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DO NOT FEAR PAIN. PAIN is the fire which tempers your inner steel.
—Prendor, teacher at Scaleback Academy
* * *
ONIN LOST ALL SENSE of time in his grief. He paid no heed to the world around him and gently rocked back and forth while clutching Flea’s hand. He didn’t become aware of his surroundings until he felt a grip on his shoulder.
He turned to find Captain Torreg regarding him with a sympathetic eye. Despite his red and puffy eyes, Onin scrambled to his feet to stand at attention.
"Nay, lad, there’s no need for all that . . ." began the captain.
"I insist, sir," replied Onin. He straightened himself. "I’m not the only one who lost a friend today."
The officer’s gaze fell on Flea’s still form.
"I recognize him. What was his name?"
"Flea," said Onin.
Torreg laughed out loud. "How fitting." He looked at Onin abashedly. "I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at your pain, lad."
"I’m all right, Captain. I think he would have been happy you found it funny. His given name is Jarid, but everyone called him Flea, even his own father. He was my oldest friend."
No tears came but the pain shook his voice. Onin hoped Torreg didn’t think less of him for his sentimentality. On the contrary, the captain seemed genuinely interested in learning about the young man.
"How old was he? What of his family?" asked Torreg.
"Fifteen last winter," said Onin. "His mother died when he was a baby, and his father, two winters ago. He only has his stepmother, and she owns the Mossy Scale Inn in Sparrowport."
Torreg nodded. "I know the place. The ale there is terrible. Mostly water."
"You're not the first to say that." Onin laughed.
Torreg looked seriously at Onin. "I saw what happened. I know what he did—what you both did—to save those children. I am honored to have served with Jarid." He turned his gaze on the still form for a long moment. He sighed deeply. "So young," he muttered. Then he turned back to Onin. "My condolences on your loss. I must take my leave of you now."
Onin watched the captain go. He had never heard of a commander taking such an interest in his men. His puzzlement must have been apparent as Sergeant Bolg addressed him next.
"He does the same for everyone. At least, when he can," said Bolg. An angry red wound stretched across his broad nose, marring his already-ugly face. "The captain always wants to know about any man or woman who dies under his command."
"Why?" asked Onin. "I’ve never heard of such a thing."
Bolg shrugged. "He considers it a matter of honor."
The sergeant turned and walked away. Onin could see the man, indeed, standing next to another fallen Midlander, asking the men around him what they knew about him. The survivors seemed nervous at first, as Onin had, but soon warmed to the task.
Based on the casualties Onin could see around the village, he thought the captain would have a long night.
* * *
IT WAS A SOMBER RETURN trip, despite their victory. Many had been lost in the fighting, and the survivors felt they had lost something of themselves. Many Midlanders, in particular, looked hollow eyed and listless. Only the Guard seemed unperturbed.
Onin watched Captain Torreg closely while preparing for their departure. The stoic officer maintained an air of detachment, but Onin sensed sadness within him.
To his surprise, the captain sent word for Onin to join the front of the procession. The pace settled into something slow and leisurely, which suited Onin just fine after the past several days. As he approached, Torreg waved him forward until the young man rode alongside.
At first the captain said nothing to Onin, instead discussing logistical matters with Sergeant Bolg. Onin sorted through his own thoughts until he heard the captain say, "Would you agree, Onin?"
He reacted with a start. "What’s that, sir? I wasn’t listening."
"It sits ill with me to leave our fallen comrades in the muck of the marshes. We also have many wounded men who need care sooner rather than later. Do we stop at the marshes to see to the dead there or press on directly to Sparrowport for the sake of the wounded?"
Onin had never been asked his opinion on something so serious. After opening and closing his mouth a few times, he finally spoke. "The dead are dead and can't be helped. The wounded may yet live. It's better to move for Sparrowport. We can return to the marshes to bury our fallen once the wounded have reached town."
"What of the families of the men left to fester in the Jaga?" interrupted Sergeant Bolg. The ugly Guardsmen cast an eye on Onin. "What do you say to the widows and orphans of those men?"
Onin was not a callous lad, but the thought of widows and orphans as an outcome of battle had not really occurred to him.
"I . . . I would tell them we are going back to retrieve them right away and they sacrificed themselves for a worthy cause."
"A worthy cause by your standards, perhaps," interjected Bolg. "I’ll wager the women and children of Sparrowport would rather have their men home safely."
Onin’s anger rose at the jibe. "And what of the people of Lost Grove? Are their lives worthless?"
"No, course not," said Captain Torreg. "But a poor widow with hungry children will take scant comfort from knowing a few woodsmen survived due to her husband’s death."
"But . . . but the ones who went volunteered! I was there! I saw them!" Onin struggled with the conflict between his empathy and his ideals.
"Still, that knowledge will not fill empty bellies come winter," said Torreg coolly. He fixed Onin with an intense stare. "Why did you volunteer to go? Do you have family in Lost Grove? You’ve the frame of a woodsman."
"No. No family there." Onin grew increasingly uncomfortable with these difficult questions. "I just couldn’t bear the thought of defenseless people having to face those . . . things. I don’t think any of them would have survived without our help. Who could abandon all those children?"
Torreg pressed on. "If we had this to do over again, would you still volunteer?"
Onin nodded vigorously, without hesitation.
"Even knowing your friend might still be alive?"
This gave Onin pause. A catch rose in his throat as he tried to reply, and he only coughed. After a few moments of clearing his throat, he composed himself enough to say, "Flea knew what he was getting into, and he knew it was right. Neither of us could have lived with ourselves knowing we had left those poor villagers to die."
Try as he might to fight them off, tears blurred his vision. Torreg gave no indication he noticed them, which suited Onin just fine. The officers exchanged a meaningful glance, which Onin missed, and they fell silent for a while as the forest slid gently past.
* * *
LATER IN THE DAY, THEY stopped for an afternoon meal. Onin took care of his horse first, tying off then unsaddling the mare to give her a little time to graze. He rummaged around his saddlebags for something to eat, but Sergeant Bolg interrupted him.
"The captain says to come eat with him."
This puzzled Onin more, but he made no protest as Bolg led him to the shaded spot where the captain sat. Torreg stirred an iron pot over a campfire, and steam issued from within. He lifted the spoon to his mouth and tasted it, licking his lips afterward. Nodding in satisfaction, Torreg sprinkled a pinch of herbs into the mixture.
Onin’s stomach rumbled loudly as the aroma reached him. The two Guards obviously heard the noise. They both looked at the young man with mock surprise then laughed.
"Better feed the lad before he eats us.” Bolg laughed.
"I’ve heard a dragon’s stomach growl before, and it wasn’t much noisier," replied Torreg. He began spooning out the stew into tin bowls he had beside the cooking pot.
Onin wasted no time digging in and ate with gusto.
The captain chuckled at Onin’s clear enjoyment of the food. "Could use some more onions, and some saffron wouldn’t have gone badly," he said, "but thank you all the same. Not bad for trail rations, I suppose."
"Be careful, lad," said Bolg with a smile. "Many a Guardsmen will be jealous you got to eat the captain’s cooking. It’s been said Torreg is as at home with a ladle in his hand as a sword."
"Aye, and I’m happier with a ladle in my hand too, if truth be told about it," said Torreg between mouthfuls of stew.
Onin nodded in assent.
The little iron pot held a surprising amount, as each man received three healthy servings of the succulent dish. With the stew gone, each man leaned back in satisfaction. Torreg and Bolg produced pipes and pouches of tobacco. Within minutes, both were sending smoke ringlets wafting into the branches of the tree above them.
"An army travels on its stomach," said Torreg. "After enough years of eating dried beef and stale biscuits on the march, one learns to make use of whatever is around." He patted a pouch at his belt. "I’ve also learned to keep a selection of herbs and spices on hand. A well-cooked meal can do much to raise the spirits of soldiers in the worst possible conditions. Granted, I haven’t enough for everyone here. I wish I did. The Founders know they’ve earned a good meal today."
"Aye, like that winter in Saltgrave," interjected Bolg. He turned to Onin and explained. "We spent two months guarding the salt mines there, but the enemy never came. By the time we realized they weren’t coming, we were stuck in the gods-forsaken place for the entire winter. Weeks crammed into the mine’s entrance, could barely move without stepping on another soldier. If it weren’t for the captain’s stock of spices, I think we would have turned on each other before spring."
Onin had heard of Saltgrave before, but he only knew it lay far in the north of the Midlands. Barges loaded with salt would arrive in Sparrowport, and the seasoning would be transferred onto special cargo containers shaped rather like giant baskets. Then they were swooped up by the verdant dragons and carried to the Heights.
Onin stifled a yawn. The warmth of the food had worked its way throughout his body, and the fatigue from the past few days settled on him like a blanket. He felt he could lie back under the shade and fall asleep right there.
Before he could drift off, though, Torreg tapped the ash from his pipe and rose to his feet. Bolg did likewise.
"Time for us to be moving. Get the men ready."
Bolg hurried off to give the order while Onin scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t sure if the captain intended for him to ride at the front of the procession again, so he waited before moving there himself. After a short time of overseeing the preparations, Torreg indicated with a wave Onin should once again join him in the lead.
* * *
IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE the band of men broke out of the forest into open air. The trail turned into a dirt road before them, and the rolling hills bordering the forest stretched away, lustrous and green. The afternoon sun shone brightly, the warmth welcome.
In the sky overhead and far away, Onin could barely see the form of a gigantic verdant dragon. Straining his eyes, he could make out a cargo basket carried in the beast’s claws. Onin couldn’t help but stare at the dragons in the sky.
As he watched, another verdant came into view, flying in the opposite direction, presumably destined for Sparrowport. The dragons could be seen on any given day, ferrying trade between the Midlands and the Heights.
"Ever seen one up close?" asked Captain Torreg. Onin looked over to see the captain also watching the dragons in the sky.
"Not really," said Onin as he shook his head. "The closest I’ve been is when they swoop down to grab a cargo basket from Sparrowport." Onin remembered how the wake of their flight would send leaves tumbling down the streets during the autumn. Occasionally the dragon would roar as it went by, shaking the ground.
"Wait until you have to fly on one of those big bastards." Bolg laughed. "Most faint the first time they have a look over the edge of the tierre. Not me, though . . . I just threw up."
Onin laughed in spite of himself. He tried to imagine the view from the back of a dragon. He had been in the mountains before; he thought it must be similar to the view from a sheer cliff.
"I can’t imagine why I would need to fly on a dragon, but that sure sounds like something."
"You never know," chimed in Captain Torreg.
* * *
AS THE CITY GATES DREW near, a modest procession came forth to meet the returning victors. The lady mayor and her various hangers-on as well as persons of note from Sparrowport’s high-class families comprised the dignitaries. One in particular caught his eye: Zorot Durantis, the trade ambassador. Torreg had never met the man in person, but he was clearly from the Heights, judging by his look and dress. Zorot was known as one of the wealthiest men in Sparrowport, and he held vast influence over the city’s trade.
Torreg smiled, though he tried his best to hide it. Everything was going according to plan . . . so far.
"Isn’t he the one?" said Bolg in a harsh whisper, indicating Zorot with a sideways glance.
"That's him. He could be our passage back to the Heights."
As a captain of the guard, Torreg was no stranger to court politics, trade agreements, and petty gossip. Far too often, he had been the victim of the first and the last, as his career-long assignment to the Midlands demonstrated.
The captain dismounted to receive his official welcome from the mayor and her gaggle of city officials. Bolg took up position on Torreg’s right side, and indicated for Onin to do likewise on the left. Onin did as he was bidden, but with a confused look.
The greetings expressed sincere warmth and gratitude, even from the mayor herself. Her followers issued the usual chain of compliments showered upon the victorious commander: his bravery, strength, cunning, heroism. Torreg received them each with a polite nod.
After the last of the officials had congratulated him, Torreg saw Zorot approaching. He fervently hoped, for once, his deeds had made some sort of impact. He cast about for some way to get a meeting with this man. Politics had never been his strong point.
Before his mind produced a suitable introduction, Zorot stepped right past him and embraced Onin. Onin returned it warmly. Torreg and Bolg looked at one another.
"Captain Torreg, my congratulations to you," said Zorot. "I see you have met my son."