“Looks like they’ve already gotten some kills,” Tovak said to Gorabor. He lifted his chin towards the hanging animals by the entrance to the camp.
“Makes me hungry, just looking at them,” Gorabor said. “Always had a thing for roasted dain. My Gran liked to make dain, potato, and leek stew, which, let me tell you, was some damn good eating.” Gorabor blew out a breath. “Though that wasn’t too often. Dain was hard to come by back home. Have you ever had it?”
The animals hanging were small, furred plant eaters about half as tall as Tovak, with six legs, short rust-colored tails, and long ears. They had gray coats of coarse fur that were paler on their short muzzles. Tovak knew from his studies they were common in this area and usually found grazing in small herds.
Tovak shook his head. “No. Way too expensive for me.”
“You missed out,” Gorabor said and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, maybe you’ll get a taste while we’re out here? Shame Gran won’t be cooking it, though.”
“You think so?” Tovak asked, brightening at that prospect.
“What? That Gran won’t be cooking it?” Gorabor asked seriously, then smirked. “She was old as the rocks and died a few years back.”
“No,” Tovak said with a chuckle. “About getting some dain.”
“It’s one of the perks of foraging,” Gorabor said. “We get fresh meat. Thegdol says the lieutenant always picks the best cuts for us. Besides being boring and hard work, there are advantages to being on forage duty. We tend to eat better than the rest.”
“I am beginning to see that,” Tovak said.
“Welcome back,” the nearest sentry said as they approached. Tovak could tell he was bored and seemed eager for conversation.
The sentry stood on the berm, next to the only gap through the newly made dirt wall. A gate of sorts had been fashioned. It was more barricade than anything else and was leaning against the dirt in the gap, waiting to be put into place.
A makeshift bridge crossed the trench before the entrance to the camp. It had been constructed using four tree trunks lashed together with thick rope and set into the dirt. It was crude, but serviceable.
“Hey, Dagmar,” Gorabor greeted wearily, stopping before the sentry and bridge. Struggling to control his breathing, Tovak stopped with him.
“I trust the trail is well-marked?” Dagmar asked. “Wouldn’t want the lieutenant to become enraged with the teamsters again, now, would we?”
“The trail’s as well-marked as we could make it,” Gorabor said. “You would have to be blind to miss it.”
“Shame then,” Dagmar said, with a glance thrown over at Benthok, who had his back to them. The sentry turned his attention to Tovak and lowered his voice. “Our lieutenant has one of the best tempers around. When he gets stirred up, I say, it is a sight to see. Though to be honest, it’s best to make sure you are not on the receiving end, if you take my meaning.”
“Who got the kills?” Gorabor asked before Tovak could reply.
“Corporal Gamok nailed one, Morda got the other,” the sentry said, and then glanced around, almost nervously, at the lieutenant. “I’d love to keep chatting, but you both better get a move on and report before the lieutenant notices you loitering and I get it for delayin’ ya.”
Tovak did not need to be told twice. He stepped onto the bridge, with Gorabor following. The two of them passed through the gap in the berm and into the camp. Benthok and the corporal turned. The lieutenant scowled at them, clearly resenting the interruption. Or perhaps, Tovak thought, it was something else, possibly to do with him?
Tovak and Gorabor saluted as they came to a halt before the lieutenant. Benthok crisply returned their salute.
An iron grate had been set over the fire, suspended over the flames by two large rocks. A kettle had been set on the grate. Tovak could smell tea and hear the kettle begin to boil.
“You could’ve been quicker,” Benthok said. “You’ll do it faster next time, or I’ll have you digging latrines while the section uses them.” He held out his hand expectantly. “The bag.”
Tovak handed over the bag that was about half full.
Benthok glanced briefly inside and then handed it to the corporal. “Make sure this gets stowed.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal said.
“You picked a good, easy trail for the cart?” Benthok asked. “It’s clearly marked?”
“There should be no problems, sir,” Gorabor said.
“We clearly marked the trail, sir,” Tovak said, deciding to specifically answer the lieutenant’s question.
“Did you see any tracks that might indicate the enemy was in the area?” Benthok asked, his eyes going from Gorabor to Tovak. The question seemed more directed at Tovak, instead of Gorabor, so he answered.
“We looked but did not see any tracks,” Tovak said, “other than those the section made, sir.”
Benthok gave a grunt that seemed to indicate he’d expected no different answer. After all, the section had just passed that way.
“Corporal Thegdol and the rest of your squad are up that way,” Benthok said, turning his attention to Gorabor. The lieutenant pointed farther up the valley to the left, towards where the trees grew thick. “They should already be hunting. Gorabor, get on up there, report to your corporal, and make yourself useful, if that’s even possible. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” Gorabor said. He saluted, turned on his heel, and made his way out of the encampment, taking his spear with him as he went.
“As for you,” Benthok said, turning his gaze to Tovak. The lieutenant’s eyes tracked down to Tovak’s belt and the trencher. “Since you already have your trencher handy, you just volunteered to dig the camp latrine.”
“Yes, sir,” Tovak said, not feeling too pleased about that. He had never much enjoyed digging. He did his best to keep his expression neutral.
“I want it over there, downhill, outside the defenses and away from the stream.” Benthok pointed to where a thick log had been cut and laid on its side, about ten yards away. “They’ve already done half the job and have cut a log for sitting. Move it farther from the stream, say about ten yards, to that spot there by that big bush.”
“Outside the camp, sir?” The question popped out before he could stop it. He clamped his mouth shut.
“There are enemy scattered about in these hills,” Benthok said, not seeming to notice the impertinence of the question. “They don’t seem terribly organized yet. However, if the camp falls under attack, and we must defend the walls, holding out until we can be relieved by one of the other sections . . . well then, when the time comes, I think we can easily dig a new latrine inside. Until then, the latrine is outside and far enough away that we don’t have to smell it. Don’t you agree, soldier?”
“Yes, sir,” Tovak said.
The lieutenant paused and looked over at him. “Have you ever dug a latrine?”
“No, sir,” Tovak admitted.
“Well,” Benthok said, “there’s no better time to learn than the present. Dig a trench, three feet deep, and the length of the log. There is not much to it beyond that. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tovak said, looking over to where the log was and then to the bush where he was to drag it.
“And when you’re done with that,” Benthok added, “grab one of those foraging sacks over there, take your spear, and join up with your corporal. He’ll set you to work.”
Tovak looked over to his left at the pile of sacks. It was shaping up to be one very long day.
“Snap to it, soldier,” Benthok ordered.
“Sir,” Tovak said, saluting before turning away. He stepped over to where the packs were piled. Someone had moved his pack and placed it with the others by the entrance to the camp. Tovak felt his hand go to his armor, under which was concealed his Warrant. The fact that his pack had been moved reinforced his decision to take the Warrant with him. He pulled his trencher from his belt and started towards the camp entrance, passing by Dagmar.
> “Got you digging the latrine, does he?” Dagmar asked, looking amused.
Tovak gave a nod as he started over the bridge and out of the camp towards the log.
“We’ve all had to do it at one time or another,” Dagmar said. “Better pray no one wants to use it before you’re finished, eh?”
That cheery thought spurred Tovak on. He worked rapidly, first moving the log, which was fearfully heavy. Once he had dragged it in place, he began digging. It took him just half an hour to dig the latrine. Thankfully, no one came wanting to use it.
Tovak passed a bored Dagmar as he returned to camp. He grabbed a canvas foraging sack from the pile. There was no sign of the lieutenant, which was almost a relief. He glanced up in the direction Benthok had pointed and let out a weary breath. More climbing.
“Right then,” Tovak said and, taking his spear, made his way out of the camp. Dagmar gave him a friendly wave as he passed by but said nothing further.
Outside of camp, Tovak paused, glancing up in the direction he had to go. The slope was steep and thick with trees. Not only did his legs ache, but now so too did his arms. He would just have to keep pushing, for he did not want to be perceived as one who gave up easily. Tovak understood such an attitude would never see him secure a spot with the pioneers or, for that matter, earn the respect of his comrades.
Thirsty, he reached over to his side and was surprised to find the skin empty. Slinging it over his shoulder, he hefted his spear in one hand, threw the foraging sack over his other shoulder, and went to the stream.
He filled the skin, then drained it, tipping it back to get at the last of the cool water. It was wonderful. He wiped his lips with the back of his forearm and then refilled the skin.
He was dirty, sweaty, and felt grimy. He splashed water on his face and arms, washing some of the dirt away. Groaning, he stood up straight and stretched out his back, which hurt. Heck, his whole body was one terrible ache. He picked his spear up off the ground. Thinking it was somehow heavier than before, he set off up the hillside, feeling the burn with each step.
Tovak climbed through the trees, setting a steady pace as he worked his way up the steep terrain. His breath once again became heavier and his body protested its exhaustion with each step. The shade from the trees was a welcome relief.
Around a hundred yards from the camp, he heard a burst of what he thought was distant laughter. It was somewhere ahead, coming from just over a small rise in the hillside. A moment later, he came across the tracks of two groups. He could tell by how the boots had been planted that they were traveling up the hill. It was clear they were from Dvergr. Tovak’s training came back to him and he suddenly forgot his exhaustion. Here was a chance to practice what he’d been taught at the Academy.
Squatting, he looked more closely at the signs of passage. He picked out footprints in the pine needles that covered the forest floor, broken branches here and there, as well as freshly snapped twigs and scuff marks on a stone from a hobnailed boot.
As he moved through the trees, one group of tracks led off to the right, and another set continued in the direction the lieutenant had indicated. Tovak followed the second set of tracks. He controlled his breathing, focused on his every movement, and did his best to approach silently, as he had been taught. He moved through the undergrowth, careful with how he placed his weight, avoiding branches and twigs whenever possible.
He crested the rise, from where he’d heard the laughter, and came up to a large pine. It had wide branches covered in prickly needles. He peered around the trunk, which was large enough to conceal him. There was a clearing ahead, where a large tree had fallen and taken down several other smaller trees.
The monster of a tree trunk was half buried in the forest floor, almost as if the land were slowly swallowing it up. At its center and just before the trunk of the fallen giant were Thegdol and Gorabor bent over, their backs to him.
Gorabor was crouched and in the process of gutting a durvoll. Two more lay not far off. There were also four heratta lying in a pile—large, six-legged insects, about half as long as a person. Their wings were partially unfurled, with the translucent membranes gleaming in the sunlight that filtered down into the clearing. While he’d been digging the latrine, the others had been busy.
Tovak stepped out from behind the pine and approached. Playtime was over. He wanted to make a good impression with his corporal, for there was work that needed doing and Tovak would do his part.
“That’s it,” Thegdol said, motioning as if he were the one gutting the carcass. “Once you’ve tied off the anus, you’ll want to open up the belly carefully. Make sure you don’t nick the intestines or stomach as you go. That’s a stench you don’t want. Trust me on that one, boy.”
“How high up do I make the cut?” Gorabor asked, turning his head to look at the corporal. Spotting Tovak out of the corner of his eye, Gorabor jumped with a start, almost dropping his knife.
Thegdol’s hand darted to the hilt of his sword. The corporal spun, partially drawing his weapon.
“Thulla’s bones,” Thegdol exploded when he recognized Tovak. “You bloody idiot. Don’t sneak up on people like that, especially out in the field.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Tovak said, suddenly feeling foolish and embarrassed.
“I’m not a sir,” Thegdol snapped angrily. “I’m a corporal. Use my rank or I will thump you something good next time you cock it up.”
“Yes, Corporal,” Tovak said, thoroughly embarrassed. “Sorry, Corporal.”
Thegdol slid the partially drawn sword back into the sheath, the guard clicking loudly as it was rammed home. “Sneaking up on people . . . that’s a good way to get skewered out here. Be sure you don’t do that to anyone holding a bow, or they’re likely to put one in you before they realize their mistake.”
“You got me good,” Gorabor said, abruptly grinning. “I almost pissed myself.”
“It’s not funny,” Thegdol said and cuffed Gorabor on the side of the head with the back of his hand. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to get Gorabor’s attention.
“Sorry, Corporal,” Gorabor said.
Tovak felt his face heat with embarrassment. “It won’t happen again, Corporal.”
“It better not,” Thegdol said, then turned his gaze back to Gorabor. “You’re not getting paid to stand around all day.” The corporal gestured at the carcass. “What are you waiting for?”
Gorabor’s hands and forearms were covered in blood, as were the tips of his boots. He had wound his beard into one long braid, which he’d pushed back over his left shoulder. Dressing a kill was messy work. The evidence of that was his hands and forearms. Gorabor hastily returned to his work.
“Do you know how to dress a kill?” Thegdol asked, looking back over at Tovak, the irritation still plain in his tone.
“I do,” Tovak replied. “I worked for a butcher.”
The hours had been long and hard. The butcher, named Miklos, had been a real bastard of a boss. Tovak still had scars on his back from where Miklos had beat and whipped him for even the tiniest of perceived mistakes, which Tovak had done his best not to make. Still, work was work, and in truth, he had been grateful for even that job. Not much opportunity came a Pariah’s way.
“Good skill to have, especially out here,” Thegdol said. “I’ll be sure to put you to work dressing and butchering soon enough. There’s gonna be plenty of opportunity for that. The warband’s lucked out with the timing of the Great March.”
“How?” Tovak asked. He could not see what was lucky about their entire people having to flee their home. The Great March had always been an expected calamity, in that everyone knew it was going to happen at some point in the future. It was thought they had decades, with plenty of time to plan. No one could have guessed it would come so soon. The sudden fall and collapse of the Syrulian Empire had shocked everyone and precipitated the Great March.
“The warband’s been short on supply. What’s lucky is the heratta. Those hungry bug
s are getting ready to migrate across the plateau to their mating grounds.” Thegdol waved vaguely in the direction of the plateau. “They’ve been gathering in these here hills for some weeks now. Thick as fleas on a wild dog, they are.”
Tovak glanced around. On the march up, he had seen a few hoppers from a distance, but none up close and not that many either. He had a hard time imagining them gathering in such numbers.
“When I was a youth,” Thegdol continued, “I saw a migration. It was a damn impressive sight, millions of the hoppers. There were so many, words just can’t properly describe it. They ate everything in sight, and when they moved on, the land was left barren in their wake.”
Thegdol fell silent, as if reliving his youth. Tovak thought such a thing would be worth seeing but was still having trouble picturing it. The corporal blew out a long breath.
“But for now, Tovak, I need you out hunting,” he said, pointing to Tovak’s left. “Jodin, Lok, and Staggen are off that way.” He motioned towards what looked like a shallow cut in the hillside, heading perpendicular to the valley. “With all the game in this area, they should be back soon.”
As if in answer to his words, they turned at the sound of footsteps and rustling in the trees a short distance off. Moments later, Jodin, Lok, and Staggen appeared, each carrying a heratta under their arms.
“Good work,” Thegdol said as the three added their kills to the pile of heratta. “A very good start to the day’s catch. I think we’re gonna use this clearing to gather our kills and butcher them before carrying it all down to the camp.”
Lok glanced around the clearing. “It’s as good as any place, I guess.”
“Plenty of game in these woods,” Staggen said. His voice was raspy, almost hoarse-sounding. “We’d gone no more than fifty yards before we ran into these critters in a clearing that way. Fat, dumb, and happily eating the grass.”
“Aye,” Lok said, pulling out his dagger with the clear intention of cleaning his kill. “We’ll have an easy time of it this time out, no humping miles to find a swarm.”
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