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1. Shine At Your Peril
Vorn Military Training Academy, City of Tannel, Vorn, Dunia (Aura 14G)
The rain had been weeping from the sky all day like teardrops, crying on the sodden ground in a never-ending sob. A northerly wind brought a stinging chill. It swept south from the frozen wastelands of Geshlamp to dust the Takkatooth Mountains with snow before waltzing through Vorn to the Serrianne Sea, where frosty flakes thawed to icy rain.
On the military training grounds high above the shore, Recruit Garrad Bramston shivered. The sea-tamed breeze found its way through his oiled cloak, his sodden jacket, his woollen vest, and his thin layer of fat. He was freezing and desperate to fight.
The music of metal on metal chimed through the air as recruit danced with recruit. After weeks of marching, running, climbing obstacles, and horsemanship, they had finally been issued with swords. It was time to show the instructors what they could do. They were just blunt training swords, but even as Garrad’s soaked hand chilled to ice, he still gripped the hilt. It just felt good to hold it.
He watched with failing interest as two other recruits desperately attempted to show off their meagre skills with a blade. The pair were evenly matched, and neither one was able to find their mark. Garrad watched with disdain. They were even, perhaps, but equally crap. One waved his sword, and the other parried. One dodged to the side; the other missed. A feint, a swerve. The other recruits watched with excitement and cheered on the two young men. Garrad was unimpressed.
It came to an end at last. Exhaustion eventually took one of them, and the other took his chance. A tap on the loser’s arm with his blunt blade signalled his win. He patted his opponent on the shoulder and retreated to the side-lines as the other recruits cheered.
Garrad relaxed his grip on his sword, tucked his icy fingers under his armpits, and hugged his chest. He puffed out a breath of icy air. ‘Even you could have thrashed those two,’ he grumbled to his friend Mervin.
Mervin stopped cheering and scowled at his fellow recruit. ‘Hey!’
Garrad nudged an elbow into Mervin’s ribs with a smirk. ‘Don’t worry, mate. With my help, you’ll win against your next match.’
Mervin raised an eyebrow. ‘If you say so. You might be able to thrash Wilf and me, but for all your boasting, neither of us has seen you fight someone decent.’
Wilf was a tall, skinny recruit, and he was standing nearby. He turned as he heard his name. ‘What are you two on about?’ he asked. ‘You’re not taking the piss again, are you? Anyone can take a stumble.’
‘You fell out of the ring before you even landed a blow!’ Mervin chided, then gave his shoulder a pat. ‘But you do have legs like a stalk – it must be tricky to make those toothpicks go where you want ‘em to.’
Garrad’s focus had drifted, and he was barely listening. He jogged on the spot to try to warm up as he glared at their instructor – a corporal named Bremmer. He was debriefing the pair who’d just fought.
‘That arsehole is making me wait till last on purpose. I’m turning to ice,’ Garrad complained.
‘If you’re as good as you claim, I don’t reckon a bit of a chill will do you any harm,’ Mervin said.
‘His daddy’s been training him since he could walk!’ Wilf added. ‘Don’t reckon it’s just a claim. He certainly kicked our arses.’
Garrad narrowed his eyes and swept a few dripping strands of his black hair out of his face. ‘I first beat my father when I was twelve summers old.’
‘Smug bastard.’ Mervin smirked.
‘Bramston and Hendrill!’ Corporal Bremmer’s bellow snatched Garrad’s focus towards the ring. It was his turn at last. He took off his cloak and handed it to Mervin for safekeeping.
‘Don’t worry, Mervin. You won’t be holding it long,’ Garrad said with a wink.
Mervin gave Garrad a wry look in reply.
Garrad was not a short lad. He was already taller than his father, and at sixteen years old, he still had growing yet to do. But Hendrill was even bigger, and broader. He was older—eighteen or nineteen.
His feet were barely in the sparring ring when Hendrill launched himself at him. He hadn’t waited for the call to start, but it didn’t matter to Garrad—he dodged with ease. His opponent stumbled over the chalk line boundary.
Corporal Bremmer blew a whistle. ‘Let’s call that a false start, shall we? Back in the ring, boys. Hendrill, this time wait for my signal.’
‘Yes, Corporal,’ the bigger boy bellowed.
Garrad nodded and held his sword ready.
The whistle blew. Hendrill shot forward, but Garrad was as fast as lightning. He dodged, spun, and landed a tap on his opponent’s behind. There was no whistle sound. Perhaps the instructor hadn’t seen it. Regardless, he was ready to keep going. Hendrill whipped round; he swung his blade with enough power to break a limb. Garrad barely needed to clash with his steel to deflect the blow; he manoeuvred himself with such skill that force was hardly necessary. He made sure his sword was in the right place and slid his opponent’s blade to where he wanted it. With a flick of his arm, he forced the sword to one side. Hendrill’s own momentum unbalanced him, and he stumbled. His foot went outside the ring. Garrad slapped him again with the flat of his blade, this time against the back of his shoulder.
The whistle blew. Garrad had won.
Hendrill stormed towards the crowd of spectators, splashing muddy water over the cobbles as he went. A wide grin swept across Garrad’s face as he strutted back towards Mervin and Wilf.
‘Show-off.’ Mervin landed a heavy slap on Garrad’s back.
‘Thanks!’ Garrad replied, swiping his cloak from his friend.
‘Looks like Hendrill’s pissed.’ Wilf pointed to where Garrad’s opponent was having a heated conversation with their instructor, Corporal Bremmer.
‘Isn’t Hendrill Bremmer’s cousin?’ Mervin asked.
‘He is?’ Garrad’s stomach lurched. ‘Didn’t you think to warm me?’
‘Didn’t know you’d end up fighting him,’ Mervin replied.
‘Or humiliating him in front of his cousin,’ Wilf chuckled.
Garrad shrugged. ‘Who cares? I was the better swordsman.’ He looked across the ring again at the two cousins. ‘I thought Bremmer was supposed to debrief us.’ As if on cue, they both looked his way. Corporal Bremmer drew his sword and stomped into the ring.
‘Bramston!’ Corporal Bremmer bellowed across the training yard.
Garrad snapped to attention. ‘Yes, Corporal?’ he called back.
‘Ring. Now.’
‘Yes, Corporal.’
Garrad swallowed, then puffed out his chest as he walked to meet him while the rest of the recruits cheered. Corporal Bremmer blew his whistle, spat it out, and raised his sword above his head. Garrad planted his feet and stood ready.
Bremmer swung down, hard and fast. He was quick, faster than Garrad had expected. But he managed to dodge in time. Garrad ducked, spun, and whipped his sword round with both hands on the hilt. He used all the force and speed he could muster. He wasn’t quick enough. The corporal caught his blow and pushed him back. Bremmer was shorter than Garrad but broader. He was in his twenties and had filled out. Years of sword practice had given him a strength Garrad couldn’t hope to match.
Garrad had beaten his father as a boy, so he knew his opponent’s strength could be used against him. But the power of Bremmer’s parry was too much for the light stance Garrad had chosen. He was pushed back too fast and with too much force to steady himself. He stumbled and fell, arse splashing into a muddy puddle. Bremmer swung another blow. Instinct brought his blade to bear—with his back on the ground, Garrad parried and rolled in one smooth motion. He flipped onto his feet, found his strength, and forced a pirouette, sword slicing in a graceful arc towards his foe.
The corporal took the power of the blow, blocking Garrad's sword with speed and brute force, but it was not without cost. He stumbled back to steady himself, failing to find the traction he’d hoped for, slipping, staggering. One hand slid from his sword as he tried to keep his balance, and terror flashed across his face for a fleeting moment before he found his footing. With a steady stance, he lurched to grip his sword—quickly, but not quickly enough. Garrad's sword flew through the air, and he aimed it past Bremmer's blade. It thudded hard into his side as it found its mark.
Bremmer cried out in pain. The crowd of recruits cheered.
Garrad turned toward the crowd, lifting his arms, sword pointing at the weeping clouds. For a moment, he forgot everything else—forgot where he was, forgot who he’d beaten. His mouth stretched into a boyish grin, which widened as he heard Corporal Bremmer clamber to his feet behind him, growling and cursing as he rose.
‘Bremmer!’ A throaty roar shot across the training ground.
Everyone went quiet. Garrad spun on the spot to see his instructor behind him, desperately trying to sheath his sword. The crowd parted and Sergeant Major Fornian stormed through the audience of recruits. The corporal grimaced as he lowered his sword and turned slowly.
‘Corporal, my office, now,’ the colour sergeant growled.
Bremmer snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’ He marched off, head up and stony-faced.
Sergeant Major Fornian watched the corporal leave. He wiped the rain from his face and turned to Garrad. ‘What’s your name, recruit?’
Garrad straightened at once. He rarely spoke to anyone more senior than a corporal. ‘Bramston. Garrad Bramston, Sir,’ he barked with nervous haste.
Fornian gave Garrad a knowing look. ‘You did well today, lad. I was watching you fight the corporal. He’s not a bad swordsman, one of the best we have in fact, and you had him. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Did your father teach you to fight?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He taught you well. Keep it up, lad. With skills like that, you’ll go far.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sergeant Major Fornian did an about-turn and marched back the way he’d come, as if he couldn’t help doing drill. ‘Corporal Starn!’ he yelled as he went.
‘Yes, sir?’ someone answered from the crowd.
‘Take over from Corporal Bremmer, if you please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
Garrad shoved the door to the barracks block open with a hard whack of his palm. ‘It was good to finally get a chance to spar, don’t you think?’ he said to Mervin.
‘Yeah, it was. Feels like we’re actually proper soldiers now we have one of these on our hips.’ Mervin patted the scabbard belted at his waist. ‘Even if it is just a training sword.’
‘I do miss the sword my father gave me. It’s not ornamental, but it is bloody well balanced, and it handles beautifully. This thing does the job for training, but it’s not the same.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be allowed it once we pass out as soldiers. It’s only a few more months to the summer, then we get to wield these things for real.’
They headed to their bed spaces in the long room, where bed after bed was set against each opposing wall. Their entire platoon lived in this block. They’d finished their evening meal and had been knocked off for the day. The recruits were filtering in, some limping or groaning in pain as they walked slowly towards their beds. One or two had taken a hit during sword practice today. No blood was drawn, but there were plenty of large bruises.
Garrad unstrapped his sword and placed it carefully in the rack above his bed, then took a seat on the mattress.
‘Mervin,’ he began, ‘you never told me why Corporal Bremmer was called away. Did I miss something?’
‘Oh, shit, yeah, I forgot to say. Think he’s gonna get it.’
‘What for?’
‘After you clobbered him and won the round, the arsehole got back to his feet and whipped out his sword while you were busy gloating at the crowd.’
‘I wasn’t gloating!’ Garrad frowned. ‘Hang on.’ He shuffled to the edge of his bed. ‘Bremmer got his sword out behind my back?’
‘Yeah, and it looked like he was about to whack you with it.’
‘So that’s why Sergeant Major Fornian broke his cover.’
‘It was weird that he was hiding under a cloak watching, don’t you think?’ Mervin said.
‘Yeah.’ Garrad gave his chin a rub, his rough hands grating over a day of stubble. The name Fornian rang a bell for some reason, and when he told the man his name, it was like he already knew who he was. He dropped that thought and grinned as the news sank in. ‘Bremmer got pulled for being about to clobber me?’ He snorted. ‘I guessed he was maybe just getting pulled for sparring with a recruit.’
‘Not sure there’s any rule against that one, but if he’d whacked you from behind…’ Mervin let the sentence trail off.
‘Bloody hell. Good job the sergeant major was there, I guess!’
Garrad began his evening routine of cleaning and preparing his kit for the next day while the other recruits continued to file in from dinner. Hendrill stalked past the end of Garrad’s bed. Garrad was expecting a comment, some insult, or at least a scowl, but the man barely gave him a second glance.
Maybe he’d learnt his lesson. Maybe he’d figured out that Garrad Bramston wasn’t to be messed with.
Rumour had it Kyron Hendrill served time for a couple of years before he joined the Army. Garrad had never got along with the man since he started at the training school in the autumn. But he’d never clashed with him, until now.
It was almost time for lights out. Garrad made one last trip to the latrines before he bedded down for the night. The days were short at this time of year, and he could barely see as he felt his way along the muddy path. He finished his business, pulled up his breeches, and closed the door behind him.
Someone grabbed him.
He tried to yell but couldn’t. A grubby hand was pressed against his straining mouth. He was hauled from his feet, carried away from the block and into the woods that ringed the barracks, far enough away that his screams wouldn’t be heard.
He was thrown towards the soggy ground, hip cracking against a tree trunk. His legs flapped uselessly in the mud. It was even darker in the forest, but the moon cast a little light. He could just about make out the three men who milled around him, their silhouettes black against the inky sky. The hawking rasp of gathering spit warned his ears too late; he could only grimace as it splattered on his face. His eyes screwed up to spider-like slits.
A heavy boot was pushed onto his chest as he desperately tried to scramble to his feet. His gasping lungs were fighting for breath, hands clawing at the leg that held him firm. The first punch was thrown. It collided with his chin, and his head snapped back, his skull hitting a root. A fist found his stomach. He coughed, winded, shamefully cowering as another boot found his thigh. A punch struck his shoulder.
The pressure on his chest was released. He wriggled onto his side, cradling his head and lifting his knees to hide his chest. A hardened sole came crashing down. A rib cracked, and pain exploded across his chest. Something smashed into his nose. Salty iron dribbled down his throat—he coughed, he spluttered, he gasped for breath. He tried to rise, but he couldn’t. Someone held him down. He found his voice and yelled out. The hits kept coming. He heard footsteps: someone was running his way. The attack paused.
‘Corporal Bremmer sends his regards,’ a raspy voice muttered into his ear. A fist found his cheekbone. Everything went quiet.
The rain had been weeping from the sky all day like teardrops, crying on the sodden ground in a never-ending sob. A northerly wind brought a stinging chill. It swept south from the frozen wastelands of Geshlamp to dust the Takkatooth Mountains with snow before waltzing through Vorn to the Serrianne Sea, where frosty flakes thawed to icy rain.
On the military training grounds high above the shore, Recruit Garrad Bramston shivered. The sea-tamed breeze found its way through his oiled cloak, his sodden jacket, his woollen vest, and his thin layer of fat. He was freezing and desperate to fight.
The music of metal on metal chimed through the air as recruit danced with recruit. After weeks of marching, running, climbing obstacles, and horsemanship, they had finally been issued with swords. It was time to show the instructors what they could do. They were just blunt training swords, but even as Garrad’s soaked hand chilled to ice, he still gripped the hilt. It just felt good to hold it.
He watched with failing interest as two other recruits desperately attempted to show off their meagre skills with a blade. The pair were evenly matched, and neither one was able to find their mark. Garrad watched with disdain. They were even, perhaps, but equally crap. One waved his sword, and the other parried. One dodged to the side; the other missed. A feint, a swerve. The other recruits watched with excitement and cheered on the two young men. Garrad was unimpressed.
It came to an end at last. Exhaustion eventually took one of them, and the other took his chance. A tap on the loser’s arm with his blunt blade signalled his win. He patted his opponent on the shoulder and retreated to the side-lines as the other recruits cheered.
Garrad relaxed his grip on his sword, tucked his icy fingers under his armpits, and hugged his chest. He puffed out a breath of icy air. ‘Even you could have thrashed those two,’ he grumbled to his friend Mervin.
Mervin stopped cheering and scowled at his fellow recruit. ‘Hey!’
Garrad nudged an elbow into Mervin’s ribs with a smirk. ‘Don’t worry, mate. With my help, you’ll win against your next match.’
Mervin raised an eyebrow. ‘If you say so. You might be able to thrash Wilf and me, but for all your boasting, neither of us has seen you fight someone decent.’
Wilf was a tall, skinny recruit, and he was standing nearby. He turned as he heard his name. ‘What are you two on about?’ he asked. ‘You’re not taking the piss again, are you? Anyone can take a stumble.’
‘You fell out of the ring before you even landed a blow!’ Mervin chided, then gave his shoulder a pat. ‘But you do have legs like a stalk – it must be tricky to make those toothpicks go where you want ‘em to.’
Garrad’s focus had drifted, and he was barely listening. He jogged on the spot to try to warm up as he glared at their instructor – a corporal named Bremmer. He was debriefing the pair who’d just fought.
‘That arsehole is making me wait till last on purpose. I’m turning to ice,’ Garrad complained.
‘If you’re as good as you claim, I don’t reckon a bit of a chill will do you any harm,’ Mervin said.
‘His daddy’s been training him since he could walk!’ Wilf added. ‘Don’t reckon it’s just a claim. He certainly kicked our arses.’
Garrad narrowed his eyes and swept a few dripping strands of his black hair out of his face. ‘I first beat my father when I was twelve summers old.’
‘Smug bastard.’ Mervin smirked.
‘Bramston and Hendrill!’ Corporal Bremmer’s bellow snatched Garrad’s focus towards the ring. It was his turn at last. He took off his cloak and handed it to Mervin for safekeeping.
‘Don’t worry, Mervin. You won’t be holding it long,’ Garrad said with a wink.
Mervin gave Garrad a wry look in reply.
Garrad was not a short lad. He was already taller than his father, and at sixteen years old, he still had growing yet to do. But Hendrill was even bigger, and broader. He was older—eighteen or nineteen.
His feet were barely in the sparring ring when Hendrill launched himself at him. He hadn’t waited for the call to start, but it didn’t matter to Garrad—he dodged with ease. His opponent stumbled over the chalk line boundary.
Corporal Bremmer blew a whistle. ‘Let’s call that a false start, shall we? Back in the ring, boys. Hendrill, this time wait for my signal.’
‘Yes, Corporal,’ the bigger boy bellowed.
Garrad nodded and held his sword ready.
The whistle blew. Hendrill shot forward, but Garrad was as fast as lightning. He dodged, spun, and landed a tap on his opponent’s behind. There was no whistle sound. Perhaps the instructor hadn’t seen it. Regardless, he was ready to keep going. Hendrill whipped round; he swung his blade with enough power to break a limb. Garrad barely needed to clash with his steel to deflect the blow; he manoeuvred himself with such skill that force was hardly necessary. He made sure his sword was in the right place and slid his opponent’s blade to where he wanted it. With a flick of his arm, he forced the sword to one side. Hendrill’s own momentum unbalanced him, and he stumbled. His foot went outside the ring. Garrad slapped him again with the flat of his blade, this time against the back of his shoulder.
The whistle blew. Garrad had won.
Hendrill stormed towards the crowd of spectators, splashing muddy water over the cobbles as he went. A wide grin swept across Garrad’s face as he strutted back towards Mervin and Wilf.
‘Show-off.’ Mervin landed a heavy slap on Garrad’s back.
‘Thanks!’ Garrad replied, swiping his cloak from his friend.
‘Looks like Hendrill’s pissed.’ Wilf pointed to where Garrad’s opponent was having a heated conversation with their instructor, Corporal Bremmer.
‘Isn’t Hendrill Bremmer’s cousin?’ Mervin asked.
‘He is?’ Garrad’s stomach lurched. ‘Didn’t you think to warm me?’
‘Didn’t know you’d end up fighting him,’ Mervin replied.
‘Or humiliating him in front of his cousin,’ Wilf chuckled.
Garrad shrugged. ‘Who cares? I was the better swordsman.’ He looked across the ring again at the two cousins. ‘I thought Bremmer was supposed to debrief us.’ As if on cue, they both looked his way. Corporal Bremmer drew his sword and stomped into the ring.
‘Bramston!’ Corporal Bremmer bellowed across the training yard.
Garrad snapped to attention. ‘Yes, Corporal?’ he called back.
‘Ring. Now.’
‘Yes, Corporal.’
Garrad swallowed, then puffed out his chest as he walked to meet him while the rest of the recruits cheered. Corporal Bremmer blew his whistle, spat it out, and raised his sword above his head. Garrad planted his feet and stood ready.
Bremmer swung down, hard and fast. He was quick, faster than Garrad had expected. But he managed to dodge in time. Garrad ducked, spun, and whipped his sword round with both hands on the hilt. He used all the force and speed he could muster. He wasn’t quick enough. The corporal caught his blow and pushed him back. Bremmer was shorter than Garrad but broader. He was in his twenties and had filled out. Years of sword practice had given him a strength Garrad couldn’t hope to match.
Garrad had beaten his father as a boy, so he knew his opponent’s strength could be used against him. But the power of Bremmer’s parry was too much for the light stance Garrad had chosen. He was pushed back too fast and with too much force to steady himself. He stumbled and fell, arse splashing into a muddy puddle. Bremmer swung another blow. Instinct brought his blade to bear—with his back on the ground, Garrad parried and rolled in one smooth motion. He flipped onto his feet, found his strength, and forced a pirouette, sword slicing in a graceful arc towards his foe.
The corporal took the power of the blow, blocking Garrad's sword with speed and brute force, but it was not without cost. He stumbled back to steady himself, failing to find the traction he’d hoped for, slipping, staggering. One hand slid from his sword as he tried to keep his balance, and terror flashed across his face for a fleeting moment before he found his footing. With a steady stance, he lurched to grip his sword—quickly, but not quickly enough. Garrad's sword flew through the air, and he aimed it past Bremmer's blade. It thudded hard into his side as it found its mark.
Bremmer cried out in pain. The crowd of recruits cheered.
Garrad turned toward the crowd, lifting his arms, sword pointing at the weeping clouds. For a moment, he forgot everything else—forgot where he was, forgot who he’d beaten. His mouth stretched into a boyish grin, which widened as he heard Corporal Bremmer clamber to his feet behind him, growling and cursing as he rose.
‘Bremmer!’ A throaty roar shot across the training ground.
Everyone went quiet. Garrad spun on the spot to see his instructor behind him, desperately trying to sheath his sword. The crowd parted and Sergeant Major Fornian stormed through the audience of recruits. The corporal grimaced as he lowered his sword and turned slowly.
‘Corporal, my office, now,’ the colour sergeant growled.
Bremmer snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’ He marched off, head up and stony-faced.
Sergeant Major Fornian watched the corporal leave. He wiped the rain from his face and turned to Garrad. ‘What’s your name, recruit?’
Garrad straightened at once. He rarely spoke to anyone more senior than a corporal. ‘Bramston. Garrad Bramston, Sir,’ he barked with nervous haste.
Fornian gave Garrad a knowing look. ‘You did well today, lad. I was watching you fight the corporal. He’s not a bad swordsman, one of the best we have in fact, and you had him. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Did your father teach you to fight?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He taught you well. Keep it up, lad. With skills like that, you’ll go far.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sergeant Major Fornian did an about-turn and marched back the way he’d come, as if he couldn’t help doing drill. ‘Corporal Starn!’ he yelled as he went.
‘Yes, sir?’ someone answered from the crowd.
‘Take over from Corporal Bremmer, if you please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
Garrad shoved the door to the barracks block open with a hard whack of his palm. ‘It was good to finally get a chance to spar, don’t you think?’ he said to Mervin.
‘Yeah, it was. Feels like we’re actually proper soldiers now we have one of these on our hips.’ Mervin patted the scabbard belted at his waist. ‘Even if it is just a training sword.’
‘I do miss the sword my father gave me. It’s not ornamental, but it is bloody well balanced, and it handles beautifully. This thing does the job for training, but it’s not the same.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be allowed it once we pass out as soldiers. It’s only a few more months to the summer, then we get to wield these things for real.’
They headed to their bed spaces in the long room, where bed after bed was set against each opposing wall. Their entire platoon lived in this block. They’d finished their evening meal and had been knocked off for the day. The recruits were filtering in, some limping or groaning in pain as they walked slowly towards their beds. One or two had taken a hit during sword practice today. No blood was drawn, but there were plenty of large bruises.
Garrad unstrapped his sword and placed it carefully in the rack above his bed, then took a seat on the mattress.
‘Mervin,’ he began, ‘you never told me why Corporal Bremmer was called away. Did I miss something?’
‘Oh, shit, yeah, I forgot to say. Think he’s gonna get it.’
‘What for?’
‘After you clobbered him and won the round, the arsehole got back to his feet and whipped out his sword while you were busy gloating at the crowd.’
‘I wasn’t gloating!’ Garrad frowned. ‘Hang on.’ He shuffled to the edge of his bed. ‘Bremmer got his sword out behind my back?’
‘Yeah, and it looked like he was about to whack you with it.’
‘So that’s why Sergeant Major Fornian broke his cover.’
‘It was weird that he was hiding under a cloak watching, don’t you think?’ Mervin said.
‘Yeah.’ Garrad gave his chin a rub, his rough hands grating over a day of stubble. The name Fornian rang a bell for some reason, and when he told the man his name, it was like he already knew who he was. He dropped that thought and grinned as the news sank in. ‘Bremmer got pulled for being about to clobber me?’ He snorted. ‘I guessed he was maybe just getting pulled for sparring with a recruit.’
‘Not sure there’s any rule against that one, but if he’d whacked you from behind…’ Mervin let the sentence trail off.
‘Bloody hell. Good job the sergeant major was there, I guess!’
Garrad began his evening routine of cleaning and preparing his kit for the next day while the other recruits continued to file in from dinner. Hendrill stalked past the end of Garrad’s bed. Garrad was expecting a comment, some insult, or at least a scowl, but the man barely gave him a second glance.
Maybe he’d learnt his lesson. Maybe he’d figured out that Garrad Bramston wasn’t to be messed with.
Rumour had it Kyron Hendrill served time for a couple of years before he joined the Army. Garrad had never got along with the man since he started at the training school in the autumn. But he’d never clashed with him, until now.
It was almost time for lights out. Garrad made one last trip to the latrines before he bedded down for the night. The days were short at this time of year, and he could barely see as he felt his way along the muddy path. He finished his business, pulled up his breeches, and closed the door behind him.
Someone grabbed him.
He tried to yell but couldn’t. A grubby hand was pressed against his straining mouth. He was hauled from his feet, carried away from the block and into the woods that ringed the barracks, far enough away that his screams wouldn’t be heard.
He was thrown towards the soggy ground, hip cracking against a tree trunk. His legs flapped uselessly in the mud. It was even darker in the forest, but the moon cast a little light. He could just about make out the three men who milled around him, their silhouettes black against the inky sky. The hawking rasp of gathering spit warned his ears too late; he could only grimace as it splattered on his face. His eyes screwed up to spider-like slits.
A heavy boot was pushed onto his chest as he desperately tried to scramble to his feet. His gasping lungs were fighting for breath, hands clawing at the leg that held him firm. The first punch was thrown. It collided with his chin, and his head snapped back, his skull hitting a root. A fist found his stomach. He coughed, winded, shamefully cowering as another boot found his thigh. A punch struck his shoulder.
The pressure on his chest was released. He wriggled onto his side, cradling his head and lifting his knees to hide his chest. A hardened sole came crashing down. A rib cracked, and pain exploded across his chest. Something smashed into his nose. Salty iron dribbled down his throat—he coughed, he spluttered, he gasped for breath. He tried to rise, but he couldn’t. Someone held him down. He found his voice and yelled out. The hits kept coming. He heard footsteps: someone was running his way. The attack paused.
‘Corporal Bremmer sends his regards,’ a raspy voice muttered into his ear. A fist found his cheekbone. Everything went quiet.
Click on your flag to order in your home country.
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