The Iron Hound

5.2

His legs shook beneath him. His traitorous legs. Staring down the healing, crooked nose, he watched his thighs tremble. A grunt gurgled in the back of his throat and he squeezed his hand against the hilt of the falchion, the leather bindings giving way under his skin.

The grunt evolved into a full snarl. He yanked his hand free of the weapon, clutching the wrist. The palm, throbbing with renewed vigour, oozed blood from freshly burst blisters.

Baethen's training schedule had changed drastically with the dismissal of the bulk of his tutors. Constable Moss had been placed in charge of his physical regimes, and he was a harsh taskmaster. He delegated, thankfully, but he seemed to know just who would push the varlet beyond his limits.

His stomach growled in response to his laments, serving as another item of misery to add to the growing list.

The Dincroft's outer wall was the lowest of the fortifications, but it was open to the elements and as the season had ebbed on, the winds blowing over the battlements had grown crisp and bitter. The milder temperatures that had graced the tutelary for the past couple of days never extended into the night, and the bite of the gusts against his exposed skin brought a different kind of pain. He shivered under the simple armour gifted to him from the tutelar's armoury. A simple, unadorned leather chestpiece and swordbelt was hardly something to celebrate, though it was the first possession he could call his own since attaining the status of varlet.

He let his arm drop back to his side, swaying on his feet. Swallowing forcefully, he peered up the battlements. Erving had been assigned as his patrol partner for the night, and he had taken his place above the stables, staring out across the northern plains with fixed determination. He was a summer younger than Baethen, but had already seen two summers of service. His bearing, his actions, he was a soldier through and through. He'd seen battle.

Baethen tore his gaze away, stomach churning. If he stood for another minute, he'd spill what little contents lay at the bottom of his gut. Lurching forwards, he turned and staggered for the bend in the outer wall. It offered shelter from the eastern winds rolling off the sea, a spot he'd picked out days ago.

Sinking to his knees, the falchion's scabbard jabbed into the stonework, unbalancing him. He sprawled on his arse and very nearly burst into a fit of laughter. Clamping his jaw shut, he sucked in air through his teeth. The urge to collapse onto the floor proved a strong one, and it took a great deal of resolve to simply shuffle up to the wall and place his back against it.

Loosening his sword belt, he readjusted the scabbard so it wasn't trying to break through the stonework and stretched legs out in front of him. He groaned, resting his head on the wall behind him. His muscles, free from strain, sung their praise and complaint in equal measure. Fidgeting, he tried to ease them into a semblance of comfort.

Ears pricked for signs of movement from either direction, he thought of the look on Moss' face if he discovered the varlet under his care had spent most of his watch on his backside. What would the tutelar say to that? His prodigal constable unable to perfectly execute a command? The thought was almost too compelling.

He grinned like a fool as he pulled a ball of linen from a pocket in his breeches, unravelling the material in his lap. He hummed a quiet tune to himself, one he'd heard his sisters singing seasons before. The lyrics were mostly foreign to him, something about summer birds and meadows in bloom. Nothing important, nothing meaningful. He picked at the end of the strip of cloth, pulling it free from the pile. He'd miss Teghen's wedding. She had been excited about it for an age. She would drone on from morning until supper, when aba returned and told her to hush. Landgrave Rethick had better treat her right.

Wrapping the linen around his palm, he hissed as the cloth brushed the raw blisters. How long would it take for Erving to notice he wasn't at his post? Not long, he imagined. He prided himself in his discipline. Pulling the bandage tight and tying it off, he closed heavy eyelids. He'd best take advantage of the time he'd pried free for himself. He'd wrap the other hand later.