His heart dropped when he stumbled into the dining hall. It was empty, but for a single, bored-looking servant hunched beside a platter of bread and bowls of jam and butter.
Arcturus felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. In some ways he had been scared of joining these rich, confident nobles on a weekend jaunt. But still … he had been looking forward to making some friends—or at least, friends his age. If the day before had taught him anything, it was how alone he really was.
“There you are,” a voice called out from behind him. “Honestly, where are your chambers? We’ve been banging on every door in the west wing looking for you.”
Arcturus spun, only to find a grinning Edmund, standing with his hands on his hips.
“I’m in the tower,” Arcturus replied, smiling himself. The young noble’s grin was infectious.
“The carriages are waiting outside. I say, is that all you’re bringing?” Edmund looked pointedly at the small bundle of possessions on Arcturus’s back.
“Uhh … yes,” Arcturus said.
“Jolly good, no need to call the soldiers in to help move your stuff,” Edmund said, heading for the double doors in the atrium. “I swear, Zacharias brought his entire damned wardrobe.”
“Soldiers?” Arcturus asked, hurrying behind him.
“Ah … yes, well, what with the riots last night and Prince Harold coming with us, King Alfric has sent some of Hominum’s finest to escort us,” Edmund replied.
A chill ran through Arcturus at the reminder of the riots. He didn’t want to think about it … things would sort themselves out.
Edmund heaved the heavy double doors open, and Arcturus followed him into the brisk morning air. To his surprise, the courtyard was a hive of activity. Servants ran back and forth, lifting and tying an assortment of trunks and bags onto the tops of two carriages. In front of each vehicle stood a pair of sleek black horses, snorting gouts of steam into the chill morning air.
“Zacharias has taken up most of the room in one of the carriages with all his damned bags—and you’re the last one here. You’ll have to ride with the soldiers,” Edmund said, grimacing apologetically.
He pointed beyond the carriages, where a squat, canvas-covered wagon sat beside the drawbridge. A dozen soldiers stood outside, stomping their feet to stay warm.
“We’ll have plenty of time to catch up when we get there,” Edmund said, giving Arcturus a gentle push. “Go ahead, I told them to make room for you.”
Arcturus turned to thank Edmund, but the boy had already disappeared into one of the carriages. Through the darkened glass, Arcturus could see Zacharias and Harold there too, the spare seat piled high with cases and furs. As he looked, Zacharias turned toward him and gave him an icy glare before tugging the curtain closed.
“Great,” Arcturus mumbled, trudging toward the wagon.
As he came closer, he was surprised to see the military’s horses were of a far poorer quality than those on the nobles’ carriages. The two specimens before him were swaybacked nags, the fur around their muzzles dusted with the gray of old age, though his experience as a stable boy told him they were well fed and groomed.
Now that he thought about it, the soldiers were not in the best shape either. All wore a hauberk of chain mail, but the metal links were stained with the telltale red-brown of rust. Their boots were cracked and worn, and most of their clothing looked as if it had not been washed in weeks.
And yet … there was an air of cool professionalism about them. They held themselves with confidence, and their eyes roamed the surroundings in a habit clearly born of long practice, even as they puffed tobacco from pipes and cheroots.
“Well, lad, are you coming or not?” a grizzled sergeant called from the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon. The middle-aged man patted the seat next to him, and though Arcturus looked longingly at the relative warmth within the vehicle’s canvas shell, he leaped up at the front.
“All ready!” called a voice from behind them, as dwarven servants scattered to make a path.
The wagon shook as the soldiers leaped in behind them; then they were trundling over the drawbridge, while Arcturus looked nervously at the murky waters on either side—knowing that if they tipped in, he would sink like a stone. He had never learned to swim.
“So, they’ve saddled you with our little band of ruffians,” the gruff sergeant beside him said, clicking his tongue as he turned their wagon onto the dirt track outside Vocans.
“Well, there was no room so…,” Arcturus mumbled.
“Aye, that Zacharias boy brought enough garments to clothe half of the king’s army,” the sergeant grumbled. “Though truth be told we could do with them, fancy though they may be.”
The sergeant grimaced picking at a loose thread on his breeches. Arcturus maintained a diplomatic silence, looking out at the rolling countryside.
“We’ll not be seeing any orcs around here,” the sergeant said, misunderstanding Arcturus’s gaze. “They don’t raid this far north. Nor would a gang of brigands attack a convoy under our protection, not to mention one carrying a group of novice summoners. You’re safe, lad.”
Arcturus was not so sure; Edmund had told him that the need for an escort was related to the riots. Still, it was a relief to hear that they were not in danger of orcs. He had never seen one, but the fearsome creatures were the stuff of nightmares, used to scare naughty children into behaving.
“You fight them?” Arcturus asked. “The orcs, I mean.”
“That’s the long and short of it,” the sergeant said. “Raiders mostly, after cattle. The southern villages are all but empty now—nobody wants to live there anymore. There’s only so much our soldiers can do.”
Arcturus shuddered at the thought, remembering the tales he had heard from the wounded veterans who had passed through the tavern, trading their tales of horror and bravery for a few pennies and a bed.
“How many of you are there?” Arcturus asked, remembering the paltry number of men in the wagon behind them.
“There’s maybe a few hundred of us,” the sergeant said. “A score or so of squads like mine. Hard to say really—we lose a lot of men, and recruit a lot of volunteers. Poor buggers. When they find out the reality of it, it’s too late to change their minds.”
“Is it really so bad?” Arcturus asked.
If he ever graduated Vocans, he assumed he would be on the front lines with men like these. At least, that was the case for the lesser nobles who had no money to raise their own soldiers, and instead became officers in the king’s army. It was a few years away yet, but that did not change the dread that suddenly seized his heart.
“Not for my lads,” the sergeant replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “We haven’t had a casualty in almost six months. It’s why our squad got picked for this escort mission, even if it is a babysitting job.”
“That’s a relief,” Arcturus replied, but the sergeant remained unconvinced.
“Don’t be fooled by our appearance. We do our best with what we have; our generals equipped us with hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs, rusty old swords and half-rotted crossbows. But you’ll find my men know how to use them. I keep them on a tight leash.”
“The tightest,” came a voice from behind them, muffled by the canvas. “He’s a harsh taskmaster, that’s the truth. Drills us night and day. It’s a miracle we even get any sleep.”
“Quiet in the ranks!” the sergeant barked, but with a grin on his face.
A head popped out between Arcturus and the sergeant, pushing through the parting of canvas behind them.
“Bloody hell, Sarge, you don’t half blather on. We’re trying to get some sleep back here.”
The soldier who had spoken was surprisingly old, aged at what Arcturus guessed was in his thirties. He had light brown hair and a wide, infectious grin.
“Private Rotter, you will get back to your station,” the sergeant growled, pushing the private’s head back with his elbow. “Or you’ll be digging our latrines for a week.”
“Right you are, Sergeant Caulder,” Rotter replied, saluting smartly and retreating back inside.