different, but each one perfectly captured what surely would have been the instant before victory over his foe had he been a real fighter. He had a strong urge to reach out and touch them as he rode alongside the building to the entrance. They looked so realistic.
A short man with a gray-whiskered face hobbled up to him and reached for Fidget’s bridle without a glance at Boden. “Enlisting?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m Bo—”
“Dismount here. I’ll take your horse to the stable.” While Boden climbed down from the saddle, Gray Whiskers tied a strip of blue cloth to Fidget’s bridle near the ear. He handed Boden a matching cloth. “Inside to the left. Got your papers?”
Boden nodded, tied the blue cloth to the front strap of his knapsack, and went inside.
The interior of the building was stark and clean, its ceilings a good dozen feet high, and its floor also black granite. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light and headed to a desk on the left, where a middle-aged man, mostly bald but unshaven, was sitting. The man’s shirt was blue, not the green of a Serocian Legion uniform, and sported no arm band. He peered through thick spectacles at a paper before stamping it and setting it in a growing stack. When he looked up and saw Boden, he beckoned with a wave. “Come, come.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Boden shrugged out of his knapsack as he approached and opened the special pouch that housed his papers. He handed them to the bespectacled man. “I’m Boden Sayeg, reporting for duty.”
The man peered at him with a grin. “Reporting for duty, are you?” He chuckled and looked down at the papers. “Not many young men show up at the Legion headquarters reporting for duty.”
Boden’s face warmed. The man was making fun of him. He supposed it had been a silly thing to say, but was it necessary to ridicule?
“All right, Boden Sayeg Reporting For Duty, down the hall, first room on the right. Wait there. Someone will retrieve you.”
The room he’d indicated had white plaster walls and was furnished with three six-foot benches. A single oil lamp on the rear wall burned brightly. He set his knapsack on the bench and sat beside it, but the moment his backside hit the bench, a man walked in holding a writing board against his chest. Boden stood and snapped a crisp salute. Judging from the stripes on the fellow’s arm band, he was an officer in the Legion, a captain, rather than merely a bureaucrat like the fellow at the desk.
The captain returned the salute. He, too, was an older fellow, perhaps early forties, with brown eyebrows and sharp golden eyes like those on an eagle. Boden got the impression this man didn’t miss much. “Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir,” Boden said, standing at attention.
“I’m Captain Kyear.” He pronounced the name like Jora’s father and brothers did. Boden wondered if they were distantly related. “I’ll be doing your initial assessment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any relation to Gunnar Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
Captain Kyear smiled. “I served with him for four years. He became one hell of a good soldier. Didn’t start out that way, but I’m sure he told you about that.”
“No, sir. He never talked about his own years of service.”
The captain chuckled. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Gunnar arrived poorly trained, uninformed, and weak. To hear him tell it, his drill master was drunk more often than sober, and when he wasn’t, he was hung over.”
Boden nodded. His first five years, from ages ten to fifteen, he’d trained under Elazer. Once Gunnar returned from his second tour, Boden’s training truly began.
Captain Kyear clapped Boden’s shoulder. “Anyway, glad to have you. For the first two years, your duties will be restricted to fighting with blades. If you want to train as a medic, officer, or engineer, talk to your commander at the end of your second year.”
“Will I report to my unit tomorrow, then?” Boden
A short man with a gray-whiskered face hobbled up to him and reached for Fidget’s bridle without a glance at Boden. “Enlisting?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m Bo—”
“Dismount here. I’ll take your horse to the stable.” While Boden climbed down from the saddle, Gray Whiskers tied a strip of blue cloth to Fidget’s bridle near the ear. He handed Boden a matching cloth. “Inside to the left. Got your papers?”
Boden nodded, tied the blue cloth to the front strap of his knapsack, and went inside.
The interior of the building was stark and clean, its ceilings a good dozen feet high, and its floor also black granite. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light and headed to a desk on the left, where a middle-aged man, mostly bald but unshaven, was sitting. The man’s shirt was blue, not the green of a Serocian Legion uniform, and sported no arm band. He peered through thick spectacles at a paper before stamping it and setting it in a growing stack. When he looked up and saw Boden, he beckoned with a wave. “Come, come.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Boden shrugged out of his knapsack as he approached and opened the special pouch that housed his papers. He handed them to the bespectacled man. “I’m Boden Sayeg, reporting for duty.”
The man peered at him with a grin. “Reporting for duty, are you?” He chuckled and looked down at the papers. “Not many young men show up at the Legion headquarters reporting for duty.”
Boden’s face warmed. The man was making fun of him. He supposed it had been a silly thing to say, but was it necessary to ridicule?
“All right, Boden Sayeg Reporting For Duty, down the hall, first room on the right. Wait there. Someone will retrieve you.”
The room he’d indicated had white plaster walls and was furnished with three six-foot benches. A single oil lamp on the rear wall burned brightly. He set his knapsack on the bench and sat beside it, but the moment his backside hit the bench, a man walked in holding a writing board against his chest. Boden stood and snapped a crisp salute. Judging from the stripes on the fellow’s arm band, he was an officer in the Legion, a captain, rather than merely a bureaucrat like the fellow at the desk.
The captain returned the salute. He, too, was an older fellow, perhaps early forties, with brown eyebrows and sharp golden eyes like those on an eagle. Boden got the impression this man didn’t miss much. “Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir,” Boden said, standing at attention.
“I’m Captain Kyear.” He pronounced the name like Jora’s father and brothers did. Boden wondered if they were distantly related. “I’ll be doing your initial assessment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any relation to Gunnar Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
Captain Kyear smiled. “I served with him for four years. He became one hell of a good soldier. Didn’t start out that way, but I’m sure he told you about that.”
“No, sir. He never talked about his own years of service.”
The captain chuckled. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Gunnar arrived poorly trained, uninformed, and weak. To hear him tell it, his drill master was drunk more often than sober, and when he wasn’t, he was hung over.”
Boden nodded. His first five years, from ages ten to fifteen, he’d trained under Elazer. Once Gunnar returned from his second tour, Boden’s training truly began.
Captain Kyear clapped Boden’s shoulder. “Anyway, glad to have you. For the first two years, your duties will be restricted to fighting with blades. If you want to train as a medic, officer, or engineer, talk to your commander at the end of your second year.”
“Will I report to my unit tomorrow, then?” Boden
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