Chapter 2: Of Elves and Soldiers (pt. 2)

When last we left him, our lithe hero Jarthen was simultaneously honing his archery skills and cementing his friendship with Rethnaki, his wise-cracking tent mate. How efficient the lad has been! Meanwhile, Bertronius officially became a member of Her Majesty's Army, and made the acquitances of Nelhoepher and Lem.
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After the cheering and celebration had subsided, Rethnaki made sure to collect his winnings from his comrade. The other elf handed over a small leathern sack of pipeherb to Rethnaki, who then motioned for Jarthen to come over to him.

“Seein’ how yer ta one tha' won this, I t'ink ye deserve a share o’ it,” Rethnaki said, reaching into the leather pouch.

“Well,” Jarthen replied in slightly embarrassed tone, “uh, I’ve, uh, never really smoked pipe herb: it’s forbidden in Elothnin.”

“Ah, lad, 'tis not'in’ ta be ashamed about, come wit' me.” Rethnaki led Jarthen back to where the elvish battalion had its tent and into the dwelling that they shared. Rethnaki proceeded to kneel down by the satchel he kept by his bedroll, and pull out a long stemmed wooden pipe. At first glance, the pipe did not appear in anyway extraordinary, it looked just like one of the countless dark wood pipes carried by elves and the other rebel forces. Upon closer examination, however, Jarthen realized that the pipe’s smooth surface was adorned with subtle carvings that only became apparent when one tilted the pipe to catch the light in the exact right way. Along the stem were a series of lines that intersected and curlicued creating a beautiful motif that culminated at the pipe’s bowl where the lines joined together to create a mosaic effect.

Rethnaki then removed several generous pinches of pipe herb from the leathern sack and sorted out the unwanted stems and seeds leaving a small pile of green powder. The odor that came from the as yet unsmoked herb was simultaneously pungent and sweet, bringing to mind a pine forest on a misty morning. The elf gingerly placed the powdered herb into the pipe’s large bowl and tamped it down until it was well-filled. The pipe now prepared, Rethnaki used a waiting candle to heat a twig to a bright red, which he then applied to the packed herb while inhaling deeply from the pipe’s stem. The herb was slow to ignite, but when it did so it released a deep, strong aromatic smoke. Rethnaki took several pulls on the pipe, holding the smoke in his lungs for a longer period of time with each inhalation.

a well-filled pipe indeed

After exhaling a particularly impressive quantity of smoke (you’d be amazed by the lung capacity of elves!) Rethnaki handed the pipe to Jarthen, advising him, “now, don' suck too hard, lest ye wan' ta cough up yer lungs.” Wanting to avoid this gruesome fate, Jarthen put the pipe to his lips and breathed in lightly at first. He didn’t feel anything entering his lungs, so he proceeded to suck a bit more aggressively. However, this did indeed prove to be a miscalculation: after removing the pipe from his lips, Jarthen began to cough more furiously than he ever had before, with smoke issuing violently from his nose and mouth. This outburst, caused Rethnaki no end of amusement! He keeled over from sheer mirth, which, in turn, caused Jarthen to begin laughing as well: within moments the two comrades were both rolling around on the floor of the tent clutching their sides with laughter.

Upon regaining their composure, Rethnaki encouraged Jarthen to give his pipe another try, “Come on now, lad, if yer ta be an elvish soldier, ye mus learn ta smoke elvish pipe weed!”

Not wanting to offend his comrade, Jarthen accepted the relit pipe from Rethnaki. Knowing what to expect this time, Jarthen pulled on the pipe stem gently, allowing his lungs to gradually be filled with the rich, intoxicating smoke. After he had taken in as much as he could, Jarthen held the smoke for a moment before exhaling in what he hoped was a more graceful manner than his previous attempt. This time around he was actually able to appreciate the complex flavors in the smoke: there were hints of fruit, various herbs and spices, all against the background of the weed’s rich smoky flavor.

“Aye, now tha’s ta way ta smoke!” Rethnaki shouted clapping his thigh with enthusiasm. “I would ha'e thought ye’d been smokin’ pipeweed yer entire life! Now how was that?”

“How was it, indeed,” Jarthen thought. Jarthen would have gladly responded that it was most delightful, except he found that he was unable to move his mouth to form the necessary words.

Upon seeing his companion’s inability to respond, Rethnaki broke down laughing again. Wiping a tear from his eye after recovering from his spasm of laughter, Rethnaki explained what he had found so funny. “I can' believe I forgot ta tell ye tha' our pipeweed has a mos' powerful effect on ta body an' mind!”

*****

Bertronius was pleased to discover that he and the rest of the West Fethil recruits wouldn’t have to stay in their less than favorable lodgings for too long. Indeed, the next morning Bertronius was awakened by a gruff, middle-aged master sergeant by the name of Kinnons, who loudly informed the entire barracks that they would need to rouse their lazy bones and prepare for the long march north towards the main body of the Imperial Army that very day. The Imperial Army was split into several major components spread across the Western frontier, and Bertronius and his fellow West Fethilians were headed towards the section camped in the vicinity of the fabled Erkenheld forest, where it was believed a large contingent of rebels were in hiding.

“Well, this is assuredly a good thing,” Nelhoepher whispered to Bertronius, once the sergeant was out of earshot. “Soon we’ll be in striking distance of the rebels!”

“That’s great,” Bertronius replied, excited to be headed in the direction of Jarthen’s betrayer, “but shouldn’t we be trained, first?”

“Well, we’ve had a bit training since I joined up, mostly marching and the like, but I reckon they’ll give us some proper experience once we get up to the main body of the troops. I wouldn’t worry to much about it, we’re going to be under Topelthorpe, and everyone knows he’s the queen’s best man in the field.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Bertronius said, a little reassured: it was good to know that he wasn’t going to be the lone untrained soldier.

After a hasty breakfast of some of the driest eggs and porridge Bertronius had ever eaten, he and the rest of the recruits were ordered to put on their uniforms, gather their sleeping gear, weapons and then assemble in the main yard of the garrison. Knowing that he probably would be leaving the garrison for good, Bertonius squeezed every piece of equipment he had been issued as best he could into his leathern pack. He then quickly made his way onto the parade ground, where the other soldiers were assembling. Even with all of his possessions on his back, he didn’t feel to heavy: this was good he reasoned, as he would undoubtedly be marching many miles a day now.

Bertronius looked up and down the row of approximately 100 soldiers that stood beside him. They were certainly a motley crew, most of the soldiers looking a bit too young or considerably too old for combat, all attired in ill-fitting, used uniforms, and most of them loafing about in a very unprofessional way. Once the last stragglers had left the barracks, five veteran soldiers - the same sergeant and four rough looking infantrymen - ordered them to stand attention, chastised the lot of them for their sorry appearance, and accused them of not being man enough for the Queen’s army. After they were satisfied with their yelling and huffing, the sergeant and his men led them out through the garrison gate towards the army and adventure.

Bertronius’s contingent of troops marched along a narrow dirt lane, stopping only every few hours to refill their canteens, and catch their breath before the ornery sergeant and his subordinates forced them resume their progress. The surrounding territory was wild and hilly: patches of brambles and small trees were interspersed with isolated farmsteads. They passed very few other people on the first day of their march. It was only when they had reached a point farther north and west than the young man had ever been that they were allowed to stop for the night.

“Alright you lazy sods, it’s time to bed down for the night,” sergeant Kinnons shouted to the exhausted group of recruits. Because of the reasonably pleasant spring weather, Kinnons had decided that luxuries like tents and shelter from the elements would be unnecessary, serving only to slow his charges down and make them unduly soft.

Bertronius gratefully slumped onto the ground of the roadside meadow they had stopped at. Had he not been so tired, Bertronius would probably have been struck by the beauty of the small, unworked field: the grass was tall and green, and speckled with a beautiful array of wild flowers and clovers. As it was, however, it was all he could do to remove his heavy pack from his back, unroll his sleeping bag, and pass into a fitful sleep.

The next two days of marching passed much as the first, but towards the end of the third day Bertronius’s troop of soldiers had been joined by a larger group of recruits from the more eastern city of Susselfen.

“Well, they’re a sorry looking bunch, aren’t they?” Nelhoepher remarked to Bertonius, as they were setting up camp by the fading rays of the sun.

Bertonius grunted in response, but couldn’t help feeling that he and his fellow recruits from West Fethil were no better looking, and that they certainly hadn’t learned anything of soldiering during his first several days in the army. Though he had only been serving in the army for a matter of days, Bertonius’s resolve was beginning to suffer a bit from the exhausting marches, meager rations, and constant yelling of Kinnons. He hated himself for it, but there were moments, like when he woke on the morning after what had been their seventh day of marching, that he wished he had never joined the army. The pain he felt when he thought of Jarthen was still there, but it was somewhat muted by the soreness of his extremities and the emptiness of his belly. Jarthen had been forced to join the army, and Bertonius was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, his friend would not have wanted him to volunteer for the same servitude that had resulted in his own death.

Fortunately, however, he was given little opportunity to continue these dark reflections by sergeant Kinnons and his opposite number from the Susselfen contingent, who quickly set to rousing and berating their troops.

Once the sixty or so recruits had woken, packed, and been assembled into lines, Kinnons spoke in a booming voice to the entire party. “Today, you lot are going to become part of the main body of the Queen’s army. I must say, if she were here now she’d probably have the main part of you drowned like a sack of kittens. Look at yourselves! Do you look like soldiers? I think not. Nevertheless, we’ll have to make do with what we’re given, and the army has seen fit to allow you into our ranks. Now fall in, we’ll reach the camp by nightfall, at which point you’ll all be split into your new regiments: I suggest ye look yer best fer yer new commanders.”

Bertronius and the West Fethilians march to the front

With these inspiring words resounding in their ears, the recruits were marched out in rows of three on the narrow country road. Bertronius walked abreast of Nelhoepher and Lem, the former of whom spoke excitedly about the prospect of finally reaching the Imperial army. “I reckon once we get there we’ll be given proper uniforms, and that they’ll put us to work at once. I mean, clearly we’ll have a much better chance of seeing some action up at the front, so they’ll have to make sure we’re ready to fight.”

“Right,” Bertonius replied unenthusiastically. He was none too keen on seeing combat, not because he was a coward-Bertronius was, in fact, a very brave young man-but, rather, because he was less concerned about killing strange beasts than he was about finding Ractor. He knew that the only hope he had of finding the perfidious knight was to follow his trail through the army, and the front was where the vast majority of the Queen’s troops were stationed, so chances were good that Ractor would be among them.