Chapter 2: of Elves and Soldiers (pt. 1)

The next day, Rethnaki invited Jarthen to join him and several of the other elves from their battalion for breakfast: it was the first time that anyone had extended such an offer of comradeship to the lad. In the days that Jarthen had spent with the rebel army, he had experienced a growing feeling of isolation from his fellow soldiers. The fact that the vast majority of his comrades-at-arms did not speak the Common Tongue of Elothnin limited the people he could communicate with to the elves and a handful of individuals from the other races in the army that acted as representatives at the rebel’s strategic council. In addition, he had found it difficult to bond with others when he had to spend the vast majority of his time with his arms immersed in soap, scrubbing away at the remains of the day’s meal. The knowledge that he was now in possession of a weapon, and this acknowledgment from the elves made him feel more integrated into his new milieu than he ever had before.

Jarthen grabbed a hunk of dark bread and some salted pork, and made his way over to Rethnaki and the other elves huddling around a campfire to fend off the early morning’s chill.

“Ah lad, 'tis good ta see ye,” Rethnaki greeted him. “We didn’ think old Jelli would e'er let ya ha’e yer bow.”

“Aye, he’s a tough’un he is,” added Helkint, another elf in the battalion. “Ya must ha’ done somet’in' righ' ta convince him ta arm ye.”

“Well our man-child here,” Rethnaki added, “has earned it, met'inks. I ha’e seen him down at ta range practicin' ‘till his hands were streaked wit' his own blood. An' you’ll t'ink tha' I’ve gone soft in ta head, but I’d mark him as more than passable wit' tha’ bow there.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” responded another elf, whose name Jarthen couldn’t recall. “I’ve not yet met ta hu-man tha' could come close ta ta bowmanship demanded o' us elves.”

“Now, now,” Rethnaki chided, “ya mus’ give ta lad a chance! He only jus' got tha’ weapon yesterday, an' I t'ink he might prove ye wrong yet.”

“If tha' lad is as game as ye say he is, then let’s ha'e him prove it. Boy, come, I’ll wager yer chum Rethnaki here a fist full o' me finest pipeherb tha' ye canna hit this piece o' bread from fifty paces. Wha' say ye, Rethnaki?”

Without a moment’s hesitation Rethnaki accepted the bet, despite Jarthen’s attempts to alert him to the fact that he was not as confident in his abilities as him. Jarthen reluctantly rose to his feet, collecting his bow and arrows and moving to where the elves indicated that he should be. The hunk of bread, no larger than Jarthen’s open palm, was then affixed to a tree that seemed impossibly far away from Jarthen’s vantage point. Before, he notched his arrow, Rethnaki approached Jarthen to offer him some advice. “Ye musn’ worry about this. Jus’ free yer mind from ta thoughts an' worries tha' are ta’ bane o' mortal creatures. When ye’ve removed the clamor from yer mind, the arrow will be able to hear where yer mind wants it ta go, and find its own way there.”

Although Jarthen appreciated Rethnaki’s advice, and the confidence he clearly had in his abilities, he couldn’t help but feel daunted by the challenge. He still didn’t feel comfortable enough with the elves to leave himself open to ridicule for missing what would undoubtedly be a simple task for them. He couldn’t shake the fear that failure now would undermine his burgeoning friendship with Rethnaki, and leave him even more alone than he had been when he was unarmed. Nevertheless, Jarthen knew that he had to go through it: failure was bad enough, but exposing himself as too cowardly to even attempt the shot would be far worse.

A skeptical elvish archer looks on

So, with all his might, Jarthen focused on banishing all thoughts from his mind. It was difficult at first: to be sure, most of us find that when we attempt to clear our minds our usual thoughts and concerns are merely replaced by anxiety over whether or not we have emptied our heads, leaving our consciousnesses just as cluttered as ever. Jarthen experienced this phenomenon as well, but, perhaps because of the pressure, or maybe just out of some undiscovered native talent, he was eventually able to ease his mind out of the turmoil that consumes all conscious being, and into a new mental space, one that he had never ventured into before. It was a place of calmness and clarity, every aspect of the world that had troubled Jarthen before seemed to melt away. He stopped caring about what the elves thought and even that his world had only recently been turned completely upside down, and instead saw only his bow and his target.

His mind clear, and his bow notched, Jarthen took aim at the target. He found that he didn’t have to focus nearly as hard as he had at the range to acquire his target. It was as if some invisible force was guiding his hands, indeed, he really felt as if the arrow only needed to be asked, and it would make its own way to the hunk of bread. After drawing the bowstring back to what he knew was the appropriate length, Jarthen released the arrow, knowing full well that the projectile was aware of its mission and would carry it out without wavering.

Only after the arrow had successfully struck its intended target, did Jarthen become aware that the elves were now cheering for him, and none so loud as Rethnaki. His tentmate couldn’t have crowed more enthusiastically if it had been himself that had launched the arrow. Jarthen found himself being pulled from his place of mental clarity back into the real world again, but he now found that his previous concerns and worries were replaced by an almost overwhelming sense of self-satisfaction and pride. The handful of elves who had witnessed the entire affair, even the elf who had lost his gamble, came over to slap him jovially on the back.

Jarthen felt himself glow with pride at this acknowledgment of his achievements. He felt himself increasingly at ease with the elves, which in a previous life would have seemed quite queer and frightening. He almost laughed out loud at the thought of his friends and family in West Fethil seeing him confidently wield his weapon and be so at ease among the elves (which, though on friendly terms with Fethilian humans, are still considered by most to be strange and alien creatures). Why, less than a month ago, he'd been nothing more than the local kitchen-boy!

*******

Immediately after having signed his enlistment forms Bertronius was taken by the guard to the garrison’s quartermaster, Sgt. Gorn, to be outfitted as a soldier. The quartermaster’s storeroom was located on the first floor of the same building as the Lieutenant’s room. It was a large, musty room filled to the brim with what looked like secondhand equipment and clothes. The quartermaster himself didn’t seem to be in any better condition than the goods he was supposed to distribute: he was grizzled, gray and missing a leg, he moved around frantically on a pair of rough, home-made crutches, getting Bertronius a stack of worn out shirts, trousers, a leather doublet, helmet, rounded shield and a long sword. Judging by the large whole that was roughly patched with more stiff, hard leather, the doublet apparently had not served its previous owner particularly well. The sword, at least, seemed to be in good condition, well balanced, and lethally sharp. Bertronius was glad to see that even though he was to be trained as a spy, he would at least have a weapon, and, hopefully, the chance to use it.

“A’right lad, ye best get rid of yer civilian clothes: ye shan’t need ‘em now,” the quartermaster gruffly ordered. Bertronius stripped off the clothes he was wearing, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and put on the clothes that he had just been issued. The quartermaster watched all the while and remarked, “Ye be skinny, a’right, but ye’ll have to do I s’pose.” His new uniform was ill fitting, musty and stained with any number of substances some of which were unmistakably blood.

the quartermaster takes Bertronius to the changing room

Bertronius caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface of a well-polished breastplate: he was aghast at the transformation that a simple change of clothes could make. He looked sickly, and wan, whereas before he had always considered himself at least a healthy looking lad. “Well,” he thought to himself, “I guess it doesn’t matter how I look so long as I am able to fulfill the sacred duty of revenge that I have taken upon myself. If I am to find Ractor, and punish him for his treachery, than it might as well be in rags as in the finest liniments.”

The soldier then led Bertronius to the barracks across the gated courtyard of the garrison. Bertronius’s fellow soldiers were housed in a long, one-story building composed of the same stone as the rest of the compound. The continued rain and gray skies made it seem even more dreary and depressing than it actually was. After entering the barracks, Bertronius found that its interior was actually worse than its outward appearance suggested. It was lined with cots, stacked one on top of the other in two lines that ran the length of the building. It was dark, lit only by a handful of small oil lamps that gave off a sickly yellow glow illuminating surprisingly little, and smelled very similar to the clothes that Bertronius now wore. Bertronius was also able to make out pots and pans scattered throughout the building to collect the rain that dripped in from innumerable leaks in the ceiling.

Upon seeing his new accommodations, Bertronius felt a twinge of regret at his rash decision to join the army. For his own well-being, he quickly suppressed this feeling, assuring himself that it was too late to turn back now: he had already committed to do the right thing.

The soldier who had been Bertronius’s escort now left with a grunt, inviting him to take up any of the unoccupied bunks. The barracks was built to hold up to 500 soldiers, but it was clear that most of this capacity was not being utilized. At the far end of the room, Bertronius could see a handful of soldiers huddled around a small iron stove, smoking pipes while they warmed their hands and gazed wearily at the newcomer. A few other soldiers lay in their beds staring sullenly into space, undoubtedly regretting the day that they had been picked to join the army: there were perhaps 100 men all told.

Determined to take advantage of the egalitarian comradeship that the Imperial Army was so famous for, Bertronius decided to take one of the top cots at the end of the building where the other soldiers were congregating. He threw his heap of equipment at the foot of the double cot in the fashion of the other soldiers, and proceeded to unroll the blanket, and grimy sheets that lay haphazardly folded on top of his bed.

“I wouldna do that if I were yeh,” a voice called from the circle around the stove. Because it was dark, Bertronius wasn’t sure which one of the soldiers spoke.

“Why not?” Bertornius asked.

“Well, any idiot knows that it’s a fool thing to sleep on the top bunk under a leaky roof,” Bertronius could now see that the speaker was a tall, athletically built blond boy perhaps fifteen years in age. Although he was clad in the same pathetic garments as Bertronius, he still managed to have a handsome, compelling appearance. He was a prince among ragamuffins. He didn’t know the youth’s name, but his face was familiar, and he knew several of the recruits by name: only a bare handful out of the new soldiers was completely unknown to him.

“Thanks. My name is Bertronius. I just…uh…volunteered to fight the magickal rebels,” he said not wanting to give the true reason for his enlistment.

“Aye, that’s what the lot o' us have done as well. I’m Nelhoepher, by the by. I joined a fortnight back: I figured on being at the front by now, but they’ve just kept us around here, drilling, marching and the like. It’s not quite as glamorous as I hoped, but I reckon that’ll change in the future.”

“I’m sure we’ll see action soon enough. Goodness knows the Queen’s enemies are pernicious and numerous enough,” Bertronius responded although his mind was on his own enemy.

The few other soldiers who seemed as enthusiastic as Nelhoepher gave similar reasons for having joined the army. The majority of the barracks’ occupants, however, had been conscripted in a similar manner to Jarthen. The Fethil had a long history of contributing a disproportionately high number of troops to the Queen’s army: the reasoning behind this was that the Fethil should bear the main burden of its own protection. As a result, many young men would hide at times of high conscription, occasionally dressing as women, or taking up residence in barns and haylofts. Those men that had been so unlucky as to be discovered and drafted into the army were justifiably downtrodden over their unfortunate fate.

Nelhoepher, on the contrary, was the picture of optimism, telling all who would listen of his outlandish fantasies of bloodlust and adventure. Nelhoepher, it should be said, had a very naive understanding of war. He had not seen what so many had, and indeed what some of his older, more reticent comrades had experienced first hand on the front lines of these brutal, violent wars. Nelhoepher had never seen a friend killed, or had to defend his life from someone who was just as vigorously defending his own: he had never had to leave behind a comfortable life, with a family that he was responsible for: he was still just a boy searching for his place in the world.

Despite his great naïveté, his fellow soldiers could not help listening to the immensely charismatic youth. He was tall for his age, with a fine build, flowing blonde hair, a chiseled face, and confidence enough to make even his most unrealistic beliefs appear somewhat compelling to the most convinced of skeptics. Even Bertronius found himself drawn in by Nelhoepher’s charm, though he knew that the reality of the army and the war were considerably less romantic than the lad’s perception.