When we last left him, Jarthen had finally received his bow from a grumpy gnome. Weapon in hand, Jarthen is finally starting to feel like a real soldier. Meanwhile, his friend Bertronius has used his wits and social standing to talk his way into the West Fethil garrison to see the commanding officer of the establishment.
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The teenaged guard hurriedly escorted Bertronius within the walls of the compound to the largest of several buildings made from rough-hewn stone. It was two stories high, topped with ramparts, and dotted with evenly spaced windows that were only wide enough to allow an archer to fire out of. Despite the apparently strong fortifications, West Fethil’s garrison had never sustained any attack other than that carried out by age and mildew. As a result, the fortress’s defenses were somewhat lacking. The guard hammered on the door’s heavy knocker, and stood at attention while the door was opened by another older guard. The younger guard informed his senior of Bertronius’s stature in the community, which caused him to immediately stiffen and adopt a most professional manner. The soldier led him through the dimly lit corridor, up a narrow, winding staircase, to a door on the second floor, that Bertronius could tell by the coat of arms emblazoned on it, was the garrison commander’s quarters.
After the guard had knocked on the officer’s doors, a clearly annoyed, somewhat slurred voice responded, “What is it? This better be good, I demanded not too be disturbed unless it was urgent.”
“There’s a Mr. Worthis to see you, sir,” the guard responded.
“Well…uh…see him in you fool,” the voice behind the door responded nervously, after a pause.
Bertronius was led into a small, one room apartment with the same rough-hewn walls as the rest of the fort. It was a sparely appointed room, with several shelves of old military training manuals, a messily made cot, and a desk littered with papers, half-drunk glasses of brownish liquor, and what seemed to be the ashes of several pipe bowls. The man within, the garrison commander, was short with skinny arms and legs, and a ponderous stomach. He was only 45 years old, but his round, chubby face seemed much older all the same: it was haggard, with a grayish pallor, and several days worth of stubble.
the much beleaguered Lt. Atsish“Mr. Worthis, uh…sir, Lieutenant Atsish, at your service,” the officer wearily introduced himself. “What can I do for you?”
As Bertronius approached, he detect the unmistakable smell of alcohol on the lieutenant’s breath. “I would like to enlist in the Imperial Army, and I want to be sent to the front immediately, sir.”
There was a pause. “Well…uh…no disrespect Master Worthis, but aren’t you a bit young to be joining the ranks. And wouldn’t it be more befitting of your rank in society to be trained as an officer? I’m sure they would wave the entrance exams in your case…why you’d probably outrank me within two years with your connections.”
“No. That simply will not do, I can’t wait that long! I insist that you accept me into the ranks now, as I am.”
“But…sir,” Atsish persisted, “how does your father feel about this endeavor? Why are you so set on joining the army at such a dangerous point in time?”
“My father respects my wishes just as you should,” Bertronius lied, “I yearn to defend my country and avenge the death of my dearest friend, who died at on the Fethilian front. If you refuse this simple request, I will see that you are sacked within a fortnight.” Although he was bluffing, and his father most certainly would not have supported his desire to enter the military, Bertronius spoke with such confidence and authority beyond his years that the lieutenant was completely cowed.
The officer paused for a moment considering his options before responding. “Well…in that case, I suppose I’ll have to sign you up,” the Lieutenant conceded, and Bertronius nodded his assent.
“Let me find an enlistment form, then.” He rustled around the messy stacks of papers on his desk, disturbing his liquor glasses, and smearing ashes over the desk’s surface before finding the sought after form. “Here it is. Just read through this pledge, and sign it. I must warn you, however, that once you sign this form, your commitment to serve for seven years cannot be rescinded—even by your father. You must serve your full term, or die trying.”
Bertronius signed the form without hesitation.
When Jarthen reached the training ground on the other side of the camp, the elves were already drilling: one elf would fire an arrow straight up into the air, duck and roll away with amazing agility while another elf tumbled with equal dexterity, and caught the arrow that the previous one had shot, and fire it again for the next. Jellihondor, lazily drawing on his long-stemmed pipe, watched impassively as his soldiers performed, what were to Jarthen, astounding feats.
“Sir…”Jarthen, uncertain of how he should address his commander, “Sir, what should I, ur, be doing?”
“Not'in’,” responded Jellihondor, “’til I tell ya to do somet'in'.” Chastened, Jarthen stood silently by his superior, and awaited his orders.
After what seemed like an interminable wait, Jellihondor brusquely said, “Do ye ken where ta range is, lad? Alrigh'. Get yerself down there wit' yer arrows, and take shots from fifty paces until fi'e out o' seven of your shots are bullseyes, an' when ye’ve done tha', do it again from a hundred paces.”
“Yes sir,” Jarthen responded, and he promptly headed off towards the camp’s firing range. The firing range consisted of a series of hay bales painted with red targets, and it lay near the forest’s edge, safely away from anyone’s dwellings. Jarthen was glad that there were relatively few archers practicing today, since he was not at all sure that he would perform particularly well: the only individuals around were a hairy dwarf throwing small axes at an unfortunate target, and a rotund gnome who seemed more intent on smoking his pipe than practicing his marksmanship. Jarthen measured fifty paces from the outermost target, and took up a position as he had seen the elves do when they prepared to shoot. His feet shoulder-width apart and his bow arm pointed towards the target, Jarthen selected an arrow from his quiver, and notched it onto the string. He pulled the bowstring back slowly towards his face and past, breathing as he did so. When he had pulled back the length of the arrow, he paused, and, breathing out, let it fly in what he hoped would be a well-aimed attempt. The arrow soared away from him, flying in a graceful arc across the sky, and, as if it had a mind of its own, landed a full five paces in front of the target.
Jarthen looked around sheepishly, hoping that the other occupants had not witnessed his dramatic failure. Fortunately, the gnome was deeply engaged in cleaning his pipe and the dwarf was too busy picking up his collection of axes to have noticed Jarthen. He retrieved his errant arrow from in front of the target and took up a position considerably closer to the target. This time, he pulled the bowstring back as far as it would go, and again released the arrow. It flew through the air and landed smartly on a target – unfortunately not the one Jarthen had aimed at. Attempting to look as if he had done this deliberately, Jarthen notched another arrow on his bowstring and aimed at the target he had just mistakenly hit. This time, the arrow flew true and struck his intended target.
“YES!” Jarthen exclaimed as he threw himself in the air. In celebration of his accomplishment, he performed a small jig shamelessly in front of his two admittedly unobservant companions. By the end of the day, Jarthen’s hands were raw and bloodied from practicing so fervently throughout the late afternoon and early evening.
At dusk, sitting underneath his favorite oak tree on the far edge of the firing range watching the sunset, Jarthen felt a sense of peace to which he had hitherto been unaccustomed. He saw the sunset more clearly than he had ever seen it before: he had never been so struck by the vibrancy of the reds and oranges that now flooded the sky and the plain. He felt suddenly as though he were adrift in the sea of light, and he felt a feeling of complete ease and contentment wash over him for the first time since this whole debacle began.
He was shaken out of his rhapsodic ruminations by the thickly accented voice of Rethnaki, one of the elves with whom he shared a tent. Based on what Jarthen had seen of him, Rethnaki seemed to be a haughty, brash, young elf with a sass-mouth that rivaled any that Jarthen had ever known. Despite his tendency towards such verbal impudence, Rethnaki did not seem mean-spirited in the least, but, rather, a well meaning, if mischievous youth.
“An' wha' ha’e ye been doin’, me lad,” his elvish companion inquired.
“Uh…,” Jarthen hesitated trying not to sound as intimidated as he felt.
“I know,” Rethnaki said, completing Jarthen’s thought “ye’ve been 'ere ha'en’ ye? Ye’ve e'en bloodied yer hands wit' ta effert. Ye can' say ye don' try.”
“Thanks…I think,.” Jarthen responded with uncertainty. It was the longest he had ever spoken with his tent mate.
OF CHAPTER 1
PLEASE CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 2
1 comment:
It just keeps getting better! --
HS
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