John Ringo - There Will Be Dragons

Everyone was there, though, with the exception of a few casualties they had had along the way who had been shipped back to Raven’s Mill. Of the forty-four that had started on the trek from hell, forty made it to the clearing. And there, the Gunny had them fall out.

Herzer, at the word, simply collapsed on the ground. They were still tens of kilometers from Raven’s Mill and he was sure they would be up in the morning and off on another march. For once he didn’t even bother to post sentries. He would, before dark, but not right now. Right now, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

He saw the Gunny walk over to an old stone monument on one side of the clearing and pick something up from the ground. After a moment he shook his head and walked back to where the triari was lying on the ground.

“Up, Herzer,” he said, quietly.

Herzer thought for a moment he wasn’t going to be able to but he got his arms out of his pack and used it to push himself to his feet.

“Yang, Locke, Stahl, first watch. Deann, you’ve got first sergeant of the guard.”

“Ah, fisk,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Up, you guys.”

“Get up and moving around the rest of you,” Herzer said, walking over to the monument. “Dig in, Gunny?”

“No,” the sergeant said. “Just rest your weary bones. Do your maintenance, get chow started; we’re not going anywhere until tomorrow morning.”

Herzer let the squads handle the drill as he walked over to the monument. It was so old and defaced by time and elements that nothing could be seen on its face except the vague outline of a couple of chemical fired rifles.

“Do you know what it is, Gunny?” he asked as Rutherford appeared at his side.

“No,” he said. “Just that it’s a tomb. But this was sitting in front of it.” He held out a fresh lemon.

Herzer took it and looked at it quizzically. “There’s nobody living around here, Gunny. Who put a lemon in front of it?”

“I don’t know. This place has been used as a campground for people going to Faire and just hiking for… well practically forever. I don’t think anybody knows who is in the tomb. But every day, there is a fresh lemon in front of it. Have it if you’d like; there will be another tomorrow.”

Herzer shrugged and cut the lemon with his belt knife. It wasn’t as sour as he expected; it was actually a bit sweet with a sharp bitter aftertaste.

“Want some?” he asked.

“Nope, not for me,” the sergeant said with a nod. “I notice you’re not taking charge of getting the camp set up.”

“No, Gunny, I’m not,” Herzer replied, sucking on the lemon. “The decurions know their jobs. I’ll check up on them in a minute, but there won’t be anything wrong; we can set up camp in our sleep.”

“That you can,” Rutherford chuckled.

“Permission to speak, Sergeant?” Herzer asked.

“Speak.”

“Can we find out when we’re going back to town? Please? Or when we’re going to meet up with a pack train? We’re already on half rations and this meal will be it.”

“Tomorrow,” Rutherford replied. “There’s a bullock train on its way down the valley. We’ll march out tomorrow and meet it somewhere up the valley. So we’ll only miss one meal.”

“Thank you.”

“For what? Get the fisk out of here, recruit,” the Gunny growled, but he smiled as he did.

“Blood Lords,” Herzer answered and went off to find out who had screwed up the perfectly simple process of making camp.

The bullock train was barely five kilometers north of their position and they reached it while the drivers were still barely stirring. They finally got a good, hot meal and to their amazement the Gunny had them mount up on the wagons and ride part of the way back.

They stayed with the bullock train for two days, riding in relative if very bumpy comfort, eating heavily to regain some of the weight they’d lost on the Death March and got off it when they were barely halfway back to Raven’s Mill. By that time just about everyone was ready to move; the carts weren’t all that comfortable and they could make much better time on foot.

They marched into Raven’s Mill singing “March of Cambreath” in a light rain as the sun was setting over the Iron Mountains. When they arrived at the barracks area they were surprised to see a crowd awaiting them. Gunny dismounted stiffly then marched over to Mayor Talbot and gave him a crisp salute.

“My Lord, Class One of the Raven’s Mill Academy has completed their training and are, in my opinion, fully qualified for service.”

“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Rutherford,” Edmund replied, saluting him in turn. “Post.”

Instead of walking to the back of the formation, Rutherford stepped to the side as an armorer brought up a portable forge and anvil. The forge was already heated and Herzer looked at the glowing coals uneasily.

“Herzer Herrick,” Edmund called. “Front and center.”

Herzer walked from the back of the formation and made a series of rights and lefts until he was in front of Mayor Talbot.

“Raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, state your name…”

“I, Herzer Herrick.”

“Do solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the Kingdom of Free States…”

“Do solemnly swear…”

Talbot swore him in and then held out his hand. “Inspection, arms.”

Herzer reached across his body and drew his hated training sword, holding it up and out, pommel first. Talbot took it and handed it to Gunny Rutherford who handed back a freshly forged sword. Talbot took it and held it up.

“May it never be drawn, but that it draw blood. Hold out your left arm, turned up.”

Herzer did and Talbot drew the sword across his inner arm, drawing a line of blood.

“Blood to our blood…” he said, and paused.

“Steel to our steel,” Herzer intoned.

Talbot handed him the sword and took a set of tongs the armorer held out. At the end of them was a metal symbol. “Hold out your arm.”

Herzer did so and Talbot pressed it into the still bleeding wound.

Herzer gritted his teeth against the pain and thought for just a moment that he’d pass out. But he took a deep breath and refused to flinch away from the brand.

“In blood we are born…” Talbot said.

“In blood we live…” Gunny continued.

“And in blood we shall die,” Herzer gasped as the brand was released. Talbot took a handful of ash and pressed it against the burn, then nodded at the armorer.

The armorer stepped forward and taking the still hot symbol, affixed it to the left breast of Herzer’s armor.

“Take your place, Blood Lord Herrick. Welcome to the Brotherhood.”

As each of the Blood Lords was brought forward to be sworn in, Herzer looked at the brand on his arm. It was an eagle with something clutched in either talon. In the center was a numeral one and over it were the words: Semper Fidelis.

He wasn’t sure what they meant, but he knew he was going to have them burned into his brain, and his skin, for the rest of his life.

“How goes it, Myron?” Edmund said, sitting down by his friend.

He hadn’t been to Tarmac’s tavern in a month or more and he was glad to see that the initial frenetic edge was wearing off. There were two other taverns in town at this point and Tarmac’s had started to cater to the more established crowd. Edmund recognized most of the regulars as long-time Faire goers and there were surprisingly few “new” faces in the pub.

“Pretty good,” Myron replied. “I got my first harvest of corn in, so we can quit worrying about stocks for the time being.”

“That’s good,” Edmund replied, gesturing to Estrelle for a pint. “I’m worried about winter stores, though. There has to be some way to ensure that people don’t starve. Other than ‘owning’ them that is,” he added, blackly.