The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 9.6: Into the Forest

The food, when it arrived, was anti-climactic. Now that the last few moments had cast doubt upon his knightly impulses, the tales of dwarvish fire and slaughter transformed Cal’s hostility into curiosity. He stared with mesmerized fascination at the legendary creature.

Cal extended his hand to the dwarf and mumbled, “M’name’s Cal.” In response, the dwarf shoved a tankard into Cal’s hand. With an impish grin, the dwarf grabbed another tankard and drained it in one gulp. With unmistakable challenge in his voice, the dwarf answered, “I am Bodelic.”

Cal, amused by the idea of this small person attempting to drink him under the table, smiled and drained his tankard in turn. The dwarf snatched Cal’s mug, refilled it from the small keg at his side, and returned it to Cal. Cal, however, was curious about the dwarf. Before the little fellow could get too drunk to answer, Cal asked, “How’d the Trader rope you into this deal.”

“I met the Trader many years ago while I was prospecting for metal. I took his message to Queen Sefwyn, which told Her Majesty how much money we could make.”

This answer left many other questions begging. How did the Trader meet a dwarf? Was it common for a Queen to rule the dwarves?

Before he could ask either of these questions, Bodelic chugged another drink.

This ridiculous contest began to annoy him. Spying a great horn sitting upon one of the Trader’s shelves, Cal grabbed it and filled it with four tankard’s worth of ale. After he drained the horn, he looked at a dwarf with satisfaction. Match that midget!

Without expression, the dwarf took the horn from Cal’s hand, filled it with ale, and emptied it. Softly, Gellan Ware began to laugh. That laugh was his last clear memory. Hours later, as Cal staggered out of the wagon propped up by three skinny apprentices, the dwarf and the Trader quietly played chess.

                                                                 *    *    *

 When Cal woke the next morning, Captain Naedros stood at his feet. A bleary Cal propped himself up on his elbows. “Fine example you set for the men Sergeant: lying here drunk, sleeping the morning away.”

“Whaaa?”

“Grimmold died in the raid. I’m promoting you. Sergeant Conradin, post your picket and report to me after you eat.”

A vivid image of a corpse with a mangled face lying in yesterday's communal grave jumped up from his memory. Was that my Squad Leader?

The Captain glanced around, and seeing no one within earshot, added, “I have one small piece of advice for you in your new command...never try to match drinks with a dwarf.”

Rising to squad leader among caravan guards was a small thing, but Cal was surprised by the satisfaction the promotion gave him. Captain Naedros had given him what he had always craved: recognition of his warrior’s skill. This squad would be the first test of his leadership abilities.

He was confident that he could handle his new position without any difficulties. Handling minor border altercations and protecting farms from marauding bandits were frequent tasks for a Baron. Uncle Aldon had given his nephews extensive training in small unit tactics; consequently, Cal had a good idea how such units functioned in the field.

Nevertheless, in the days that followed, he learned commanding men from your father’s household was quite different from trying to boss caravan guardsmen years older than yourself by dint of your own authority.

The first few days went smoothly enough. Cal knew the roles the different men in the squad should perform and knew how to give orders in a manner that compelled obedience. Now, however, he was the one sitting at a solitary fire—no longer able to join in his men's revelry. Aubert made a point of keeping him company the first few nights. The clever older guardsman pointed out their squadmates' personality quirks and physical tells as the two watched the nightly dicing games. From a distance, Cal found he could better see how his men interacted than he did when he sat inside their circle—or so it seemed.

Obedience and understanding his squad were not enough for the young squire; he wanted his men to be fierce, skilled with their weapons, and drilled to use the sophisticated small-unit tactics he had learned under Aldon’s rough hand. The squad surprised their commander by readily accepting these new demands. Cal's battlefield display gave him credibility as a weapon’s master, and nothing created enthusiasm like a savage little battle. Few complained when their young Sergeant demanded that they fall out for extra drill, instead of gambling and gossiping with men from other squads. As the days turned into weeks, however, the grind began to wear tempers thin.

Unfortunately, Cal failed to recognize his squad’s anger because of his annoyance at their poor conditioning and their inability to master simple weapons skills. One particular day, his frustration collided with the squad’s anger, producing a violent confrontation.

The gloomy sky had drizzled mist all day and the march had been muddy. As they made camp, Othon claimed to have spotted a wood-nymph brothel in a nearby dell. Philbun suggested he hump a tree stump. Lazy Molestis, who tended to listlessly slog through drills, asked why they could not skip this one day. Cal, who might have agreed had anyone else in the squad made the request, told him to shut up and soldier.

The men were ragged that day, irritating Cal even further. He took his men’s lassitude as a personal insult. Even Aubert seemed dull and tired, just trying to get through the drill so he could quit and go to sleep for the night. Cal called for the squad to turn to the right. Molestis hesitated for a confused moment, leaning to his left, creating a gap in the formation as his pole-arm angled in the opposite direction from the man next to him. Enraged, Cal hurtled into the opening, running up between the spears before the men could bring their weapons to bear, and clubbed the hapless Molestis to the ground with the flat of his blade.

Over the prone man, Cal screamed, “GET UP, MORON! YOU JUST KILLED TEN OF MY MEN. ONE REAL SOLDIER COULD HAVE CHOPPED THIS FORMATION TO PIECES!”

His brain still lost in fog, Molestis shakily rose to his feet. Still livid, Cal struck the hapless soldier’s cheek with alternating hands while screaming, “RIGHT SIDE!”

“LEFT SIDE!”

“RIGHT SIDE!”

“LEFT SIDE!”

After the fourth blow landed, the men began to mutter among themselves, and their mood turned ugly. Just at that moment, Captain Naedros appeared on the scene. Sneering at the rebellious troop, the Captain pointed at Molestis and said, “You draw guard duty tonight. The rest of you get some sleep. We start early tomorrow.”

As the men broke their formation and headed back to camp, Captain Naedros quietly ordered Cal to report to his tent after his men settled down for the night.

*   *   *

In the Captain’s tent, Cal received a firm dressing down. “Caravan guards are NOT housecarls, and you cannot expect them to act like sworn warriors. If you continue to attempt the impossible, they will kill the Trader and take the caravan. They’ll kill you too—they’ll do it while you sleep.”

Naedros’s mood changed after speaking his piece and he gestured at his young sergeant to take a seat on the stool opposite him. “Son, I didn’t give you that squad because I thought you were the greatest general since Jayati. You have that squad because, after the battle, those men fear you. I’m counting on that fear to keep them in line. There’s only a hair’s difference between caravan guards and bandits, and pushin’ ‘em too hard could make ‘em cross that line.”

Cal nodded. The Prince would never tolerate such men. When I’m a Knight...

Naedros continued, “Those men are so tired from the extra drill they couldn’t fight off a band of field mice. You’ve taught them a few things. Be satisfied with that. Stop trying to reconquer the Empire, and go get some sleep.”

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Two weeks later, the caravan emerged from the dim forest into the glorious light of a noonday sun. The caravan stood dazed in the clear day, unaccustomed to such brightness after spending six weeks immersed in the black Mahdiren Wood.

Ahead, over two leagues distant, loomed the gray towers of Bregoth, the largest city in the Meiselen Valley. Even though it was only mid-day, Gellan Ware did not have the heart to push the men on. Instead, the caravan set up camp beside the broad shallows of the Meiselen River, and rested in the refreshing sunshine.