Free Rora by James Byron Huggins Page A

horn and ammunition pouch.
    The older men carried the horns and pouches high and tight so they wouldn't waste energy searching or even reaching. Nor would the horns bounce when they moved, revealing their position in the dark. The younger carried them on long, fashionable leather straps that rested the horn on their hips, clattering across canteens.
    Yes, there was nothing like experience to teach a man that strength in battle was an expensive commodity. Once spent, it was hard to regain; the best remedy was not to expend it.
    Veterans had already prepared rucksacks that they kept close at all times. They also kept their weapons with them at all times, and they bore long poniards at their waist even when they slept because they knew a good knife was the indispensable implement for a soldier. If a man lost his rifle or food, he could always regain them with patience and a knife. But if he lost his rifle and his knife, he was as good as dead.
    And there was the most important rule of all—always keep it simple. Always, always keep it simple—a simple means of foraging, of building a fire, of navigating. The less complicated it was, the less that could go wrong. The rule, alone, was simple to remember, and it applied to everything.
    As Gianavel passed one young man, he pulled a red bandana from the boy's pocket and spoke sternly. "Wear nothing with color! Dress like the forest! And wear only leather! It makes no sound when you brush against branches and leaves! Remember the difference between cover and concealment! Concealment means you can't be seen! Cover means you can't be shot! Always use cover! Always! A man does not need to see you to kill you!"
    Some eyes widened with fear as Gianavel walked the line. Then he focused on the youngest—a boy of perhaps fifteen who tigh tly clutched his rifle, fingers white with tension. Gianavel paused before him, his voice loud enough to carry. "Put on your gloves!"
    The boy started. "Sir?"
    "Your gloves!" Gianavel said and waited while the boy struggled to pull gloves over each hand. Then, fingers stiff and insensitive, he trembled as Gianavel walked behind him. "Load and fire!"
    Fumbling with the heavy stockings, the boy managed to uncap his horn, poured far too much powder into the barrel, needed twice as long to work the rod, and spilled even more powder charging the plate. He was fumbling awkwardly with his grip when he fired, and the shot went high and wide, completely missing the target.
    The boy staggered, waving at the huge cloud of smoke that blocked his vision. Then, coughing, he stepped back in line. It took only a glance to know he was humiliated.
    Gianavel firmly gripped his shoulder, no condemnation. "That's how you'll feel when you fire a shot in battle." He patted the boy on the back, then filed past the rest of them.
    "In battle nothing will feel as it feels now. Your fingers will feel like sticks! Your feet will feel like blocks of wood! Everything will seem dull and thick! Like you are fighting underwater!" He paused, insuring they were listening closely. "It has nothing to do with fear! It is only your body preparing itself for battle! Don't fear it and it will fade! But if you fear it—if you think something terrible and strange is happening to you—then it won't go away! Your fear will keep it with you!" He looked at each man in turn. "I have seen a hundred battles, and I have felt the same every single time! Every time! But I know what it is and it does me no harm! Be strong! Remember what it is and it will fade!"
    Gianavel glanced again at the hill, back at the boy. "It's a better shot than I made when my father made me do the same thing," he nodded.
    The boy smiled, still uncertain, as Gianavel continued, "How do you fight a hundred men?" He waited until Bertino shouted from the far end, "One at a time!"
    Gianavel gave a hearty laugh. "Exactly! One at a time. He walked on. "You think they are like the elephant! And they are! But even an elephant can be eaten