Forum: Story Ideas

Larn looked at the hamlet of his birth. With every jolting revolution of the wagon's wheels, he was that little bit further away. One small, but insurmountable distance. His glorious return had been anything but glorious. His mother was still dead, his step mum still loathed the sight of him, his stepsister still looked at him with utter contempt, and as for his father? Well, he was still the failure of son. An embarrassment.

Things had not gone much better with Gabran's family. He had dutifully handed over Gabran's letter, written for him before the battle. It was still sealed. They had both paid for one of the more literate members of the squad to write the letters. Swore to deliver the other's if either should die, not contemplating the possibility of them both meeting the Gods.

He had handed over Gabran's to his mother. Received a stinging slap in return. She hadn't held back, that was for sure. His cheek still smarted.

Gabran's sister, Larn's childhood crush that in all his fantasy's, had swooned at his feet upon his return, had looked like she was about to black his other eye. He had retreated, tail between his legs.

There was no future here, that was obvious. He may as well have been dead to all those he had once loved. Well, with the exception of his stepmother and her daughter. He had made enquiries as to who would be leaving for Strangvar the soonest. No one had come running to stop him, so here he was. Doing the thing everyone said not to do. Looking back.

He had no plan. His plan had failed to survive contact with the enemy. Or in his case, the family. His new plan, was to find company for his leave, sow his seed, and then return to die in glorious, but utterly pointless battle. Hopefully quickly. Not screaming in the bloody mud, surrounded by his insides. Though given his current track record, that was probably going to be his fate. He leaned back, closed his eyes and slept.

A punch to the chest awoke him. They were at the gates to Strangvar. Larn paid the cartman and slipped off his cart, his muscles complaining from the run to the hamlet of his birth that morning.

He entered the city, not knowing what he was looking for, but he was sure he would know it when he saw it.

Larn found a cheap hostelry. The innkeeper took one look at him and the long blade at his hip and stated categorially, 'That he would have no trouble here'. As he climbed the cramped stair, Larn mused that it was probably the blacked eye more than his short sword. He stored his pack and his sword, keeping just his dagger for protection. Though he still had his magic, what little of it he had, to use if needed. Though it was generally frowned upon to do so in cities. Far too many timber buildings.

The narrow streets were crowded with evening traffic. People jostling between the carts and their horses, wary of an irate horse's bite or kick.

Larn had an unpleasant return to the memory of the melee.

The melee that had killed his friend. He quashed the memory and the train of thought that was leading from it.

What he needed was an affirmation of life. A brothel. A woman to show him a purpose, a point to living. Though, knowing his luck, all he was likely to get was the pox. There was a quiet spot in the chaos of the traffic and he stepped into it to savour his moment of dark humour.

Turns out, he had stepped into the frontage of a hospice. Which explained the space. No one wanted to get to close to a slum hospital. Unless you were being carried into it. There was a faded sign on the wall next to the door.

: Help wanted. Enquire within. :

"It's like a sign from the Gods themselves." He pushed open the door and entered. And was immediately assailed by the stench of impending death accompanied by a symphony of wailing and crying. He was back in the melee again.

Two women were standing at the end of the corridor, before a flight of stairs. This was a bad idea in a day of terrible ideas. Larn turned back to the still open door.

"Yes? Can I help you? That eye looks a little underwhelming for our services." One of the two women obviously had very good eyes of her own.

"I saw the sign, and I thought. Actually I don't know what I thought. I'll, er, just leave you to it."

"No you will not young man."

The woman set off in his direction with purpose akin to a charge of heavy horse. Not bad for someone who looked to be a foot and a half smaller than him. Steel fingers lanced into his arm and he found himself being led into a long room of many beds, all of them full.

"You can put those muscles to good use and start cleaning up the patients for an hour, then you can go. Whichever God you pray to, will see you right for your devotion."

"I really...."

"You can save your prayers for later."

"This is a..."

"Izzy will get you some water and fresh loin cloths. It's really quite simple. Roll them onto their sides, remove the soiled cloths, clean them, put a fresh one on, roll them back, move onto the next. I'll be back in an hour."

"I don't know how to clean..." Her hand whipped out and clouted him on his ear "Ow!"

"Don't be such a baby. You'll figure it out." She left the room as Izzy entered with a bucket of water and some linen.

"Loincloths." she said putting them carefully on the single stool in the room, before handing him another cloth. "To wash with." And then she was gone as well.

He wanted to throw up and then run. Or run and then throw up. Yet, part of him knew why he was here, why he had walked in. The same part of him that moved his feet. He had to start somewhere, so he might as well start with the first. An old man, one of his wrists loosely bound to the frame of the bed. He had a faraway look to his eyes and a small line of drool running out of the corner of his mouth.

The smell really did remind him of the battlefield. Mostly the aftermath.

Was there really no way to leave the mortal realm in a dignified manner? You appeared to leave it as you entered it. Screaming and covered in blood. Don't think about the smell.

He undid the man's loincloth.

Don't think about the smell.

Rolled him onto his bound side, cleaned him up, positioned the new loin cloth, rolled him back and reached under the bound side to find the loose end, pulling it out and tying the loincloth in place.

The next man had a festering wound that had resulted in delirium. Death would not be long.

He doubted it would be long for any in the room.

Larn cleaned him up as well, his eye catching the shelves of jars and neatly rolled bandages at the end of the dimly lit room. He wandered over to have a look.

They were all neatly labelled, but he couldn't read the words. Though he could guess at the contents of a few by the smell. He had all the ingredients to make simple poultices. So he did.

He thought back to the words of the surgeon. 'Only treat those that can be treated' Larn couldn't help the first, but he could help the second. He laid his hands on the man's chest and relaxed. He could sense the infection riddled through him. It was easy enough to treat. He didn't bother healing the wound. It would heal in its own time now the infection was stopped. He used a little of his ability to put the man in a deep restorative sleep. The poultice didn't need to be strong, it just needed to stop dirt and germs getting into the wound, so he made it deliberately weak, which would make the ingredients go further.

Most of the patients in the room were suffering stab wounds of various types and depth that had become infected. Izzy periodically dumped a fresh pail at the doorway and removed his soiled one, barely glancing in his direction. The woman reappeared just as he was healing the last man. A nasty gut wound that had torn open his belly.

It was taking a bit of work to heal to a stage he could leave it.

There had been a leather pouch on the shelf that had contained some bone needles and gut string. Larn had half the wound sewn closed when she had loomed over the patient. She didn't say anything and after a moment, checked over the silent others, checking their pallor and temperature. She walked back as he snipped the gut. It wasn't pretty, not by a long shot, but it would do.

"Why didn't you tell me that you were a hedge mage." she demanded as Larn joined the patient below him with the rest in deep recuperative slumber.

"You never asked."

Her hand lashed out, not to clout him on his already sore ear this time, but to pick it between the nails of her thumb and forefinger. The pain was surprisingly intense.

"Argh!"

She walked him out of the room like a very small farmer leading a bull via its nose ring. She climbed the stairs, Larn in pinched tow. The next floor had two rooms, more beds, more patients. The intense pain stopped as she let go and he straightened from the hunch he had been forced into.

A quick glance told him that all the ill upstairs were women, and he had been dragged to a cot that held one who looked to be already dead. He was just about to say that the dead were beyond him when the 'cadaver' took a shallow breath. The ill woman, girl now that he had a closer look, had a red stained cloth across her groin. There was a cot to the side of her, an obviously very recent new born asleep. Or at least, he hoped it was. The girl looked like she was...

"She's bleeding out. You need to stop the blood loss."

"I have no..." He managed to get out before another calloused palm collided with his ear. "Ow!"

"Less talk, more healing."

"I..."

"Do I have to slap you again?"

There was a very real danger that if he opened his mouth, he would indeed receive another clout. He kept his silence. Placing his palms on the girl's abdomen he tried to focus. The damage was bad, and things weren't where they should be, but then she wasn't male. And there was stuff he had never sensed before. He didn't know if it was supposed to be there or not.

"I need to see the wound." The woman's actions were decisive and swift as she removed the bloody cloth. "Umm."

"You've seen a vagina before haven't you. Do what needs to be done."

Do what needs to be done. Easier said than done.

The life under his hands was fading fast, that he could sense. He took the cloth, moped up the blood and slipped his thumbs in, pulling the flesh apart. He tried not to think of what he was doing, focusing instead on finding where the blood was coming from.

There it was.

He sealed the tear. Only the blood didn't stop. He used his elbows to push the girl's knees further apart and pulled on his thumbs, peering in deeper, spotting more tears. He sealed them as well.

"Have you got a..." A hand appeared in front of him with a fresh clean piece of cloth. "Thanks." Larn moped up the blood on the outside, relived to see that it wasn't replaced. He slipped his thumbs back in, replacing his right thumb with his left forefinger, as he carefully inserted his right forefinger with some clean cloth round it. Carefully he moved it about, cleaning up blood that wasn't replaced. He removed his blood stained fingers. "Have you.."

A bowl was placed on the bed next to him with a small piece of soap. He lathered up his hands and submerged them in the water.

She handed him a dry piece of cloth on which dry his hands.

He was exhausted and there was no light coming through the shutters, so it was dark outside. The woman, whose name he STILL didn't know, had taken far more of his time thanshe had any right too.

"That's enough. I'm done." He expected her to argue and she surprised him by not.

"Where are you staying?" She asked of him.

"Err, The Mended Plough."

"Pfttt..."

"What?"

"Nothing. If you don't mind sharing your bed with a thousand blood suckers. And if you eat anything out of that cess pit he calls a kitchen, well, I'll be seeing you downstairs soon enough."

"I'm sure it's not that bad..."

"Live here do you? You can stay with my husband and I."

"You're married? Oww!" He-rubbed his smarting ear.

"That one you deserved."

"I've already paid..."

"You get your stuff, I'll get your money. Now come on."

It was very dark outside. The light of the moon obstructed by the tall buildings either side. He had never seen so many two storey buildings before. Some were even three story! The only two story in the hamlet of his birth had been the inn, and that had mostly been to accommodate the horses.

She was quiet as they walked and she had a fair turn of speed for someone her size.

"Are you not afraid we'll be mugged?"

"Not at all. If we are, I'll just shout "Larn, don't give them our money!" and run in the opposite direction."

For Larn, the disturbing thing about that, was he didn't think she was joking.
They arrived at the Mended Plough without incident.

"Go get your stuff Laddie."

He was too tired to argue. In his room Everything appeared how he had left it. He hadn't unpacked his pack, so all he had to do was pick it up. The easiest way of carrying his breastplate, was to wear it. He loosely tightened the Buckles and slung his sword belt around his hips, before collecting his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

Downstairs, she handed him his coppers. The innkeeper scowling at them both.

The woman navigated the darkness with the surety of someone who had lived here all her life.

"I didn't have you down as the type." She said suddenly.

"I'm sorry? What type?"

"The murdering type."

"You were getting pretty close to finding out earlier."

They walked along for a bit in silence.

"But you're right. I'm not. I found that out the hard way."

"But you're going back to it." It was more statement than question.

"I don't have much choice till I serve my time."

"And after that?"

"I'm taking it one day at a time." He thought of Gabran. "Not much point in doing anything else."

"That's no way to live."

"It's the bed I made for myself."

"Change beds. Or at least, the sheets."

"I'm not sure I have the skill."

"You have the time."

"Do I?"

"We're here. Try not to make too much noise. Or knock anything over with your penis extension."

"Thank you for that image."

She opened a door and he followed her in. A single lamp was on a dresser in the hallway. She picked it up and turned up the flame from its faint glow, leading him into a simple kitchen where a single plate lay on the table covered with a clean piece of linen.

"Sit."

He dutifully sat as she pushed the plate over to him. Under the linen was some bread and cheese. The kitchen fire was banked for the night, a pot still hanging above it. The woman lifted two bowls out of a cupboard and filled them from the pot. A simple vegetable stew. It was tasty enough. He had eaten worse. A lot worse.

She pulled the end of a loaf out of a tin and cut herself a slice before joining him.

"You do this every day?" he asked her.

"Pretty much."

"Can I ask why?"

"You can. Because no one else wants to. Does there need to be another reason?"

"I suppose not." He finished the stew wiping his bowl clean with the bread.

"Mum, I thought I heard..." The new voice stopped with a gasp.

Larn turned round. A woman his age, if not slightly older stood in the doorway, dressed in just a thin nightshirt. She did not appear best pleased about that state of affairs.

"Imogen. My eldest daughter. Larn will be staying for a few nights. If you could go-get the bed ready in the spare room my dear."

Imogen just stared at him. He was pretty sure he had the same look on his face shortly before melee was joined.

"Before dawn if you will Imogen." That was a tone he had heard all too often today. Imogen departed with alacrity
.
"Takes after her father. Sadly."

"Has he, um, passed?"

"What? Oh no. Can't you hear him snoring upstairs?"

"Err, no."

"Lucky you." she took the dishes and washed them out. "You did well today."

"I don't know how. It's not as if I knew what I was doing."

"Nobody is born knowing. As long as you don't end the day the idiot you were in the morning, you are doing well."

"I'll try and remember that pearl of wisdom."

"Don't try too hard, or your head will explode."

"I'll also keep that in mind."

"The bed is made." Imogen spoke from the doorway. She had dressed in a thick robe that reached to the floor, hiding even her ankles.

"Off with you Larn. You are making my kitchen untidy."

Larn collected his possessions, followed Imogen.

"Your mother is quite the character." He tried. She didn't reply, her silence stonier than the road outside.

"You are in here."

"Thank you Imogen." He watched the formless robe depart, shrugged and entered. The room was bare, the bed simple with sheets plain and unadorned. The bed was more than comfortable enough, especially when you were used to sleeping on blanket covered ground.

He was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

His stomach woke him. Or at least, he thought it was his stomach, as he could smell something pleasant. He stood, dressed and listened at the doorway. Voices downstairs. He made his way down.

The woman was there, along with Imogen, a girl of about ten summers and a man of the woman's age. Larn took him for the husband. He was dressed like a merchant. Imogen was dressed in a plain, functional dress, corseted with a neckline that ended at the throat and sleeves that ended at her wrists. She glowered at him and he tried not to remember the shadowy outlines that had lain under the thin sleep shift.

The younger girl was dressed in a simple dress common to girls her age and was already stained with breakfast. The woman was dressed as she had been yesterday. The husband stared at him intently, as though he was trying to flense the skin from Larn's bones.

"You sleep well Larn?" The woman asked.

"I did actually. Thank you."

"Don't just sit there girl! Get our guest something to eat."

Imogen looked daggers at him. He rose, intending to get his own food.

"I can…"

"Sit!" Larn sat.

"Larn, Grogor my husband. Emilia my youngest."

"Hi. Good morning."

A scathing scowl placed a plate in front of him along with a knife, fork and a tankard of ale.

"Thank you Imogen." There was no reply as she left the room. Larn shrugged and tucked into the food. It was simple, warm and tasty. Emilia didn't take her eyes off him, even when he looked up and met her gaze. The mother's gaze was elsewhere, lost in thought. The father was reading something on a thin something, Larn didn't know what, the husbands gaze often sliding to peer at Larn.

Larn finished the meal, drained the tankard. Emelia removed his cutlery and dish.

"Are you ready for the day ahead Larn?" asked the woman.

"Not really."

"That will do. Come on." She rose, as did Larn.

"Nice to meet you Grogor and you Emilia"

Emilia just giggled.

The streets were already busy as they left the house.

"It's the same as yesterday. All the days are the same, really."

"Lovely." Larn's thoughts slipped to all the bedpans and loincloths that would need changing.

"How much can you do, with your... ability."

"I don't really know. I didn't know I had it until recently." Even as the words left his mouth, he regretted saying them. She didn't reply. "Um. I don't think I ever caught your name."

"I didn't tell you it."

"Are you going to tell me it now?"

They were approaching a doorway Larn was pretty sure was going to be a feature of nightmares for years ahead. She pushed the door open.

"Navrinda."

There had been a fight in a pub the previous night. Weapons, drunk men and drunk men with no idea how to use aforesaid weapons. A combination always destined for disaster.

In the army, someone drunk who stabs, or threatens to stab someone else. would always find themselves lashed to a post in front of everyone else and their back whipped to ribbons. It was an occurrence many didn't indulge in more than once.

For those with friends, those friends would step in, disarm before anyone was hurt and if the drunkard was insistent, then they would be lashed to the wagon wheel of shame. If the drunkard had no friends, and the person about to be stabbed, had no friends, then everyone watched to see what would happen, knowing that they would have an easy morning skipping camp chores as they watched someone else learn a valuable life lesson.

Larn looked down at the stab wound. It was deep, but nothing of import seemed to have been hit. Infection was already setting in. He removed that, acutely aware that his somewhat shallow reserve of power had not replenished overnight. He had never used so much of it before and was now realising he had to be considerably more sparing over its use. He didn't have enough in him to seal the wound, so he resorted to good old fashioned healing. In this case, a needle and thread.

He pinched the sides of the wound together and sewed it closed. Good enough. On to the next...

Luckily, none of the other new arrivals had serious stab wounds and their presence delayed him a little from clearing up those who had soiled themselves overnight.

Navrinda appeared, checked over the newly injured. Once done, she looked at Larn and started to march over. Larn automatically clamped his hands over his ears.

"What are you doing you stupid boy?" Larn kept his distance as he dropped his hands. "Come with me." He followed her upstairs, where she waited for him on the landing. "You asked me why I did this. I'll show you why."

He followed her into the room of women, as she headed directly to a woman sat up on the simple, functional bed. She was only partly clothed. Bare above the waist as she nursed a bairn. Larn tried not to look at the exposed breast not currently being suckled on. It took him longer than it should have done, to realise that it was the girl from the previous night. Even more so, considering that she was the only nursing mother in the room. She was looking a lot better than she had when he had last seen her. Someone had washed her, combed and plaited her hair.

She was looking down at her child in what Larn could only describe as adoration. Sensing that she was being stared at in turn, she looked up, her gaze glancing off Navrinda to focus intently on Larn.

"I saw the eternal blackness yesterday. It beckoned me and my feet moved against my will, no matter how hard I fought. My fate was inevitable. And then you were stood in front of me. You wouldn't let me past, and then you took my hand, led me away, back to the light."

Larn thought that was all a bit dramatic, especially for someone who had not been conscious, but she had such a fervent look in her eye, that he kept his mouth closed and his thoughts to himself.

"I don't have much, but it's yours. I will work off my debt."

"There is no debt" Larn cut in, stopping her before she said something that would be awkward for the both of them.

The new mother burst out crying, which he had not been expecting. Nor did he know what to do about it. Navrindar stepped in close to him.

"Hug her, you stupid boy."

There was so many awkward things to navigate. The awkward posture he needed to adopt. The bare breast. The baby. He allowed for a brief contact but the woman clung on with a grip as though she was about to fall into another abyss, sobbing uncontrollably. He wondered if this was to be his fate, starved to death in the arms of a girl he didn't even know. If he had any power left. he would have put her to sleep. As it was, his life, and his ribs, were saved by an unexpected source.

The baby, sensing its mothers distress, started to cry. How could something so small make so much noise!. The girl, reluctantly, let him go, focusing on calming her new-born.

"I'll never forget you. Never forget what you did."

Larn's eyes kept sliding to her breasts, embarrassed at both her words and his own lack of self-control. He tried to bring some semblance of a professionalism he knew he didn't possess to the situation, by placing a hand against her abdomen. Her skin was so soft, smooth and supple to his touch. He tried not to think about that too much either.

Although he lacked power to do anything, he could still sense. Yes, there was still those bits that were alien to him, but he could still sense their condition. It was not good. He doubted he could repair the damage, even with his power levels fully restored.

"There was cost." He found himself saying. "The birth caused damage. I healed it as best as I could, but, " He struggled to find the right words. "The repairs are weak. I don't think they will survive another pregnancy. If you do become pregnant, then you will need another mage. A better one. For the birth, or all your wounds will be reopened and you will bleed out again. I'm sorry."

"But if I don't become pregnant, I will be okay?"

"Yes, you should be. Just don't get kicked in the stomach by a horse or anything like that."

"I'll see my daughter grow up?"

"Yes."

"I can't repay you enough..."

"It's okay."

"We'll name her first son after you..."

"There's no need to subject your daughter, or her son, to that." He said with a gentle smile. "Get some rest. You have still healing to do. And make sure you eat."

"Thank you."

"You're more than welcome."

They finished earlier than the previous night, which meant the evening meal was shared with the rest of the family. Navrindar made her eldest serve his food. Which she was very obviously not happy about. He couldn't work out if Navrindar was punishing her daughter for something, or if she genuinely liked annoying people. Finishing early, would mean that he would have a few hours to kill before he was tired enough for sleep.

"Emilia, go get your slate."

"Awe, mummm...!" To Larn, it was obvious that Emilia was not happy with whatever the slate entailed.

"It's not for you, love. It's for Larn. You're going to teach him letters. Off you go."

"Letters?" Larn questioned Navrinda.

"Yes. I'm not having you go round sniffing bottles when there are perfectly good labels on the outside."

True to her word, when Emilia came back with a large piece of slate and a stick of chalk, Navrinda had her start to educate him on writing. It was several torturous hours for the both of them. Emilia clearly getting frustrated at the speed in which Larn was not learning.

"See my child. Now you know how I felt, when I first started to teach you."

"But mum! He's so slooow!"

The only thing that made him keep his silence, was that Emilia could already read and write to a standard he doubted he could ever meet. There was a knock at the front door.

"Emilia, go see to that. If it's Marjorie, show her in and you can go play before bed." Emilia was off like a rabbit.

From the hallway, Larn heard a female voice and then footsteps. A woman of Navrindars age appeared in the doorway holding a basket.

"Is this him?" asked the new woman.

"It is indeed." The woman pulled a chair out, placed her basket on the table and sat. "Larn, this is Marjorie She's a seamstress and she's going to show you how to sew."

"I don't need to know how to sew!"

"I have many beds whose occupants would argue that point with you. Your sewing is abysmal." she looked at his blank stare. "Your shit." She clarified.

Marjorie pulled out some scraps of cloth, needles and thread. "I'm going to show you a few types of stitching. They are used in different ways. One will be for dean cuts, one will be for ragged edge cuts, and one will be for cuts where parts of the cloth are missing. Now pay attention."

***

Larn collapsed onto the bed exhausted. His brain hurt and his hands hurt. Fingers from both holding the needle, and from where he had stabbed himself. Repeatedly. Knuckles smarting from where Marjorie had rapped them with one of Navrinda's ladles when he had failed to adhere to the 'correct' spacing.

At breakfast. Navrinda kept telling him numbers and asking what the corresponding letter in the alphabet was. It was really difficult ignoring Imogen's smug and gloating smile as he used his fingers to try and work at what letter it was. He was wrong most of the time. It didn't stop at the finish of breakfast. Navrinda kept up the questions on the way to the hospice and during the day. He found himself praying for a nasty street fight somewhere, just to give him a break.

***

All good things must come to an end, as they said. He should have departed for camp the previous day, but he always found something to hold him back. Now he really must go. He shook Gregor's hand, embraced both Navrinda and Emilia in light hugs. Imogen stayed well back, glaring at him from a safe distance.

He would have to run most of the night in order to catch up. The weight of his pack was spread out via his breast plate and he held his sword and scabbard in his hand, rather than around his wrist where it would just trip him up. The moon was out, which at least meant that he could see where he was going.

Larn reckoned he had an hour before role call was called. His leg muscles were in agony as he walked past the sentries.

The camp was busy, soldiers congregating in boisterous groups as the last few stragglers staggered into camp. It looked like he had cut it closer than he thought. He made his way to the tent he shared with eight other men. The tent was empty of soldiers and it was also missing his roll mat and large pack. And his helmet, first horn sounded and he had no option but to hastily drop his travel pack and head out to the assembly area.

He searched out for and found the troop's colours. He ran for them and arrived as the second horn sounded. A few of his fellow soldiers smirked at his near miss. The parade square was called to attention and the officers marched out, filing off to their retrospective commands. The company sergeants fell out of their units, and marched out to the officers, where they about turned and opened the ledger they all held. With the exception of the Fourteenth, as they had lost their officer in the previous battle, so Sgt Frisk fulfilled the role.

Names were called out alphabetically. Larn waited for his turn.

"Millwright!"

"Sir!" Larn shouted out loudly. A notation was marked in the book next to his name

"Minsark!"

"Dead, previous battle, Sir!" "

"Minwart!"

"Sir!"

"Nantwich!"

"Not back sir!" And so it went till all the names in the books were called out. Those who had arrived too late for the parade, were stood off to the side in collective misery, had their names taken. They would have it bad for a week or so, but not as bad as those who had missed the parade in entirety.

Their Colonel left the square and they were all stood at ease and dismissed. Except for those who were late, who were assigned punishment details. The more the merrier, thought Larn, because the more soldiers that were on punishment detail, meant less onerous tasks, for longer, for the rest of them.

Larn sought out his section commander. "Corporal Stevens?"

"Yes, what do you want Millwright?"

"All my kit has gone from my section's tent."

"That's because you have been moved, son."

"Moved? Where to Corporal?"

"Two to the right of Sergeant Frisk."

"Umm can I ask why?"

"You can, yes."

Larn waited. And waited "Can I get an answer Corporal?"

"I suppose. Sgt Frisk has decided that you are a Platoon asset. Probably because you stopped the majority of us from becoming hedgehogs a few weeks back."

"Oh. Do I get a pay rise?"

"I wouldn't push it, Private."

Larn wandered through the large sixteen men tents to where the tents became smaller, and in better condition. Nervously, he asked directions for Sgt Frisk's tent. On arrival he found a small tent in bad condition squeezed in between two other considerably bigger and better quality ones, two down from Frisk's tent. Looking inside, he spotted his bedroll and large pack.

His new tent stank of damp and mildew and its water and wind resistance looked dubious at best. It probably leaked when it rained. But it was his. He also had a camp bed. No more sleeping on the ground. Though given the look of it, one good fart whilst he was in it would probably result in him being on the ground anyway.

There didn't appear to be anyone else around. In front of the tents, which all seemed to be circling a fire, were several simple benches, which in turn circled the fire. The fire itself was currently banked and had a metal frame over it, the hooks of which were currently empty. No one had told him where to be, or what to do, or had even given him any duties. Not that he was keen to point that out to anyone. His tent stank, so he tied the flaps back, not that he thought it would make much difference for a few days, if at all. One thing he had learned in the army, was not to be seen doing nothing. He retrieved his long blade and armour, along with a cloth and small bottle of wax oil from within his large pack. He carried oil, leather and blade to the benches, where he sat on the one closest to his tent. He hoped their wasn't a hierarchy as to who sat where. He poured a little oil on the already soaked cloth and set to oiling his leather breastplate. He would do his blade after.

"That's what I like to see." Larn hastily stood as Sgt Frisk and the rest of the senior non-commissioned entered the little clearing. "Sit down lad." Larn sat. "AJ, get the kettle on."

One of the seniors stirred the banked fire into life and departed, coming back with a smoke stained kettle which he hung on one of the hooks over the fire. Larn kept quiet, too scared to move because Sgt Frisk actually terrified him. Most of the seniors did. They were all hard, battle scarred men who brooked no dissent, and came down hard on any perceived in fractions. Which Larn had noted to involve a lot of whipping. He had so far avoided that punishment and was keen to keep it so.

"Sergeant, umm, why am I here?"

"You would have to ask a priest that son."

"I meant here, at this fire."

"Because you are an asset to the unit and I want you to be where you are going to be most useful. Which is next to me."

"My magic is not that strong."

"And yet you have more of it than everyone else in the Company. Son, stick with me and not only will you learn more, your life will be considerably easier."

Larn was all for the latter part.

The kettle over the fire started to scream and one of the veterans lifted it off the ring and started pouring the contents into simple mugs. The first was handed to Sgt Frisk, the last to him. The others were taking small sips, so he took one as well. The hot liquid was bitter and had the same effect on his taste buds as a hard blow had to his groin. He listened to the chat
around him, not understanding most of it, but some snippets he understood. A few names he recognised, but not, in a good way. Most of it was incoming extra duties and punishment details. A few soldiers had managed to impress and the seniors were discussing potential avenues to nurture their strengths and mitigate their weaknesses. Larn had thought the new recruits like himself, had escaped the notice of the senior ranks. He was finding out rapidly that, that wasn't the case.

They had been given the illusion of freedom, so as their true natures could be studied.

Some of the lads who had joined with him, were in for a shock, and he couldn't help but wonder what had been on his horizon before his ability had manifested. He was certainly changing some of his behaviour going forward. No one asked him anything or sought his opinion and his brief spell at the hospice had instilled in him the virtue of saying nothing.
The discussions were wide ranging and seemed to have little structure. One minute they were discussing training, the next, who was ill, company supplies and then back to training. Larn wondered if he should make a comment about helping with the injured, but the other men scared the shit out of him, and he didn't want to be the focus of their attention.

"I can help with our injured. I helped out at a hospice during leave." They all turned to face him.

Shit.

Sgt Frisk just nodded and the conversation moved on. Larn swore blind he would keep his mouth shut in future.

The cups were drained and collected and the men headed off to do whatever it was they did. Collecting his sword, Larn headed to the infirmary. The orderlies ignored him so he headed for the nearest surgeon, who was currently in the process of removing a leg. Larn spotted the gangrene. The soldier was tied down to the bench and had a cloth wrapped piece of wood in his mouth that he was currently screaming into rather vocally. The sound of the saw against bone made Larn want to scream as well. It must have been horrible to feel the vibration. He placed his hand on the unfortunate soldiers brow and put him to sleep.

The surgeon removed the limb and casually tossed it into a nearby wicker basket, before taking hold of an Iron sword that was currently buried in glowing coals. "Are you a hedge?" he asked as he pressed the glowing metal to the stump. Lars nodded, trying to ignore the sizzle and smell that was way too appetising considering its origin. "What do you want? You don't look injured."

"I came to see if you need help."

"Any previous experience?"

"A little."

"That's good enough. Grab an apron, do what you can." The surgeon said, nodding in the direction of all the occupied beds as he squinted at the seared wound.

He had a list of names of those that belonged to his unit and he pestered one of the orderlies for their locations. He did what he could and moved on to the rest.

"Have you eaten son?" Sgt Frisk's voice roused him from a stupor he hadn't been aware of slipping into. Larn straightened from the half crouch he had been in and immediately wobbled as his head spun. Sgt Frisk grabbed him by the arm and steadied him as he used his other to grab Larn by the chin and pull his head round so their eyes met. Lan found himself too tired to resist. Frisk let his chin go and turned to the nearest orderly. "He is done for the day. Clean him up and make sure he gets back to my unit."

It felt as though he was watching someone else as he felt the apron removed, the blood washed from his skin and his sword unceremoniously thrust into his limp arms. Mutely he allowed himself to be dragged through the camp, his eyes open but unseeing.

Someone pushed him down onto a bench and a bowl was thrust into his hands. The smell awoke a ferocious hunger within him and he shovelled the contents into his mouth, awareness slowly coming back to him. He looked up into the sky. The sun was well past its zenith. He heard orderly shouting in the distance and cold terror swept through his weary body. He had missed evening parade.

"Relax. Frisk knows where you are."

Larn turned to the voice. One of the senior Corporals was sitting on a bench watching him, slowly puffing on a pipe.

"You need to pace yourself better, son. You can't help anyone if you are a casualty yourself."

"I got carried away."

The veteran handed over a small demijohn. Larn took a cautious sniff of the neck, the contents appeared to be just water. He took a long swallow that resulted in some of the water going down his windpipe forcing him into a painful bout of coughing. The veteran just shook his head.

He was just recovering his breath and composure when the sound of voices approached and the senior ranks filtered into the space around the fire. There was noise further afield as the lower ranks returned to their own tents.

"Is he better?" Larns' guardian nodded as Frisk walked over and cuffed Larn lightly on the ear. "Idiot."

Larn couldn't disagree with him.

"We depart tomorrow. I want you all and your men ready to depart by first parade. We leave straight after. It's a march to battle. Most likely three days. If anyone is drunk and can't keep up, stand fucking by." He turned his attention back to Larn. "How long does it take you to recover?"

"I'm still finding that out, Sgt."

"Well, don't use it unless you have too. I want you to have your reserve as full as it can be. Most of the injured will be staying here, but the majority of the medical staff will be coming with us. General's order."

The conversation turned to logistics, wagon trains, and subjects of no interest or real comprehension to Larn. No-one remarked when he stood and wobbled his way to his tent. Inside he placed his sword down on his camp bed and collapsed on top of it.

***

A hard punch to his side roused him from a deep sleep. He squinted up at the early morning sky. Something about that was wrong, but his sleep addled brain couldn't work out what. Sitting up, he looked about him. The majority of the tents had gone, replaced by packs waiting to be collected and stored on wagons.

"Are you fit to walk?"

Larn looked blearily eyed up at one of the seniors, nodded.

"Grab your shit, first parade is in a few minutes."

Standing, he buckled his sword around his waist as in the distance, the first horn blew. He followed the rest to the designated parade ground. Roll call was taken, infractions from the previous day reported, punishments given. Some withheld till after the coming battle. A chance for some of the perpetrators of the more serious crimes, to redeem themselves and avoid a flogging by either an act of outstanding prowess and bravery, or by death.

A line of carts lay waiting. Each had a small pennant denoting which troop they belonged to. Larn located the fourteenth's. A small break of their fast and the wagons were loaded. Small pack on his back, sword at his hip, he located his old squad and fell in with them as no-one had told him not to.

In the distance a horn was blown and the column slowly set off, gathering speed as the soldiers slipped into rhythm.