A thousand irritating sounds reverberated in his head, and Alden wished he would go deaf. Horses whinnied as their riders spurred them on, yelling down at straggling soldiers, and the ground rumbled menacingly as they marched, armor clinking and carriages creaking. They had been marching for half a day, him and the two thousand or so men conscripted from Sylvana’s and her cousin’s lands, and his legs ached with every step. Placed at the center, Alden was surrounded on every side by the sons and daughters of farmers and street urchins alike. Unfittingly cheerful, most did not seem to understand their predicament.

Professional soldiers, of which Alden was a part, made up the center of the group in case of attack or ambush. The common folk would whittle them down first, and once beaten and bloodied, the trained soldiers and knights would mop up what was left.

That was the basic idea, at least, though in truth they were nothing more than bodyguards for Baron Kent Grovesfield, cousin to Sylvana and acting colonel of the 14th regiment. A great fat man with greasy black locks and tiny black eyes, Kent was not at all a bad selection, despite what his appearance had suggested. He was, by all claims, an intelligent man, if not quite a genius, and had in him a great love for board games and military history. A decent choice, at least in Alden’s eyes.

“How long d’ya think we’ll keep marching?” Osbit asked from beside him. Though Alden could not quite call him a friend, Osbit had been among the kinder soldiers since the ordeal with Berns’s hanging.

“I’m hoping no more than another hour or two,” Alden replied. He would have liked to collapse then and there, in truth, but the hovering blue screens kept him moving.

Through strenuous training your Endurance has grown.

Reward: 1 bonus point to Endurance.

Through strenuous training your Agility has grown.

Reward: 1 bonus point to Agility.

Marching had been good training for his body, especially kitted out with mail, leathers, and helm. The sacks of equipment strapped to his back helped as well, seeing as they weighed as much as a full grown adult. It was the life of a soldier, though, and Alden would not complain at an opportunity for growth.

“How long will this one take, Osbit?” Mikel asked. Though he had been no more hospitable than the other soldiers, Mikel had taken to hanging around Osbit and himself, though Alden could not understand why.

“A month or two, I think. Hilva’s been having problems with this year's harvest, I hear. Can’t fight if you’re starving.”

“Dominion’s doing?” Mikel asked.

“Hmm, maybe. I don’t rightly know. Better I don’t, I figure. Don’t need the Emperor’s Chosen slitting my throat while I sleep just for knowing state secrets. Battlefield’d be better.”

Mikel laughed. “I don’t know about that. At least I won’t shit myself before I die if I’m sleeping.”

“Everyone shits themselves when they die,” Osbit said.

“Dying's bad luck for us all, then.”

Alden agreed with him there, at least.

“You could try starving,” Alden said. “Can’t shit yourself if there’s nothing in you.”

“Oh, I think not. I’ll take my chances fighting too, if that’s what it comes down to. Starvings a bad way to go.”

“Worse than staring down a thousand men with swords and spears?”

“Definitely. At least I’ve got a thousand of my own to stare with me.”

Alden wasn’t so sure. It was one thing to face someone one-on-one, where you could move around and guess at where your opponent would attack next. Fighting a horde was entirely different. There would be no way to guess where a dozen spears were going. And even if you could guess where, being able to block them all was another matter.

“I’m more afraid of mages, myself,” Osbit said. “They get one good mage out on the field and there ain’t a lick of hope for any of us.”

“Nothing to worry about there, we got our own mage right here, now don’t we?” Mikel said, patting Alden on the back.

Alden sighed. His training and magical studies had slowed lately; too busy with latrine duty, or else attending to whatever nonsensical task the Baroness could conjure up. He could kill a few with his magic, certainly, but how many, how quickly? He’d only used offensive magic on the Myrmecoleon, a beast sturdier than a dozen common men at least. How would it fare against people? And, more importantly, could he stomach killing them with it? At least with the sword it felt fair; with magic dozens or more could be killed in an instant with no way to protect themselves.

“I’m no great mage,” he said, hoping to put the discussion to rest.

“Ah, I’ll have none of that, now,” Mikel said. “I’m sure with a bit of practice you could wipe’em all out from here to the horizon, just poof, gone. We’ll be home within the week.”

Alden gave an awkward grin. “Perhaps,” he said.

They continued on a ways and, as Alden had guessed, stopped after another two hours of marching. There they set up camp, transforming the gentle plains into a sprawling maze of tents, lazy fires dotting the landscape. At the center it all was the Baron’s tent. Huge, it stood nearly as tall as a two-story home and twice as wide, a veritable palace made of silk and cloth. At the front was a roaring bonfire, its flames dancing near as tall as the tent, around which dozens of soldiers and knights stood or sat, talking and eating amongst themselves.

He nodded to them as he passed, making his way into the circus-like tent that the Baron would call his home for the night. It was extravagant, as far as tents went. Brightly lit by magic lanterns, the tent had been divided into multiple sections by thick hanging curtains that blocked all light from the other side. At the center a table had been set up, behind which sat Baron Kent. Flitting between papers and the meal set before him, he did not seem as pompous as Alden had imagined.

Given the man’s size Alden had assumed he would be eating with his bare hands, occasionally tossing ridiculing glances at the soldiers as he licked grease from his fingers, like some shallow character out of the manga he’d read. Instead, the man was the definition of class. His knife and fork were silver, the handles embedded with shining emeralds and rubies and sapphires, and he ate slowly with the refined grace of a born and raised noble. Noticing Alden’s presence he set his utensils down and wiped his mouth with a silk napkin.

“Reporting, my lord,” Alden said, saluting.

“You are Alden, yes?” the man asked.

Alden nodded. “I am, my lord.”

He had not expected to meet his target face to face so soon. Only minutes ago he had been preparing to settle down for the day with Osbit and Mikel, or perhaps spar once or twice with some of the other soldiers. But he had received summons from the Baron’s messenger, and now he stood before the man he had been tasked to kill, uncertain and fearful of what was to happen.

Briefly thoughts of betrayal passed through his mind, but they were extinguished. He would do as Mina asked, when the time was right.

“Your commander, Dhatri. He tells me you can use magic? Healing and fire, I’m told?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Kent nodded, his great jowls jiggling. “Good, good. It’s not often that bright individuals such as yourself become soldiers, you know. Why, I’d wager you could become a knight in the next few years, if you’ve a mind for it.”

“Truly, my lord?”

“Yes, why not? You have some aptitude for the sword, have decent magic, and grow stronger every day. There was that hiccup when those criminals were hanged, but nothing too serious. First time, I take it? Seeing people die is rarely pleasant, a belief my cousin doesn’t seem to share. Well, regardless, once you are used to it I think it’s a real possibility.”

“If I may be honest, my lord, seeing the other knights does not instill confidence in me. They all seem to excel in ways I cannot even imagine for myself.”

They were like an unclimbable wall from where Alden stood. Peren and Frenna were not particularly skilled knights, by their own admission, and when Alden had observed their Stats he had lost all hope. Each had Strength and Endurance over 100, and Frenna’s speed had been over 150. In comparison to them Alden might as well have been an infant.

Baron Kent let out an amused chuckle. “Trust me, Alden, you can match them,” he said. “It will take hard work, which, I know, does not sound quite right coming from a noble. But it’s the simple truth. Put in the work, and I think you’ll get there.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Now, for the reason I called you here. Our regiment has roughly two thousand soldiers. Of that number we have only a dozen knights. Normally not the end of the world, but we are also lacking in career soldiers like yourself and your companions. One hundred and fifty in all, between my men and Sylvana’s. The rest are levies. Farmers. Adequate at stabbing dirt, not so much at stabbing people.

“That brings us to our problem. When battle starts we’ll need career soldiers on the frontlines to lead them and keep them in formation. You, being that you can use healing magic… well, frankly speaking, I’d like to keep you in the reserve as one of my guards, despite my cousin’s wishes. You would be able to avoid most of the fighting, could coordinate with our mages to attack from afar, and help heal anyone who needs it. Important work, all of it. Or, you can fight on the front lines. Much more dangerous work, in my opinion, but no less important. What do you say?”

The reserve, he wanted to say. It would be the safest option. It was, as the Baron said, important work, especially the healing. The moral choice, too, he thought. If he were in the reserve he wouldn’t have to kill anyone, and could save those on the brink of death.

But did he care? He didn’t know. He’d healed dozens of people before, but not once did his actions give him some sort of fulfilling feeling like he’d thought it would. It was a job, in the end. Nothing more.

And fighting on the frontlines had its advantages. Experience, for one, for each person killed. And then there was his Leadership ability. If he were to lead a group of ten men or more it would level up, become stronger. And if it became stronger, so too would those he led. There was a chance for glory there.

“I would prefer the frontlines, my lord,” he said.

Baron Kent shrugged, defeated. “If that is your wish. Of course, if you change your mind before the battle, know that you are free to speak with me and I’ll have you switched out.”

“Understood, my lord.”

Alden left and walked through the camp. Every other fire had a cauldron or pot hovering above spindly flames, the aroma of meat and vegetables stewing within punctuating the air. His stomach growled and he hastened back to his own tent.

Mikel and Osbit sat together around their own fire, Osbit stirring the stew and Mikel poking at the red hot coals. Osbit saw him first and waved. Mikel looked up, then stood, arms wide.

“Our favorite mage returns! How was it? A short scolding, by the looks of it.”

Alden gave a grin to humor him, pushing down his irritation. “No scolding. Just… options. I was offered a spot as a backline mage.”

“Does that mean you’ll be sitting pretty with the Baron while we’re out front risking our skin?” Mikel asked.

“That’s what I’d do,” Osbit said.

“I’m on the frontlines, same as you two,” Alden replied.

“Hmph. A bad choice,” Osbit said. He laddled a portion of the stew, blew on it, and tasted it. Grimacing, he continued his stirring. Osbit was not the cook any of them wished he was, but he was still better than them.

“Are you any good with a spear?” Mikel asked.

Alden looked away, embarrassed. Despite his efforts, no Spearmanship Skill had been generated, and he had remained near as lousy as he’d begun, even with regular sparring sessions.

“Serviceable,” he lied. Mikel chucked.

“I’ve seen you with a spear, you know. You better get good fast. A sword’s all nice and dandy in the confines of the city, but in war spears are king.”

“Unless you’re a knight,” Osbit interjected.

“Unless you’re a knight,” Mikel agreed.

“I’ll make do,” Alden said. “I have a plan in mind, anyways.”

“And what’s that?” Mikel asked.

“You’ll see. It’ll take a few more days before it’s ready, but I have high hopes for it.”

Both men gave him curious looks. Content to leave the matter be, they shrugged, then turned the conversation to their thoughts on the soldiers the Baron had brought.

I have very high hopes, Alden thought to himself. All-Maker was due for a recharge soon, and he knew exactly the kind of power he wanted. Needed, really. He didn’t think he’d be able to live without it.