32. The Perfect Soldiers
Chapter thirty-two
The Perfect Soldiers
“That went well, I think!” Dola chirped from somewhere outside the light cast by Imalroc’s lantern. It was long after nightfall, yet they made their way up from the river banks accompanied by crowds of battleboxers.
Almatra gave a reluctant grunt of agreement, and Imalroc nodded too, blinking against the exhaustion weighting his drooping eyelids.
Days on end of training and then planning with Tefka, and it had all come to a late afternoon gathering.
Or, it had been late afternoon when they started detailing their proposed changes to the camp arrangements.
It was late enough now that he was tempted to drag himself over to the nearest tree and curl up among the roots bulging from the red-clay ground.
The small tent he’d set up had never seemed so far away.
Progress was worth it. He would not admit it aloud to anyone, but he was hopeful at the prospect of training in banner legions with the soldiers.
Not that anyone expected it to be perfect.
Imalroc had worn out his voice trying to tread the narrow lane between optimism and realism.
The soldiers could not understand what it was like in the battleboxes, the holding cells, the training courtyards.
They would cross invisible lines that they did not know existed.
And yet it couldn’t be ignored that this imperfect army was their greatest, perhaps only, chance to smash the battleboxes.
“Let’s pray tomorrow isn’t a good deal worse,” muttered Veshion.
Dola touched Veshion’s arm, in the gentle way that only she could get away with. “They’ll follow your lead.” She tilted to see past Veshion to Imalroc. “And yours. Captains.”
Veshion grunted in agreement, but Imalroc smiled uncomfortably.
The Easterner had been a de facto leader since before he set foot in River.
It was no surprise that the battleboxers had voted to give him a captain’s pin.
They’d done the same for Almatra, who’d long been hassling the camp into some kind of order.
They’d voted for him too. The startled, warm feeling was still twisting around in his chest, an unfamiliar pulse of gratitude. It made him nervous. Maybe they’d voted for a version of him that didn’t quite exist. Maybe he would be a disappointment.
Or maybe he’d just fucking refuse to be. Imalroc curled his fingers tighter around the lantern. They trusted him, his battleboxers. He wouldn’t fail them.
Across camp, Tefka Quinn laid out their plans to his own people. Tomorrow, dawn would find them all headed to the parade grounds to see if the Southland Army was going to rip itself to shreds.
Exhausted though he was, he barely slept.
All his dreams filled with a devouring fog that swept away bodies and outstretched hands as he reached for them.
He gave up his fitful efforts sometime in the grey hours just before dawn, and took to pacing his little tent.
It wasn’t as elaborate as the multi-room warren Almatra and Dola had built, but it was sturdy and clean and entirely his own.
He ran through the possibilities again. In the best scenario, Morbank would be too lazy to get involved and they could undertake mixed battalions and training regiments while he slept in his tent.
No, better scenario: Morbank would choke on a mouthful of frybread and fuck off to his feld estate to recover. Leave the army to the people who actually wanted to do the work of running it.
The other possibilities he tried not to linger on. Hopefully, this didn’t turn into a bloodbath. He brushed his hand over the scabbard strap buckled across his chest. This time, he was going into the soldiers’ camp with his sword.
The light was their marching order, and he was not the only one who had been waiting for it. When he darted outside, he saw lines of battleboxers already streaming toward the edge of their encampment.
They gathered in the no-man's-land that marked the change from the battleboxers’ ramshackle structures to the green tents of the soldiers.
Dola strode among the disorganized groups, offering words of encouragement, while Almatra slunk about giving dark reminders of the kinds of subtle insults they might face.
Veshion and Imalroc led the way, and the battleboxers filed behind them. They passed through the soldiers’ tents like a silent, sweeping tide. When they came to the parade grounds, they found the others already assembled.
His first thought was that it looked like two opposing armies staring each other down.
The soldiers stood in perfectly spaced formations as neat as their tents, their stances identical, their uniforms a sea of spotless and uninterrupted green and black.
Opposite them, the battleboxers pressed tight together in an unchained crowd, armed to the teeth.
He was close enough to see a clammy sheen gathering on the faces of the first line of soldiers, and bit back his smile. Tefka’s army might look a bit more polished, but they were more than matched in strength.
“Welcome, battleboxers!”
His guts clenched at the trumpeting voice.
Edim Morbank rode through the lines of soldiers and out to the front. His enormous white horse arched its neck as it danced to the side, putting on a show. Not to be outdone by his own horse, Morbank balanced in the stirrups and stood, lifting a hand high.
“We are pleased to bring you at last into the fold of the Southland Army! The glory of our united rebellion shall crush the corrupt queen and restore just rule to our great kingdom!” He swung his gloved hand, and the lines of soldiers summoned a half-hearted cheer.
He’d probably had the soldiers up in the dark practicing that.
“What is the fuckhead doing, running this?” Almatra jostled battleboxers aside to step up behind Imalroc and Veshion. “Where’s Tefka?”
“He’s only a captain, not a Medallion.” Dola wriggled through behind her. “He’ll be here somewhere, with his banner legion.”
Imalroc scanned the rows stretching the length of the parade grounds. “Morbank probably put him as far from the center as he could, just out of spite.”
The Medallion was still prancing about in front of everyone. “No other rally camp in the new Southland Army has such an enormous collection of battleboxers as River, and we will be the first to show that combined forces are the only way forward.”
This received no cheers from anyone.
Morbank forged on, oblivious of the battleboxers’ swiftly exchanged glances at the word “collection” and the nervous shifting from the soldiers. “With the leadership of our great captains, the guidance of our steadfast soldiers, and the brute strength of our newest recruits—”
“I am going to fucking kill him.” Almatra’s breath was hot down the back of Imalroc’s neck. “Dola, lend me your bow.”
“Steady, steady,” muttered Veshion.
“—our victory cannot be denied!” Morbank crowed. He hauled the poor horse’s head around, careening toward the battleboxers. Imalroc braced himself, and the line of fighters alongside him seemed to shiver in anticipation, but the horse cantered by without touching anyone.
“Now, battleboxers, if you will allow me a moment to address my own troops before we begin the assignment of banner legions.” He kept the horse directly in front of them and yelled across the heads of his soldiers.
“Southlanders! Look to these battleboxers as your example of the perfect soldiers!”
In the wake of his words, startled silence blanketed both the battleboxers and the rows of soldiers.
An actual compliment. Imalroc nearly looked over his shoulder just to check that Almatra had not fainted in shock.
But before he could marvel at the Medallion’s apparent conversion, Morbank opened his mouth again.
“These battleboxers are champion fighters,” he shouted, “who know how to come when called.”
“Shit.” Veshion took the curse right out of Imalroc’s mouth. All around them, expressions hardened into scowls. Someone scraped two blades against each other, and the sound jolted down Imalroc’s rigid spine.
“He’s baiting us,” Dola breathed. “We’ve got to stop him from talking.”
Imalroc nearly volunteered to tackle the fuckhead off his horse, but that wouldn’t exactly fit the impression Tefka had hoped they’d make.
“They escaped with one dream. To fight in the Southland Army! Crude though they may be, they are ready to offer every drop of their lowly blood for the honor of the Army’s triumph!”
The battleboxers glared up at the Medallion on the white horse, and Imalroc knew exactly what they saw.
They did not see a stupid, selfish boy playing a stupid, selfish game.
They saw whips, manacles, and cages. Humiliation wielded as a weapon.
All of them were staring up at a handler.
He could feel it seething in his own chest.
“This is a new breed of soldier! Combining the brilliant skills of battlebox training, the immense might of a coordinated army, and the unswerving fealty to a worthy and just master—”
“You are not our master!” someone screamed from behind him.
Morbank swung around in his saddle. “Pikes!” he snapped, as though the word had been sitting on the tip of his tongue throughout his entire speech. Four of the nearest soldiers broke their line and bounded forward. “Get him.”
The battleboxers leapt back from the onrushing soldiers.
Imalroc glimpsed weapons rising, but he also saw the looks on the fighters’ faces as they pushed back, trying to avoid a conflict.
The soldiers seemed prepared for that too, and they snatched a slim boy who was not quick enough in his escape attempt.
The crowd around Imalroc convulsed, teetering on the edge of pouring forward into open battle. He saw a terrified soldier opposite them, rattling in his boots.
“No!” Dola cried. “Hold steady!
Imalroc’s heart pounded. The Draalish blade was half drawn, his hand folded around its hilt, but he clung to the sound of his friend’s voice. All along the battleboxer line, they listened.