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Chapter 28: Choosing a New Path (2)
🕑 Added 2023-07-13 07:00:05 +0000 UTC“To answer your question,” said Hamsa, “archer recruits start at tier two pay with several paths for advancement.” He eyed Ren. “But those longbows have a heavy draw and they don’t take amateurs if you haven’t shot before.”
Ren thought back to a tiny toy bow his father had carved for him. Back in the caravan days. Running around shooting twigs at trees with his brother- No. That wouldn’t count as experience. Besides, he couldn’t afford to think about that. Memories like those wouldn’t do anything other than remind him of what he’d lost.
He stole a glance at Hamsa, who was all hard angles. Broad shoulders pressing against his tunic. Calloused hands. Even his face had muscles Ren had never seen before. Self pity had no place in his life now. Not if he wanted to survive. Not if he wanted to stand beside men such as these.
A cart laden with surprisingly realistic human-shaped wooden dummies stacked like kindling rattled by, forcing them off the path.
Hamsa resumed their walk and said, “If money is a concern, then we can cross several jobs off the list. Cooks, builders, infantry, and the transport and communication corps are all tier one pay, and advancement is really hard since those officers tend to stick around.”
Passing into the shadow of several tall tents, Ren shivered. He peeked through the gap between two of the canvas structures to see warriors covered in metal, only their eyes visible in the shadowed gaps where their mail met their helms. Asbar. They strode like lions. Every piece of every garment, immaculate. The heroes of Ardus. Knights rumored to have nine lives.
It was just a glimpse, but he knew he could never be one of them. They’d sniff him out for the street rat he was if he even tried to approach.
Ren’s thoughts were heavy, and he nearly bumped into Hamsa when the bigger boy stopped in the path. The group they were looking at now seemed to be a mixture of sorts. He struggled to discern a pattern in their gear or status.
The first group were soldiers in greys trimmed with brown who milled about crates of gear and supplies. They weren’t as clean looking as the other groups he’d seen—stubble marked the cheeks of the men, dirt stained the worn edges of their uniforms—and all had pockets sewn into their garments and pouches hanging from their belts and hatchets nestled amongst whatever other weapons they possessed.
Leaning against the wagons, ignoring the general mill of activity around them, were men and women in darker greys with no trim of additional color. Their cloaks were a dark, mottled, muddy green rather than the traditional grey. Their builds were all varied, from tall to short, brawny to bony, and everything in between.
“The scout corps.” Hamsa’s face grew pinched. “The foresters are okay. They supplement the archer corps when it’s needed and accompany all deployed companies to assist with basic scouting and hunting when supply lines are compromised. They start at tier two pay, and the best transfer to the archer corps when they’re ready to move up.”
The foresters had to be the ones with brown trim.
“The irregulars are the layabouts watching everyone else work. Believe it or not-” his features twisted further to a grimace “-they’re technically the same rank as the Asbar. They do… the dirty work. Work a lot with the intel corps. But they don’t recruit from trainees, only veterans.”
The same level as Asbar? They didn’t look that different from street thugs to Ren.
Hamsa pointed to a set of tents that looked like the normal infantry issue, a group of soldiers milling about in standard red-trimmed greys.
“Intel. They are supposed to look like anyone else. But they include investigators, intelligence analysts, and infiltrators. Tier three starting. That’s the same as what I’ll get when I officially become an apprentice to one of the Asbar.”
“Same starting pay as Asbar candidates?” Ren knew what his goal was now.
“You look interested. They have the most exhaustive loyalty tests and background investigation process. But you could do it. You scored pretty high on the mental exam, right?”
“Eigthy-Nine.”
“You could make it. That’s good enough to get you a spot in any corps, if you can place high enough in the trials. You’d have to rank at least as a Specialist. Hell, if you make it to the final round of the combat trial, that combined with your time training with the Flame-Blade—I’m assuming you at least have an awakened dantian if she was bothering with you—it would be enough you could even join me as an Asbar candidate.”
“Really? I never thought of that as a real option for someone like me.”
“You’d have to make it to the final round where you would be competing against all the best recruits. Ex-mercenaries, kids from martial families, people who already know how to win a fight and could probably beat any seasoned infantry soldier in a standup fight. But it’s possible. We’ll probably have another three weeks to prepare for the trials once camp is set up.”
Outside of childish dreaming, he’d never imagined it could be possible, but if Hamsa said it was… Ren was going to try. He’d seen the parades put on when Asbar came through town. He could be a real hero. And with tier three starting pay, plus more when he was done apprenticing, he’d be making enough that his family might be free by the time his service ended.
#
It turned out that Hamsa was right. Construction began the next morning, and Ren gained an intimate familiarity with the jarring twang that traveled up his arm through the coarse-wood handle of a hammer as he drove nail after nail into lumber. He reacquainted himself with the slow strain of heavy work; lifting, hauling, grunting, muscles burning. It wasn’t like the past month of training, where each act had felt like an axe stroke to the trunk of his strength, rather, it harkened back to his training under Garam. This kind of pain laid into him like bricks, rebuilding his strength, and by the end of the week, he’d learned that he quite enjoyed looking at the new lines of budding muscle on his body and even savored the labor itself. There was a certain kind of satisfaction from watching the new buildings rise, knowing that his own hands had a part in their creation.
All too soon, the camp transformed from a sprawl of tents, bedrolls and cook fires, to an orderly complex of angled buildings grouped into square blocks and filled to the brim with marching and saluting and even some laughter—though only at night. Ren’s guts churned at the completion of their task, for it marked the end of simple days where one knew how each would pass and could see the fruits of their labor rising, and heavy sleep, earned by sweat rather than blood, embraced each night.
But, of course, he couldn’t complain about the arrival of a team of cooks or the construction of the dining halls and kitchens. Wagons full of grains and roots and preserved meats were loaded into storage buildings, and after starving that summer, he couldn’t help but feel thankful that the winter looked to be promising hearty meals.
After filling their bowls at the closest kitchen, Ren and his pod-mates retreated to a sentry fire at the outskirts of camp for a final meal together.
“After all,” said Bahmul, pushing up his spectacles, “as Hakkim the Wise states in his illuminated essays, ‘The true warrior is a poet of steel and blood, writing the verses of his heart upon the fates of his foes.’” As usual, the skinny man was the first to finish his meal, and he waved the empty bowl about for emphasis, beaming with assurance that he’d just made the definitive point and the argument was over.
“All do respect to this Hakkim,” Hamsa parried, “but it sounds like he’s never held a sword. And I don’t trust the words of a man who's never known life in Ardus to tell me how to live.”
Gunney grunted assent. “The princelin has the right of it. Fancy words are fine and all, but a sword is a tool for killing, no matter what kind of belief clutches at the mind of the man holding it.”
Bahmul threw his arms up dramatically, turning to Ren for support. “Come, Ren. You’re a man of words and culture. Tell me you see my point.”
Rhami was quiet again. She had been ever since he’d gotten back. Giving him strange looks. They still hadn’t talked about that night. Concern had been eroding his investment in the debate, and it took a moment for his mind to catch up. “Actually, I think Hakkim was a warlord. Didn’t he unite the warring factions of Tarrantala?”
Bahmul clapped him on the shoulder. “I can always rely on you in such dire moments when my faith in the minds of men wanes.” He cast a shrewd look at the others in the circle.
“But that changes nothing,” said Hamsa. “A man’s principles are only as good as the men he stands beside. Honor is not a personal matter, but a communal one.” The son of swords was much better educated than Bahmul gave him credit for.
Nobody else seemed to notice how Rhami flinched as the boy spoke that last sentence.
Conversation simmered down, and they eventually parted ways to return to their respective barracks. Ren jogged to Rhami’s side as she ducked between a couple of storehouses.
“Rhami, is everything alright?”
She passed out of the shadow of the buildings and turned under the moon. Silver light caught on her square features, highlighting them, pooling into her skin. Had to be her strong light affinity at work.
She stood at a distance, looking at the ground.
“I felt somethin,” she whispered.
“What?”
“When I gave my light tae ya. I felt what is in ya. Hungry shadow.” She looked up at him, tracing his figure with sad eyes that came to rest on his navel.
He followed her gaze with his own, looking down. Just as the light seemed to cling to her, the darkness clung to him. It was a subtle thing. He wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.
“We are family now, by teh customs of my people,” she said. “We’ve shared food and warmth and slept under same stars. But I’m tae be a Pal’adin. A warrior of the Heavenly Light. Sworn to fight beings of Darkness.”
Ice crawled into his veins and his heart stammered.
“Teh honor of my duty demands I turn ya in, Ren.” Tears welled and streamed, catching light like falling sparks. “But teh honor of my heart… ya’re my moon sibling now. What honor is more important? Teh honor of my oath or teh honor of my soul?”
Ren understood now. The debate tonight had only thrust deeper the knife of her own indecision and pain. Of course, he knew what he wanted to say to her. He knew his life could depend on it. Instead, he held his tongue and hung his head. Waiting for judgment.
Her arms wrapped around him and tugged him into the light. He let himself hold her too, and they stood like that, sharing warmth, breathing mist into the chill night under the moon.
“Be careful Ren,” she whispered. “Don’t take an affinity test. Don’t touch shadow with yer spirit. I can’t protect ya.”
She gave him a final squeeze and let him go, turning and disappearing around a corner.
Rhami left an emptiness in her wake. A void that filled with the things she’d said and the things she hadn’t, and all the spiraling thoughts about what that might mean. Her pain, torn between friendship and duty. Her care. Her fear. His own fear. The feeling that he’d just lost a dear friend in the same moment he realized he had one.
Comments
This was at the end of chapter 21 after he pushed himself too hard and the poison started spreading again. Here is a link just in case https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/70471/the-song-of-blood-and-shadow-a-gritty-cultivation/chapter/1273612/chapter-21-how-to-hold-a-sword
Taqee Moore
I must have missed something. What chapter did she see this darkness in him?
Zephyr Auraeus
I can't get enough!
