Part 15

The early morning watch was always the coldest and no matter how many layers she wore she never could get warm enough. 

Greza stood on the top of the fortress’s outer wall and walked up and down its length.  She had a matchlock cradled in her arms and the helmet was starting to feel heavy. 

The winter wind found every opening in her clothing and sliced at her.  Only her eyes were uncovered and she wished she had some way to cover those. 

And she had volunteered for this.  It was some kind of holiday for the Ekonians and a few other countries nearby.  She had never heard of this holiday but it apparently revolved around much eating and drinking. 

If there was one thing she didn’t like, it was being around drunk people.  She valued intelligence and wine and ale only served to make people into idiots. 

She looked out over the bleak landscape as the cold moon rose above the frozen marshes.  There were no fires allowed up on the walls because it would prevent the guards from seeing in the dark. 

“Who goes there?”  A friendly voice said. 

She looked over to see a large man walking towards her. 

“Ox?”

She was relieved it was only him.  Unlike most alpha dogs after being beaten, Ox actually befriended her.  That had been unexpected.

“I got tricked into volunteering.  How’d they get you?”  Ox asked.

“I don’t drink.”

He laughed. 

“No, I guess I’ve never seen you drink.”

He came over and looked out over the marshes beside her. 

“Not what you thought mercenary life would be when you signed up, right?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Still, never heard you complain.”

She shrugged. 

“You don’t come from a comfortable life, do you?” He asked.

She didn’t answer. 

“You can tell the ones that know what actual suffering is.  This,” he waved a hand around, “isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

“It’s cold.” 

“Very cold.  But things will be different once the campaigning season starts.  Then things will be so much better and so much worse.”

“How?”

“Better because we’ll be doing things and getting more money.  Worse because some of us will die and there will be hardships.  I’m not looking forward to the long marches.” 

“How long have you been in the Company?”

“Three years, four months and six days.”

“Long time.”

“Gladiator, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from the empire and my mother worked on an estate.  I heard things about gladiators.”

She didn’t want to hear what horrible things he’d heard.  They’d only bring up memories she wished to keep buried. 

He just grunted and leaned on the battlements. 

“Once campaign season comes, you may look back on these cold nights with fondness.  At least we’re safe here,” he said. 

They didn’t talk much for the rest of their three hours, but it was nice to walk with someone. 

When she got back to her bunk she kicked her boots off and fell right asleep.  She had the morning off and wasn’t going to worry about breakfast.  She wanted sleep more. 

She was awakened by people singing in the male barracks area.  It was some drunken song devoid of meaning or beauty.  They all seemed to think it was funny though. 

Since sleep wasn’t going to happen anymore, she took out her scriptures and began reading.  Word had spread that she was a follower of the path of light and people mocked her behind her back.  “Zealot” was the most popular name for her. 

Then she sat up when she saw what this particular chapter was about. 

The Promised Victor.

The prophets said that he would be born amid fiery devastation that would kill his family yet he would be spared. That had happened.  It spoke how he would rise up and lead the people (which people?) to victory against a terrible threat from the west. 

The ancient prophets were never specific. 

But then she had to remember what had happened.  The child had been found and was being brought to the Imperial capitol when they were ambushed by men wearing red and black.  The child was taken and a week later his severed finger was sent as proof of his death. 

But the prophecy had to be fulfilled.  Was there another child somewhere that fit the criteria of the prophecy?  A second plan in case the first plan went wrong? 

Seemed logical. 

After lunch it was back to work.  Luckily the Lieutenant wasn’t around.  It was just Sgt. Deran.  He liked to keep his classes informal and they just gathered in the barracks.

Greza took a seat in the back like she usually did. 

“Alright soldiers, let’s begin,” Sgt. Deran said.  “What’s the most important piece of equipment you have to take care of on a long march.”

“Matchlock,” someone said. 

“No,” Sgt. Deran said.

“Sword in case of ambush,” another soldier said. 

“No.” 

“Map?”

“No.”

“Boots and socks,” Greza said.

Some of the soldiers laughed. 

“Stop laughing,” Deran said.  “She’s right.  Your socks.  Blisters, rot foot and rashes can all make a soldier a casualty just as easily as a gun.  Now, next question: how do we win wars?”

That was a broad question, but one she knew the answer to.  If she answered this one, they might resent her so she kept her mouth closed this time. 

“Bravery.”

“Skill.”

“Tactics.”

All of the answers were wrong. 

“Logistics,” Deran said. 

She knew this from reading.  Every great general knew that an army couldn’t march on an empty stomach or fight without equipment.  Beans, blades and blankets.

“The art of war is getting enough people with enough weapons and enough food to the right place at the right time,” Deran said. 

“Wait, what about fighting, weapons and soldiers?”  One of the men asked.

“Important, but they’re just a part of the equation.  Sure, better soldiers may win a battle, but it takes logistics to win a war.” 

They spent the rest of the two hour class using cups, shoes and knives to represent military units on a battlefield and went over all the strategies the Company used. 

“It’s important for the common soldier to understand your place in the battle.  It cuts down on confusion and confusion is lethal.”

She could think of several examples where misunderstood orders cost an army the battle. 

Everything he went over she had read about, but it was interesting to see someone with experience talk about them.  It made the battles make more sense.  Yes, she had read many books but experience was a very different thing and she paid attention. 

She wanted to learn everything she could about the art of war.  She wanted to know everything from how the supply wagons were organized to how the men formed up on the field. 

She wanted to become the best soldier she could be.