The Sovereign Codex.

Welcome to His Majesty’s Army

The wagons traveled north for many days. Dust rose behind them in long streaks that were gray. The road was hard and full of cracks everywhere. Edrin sat with his back against the side of the wagon, his knees drawn up close, watching as the landscape changed. First, there were the low fields of Rhel that he recognized, then farms scattered around, and later larger areas of open ground where the soil looked richer and the houses were spaced farther apart.

They passed smaller settlements. In each place, there were more young men standing around with the same blank looks on their faces. Soldiers gathered them up. The line of people became longer. By the third day, the line of wagons and marching recruits stretched farther than Edrin could see. Hundreds were there. The air was filled with the smells of sweat, horse dung, and dry grass that stuck to everything.

Some of the newcomers whispered to each other about glory. They said they would come back home with scars that would catch the interest of girls. Others looked down at the ground and did not say anything. A few laughed too loudly, as if leaving their villages was the greatest thing that had ever happened to them. Edrin watched all of them and said nothing. The road did not care about what anyone believed.

On the fourth afternoon, a young man climbed into Edrin’s wagon without asking for permission. He had bright eyes and shifted around restlessly. He looked at every face as if he was trying to remember them all.

“My name is Taren Osric,” he said. “I come from villages along the eastern road. What is your name?”

Edrin did not answer.

Taren tried again later. “You are a quiet one, huh? That is fine. I can talk enough for both of us if you like.”

He kept talking. He talked about the weather. He talked about the food they had been given. He talked about how the officers rode past without looking at anyone. Edrin turned his face toward the fields they were passing and let Taren's words drift away.

Taren claimed he had volunteered. “My village had nothing worth staying for,” he said, sounding almost cheerful. “It is better to take a chance with a spear than to stay in the same dirt forever.”

Edrin did not reply. Later when the group stopped for water, he heard two other recruits from the same eastern villages talking. Taren’s name came up. The levy had taken him just the same as everyone else. The story about volunteering was just a lie he told himself.

Edrin remembered that information but did not speak about it. Their conversations remained thin. Taren continued making attempts to engage. Edrin still offered little in return.

On the sixth day, the camp became visible. It sprawled across a big flat area of packed earth and low hills. There were rows of tents. There were wooden fences. Smoke was rising from cook fires. The sounds of hammers hitting nails and shouted orders floated in the air.

They were ordered to climb down from the wagons. Edrin’s boots hit the ground, and dust rose up around his ankles. He stood with others in a loose crowd while the officers walked along the line, counting heads.

Then the nobles showed up.

A group of young men on fancy horses entered through the main gate. Their clothes looked cleaner. Their boots were polished and shone brightly. Servants followed them on foot, carrying chests and rolled bedding. An officer approached them and directed them toward some long wooden buildings that looked solid and dry. The common recruits were directed to go in the opposite direction.

Toward the tents.

The tents were crowded and low. The canvas smelled of old sweat and damp earth. Edrin entered one tent and discovered there was barely enough space to lie down without touching another man’s shoulder. The air was thick already. He found a spot near the edge where the flap could be lifted to let in some air and sat with his back against a pole of the tent.

He kept observing everything around him. He noticed how the instructors moved. He noticed how the common recruits were pushed into lines while the nobles disappeared into better quarters. The difference did not need explaining. It just was, like the banner in Rhel just was.

Night came. Two soldiers entered the tent suddenly. One of them held a lantern. The light cut across the tired faces of the recruits.

“Training starts before sunrise,” the first soldier said. “Anyone who is late will be punished. That is all.”

Then they left.

Taren's voice rose in the dark. “What does punished mean?”

Nobody answered him. The silence stretched out until someone shifted, making the canvas rustle. Edrin closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the camp settling for the night. Distant voices. The sound of horses stamping. The low wind moving over the open ground.

He woke up to the sound of screaming.

It was still dark. The noise sliced through the tent like a sharp blade. Edrin pushed the flap aside and stepped out into the cold mud. Other recruits were already standing in a rough half-circle. In the center lay a young man face down, not moving at all. Blood mixed with the wet earth near his head. An instructor stood over him, panting and holding a thick wooden rod in his hand.

The instructor turned around. His gaze moved over the faces of the onlookers without any urgency.

“Welcome to His Majesty’s army,” he said.