Morgan Rice - Rogue, Prisoner, Princess

“I’ll find you both,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”

Breathing hard, Sartes ran among the army’s tents, clutching the scroll in his hand and wiping the sweat from his eyes, knowing that if he did not reach his commander’s tent soon he would be flogged. He ducked and weaved as best he could, knowing his time was running out. He had been held up far too many times already.

Sartes already had burn marks on his shins from the times he’d gotten it wrong, their sting just one more among many by now. He blinked, desperate, looking around the army camp, trying to make out the correct direction to run among the endless grid of tents. There were signs and standards there to mark the way, but he was still trying to learn their pattern.

Sartes felt something catch his foot, and then he was tumbling, the world seeming to turn upside down as he fell. For a moment he thought he’d tripped on a rope, but then he looked up to see soldiers laughing. The one at their head was an older man, with stubble-short hair turning gray and scars from too many battles.

Fear filled Sartes then, but also a kind of resignation; this was just life in the army for a conscript like him. He didn’t demand to know why the other man had done it, because saying anything was a sure way to a beating. As far as he could see, practically anything was.

Instead, he stood up, brushing away the worst of the mud from his tunic.

“What are you about, whelp?” the soldier who’d tripped him demanded.

“Running an errand for my commander, sir,” Sartes said, lifting a scrap of parchment for the other man to see. He hoped it would be enough to keep him safe. Often it wasn’t, in spite of the rules that said orders took precedence over anything else.

In the time since he’d arrived there, Sartes had learned that the Imperial army had plenty of rules. Some were official: leave the camp without permission, refuse to follow orders, betray the army, and you could be killed. March the wrong way, do anything without permission, and you could be beaten. There were other rules too, though. Less official ones that could be just as dangerous to break.

“What errand would that be?” the soldier demanded. Others were gathering around now. The army was always short of sources of entertainment, so if there was the prospect of a little fun at a conscript’s expense, people paid attention.

Sartes did his best to look apologetic. “I don’t know, sir. I just have orders to deliver this message. You can read it if you like.”

That was a calculated risk. Most of the ordinary soldiers couldn’t read. He hoped that the tone of it wouldn’t earn him a cuff around the ear for insubordination, but tried not to show any fear. Not showing fear was one of the rules that wasn’t written down. The army had at least as many of those rules as official ones. Rules about who you had to know to get better food. About who knew whom, and who you had to be careful of, regardless of rank. Knowing them seemed to be the only way to survive.

“Well, you’d better get on with it then!” the soldier roared, aiming a kick at Sartes to get him moving. The others there laughed as if it was the greatest joke they’d seen.

One of the biggest unwritten rules seemed to be that the new conscripts were fair game. Since he’d arrived, Sartes had been punched and slapped, beaten and shoved. He’d been made to run until he felt like collapsing, then run some more. He’d been laden with so much gear that he’d felt as though he could barely stand up, made to carry it, to dig holes in the ground for no apparent reason, to work. He’d heard stories of men in the ranks who liked to do worse to the new conscripts. Even if they died, what did it matter to the army? They were there to be thrown at the enemy. Everyone expected them to die.

Sartes had expected to die the first day. By the end of it, he’d even felt as though he wanted to. He’d curled up inside the too thin tent they’d assigned him and shivered, hoping that the ground would swallow him up. Impossibly, the next day had been worse. Another new conscript, whose name Sartes hadn’t even learned, had been killed that day. He’d been caught trying to run away, and they’d all had to watch his execution, as if it were some kind of lesson. The only lesson Sartes had been able to see was how cruel the army was to anyone who let it see that they were afraid. That was when he’d started trying to bury his fear, not showing it even though it was there in the background almost every moment he was awake.

He made a detour between the tents now, switching directions briefly to swing by one of the mess tents, where a day ago, one of the cooks had needed help composing a message home. The army barely fed its conscripts, and Sartes could feel his stomach rumbling at the prospect of food, but he didn’t eat what he took with him as he ran for his commanding officer’s tent.

“Where have you been?” the officer demanded. His tone made it clear that being slowed down by other soldiers wouldn’t count as an excuse. But then, Sartes had known that. It was part of why he’d gone to the mess tent.

“Collecting this on the way, sir,” Sartes said, holding out the apple tart that he’d heard was the officer’s favorite. “I knew that there might not be an opportunity for you to get it yourself today.”

The officer’s demeanor changed instantly. “That’s very thoughtful, conscript – ”

“Sartes, sir.” Sartes didn’t dare to smile.

“Sartes. We could use some soldiers who know how to think. Although next time, remember that the orders have to come first.”

“Yes sir,” Sartes said. “Is there anything you require me to do, sir?”

The officer waved him away. “Not right now, but I’ll remember your name. Dismissed.”

Sartes left the commander’s pavilion feeling a lot better than when he’d gone in. He hadn’t been sure that the small act would be enough to save him after the delay the soldiers had caused. For now, though, he seemed to have avoided punishment, and had managed to get to the position where an officer knew who he was.

It felt like a knife edge, but the whole army felt like that to Sartes then. So far, he’d survived in the army by being clever, and keeping one step ahead of the worst of the violence there. He’d seen boys his age killed, or beaten so badly that it was obvious that they’d die soon. Even so, he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep that up. For a conscript like him, this was the kind of place where violence and death could only be put off so long.

Sartes swallowed as he thought of all the things that could go wrong. A soldier might take a beating too far. An officer might take offense at any tiny action and order a punishment designed to deter the others with its cruelty. He might be pushed forward into battle at any moment, and he’d heard that conscripts went at the front of the line to “weed out the weak.” Even training might prove deadly, when the army had little use for blunt weapons, and conscripts were given little real instruction.

The one fear that sat behind them all was that someone would find out he’d tried to join Rexus and the rebels. There should be no way that they could, but even the faintest possibility was enough to outweigh all the others. Sartes had seen the body of a soldier accused of having rebel sympathies. His own unit had been commanded to hack him to pieces to prove their loyalty. Sartes didn’t want to end up like that. Just the thought of it was enough to make his stomach tighten over and above the hunger.

“You there!” a voice called, and Sartes started. It was impossible to shake the feeling that maybe someone had guessed what he was thinking. He forced himself to at least pretend to be calm. Sartes looked round to see a soldier in the elaborately muscled armor of a sergeant, with pockmarks on his cheeks so deep they were almost like another landscape. “You’re the captain’s messenger?”