If you have not read Chapter 1: The Call to Arms, click
here.
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Chapter 2:
In the Camp
“Halt!” The command rang out at the head of the column and was passed down by the officers. Thousands of new recruits stopped as one, the punishment for disobedience was severe. The new recruits had finally reached the main camp, just outside of Makendil, where they would spend the next six months in training.
Bone-weary as he was, Copos held his head high. He was a member of the Blades, the elite regiment of swords in the Empire. At least until they began training. They had been organized by potential, but now it would be by skill.
“Thelet’yur!” shouted the Master of Swords from the head of the column. “You know your areas! You will have one hour to rest before reporting to your stations. Grat’yur, follow me!”
The column began to disperse as thelet’yur began to lead their regiments off towards their assigned sleeping areas. When his regiment reached its area, Copos gratefully threw down his bedroll and sank to the ground.
Hardened by years of difficult labor, Copos was sure he would have no problem with most of the training, but nothing had prepared him for two weeks of marching 14 hours every day. Footsore and weary, the rest was heavenly.
Copos was about to doze off when he heard the men around him murmuring and moving quickly. Slowly forcing open his eyes, he saw men rising to stand at attention. Copos quickly stood, not knowing why, but knowing he would be in trouble if he did not.
Soon, he saw the reason for the discipline. The Master of Swords himself was inspecting the regiment. He was followed by a small escort of aides and six grat’yur.
The Master of Swords was not imposing. His hair was iron gray and he had a soft face. But his blue eyes were as hard as steel. The way he walked shouted that he knew how to use the sword belted at his hip.
As he walked, the Master of Swords cast a disapproving eye on the disorderly lines of gear and equipment. He stopped in front of the thelet’yur and stood there.
“Yes, sir?” ventured the officer.
“What is your name?” asked the Master of Swords.
“Hark Ronos,” replied the thelet’yur.
“Thelet’yur Ronos,” said the Master of Swords, “in the two weeks it took us to reach here, did you ever teach you regiment discipline and organization?”
No one moved. The answer was apparent, but no one dared to speak up.
“I thought so,” murmured the Master of Swords. In a louder voice he said, “Hark Ronos, you are hereby demoted to a common soldier. Your previous regiment will serve two hours of hard labor for one week after their training for the day. You will serve the same, but for two weeks. Grat’yur Holav,” he called. A short man with beady eyes and a face like a rat came forward.
“Yes, sir,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“You will command the Blades until I find a man worthy enough to command it. I hope to see improvement by tomorrow.” With that, the Master of swords moved off to another part of the camp.
The grat’yur turned to the assembled soldiers just as a trumpet sounded. “That is the signal,” he said. “It is time to begin your training. Follow me.”
The men fell into a ragged line behind him. As they threaded their way through the camp, Copos was amazed by the sheer number of men. It was common knowledge that the number of new recruits was high, but no one knew exactly how many there were.
Eventually, they reached the training grounds which were set off a ways from the camp, but close to the city walls. Looking left and right, Copos could see men learning to scale a wall, how to construct fortifications, marching, and of course, how to fight.
An old man was waiting for them. Grat’yur Holav saluted and murmured something. The man nodded and stepped forward.
“I am Master Sincus,” he said, “and I am going to teach you how to use a sword.” Several of the men snickered. Master Sincus’s eyebrows raised and his eyes flashed. “You think that is funny?” he asked louder. “Many have. Once I was through with them they thought differently. You there”—he pointed to a man close to Copos—“what is your name?”
“Nik Jebra, sir,” said the man.
“Everyone,” said Master Sincus, “Nik has volunteered to show us his skill with a sword.” He tossed a wooden practice sword to Nik and picked up another one. “Try to touch me,” he said.
Nik, looking uncomfortable, weighed the sword for a moment. Then, he slashed at Master Sincus. Master Sincus moved his wrist and blocked Nik’s attack. With a flick of the same wrist, Nik’s sword flew through the air and stuck in the ground. Master Sincus spun around and rapped Nik smartly across the head.
“You’re dead,” said Master Sincus. “Now get back in line.” He turned to the astonished soldiers. “That is what you will learn. If you work hard enough, you may become a blademaster. Everyone take a sword and make a line.” The soldiers hurried to comply.
“Now listen!” yelled Master Sincus. “In order to become a blademaster, you must master the forms. These forms are made up of several basic strokes…”
* * *
Copos and the men with him struggled through training that day. They returned to their bedrolls bone-weary and worn out. They fell asleep immediately.
The next day they had to work after training and the next, and the next for a week. The days melted into weeks and the weeks became months. The men became better and discipline improved. But the Blades continued without a commander.
As the true potential of the new recruits was realized, the men were rotated to different regiments. Copos stayed in the Blades.
One day, the Master of Swords came to watch the Blades train with Master Sincus. When the session was over, he called Copos over.
“Sir,” said Copos saluting and wiping sweat off his brow.
“Soldier Larelli,” said the Master of Swords, “you are doing well. I would not be surprised if you were promoted soon.” He walked off, leaving behind a speechless Copos.
“What was that about?” asked Nik, walking up. Copos had befriended him and they had become fast friends.
“Nothing,” said Copos.
* * *
A few days later during another session with Master Sincus, a man practicing scaling a wall fell. He fell twenty feet and landed with a sickening thud. Ignoring Master Sincus’s commands, Copos ran over to help.
The man was lying on his side moaning, “My leg, my leg…” Bending down, Copos began to straighten the leg. Without warning, a fist punched him in the jaw. He fell over, jerking the man’s leg and eliciting new screams.
As he tried to stand, a foot kicked him in the ribs. Spots danced before his eyes as he tried to draw a breath.
“Leave him alone, Blade,” said a voice.
Copos struggled to his feet, gasping for air. “What was that?” he asked angrily.
“Leave him alone, Blade,” snarled a man slightly younger than Copos. “Leave the 53rd alone, you’d better get back to practicing, that way you can continue to beat us at everything.” Rubbing his jaw, Copos walked back to an angry Master Sincus.
“Get in line,” said Master Sincus. “When we are done, report for two hours hard labor.” Copos picked up his sword and the lesson resumed.
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The story continues in
Chapter 3: Under Cover of Night.
