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.