One of the men gave a harsh laugh.
“General Malachi’s idea of training can be kinda rough,” another rider confided.
“I doubt I’ll notice,” Gar said. “Yes, by all means leave the pack, if you’ve no need of ribbons.”
The riders all brayed laughter as though he’d made a hilarious joke and, still laughing, led him off down the road.
When they were well out of sight, Alea came out of the brush, hauled Gar’s pack back in, and covered it with brambles and leaves, swearing at her companion’s recklessness. She had no doubt he fully intended to come back for that pack—she would be very surprised if he decided to stay with this army. What there was of the army, anyway. None of those riders had looked terribly professional. She certainly wouldn’t have dignified any of them with the title of “soldier.” Perhaps “bandits” or simply “outlaws,” but they scarcely had the discipline she’d seen in the armies of her own people in Midgard, and certainly nowhere nearly as much as that of the dwarves.
She’d have to follow him, of course. If he had to fight his way free of an army, he’d need all the help he could get. She’d have to stay under cover, though—she wouldn’t do him much good if she were caught before he made his break.
The patrol led Gar a mile down the road, then off to follow a deer trail that climbed higher and higher through the woods until it came out onto a sort of plateau that had been barricaded around with a fence made of brush. Looking more closely, Gar saw that the brush had long, sharp thorns. There was a sort of gateway blocked by two men holding long-handled axes. Gar frowned; there was something very amateurish about this army. They hadn’t even invented proper halberds yet! Which meant their ancestors hadn’t brought the knowledge from Terra and, in fact, had probably been careful to lose it.
“What’s this, Router?” asked one of the guards with a nod toward Gar.
“A new recruit, boys, and one who’s already proved he can fight a little,” Sergeant Router said. “Let him in; we’ll make sure he minds his manners.”
The other guard guffawed and the first grinned. “I’m sure you will that! He’s a big one, though, isn’t he? Well, all the easier for the general to see. Take him in.”
They rode through the gate and down a lane between brush huts, and other “soldiers” came out to gawk at the huge man striding between the horses; they called out some rude speculations about his ancestry. Since Gar didn’t recognize most of the creatures involved, he declined comment.
In the center of the camp, they came to a larger but that actually had wattle walls and a thatched roof. Three men were plastering the withes, but it still looked very temporary. In front of it stood a bull of a man a bit taller than the others, his leather tunic decorated with fringes and some brass ornaments. His hair was a black thatch, his eyes small but alert, his jaw square, and his nose crooked with a break that had healed wrong some years in the past. Near him, at various distances, stood men as big as himself, leaning on their spears with watchful eyes—a bodyguard, at a guess.
The bull-man’s eyes glinted as he saw Gar in the midst of the patrol.
As they rode up to him, Router and his men held their hands to their brows, then away—very sloppy salutes.
The big man returned them, though, his gaze still on Gar. “What’s this, Sergeant? A new recruit?”
“That he is, sir.” Then to Gar, “Take your hat off when you’re talking to your new general, man!” Gar doffed his broad-brimmed hat, wondering when the general was going to feel rich enough to issue his men caps so they could take them off to show him respect. Until he did, he’d have to settle for the pantomime that constituted the salute. “Found him strolling down the road, easy as you please, carrying a peddler’s pack. Thought we’d find him a better task for a man.”
“A man?” General Malachi curled his lip. “Any reason to think that’s what he is, instead of one of these village sheep?”
“Well, he didn’t want to take orders.” Router grinned. “Thought he could take on all six of us. Had a bit of a dustup with one of my men. Handled himself pretty well, too.”
“Might be worth his copper, then.” Malachi turned to Gar. “What do you think of the army, man?”
“Soldiering is an ancient and honorable profession, sir.”
“Honorable, is it?” Malachi grinned. “The folk of the three villages we’ve taken wouldn’t say so. Still, it has a nice sound. So you came willingly, did you?”
“Yes, sir—once I had made it clear that coming to see you was my choice.”
The riders muttered, exchanging uneasy looks. Malachi nodded shrewdly. “Pulled one of ‘em off his horse, did you? And warned the others you’d give him back in pieces if they tried to jump you, like enough.” He transferred his gaze back to Router. “So you talked sweet reason to him, did you, Sergeant?”
“That I did, sir, and I do have to say he kept a civil tongue in his head when he answered me.”
It was both a veiled boast and a statement that Router hadn’t been overawed for a second, simply recognized talent when he saw it.
Malachi nodded. “Well, that’s good enough to warrant a word or two. Bid your men take their ease for an hour, Sergeant, before you take them back on patrol.”
Router hesitated, casting a wary glance at Gar. “Leave him to us,” one of the bodyguards said with a savage grin. “He won’t touch the general, be sure of it.”
“Nice to know you’re thinking of my safety.” General Malachi said with dry sarcasm, “but there’s no need to worry, Sergeant. These men have stopped three assassins before now. No need to fear for me.”
Really! The man had been more successful than Gar had realized, to have aroused such hatred. Gar wondered how the assassins had come even this close to him.
“Aye, sir.” Router made his clumsy salute again and his men followed suit, then turned and followed him into the camp, muttering to one another. They seemed relieved, somehow.
General Malachi’s voice turned to a bark. “Stand stiff, soldier! Know that you don’t have any choice in this—you’re one of my men now, like it or not, and your training sergeant will kick that into you till you don’t dare talk back and do anything you’re told instantly! It’s going to be hell, learning to be a soldier, plowboy, and don’t you think it won’t be! ”
“I’ll make it through, sir,” Gar said, “because I know when it’s done, I’ll be a soldier like—”
“Who asked you?” General Malachi’s hand whipped out, slapping Gar backhanded. Pain slashed through his mouth and teeth and anger fought to erupt. He stood stiff as a board, keeping his hands at his side, throttling the anger.
Malachi stood watching him, fists on his hips, and his bodyguards stood taut and ready. When Gar stood firm, Malachi nodded, and the bodyguards relaxed ever so slightly. “Well,” said the general, “you’ve learned the first rule of soldiering, and it came hard enough—but you learned it quick, I’ll say that.”
Gar, who had been a soldier and an officer in half a dozen armies, kept the contempt from showing in his face. The man was a rank amateur, but Gar wouldn’t learn anything by saying so—and he had been suckered in neatly to that first “lesson.”
“All right, then, you’ve learned,” General Malachi said easily. “Anything you’d like to know? Don’t worry, I’m giving you permission to speak now.”
“Well, I was wondering, sir, how you became a general.”
Malachi bellowed a laugh and his bodyguards snickered. “How I come to be a general? Why, I told the world I was, man, and defied it to tell me otherwise! Mind you, I started out as an outlaw like any, but I fought my way up to be captain of my band—and when I bludgeoned out another captain in fair fight and won his men, I decided I’d have to be more than a captain, so I thought through those old stories that only outlaws tell and remembered the ranks in the ancient armies. I called myself a major and dared any who thought otherwise to prove it on me. One captain dared, and after that I had three bands under me. Some others joined of their own choice, the rest I conquered, and when I bossed all the bands in this forest, I called myself colonel. Now that I’ve captured three towns, I think I rate the rank of general.”