David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Harren averted his eyes and muttered, “No.”

“I thought not. And you.” Crian stepped up to Grant, grabbing both his shoulders to steady the wobbling man. “Grant Tunshackle, what have you learned today?”

Grant’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his neck slumped backward, and he collapsed. Crian released the man’s shoulders, letting him fall.

He addressed the rest of the men. “Our friend here made light of an opponent. He mocked a strength greater than his because he thought he was faster and more skilled. Remember that. Any adversary can destroy you with a single swipe of a sword or launch of an arrow. Any foe we face is to be respected. It is irresponsible-and dangerous-to do otherwise. Fail to show an enemy respect, and all your advantages cease to exist. Your foe will do anything to regain the honor you stripped from him.” He whacked the prone Grant on the shin with the waster, eliciting a moan. “Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, sir!” the troupe shouted in near unison.

“Very well. Retake your positions and continue your sparring. You are not dismissed until you hear the dinner bell ringing.” He turned to Harren. “And speaking of dinner, you, fat man, bring Tunshackle to the medicinal tent; then find Moorman and assist him in preparing dinner. You will serve your fellow soldiers, but only serve. You can afford to miss a few meals, I believe. When every man has eaten his fill, tend the stables until the witching hour. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Harren muttered before bending over to lift Grant. As the fat man stumbled away, Grant’s body bouncing on his shoulders, Crian saw the defeat in his posture. He hoped the lazy, obese ruffian would learn his lesson. If not, it would be his face that was pounded into the dirt tomorrow.

The sparring continued until daylight began to wane and the bell began to chime. The exhausted recruits breathed heavy sighs of relief. Dragging their wooden swords behind them, the hundred sweaty, scorched-red men made their way out of the practice field, up the hill, and into the encampment.

Crian walked alongside them, offering slaps on the back and words of encouragement. Though he had been thoroughly disappointed by the ability displayed on this day-for the last eight days, really-he found it best to encourage his charges rather than break them down. From an adjacent field he heard Avila’s bone-chilling voice screeching at her own group of future warriors. The sound made Crian’s throat tighten. The proper method for training an army was one of the seemingly ten thousand things that he and his sister disagreed about, so they had divided the soldiers among them. Crian hoped his way, of encouragement and discipline through example, would turn out to be more effective.

He cut diagonally across the sloped hill, weaving between his charges, and came to rest on the earthen divider separating his practice space from his sister’s. With hands on his hips he watched as man after man collapsed, only to be whacked by Avila’s staff while she chastised them. More than half of her men were down for the count, but those who remained standing moved with a precision that could be matched by none of the men in Crian’s group. If that was Avila’s plan-to cull the herd until she created a handful of perfect soldiers-Crian wished her the best of luck. To accomplish what their father desired, they needed sheer numbers. It was easy for five men to sneak through a barricade and kill an enemy leader, but those five men would be severely overmatched when five hundred of that leader’s most dedicated came seeking vengeance.

At least that was the theory. But because the human race had never seen true conflict over their short existence in Dezrel, all they really had to go on was theory, plus the wisdom that Karak imparted from time to time. Thankfully, Crian knew none of it would matter. Everything they did-all the preparation and drilling-was unnecessary. Those in Haven would bow to reason. How could they not? He wished his brother were here, for Joseph was far better company than Avila, but he was still in Dezerea and wasn’t expected back for several weeks at least.

Crian turned his back on the scene just as Avila launched into another tirade against an exhausted and defeated recruit. He shook his head as he walked, progressing past the mess tent and through a group of his charges. He observed with interest the way his men scarfed down their dinner, but did not join them.

Eventually his feet found the beaten dirt path that led through Omnmount. To call the place a township was a bit misleading; Omnmount consisted of a single stone building, which served as both a temple of Karak and a central market, located at the hub of a sprawling stretch of land dotted with crude huts, tents, burrows, and low holdfasts. The area the town encompassed was monstrous-the practice fields they were using were actually located toward the center. By foot it would take three days to reach the unnamed outlying territories, where the rich soil was farmed for the grains, fruits, vegetables, and meats that fed virtually all of Neldar. Other than the thousand soldiers he and Avila had brought with them, the place was full of transient workers who spent much of their time working those fertile lands. To Crian, Omnmount was nothing more than an overwrought labor camp.

Only it was something more, for now it was the staging ground for Karak’s Army.

Crian approached his tent, a tall swath of canvas as big as his room back in Tower Servitude. He wiped his sandaled feet on the mat before slapping aside the flap and stepping through the threshold. There were already candles burning, lit by his squire, Leonard, so that the space would be comfortable when he arrived.

Being inside his temporary home brought a bit of relaxation to his tired bones. All of his amenities from Veldaren had made the trip with him-his vanity, his wardrobe, his writing desk, and especially the dragonglass mirror. A thick carpet had been brought along as well, soft and supple beneath his feet. Grabbing a copper goblet from his desk, he poured himself three fingers of mulled wine, took a sip, and began to undress. His sweaty garments came off with some effort, like shedding a second skin. He hung Integrity on the corner of his wardrobe, fitted his armor on the frame beside it, and tossed his breeches and tunic onto a pile for the washwomen to take away. In the corner of the room was a giant iron bucket, and he stepped inside it. Above his head was a spigot attached to a tarred sack filled with water that hung outside the large tent. The tar kept the burlap sack waterproof while also attracting the sun’s rays, which warmed the water. With a pull of a lever, a gentle stream of tepid fluid cascaded over him. Crian proceeded to wet his hair and scrub the day’s grime from his body.

By the time he was finished, it was almost dark, and he was exhausted. He slipped his nightshirt over his head and stood before the mirror. Slowly he applied a mixture of watered-down tannins and ground oak bark to the silver streaks in his hair that seemed to multiply daily. That done, he stretched out on his bed, which was made from seven fat blankets stacked atop each other on the ground. Finally alone, all thoughts of training and military theory left him. He allowed his mind to wander to what mattered most: Nessa. He thought of her petite stature and wild red hair, her piercing blue eyes, and the gentle rise of her small breasts. When he closed his eyes, he could smell her rosemary perfume. He hoped the letter he’d sent five days ago had reached her. It had been difficult to find an opportunity to set Atria to flight. The bird had arrived two weeks ago, bearing news of Nessa’s journey through the west. With Avila’s watchful eyes always around, it had taken unbearable patience to find a safe time to release his message. On several occasions he’d almost been caught by one of his sister’s spies. He worried the delay would cause his love to think he had forgotten her.