[Tags to Boglin<3]
"UP MAGGOTS! IT'S THE CRACK OF DAWN AND YOU'RE STILL YET TO RISE! YOU PIECES OF GARBAGE MAKE ME ABSOLUTELY SICK! UP AND AT 'EM YOU SMELLY SLUGS OR I'LL HAVE YOU MARCHING A HUNDRED MILES AROUND THE FORT!"
The shout of the drillmaster cawing over the new recruits as they slumped from their bunks and cots and mats made the man next to Roland jump in anticipation. Roland laughed as they walked across the fort to the training field. "Still gets you jumpy, eh Bert?" he chuckled.
"That goddamned shouting. I'll never get used to it, I tell you," Bert sighed. He was a red-headed boy, not more than sixteen summers by his account, and had peach fuzz growing on his cheeks. It wasn't quite enough to hide the freckles that speckled them, but it was a start. Roland was only a year older, and the first few months of induction were always a nightmare.
Roland as ever took it all in stride. And why not? This was much better than being a sailor like he'd originally planned. His father didn't want his son stuck on the farm forever, didn't want him working himself to death in a wheat field when he could make real money elsewhere. Roland had been hard-pressed to leave the only home he'd ever known, but a good kick in the ass did the trick.
Crossing the grounds to the training field was a short walk, but one that Roland was looking forward too. The sun was high that morning, and there were only a few clouds dotting the sky. Up ahead there was some sparing, another section tapered off where a group were being drilled in killing strokes. Blades flashed and clanged against metal. Or clacked was more like it.
They were wooden ones, of course. Only the more experienced recruits were allowed to touch actual swords.
That wasn't where Roland was headed, however. Far off in a separate corner there were a group of them being thrown around onto their backs, flipped over. Sparring not with blades but with gloves and fists. That was where he was going to train today.
"Where are you going, Mercer?" Bert asked, walking left just as Roland kept trudging on ahead. Bert stopped and rounded out his path to walk in time with his friend. "We're supposed to go that way."
"You can go if you want, Bartlett," Roland replied, staring straight ahead and keeping his gaze steady where he saw the Mordecai overseeing the boxing and hand-to-hand combat that was underway. "Today, I'm training over there. Come on, it'll be fun."
"What, why?" Bert scurried along to keep up because Roland was walking in long strides.
"Because why should we be doing the same things every day? We're expected to protect this country and being as flexible as possible is probably the best way to go about that. Do you disagree?" he countered. "Come on. Unless you're chicken. Bawk-bawk!"
"I'm not. I'm not chicken!"
They made it to the growing crowd where one had another with a shot to the gut, and dropped them by taking their legs out from under them and shoving a hand into their chests. Roland pressed through the recruits and Bert followed. Getting a better look, he saw the Mordecai stepping in this time, and Roland kept his eyes on her. Right. Women were allowed in the ranks. And damn good that was too.
"Who the hell is that?" Roland asked, nudging an older boy beside him.
"Mordecai Lowe," came the answer, and he whooped just the challenge came for someone to step onto the practice mat. A larger young man stepped forth, beefy, probably not more than 20 and breaching six feet. "What do you live under a rock? She's new but she's mean. Damn good soldier. An example to the rest of us."
"Oh yeah? Hm..." Roland eyed that mop of dark hair, and a small grin spread across his face. "I'm gonna marry her, y'know."
"What? Ansgar's Balls you will," said the other recruit and scoffed as he clapped his hands and turned his attention back to the action on the practice mat.