Obedience is joy

- The Titan’s Book of Order, Page 45 Line 5.

Marcus’s new patrol took an instant dislike to him. They were all screwups, sentenced to the patrol in the hope that they might not return, but even amongst a unit filled with outcasts and failures, Marcus’s use of the wrong stamp as the most tragic and terrible of crimes (and did you hear he once yelled at a trader? He’s a dangerous one!). Rightly or wrongly, they blamed him for their patrol being assigned to a valley far from the hot water and hot pies of civilization. The patrol’s lieutenant, a skinny young man with large front teeth, couldn’t stand the sight of Marcus.

“Go scout ahead on the path,” he said. “So that if there’s anything dangerous out here it will see you first.”

“Yeah,” Konal agreed.

“Go way ahead, too, where we don’t have to look at you,” the lieutenant added.

“Yeah!”

“And take Konal with you.”

“Ye—wait, what?”

The lieutenant glared at them until they left.

For Marcus scout duty was freedom and independence, so he loved it, but for Konal scout duty was freedom and independence, and he hated it.

“I hate you, too, Marcus,” Konal grumbled. “I could be at home right now, tidying my spoon draw like a normal person, but instead I’m here.”

“Cheer up. This might be an adventure for us. My grandfather told me tales of the olden days,” Marcus said. “When the pantheon visited mortals and gave them the power to fly, or break stone with their foreheads. Maybe that will happen to us.”

“Fairy tales.”

“There are heroes who can do it, you know.”

“So join the Guild, then.”

Marcus said nothing. He needed a high-ranked hero to sponsor his application to the Guild. He had asked several, but none were willing to. He had nothing to offer them.

The march to the town took them through fields of shoulder-high wheat and corn. There were no dangers. The smell of dirt and agriculture reminded him of his home, and he briefly wondered what his family was doing. They had to work the land themselves, as the durbig laborers claimed to be allergic to turnips (This was true, surprisingly. A thousand years before, a farmer had told a crude joke about Nature and turnips. She had cursed his family to dig turnips until she forgave them, which she forgot to do). Marcus’s family would be digging up turnips, he supposed or planting turnips. Or weeding, fertilizing, boiling, drying, eating, or generally talking about turnips. He shuddered. Thinking of all the terrible turnip-related chores he was avoiding gave him a new rush of energy. He began to whistle an old tune his grandfather had taught him.

“Stop that!” Sergeant Konal complained. “That’s not even one of the official and approved songs! What’s wrong with you, Marcus?”

Marcus stopped, feeling guilty. As the sun began to set they reached a small village, with a dozen houses, a blacksmith, inn, and storehouse. The town was typical for the Empire of Order: it was filled with straight roads and square, identical houses. The better houses were two stories, and were for the humans, but most houses were one story, designed for the durbigs who worked the farms. Marcus and Konal waited just outside the town for the rest of the patrol to arrive. The patrol lieutenant looks disappointed to see Marcus alive and well.

“Attention!” he shouted, and Marcus saluted. “No, not like that! Keep your hand straighter! Elbow out. Don’t you dare look me in the eye, private!”

“Sorry sir!”

“You are terrible at this! I’m giving you a demerit."

This was punishment by projection. The lieutenant himself had been too lax with salutes and so had been given the patrol as a reprimand. He was determined, however, to reclaim his place in the regular army, which meant doing everything by the book.

“We’ll camp here,” the lieutenant said. “Marcus, setup a checkpoint on the road entering the village in case any raiders decide to come to us.”

“What if the raiders don’t use the road?” Marcus asked.

“What?” the lieutenant snapped.

“They could sneak through the fields and—”

“Don’t be an idiot, soldier! They’ll use the road. That’s what roads are for. How do you not understand that? Stand guard here until tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” Sergeant Konal said with satisfaction.

“And I’ll be checking on you, so don’t you dare fall asleep!”

“Yeah!” agreed Konal.

“And you too, sergeant!” the lieutenant added.

“But sir! I—”

“But nothing!”

The lieutenant strode off, leaving Konal and Marcus at the guard post. Sergeant Konal shook his head, muttering curses.

“You and your big, stupid mouth, Marcus,” he complained and refused to say another word.

They stared out at the fields as bright sky faded into a glorious display of pinks and oranges so garish that no devotee of Art would ever dream of painting it for fear of being considered overly dramatic. Pink became purple, and the evening became night. Konal fell asleep on his feet, snoring softly. He was a veteran guard, and didn’t slouch or drop his shield, but stood like a statue. Only his closed eyes and slow breathing gave him away.

Marcus sighed, and shifted the shield on his arm. He was starting to get hungry, and cold. His feet ached.

“I think—”

“Help!” someone screamed.

A soldier was running out of the town, sandals flapping wildly, shield and hammer dropped and forgotten.

“It’s a raid!” the soldier yelled. “We’re under attack! Run!”

An arrow hit him in the back of the leg and he stumbled, falling face down. Marcus crouched behind his shield as a dozen more arrows fell around him, several thudding against his shield, their tips breaking through the wood. An arrow bounced off his helmet. He kept low until the unseen archers moved on. He peered around his shield. The soldier that had tried to run was dead, with several arrows in his back. Somewhat amazingly, Konal was still asleep. Perhaps the enemy had been convinced by his impression of a statue, or perhaps they could tell he was no real threat, but there were no arrows anywhere near him.

“Come on, sergeant!” Marcus yelled, running into the village.

The raiders came out of the fields, bringing fire and mayhem to the town. Flames were rising from the village storehouse, and a flickering light illuminated a scene of battle as soldiers and villagers fought off dozens of ainlings armed with spears or bows. An ainling ran to intercept Marcus; they circled each other, its spear ready, his shield down. The ainling flicked out its long, forked tongue. Its fangs were impossibly sharp. Marcus stared at them; they would be as deadly as daggers.

The Empire of Order had a protocol for combat, as it did for everything else. There were words that had to be recited before the fight could begin.

“Foul beast, you have acted against the good Empire,” Marcus began. “Prepare yourself for—”

The ainling, who did not serve Chaos, leaped forward in the air, stabbing down with its spear. Marcus caught the blow on his shield, grunting with the effort. The spear in his shield, and its weight dragged Marcus’s arm down. The ainling drew a sword and slashed out, catching Marcus in the chest. The blade bounced his off armor. Marcus flailed with his sword and somehow slashed the ainling in its side. It screeched and rolled away, clutching the wound. Marcus tried to charge it, but tripped over the spear still stuck in his shield, falling flat in his face. He winced, expecting to feel fangs on his neck, but another soldier stepped over Marcus’s body to protect him.

“Get up!” a soldier ordered.

Marcus got to his feet as the ainling flung itself at the newcomer. Marcus gasped at the ainling’s speed, but his rescuer simply stepped out its way, slicing its head off with a single blow of his sword.

“Who are you?” Marcus demanded. “You weren’t in the patrol.”

“My name is Krakon, I just joined the patrol today. Come on, the villagers still need our help.”

Marcus nodded. He could see bodies on the ground. Mostly durbig villagers, but some human villages and human soldiers, too. The ainlings had left their dead and wounded behind, fleeing into the night a dozen durbig captives. The remaining villages and formed a bucket chain from the well to the burning storehouse, but Marcus could tell it was too late. Rather than help that doomed effort, he began searching the bodies for clues to their origin. They were armed with rusty blades and wore wire bracelets that cut into their skins, causing them to bleed. He had never seen anything like it.

Konal, finally awake, walked over to talk to Marcus and Krakon.

“What the hell happened here, Marcus?” Konal whispered.

“Ainling raiders,” Marcus said. “You slept through it, sergeant.”

“I remained at my post, private,” the sergeant said sternly. “As I was ordered to. But sorting this out is above my paygrade. Where’s the lieutenant?”

Marcus waved a hand towards the side of the street, where the lieutenant lay with a spear right through his chest.

“So… he’s dead, then?” Konal asked.

“Very.”

“Huh.” Konal waited a moment in reverential silence for the passing of a superior officer, then asked “And who the hell is this?”

“Corporal Krakon,” Krakon said. “I’m—”

“No, I changed my mind. I don’t care.”

They turned their attention to the village. The storehouse was lost, as Marcus knew it would be, and the village was covered in thick ash. There were bodies everywhere. The villages were yelling at the soldiers, who were yelling back. It was not a pretty sight.

“What a mess,” Konal said, shaking his head. “What a mess.”

“We need to go tell the local lord about this,” Krakon suggested. “The raiders might hit other towns. Come on!”

“I’m in charge here, corporal,” Konal snapped. “Don’t tell me what to do, or I’ll bust you back down to private.”

Krakon shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the threat.

“So what do we do, sergeant?” Marcus asked.

Konal sighed.

“I guess we go tell the local lord what happened here. Come on, we’d better do the paperwork for this battle first.”