Bragi grunted. “With five hundred veterans from his own and the White Company.”
“You’re as bad as Haaken. Know that? What about Wadi el Kuf? Fifteen thousand enemy dead on the field. He’s never lost a battle.”
“Always a first time,” Haaken grumbled.
“I don’t believe you. How soon you think we’ll head out?”
The word passed through the barracks that night: the recruit company would complete its training. Five days of Hell remained.
“So much for marching off to war, Reskird.” Bragi whispered after lights out. “You’re full of it, you know that? Enjoy the obstacle course.”
One regular company departed two days later, bound for a rendezvous with Hawkwind somewhere to the south. Word spread quickly: the recruit company would have to catch up on the road. Grim faces appeared. The pace would be hard. Graduation would provide no respite.
Corporal Trubacik was amused. “You’re all young men. In prime shape, I hear. You should be able to do it walking backward.”
Bragi said little the next few days. He went through the exercises and drills numbly. Haaken finally asked, “You all right? Sure you don’t want to bow out?”
“I started it. I’ll finish it. I just have trouble when I think about dying out there. Wherever.” They had not been told where they were going.
Bragi could not buy all the brotherhood of the Guild. He felt solidarity with his squad and company, of course. That was one function of the training program. A group went through Hell together and learned to depend upon one another. But the larger belonging that made the Guild had not infected him. The honor and nobility had not become tangible to him. And that worried him. Those things were important to both his superiors and to his comrades. They made the Guild what it was.
He tried hard to sell himself. It was like trying to force sleep. Self-defeating.
It seemed to take forever arriving, but Shielding Day did come. All the grand old men, the great and famous generals, came down from the Citadel to review the recruits and make speeches. They kept their remarks refreshingly brief. The Castellan, the senior member of the order present, apologized because the recruits would have no opportunity to enjoy the leave traditional after completing training.
Then came the final ceremony, when each new Guildsman was awarded the shield of a Guild footsoldier. Each had to go before the assembly to accept. Trainees who had excelled received honor ribbons with their shields. Bragi was awarded one for having had the best squad during inspections.
The award embarrassed him terribly. He hustled back into line. His comrades grinned wolfishly. He knew he would not hear the end of it soon. He examined shield and ribbons, found a lump rising in his throat, felt his pride swelling. “Damn,” he murmured. “They got to me after all.”
Corporal Trubacik bellowed, “Up and at them, lads. Up and at them. It’s another glorious day in the outfit.” He whipped blankets off the new young soldiers. “Let’s go. Let’s go. You know the drill. Company formation in half an hour.” Out the door he went, leaving the lamp turned a little higher.
“Damn,” Reskird said. “Ain’t nothing changed. I hoped we’d at least get to sleep in.”
Bragi did not say anything. He got his soap and razor and stumbled to the lavatory. His head was stuffed up and his temper was foul. He washed and shaved in silence, refusing to respond to jibes about his ribbon.
“Fall in!” Trubacik bellowed across the parade yard. “Platoon leaders, report!” The platoon sergeants turned and bellowed for reports from the squads. Bragi reported all present and accounted for without checking. Nobody had missed muster yet.
He was more interested in a number of men lounging behind Sanguinet. Why were they here? What were they up to?
Minutes later his heart sank. The hangers-around proved to be veterans assigned as squad leaders. Though he had known it vain, he had hoped to retain that status himself.
Each squad departed as it received its new corporal.
Bragi’s went to a wiry little Itaskian named Birdsong, who led them to the quartermasters. He did not have much to say at first, just watched while the quartermasters replaced gear worn or damaged during training. Each recruit received an extra pair of boots.
“I don’t like this,” Reskird grumbled. “Extra boots means somebody figures us to wear out a lot of shoe leather.”
Bragi glanced at Birdsong. The little corporal smiled. Smiling made his mustache wiggle like a brown caterpillar.
The armorers came after the quartermasters. They exchanged training weapons for battle weapons. Breastplates were issued. Bragi and Haaken went two rounds with an armorer who wanted to relieve them of the swords they had brought down from Trolledyngja. Birdsong interceded. He understood the importance of heirloom blades.
“But they’re not standard!” the armorer protested.
And Birdsong, “But your budget will come up on the long side.”
End of dispute.
There were two more stops. The kitchens, for field rations, where Reskird moaned at the size of the issue, and the paymaster, where Reskird’s protests were noteworthy by their absence.
Individual Guildsmen did not receive a large stipend. Not compared to other troops. Belonging was their great reward. But on this occasion the old men in the Citadel had awarded a substantial bounty because the trainees had been deprived of graduation leave. Each man also received a month’s advance, which was customary on taking the field.
