OoOoO

Tarun stumped down from the wall of the barracks just as the first cock began to crow. It had been a long if mostly quiet night and he was mightily looking forward to a few hours of sleep before afternoon drills. The other night watchmen mumbled a few words to each other in the armory as they turned in their spears and bows. Even that much chatter felt like a waste of precious energy to Tarun at this point. Blinking blearily, he simply followed the rest toward the bunks. It wasn't home, but freshly thatched and with clean bedding inside, the bunk building looked pretty good right about now. Any moment now, the morning bell would ring and summon the rest of the Fourth to breakfast. That was none of Tarun's concern though. Right now, his only concern was the exact shape and texture of his waiting pillow.

They were only steps away from the bunk house door when shouting erupting from inside. It was hard to make out, but it sounded like Garrit, intermingled with Hengar and several others. Their voices rang heavy with shock and dismay. A cold feeling like icy rain slithered down Tarun's spine, prompting him to rush ahead of the other watchmen into the bunks.

A crowd was gathering in the corner where the men of Trosk bedded. It was impossible to see what was going on past the muddle of heads, shoulders and legs. Even non-mountainfolk soldiers from the rest of the Fourth were rushing over, which told Tarun that there was either a fight...or something far, far worse. Now enveloped head to toe in that icy feeling of dread, Tarun pushed his way through the crowd. His boot stuck to something tacky on the packed earth floor, and the sole came away spotted dull red.

Garrit crouched in the center of the crowd, on his knees beside an empty bunk with Calder's limp body propped in his lap. The innkeeper's face was ashen, mouth ajar, his shirt and breeches dark and sticky with blood not yet dried. One hand fell limply to the ground, and Tarun's eyes went immediately to the long, deep trench carved along Calder's wrist. A bloodied dinner knife lay just on the edge of sight beneath Calder's bunk, its painted blade shamelessly peeking out into the morning light.

'That's two men now who have followed into the grave on Yelaina's heels' was the first thought that came to Tarun's half-disbelieving mind. Any further reactions to last night's suicide were halted by the arrival of the commanding officers, including Pedrum...and Jerriod.

"Make way, make way!" Pedrum shouted. The men fell back, allowing a clear view of Calder's corpse in Garrit's arms. Garrit's hands were bloody, and he looked up at Jerriod with tears running into his beard.

"He's dead...by his own hand. Dead..."

Jerriod said nothing at first. Standing in silence, only marginally more dressed than his men with boots on his feet, the captain of the Fourth took in the woe on the men of Trosk's faces. Some like Hengar and Borse stood grave and unmoving, their jaws set in firm refusal to show their grief in front of soldiers. Others like Thyge the baker, one of Calder's oldest friends, freely wept with his face in his hands.

"Mark well what I tell you now, men. Self-murder..." said Jerriod "...does not mean an end to suffering. It merely forces others to bear your suffering in your stead. Those on the night watch, step forward."

The cold feeling of dread which had come over Tarun in the yard now congealed in a solid lump in his gut. Aware of the hundreds of eyes upon him, he had no choice but to join the other seven watchmen in identifying themselves. Jerriod's gaze bore into him like an auger.

"You were charged with the safety of this barracks and everyone in it from dusk until dawn. Although I cannot hold you accountable for the actions of free-willed men, I do question that not a one of you heard nor saw anything which might have alerted you to Calder's intent?"

Tarun had. He vividly recalled Calder's voice in the dark, speaking to some unseen audience without need of a reply. Now, in light of the present, Tarun knew he could have perhaps stopped Calder. Why should the responsibility for Calder's life or death have to have fallen on anyone else but Calder though? He was a grown man, more than twice Tarun's age by thunder! It wasn't his fault! Tarun said nothing, keeping the secret of Calder's last conversation to himself.

When there was nothing forthcoming, Jerriod sighed. With a jerk of the head he indicated Calder's body. "Even so, tending to the aftermath of this incident falls to you. None of you are to rest until the body is properly burned. And I want it done outside the town walls, quietly. Is that understood?"

"Yes Captain," Tarun and the other seven soldiers said quietly.

Jerriod turned to the crowd of men gathered around. "The rest of you, be dressed, breakfasted and ready for duty in the yard within the hour. There are still tasks from yesterday regarding the state of the barracks to be attended to."

With that, the Captain and his officers swept out of the bunks without a backward glance. The other soldiers were quick enough to get back to the business of starting the day, although many lingered to shake their heads at the macabre scene. Garrit seemed thunderstruck, apparently unsure how to stand up with Calder still deadweight across his thighs. Borse came forward to help him up though, taking Garrit by the elbow to avoid the blood on his hands. It may have been Tarun's imagination, but he thought perhaps the other men of Trosk were avoiding looking at him.

OoOoO

They built Calder a pyre north of town, behind the barracks where it would attract the least notice from the townspeople. Burning was not how the mountainfolk honored their dead, but then Tarun supposed that Calder had forfeited his honor by taking his own life. It was this and other such bitter thoughts that kept him occupied while tying together faggots of wood and stacking them on a foundation of gathered rocks. The sun in defiance of the day's grim mood shone bright and clear overhead, highlighting spots of yellow amidst the leaves of nearby trees.

Tarun was bitter, and he was angry. Angry at Calder for doing such a stupid, stupid thing, for causing Trosk more grief still than what its folk already carried, and for giving Jerriod reason to withhold his endorsement for The Academy from Tarun. The last thought only served to make Tarun bitterer, because he knew it was selfish to charge a dead man with tarnishing his own reputation amongst the army that had more or less been the death of him. He wished Marden were here.

The burning took a long time, made all the longer by the gruesome stench given off by the pyre as it consumed its pound of flesh. Tarun's eyes watered at the sight and smell, possibly also from lack of sleep. He and the other watchmen had no choice but to stand vigil through the lengthening hours of the morning until the flames burnt down to the rocks. Bits of bones still smoldered amongst the ash. These they left after throwing dirt onto the coals, smothering the last of the funeral pyre. It was an ignominious end for a man who had once been one of the most well-known in Trosk.

By the time Tarun got back to the bunks, he had only a scant two hours left before afternoon drills began. He fell face-first onto his bunk without bothering to take off his red soldier's tunic or even unlace his boots. What little sleep he did manage to snatch left Tarun feeling even more drained and out-of-sorts than he had been before. It felt like someone had lined the insides of his eyelids with rawhide. A month of night watches suddenly seemed a life's sentence for nothing.

Tarun was just dragging himself out into the yard as the second midday bell rang. The men of Trosk were assembled there, as per usual, but so was what looked like the entire rest of the Fourth. All of the men stood tall and tight at attention, five blocks of ten by ten, and at the front Jerriod could be seen surveying the company. Moving quick and trying not to attract attention, Tarun slid himself onto the end of a row and squared his shoulders. Whatever this was, it didn't look like spear drills.

Once Pedrum was satisfied that all the men were present and accounted for, he turned to the captain. Jerriod nodded briskly, his red officer's cape fluttering as he stepped forward.

"Men...as you all know, we had an incident this morning. For our newest recruits especially, I know this has put a damper on your spirits. In answer to this and the many covert grumbles I have overheard regarding maintaining the barracks, I have an announcement to make; tomorrow will be a very, very exciting day."

Unspoken murmurs of curiosity set the soldiers a-twitch up and down the rows. Tarun could practically feel the interest of every man around him pique. Exhausted as he was, Tarun wondered what could be both sufficient distraction and justification for the past two days.

From the podium at the front Jerriod continued. "I have had a message arrive on the leg of a magpie informing us that the Princess Ellorae's convoy will be stopping here on her way to Derbesh. By their estimate, they will arrive just after daybreak tomorrow. Therefore I expect every man here to be ready to present himself at his best; fresh shaves, trimmed heads and pristine uniforms. The night watch will be done in three shifts tonight so as to avoid any yawning or bleary eyes when we assemble to greet Her Majesty."

Stepping down to ground level, Jerriod began to walk amongst the soldiers, looking one every few directly in the eye as he spoke. "Men of the Fourth, it is no common thing to have a member of the house of Amenthis pass through a town in state. Even now, the folk of Geristan are hurrying to make their homes and public spaces as presentable as we have made ours. For all point and purpose, when Princess Ellorae arrives, from the moment she passes through the gates until the moment she leaves this town shall be considered an extension of Castle Armathain. That means that you all will conduct yourselves as if you were Knights of Amenthis, the elite of Goran's First Company hand chosen by the king himself. You will stand at attention at all times, you will speak with only the finest manners you posses, and you will honor crown and country with every breath that you take. We are all only human, and so I shall of course turn a deaf ear if I should happen to hear someone cough behind the mess hall. However, mark my words; I will hold you to the highest of army standards over the next few days, along with myself and the rest of the Fourth's officers. We will all work together to ensure that the princess leaves Geristan proud of the men who defend her world from anarchy. Soldiers...dismissed."

OoOoO

That evening in the bunks, Tarun followed Jerriod's instructions to the letter. Working carefully with a razor bartered from soldiers who had visitation privileges out in the wider town, he scraped the two-day stubble from each inch of his neck, chin, and cheeks. There was no glass or rain barrel, and the men of Trosk didn't generally shave, preferring instead to keep their beards well combed and braided. Tarun however wasn't quite old enough to sport a full, healthy beard yet, and so he was fairly good at trimming and shaving on his own. Others like Borse, whose wiry black thicket had nearly reached the bottom of his ribs, had needed significant help to get it all cut down to army standards when they first arrived in Geristan.

Andris sat unhappily between Hengar's knees on the ground, trying not to twitch as snips of dirty blonde hair fell past his shoulders. His elder brother frowned as he worked, as per usual, but still took care not to pull too hard on Andris' head. Berin, no doubt intending to run off with the Factionists when they came recruiting in Trosk, had had the good sense to have his leather grooming pouch tied to his belt when they left. The men shared around the contents of the kit as needed, although they were all agreed to buy their own toiletries once given the run of Geristan by Pedrum.

"Don't see why a princess would care if we're all plucked like spring chickens to market," muttered Thyge. The old baker laid on his bunk, one leg dangling over the side practically in the face of the man beneath him. His fluffy grey beard remained untrimmed since their arrival. He had been quiet all day, eyes red-rimmed.

"You think the Bear won't?" snapped Hengar. 'The Bear' was a nickname some of the men of Trosk had taken to calling Captain Jerriod. They had also given Pedrum a name, but it was significantly less complimentary owing to the training marshal's propensity to bark orders and run around after Jerriod. Andris shifted, prompting Hengar to nudge him sharply with the inside of his knee.

"I think the lowland folk..." Thyge jerked his chin toward the rest of the bunks where the other soldiers of the Fourth were chatting, playing dice, shaving and generally unwinding with each other "...will be primped and pretty enough for all of us. Making us wear our hair cut as short as a child's is as insulting as it is pointless. It just keeps growing as it was meant to anyways."

Tarun felt his way carefully along his jaw, feeling for any missed spots and paying Thyge no mind. Growling and whining wouldn't change the fact that the baker would go to bed just as trimmed as the other soldiers by the end of the day. To do otherwise, especially after the disaster with Calder this morning, was inviting trouble. Wiping the razor clean and flipping it closed, he sat down on the edge of his own bunk and pulled out a thorn he had saved to clean his nails.

"You're not going to get to hold the princess's hand you know, Thrymmson," remarked Andris. "Why bother with all that?"

'Because I'm trying not to make any more bad impressions on the captain, you dolt,' was what Tarun thought. What he said was "Because my idea of holding onto my pride as a free man doesn't include letting myself go filthy, Gerdiomson."

"Pffft! Free...as if we're free," snarled Thyge.

"Thyge..." Borse said warningly, a low rumble from the corner where he was helping Berin trim the back of his neck.

"Does this look like freedom to you?!" Thyge sat up on the bunk, indicating the stacked framework cots and hundreds of men with which they were housed. The baker's voice edged up a notch, making a few of the soldiers nearby flick quick glances toward the men of Trosk. "Bah! This is no way to live for a mountain-born man. Small wonder Calder chose to-"

"Will you shut it?!" hissed Tarun urgently, sending several heads swiveling his way. "I got ratted out just for writing; you think the others won't go scurrying off to Jerriod if they hear you talking like that? This is our lot now, and we may as well try to make the best of it."

The occasion was few and far between that Tarun ever dared speak to an elder in such a way. Thyge had in fact had his proper Eldering last year, and so for a young man like Tarun to snap at him like that was way out of line. Tarun didn't care though. Wasn't he supposed to be trying to set a good example for the other men of Trosk in the Fourth anyways? At least, that's what he hoped would get back to the captain if someone was watching and listening with that intent.

Thyge's mouth hung open, slightly crooked teeth on display. Then his expression grew dark. Swinging his legs over the side, he slid down to the ground and went straight for Tarun.

"Listen here pup, you seem a sight too keen to be 'making the best of it' for my liking. Take care you don't start forgetting who you are or where you come from, aye? I notice you didn't so much as shed a bloody tear for Calder, a man who would have been your kin soon enough!"

"That's enough, Thyge." Borse came between Tarun and another man for the second time in two days. Inserting his broad, burly arms between the two of them, he firmly forced Thyge to take a step back from Tarun. "To weep or not is every person's right. Others like Hengar and I do not mourn easily either."

Garrit spoke up from his bunk, sounding weary. "I don't think any of us will be forgetting what happened at Trosk anytime soon, Thyge. The same fire that killed Calder's daughter also killed Tarun's brother, remember?"

Thyge seemed to not only remember, but to regain a measure of himself. Looking around at the drawn, tired faces of the friends and neighbors, it was impossible not to recall what each had lost. Just as Tarun had lost a brother in Marden, so had Garrit lost a cousin. Hengar and Andris were forever without their da Gerdiom, and Borse would never again scold his twins for their conjoined antics. The old baker sagged, eyes glassy rather than hard once more.

"Aye...I am sorry, Thrymmson," said Thyge. "I am an old man; less like a stream, able to change course and flow around rocks, than I am like the fixed old rock itself. If you can make the best of all this, then I will not begrudge you for it. I only wish that Calder had been a little more like a stream and less like a rock too. Forgive me?"

It was not often that one saw and elder asking a man Tarun's age for forgiveness. Tarun's gaze flickered to the faint dark stain on the packed earth ground where Calder's blood had fallen. There was enough blood between the men of Trosk and the royal army without creating strife of their own amongst themselves.

"Of course."

Tarun and Thyge clasped wrists briefly before the baker went back to lying on his bunk, staring up at a nest of pigeons in the rafters high above. With the sun setting below the western horizon, Tarun had to be getting out to the armory for the first night watch anyways. Given the low mood in their corner of the bunks, a few hours out under the stars didn't seem so bad, tired even though he was. As he tracked across the yard a barn owl hooted from somewhere beyond the barracks, echoing in the gathering twilight. Tomorrow there would be an Amentherian princess within these walls. What that meant to Tarun, he didn't really know. Still, he found himself wide awake even after his turn watching the wax rope burn away the hours.

OoOoO