by Glen Cook
Kildragon had come south with a raiding fleet the previous summer. It had been one of the few to sail during the succession troubles. An Itaskian warship had rammed it off Libiannin. He had managed to swim to shore, the only survivor. Of necessity, he had learned southern ways fast.
“Still a scroungy-looking lot you’ve got there, Tore,” the gatekeeper called as they double-timed into the Guild stronghold.
“I’ll get them weeded out yet, Andy.”
The three months had been a pitiless weeding through exhaustion of body and will.
“Wichard’s about had it,” Reskird murmured as the Itaskian ahead of him stumbled.
Bragi grunted. He and Haaken had weathered the grind well. Trolledyngja had schooled them for it. Haaken seemed right at home. The structured military life suited him perfectly. Bragi was less comfortable. He just did not like a Yes sir, No sir, Do it by the numbers approach to life.
“We’ll get him through. He’s got guts,” Bragi whispered. Despite his reservations, Ragnarson had been designated recruit corporal in charge of his squad. He had a sneaking suspicion that the assignment was more of Sanguinet’s torment, though the sergeant claimed he had been given the position because he could yell louder than anyone else.
After bathing and shaving they mustered for Recruits’ Mess. Their mealtimes were one of the few occasions when they could relax and talk.
Haaken was in a mood. “You want to leave, Bragi?”
“Leave? What?”
“The Guild.”
A recruit could do so whenever he decided the life was not for him. Any Guildsman could leave. But few who survived the training and shielding abandoned the brotherhood. The preliminary weeding was thorough.
The Citadel wanted no physical or moral weaklings in its command.
“Hell no. With six days to go? I’ll finish if I have to do it walking on my hands.”
The name Guild was a popular misnomer. The organization was not a Guild at all. It was a brotherhood of warriors bound together by honor, discipline and an exaggerated set of military codes. It showed elements of monasticism, though it bowed to neither god nor prince. It was a kingdom spanning scores of kingdoms, consisting of men from countless lands who had renounced every allegiance save that to their brothers in arms.
The ruling council of nine generals, all of whom had once entered the Guild as the recruits were now, had reached their stations on merit. A complete contempt for quality of birth was one of the cultural chasms separating the Guild from the rest of the world. There were princes in the ranks and farmers’ sons in the Citadel.
The Guild had phenomenal political leverage. The fates of principalities turned on High Crag’s decision to accept or reject a commission offering. The order was wealthy. Its services were not cheap. It often accepted payment in lands and livings. It held income properties everywhere. If the nine old men in the Citadel became unhappy, princes hastened to learn how they had offended. Elite, powerful, the Guild was like nothing else in existence. It held a strong attraction for youths seeking a mission, a place in something bigger than themselves. Just belonging set a man a notch above his contemporaries. It marked him as the best.
The brotherhood was also a mystery cult. It had seven circles of initiation. Certain promotional levels demanded a prior passage to a circle closer to enlightenment. The nine generals were the truly illuminated.
An organization so powerful and secretive naturally accumulated detractors. Those claimed that the true nature and goals of the brotherhood were known only to the old generals in the Citadel.
There was truth in the allegation, but not enough to make the order an object of terror or reprisal.
Bragi, Haaken and Reskird did not care how others saw the Guild. They had bought the message of pride sold them from the moment they had entered High Crag’s gate.
In six days they would belong.
“Where do you think we’ll be posted?” Reskird asked.
They had been sent to barracks immediately following supper. Their companions were abuzz, speculating about the unprecedented event. They used the time to catch up on their brass and boot polishing. Sergeant Sanguinet was obsessed with shininess.
“All I want is out of this dump,” Haaken grumbled. “Penny to a pound, this is what Hell is like.”
“Think we’ll get lucky?” Reskird persisted. He smoothed straight, fine ginger hair that refused to stay in place. “One of the famous outfits? We’re doing good.”
Kildragon did not look Trolledyngjan. He was tall but on the lean side, with delicate features and feminine hands. He seemed more typically Itaskian.
“Hawkwind? Lauder? The White Company?” he babbled.
Bragi shrugged. “Wickhard’s got a chance at the White. If we can get him through. It’s spooky, the way he can use a bow.”
“It’s the regiments for us,” Haaken grumbled. “Lauder and Hawkwind don’t take Greens.”
“I’d guess the regiment in Simballawein,” Bragi said. “That’s where the war scare is.”
“Farther south,” Haaken complained. “And it’s still summer.”
“Me,” said Reskird, “I think we ought to kiss Sanguinet’s ass so he’ll recommend us for Octylya.” Sardygo, the Prince of Octylya, maintained a Guild bodyguard consisting entirely of Trolledyngjans.
A demonic creature looking nine feet tall and seven wide lumbered into the barracks room. “Kiss it all you want, boy. I’m still getting rid of you before you get your shield.”
Ragnarson squawked a startled, “’Ten-shut!”
“Failing that, Kildragon, I’ll get you the honeybucket concession for the whole damned castle.”
Reskird did not cringe. This was what passed for light banter with the sergeant.
Sanguinet stalked round the cramped little room occupied by Bragi’s squad. He poked fingers into cracks. He thumped hammocks. He hunted mercilessly, and could find nothing to bitch about.
“Ragnarson!”
“Sir?”
“You making fun of me, boy?”
“Sir? I don’t understand, sir.”
“You’re playing some kind of game. It’s too perfect. Your squad is always too perfect.” He grinned wickedly. “So maybe I’ll change the rules.”
Corporal Trubacik stuck his head in the doorway. “Sarge? The Old Man wants you. Said make it yesterday.”
“What is it now?”
“Another messenger came in. Looks set. He’s expecting word from the Citadel.”
“Damn it all to Hell! The rumor was right. And us stuck with Greens.” The demon stalked out in the wake of his apprentice.
“What was that all about?” Bragi wondered. Haaken and Reskird shrugged.
Kildragon said, “We’ve got to give him something to gnash his teeth on, Bragi. He’s foaming at the mouth because you won’t give him anything.”
“Not going to, either. I don’t like his game. As long as I’m stuck with it, I’m going to play it better than he does. All that growl is just for show, anyway. My father did the same thing. Bet you he isn’t half a hardass once we’ve won our shields.”
“Hrumph!” Haaken opined.
Rumors flew like panicky pigeons at breakfast. The old men in the Citadel had accepted a big commission. The drill instructors did not deny that. The recruit company would be included. The noncoms would not confirm or deny that. Going on from that point, virtually every imaginable possibility was aired. Sanguinet and Trubacik apparently knew the truth, but they weren’t talking. The sergeant was pale, and he roared more than normal. He altered the training routine to include more weapons practice and drill to battlefield signals.
“We’re going,” Bragi guessed, stomach heavy. “And he expects action. The enemy won’t be anybody who’ll fold when he hears we’re in the field.”
Haaken grunted affirmatively. Reskird observed, “He’s scared.”
Bragi grumbled, “Hell, you can’t blame him. His life will depend on us. And we’ve never been in combat.”
“He should have more faith in his ability as an instructor.”
“Would you, in his boots?”
Reskird shrugged. “No. You never know what a man will do till he’s stuck in a situation. We’re the only ones in the outfit who’ve ever been in a real fight.”
There was no official comment till evening parade. Then a Colonel from the Citadel addressed the assembled troops, veterans and recruits alike. He said, yes, a commission had been accepted. A thousand men would be involved. General Hawkwind would command. Details he kept to himself, perhaps for security reasons. He urged all brothers not actively participating to remember Hawkwind’s force in their prayers.
“Hawkwind!” Reskird enthused. “What a break. First time out and we get the grand master. You hear what he did at Balewyne last year? Beat the whole Kisten army with five hundred men.”
Bragi grunted. “With five hundred veterans from his own and the White Company.”
“You’re as bad as Haaken. Know that? What about Wadi el Kuf? Fifteen thousand enemy dead on the field. He’s never lost a battle.”
“Always a first time,” Haaken grumbled.
“I don’t believe you. How soon you think we’ll head out?”
The word passed through the barracks that night: the recruit company would complete its training. Five days of Hell remained.
“So much for marching off to war, Reskird.” Bragi whispered after lights out. “You’re full of it, you know that? Enjoy the obstacle course.”
One regular company departed two days later, bound for a rendezvous with Hawkwind somewhere to the south. Word spread quickly: the recruit company would have to catch up on the road. Grim faces appeared. The pace would be hard. Graduation would provide no respite.
Corporal Trubacik was amused. “You’re all young men. In prime shape, I hear. You should be able to do it walking backward.”
Bragi said little the next few days. He went through the exercises and drills numbly. Haaken finally asked, “You all right? Sure you don’t want to bow out?”
“I started it. I’ll finish it. I just have trouble when I think about dying out there. Wherever.” They had not been told where they were going.
Bragi could not buy all the brotherhood of the Guild. He felt solidarity with his squad and company, of course. That was one function of the training program. A group went through Hell together and learned to depend upon one another. But the larger belonging that made the Guild had not infected him. The honor and nobility had not become tangible to him. And that worried him. Those things were important to both his superiors and to his comrades. They made the Guild what it was.
He tried hard to sell himself. It was like trying to force sleep. Self-defeating.
It seemed to take forever arriving, but Shielding Day did come. All the grand old men, the great and famous generals, came down from the Citadel to review the recruits and make speeches. They kept their remarks refreshingly brief. The Castellan, the senior member of the order present, apologized because the recruits would have no opportunity to enjoy the leave traditional after completing training.
Then came the final ceremony, when each new Guildsman was awarded the shield of a Guild footsoldier. Each had to go before the assembly to accept. Trainees who had excelled received honor ribbons with their shields. Bragi was awarded one for having had the best squad during inspections.
The award embarrassed him terribly. He hustled back into line. His comrades grinned wolfishly. He knew he would not hear the end of it soon. He examined shield and ribbons, found a lump rising in his throat, felt his pride swelling. “Damn,” he murmured. “They got to me after all.”
Corporal Trubacik bellowed, “Up and at them, lads. Up and at them. It’s another glorious day in the outfit.” He whipped blankets off the new young soldiers. “Let’s go. Let’s go. You know the drill. Company formation in half an hour.” Out the door he went, leaving the lamp turned a little higher.
“Damn,” Reskird said. “Ain’t nothing changed. I hoped we’d at least get to sleep in.”
Bragi did not say anything. He got his soap and razor and stumbled to the lavatory. His head was stuffed up and his temper was foul. He washed and shaved in silence, refusing to respond to jibes about his ribbon.
“Fall in!” Trubacik bellowed across the parade yard. “Platoon leaders, report!” The platoon sergeants turned and bellowed for reports from the squads. Bragi reported all present and accounted for without checking. Nobody had missed muster yet.
He was more interested in a number of men lounging behind Sanguinet. Why were they here? What were they up to?
Minutes later his heart sank. The hangers-around proved to be veterans assigned as squad leaders. Though he had known it vain, he had hoped to retain that status himself.
Each squad departed as it received its new corporal.
Bragi’s went to a wiry little Itaskian named Birdsong, who led them to the quartermasters. He did not have much to say at first, just watched while the quartermasters replaced gear worn or damaged during training. Each recruit received an extra pair of boots.
“I don’t like this,” Reskird grumbled. “Extra boots means somebody figures us to wear out a lot of shoe leather.”
Bragi glanced at Birdsong. The little corporal smiled. Smiling made his mustache wiggle like a brown caterpillar.
The armorers came after the quartermasters. They exchanged training weapons for battle weapons. Breastplates were issued. Bragi and Haaken went two rounds with an armorer who wanted to relieve them of the swords they had brought down from Trolledyngja. Birdsong interceded. He understood the importance of heirloom blades.
“But they’re not standard!” the armorer protested.
And Birdsong, “But your budget will come up on the long side.”
End of dispute.
There were two more stops. The kitchens, for field rations, where Reskird moaned at the size of the issue, and the paymaster, where Reskird’s protests were noteworthy by their absence.
Individual Guildsmen did not receive a large stipend. Not compared to other troops. Belonging was their great reward. But on this occasion the old men in the Citadel had awarded a substantial bounty because the trainees had been deprived of graduation leave. Each man also received a month’s advance, which was customary on taking the field.
Then it was time to gather in the courtyard again. There were other squads passing through the system. Birdsong took the opportunity to acquaint himself with his men. He proved to be a tad pompous, a lot self-conscious, a little unsure of himself. In short, he suffered the usual insecurities of anyone new to a supervisory role.
Bragi told Haaken, “I think I’m going to like him.”
Haaken shrugged, indifferent. But Reskird threatened to drag his feet because he thought Bragi should have retained the squad leader’s post.
Bragi told him, “You do and I’ll crack your back.”
Sanguinet returned to the drill yard on horseback, accompanied by Trubacik and the other noncoms who had guided the company through training. They wore new belts and badges proclaiming their elevated status. Sanguinet had been promoted to lieutenant.
“Fall in!” Sergeant Trubacik roared. “We’re moving out.” And in five minutes, with the sun still barely above the horizon, the march began.
It was rougher than any training hike. Dawn to dusk, forty and fifty miles every day, eating pemmican, dried fruit and toasted grain, drinking only water, and occasionally nibbling such fruits as could be purchased from wayside farmers. Living off the land was prohibited, except catch-as-catch-can in the forests. Guildsmen did not plunder, even to support themselves. They were schooled to consider themselves gentlemen, above the savageries of national soldiers.
Kildragon complained. The northern custom was totally opposite.
Day followed day. Mile followed mile. They headed south, ever south, into ever warmer lands. They gained on the veteran company, but couldn’t seem to catch it.
A horse troo
p joined them south and east of Hellin Daimiel. Their dust filled the lungs, parched the throat, and caked upon dried, cracking lips.
“I don’t like this,” Haaken grumbled as they reached a crossroads and turned eastward. “There ain’t nothing out this way.”
Kildragon grumped back. “What I don’t like is getting screwed out of my shielding liberty. I had plans.”
“You’ve said that a hundred times. If you can’t sing a new song, don’t sing at all.”
“We’ll make up for it,” Bragi promised. “After the victory, when we’re heroes.” He laughed a laugh he did not feel. That morning Sanguinet had assigned the Birdsong squad to the primus, or front battle line.
Sanguinet had grinned over the announcement, explaining, “You do good, gentlemen, you work hard, and you reap your reward.”
Thus Bragi learned a basic fact: the more a man does, and the better he does it, the more is expected of him. The rewards and gratifications come either as afterthoughts or as carrots meant to get the old mule moving after it realizes that it has been taken.
Bragi was no coward. There was little that he feared. But he had not inherited his father’s battle lust. He was not eager to remain in the primus, which bore the brunt of combat.
“Look on the bright side,” Reskird said. “We get to loaf around on guard duty when the other guys have to dig the trenches and pitch camp.”
“Bah! Some silver lining.” Bragi had a broad lazy streak, but in this case did not feel that escape from the drudge work was sufficient compensation.
Birdsong watched over his shoulder, mustache wriggling. Bragi bared his teeth and growled. Birdsong laughed. “You know what they say. A bitching soldier is a happy soldier.”
“Then Reskird is the happiest fool on earth,” Haaken grumbled. “A hog up to his collar in slops.”
Birdsong chuckled. “Every rule has its exceptions.”
“Where are we going, Corporal?” Bragi asked.
“They haven’t told me yet. But we’re headed east. There isn’t anything east of here but the border forts facing the Sahel.”
