, hand chopping the air. “The Cap'n can’t even stomach ya, Cur!”
Pell choked down a retort, a frown tugging at his lips.
“What’s the matta, mutt?”
Pell turned, bending to the assigned tasked. Arentz
grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around. Hot, fetid breath struck Pell’s senses as the grizzly aspirant spoke.
“This is my log an’ my crew, Cur. Go join your highborn scum,” the thug growled through clenched teeth.
Rage roiled within Pell’s gut; he quenched it without riposte, dousing it with cold logic. The baron pivoted and stalked into the night. Bile clambered sickly to the back of his throat; gnashing his teeth, Pell’s fists balled in white-knuckled intensity.o
Eyes glittered in the moonlit night as every Flake — witness to the altercation — tracked the nobleman’s departure.
“Pell,” a voice called, “over here.”
The baron followed the voice a group of eleven men. Pell recognized them as his fellow highborn.
“Ignore them; they don’t matt-”
“You’re wrong, Athos!” Pell chastening snarl faltered. He issued a heartfelt sigh. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong Athos. They do matter, every single man among them. We are creating something never recorded in the annals, since before the Fall of the Empire. A cohort where, despite birthright, we can work flawlessly and achieve greatness.” The built-up tension released as the words passed his tongue, and Pell retreated into silence.
“Aye, Pell,” Athos replied gently, “yet, that man is right. Captain Krell cannot stand the sight of nobility, let alone work alongside us. With his influence, how can we expect our peers to respect nobility enough to do anything but reject it? This misguided group is no brotherhood, nor will it ever be with his hatred at the helm.”
With a snarl, Pell bent to the team’s log, sinking further into despair.
The other nobles, acknowledging their lack of command for the first time in their lives, followed suit.
◄►◄►◄►
Obscured by the thicket of trees, Krell stood beside Lord Kaide, muscles tensed. Both witnessed the confrontation, their tongues holding to silence. After Pell joined his fellow nobles, Kaide tapped Krell on the shoulder and nodded, indicating for him to follow. Careful not to break the deadfall, the Lord Commander and the captain egressed through the trees. Once out of earshot, Kaide turned to Krell; his penetrating gaze bore into the officer’s soul.
The Cold Ones Page 3
