Eomalla 2, 542 CSE, Brigga Province
“Head’s up!"
Wymrick had just enough time to look up as three figures slid down into the trench, each with a bowl in one hand, chunks of bread in the other.
Lash was first and wasted no time scrambling deeper into the trench to an old tree stump where he promptly squatted and began to shovel food into his mouth. Wormfoot and Slab were next. Wormfoot stopped a moment to stick the trencher of bread into her mouth so she had a free hand and bent to retrieve a hooch bag before joining Lash. Slab had to look around for a moment, he was big enough that his head banged against the overhead cover if he stood up too quickly. He glanced over at Wymrick who was just staring at the other two.
“New guy?”
Wyrmick climbed to his feet immediately and padded over to him. First time he’d met Slab, he’d found it impossible not to stare at the size of the man’s hands. He’d been working really hard on not getting fixated with them again because he’d seen what those hands, with two axes, could do to another living thing.
“Yeah, Slab?”
Someone snickered.
Slab’s heavy, thick eyebrows creased. “What’s so funny, Wormfoot.”
She stuffed another piece of bread in her mouth and said something completely unintelligible.
Slab nodded. “That’s what I thought. Knock it off.”
Lash raised a mug of whatever the two of them were drinking in salute.
“Get to the chow line, New guy. Meet back up with your team. We’re good here.”
Wymrick nodded, grabbed his crossbow and began to climb from the trench. A quick glance back and Wormfoot and Lash were both waving at him like he was heading off on some damn voyage to Nu’uman.
Walking through the camp he shook his head and chuckled. Not too long ago that would have irritated and humiliated him in too many ways. Now it just irritated him. Funny how thirty days can change things.
Well, thirty-two to be exact. Thirty-two days. He’d finally gotten used to knowing the order of titles. They didn’t have this much structure on Vordoff’s ship. Not like Vordoff knew anything about structure. Or leading for that matter.
Team Lead. Company Lead. Deputy Commander for regiments. Commander for hesirs. Which was sometimes confusing because he’d noticed some addressing Deputy Commanders as Commander when a hesir commander wasn’t present. And then there was the Captain.
When he’d asked Stick why it was “the” Captain, Stick had just stared at him. Wymrick had started to ask again but Stick blurted out, “Because it is. Why’re you asking stupid questions?”
He decided he probably shouldn’t press it. For now.
*****
Despite knowing the food was going to be the same he’d been dished the last nine days - Hoarder swore that gaggle of ducks was a gift from Thalya - he was really hungry. Many of the others were bitching constantly about ‘duck plucking’ but it could’ve been worse. The first two weeks he’d arrived they’d had to eat two of the company mules because rations had been scarce.
The other good thing, as it were, was that he wasn’t the newest guy in the company anymore. Still New Guy for Bear, but after the losses from the last two battles, including Liam who’d come in with him, more recruits had been brought in and Top’s company had gotten two of them. Lucky bastards got to come by ship though instead of marching through The Furnace from Heart’s Valley. But, that meant he didn’t have to eat last. Just third from last.
He shrugged. Hell, a victory is a victory.
Well, fourth from last, really. For some unknown and strange reason, Top never ate until everyone else had. As 2nd Company's leader, Wymrick was pretty certain Top could eat whenever he wanted to but every meal, he was the last in line; often well after the rest had passed through.
Like today’s mid-day meal. Looking back toward the end, Top was nowhere to be seen. Just, Talor then Rateth. Four days on and she still hadn’t figured out how to keep her food bowl clean.
“That was without a doubt the dumbest thing I’d ever seen.” Little-eye chuckled. She was ahead of him, Punch in between, sharing a story about a previous campaign.
“Dumber than Egg and Morning forgetting to set off the charges on that bridge at Hollow’s Tail?”
Little-eye stopped, looked at the sun overhead and then nodded. “Okay, yeah, no, not that dumb.”
“What happened at Hollow’s Tail?” Wymrick tossed out before he realized he’d probably just invited unwanted attention. But to his surprise, the two of them started to giggle.
He smiled in spite of himself.
“Shit was that funny.” Punch said as they moved forward in the tuck-line, nearly to the food. Two of the cooks were carefully slopping stew into each soldier’s bowl while they ripped off a trencher of bread, grabbed a chunk of hard cheese and then moved to the nappy pot for the brew of the day.
Wymrick didn’t want to press his luck but curiosity was getting the best of him. “So?”
Punch tried not to choke as he grabbed some cheese. “We were...the company was set to take out this bridge. Our scouts had figured it for a choke point that we could knock out in one punch and take out one of their main elite units trying to cross under cover at night. Wasn’t big enough to blow and get them all so we needed to cut off their retreat. Too soon and the rear gets away. Too late and we don’t take out the back half; screwing any advantage of surprise.”
Little-eye was trying to keep a straight face but she wasn’t doing a particularly good job. “Yeah. Egg and Morning drew the short straw so Hobnail hands them this charge. Says, ‘when you hear a wildcat scream, piss on it and run like hell.”
“Piss on it?” Wymrick asked, unsure he heard what he thought he heard.
Both of them were really struggling not to let out peals of laughter. Little-eye kept nodding, her eyes tearing up. “So we’re all in place, waiting for the ambush, everything cleared, plans going smooth so far. Enemy unit shows up almost right on schedule. First half gets across. Second half gets across. We’re all wondering what the hell Egg and Morning are doing. Top’s got us holding. Waiting. Nothing. No blast.”
Punch was nodding as fast as Little-eye was. “Top is really pissed. He growls over at Hobnail and she just shrugs. 'S’what you get for bringing half-wits like those jackasses into the unit.'"
Little-eye and Punch abruptly stopped talking, laughter immediately cut off, and dropped their eyes down toward the tables of food.
Wymrick blinked several times waiting to hear the rest of the story. “C’mon, you can leave it hanging...”
Punch glared at him with a stern look on his face. His eyes shot a glance over Wymrick’s shoulder. “Later, now shut up and just dish your food.” Then he returned to looking at the line of stew pots.
Wymrick turned his head to see what he’d been looking at and his eyes widened. Making her way purposefully toward the front of the tuck-line was a woman; small, dirty, unkempt, strange tattoos and markings covered her face. Her blond hair was matted and wild and the bow in her hand and the sword at her hip and the way she moved meant she most certainly knew how to use both. But more striking were the curved, asymmetrical, ridged horns that wrapped to either side of her head, near and just back from her ears.
Wymrick’s eyes shifted back to Little-eye and Punch again but they appeared to be doing their best to keep their eyes averted and not be noticed.
“Who the hell is that?” he whispered, leaning in toward the other two and pressing his luck.
Punch shook his head slightly but very emphatically and Little-eye whispered back as quiet as she could. “You should stop talking now.” Wymrick looked back toward the woman. “And stop staring, you idiot.”
He snapped his eyes back to the stew pots. Out of the corner of one eye, though, he watched the woman step in between others who also tried to make themselves as small as possible. Ignoring those around her, she grabbed bread, dished food into a bowl, and drew a full ladle of ale from the nappy pot. Then, still paying no heed to anyone else, she crossed to the far edge of the mess perimeter, climbed into a tree to look out over an area of the battlefield and began to eat quickly.
Gradually the chatter of the tuck-line began to pick back up, as well as the speed of everyone gathering food. Wyrmick and the other two carried their meals back to their trench in silence, despite Wymrick’s curiosity fighting to get the better of him.
They nodded to Stick, Grin and Lapdance that they were good to go and as the others headed to get their food, he, Little-eye and Punch settled in to eat. Wymrick coughed. “So...anyone want to tell me now?”
Punch gave him a dirty look. “You should just leave well enough alone.”
Gnawing on a chicken bone, Little-eye shrugged. “That’d be best.”
Wymrick shook his head. “I’ve never seen her here before.”
Little-eye pitched the meatless bone as far as she could into the woodline. “And you might not again for a few more months.”
“What does that mean?”
Punch belched softly. “It means, Judge doesn’t come in very often and when she does it usually means a shit storm.”
“Judge?”
Nodding his head in her direction without looking, “Her.”
“Whose unit is she assigned to?”
“Whichever damn one the Captain decides she’s assigned to.” Little-eye put her plate down and stared directly at Wymrick. “Why are you always asking so many questions? Shut the hell up and eat your food, New Guy.”
“Why are you being so...bah.” He scowled at both of them and climbed to a position in the trench to get a look at the tree line where the woman was eating. She was gone. “What the…?”
He dropped down, set his plate on a stump and clamoured out of the trench to look around. After several moments, not finding her in sight anywhere and his curiosity not the least bit satisfied, he scratched his growing thick red beard and slid back down into the trench.
“Do either of you two brain-worms know anything…” Little-eye was polishing off his bowl of stew. “Little-eye, what the hell, that’s my…”
“Hey,” she said around a mouthful, “you should know better than to leave a bowl untended, New Guy.”
“Put it down.”
“Or what?” She said as she stood up and shoved the last of it into her mouth.
Punch grinned and picked up his bowl and bread almost seconds before Wymrick made a flying tackle on Little-eye and the two of them crashed into the makeshift ‘table’ spilling everything else that was on it.
Little-eye let out a loud grunt, blowing the food that was in her mouth everywhere, as Wymrick hit her in the midsection. Though smaller, she was still much faster than he was. Before Wymrick could even get to a knee she was up and behind him, one arm looping underneath his neck and squeezing, while the other grabbed her wrist to lock the choke hold in place. Wymrick gasped as he felt his windpipe start to squeeze, his breath suddenly cut off.
He pushed off the ground, his size lifting him to his feet along with Little-eye, who wrapped her legs around his torso to keep from being thrown and squeezed her choke hold even harder. But he wasn’t trying to buck her. He let his standing momentum carry him up and straight over backwards.
Punch scrambled to retreat to a safer area of the trench and went back to eating while he watched the fight.
“Fuc…..” Little-eye started to yell right as they slammed into the ground, Wymrick’s full weight on top of her. The sound turned into a grunt of agony.
Smiling through the blood in his teeth where he’d bit his tongue, Wymrick growled. “Stop eating my…” It cut off like the sound of a strangled calf as Little-eye, her face filled with rage, clamped down even harder on her choke hold.
Wymrick was beginning to see dark stars, spots. He was flailing his arms about trying to get a grasp of her, of anything. At one point, he managed to somehow flip both of them over and now he was face down in the mud of the trench, LIttle-eye hanging on for dear life, as he thrashed and flailed trying to get a foothold.
Both of them shrieked in surprise when the cold water hit them from somewhere above. It was enough of a shock that LIttle-eye’s grasp loosened just enough for Wymrick’s floundering to break their struggle and throw the two of them apart.
“Next time that’s not going to be water, you gob-tits.”
Staring down at the two of them from the top of the trench, Samazar was apparently doing his best to wither their souls with just his glare. He threw the bucket at them. Wheezing and grunting in pain, they did their best to lurch painfully out of the way.
The bucket landed with a plop right between them.
“Get up. Clean off. New orders coming in. Top wants the company rallied at his tent. Little-eye, you’ve got overwatch until we get back. Lash is on overwatch for Cobra and Feral’s at Vulture.”
Little-eye was climbing slowly to her feet, grunting in pain at the grinding of what was most likely several bruised ribs, and started to open her mouth.
Samazar held up a hand and she shut it just as quickly. He turned on his heels and disappeared from the top of the trench.
“You two good?” Punch was stuffing the last piece of his bread he’d just used to mop the bottom of his bowl into his mouth.
Wymrick and Little-eye glared at each other a moment. Wymrick was trying to find his voice, his throat felt raw and tender and he knew he was going to have a hell of a bruise where Little-eye’s bracer had been squeezed into his windpipe. For her part, Little-eye quickly looked away and bent to straighten the turned over make-shift table, wincing as she moved.
Punch shrugged. “Guess that means ‘yes.’ Let’s go, New Guy.”
He climbed out of the trench.
Wymrick coughed. “Little-eye, are we..?”
Not bothering to even look at him, she made an obscene gesture and continued to tidy up, grunting in pleasure when she found a muddy chunk of bread and cheese. She promptly sat down on a stump, smiled at Wyrmick, and began to pick at the food. She stuffed the pieces she was able to salvage into her mouth.
“Don’t touch my food again,” Wymrick growled. Then without waiting for an answer he climbed from the trench to follow after Punch.
*****
The mid-day sun had begun to dip toward nighttime. All of Top’s company were gathered around a fire pit a few dozen paces from his command tent. Crookback, the company’s attached warmage, was busy mucking with something half-dead in a stone bowl laying in the fire pit. The rest of them clustered in their respective teams, though there was no formation. Samazar and Punch were conversing in low tones and the rest of Bear team - Stick, Grin and Lapdance - were making themselves useless playing a game of Knife and Peg.
Off in the distance, the clear signs of the two-day truce were readily apparent. A contingent of engineers from Brigga were busy trying to do quick-patch repairs on a wall that had been nearly breached during the Swords last assault. Word got quickly around that the Captain was really angry about Third Hesir’s failure to fully breach and hold it. He was less angry that Mudhopper, the Hesirs commander, had gotten himself chopped in half by a Brigga bolt thrower. Wymrick wasn’t sure how that had been Mudhopper’s fault, though, those bolt throwers were the size of a cog transport.
The Sword’s had been spending the two days of the truce reinforcing trenches, digging more and bringing up supplies from the rear. Truce was over tomorrow at daybreak. Wymrick had no idea what was going to happen but he’d quickly learned it meant more mud, more blood and more sleepless nights whatever it would be.
“Listen up, everyone!” Top was buckling on his large hand-and-a-half as he came out from the command tent and crossed to the fire pit. Crookback never looked up from whatever he was doing to whatever was in that bowl.
The rest of the conversations and leisure activities trailed off and all eyes and ears came alert.
Cobra’s team leader, Farwing, shot a nod toward Samazar as he said, “Top, we’ve been up on alert almost thirteen days. Give us something good.”
There were a few mumbles of agreement.
Wyrmick liked Farwing. He hadn’t met many Jotinar in his life, they didn’t tend to live far outside their homeland. He’d actually had more experience with their cousins because they’d taken to the sea and were excellent shipmates, living more to the south in and around Wymrick’s native home in the Coriscan Isles. When he’d first met Farwing, given the stout and sturdy warrior only came up to about Wymrick’s chest, he wasn’t sure about him. But after watching Cobra’s leader work in battle and hearing him work his team he’d stand beside Farwing anytime.
Top held up a hand to silence the group again and then turned to Buttercup. “Vulture’s being attached to Fourth Hesir. 3rd Company with Haven. Along with an attachment of sharpshooters from Sixth. You’re heading back to Mare’dan to escort two company’s worth of new recruits.
“We’re getting near forty new recruits?” She asked.
Next to Buttercup, Switch’s ears perked up. He’d been casting his gaze across the battlefield, continuing to scan the Brigga walls. “I’m the best shot here, Top, we don’t need more sharpshooters, especially for a nursemaid run.” Wymrick had never talked to Switch, but he’d seen his bow work or rather he’d seen the bodies fall off the wall from the arrows Switch could put down field with amazing accuracy. He did think it took some brass to say it out loud, though.
Buttercup gave Switch a scowl and a shake of her head but Top grinned, lopsided and shook his head. “No, you’re going to thank me after I tell everyone else what they’re going to be doing. And, yes, Buttercup. About forty or so.”
This elicited a very verbal and definite negative reaction from the remainder of the soldiers.
“Hell and fire, yes!” Crookback let out a cackle, stood up with his pot in hand. It was bubbling and spilling over the top with a crimson stained tar-like substance. Everyone, except Top, unconsciously took about three steps back and he whooped once more then ran straight into the command tent. He never looked at anyone.
Top let them all mutter a few moments about the warmage.
Egg held up one of his tattooed hands but started talking at the same time. “Top, Mere’dan’s at least a month round trip.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Word is we’re not going anywhere soon. The Serinnians have deep pockets. The Captain says they’ve been pleased with the progress and as long as we continue to make progress we get paid. And we all want to get paid, right?”
Wymrick grinned to himself. Not many of them were going to deny that, except maybe Buttercup. He was fairly certain she’d play soldier for free if someone asked her.
“So, the rest of us are heading to the south and west of Brigga.” He turned to face the city off in the distance and gestured in that direction. “The Serinnian Twelveth is stationed there, keeping a lock down on that area of the siege.”
That set off another litany of grumbles and groans. Farwing spit once as he stood up. “Yeah, those gob-fodder fat hogs have been sitting over there on their asses doing nothing except blocking incoming traders. Hell, I don’t think they’ve been hit in, what, at least a fortnight?”
Again, more mumbling and nodding. Top let them rant for a bit. Buttercup, on the other hand, wasn’t having any of it. “Will you all shut the hell up so we can get our new orders? Who gives a shit what the Serinnian Twelveth is doing? We’ve got a job to do. A job the Captain set us on. Sit your ass down, Farwing.”
Farwing scrambled to his feet and pointed at her. “I know you’d rather give it to charity or one of them half-witted camp followers for better shoes, but some of us actually want to spend the coin we’re getting out here on other things…” Behind him Lash yelled out “Like drinking and fucking!” as Farwing finished. “...and not die doing all of the work.”
“That’s enough!” Top bellowed out. The reaction was almost instant as everyone went still. “I’m giving these details to everyone now. But if my three team leaders would prefer a more discrete dissemination, by all means, let’s step into the command tent.”
The threat, or promise given the look on Top’s face, was very clear. Wymrick wasn’t sure what exactly would happen if someone took him up on it but no one did. He was actually a bit disappointed.
As Farwing squatted back down, Slab, sitting next to him pulled out a hooch bag and poured some of it into a copper cup he retrieved from his belt. He offered it to Farwing, who just shook his head.
Top gestured once again toward the south west. “Those ‘fat hogs’ are sitting on rough terrain, which is the primary reason there hasn't been any push for it. The Brigga militia knows they aren’t going to get hit from that side and closing up the trade route, in the short term, has served its purpose for them to keep us from thinking otherwise, while they wait out the siege.”
Morning groaned. She cracked her knuckles and stared at the ground. “‘Thinking otherwise?’ I don’t like where this is going.”
A burst of laughter from Shoehold. “Morning, you’re talking to yourself again.”
Her eyes went wide and she cocked a crooked grin. “Carry on, soldiers.” She said with a flourish of one hand.
That warranted chuckles from the group.
“Unfortunately, Morning, this time it’s probably spot on,” Top replied. More groaning. “We’re being tasked with breaking the blockade and getting a foothold in the lower section of the city.”
This time there was no reaction. They all just let that sink in. Wymrick was casting glances to see how the others were responding. After such a short time, he wasn’t sure what ‘breaking the blockade’ meant, but if it was anything like how it sounded, judging by the looks on everyone’s face, it probably wasn’t good. Talor, one of the two newer recruits to the company, was looking like he had every intention of running as far away as he could.
“Two units from the Serinnian Twelveth are going to be attached to us, as well as a support company from Sixth Hesir.”
That elicited low whistles and a number of eyebrows shot up.
“Wait,” Samazar stood up quickly. “We’re getting more warmages attached?”
Top nodded.
Slab choked on the drink he was tossing back and after a momentary coughing fit, said, “I’m not sure I like this plan.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet,” Buttercup growled, her brows knitted together.
“We’re still gathering information and the scouts have indicated their looking into a potential avenue of approach,” Top said.
Punch leaned down from where he was sitting and whispered over Wymrick’s shoulder. “See? Told you. Shit storm.”
Wymrick’s mind was working fast as he tried to keep up with the discussion. He nodded and forced himself not to think about the growing knot in the lower part of his stomach.
Top pushed on. “We’re moving at dawn. The Captain wants us settled in with the Twelfth by nightfall so we’ll have to hustle because we’re going to be moving as the truce ends and we know how that’s going to go.”
The comments and gripes all but died. Two weeks ago, before the push that got them almost to the wall, Wymrick had witnessed something similar happen. He remembered all the complaining and moaning and whining. But the moment the full mission had been laid out before them they all stopped and went to work. Like a trigger had just been pulled. He’d been impressed but now, seeing it again, he realized it was part of who they were.
“Get everything packed tonight. Don’t take anything you can’t eat or can’t kill with. Get some rest. I want all team leaders in my tent two bells before dawn.” Nods from the three team leads. “Dismissed.” Everyone began to head back to their trenches, grumbling and speculation flowing.
“Samazar, you and Wymrick hold back.” Top’s words sounded to Wymrick like the call of a doom herald. His eyes went wide. Uh-oh, he thought, not good. Was he going to get dressed down for the fight with Little-eye? He looked over to Samazar who was staring back at him with virtually no expression on his face. Samazar gestured him over.
As Wymrick swallowed his pride and started to guess whether he’d be getting trench duty or plop drop or worse, Top called out over both their heads. “He’s all yours, old man.”
The figure he hailed was winding his way through the departing soldiers. His leather armor was virtually worn smooth of any detailing and was a deep chocolate color from the years of oiling, sweaty hands and muddy dirt and blood. His beard was nearly to the center of his chest, full and so grey it settled in well against the brown of the leather cuirass and harness. His eyes were a smoky grey that jumped out behind the dirt and grime on the old man’s face. In one of his hands was an old leather sack that looked to have a heavy load. At one hip was a nasty looking rapier and at the other were three or four old, bloody torcs tied to his belt with an old leather strap.
Wymrick had only seen this old timer once, from afar and he couldn’t remember his name. But from the look of respect on Top’s face, it didn’t matter, he’d better tread carefully.
He set the bag down near the fire and turned to stare at Wymrick. Samazar and Top stood to the side, saying nothing. Wymrick was starting to get uncomfortable, when the old man stepped up almost nose to nose with him.
“He’s done his thirty?”
Wymrick wasn’t sure what the old man wanted but he nodded and said, “Thirty-two actually, I started the eighth day of eisakka…”
“I’m not talking to you, son.” His gaze never wavered from Wymrick’s eyes.
Yes, Wymrick was getting decidedly uncomfortable with this.
Samazar coughed. “He has.”
Wymrick was having a very difficult time staring back in the old man’s eyes. He had the distinct flash of a memory from childhood of a nursery rhyme about a cat stealing the souls of the children whose eyes it locked onto. His own eyes started to water and sting as if sand had been blown his way.
He blinked when the old man turned and walked back to the bag. “This one’s trouble. Stained.” Rummaging through the bag he laid out two small iron blocks and a thick, small forge hammer on the ground next to the fire.
Wyrmick blinked now several times, trying to flush out the sting. “What do you mean I’m stained.”
The old man climbed to his feet and for the first time Wymrick felt like the old man was actually looking at him rather than through him. “You walk a road forked only to the highest bidder.”
Casting a furtive glance at Top and Samazar, who continued to remain silent and stoic, Wymrick was unsure what to do next. “We’re mercenaries. Isn’t that part of the job?”
The grey head nodded. “Indeed it is, soldier.”
“Then what…”
“I am reminded of a tale I would tell, but perhaps later. Remind me sometime, Wymrick.” With a flick of his wrist the old man tossed an object at him. Trying to figure out why the old man was talking about stories, Wymrick was caught off guard and didn’t think to react as it hit him in the chest and dropped to the dirt. “Put that on.”
His patience was starting to wear thin, his temper was starting to chug in his chest, but Wymrick clamped down on any retort and bent to pick up the object.
The gleaming, newly forged torc on the ground at his feet gave him pause. It was ugly. The fresh forge marks and the rough surface were a stark contrast to the worn, notched and scarred torcs at the old man’s hip or around the necks of the other three.
Another look to Top and Samazar and still no reaction. He grasped the torc and stood to face the old man. With a bit of twisting and a pinch he slipped it around his neck. It was heavier than he’d expected, and the rough edges would most likely chaffe him for a while.
But it was a torc and it was his. This was it. The oath ceremony. Wymrick had been waiting a long time for this. And now it was finally happening.
Next the old man gestured for him to come to the fire. Wymrick obliged and began tugging and shifting the torc into different positions around his neck, trying to get it to feel more comfortable.
Samazar broke his stoic face and gave an exasperated groan. “Stop fiddling with it, New Guy.”
The old man who suddenly grinned. “You ready to take the Oath?”
Wymrick gave a big smile. “I am without a doubt more ready than you’ll ever know, old man.”
Something flitted across the old man’s face, deadened the humor. His eyes grew hard. Wymrick took a step back, unsure what he’d done, but then the look was gone and the old man winked at him.
“What say we get this done, then?”
Wyrmick nodded, cautious, then certain the old man must have just been winding him up.
The old man took a knee, gestured to Wymrick to do the same, and adjusted the two iron blocks and the small forge hammer between him and Wymrick. “Do you still have the weapon you brought with you at your recruitment?”
Without hesitation, Wymrick drew his short blade from its scabbard and held it up for the old man to see. “This is it.” He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I’ve had this thing for so long.”
When the old man held out a hand, Wymrick set the weapon in it. With more reverence then Wymrick would have given the old blade, he turned the blade over, inspecting it very carefully; tested it’s edge, its balance and weight, and glanced down the length of the blade to gauge if it was true.
Then he set it very gently onto the iron bars, the hilt on one, the tip on the other.
“Did it serve you well?”
Wymrick shrugged. “I used to kill rats with it. Vermin.” The other three simply watched him. “That’s what I did before joining the swords. I was a vermin hunter on the flotillas in the Isles. Thought about being a ship's Captain some day.”
Holding out the forge hammer toward Wymrick. “Today you will take the Oath of the Broken Swords. This is a binding, sacred pact known in the old language of the Samada as a horkos. Few true horkos exist because they are unbreakable. Our oath is one of these.”
Swallowing and realizing the weight and gravity the old man’s voice had suddenly taken, Wymrick’s eyes widened slightly and he nodded. “I understand.”
“No, you do not,” the old man said as he stood. “No one who has taken a horkos fully knows or understands until after, usually long after. But you are being told here and now. So when the truth finally hits you, understand you have been instructed and warned.”
“Warned?”
Samazar rolled his eyes again, sighed, started to step forward - most likely with the intention to smack Wymrick on the side of the head - but was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder from Top.
“You will repeat this oath. When you finish, draw not a single breath until you strike the weapon across the iron, breaking it.”
By my Oath, to the Sword Halls,
To the All-Father and to the Patron Saint of Soldiers,
By the blood that stirs within, I break my blade.
My past dies behind me, my future, the Broken Swords.
"Nod if you have heard my words.” The old man said and stepped back two paces.
Wymrick nodded, then looked down at the forge hammer in his hands, glanced to the faces of the three veterans before him. He swallowed hard twice, suddenly finding his tongue two sizes too big and his mouth dry as an empty wine cask.
Two years ago he’d first heard of the Swords and he finally knew he could get out of the hell hole where he’d grown up. Two months ago he’d got wind that the Swords we’re going to be recruiting near the Isles. Forty days ago, when they actually arrived, he’d skipped out on trapper duty for the final time and jumped ship.
This was going to be his life now. He nodded, more to assure himself then the others around him. He hefted the hammer, tapped the head several times in the open palm of his other hand and then repeated the oath.
By my Oath, to the Sword Halls,
To the All-Father and to the Patron Saint of Soldiers,
By the blood that stirs within, I break my blade.
My past dies behind me, my future, the Broken Swords.
Before he took another breath, he quickly raised the hammer and swung it down with all his strength across the middle of his old blade. It snapped with a loud ringing.
For a brief instant, nothing happened and his mind began to think something had gone wrong. He felt his lungs tighten, yearning to draw breath but they wouldn’t work. There was a sudden jolt at his neck, like the feeling of standing too close to a lightning strike they’d sometimes get on the open sea.
Then he could breathe again.
The old man dropped back to his knee and gathered the items, except the broken blade, stowing them back in the leather bag.
Wymrick shook his head several times, bewildered, waiting for more. He looked at the other three seeking answers from their faces. He received none and his thoughts began to race. Was that it? Was there more? What had just happened?
Samazar looked sternly at Wyrmick. “Welcome to the Swords, New Guy.”
Wymrick gently reached up, unconsciously, and fiddled again with the new torc at his neck, trying to clear the fog from his mind, feeling the moments before receding, the memory of the shock now imagined.
The old man climbed to his feet and glanced over to Top with a nod. Samazar grunted. “Do I have permission to take this Sword back to his trench, Flewellyn?”
The old man grunted and chuckled, but said nothing, merely walked from the circle back toward the camp proper.
Top grinned as well, clapped Samazar on the shoulder again and then headed into the command tent.
The grin Samazar gave Wymrick when he turned to look at him again gave Wymrick a pang in his gut.
“First official assignment? You and Little-eye got seven days digging and cleaning the dumps when we hook up with the Twelfth. Work it out between you. Next time I catch you hitting each other instead of the enemy I will personally stick your heads up each other’s asses.”
Without another word he turned and headed back toward Bear’s trench line. After a moment, Wymrick realized he was supposed to follow.
