John Ringo - Council Wars 01 - There Will Be Dragons

by There Will Be Dragons(lit)

  "How many shots?" Herzer asked, pulling at the string to get a feel for the draw. He could feel his latissimus dorsae muscle protesting already; he was seriously out of shape. Despite that, he knew he could pass the initial test and probably the "combat shooting" test. But if he did, he'd be stuck as an archer.

  "At least one," Malcolm said from behind him.

  "I'd like five," Herzer replied. "And one ranging shot to get the feel of the bow."

  "Okay."

  Herzer could feel the eyes of the group on him as he drew the first arrow. He raised it to more or less the same angle as Malcolm and pushed the bow away from him, letting fly when the arrow was in-line to the target. It flew past and into the distance.

  "Now we realize why I used apprentice arrows instead of good ones," Malcolm said, dryly. "We're going to lose a good few today."

  Herzer didn't comment but simply picked up the next arrow and lowered the angle. He hadn't considered, before, that he was taller than Malcolm and, apparently, had a longer reach. He drew the bow and fired and the arrow, wobbling badly from poor manufacture, thumped into the lower left quadrant of the target. He drew and fired the next four in succession, if not as fast as Malcolm then with nearly the same success.

  "The boy does know how to shoot," Malcolm said, accepting the bow from Herzer. "Take a break while I run the rest through."

  Herzer got some water and watched the others fire for a bit and then picked up the composite bow and a couple of arrows and went down a ways to another lane. Malcolm's composite, not too surprisingly, had a slightly higher draw than Alyssa's but not too terrible. He drove a few of the horrible arrows into the butt and then actually examined one. They had been inexpertly fletched and the shafts were rarely straight. After a moment he realized that he had no idea how to make one, so he wasn't exactly the person to be criticizing.

  He watched as Deann's turn came up and, sure enough, the bow was far too long for her. She tried to fire it but the bottom kept hitting the ground and one of the recoils from the strike nearly slapped her in the face. After a few aborted shots she gave it over to Malcolm with bad grace and stomped off.

  Finally the whole group had finished shooting and Malcolm called a break.

  "Okay, Herzer, Rosio, Ngan, Earnest and Maskell, you stay here. The rest fall back until we complete this test."

  "I really don't want to be an archer," Herzer said quietly as the others were milling around.

  "Why?" Malcolm asked, drawing him aside. "Herzer, damnit, we need archers! You're trained. And you've got the build for it. What do you want to be, cavalry?"

  "No, I want to be line infantry," Herzer said just as quietly. "I can just fail the test. You know that."

  "Is that what you're going to do?" D'Erle asked, furiously.

  "No, I'm going to pass the damned thing. And then be a pain in the ass until you send me over to infantry."

  "Do that and I'll boot you all the way out," D'Erle warned.

  "No you won't," Herzer replied, stubbornly. "Because you're going to need good line infantry, too. Just let me walk."

  "Take the test," Malcolm said after a moment. "Then we'll talk." He raised his head and looked over at the others. "Time to spread out."

  A group of workers came out and laid out boxes with arrows along the lanes, and another archer came out with more bows.

  "Rather than have each of you wait on the others, we're going to run all of you at once. You have to fire fifty arrows and you have to complete the course of fire in ten minutes. Pace yourself. You're going to get tired. Initially try for twelve arrows per minute. I'll call the minutes and you'll have a person handing you the arrows and doing the count. All that you have to do is manipulate the bow."

  "Is that realistic?" Herzer asked. "I mean, in combat are we going to have someone handing us arrows?"

  "Most of the time," Malcolm said with a nod. "An archer is simply the most important member of a team. He's just there to feed the bow. Others handle the logistics. Each archery team will have at least three people on it, one of whom is just there to feed the archer who in turn feeds the bow."

  "Oh."

  "This is a test of firing fifty arrows in ten minutes so that they at least make it to the ground at seventy-five meters. A fully trained archer will put out two hundred and fifty arrows in an hour at two hundred yards, hard enough to go through plate armor. This is baby steps, boys. Take your positions."

  "I'll hand them to you steady, sir," the boy by the arrows said. "And I'll keep the count. There's fifty-three in here in case some get dropped or broken."

  "Okay," Herzer said. "What's your name?"

  "Trenton, sir," the boy said.

  "Just feed me, Trenton," he said with a grin.

  "Prepare to fire," Malcolm called, lifting a sand-glass.

  Herzer took the first arrow and a deep breath.

  "Fire!"

  It was just a bit like feeding the bow. Herzer had assumed that he would be able to ace the timed fire but in short order he realized just what an incredible workout it was. He was drawing on a fifty-kilo bow so each draw was the equivalent of using his back and shoulder muscles to lift fifty kilos. It was brutal work and he was quickly sweating profusely. He had fired fifteen arrows on the first minute but only nine on the second and he felt himself falling progressively further and further behind. Digging deep down inside he let himself drift, searching for the "zone" and picked up the pace despite the fire that seemed to spread through his back with each additional draw. For that matter, the leather bracer was not enough and each additional slap against his forearm was spreading waves of pain up his arm. He was going to have one hell of a bruise when he was done.

  "Last minute!" Malcolm called.

  "Twenty, sir!" Trenton said.

  Herzer was not about to fail at this point. Forgotten was any interest in line infantry, he was simply not going to fail. "FEED ME!"

  From somewhere he got a second wind and began slamming arrow after arrow downrange. He forgot to even try to hit the target and just concentrated on getting them all over the range line. It was getting nearly impossible to do a full draw but he slammed one after another out nonetheless until Malcolm called "TIME!"

  Herzer lowered the bow to rest on the ground and stood, breathing deeply, grimacing at the pain in his arm.

  "You went two over, sir, sorry," Trenton said, taking the bow from him and getting a dipper of water.

  "Well, one went short," Malcolm said, walking up to their station to survey the result with a grimace.

  "So I passed," Herzer chuckled.

  "Yeah," Malcolm said with another grimace. "You're the only one who passed. I told Edmund the test was too tough."

  "And you were right," Talbot said, appearing behind them as if he had apported. "I thought you were going for line infantry, Herzer?"

  "I was told I had to take the test, sir," Herzer replied.

  "And you're the only one that passed," Edmund frowned. "How did the others do?"

  Malcolm thought about it for a moment with a frown then shrugged. "The average is about thirty in ten minutes, taking Herzer out of the group."

  "That's still better than crossbow," Edmund considered. "But not much."

  "Their wind is awful," Malcolm commented. "I think they might be able to make archers, some day, but it will be a hell of a lot of work."

  "Did all of them make at least thirty?" Talbot asked.

  "All but one," Malcolm admitted.

  "Drop the requirement to thirty and continue the testing," Edmund said. "And you're going to have to drive them."

  "I will. What about Herzer?"

  "I should make him one of your assistants," Talbot said, looking the still sweating boy up and down. "But I think we'll go ahead and pass him on to the next testing station."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  After the archery test they were served a light lunch and ate it sitting on the ground. Herzer quickly downed the strips of salty pork, which were served on flat-bread, and c
hewed manfully on some large crackers that were just about as hard as rocks. It seemed that all of the testing groups had been gathered together and he looked around at the figures, wondering what would come next.

  After lunch his group was approached by a young man, probably a few years older than he and Deann but it was hard to tell. He was inordinately tall, taller than Herzer, which was unusual, and muscular with legs that looked like tree trunks. The man was wearing a heavy, open-faced helmet, articulated body armor, a metal-plated leather kilt, greaves and heavy leather boots. He looked at the group and waved them to their feet.

  "My name is Sergeant Greg Donahue," the man said. "You will address me as Sergeant Donahue. I do not respond to 'Hey, you' or 'Sarge.' I hope you're all fed and watered, because we've got a bit of work to do. Follow me."

  He led them across the area, behind where more groups were preparing for the archery test, then westward towards the hills flanking the valley until he reached the base of a high hill that had to be near the river. On the ground were a large number of leather rucksacks arranged in a formation. On the side towards the hill was another sack, standing all alone. The young man walked to that sack and turned towards them.

  "Everyone take a position by one of the sacks," he said, standing by his own sack with his feet spread and his hands locked behind his back. He waited until they were in position and cleared his throat.

  "This town is called Raven's Mill. But since ravens are not native to this area, that begs the question: Why? Once upon a time a man lived in this area who was attempting to develop talking ravens, ones with nearly full human intelligence. In time he tired of the quest and released his ravens into the wild. Most of them died but a few of the hardier specimens survived. They tended to congregate around this hill and it, in time, was called Raven's Hill. Edmund Talbot, when he moved here, knew of the story and named the area for the ravens who had by that time died out completely.

  "However, Master Edmund liked this hill for the same reason the ravens did, from the top of it you can see for miles. As such, for exercise, he had constructed a set of steps up the hill. Four hundred and twenty-three steps, to be precise. On the up side. There are three hundred and seventy-four on the down, which takes a slightly different path." He paused and nodded at someone behind the group.

  Herzer turned involuntarily and saw the man who had been at the initial entry processing. He was easier to examine now and Herzer realized he must be about the same age as Edmund Talbot. He was tall and lean with gray, cold eyes and wearing the same outfit as Sergeant Donahue.

  Herzer snapped his head around as the man snarled: "EYES FRONT!"

  Sergeant Donahue nodded and continued. "We will be testing your ability to do the single most important function of the infantryman: Walking. You have been tested for adequate upper body strength and later we'll find out if you have the single-minded aggressiveness to be functional line infantry. And if you don't, we'll either weed you out or teach it to you. But for now, we have to know if you can keep up. If you can 'hang.' " He nodded grimly at the faces as the test sank in. "So now if you'll pick up the rucksacks and put them on your back, we can begin. Make sure they're comfortable. I will set the pace. Anyone who falls behind Gunnery Sergeant Rutherford is disqualified."

  Herzer hoisted the ruck and settled it on his back, adjusting the leather straps as best he could. They had buckles but it was a pain to adjust them while they were on, so he unshipped his, changed the settings and then put it back on. It was heavy as hell, probably sixty to eighty kilos. He looked up the hill and suddenly regretted even the skimpy meal they had been given.

  Donahue nodded as the last pack was settled and then walked among the group checking their fit. He adjusted one or two, then walked back to his place.

  "We'll start on the flats so that everyone can become accustomed to the weight and then we'll see if you can handle the Hill."

  He settled them in a double file and marched them back towards the main encampment, keeping to some of the better leveled roads. They marched almost down to the creek that ran through the center of the encampment and then turned to a trail along the base of the northern hills. This led in a curve back to just before their starting point and Herzer got the first look at the steps. They appeared to go straight up.

  "Single file, keep closed up, follow me," Donahue said, stepping onto the first step.

  Herzer was about a third of the way back and as he reached the steps he looked up and got dizzy; the stairs seemed to be wavering and he had a moment of vertigo.

  "Keep your eyes on the steps!" a voice from the rear called.

  Afraid that he'd leave a gap, Herzer put his head down and started toiling upward.

  The pace was brutal and it was a long way to the top of the hill. Before he was even a third of the way up Herzer was sweating and blowing again, pushing hard against the weight of his body and the pack. He barely noticed the first person to have stopped, but when another person blocked his way he blundered into them, nearly knocking them both down.

  "Get out of the damned way," he snarled, stepping around them and hurrying to catch up to the group ahead of him. Suddenly the group stopped, just as he reached the trailing person and he nearly fell over again avoiding another collision, then the group started off again, faster than they had before and he perforce had to hurry to catch up. His legs felt as if they were on fire and when he looked around he realized that they had barely come half way.

  This went on and on in starts and stops as more people fell by the wayside, panting and gasping and clutching their sides. Herzer could feel a sharp pain growing in his own side but he willed it down and concentrated on maintaining his breathing and keeping up with the person in front of him. Suddenly that person fell out as well and Herzer realized there was a gigantic gap ahead of him. He struggled to catch up to the leading figure but he could barely maintain an even pace. He didn't dare look back, knowing that somewhere behind him was that hard-faced, gray-eyed bastard, probably hoping that he'd fall out.

  His vision was starting to gray and sweat was pouring down his face to such an extent that he never even noticed when there wasn't another step. As the wind blew across his face he stumbled forward, only to be caught and lowered to the ground.

  "Take a rest," Donahue said in an even tone, clearly not even out of breath. Herzer looked up and him and the bastard was hardly sweating. "There's water in your rucksack. Drink it."

  Herzer nodded and slipped his arms out of the pack, looking around as his vision started to clear. They were in a clearing at a lower summit of the hill with a clear view of the river on one side and Raven's Mill at the other. Besides the stairs they had come up, there was another set that went farther up the hill. Donahue and the man he'd identified as the gunnery sergeant were to one side of the clearing, talking. Other than them, there were only three others on the top of the hill. One of whom was Deann, who was bent over retching.

  Herzer slipped his arms out of the rucksack and fumbled at the closures with fingers that felt like they were the size of watermelons. Finally he got it open and pulled out a water-bag. He sipped at the contents and then took a solid swig of the water that had been cut with wine.

  "Keep your seats," the gunnery sergeant said, walking over to the group. "Quit trying to throw up and drink some water, girl. You all may be wondering why we're trying to kill you. It's very simple. Someday, your enemies will be trying to kill you. There is an old saying: The more you sweat, the less you bleed. We are going to sweat you like you've never been sweated before. Most of the people who signed up for this thought it would be a cakewalk, like the guards in town. Nothing but standing around and looking pretty for the girls. Plenty of them had been reenactors playing at being Vikings or Picts or medieval knights. But that word is: Playing. We're not going to play and we're not going to be any of those pansies for sure. We're designed to be the first line of defense for Raven's Mill; the line that nine times out of ten is the only line the enemy will face. The line th
at any enemy will break its teeth upon. A line that will die in place rather than give a foot of ground.

  "This training is designed to produce cadre for legions. Each of you will see your fair share of fighting, but what we're really working to produce is the future leaders of the legions. Leaders that are harder and scarier than the hardest and scariest force on earth.

  "So we're going to winnow you out. When we're done, we're going to have only those who refuse to quit, no matter what we throw at them. Soldiers that are so hard that they'd rather die than surrender or give any less than three hundred percent.

  "And this is not the last test, or even the worst, that you will face. But only the strongest, the hardest, the most determined, will make it.

  "There are two ways down from this hill. One is the way that you just came. The other is up another hill and down the far side. In just a moment, Sergeant Donahue and I will ascend the hill. From the time we reach the top, you will have seven minutes to join us. Those that join us in less than seven minutes will put their feet on the path to being Blood Lords. Those that do not may someday join the legions, but they will never be leaders and they will never be the elite.