Wolf in the Fold, page 41
“It’s a very plausible lie,” Sir James said. “But it is a lie.”
Robin flushed. It wasn’t precisely a lie. He’d seen plenty of younger sons fall into depression – or drink – because they would never amount to anything beyond workers on their brother’s farm. He knew it could happen to him too. And Eliza ... if she married poorly, she might not live long enough to regret it.
“The truth, please,” Sir James said. He spoke politely, but firmly. “Don’t waste my time.”
“I ... I caught an aristo trying to rape my sister,” Robin said. He couldn’t tell if it was a mistake to confess or not. Sir James was an aristocrat, if he was any judge, but he was clearly cut from very different cloth than the local nobility. “I beat him to death. If we go home, we’ll be caught and murdered. If we go to the city” – he shook his head – “this is the only place we can go.”
“I see.” Sir James said nothing for a long moment, but his eyes bored into Robin’s. “Do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”
He continued before Robin could think of a response. “You will be trained – and harshly – until you are ready to take your place in the field. There’ll be nothing genteel about it. If you don’t come up to scratch, or you prove unwilling or unable to handle military discipline, you will be punished or expelled. And you” – his eyes moved to Eliza – “will be one of our washerwomen, doing everything from cooking and cleaning to mending shirts and tending the wounded. Again, there will be nothing genteel about it. If you don’t come up to scratch, you will be expelled.”
Eliza nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I know how to cook and clean. And sew.”
“Yes, sir,” Robin echoed.
“You will belong to us, in all senses of the word,” Sir James said. “Your first loyalty will be to the Bloody Hands. Your families back home, your friends ... they all come second to us. We will be resuming our march tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, and you may never see your home again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Robin managed.
“Very good,” Sir James said. “I need to speak to my inner council. Wait outside. If you change your mind” – he gave them a toothy grin – “you can walk back to the gate and the guards will let you leave. Follow the road east and it’ll take you to a city outside your kingdom. If you’re not there when we come out, we’ll let you go. If you are ... there will be no further opportunities to change your mind. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Robin said. “And thank you.”
“Thank me after you see your first battle,” Sir James said. He pointed at the flap. “Not before.”
***
James kept the stern expression on his face until Robin and Eliza had left the tent, then allowed himself a moment of amusement. The two peasants had told a convincing story, but James had years of experience dealing with far more practiced liars, and the tells were all too visible. Their second story had been true, he was sure, and it added an amusing little wrinkle to the whole affair. He could hardly condemn Robin for killing a would-be rapist. It was a very minor issue compared to his own crimes.
“He reminds you of you, doesn’t he?” Sergeant-Major Winter didn’t mince words. “You do realise this could land us in hot water?”
“I doubt it.” James had met the local lord, a man whose pretensions cloaked deep insecurity and very limited power. He could bully a peasant village, perhaps, but five hundred armed mercenaries could take his castle easily and put everyone inside to the sword. “No one is going to pick a fight with us over two runaways, even if they do realise the poor kids came here.”
“The girl may have talent,” Tancella put in. “I’d like to test her, if you don’t mind.”
James nodded, knowing the sorceress would do it anyway. There was no point in issuing orders you knew wouldn’t be followed. Besides, the band could always do with more magicians. It was rare for a second-rank magician to sign up for more than a year or two and almost unknown for a first-rank to join up at all. Tancella was the only one he’d met who’d stayed for over five years and he had no idea why. He’d never bothered to ask. For all he knew, her story was comparable to his own.
“I’ll see what we can make of them,” Winter said. “Just don’t get too blinded by the kid’s likeness to you.”
“Hah.” James shrugged. One recruit would hardly save or damn the company. He probably had more of a soul than most mercenaries, and the fact he’d defended his sister spoke well of him, but ... he was unpolished. Physically strong, like most farmers, yet probably lacking in any real military training. “You take him to the platoon, make sure he gets thrown in at the deep end. Sink or swim.”
“I know the drill,” Winter said. “And I’ll take care of him.”
Tancella grinned. “I’ll take care of the girl,” she said. “If she has the talent and a willingness to learn, I’ll make something of her.”
“Good.” James looked from one to the other. “We’re already pushing it, if we want to get to Tidebank City before the deadline. Make sure everyone is ready to march at the crack of dawn.”
“Yes, sir,” Winter said. “We’ll be there in plenty of time.”
James nodded, returning his attention to the letters in front of him as they left the tent. His thoughts were elsewhere. Winter wasn’t wrong to say that Robin reminded James of himself, a young man who had committed an awful crime by the standards of the aristocracy ... not, James acknowledged, that his crime had been as vile as the one James himself had committed. Reason enough to give Robin and his sister a second chance, he supposed, and there was little real risk of the local lord realising what had happened in time to stop them. If the body had been hidden, it might not be found until the band was well on the way to Tidebank.
And if the whole affair works out in our favour, he told himself, it’ll be all the better for us.
Chapter Two
“Last chance,” Robin muttered to Eliza. “Do you want to stay?”
“Yeah,” Eliza said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”
Robin nodded, despite feeling oddly cold and exposed in the middle of the camp. The mercenaries didn’t seem to be paying attention to them, but he’d seen enough strangers being watched by his fellow villagers to know what it felt like to watch someone without making it obvious. Everyone who passed by glanced at them, some eying his sister in a manner that made his blood boil and others weighing him up as if his fate rested in their hands. It might, he reflected bitterly. He didn’t know much about how mercenaries conducted themselves, when they weren’t looting, raping and pillaging for money, but some of the people checking him out might be officers, ready to expel him as soon as he gave them an excuse. There was nothing certain about their position, and there never would be, not now. They would never be able to go home again.
Sergeant Winter emerged from the tent. “You’re still here,” he said, in a tone that was impossible to read. “You, boy, come with me.”
Robin stiffened. “What about Eliza?”
“I’ll take care of her,” Tancella said. The sorceress was shorter than he’d realised, practically diminutive. “You take care of yourself.”
“Go,” Eliza said. “I’ll be fine.”
Robin hoped to hell she was right, as Sergeant Winter turned and marched away. A sorceress should be able to look after his sister, right? He gritted his teeth and followed the sergeant through a maze of tents, some brightly coloured and others clearly designed to blend in with the undergrowth. The men outside were doing everything from press-ups to cooking and cleaning – Robin’s lips twitched to see grown men peeling potatoes; back home, cooking was almost exclusively a female domain – but they paused long enough to salute the sergeant as he passed, before studying Robin to see if he was someone they should pay attention to. Robin felt cold, again, as they walked onwards. He’d had a place in the village, a role that brought both rights and obligations. He wasn’t sure what he had here.
“Right now, you are a maggot,” Sergeant Winter said, as if answering his thoughts. “You have no rank, no authority. You will not be truly part of the platoon until you master the basics of warfare, and you will not be respected by your peers until you prove yourself. Expect them to test you – and hard – until they are sure you can be trusted.”
“I can be trusted,” Robin said, heatedly. “I ...”
“You have never been in battle,” Sergeant Winter said. “I’ve known muscular men break and run at the first hint of real combat, while scrawny little creatures held their ground. No one can tell how they will truly react until they stand in line, ready to break a cavalry or orc charge, knowing that if they try to flee they might survive at the cost of sacrificing their peers. You may be a great infantryman, one day, or you may break at the first challenge. Your peers do not know which you are. Not yet.”
“I will prove myself,” Robin said.
“Brave words.” Sergeant Winter sounded amused. “I’ve heard them before, from the highest to the lowest. Some made it. Some didn’t.”
He paused. “They will test you. You’ll hate it. Try not to let it get under your skin. Being calm in combat is a skill you’ll need to master, if you want to make it.”
Robin swallowed. “I can be calm.”
“I’ve heard that before too,” Sergeant Winter said. “Some made it. Some didn’t.”
He went on, calmly. “Listen to your peers, and your officers. Obey orders. Learn!”
“Yes, sir,” Robin said.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Sergeant Winter said. “I work for a living.”
“Sergeant?”
“Old joke.” Sergeant Winter smiled, rather humourlessly. “You’ll understand one day.”
He straightened up. “You’re being assigned to 1st Company, 1st Platoon. They lost a private last week, so they can have you as a replacement. Listen to them, and learn.”
Robin didn’t want to know, but he asked anyway. “They lost a private?”
“He went out one evening and never returned,” Sergeant Winter said. “We searched, of course, and found nothing. Deserted, perhaps, or murdered. It wouldn’t be the first time someone was lured away from his comrades and wound up dead. I know men who got very drunk and had their throats slit by footpads, or whores. You have to fit in with your platoon because, once you prove yourself, they’re the only friends you’ll have. The rest of the world hates us.”
He paused outside a large tent and whistled. A tall man with a decidedly aristocratic air – and a nasty scar running down his cheek – stepped out, his face darkening when he saw Sergeant Winter. Robin couldn’t tell if the taller man genuinely disliked the sergeant or if he was just irked at being disturbed, but he suspected it didn’t matter. An annoyed officer might just take it out on his new recruit.
“This is Lieutenant Hans Gruber, platoon commander,” Sergeant Winter said. “Lieutenant, this is Robin of No Fixed Abode. Your new recruit.”
Gruber looked Robin up and down. “No Fixed Abode?”
“We ... ah ... ran away from home, sir,” Robin said. “There’s nothing left for us back there.”
“Good.” Gruber’s tone hardened. “Any fighting experience?”
Robin hesitated. “Just a handful of fights in the fields, sir.”
“Hah.” Gruber sounded utterly unimpressed. “Peasants don’t know how to fight, or they’d have destroyed the aristos a long time ago. Not promising material.”
He studied Robin for a long moment. “Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me.” Gruber raised his fists. “Fight me. That’s an order.”
Robin glanced at Sergeant Winter, who nodded ... and then Robin jumped backwards, just in time, as Gruber aimed a punch at his jaw. The man was stronger and faster than he looked... Robin clenched his fists, unsure what to do. Should he try to take the officer down or ...?
“You’ll never have a better chance to put me down, maggot,” Gruber said. “You’ll come to hate me shortly, and all the officers under my command, but you’ll never be allowed to take a swing at me again. Or are you just another coward who’ll talk big while doing nothing to keep his baby sister from being raped ...? You want to watch as her legs are forced open and the rapist puts a baby in her with his cock ...”
Robin threw himself at the officer, driven more by anger than rational thought. Gruber blocked his first punch effortlessly, before tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the ground. Robin rolled over and came upright, trying to punch the officer in the face ... Gruber caught his arm, yanked him forward, and pulled the arm behind his back. Robin screamed – the pain was agonising – and tried to pull free. But it was already too late.
“Basic brawler, lead with your fists.” Gruber didn’t sound angry, just analytical. “No real fighting training, good. Less to unlearn. You need to control your temper too. The enemy will try to provoke you, and if you let them get to you, you’ll make mistakes.”
He stepped back, letting Robin go. “Do you want to come at me again?”
“No, sir,” Robin said. He had already started to dislike the officer, but he was sure that trying to throw another punch would end badly. “I want to learn.”
“Good answer, maggot,” Gruber said. His eyes flickered to Winter. “I’ll take care of him, Sergeant. He’ll be ready to fight soon – or he’ll be broken.”
“Good luck,” Sergeant Winter said.
Gruber motioned for Robin to follow him into the tent. The air inside was heavy, smelling faintly of too many men in too close proximity. The ground was covered with bedrolls, neatly laid out in a single line. Knapsacks rested at one end – Robin guessed they were makeshift pillows – and blankets, folded as neatly as the bedrolls, were piled at the far end. A handful of bladed weapons were clearly visible, but otherwise it was little different from the time he’d slept in a barn with a bunch of other young men. He felt a rush of optimism. He could do this. They could do this.
“Listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once,” Gruber said. “There are rules for maggots. You will follow them until I tell you otherwise. You will do exactly as you are told. You will not bring alcohol into the tent or anything else that might impede your ability to carry out your duties. You will respect and learn from your comrades. If you have a problem with any of them, you can settle it in the boxing ring. Got me?”
Robin nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You will be issued everything you need, from uniforms to weapons. You will take care of them – we will show you how – and you will be billed for every replacement unless you manage to convince me otherwise. Your wages will be paid into the regimental accounts – the paymaster will take care of it – and held in escrow for the first month. If you have any money with you, add it to the accounts. Maggots do not get to hold money. It keeps them from gambling.”
“Sir?”
“Infantrymen love to gamble,” Gruber said. “But it is very easy to get into debt. There are rules around gambling, which we’ll discuss later. For now, you are forbidden to engage in gambling, and if you are caught trying it anyway, you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Gruber gave him a predatory smile. “Your training begins now.”
He wasn’t kidding, Robin discovered very quickly. Gruber marched him outside and started running through basic drills, everything from marching in line to press-ups and other forms of exercise. A handful of other men joined them, making ribald remarks as they watched Robin being put through his paces; Gruber ordered them to join the march so they could show Robin what they’d learnt over the last few months. Robin quickly found himself covered in sweat, his muscles aching as he stretched them in new and unfamiliar directions. His new comrades didn’t seem anything like as troubled by the march, any more than their commanding officer. Robin had been told that aristocratic officers stayed in the rear, sipping fine wine while their men fought and died, but Gruber seemed to lead by example. He did everything he ordered Robin to do and more besides.
“It’ll get easier, maggot,” Gruber assured him. “And then the real pain will begin.”
Robin barely had a second to catch his breath before he was whisked to the regimental office, where a scribe took down his details and asked a number of very incisive questions, then to the paymaster’s tent to arrange for his wages. The paymaster took the money Robin had stolen and added it to the accounts without question, then passed Gruber a receipt. Robin’s new commander stuffed it in his pocket, then led the way to the quartermaster. The older man – Robin would never have guessed he was a military officer if he’d met him anywhere else – outfitted Robin with a knapsack and bedroll of his own, then offered useful advice on how to carry it. Robin couldn’t help thinking it was the strangest conversation he’d ever had.
“Remember to follow orders,” Gruber said, as they entered the next tent. “This isn’t the place to argue.”
“Yes, sir,” Robin said.
The chirurgeon was a strict, no-nonsense man. “Strip.”
Robin blinked, then forced himself to undress. He had grown up on a farm, and he was used to the complete lack of privacy, but the chirurgeon wasn’t family and ... he had to force himself to remove his undergarments and put them on the ground. The chirurgeon looked Robin up and down, then poked and prodded at his body while snapping out a series of questions, each one more intimate than the last. Robin found it hard to think clearly, which might have been the point. It was harder to lie, no matter how humiliating it was to admit he was a virgin. The only girl he’d kissed had refused to go any further, no matter how he’d begged and pleaded.
“He seems clean,” the chirurgeon said, when the whole exercise was done. “You can make a man of him.”
Gruber snorted. “Get into your uniform,” he said. “Your old outfit will be burnt.”
Robin opened his mouth to object, then caught himself. There was no point in keeping the farmer’s tunic. Traditionally, they were passed down from wearer to wearer, patched up time and time again to the point it was difficult to say if anything of the original garment remained. His father and his grandfather had worn it, or something very much like it ... he felt another pang of guilt. He was never going to see his father again.
