A Soldier's Life - 1 - Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Read the description of the collection. This is the final edit of book 1. I am going to try and find a publisher for the series in hopes it will go into print in book stores. This will also be the version for the redo of the audiobook. Corrections welcome.

Chapter 1: Wrong Place, Wrong Time

My nephew decided to have a shotgun wedding in South Dakota...in January. His high school girlfriend was pregnant, and her father was strongly insisting on it. I decided to drive from North Carolina for the wedding, mainly as an excuse to get out of work for a week. After two days of driving and napping in my car, I finally reached South Dakota, but still needed to cross the state.

Driving across South Dakota, I encountered a snowstorm—and before long, it was completely white-out conditions. My phone and GPS had no signal, and I hadn’t passed another vehicle for almost an hour. With snow accumulating rapidly on the road and seeing no plows, I knew I had to leave the highway.

If you have ever driven through South Dakota, you know there is nothing in South Dakota. I took what I thought was an exit off the highway and drove down the supposed road looking for a hotel, restaurant, or at least a gas station to wait out the storm. There was none, and before I got too far from the highway, I decided to turn back.

My predicament was worsened when my little Toyota RAV4 got stuck while trying to turn around. I sat in the car till dark, hoping for a plow truck, and watching my gas gauge go down slowly. I started turning the car on and off, heating it when it got too cold. I got out each time I restarted the car to make sure the exhaust was clear, then eagerly warmed my cold hands for a few minutes. The snow was over three feet deep, and my car was disappearing, but I did my best to keep the top clear so a plow could see me.

Around 3:00 a.m. I finally ran out of gas. Fortunately, the snow had mostly let up, with just steady flurries still falling. There was a light in the distance, and I was fairly certain it was not a streetlamp, so I bundled up and approached it, not wanting to freeze to death in my car.

I had to break through the three-foot-deep snow to reach the light, but I hoped the light would be my salvation. When I finally reached the light, I was wet and cold, and I only found a large ancient barn. I forced my way through the snow around the barn, looking for the associated farmhouse, but saw nothing in the minimal light.

Cursing, I couldn’t see my car in the distance and knew it was a death sentence to return to it anyway. I broke into the barn, leveraging the wooden door just enough to squeeze in.

I used the light on my phone to examine the interior, and it looked abandoned with horse stalls filled with rusty farm equipment. Desperately searching, I found what appeared to be some old horse blankets that rodents had chewed on. Being cold and exhausted, I bundled the horse blankets into a makeshift nest and curled up to get some sleep. I could see my breath, and my fingers and toes were numb from the cold.

I came to grips with the realization that I might freeze to death before I was rescued. With my numb fingers, I typed out messages to my sisters and parents. I almost typed one to my ex-girlfriend, but decided not to. I was petty enough that I didn’t want her to know I was thinking about her in my last moments. I pulled the blankets closer, not minding the musty ammonia scent on them as I fell asleep.

I woke up to a splitting headache, intense heartburn, and sunlight bleeding through the barn door. I reached for my phone and could not find it. To my shock, I found my clothes gone, as well as the blankets I had sheltered in. I did not remember stripping, but I had been cold, exhausted, and disoriented.

I began crawling on the floor, looking for my clothes, and noticed it was not cold. There was no way it had warmed up so quickly. My thoughts turned darker—had I died and this was the afterlife? The barn door swung open as I was wrestling with my inner dread. A middle-aged woman stood there in a beige Amish-style dress, and we stared momentarily at each other.

Weirdly, the first thing I fixated on was that there was no snow outside. Had I just pulled a Rip Van Winkle?

The woman screamed and ran off to my right. “Wait!” I yelled as I ran after her. “I am not going to hurt you!” I forgot I was naked and froze to find myself standing butt-naked in the middle of a farm. There was a fenced-in corral to the left with some horses, a handful of chickens running around, and a large central farmhouse that had three young men running from it.

I raised my hands in surrender. “I only took shelter in your barn,” I tried to explain, but they did not seem to speak English and were yelling at me while holding farm implements threateningly. Eventually, an older man came from the fields with a small, medieval-looking crossbow. I knelt and immediately locked my hands behind my head to appear as non-threatening as possible. My heart was racing, and I was heavily winded. What the hell was going on?

My actions worked, as I had not been shot, but the stress of the situation caused me to vomit up some stomach bile. The world appeared to spin as my breathing got heavier, and I felt so weak. I didn’t give any resistance as the teenage boys tied me up while their father kept his crossbow on me.

Somehow, I got my anxiety under control. I was alive and just needed to explain myself to someone who could understand me. I focused on my captors. The boys were talking in hastened exchanges with their parents. Some words sounded somewhat familiar, but the speech was too fast for me to understand.

After talking amongst themselves, they seemed to decide I needed to be brought to the police. They put me in a wooden wagon, still naked, and hooked up some horses. I then spent the next six hours bouncing around, watching fields of wheat and rye pass by while the oldest boy kept the crossbow on me while the father guided the horses.

My abductors didn’t respond to any of my efforts to communicate. Eventually, we entered a walled city that would fit any medieval setting. The worst part of the city was the smell, but I was too enthralled with the people walking about to fixate on it. I was not on Earth, or at least not in my time. Some of the citizens looked at me briefly, but even my nakedness didn’t seem to draw their interest. I was dragged out of the wagon and taken into a stone building and a cell, then handed a large, coarse burlap sack with holes for my head and arms. It itched, but I was grateful to cover myself.

Abandoned, I sat in the cold stone prison cell. The door was made of aged wood held together with broad, rusting iron bands. Steam rose from a dark wooden bowl of potato soup near the stone slab that was my bed. I was not hungry, though, and my anxiety would probably make me throw up anything I ate. Cowering in the corner, blankly staring, I tried to make sense of my situation, but nothing came of it as my mind found no purchase.

No one bothered trying to talk to me in my isolation, but I was fed the same soup twice a day. Eventually, I succumbed to hunger. It was starchy and I think it had onion in it. A man finally entered my cell. He wore rich yellow robes, over a pristine white shirt and leather slippers. He had an impassive face as he stood over me and looked at the half-eaten bowl of potato soup.

He introduced himself by extending his hand with a medallion. I took the fist-sized disc cautiously. “This device will allow us to talk openly with each other, stranger.” My heart raced as I understood him. My mind tried to process what was happening. Was this some advanced technology—or magic? “I am Magistrate Advocate Persius. Your crimes have been logged. Do you wish your name to be associated with the writ, or should we leave it blank?”

“Eryk Marco,” I said absently, I was still staring in awe at the amulet when what he said caught up to me. “Crimes?” I mouthed questioningly, standing with a cold foreboding running through me. As I spoke, my words were twisted into an unfamiliar language. He stepped back but did not seem afraid of me. I did not look all that threatening in a sack.

He straightened and sighed before continuing in a bored tone. “You have been convicted of four separate charges. Trespassing, assault, attempted rape, and theft,” he said, reading from a parchment. “Each crime has a penalty of ten silver coins.”

My mouth hung, unable to work. I was in shock at everything happening and the magic device in my hand. I stuttered as I responded. “What? There was no trial.”

The magistrate sighed. “A visiting Truthseeker already confirmed the crimes by questioning Hydran and his family. The verdict has been stamped and logged, and the Empire has paid the fines to Hydran. You must now return the funds to the Empire.”

“Can I talk to the Truthseeker to clear my crimes?” I asked hopefully, studying the disc.

He sighed, sounding exasperated. “No, he has already gone back to the city. We have this translation amulet to help explain things to you, since you seem like a stranger in the Empire,” he said with a hint of pity.

Besides trespassing, everything seemed to be concocted by the farmers to maximize the fine levied against me. I wanted to be angry, but I didn't think it would help me at the moment. Despite the situation, everything felt a bit more… clear. The magistrate sighed again at my silence. “If you cannot pay, you can be ‘labored out’ by the Empire. It should take two years to repay the funds.”

My disbelief was evident, and I think he smirked. He let it sink in before continuing. “Or you can join the standing army. Foreigners are welcome, and you will pick up our tongue quickly. You will be trained, fed, and sheltered. The pay for a soldier is one silver and eight copper per week after you finish the seven-week training, three times the remuneration of a laborer.”

His lip turned up slightly as I processed his words. He expounded further on the benefits of the army. “You look a little flabby, but have excellent size. Whatever your profession before your crimes—” he scrutinized my tall, overweight frame “—the army will teach you discipline and help you acclimate to the Empire. After your debt is paid, you will draw a bi-monthly wage. Enough to return to your homeland at the end of your term.” He smiled reassuringly.

I hesitated. It seemed he was more a recruitment director than a magistrate, and I could guess why my trial had not included my presence. With real magic, I assumed I was not on Earth or Earth’s past or future. My anxiety held me silent as my mind raced. I was alone. I did not know anything, and having food and shelter and being trained did not sound so bad.

“I will join the army,” I said hesitantly.

The Magistrate smiled like it had been a foregone conclusion. He had one of my jailors bring me another massive bowl of potato soup, but this time with chunks of meat in it.

As I ate, he was nice enough to answer my questions patiently, as he thought I was from a distant kingdom—little did he know. I was curious how deep in debt I actually was. The monetary system followed: one hundred copper coins equal one silver coin. One hundred silver coins equal one gold coin. He showed me a silver coin, and it was about the size of a nickel. A large coin was the size of a half dollar and was worth ten coins of the corresponding metal.

As I put down the empty bowl, the Magistrate produced a large stone tablet with silvery writing on it. “You are fortunate that I was here testing some youth. This is an assessment tablet. Do you have them where you come from?”

“No. What does it do?” I asked, looking at the well-worn stone.

His evaluation of me seemed to diminish at my ignorance. He smiled tightly. “It will check your potential and ability. The Empire’s army has minimum standards, but with your size, I think this is a formality.” I was 6’1” and somewhere between 240 and 250 pounds. Everyone I had seen in my brief time here, including the magistrate was much shorter than me.

He instructed me on how to hold the tablet. I held the tablet for a moment, and the Magistrate activated it with his… magic—definitely magic, not technology. It glowed, and the silvery script shifted.

The letters looked familiar, but I could not read the words. However, the numbers were recognizable. The Magistrate told me what each line revealed, knowing that I could not read it if I did not speak the language.

The Magistrate pointed to each line and read it to me, explaining each as he read it.

Physical.    Mental. Magical

Strength. 21/79   Intellect           25/54   Aether Pool     7/21

Power             22/82   Reasoning       33/59   Channeling      2/55

Quickness            16/49   Perception       44/60   Aether Shaping           0/8

Dexterity            14/55   Insight 18/48   Aether Tolerance        19/50

Endurance            30/87   Resilience       40/71   Aether Resistance       3/19

Constitution             19/65   Empathy          9/21     Prime Aether Affinity Space

Coordination.             10/60   Fortitude         24/88   Minor Aether Affinity Time

His voice was scholarly as he spoke. “This is a very old tablet and may not be precisely calibrated, but it should be close. The first number is your current score, and the second is your potential as a human. You are a human?”

“What? Yes, I am a human,” I said, perplexed. Were there other races?

He nodded in confirmation. “Now, a normal person typically has a current score between 10 and 25 with a potential between 30 and 60. The upper limit for a human is 100. The seven physical stats are very important for your new career as a soldier. Strength basically details how much weight you can move with your muscles.” He looked at my overweight frame dubiously. Not that the Magistrate looked fit himself.

“Your power is how fast you can move the weight. Quickness is how fast you can move and react. Dexterity reflects the manual control of your hands. Endurance reflects how long you can perform physical-related tasks. Constitution is your ability to ignore pain and recover from injury and sickness. Lastly, coordination is your control over your entire body.”

He shifted in his stance and continued. “Now, the requirements to join the general army are to have a potential of at least 40 in strength and endurance. So, you qualify, congratulations.” He sounded slightly mocking.

“There is also a more advanced unit, the Legion of the Lion; you have probably heard of our famed legionnaires. They require you to have a minimum potential of 40 in all physical attributes and also 60 potential in Strength and Power. I will warn you, only about one out of every three completes the training, as it is quite rigorous.”

“What does the rest of the tablet say?” I asked, fascinated by the device and temporarily disregarding my plight. He pursed his lips, clearly expecting me to ask more about the Legion of the Lion.

He looked down, irritated. “Not important for your new career, but I will explain anyway—like I would to a child.” I knew he was being condescending, but I had little choice other than to bear it. “The next column is your mental traits. Your intellect shows your intelligence, your ability to recall knowledge. Your reasoning is your ability to understand…” he stopped before translating the numbers further. Running his finger down the second and then the third column. “Ah, it’s surprising that you have excellent mental attributes and potential. Unfortunately, your magic traits are weak; otherwise, you might have been able to enroll in one of the Mage Colleges with a sponsor. Your affinities are both extremely rare as well.”

The Magistrate thought to himself for a long moment, looking slightly indecisive. “Ah, I apologize for getting sidetracked. Let’s see… your reasoning is your ability to utilize information. Perception is your awareness of the physical world. Insight is your ability to decipher knowledge and make leaps of understanding.” He looked at me doubtfully. “Resilience is your ability to resist mental attacks. Empathy is your ability to interpret other people’s dispositions. Finally, fortitude is your ability to function under mental fatigue and duress.”

He paused to stretch his back from holding the stone. “Now, the final column just represents your magic ability.” He started talking faster, clearly wanting to get this over with. “Your aether pool reflects how much magic aether your body can hold. Channeling reflects how fast you can use aether and replenish aether. Shaping is the ability to mold aether into a usable construct or spell form. Your aether tolerance is how much aether you can channel over the course of a day, before sustaining damage to your channels. Your aether resistance is your ability to resist magic and aether backlash. All things you need not worry about, as you will never be a mage.”

He smiled congenially. “Now, the final two lines are your affinities. There are 21 affinities in magic. Seven common, seven uncommon, and seven rare. Your two affinities are rare, but the rest of your magical stats are not impressive. If your magical attributes were high enough to be considered a Mage Aspirant for a Mage College, you would be evaluated for all 21 magic affinities, as each ranks between 0 and 100. This simple, old tablet only lists your two highest affinities.”

He paused and let me ask questions. “What would be my term of service in the army compared to Legion of the Lion?”

He was unable to hide his grin, like he had hooked a fish. “Both terms are just five years, and you are young and it will pass quickly! The Empire will pay all your expenses, and you will have nothing to worry about. The Lion is an elite unit and will also take outlanders.” He held up his hand to temper my enthusiasm. “Do not get your hopes up; even though your potentials qualify you, remember that only one in three finish the training. If you fail, though, the only punishment is to be relegated to the army.” He added, “The legionnaires are the elites. They get higher pay, better food, and are trained more thoroughly. As a legionnaire, your pay is five silver and forty copper per week. Five times a soldier.”

“What does the legion do that is different from the army?” I questioned suspiciously.

He gestured grandly, clearly trying to sell me on it. “They serve as the elite troops of the kingdom, guarding mages, serving as royal guards, and acting as elite troops in battle. The training is seven months, much longer than the seven weeks for a soldier.” His broad smile seemed fabricated.

I thought about the brutal world I was in and how I was at the whims of others. I couldn’t defend myself and wanted the best training I could get. I decided to apply to the Legion of the Lion as seven months of training would be much better for toughening me up than the seven weeks I would get as a soldier. I looked up, my voice somewhat confident. “I choose the Legion of the Lion.”

The Magistrate’s smile made me want to reconsider. “Great! I will take care of the paperwork.” I later found out the Magistrate got bonuses of one silver for each soldier he recruited and a quarter gold for each legionnaire he recruited. While I may be being forced to repay a debt, I did get to choose how in the Empire. Maybe the crafty Magistrate thought he had led me to my decision, but I had my own reasons.

For the next meal, my potato soup had meat again with a half loaf of buttered bread. I felt like a pig being fattened for slaughter now that I knew my fate. After two days of waiting, I was off in a conscript wagon. I had a sealed letter with a copy of my tablet reading.

City soldiers escorted my group to the training camp in case we changed our minds and ran. Without the amulet to translate, I felt isolated but tried to stave off the self-defeating thoughts by focusing on the road and landscape. Only melancholy came when I thought of my parents and family.

It was a six-day trip, and the caravan stopped in small towns every night, adding more potential soldiers and legionnaires each time. Unable to communicate, I just observed and listened. Some words sounded familiar if I slowed down the speech and filtered the heavy accent. I needed to learn the language as quickly as possible.

We soon had seven guards and four open wagons filled with dirty and foul-smelling men. My guards and fellow conscripts did not want to take the time to help me with my language barrier. I did my best to pick up words regardless. When I learned water was called aqua, I realized the language was based on Latin—or maybe it was Latin. I took three years of Spanish in high school and only remembered how to say: “My name is Eryk.”

By the time we arrived at the training camp, there were twenty-four conscripts, including me. The main camp was for training soldiers. It looked like there were roughly 1000 potential soldiers in training here. Groups of 25 marched in five-by-five blocks, carrying thin spears and large shields. It reminded me of the Roman legion from movies.

I did not have much time to watch, as 21 recruits from my caravan got out here. The two that remained with me were larger recruits, and we were brought to a smaller camp: the training camp for the Legion of the Lion, which was located at a large manor nearby. Here, the training was more intense, with men in crimson armor instructing men in fighting with a wide array of weapons.

My two companions and I were directed to a wooden barracks. About three-fourths of the beds were occupied. We took three of the open bunks. I immediately collapsed on the wooden bunk, mentally and physically exhausted from my ordeal.

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