Part 11

Part 11

Greza stood at attention with the rest of the recruits as Lieutenant Daren walked up and down their ranks.  He was a tall, thin man with blond hair.  He walked with precise movements and he said very little. 

Their silence was more frightening than Sgt. Drakan’s shouting. 

“Recruits, today you will begin your basic marksmanship training,” the Lt. said.   “Over the next three weeks we will test and score you on every weapon in our inventory.  How you perform will determine where we put you once you join our ranks.  If you score high with the hand to hand weapons, you will be made a targeteer.  If you excel in physical training and survival you will be a scout.  If you’re a good marksman, you will be one of our gunners.” 

They were split into groups and her group would be training with the matchlock for the next few days.

She knew how to kill up close but she had never killed at a distance.  It seemed that if she could end the fight before getting close then that seemed a better way of doing it.

The instructor, a veteran soldier, showed them how to load and fire.  The matchlock was a large, heavy thing and at first it felt awkward but as she learned how to hold it and use it properly it became almost natural. 

As Greza began loading her matchlock she heard shouting coming from the gatehouse.  Everyone stopped and turned to see what was going on. 

The portcullis opened and a column of horsemen came riding in.  They were fully armored with visored helmets, banners and dragoon matchlocks in scabbards. There were a few people on foot including the largest man she had ever seen.  He was as tall as a man on a horse and wore some kind of frightening horned helmet.

Then her eyes fell on one rider in particular.  He was wearing a fur coat over his black armor and his helmet hung from his saddle.  He was a young man but with ancient eyes.  He had stubble on his face and head and not special adornments, banners or anything else to mark him as separate, but she knew at a glance that this was Duke Verin. 

As Duke Verin glanced around the courtyard she saw a small measure of pleasure but mostly she saw sadness.  This was a troubled man.  Like her, he knew what it was like to take a life.  To become such a famous warrior at a young age he must have started early. 

One thing the history books never mentioned was where he came from.  He showed up on the records eight years ago at the head of a small mercenary band and in two years time had built a large and successful company.  Before that his life was an complete unknown. 

They rode into the middle of the courtyard and dismounted.  Men came out and took their horses.  His companions walked up to him.  The enormous man with the horns walked up and took off his helmet.  When he did she saw that it wasn’t the helmet that had horns, but the man. 

It was a minotaur.  She had only ever read about them.  Now that she had a chance she took a closer look and saw that he had hooves and a head that only superficially resembled a bull’s.  He was covered in hair and had sharp teeth in his short snout. 

The other person that approached Duke Verin was a small woman with shiny black hair that hung to her waist and.  She was pale with dark eyes that were constantly on the move.  She slumped as she walked and kept rubbing her slender hands together.  She had a loose robe over her armor and billowed out on either side of her like wings. 

Duke Verin’s companions stood on either side of him and for a moment Greza stood immobile.  The moment froze and Greza knew there was meaning behind this.  The others were watching because it was their duke, returned home at last, but Greza saw something else entirely. 

She saw a hero with a bull and a raven at his side. 

It was an image of what the Promised Victor was supposed to be.  Perhaps she was having a vision of what might have been. 

But then the moment passed and the duke turned and entered the keep with his companions. 

“That was Duke Verin, everyone.  I’ve never fought under a better man,” the veteran trainer said. 

Greza turned toward him.

“Why?”  She asked.

“He brings us victory.”

“That all?”

The veteran shook his shaved head. 

“If that were all, he’d get my respect.  Duke Verin gets my life and honor.”

Greza was about to ask why but the veteran began barking out more orders to load their guns. 

They continued on with the day of matchlock training.  She managed to focus, but in breaks in training she’d look up at the keep and wonder why she saw him as the Lost Victor.  A minotaur wasn’t a bull and the small woman with black hair and black eyes wasn’t a raven.  Besides, the Victor was dead: murdered by cultists.

But her mind wouldn’t leave the thought behind and she went to bed thinking about it. 

The next day they brought them outside the walls to a range where hay target dummies were lined up.  She was already the quickest loader but she didn’t know how she’d do with actually firing the gun. 

The first rank fired at the dummies and then her rank stepped forward.  She took aim like she had been taught and let out her breath as she squeezed the lever that activated the lock. 

The arm holding the lit wick came down to a small pan covered in gunpowder.  There was a flash and suddenly the gun went off.  The noise hurt her ears and the gun kicked her shoulder.  It had been more than she had expected. 

There was a smoking hole in the shoulder of the dummy. 

“Not bad,” the instructor called out.  “Some of you actually managed to hit your targets.” 

By the end of the day they were hitting their targets almost every time. 

“Good work everyone.  Tomorrow we’ll double the distance to usual combat range and see how you do from there.” 

She enjoyed shooting the matchlock.  She was a little quicker on loading than most but she hadn’t been the best shot from her group.  Still, it was something that she’d want to hone and become proficient at even if she wasn’t assigned as a gunner. 

Greza lay in bed unable to sleep.  Duke Verin kept entering her mind.  It meant something.  A message of some sort. 

She held her Symbol of Light as she drifted off into sleep. 

The next morning they went back to the range for more target practice.  During a break she took the opportunity to speak to the instructor. 

“Sir?” 

“Yes, recruit?”

“Where did Duke Verin come from?”

“From a mother that bedded a man, just like everyone else.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

The veteran soldier looked around and then motioned for her to sit down on the block of hay next to him.  She took her seat beside him. 

“You’d learn sooner or later so I might as well be the one.  Someone else would tell you some pigswill and get it wrong.  Listen to the story and decide if you could follow such a man. I swear that you’ll find none better.”

This didn’t sound like it was going to be a pleasant story.

“Our Duke didn’t start off to a life of privilege.  He was born a parentless slave.”

That couldn’t be right.  The duke, the ruler of this country had been a slave like her?  Slaves couldn’t rule.  They’d always have the stigma against them.

“Verin escaped from his masters, killing a few of them in the process, and joined a mercenary company when he was fourteen.  He didn’t fight at first but he kept his eyes and ears open.  Then during a battle their positions were being overrun.  He grabbed a sword from the blacksmith’s tent and fought to protect the camp.  After that he rose through the ranks like he was a big city scholar going through a county jail.”

He stopped and looked at her.  

“You seem surprised,” he said.

“Confused, maybe.”

“Why? Because you were a slave?”

“How did…”

“You have the same look in your eyes that he has.  I’ve seen other escaped slaves come here.  We’re a haven.  You carry yourself like one.  Even now you won’t look me in the eyes.” 

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows what to look for.”