Elizabeth Moon: Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“Very good, sir. All right, recruits: form up.” The other recruits shuffled into four lines of five persons each, except that the first file was one short. “Paks, you march here.” Bosk pointed to the last place in the short file. “Now remember, at the command you all start off on the left foot, march in step, keep even with the rank on your right, and don’t crowd the man ahead.” Bosk walked around and through the group, shifting one or another an inch this way or that. Paksenarrion watched him curiously until he bawled suddenly, “Eyes front, recruits!” At last he was through fussing (as she thought to herself) and stepped back.

“Good enough, Bosk,” said Stammel. “March ’em out.”

For the first time in her life, Paksenarrion heard that most evocative of military commands as Bosk drew in a lungful of air and shouted: “Recruits. Forward… MARCH!”

The afternoon’s march was only four hours, with two short rest-breaks, but when they halted, Paksenarrion was more tired than she had ever been. Besides the recruits, there were six regulars (Stammel, Bosk, and four privates) and four mules that carried the booth and supplies. In the course of the afternoon, they reviewed (and Paks learned) the correct way to form up, begin marching, and turn in column. She now knew her file number and who her file leader was, and had learned to keep an even distance behind the man in front. Tired as she was, she was in better shape than one of the puffy-faced men. He groaned and complained all afternoon, and finally fell in a faint at the last rest-break. When cold water failed to rouse him, two privates hoisted him over one mule’s pack and lashed him there, face down. When he came to, he begged to walk, but Stammel left him there, groaning piteously, until they made camp.

Paksenarrion and the next newest recruit were set to dig the jacks trench at the camp. This was the tall yellow-haired boy; he told her his name was Saben. He had dug the night before, too, and knew how long to make the trench. As they walked back into camp, the tattooed man sneered, “Here come the ditchdiggers—look like a real pair, don’t they?”

The man who’d fainted snickered appreciatively. “It took ’em long enough. I’d say they weren’t just digging ditches.”

Paksenarrion felt her ears steam, but before she got her mouth open, she saw Stammel, behind the others, shake his head at her. Then her file leader, a chunky dark youth named Coben, spoke up.

“At least neither of them sneaked ale and collapsed like a town bravo, Jens. And as for being ditchdiggers, Korryn, it’s better than graverobbing—”

The black-bearded man jumped up and his hand reached for the sword he no longer wore. “Just what d’you mean by that, Coben?”

Coben shrugged. “Take it as it fits. Digging jacks is something any of us might be assigned—I was, and you will be. It’s nothing to sneer about.”

“Young puppy,” muttered Korryn.

“Enough chatter,” said Bosk. “Fall in for rations.”

Paksenarrion was glad to find that after supper they were each issued a blanket and expected to sleep. She had no problem. She woke early and stiff, and had made her way to the jacks and to the river to bathe before a bellow from Corporal Bosk brought the others out of their blankets. The regulars, she noticed, were already in uniform: did they sleep that way? She folded her blanket as the others did, and turned it in to the privates to load on a mule. This morning she stirred porridge in one of the cookpots; three others were supervised by Saben, Jens, and the red-haired boy in velvet.

A bowl of porridge, hunk of brown bread, and slab of dried beef made an ample breakfast, and Paksenarrion felt no ill effects from the previous day’s journey. She was, in fact, happier than she’d been for years: she was a soldier at last, and safe from her father’s plans. When she found that Jens and Korryn had been told to fill in the trench, her mood soared even higher.

“I don’t mind digging them, if they’ll fill them,” she whispered to Saben.

“Nor I. That Korryn’s nasty, isn’t he? Jens is just a drunk, but Korryn could be trouble.”

“Recruits. Fall in!” yelled Bosk, and the day’s work really began.

In the next few weeks, as they traveled toward the Duke’s stronghold where their training would take place, Paksenarrion and the others became more and more proficient at marching and camp chores. They picked up new recruits in most of the towns they passed, until their group numbered thirty-eight. Already friendships had begun among some of them, and Paksenarrion had heard her shortened name enough to feel comfortable with it. Despite having little time to talk, she knew that Saben, Arñe, Vik, Jorti, and Coben were going to be her friends—and that Korryn and Jens would never be anything but enemies.

Stammel changed the marching order every few days, so that they all had a chance to lead a file as well as follow. Marching in front, where she could not see the motley clothing of the rest, Paksenarrion imagined herself already through training and headed for a battle. She could almost feel a sword swinging at her side. Around that corner, she thought, or over the rise—the enemy is waiting. She pictured grim-faced troops in black armor—or maybe orcs, like those her grandfather had fought. Bits of the old songs and tales ran through her mind: magic swords, heroes who fought and won against the powers of darkness, enchanted horses… When she marched in back, however, the visions failed, and she wondered how many more days they would be on the road.

At last Stammel told them that the stronghold was less than a day’s march away. They halted early, beside the river, and spent the rest of the daylight getting as clean as possible. Paksenarrion did not mind the cold water, but others who tried to make do with a casual swipe at face and hands were ordered back in to do the job properly.

Next day Stammel put Paksenarrion, Saben, Korryn, and Seliast at the head of the first squad files: the tallest recruits. They marched without effort now, and almost without thought, rhythm even and arms swinging. As they came over the last rise, to see the blunt stone walls of the stronghold rise from a narrow plain, squads on the parade fields were shifted out of their way.

Paksenarrion, marching across that space in front of a whole army (as it seemed to her) suddenly felt she couldn’t get any air. Only the habit of days on the road kept her from bolting from so many eyes. She blushed a fiery red and kept marching.

“All your personal belongings you turn in to the quartermaster; he’ll put ’em in a bag with your name on it and store them in the treasury. We’ll issue your training uniforms today, and if you want to keep your old clothes, they’ll be stored too.” Stammel turned to greet a gnarled older man whose arms were full of burlap sacks. “Ah, Quartermaster… good to see you.”

The man glared at the recruits. “Hmmph. Another bunch of beginners. And how much sentimental trash have they brought to take up space in storage?”

“Not so much; we’ve been on the road eight days since the last pickup.”

“Good. I’ll need a clerk.”

“Bosk’ll do it.” Stammel gestured to Bosk, who came forward and took a handful of tags from the quartermaster. “File one, step up one at a time, give your name, and hand over your gear.”

Paksenarrion stepped forward, unbuckling the belt on which her sheathed dagger hung. Bosk had already written out her tag, and handed it to the quartermaster, who fastened it to a sack and waited for her contribution. She held out belt, dagger, and the kerchief with her savings—eighteen coppers—in it.

“Are you going to keep those clothes?” he asked, eyeing her brother’s trousers, which had slipped down her hips without the belt.