Refuge in Audacity, Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Precept Gaxter came back over, and grabbed Gretchen not particularly gently by the chin, turning her face to the right and left. "Hmf. You've been practicing here for four fortnights and haven't gotten a mark on your face?"

"I've split my lip, my brow, cuts over my cheek, bruises, bumps, and scrapes. No serious wounds." And she hadn't kept account of her injuries after the first fortnight. She'd been too tired, too stubborn, too adamant about refusing to give Aunt... well, refusing to give Maya an inch of validation for her insistence that Gretchen was ruining her life and defying the way things were done.

"You always heal so cleanly?" he asked, intently. "With no scars or lines?"

Goblins always healed cleanly, at least in comparison to humans, but she slowly nodded. "Yes, sir." A few of the other recruits and even a couple of the veterans were not-so-subtly watching their interaction with sidelong glances.

"What warren was your family from?" Precept Gaxter demanded.

Gretchen was starting to feel annoyed again. "Voja ut'r Jegkte."

"If you are to be a soldier for the king's legions, you'll speak as the king's blood and kin do," the Precept announced. "We sought refuge among their people, not they among ours. Speak the Manglot."

"We are Jegkte!" she snarled. She bit back further response, mindful of Maddock's admonition.

"Hmph. I've seen smaller fire in good warriors. Be mindful it doesn't burn out of control. Give me your hand, woman."

Gretchen held her hand out to him; he grabbed her wrist. Without warning he drew a dagger and slashed a shallow cut across the back of her forearm. It stung, but he wiped the tip of the blade on his tabard and jammed it back in its sheathe, staring intently at the cut on her skin as it bled. She held her tongue. She hadn't cried out when he cut her and she didn't cry out now; instead, she resolved herself to carry herself as a warrior and take on a stoic face, much as she did every time she was knocked down. The grunt the Precept gave seemed approving.

After a few seconds the blood seemed to have stopped seeping from the cut. He dabbed at it with the hem of his tabard for a moment, watched a second or so more, then nodded. "You have good blood-- it knows to stay where it's needed." The Precept turned his head to Militant Captain Forol and called out loudly, "This goblin has potential. A pity we don't have more."

The Militant Captain raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Just like that, then?"

"Of course not, Captain," Gaxter replied. "I'll be testing this one thoroughly first. Spirit and blood are only part of what makes a goblin warrior and if she hasn't the talent or strength for it she can go back to the warrens. Cadre leader, select a veteran to assist me." Gretchen desperately wanted to ask what the testing would consist of.

Maddock stepped forward. "If you'll allow it, I'll assist."

Precept Gaxter aimed a gimlet eye at the man, clearly unimpressed. "Are you the cadre leader?"

"No sir!" Maddock announced, standing straight.

"Then what the goat buggering brimstone are you doing speaking out of turn when I ask for the CADRE leader to select a veteran?!" Gaxter demanded. Gretchen bristled a little, but Maddock straightened more stiffly, so she held her tongue. Gaxter continued, "I asked you a QUESTION, veteran, and I expect an answer!"

"I have personally trained-" he began, but he was disrupted by a belt across the face with the Precept's shield. Gretchen hadn't even seen it moved from across Gaxter's back, but she was sure of two things. First, he'd been going easy on her when she lashed out at him before. And second, she was REALLY starting to dislike him. But as before, Maddock held his protests, and rather than attempt to defend himself, he continued, "-trained the woman over these fortnights. I know her habits."

"And that is why you are the worst one to use," the Precept retorted. "Which you should buggering know. Back into line." Maddock stepped back into formation, blood from his split lip dribbling down his beard. He made no move to wipe at it. Gaxter turned to Gretchen and got in her face. His expression brooked no hesitation. "Woman, why did I strike that soldier?"

Gretchen opened her mouth, but Gaxter said, "Before sounds pass those lips to paint your words, you'd best consider their shape and color. Think about what he did."

Gretchen looked over at Maddock, who remained stiffly looking forward, as did all the other veterans, save for the cadre leader, who was watching the Precept. The trainees were less disciplined about the matter, but they too were looking forward, for the most part.

The leader... He was under orders from the Precept. Who was himself under orders from the Militant Captain. She turned to look at Gaxter. "Because he acted above his station?" The statement came out more of a question than she intended.

"Close enough to show you understand the thought if not the language, woman. It's called the chain of command. I gave an order to the cadre leader and that man should have burning well known better than to volunteer himself above the cadre leader's orders." He looked around at the cadre. "All of you will consider yourselves taught on this matter. You have no excuse. The example has been given and the next one to break chain of command will be lashed. Do it a second time and you'll be cashiered. There is no room in the king's legions for cowardice, stupidity, or insubordination. You will do as you are told, when you are told by the ones whose orders are to be given to you. You will know the ranks. You will know who outranks who and whose orders are highest. If you prove yourself able you may be promoted to a better position, and then you will likely regret it, because as hard as it is to follow orders that may get you killed, it's harder still to give them to men and women you've eaten and laughed with. I expect every one of you will do your duty for king and nation."

Her eyes ached to flick towards Charlus, but Gaxter was watching her closely. She forced herself to maintain her expression and posture. Gaxter seemed to approve. "Woman, hold your place."

"Hold my-" her words cut off with a rush of breath as Gaxter planted his foot carefully against her chest- and then shoved. She hit her back, but just like Maddock had hammered into her she scrambled immediately to her feet. Hold her place. She stepped back to where she was. He did it again; this time, she was more prepared. Gretchen wasn't certain, but she thought maybe he'd needed more effort than before to put her in the dirt. She tried rolling forward, but his boot caught her shoulder. She latched onto his tabard, yanking him forward a bit as she hoisted herself off the ground, the edge of his boot scraping her skin beneath her tunic painfully. He seemed surprised by the maneuver, and even moreso when she followed it up by headbutting him. As he reared back a fist, he stopped, as she took her place and stood straight again.

She braced herself, ready to be knocked down again, but Gaxter lowered his fist and looked back at the Captain, who nodded. The Precept looked Gretchen in the eyes and nodded as well. "The Captain is satisfied, as am I. You'll do. Welcome to the Green Legions. Now go over and take your place at the foot of the viewing stands."

She did as instructed. The cadre leader, a man whom Gretchen had barely spoken five words to in the fortnights of her training, started to open his mouth, before shutting it and looking straight ahead as she passed. She didn't know what to think at this moment; if that had been Precept Gaxter's 'test' she felt somehow underwhelmed. She'd expected... what? A test of muscle against the selected veteran, perhaps. Or maybe a contest of endurance, how far she could push herself before she lay exhausted and aching on the ground. Not... a pair of kicks. Even if she had made to resist the second, for all that it hadn't stopped her from hitting the ground again.

Gretchen suddenly thought of her knuckles, which she'd skinned punching Precept Gaxter's breastplate, and she examined them a moment. The skin was a bit raw, but not bleeding or torn, and she caught herself before she could look at Gaxter to search out whether she'd left her blood on his armored chest.

While Gretchen mused on this, the Precept went back to the Militant Captain. After a brief but animated exchange the Captain Forol sent his other escort over, a taller human who, to Gretchen's eyes, seemed almost as broad across the chest as one of the wide formation training shields. He'd been seated before, and at an angle, but now that he was facing the cadre straight on he was clearly larger than the Militant Captain by a decent margin. He looked like he could grab her by her ankles and swing her like a sword- or more likely, a green club. She certainly didn't feel particularly sharp right now.

The mental pun helped her ease her tension, and put a hint of a smile back on her lips as the soldier squared his shoulders and looked over the cadre. He paced a little, examining the ready stance of each of the recruits, and a couple of the veterans. How strange it felt to her, too, that he had already chosen to either accept that she was a passable recruit, or else chosen to ignore her completely. Both felt surreal to consider from her spot by the stands.

"I am Precept Hannuth." His voice was low and almost gentle; it felt somehow surprising yet very appropriate for his frame. He reached down and selected a shield and a sword from the training pile that Gretchen had brought over, and held them out to a recruit, a lanky human with tawny hair and something of an anemic beard as humans considered them. It was still far more facial hair than would adorn the cheek or chin of any goblin. "Take these in hand- yes, the training sword in hand, not on your belt."

The recruit was at a loss, but did as he was instructed. He looked as though he was going to ask something, but then of all things, he looked over at Gretchen. 'Why would he even look at me?' she found herself wondering. It made no sense. Except the recruit clapped his lips shut, stared straight ahead, and took as straight a stance as he could.

"Good. What's your name, son?"

"Varnon, sir."

"Varnon, walk over to the edge of the field." As the skinny recruit did as he was told, Hannuth's voice raised to follow him. "Now, hold your sword forward. Like that, yes. Straight out. Don't let it lower." Hannuth waited until Varnon complied. "Now, begin jogging in a full circle around the training field. Good pace, not your fastest, but I want a clean jog. Do not lower that sword." He paused, watching as the recruit did so.

Gretchen immediately saw the trap. Holding a blade out straight was a test of endurance, but a steady one. By having the man jog, however, each footstep would help jolt the sword down, a jolt that he'd have to compensate for by lifting with more force on each step. A sword wighed barely a quarter stone but even one full circle around the training grounds would be a burning pain in the shoulder, easily two hundred strikes worth of effort. As Varnon closed on the fist corner, Hannuth turned his attention back to the other recruits. "You. Yes you. The one with the scar on your nose- what's your name?"

"Calbryn, sir." The man in question was one of the older recruits. His forearms were heavily corded with muscle and his neck as well; he had large shoulders, thinning black hair, and a bit of a barrel belly. His beard was a scraggly, uneven mess with open spots where the skin beneath was twisted lightly as though by deep burns. The worst such scar was the one that Precept Hannuth had identified him by, a long weal of discolored flesh that stretched from just below the inside corner of his left eye to the outside of his right nostril, disfiguring the nose greatly. Gretchen felt it a pity; it was almost worthy of being a goblin nose, and by the standards she was familiar with, he'd have been almost a pleasant looking fellow, discounting the facial hair, tan skin, and small, round ears, of course.

"What do you do, then? Are you a smith?" Hannuth asked him.

Calbryn nodded. "Yes sir. Horseshoes and nails, for the most part, as well as general tools as requested by the customer of the day."

"A strange thing for a smith to leave his forge and sign on to war." Precept Hannuth looked intently at Calbryn, his eyes seemingly searching for something. "Why are you here, Calbryn the Smith?"

Calbryn took a deep breath. "I needed... change. My wife, she died of a wasting illness last summer. I have no... The hammer is heavy in my hands. Days are that I can barely bring myself to lift it. But I'm a strong man. I have no children. None need me here and there are other, good smiths to take up the work I leave behind. I can carry a sword and a shield for the king."

Hannuth shook his head. "The king has no need of a man seeking death. It endangers your brothers and sisters in the field. Go back to your home, Calbryn the Smith. Take up your hammer and beat on the iron until your grief is tempered. Or else seek your death on your own terms. But I will not allow you to get your brothers and sisters wounded or slain in your search to escape your pain."

Calbryn clenched his teeth and snarled, "It's my life and if I want to give it up for king and-"

"No, it is NOT your life!" Hannuth yelled back, the first time he'd raised his voice in anything approaching anger. "Once you sign on to the service of the king in the legions, it is your life no longer! It belongs to the king and the legions!" The words rattled Gretchen hard. By extension, this too meant it was no longer her life either. The Precept continued, "When you put on the tabard and take bed and food in the barracks, you become something else, a link in the chain! A flawed link has no place in it, and a man seeking a death in the legions is a flawed link! Go home!"

Calbryn glared at Hannuth with a raw hate; Gretchen thought he might try to attack the Precept. Instead, after a few tense breaths he spun on his heels and marched angrily from the training field. Hannuth looked at the cadre leader. "Why wasn't he screened out?" Hannuth demanded.

"Sometimes, hard labor at something unfamiliar can help a man work out his grief," the leader replied. "I thought we had many more fortnights to work it out of him, and a strong arm is useful in the legions."

"His grief owns him completely. He's not going to burn it out with training and pain. Do not let him sign on here again." Hannuth looked to the next trainee. "You. What's your name?"

Gretchen's attention shifted from the Precept, though. Varnon rounded the third corner of the training field, and turned full on where Gretchen could see his face. It was red past his pale beard, and the sword trembled in his grip, bobbing up and down more dramatically with each step. Gamely, though, he continued his jog, and fought with every ounce of his will to keep the sword where Precept Hannuth had told him to hold it. Varnon caught Gretchen watching him, and visibly straightened up, his jaw clenched and his expression determined.

She found herself smiling at this. Gretchen knew what that determination felt like, and after every time it welled up inside her, it left behind it a feeling of satisfaction. She hoped sincerely that Varnon felt that satisfaction too.

Gretchen inspected her knuckles again-- and her breath caught in her throat. All trace of the torn skin, and the thin line of cut on her forearm as well, was gone.