I’d never actually served in anything that could be called an official military capacity, come to think of it. Funny that. I’d done more fighting than a lot of career men-at-arms, and yet here I was without ever having so much as been conscripted. It was a state I’d have rather continued in. Unfortunately, my new patron was struggling enough in finding me a Thaumaturgical tutor that I needed other ways to make myself useful in the meantime.

  On the other hand, while being forced to fight had its demerits, there were a few positive changes. I was told I’d be given armour and arms, housing and food. That was a damn sight better than the lack of stability I’d enjoyed on the road. As I left the mansion, Devyne seemed far happier than me. No shock there.

  “I told you I’d take care of it all,” he grinned, apparently under the impression that he’d actually taken care of anything. I said nothing at all. The best response I could think of would be to hit him…but I worked for this father now.

  Seventeen years old, close to eighteen, with months spent travelling the world and one of the finest educations a man could ask for. And I was sulking because I had a job.

  As we returned to Eoryg, I realised that we’d not actually told Gruin where we were going or why. Fortunately he was not particularly bothered by this, and when we returned to our quarters I found the Grynkori happily eating away as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with the world. From his perspective, I supposed, there probably wasn’t. Not yet at least.

  “Was wondering where you went,” he said between bites, “what’s going on? The Thaumaturge coming to kill us?”

  He sounded excited by the prospect, of course, and I imagined Gruin had spent his entire time alone here imagining how he’d go about hacking Wyrickai to pieces when he was called upon to do so. I was not nearly so confident in the Grynkori’s ability to defeat fucking magic of course, though I knew better than to try and win him over to my side of thinking on that account.

  “No,” I told him honestly. After only a brief pause I explained the situation.

  “Ha!” Gruin’s face lit up like a bonfire and he aimed one fat finger at me, “serves you right. Well then I’d best sign on to fight with you eh?”

  That suggestion surprised me more than a little, and I tried, probably failed, to keep the fact from showing on my face.

  “How come?” I asked him, as if it were of little significance. From the corner of my eye I could see Devyne blanche. Clearly he wasn’t fond of the idea.

  I actually understood that of course, my father had warned me at length about the dangers of employing dangerous maniacs. A man’s servants reflected on him, he always said, and he who enjoyed the company of ill repute would soon find his own reputation ill.

  On the other hand, if a man’s servants made any indication of his character at all my father would have been a far tougher and more useful individual than he actually was. Sadly this lesson hadn’t come to me yet.

  The next few days were something of a scramble, as I was informed I would be free to spend the remainder of the tourney however I liked and only sign on as one of Earl Gethriq’s men-at-arms after the fact.

  It was an odd offer to receive. Not because of my youth or the circumstances as much because I wasn’t really suited for it. Men-at-arms, almost by definition, were people who had their own plate armour and could fight mounted or not. I’d gotten some horseback training, though never of a combative sort, and my increasingly-worn chainmail was certainly not plate.

  Perhaps it was the unique hardship of my recent days, compared to my cushy life before them that was, but I found the mystery gnawing at me. Couldn’t shake the feeling that it was in some way dangerous, like an unseen predator breathing down my neck.

  The tourney’s resumption came as a pleasant distraction from that, right up until I got solidly trounced in my next bout. No surprise there, it was rare for me to do much better than fourth in affairs with far smaller talent pools. I considered my accomplishment today better than that time I’d almost won one.

  So there was no real misfortune in losing. It bothered me of course, I’d been feeling drunk off my own improbable victories, but if I was being realistic I’d already gotten farther than I could’ve expected to. No, the real misfortune came when Gethriq sent a pair of his existing men-at-arms to bring me back over to his estate and get me situated among them.

  That was when I realised how badly I’d been fucked over.

  Presented to me were several things. A heavy steel breastplate and helm, some mail leggings, a shield and polearm…and a bill to the total cost of it all.

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  It hit thirty five grains, immediately shackling me in a debt worth almost double the money I’d saved up so far.

  As far as realisations went, I hadn’t had a worse one than this since I was officially banished from my father’s shelter and forced to wander with Morlo.

  As far as realisations went, it didn’t seem like Gruin had had a better one since he was promised money for clubbing monsters to death underground. He laughed so hard at my reaction that I feared he’d be mistaken for a mad-man and beaten away. Fortunately he came to soon enough to articulate that he was signing on alongside me.

  That did not appear to make the other men present any more enthusiastic about his being there, of course, but it did mean they had to kick the problem upstairs to their superiors before pulling out the batons.

  Gruin was given some sort of test that I wasn’t allowed to watch, but did hear about while I was being situated. Apparently the Grynkori had been hired without any hesitation, but was starting his time in the guard under disciplinary action after almost hospitalising one of the men involved in his test.

  That meant laps, docked pay and, as a result of both and the debt he was taking on with his armour, less drinking. It was my turn to laugh.

  What followed next, for the few days after, was odd. Devyne still hung around, which surprised me, but seemed convinced still that I’d somehow be doing heroics while pressed into the service of some shitty household guard. In hindsight that should’ve been a warning sign of what was to come, because after only a few days of practice fighting in my breastplate and swinging from horseback, we were sent out for combat far from Eoryg.

  I didn’t get to ride in a cushy carriage this time, nor was I permitted to move at my own pace. Nor, even, did I have as light a load as I did in my previous strides. Though trained to fight mounted, I hadn’t had a horse included in my equipment and was left to slog it on foot. On foot and in armour.

  Not pleasant. The breastplate wasn’t a lot heavier than my mail, surprisingly enough, but the extra few pounds definitely added up as my step count hit the thousands.

  Walking in time with others was worse, as was not knowing where I was going. I felt suddenly, terribly stifled by it all. Pressed in from all sides by the lack of freedom, trapped again. Slow as I was, introspective as I wasn’t, it took me the better part of a day to articulate the source of my unease.

  I felt just as I had when living with my father.

  The realisation hit me like a fist made of solid steel.

  Not that I could do anything about it, I was in an army now. My days were dedicated to soldiering.

  Soldiering is not a task for smart people, let me tell you. There are three main characteristics necessary for a good soldier; violent and antisocial tendencies, a resistance to the debilitations of fear and a willingness to do as you’re told. As you might already be working out, that essentially means that an ideal soldier, the group best suited for this career out of any in the world, is an idiot.

  Lots of people take offence to pointing that out, in fact you will see a more violent reaction against the suggestion of idiotic soldiers than almost anything else. This is because everyone secretly knows it’s true. Especially the people who know soldiers. You can’t remain in the presence of those grunting, slack-jawed, uncomprehending monkeys for more than a few hours before noticing that they don’t quite think they way normal people do. It’s simply too obvious for anyone to miss. So obvious that I suspect even soldiers are aware of the fact, the sharper ones at least.

  Gruin didn’t seem to notice, which was probably why he got along so well with the grunting morons. Well, not perfectly that was. Grynkori weren’t any more popular among these louts as they were any others and he got more than his share of shit for being one. It was only when we made camp for our first night that this came to a head.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad, I thought, to see Gruin have some trouble instead of myself for once. The problem of course was that we were known associates, and men who started fights out of sheer drunken bigotry tended to be somewhat indiscriminate in their discrimination.

  On the other hand, Gruin healed fast and was more or less recovered after so many days of bed-rest and gorging.

  Five of the men approached him, though only three from the front. I watched the other two come up behind him as I readied myself to sleep—without so much as a sack to cover myself in—and made ready for nightfall. It was dark, but they were noisy, and I’d developed an eye for imminent violence through sheer convenience.

  Gruin hadn’t needed to develop such an eye. It was dark, but as a Grynkori his vision worked as perfectly now as it ever did in the light of day. Perhaps better. From my perspective, with my own above-average night vision, the soldiers were floundering for a bit until almost on top of him.

  One of them started to say something, something rude and intimidating no doubt, but by then Gruin had already worked out what was happening. He moved before any of them expected him to and planted a punch right in the nearest one’s belly. The man just folded over his fist and dropped.

  Unfortunately, these were soldiers. Suddenly taking out one of them didn’t shock the rest like it would in a group of drunken arseholes at a tavern. The moment Gruin’s fist lashed out, he was already being swarmed by others like he owed them money. I watched the blows start raining down on him as all their bodies pressed in tight.

  His main advantage was that with the attack taking them into such compressively tight quarters, human arms were too long to fully extend without sacrificing most of their speed and force. Gruin’s stubbier limbs were just perfect to lash out at this range and retain devastating weight.

  Another man went down in short order, which quickly intensified the beating Gruin took as the remaining three now had more room to work with. He began to stumble and break down from the unrelenting punches and kicks, the grabs, the snarls. Three strong men’s strength against his seemed an even bout, if one he was fractionately losing, and they stumbled around like a bunch of drunkards leaning on each other for support.

  That was about when I got involved. There was no heroic element to this, of course.

  I just didn’t want the Grynkori to hold a grudge at me for not helping.

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