CHAPTER 12

^“YOU’RE scrawny for a smith.”

That was an understatement. Though taller than most Humans and broad-shouldered, Féolan had been slight for a smith to start with. After weeks of short rations, he was scrawny, period. But he had expected the comment, and now, having been directed by a checkpoint guard to a huge garrison sprawled just a half-day’s march from the mouth of the Skyway Pass, he prepared to brazen it out.

Féolan nodded and gave the sneering officer what he hoped was an embarrassed grin. “Th-th-that’s what my f-f-father do say,” he blurted out. He had affected a stutter to give him an excuse for speaking little. Already he was mightily tired of it, but it did seem to distract people from his accent. “H-h-he thought I’d n-n-n-e’er make a, a sm-m-mith.”

Open laughter from the men nearby greeted this pronouncement. Féolan ducked his head, as though shamed. What kind of people laugh at a stranger’s affliction? he thought.

The recruiting officer was unimpressed. “Think you can fight then, do you?” he demanded.

“Aye, sir. I-I-I’m strong, and f-f-f-fast.” Féolan hoped this was still true. He’d eaten well the past two days, thanks to Brakar’s coins, but he was hardly in fighting form.

“Here then!” A battle-ax flew toward him. Startled, he threw his arm up and caught it. Instantly the officer was upon him, swinging his own ax down toward Féolan’s head. Féolan parried, awkward but fast as promised. A good thing. The force of the blow was vicious. It seemed that in Gref Oris the way to fail as a prospective army recruit was to be killed.

They fought a few minutes longer, Féolan parrying and blocking but careful not to attack his would-be superior officer. The battle-ax was a lucky choice, he decided. It was an unfamiliar weapon for him, so he seemed what he claimed to be, an able but untrained fighter.

“You’ll do.” The officer shoved his ax in a barrel behind him and motioned Féolan to do the same. “Go with Garran, here. He’ll get you outfitted and barracked. Dismissed.”

Féolan wondered if he should give some sign of fealty, but the officer had already turned his back, and Garran was striding off across the crowded yard.

DAYS PASSED BEFORE Féolan felt secure enough to sleep soundly. He had to be on his guard at all times: to hide his skill with a sword; to stay in one piece during battle-ax sparring; to avoid lapsing into Elvish gestures or Basin Krylaise; to copy the Gref Orisé manner of eating, polishing weaponry and addressing superiors. At night, he remained on guard against those who had no qualms about robbing the new man while he slept. These attempts soon died down, however, as word got out that the skinny new recruit slept but lightly and was devilish quick with his knife.

The stutter turned out to be more hindrance than help. The soldiers of Gref Oris were a taciturn bunch; no excuse was required for keeping silent or to oneself. It was a grim, cheerless place, and as he lay on his pile of dirty straw at night, listening to the rustles and snores around him, he longed as never before for his own home and friends. In the quietest hours, the image of Gabrielle would come to his mind, and somehow her memory brought comfort along with the sorrow.

When not training, he was sometimes put to repairing weaponry and armor, and he had feared at first that this would be his downfall, for he knew nothing of making armor. Neither, it turned out, did any other civilian blacksmith. Armory was the military’s domain, as were swords and axes, and the Chief Smith would not let him touch a piece of equipment until he had been shown exactly what was expected. He was in far greater danger with the tack for the horses and had almost given himself away the first time he had been asked to replace a stirrup.

Féolan observed carefully and worked with diligence. Though the labor was brutally hot and heavy, it was the one place where he had a chance of overhearing important news. The enlisted men he trained and bunked with were either too stolid or too frightened to ask questions; in any case, he heard none of the speculation and rumors that he had expected about the upcoming invasion. Even when the men gambled in the evening, pulling out their tin flasks of corn liquor, their tongues rarely loosened. The smithy, though, was a kind of crossroads, where men in charge of weapons, armor, horses and supplies met and where officers were custom-fitted. That made, on occasion, for some interesting talk—already he had heard a horse-master speculate that “we’ll be lucky to get even a few over that pass”—so Féolan set himself to become the Chief Smith’s first choice when help was required.

And so he did. The man, himself massive in the arms and shoulders, had been unimpressed with Féolan’s weight, but the precision of his work was another matter. Féolan took easily to the fussy business of molding the armor pieces to the curve of a man’s body and could quickly and neatly replace the fine link chain and buckled leather strapping that held the various plates together.

He was soon noticed in the training field, as well. It was risky to show his skill too early, but Féolan had soon realized that he had little hope of discovering anything at the lowest rank, so he allowed his swordsmanship to “progress” beyond his fellow recruits. Yet every advance increased the danger of lapsing into a move that was Elvish, rather than Gref Orisé, and betraying himself.

So Féolan’s heart thudded with alarm when, three weeks after his arrival and after neatly besting his partner in the ring, a loud voice thundered, “You! Brakar.” Turning slowly, head in the required bow, Féolan thought desperately of escape.

“Sir?”

A burly officer faced him.

“Follow me.”

They marched through the camp, Féolan wondering at every step if he hurried to his own death. Ten minutes later, they entered the armory.

“Another to be outfitted,” his brusque guide announced and strode out the door.

“Step forward, soldier.” This from the impatient armory clerk. Féolan stepped forward. The clerk recognized Féolan from the smithy and brightened slightly. “Been awarded a suit, eh? Good on you!”

Well, it was an opening and openings were, as they said here, rare as good fortune. He took his chances.

“D-d-don’t everyw-w-one gets one?”

The clerk snorted. “Not hardly. Ain’t got suits for the whole world, have we? Bloody expensive, they are. Suits goes to the good fighters, the ones to keep alive. The other enlisted men get helmets and whatever bits an’ pieces are left over. The conscripts—oh, not many here yet, but there be throngs afore long—they get nothin’.”

Blessed starshine, the man’s a talker, Féolan thought. “N-n-n-o weapons, ev-v-ven?” he ventured.

“Spread out so I can measure ya. Oh, they’ll get weapons of a sort, when they head into the field. Not before.”

“W-w-w-on’t be good f-f-fight-fighters, then,” observed Féolan, obediently stretching out his arms and legs.

“Nor do they have to be.” The clerk flashed him a wolfish grin. “Be glad you signed up. Your job’s to fight. The conscripts’ job is just to get in the enemy’s way. After the enemy kills a couple thousand, he’s plumb wore out, isn’t he? Might turned to shite.” He sniggered at his own joke. “Then our armored warriors come at them.”

Féolan nodded thoughtfully. Ten minutes later, he was headed to the smithy to be fitted for his suit.