Chris Northern - The Last King's Amulet

He started reeling off figures he had obviously pre-calculated. “Commander in chief, one million. Commanders, half a million. Command staff and mages two hundred thousand. Equestes and First centurions a hundred thousand. Centurions fifty thousand. Infantry five thousand.” He made a gesture with his hand and shrugged lightly. “Roughly,” he grinned a gap-toothed grin and winked. “That'll buy us some beer, eh laddie?”

Hell, even if I only got five thousand it was better than nothing. And for what? Less than a month of my life? I can do that, I thought, raising the beer to my lips and taking a big gulp. After all it couldn't always be this hard, could it? March a bit, fight a battle, take some loot. It almost seemed easy. Maybe I'd just renounce my status as patron and join up. To hell with my family, to hell with everything. Yes, I decided, knowing, that's what I would do. I would write to my father, telling him, and to the council of patrons, telling them. Then I would be free to find my own way. I knew I was drunk, knew would change my mind later, but for now was happy enough with the decision and didn't worry about it.

I downed a big gulp of beer, smiled back at the gap toothed old soldier who was sitting quietly, sipping his own beer and eying me speculatively.

“So,” I said, “that's good then.”