The Bleak Company

[Auric]

Sheets of heavy rain pelted the cobblestone path as thunder disquieted the dreary morning. The deluge's death throes drowned the footsteps of twelve young men as they marched in single file. To their side, a tall, armored man of unspecified rank barked out every few paces.

"Keep moving, you bilge rats!" His voice war hoarse, the cold obviously slipping through the cracks in his body's immune system. None of the collective initiates looked much better. "You want to be soldiers? You're not fit to wipe your own arses!"

Degradation had been so commonplace since the day they had signed on that none of them seemed to wince at it; a sense of comfort and familiarity echoed in each curse or insult that made one or two of the trainees smirk. "Yes, sir!" Came the strangled response to their leader's abuses, "thank you, sir!"

Most of these soldiers had come here wanting to serve, or with delusions of grandeur, that one day they might fight alongside the most ferocious Dragon Riders in Adela. The reality had set in quickly for each of them; the most many of them would ever see was the life of an infantryman, plain and relatively painless, protecting King and Country with their lives in times of dire need.

That was the worst case scenario. If ever they received a call to war, the officer wagered half of them would die or desert. It was enough to make him question his own resolve. "Company, halt!" He belched out finally, bringing them to a grinding stop in an open plaza.

His men fell to their knees or bent over, gasping for air. Sergeant Ramos looked over them with a pained sigh. A stocky man with tanned features and a striking mustache that looked a bit over the top, Varian Ramos had spent his twelve years of service never once seeing the front lines. Instead, he took to training others in surviving the hell he had barely managed to scrape past. It seemed he would never see a recruit to surpass him.

"We'll rest here for the moment," he informed the men, who were finally regaining their shaky composure. "Be ready to march in thirty."

Ramos' sky blue gaze flitted over the tavern on his left, and he bit back the temptation to liquidate his worries. He owed these men his full attention, whether or not they would profit from his experience. "Sergeant Ramos," he turned his gaze to one of his recruits, a lanky youth... what was his name...?

"Yes?" He asked, matching the strange amber eyes of the dark haired boy addressing him. "What can I do for you?"

"Company morale is in the gutters," the boy dared to speak freely, despite not asking for leave to do so. "Schmidt is already hacking and Jackson has the jitters something fierce."

"Get to your point, recruit," Ramos drawled, crossing his arms. His armor clanked out a cold indifference. The boy bristled, took a breath, then continued.

"Are you trying to kill us? At this pace, in this weather, we're like to succumb to nature before we ever see a battlefield."

"What's your name, boy?" Ramos snapped.

"Cormag, sir," the youth offered, "Roland Cormag."

Ah, that's right. Cormag. He got transferred down from the barracks a fortnight back. Small wonder. "Insubordination rarely gets you far in the ranks, Cormag," he offered softly, lowering his voice so the others wouldn't overhear. "I know easy it is to question orders-"

"Piss on that," Roland cut him off, thrusting an accusatory finger into Varian's face. This time, it was all the Sergeant could do to hold back his own temper. "These men are green, Sergeant. I understand the tactical value of inclement weather training, but they are clearly not prepared for it."

When he heard the boy's logic, Ramos let himself sober, just an ounce. "Fair," he said with a nod. "You're right. It's an exercise that separates those who are prepared from those who won't make the cut." Varian glanced up over the others, still catatonic, incoherent. "These men aren't ever going to see real action, Cormag."

"Aye," Roland responded clapping a hand on the Sergeant's back. The clap of their armor rattled in time with the thunder. "I think we both knew that weeks ago."

Ramos squinted incredulously, looking over the recruit with an appraising eye. "Why did they transfer you down from the barracks? You're clearly a cut above an initiate."

"No one is ever done learning," Cormag said, a hint of venom in his tone. "Somewhere along the line, I suppose I forgot that."

"Damn shame," Ramos muttered. "You have the instincts of an officer."

The initiate shook his head. "The insight, maybe. I have a long way to go before I'm anywhere near ready for that." Roland took a step back, surveying the browbeaten bunch. "But, I think we might have time to turn things around for your company. What do you say?"

Ramos smirked. "What did you have in mind?"

"First off, dismiss the maggots and let them sleep off the chill you've drilled into them. They're no good to you sick."

The Sergeant snorted. "I think we can agree there, Initiate Cormag. I'll take your counsel on this." Varian took a deep breath, then barked out the command. Faces brightened, eyes lit up. "Then what?" He asked.

Roland blinked. "You have time to figure that out," he told the other man, shaking his head. "I'm just an initiate. Don't expect miracles."

As the unit dispersed, Ramos clapped a hand on Cormag's shoulder and murmured quietly, "let me buy you a drink, son." Roland offered no dissension as the older man led him toward the tavern, and they disappeared into the dank establishment.

[Auric]

Roland felt his head spinning as they sat themselves down at the bar.

The putrid stench of vomit and urine melded together with the pungent aroma of booze to create a horrific experience for his olfactory nerve. His eyes screwed shut as his willed away his disgust and held up a hand to hail a drink. "Roland," came the familiar voice from outside his happy place, "Roland. Are you alright?"

Cormag opened an eye and glanced sidelong at his Sergeant. "This place smells," he stated conversationally. It was all the other man could do to stifle a laugh. "I'm not used to the dregs of society, I'll admit."

"Most often, we forget the little things about the people we're supposed to be protecting." Ramos grinned. "Sort of makes you wonder why the hell we bother, doesn't it?"

The ale slid down the bar into Roland's waiting hand. He took a long sip. "If it did, there wouldn't be many soldiers, would there?"

"There aren't," Ramos replied. "The country's military forces are dwindling. That's what we get for making it a voluntary service." He caught Roland's eye and gave a shrug. "Puts us in a rather precarious bind."

Cormag stared into his drink, brow furrowing. "A man shouldn't do things only for glory," he grated dryly. Ramos looked up at him questioningly. The initiate had begun clenching a fist around his mug. "This country has given me security. Service is the least I can offer as payment."

Ramos dropped a handful of coins on the bar, paying for both of their drinks for the evening. "You're a rare breed, boy," he told Cormag. "What made them send you down to me?"

Roland looked up, matching gazes with Varian. "I wanted to be sent into the front," he said. "I kept pleading with them. I kept begging to be stationed on a real battlefield."

"They took you for an idiot," Varian observed, "they sent you back because they thought you were a glory headed deathseeker."

"Something like that," Roland admitted.

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks. Ramos chewed on his lip. "You got tired of training exercises, is that it?"

"I've been fighting since I was a boy," Roland said sternly. "I've done everything in my power to make myself the best I can be in martial combat. Sure, I'm no mage, and I don't have any friends in high places. I can do more," he said, a mania sinking into his words. "I want to do more."

"Easy, Rol," the Sergeant said nudging the boy's ale toward him. "You will. Give it time."

He'd finally adjusted to the smell, though his head was still reeling. "I need another," he said.

"Finish this one first, for god's sake," Ramos laughed.

[Auric]

Dawn's first light bled through the clouds like a prisoner reaching between the bars of a cell. Roland had beaten the celestial body to the punch, and the youthful initiate stared up at the dull daybreak only half interested. "First light," he murmured, and Sergeant Ramos glanced up at him, perched atop a bale of hay.

"Teeeeeeeeeeeen-shun!" The throaty catcall tore through eleven other men like a sword through unarmed flesh. They shot upright into proper formation and stood like statues. Cormag looked them over thoughtfully. "Vicks, get yer hand outta yet bloody trousers. You can scratch that itch when you're dead." The initiate blinked, then gaped when he realized that Ramos had been addressing him. Quickly, he withdrew the offending hand and hid it behind himself.

"You have all been assigned to my command," Ramos barked out, and the unrest within the ranks stirred once more. "Despite that slap in my face, I intend to make soldiers out of the lot of you-" he stopped mid-sentence, yanking a pipe from between Schmidt's teeth and popping it into his own mouth. The soldier stared at him in disbelief. "As I was saying," the Sergeant said between puffs, his voice muffled slightly by the pipe, "I intend to make soldiers out of you, as tall of an order as that might be."

Roland slid from his spot behind Ramos and pressed a finger into the chest of Schmidt's armor. "Some of you are under the impression that just wearing a sword and armor make you a competent soldier," he cut in, adding his own piece. "Let me ask you- how many of you have ever used a sword?"

There was a murmur from the group, then heads began to shake. Roland nodded. "That's what I thought. Not one of you has so much as held a weapon, but each of you feels like you could confidently fight with life on the line in defense of your countrymen." Cormag spat on the ground abruptly, and every eye in the crowd fixed on him. "There is a severe abundance of bad attitude in this regiment, soldiers. Rest assured, when your tenure as a trainee is complete, the only cock you'll have left is in your pants. And that's if you turn it around right now. Some of you might go home tonight with less than that." Ramos gawked at the hubris in Roland's speech, but made no move to stow it.

"From this point forward, if Sergeant Ramos tells you to march, you march," Roland spat. "If he tells you to jump, your only question should be 'how high,' and if he tells you to piss your name on a wall, you do it in fucking long hand. Am I clear?"

"Clear as glass," hissed Schmidt, "but why the hell should we listen to you?"

In a blur of motion, cold steel pressed against the bare flesh of Schmidt's neck. He felt a warm bead of liquid well up and drip along his skin. A chill ripped through him. "Aye," he nodded, "I understand your concern. You're probably thinking, "he's an initiate just like me. What makes him special?"

Ramos watched the others stare with blank expressions at the scene unfolding before them. He could only fold his arms and listen. "I've seen what combat is," Roland explained, "I know what it takes to shake off the hesitation and I know what it takes to survive. I'm going to help you take the fear you feel right now and turn it into strength." The sword peeled gently away from Schmidt, and Roland's face contorted. "Schmidt, you sorry sack of shit, get home and change your breeches. I expect you back here in twenty."

The initiate broke into an awkward run, clinging to the back of his pants and hobbling down the street. Roland looked over his shoulder to Varian, who was stifling laughter. "Alright, the rest of you, take a few minutes to compose yourselves," the Sergeant called, breaking the spell of hilarity that had been cast over him. "I want you ready to march by the time Schmidt gets back."

Roland wiped the blood from his blade dutifully, oil rag red from the grim task. "If they're not feeling it now, they will soon," Ramos muttered from beside him. Cormag only nodded his agreement.

[Auric]

What is it in a man that makes him fight?

Roland sat watching the initiates fumble with their swords, an emotionless mask obscuring his thoughts. Not one man in this group appeared to have a gift for the blade. "Deeper," Roland rumbled, "what the he'll are you trying to do with it? Draw on his armor?"

There was an apparent fear in half of them that they would do harm to their partners, as if the fact that their steel was blunted had never occurred to them. "You don't get live steel until you're assigned to the barracks, bootlicker," he growled, "you couldn't shave a hair off your arse with one of those swords, let alone cut armor." Despite telling them countless times, the group seemed disconnected from the reality he was offering them. "Here," he said, wrenching the blade from Collins' hand. "Watch. You sweep, lean back, then pull-"

He went through the motions for them, a simple, choreographed exercise, but one that gave a realistic battlefield feeling. It helped to hone their reflexes and sense of urgency. First, he swiped in with the blunted blade, and as Egbert leaned back, he prepared himself to do the same. In a burst of motion, he leaned back out of the way of his opponent's own swipe, the brought his blade up. Their weapons clashed, and the impact rocked through both men. Swords in a deadlock, Roland looked back to Collins. "Be a good partner," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "When you do it right, both of you learn, no one gets hurt, and everyone gets better. Again!"

As he returned to his seat, a chorus of metallic clangs rang out behind him, and Ramos chuckled softly. "Where did you pick up that exercise?" The Sergeant was quietly impressed, but also worried. If Roland was a better drill sergeant than he was, what would befall the men he had trained before? No, he pressed the thoughts from his mind. Focus on these men. These men are your priority.

"Basic exercise in the barracks," Cormag offered in response, not breaking his gaze from the training. "Men who wear swords are different from men who know how to use them. Just knowing the weight of your weapon can save you if you're ever put in the position to draw it."

Silently, Varian nodded. He had learned that, once, but he had feared ever truly drawing his blade. Have I been teaching my own fear all of these years? Ramos stared hard at the group of men, so engrossed in the training, and he let out a sigh. "I hope you're taking something from all this," he said to Roland, who finally looked up in question.

"What do you mean?" The young soldier asked.

"Well," Ramos began, "your willingness to fight and die for your country is admirable, but I think you're missing a valuable point." Roland was looking at him even more attentively now, but saying nothing. "The point of soldiering is staying alive. If you die, the wall between threats and our country falls. When a soldier dies, we lose the one thing that can protect us from outside forces."

Roland blinked. "I think I see what you're saying," he murmured.

"While it's noble and important to be ready to die in the line of duty, it should also be the last option you exhaust." Ramos realized that he had been struggling with the same problem, only he had the opposite outlook. He felt that dying was the worst case scenario, and he wanted to put himself in a position where he would never have to.

Soldiers needed to have a firm stance in the middle ground. The willingness to die, but the skill never to have to.

"I think I understand why they sent you here," Ramos said at last, and Roland cocked an eyebrow. "Nevermind," he said, shaking his head. "Nevermind. As you were, soldier."

Roland glanced back to the initiates, and he stood up and cleared his throat. "Alright," he called out, "grab some water and get ready to get back to work!" There was a murmur of thanks through the ranks as they dispersed, and Cormag shut his eyes.

We fight so that others will never have to.

[Auric]

"Your first sword is not a part of your uniform," Ramos called over the sound of weapons clashing and men grunting as they gasped for air. "The sword is a contract. It is a symbol of your dedication to the people of Adela, and to your King. Once you are fit to serve, then you'll be fit to wield one. Until such a time, your blunted training weapon is going to be beside you while you sleep, piss, or drink yourself senseless. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" That moment sparked something in Varian that he had not felt any time before, even when sending his men on to soldiering. For the first time, he felt like he was making real, true, and good soldiers who might actually be of consequence to their great nation. It was a sobering feeling, but also, it was a monstrous duty.

"Present your blades for inspection!" As he spoke, each man took the blade secured at their hip and held it out, scabbard and all. Ramos walked along slowly, looking over each weapon in turn. When he stopped in front of a man, that man unsheathed his weapon and the Sergeant gave that blade the once over.

Roland watched from a distance, exempted for the fact that he had already taken the Soldier's vow and been gifted live steel. His weapon, castle forged steel of low quality, was still a part of his soul. He took that vow, to King and to Country, as part of his being. That made the sword no different than an arm or leg. Priceless, and it would cripple him to lose it. Many other soldiers named their weapons or underwent some strange, ritualistic process to endear the weapon to themselves; Roland simply wore it like the badge of honor that it was.

His own armor, plates of leather and iron, boiled and banded, painted the Black and Red of his people and adorned with their draconic emblem, gleamed faintly beneath the blazing sun. "Why is he not standing in inspection?" Roland looked up to see Schmidt staring venomously at him. He gave a sigh, then set about cleaning his weapon once more.

"Initiate Roland wears a blade that is not blunt," Sergeant Ramos explained, "this exercise has already come and passed for him. He is sharing his wisdom with you, and you ought to be gracious for it."

"Gracious?" Schmidt echoed. "The crazy bastard cut me! Let's be realistic, here. The psychopath ought to be slapped with court martial for his seditious behavior, not aiding in the training of rookie soldiers!" Ramos stood rigid, staring directly into the initiate's eyes as he spat his opinions on Roland for the group to hear. Men were beginning to whisper behind him. "If he's already got a sword, why did they send him back down to Initiate level? What's the real secret here, Sergeant? Why demote a soldier back down instead of sending him to the field? I'll tell you why," Schmidt growled, "because he's a mad dog, and they know it. They wouldn't risk the lives of his countrymen on a battlefield, as he's like to become unable to discern friend from foe. Hell, he's probably going to kill every single on-"

Schmidt reeled from the blow that shook his entire body, and vomit splattered on the ground as he dropped to his knees. "Anyone else feel compelled to share their opinions?" Ramos asked, shaking out his hand. It had been a long time since he'd felt the need to drop someone. "No?" The men shook their heads, and Ramos snorted. "I didn't think so."

The Sergeant turned to Cormag, who had busied himself with shining his sword to a mirror sheen. "Initiate Cormag," he called, and Roland looked up. "Would you please oversee Initiate Schmidt in his athletic training for the remainder of this evening?"

"Sir?" Roland blinked.

"500 laps around the town," Ramos drawled, "full armor. He can stop when either he's done, or he can't move any further." Schmidt groaned from his place on the cobblestones, and the rest of the men snapped to attention as Ramos called out orders for them to return to sword training.

Roland moved from his seat and helped Schmidt to his feet. "Come on, then," he crooned with a note of effort in his voice, "up you go." He pulled Schmidt's arm over his shoulders and guided the man toward the outskirts of town, even as the sounds of their unit training without them echoed in the distance.

[Auric]

The rattle of armor clattering on stone jolted Schmidt awake as Roland dropped him unceremoniously. "Easy," the golden eyed boy told the gasping man as he pawed at a string of saliva and bile dribbling from his lip. "Don't get up quickly. You'll vomit again."

Schmidt stared at Roland as the other man worked at the clasps of his armor and pried the weakened initiate loose. "What do you care?" Schmidt shot, "and why are you taking off my armor? Gonna run me through like a coward?"

"Shut up or I'll deck you again," Roland warned. The curled over trainee fell silent.

Once he had sufficiently stripped Schmidt of his armor, Roland offered a waterskin to the shaking man. "Drink this," he instructed, "and breathe slowly. That punch took the wind out of you, and the armor kept it out." Roland cast the pieces of iron to the side and stretched his arms and back. "500 laps, was it?" He asked absently, and Schmidt seemed to deflate at the sound of those words.

"Keep count," Roland called suddenly, and he took off at a measured pace. Schmidt stared after him in disbelief. Each piece of his armor rattled with every stride. The sun beating down on black metal sent a wave of heat that was quickly followed by a layer of perspiration. Cormag grinned; this was an exercise meant to break a man.

"W...what in all the hells are you doing, Cormag?" Schmidt had summoned the breath to call after him, but Roland busied himself with maintaining steady breaths. A ragged breath too short or too long could break his pace, slow his stride, and ultimately make the weight far too great to bear. Everything about the armored run was a test of endurance; mental, physical, and emotional strength were tested by how much the soldier could bear before he could stand no more.

The other man was far beneath the call, Roland knew, but with the proper inspiration, even a shitstain like Jens Schmidt could be molded into a fine soldier. "Cormag," Schmidt called out, "he'll have both our nuts if he finds out what you're-"

Roland shot the man a warning glare, but refused to speak out to quiet him. The sword at his waist struck his leg plating every few steps, letting out a clank that rippled up his leg and through his pelvis. It made him want to throw the sword away and scream out, but he did not.

Minutes bled into hours as Cormag passed in front of Schmidt again, and the silent trainee watched in amazement as Roland slowed, but never stopped. "Four hundred and twelve," he chimed in, and Roland let out a hoarse sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "If you stop now, no one will know."

I'll know, Roland thought, and he maintained his steady, albeit struggling pace. It's not even about punishment or doing the right thing anymore. His amber gaze burned with intense resolve as he rounded the bend once more, and he pushed himself toward four hundred and thirteen. I can rest when I'm dead, and not a moment before. Lives are hanging in the balance.

The sun had already started to set behind the town, and from his spot behind the wall, Ramos watched with a wry smirk as Cormag passed by him for the hundredth time. "I ought to stop him," the Sergeant commented aloud for the rest of the initiates to hear. The men never once looked away from the sweat-drenched, armor covered soldier running laps. "But I'd rather this be a lesson to you men. You don't leave a man behind. Not even one you hate."

Ramos shook his head. "Can't wait to see this kid fight for real," he muttered. "They definitely never saw this in the barracks."