Free The Soldier's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page A

to
the east, checking the position of the sun. I was still early.
“Feeling the worse for wear, are we?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “My cot is a bit stiff,
sir.”
    Primus snorted. “A stiff drink, you mean.
Maybe nine or ten of them?”
    I straightened up. “Have I ever been
derelict in my duty, sir?”
    Primus sighed. “On the contrary. There are
other things in a man’s life than his duty, though.”
    “Not for me, sir,” I said.
    Primus said nothing for a while, and then
nodded.
    “So,” said the knight at last, “we’ve new
lads to turn into men-at-arms. Up for the task, Optio?”
    “Always, sir,” I said.
    “Good man,” said Primus. We waited as the
sun rose, and a short time later the first of our new recruits
marched into the castra from the town below the hill.
    Every man of fighting age in Durandis could
be mobilized as militia in time of war, but the Dux always kept a
standing force of men-at-arms to garrison his fortresses and
respond to any raids from Kothluusk or the Deeps. Sir Primus’s
company of men-at-arms had suffered losses lately. Some men had
retired of old age. A few had fallen in a skirmish with the
Mhorites a month past, and had been buried with honors.
    Either way, we needed replacements, and I
watched those replacements walk into the castra, looking at the
towers and battlements with wide eyes. Twenty young men between the
ages of sixteen and twenty filed through the gate, accompanied by
Optio Murcius, a squat, scowling man with an oft-broken nose and a
missing left ear who traveled up and down Durandis seeking recruits
for the Dux. Despite his intimidating appearance, he had a knack
for finding recruits.
    “Sir Primus,” said Murcius. “These lads
wish to swear to the Dux’s service.”
    “Very good, Optio,” said Primus, turning
his sternest look upon the recruits. “The Dux of Durandis charged
with defending both his lands and the realm of Andomhaim from all
enemies. Every man of Andomhaim is called to serve in times of
campaign, but the dangers around us require the Dux to maintain
soldiers at all times. Only the worthiest men are permitted to
serve as men-at-arms in Castra Durius, and over the next few weeks
we shall see if you are worthy.”
    I listened with half an ear as Primus
continued his oration, his Latin soaring to formal heights he
rarely used in everyday speech. While he talked, I looked over the
recruits. I thought perhaps I could turn half of them into
men-at-arms. The recruits would have differing motivations for
coming here. Some of them wanted to serve and defend Durandis.
Likely some of them wanted to get away from their families’
freeholds, or just their families. Others might have lost kinsmen
to the Mhorites and wished to avenge them.
    “This is Optio Camorak,” said Primus,
gesturing at me, and I turned my full attention back to the
Decurion. “You already know Optio Murcius. Optio Camorak will take
charge of your training, and Optio Murcius will assist him. For the
next two months, as far as you are concerned Optio Camorak speaks
with the voice of the Dux, the High King, and the Dominus Christus
himself. Am I understood?”
    Some of the men murmured their assent.
    “Am I understood?” boomed Sir Primus, using
his field voice.
    The young men answered more
enthusiastically this time.
    “Optio, be about your work,” said Primus. I
bowed to him, and the knight strode off, leaving twenty young men
watching me with trepidation.
    I set about justifying their
discomfort.
    I had been a man-at-arms for twelve years,
ever since I had joined the Dux’s service at fifteen, and when I
had first joined I had hated my training and had thought my Optio a
cruel tyrant. Later I realized that his training had saved my life
again and again. In battle, following orders and knowing how to use
your weapons was the margin between life and death, and discipline
offered the men of Durandis an edge over the savage orcs of
Kothluusk or bands of kobolds raiding from