The barracks of the Thirteenth Expeditionary Regiment stank. It was not just the smell of cramped quarters. It was a thick, stagnant stench of unwashed bodies, wet rotting wool, damp straw, and animal fear locked within four stone walls. Kain pushed the heavy door, bound in iron blackened by time, and crossed the threshold. Inside reigned a damp, oppressive twilight, barely dispelled by rare, smoking tallow candles thrust into forged wall sconces. The long, elongated room of bare gray stone looked more like a prison block of the Lower Ring than the abode of future Crown soldiers. Along the walls, disappearing into the darkness, stretched endless rows of roughly constructed three-tiered wooden bunks. No nobility. No coats of arms on the walls. Here, like into a gutter, the Academy had dumped all its rejects. The third rank, esquires, and lower. The younger bastards of impoverished lords who had not inherited a penny, port mercenaries who miraculously awakened a spark of the gift, street trash, and peasants like him. Those who were unlucky enough not to pass the mages' test with the required result.
The northerner walked across the creaky, sagging floorboards, instinctively ignoring the wary, prickly glances flashing from the darkness of the lower tiers. Someone was moaning quietly in their sleep. Someone was scratching fiercely, cursing the capital's lice. He chose an empty lower bunk in the very corner, away from the narrow windows stretched with cloudy bovine bladder, from which an icy draft pulled. Kain tossed his skinny travel bag onto the mattress. It smelled of mold. Inside, it was stuffed with stiff, prickly straw. With a dull thud, he leaned his heavy sword, disfigured by reforging, against the stone wall right by the headboard. The hilt had to be at arm's length. Always.
"A huge thing. Only good for chopping wood and smashing cow skulls with that," came a hoarse, nervous voice from above. A shaggy head hung down from the top bunk. A thin face covered in ingrained street soot, feverishly shining eyes of a frightened little city rat. The guy hung lower, almost falling, and stared with greedy curiosity at the northerner's weapon. "I'm Finn. From the Lower Ring of Avalon," he tried to force a casual, friendly smile, but his thin lips trembled treacherously. "I thought in the Academy, if you pass through the Gates, they immediately feed you hot meat, pour you ale, and let you sleep on goose down. But it seems we've just been locked in a slaughterhouse pen.".
Kain silently sat on the hard edge of the mattress. He began to slowly pull the soaked, dry-grass-stuffed stolen boots off his feet. When he took off the dirty rags that served as his footwraps, a sharp smell of caked blood hit his nose—his feet had been worn down to deep, raw ulcers during the three months of continuous walking on the tract. He didn't want to answer the capital ragamuffin. The center of his chest still ached with a dull, rhythmic pain after that barbaric release of aura in front of the academy mage. His mutilated internal channels burned, demanding rest.
"You're not the talkative type, huh? Came all the way from the north?". "I can tell by your mug—Asgard," Finn wouldn't let up, jumping down to the stone floor. He wore a gray linen shirt, washed to the point of holes, too big for his skinny, emaciated body. "I saw how you stood on the parade ground under the aura of that bald Magister. Creepy shit, right?". "My eyeballs almost popped. Did you hear what the mentors were whispering? They say the Thirteenth Regiment will be thrown into the northern forests for training. Right into the maw of the gray non-humans. To learn to track and kill non-humans even before approaching the borders of the Empire. And those dressed-up golden boys from Valois will watch us from a safe hill through spyglasses and sip their warm spiced wine.".
In the next aisle, someone coughed hollowly and tearingly, spitting phlegm onto the floor. "Shut your trap, capital rat," a low, vibrating bass hissed from the neighboring bed. From there, throwing off a thin cloth blanket, a heavyset, clean-shaven guy stood up. His nose had been broken at least twice, forming an ugly dent on his face, and on his thick neck blackened the coarse tattoo of a branded convict—a crossed-out anchor. "Let us sleep while we can," the big guy growled menacingly, taking a step into the aisle. His fists were the size of small melons. "Tomorrow at dawn they will issue us the Crown's iron. We'll see how you sing when this mute northern buddy of yours leaves you to die in the mud during the very first skirmish with the orcs. We are all dead men walking here. So shut up, or I'll tear out your tongue and feed it to the rats.".
Finn flinched, instinctively taking a step back and hiding behind the sitting Kain. He snapped back, showing rotten teeth, but prudently climbed back onto his bunk, muttering curses.
The big guy measured Kain with a heavy, appraising glance. The northerner didn't budge. He simply raised his gray, indifferent eyes and looked straight into the convict's face. In this look, there was neither challenge nor fear. There was only the emptiness of a man who had killed for a piece of bread. The big guy grunted, scratched his stubble, and flopped heavily back onto his mattress.
Kain leaned back, throwing his arms behind his head. The fingers of his right hand habitually rested on the cold, rough hilt of his sword. It was as damp and hopeless in the barracks as in their rotten hut in Oxen. He closed his eyes to the monotonous, lulling sound of the capital's rain drizzling outside the cloudy windows. The face of his mother with a bloody rag at her mouth and the frightened eyes of little Mia surfaced in his memory. "I will pull you out of there," he mentally repeated his vow. Tomorrow his war would begin.
The morning at the Academy did not begin with soft dawn sun. It began with a piercing metallic clang that struck at bare nerves. The strike of the duty gong tore the barracks apart. The Avalonian dawn was completely lost in the thick, impenetrable coal smog, settling on the cobblestones of the inner courtyard as greasy, black soot. "Get up, pieces of shit! Bastards, tear your asses off the straw! Line up in the courtyard!".
Three instructors in studded leather jackets burst into the barracks, mercilessly wielding short clubs. They beat on the wooden bunk posts, the backs of those who lingered, and the legs of those who couldn't wake up. Kain instantly rolled off the mattress, pulled on his stiff boots, grabbed his sword, and went out into the cold capital drizzle along with a crowd of gloomy cadets shivering from the morning dampness.
Like a herd to the slaughter, they were driven to the Armory—a long, squat building adjoining the eastern fortress wall. The wide double doors were thrown wide open. From there came a thick stench of machine oil, old sweat-soaked leather, tar, and the corrosive, sour smell of rust. There was no shining knightly armor decorated with enamel, nor velvet cloaks worn by the lords of the Center here. The distribution of imperial gear for the Third and Fourth ranks resembled feeding stray dogs.
A fat, red-faced quartermaster with an eye patch, methodically spitting sunflower seed husks right onto the stone floor, blindly hurled pieces of standard-issue armor onto a long oak table scarred by axes. "Next! Size? I don't care about your size, you'll tighten it with straps, you're not a bride ready for marriage! Take it and get lost! Next!".
The line spat Kain out to the table. The quartermaster measured his broad shoulders, rags, and the ugly crowbar behind his back with a bored look. He grimaced contemptuously. "Third rank. Thirteenth Expeditionary. Esquire infantry, meat for the first line," he muttered under his breath, scratching with his pen in a thick ledger.
The quartermaster forcefully kicked a pile of iron dumped on the floor with his boot, fished out a darkened breastplate, and threw it with a clatter onto the tabletop. Following it flew two dented steel pauldrons, a coarse quilted gambeson, and a pair of thick leather gloves reinforced with rusty iron rivets.
Kain took the cuirass in his hands. The metal was icy, heavy, and dead. The breastplate was of crude, mass-produced manufactory forging, devoid of any decorations. Poisonous orange rust was already showing around the edges of the plates. But the worst thing was something else. On the left side of the cuirass, just below the ribs, the steel was hideously crumpled and pierced through. The dent had been hastily riveted with a piece of cheap tin, secured with four rough rivets. Kain turned the breastplate over. On the inside of the armor, on the once light-colored leather lining, a large, incompletely washed dark brown, almost black stain was ingrained. Someone had already died in this steel. Someone's lungs had been pierced through this very breach by a dirty orc spear or a goblin's axe somewhere on the snowy northern borders. The Crown hadn't even bothered to restitch the lining. The Empire simply put this blood-stained shell onto a new condemned man, writing off past losses to the archive.
"What are you staring at, scum? Waiting for me to coat it in gold for you?" the quartermaster bared his teeth, noticing the youth's look. "The Empire issues you its best infantry steel. If you don't like it—go fight on the border with your bare ass. Next!".
Kain said nothing. He scooped up the cold iron in his arms and silently stepped aside to the wall. Finn, having received an old chainmail that hung on his skinny body like a holey sack on a mop, came up next, loudly clanking his links with every step. "Demons of Hell take it, it reeks as if the previous owner soiled himself before giving up the ghost," the little thief muttered, trying in vain to tighten the overly long straps on his shoulders.
Kain placed his sword by the wall and, with one motion, pulled his old, hole-ridden peasant shirt over his head, dropping it right onto the wet cobblestones. The cold morning wind of Avalon hit his bare torso. The northerner's body was covered in a network of old, whitish scars and fresh bruises—traces of his insane night training with the iron crowbar. Finn stopped short, staring at Kain's back, but remained silent.
The northerner threw on the quilted gambeson, smelling of damp mold and foreign sweat, and then pulled on the cuirass. It was unbearably heavy. It wasn't balanced, hindered movement, pressed on the shoulder blades, and cut painfully into his collarbones when he raised his arms. Buckling the stiff, tanned straps on the sides, Kain shifted his gaze to the opposite end of the huge parade ground. There, under a spacious canopy of red silk, where the dirty capital rain did not reach, stood they. The elite. The Aura Knights. A retinue of three servants carefully, piece by piece, dressed the Golden Falcon of Valois in shining enameled half-plate, fitted exactly to his figure. No rust. No cheap iron. No dried blood of a stranger on the velvet lining. Only perfect balance, engraved runes of protection, and absolute, overwhelming social superiority.
As if feeling the heavy stare upon him, the aristocrat turned his head. He caught the gloomy gaze of the northerner strapped into the rusty cuirass. The blond from Valois smirked with squeamish condescension and turned away, jingling his pure gold spurs. Kain clenched his teeth so hard his jaw muscles bulged. With force, until his fingers ached, he pulled the last strap on the pierced breastplate tight. The foreign blood on the leather lining now pressed tightly against his own ribs. It was as if a dead man was passing the baton of death to him.
"Hey, Thirteenth! Pieces of shit!" boomed the thunderous roar of an approaching senior instructor. "Geared up? Fastened your skirts?". "And now, double time to the training square! Magister Rorch is waiting. Time to see if you know how to swing your standard-issue iron before you get sent as fodder to the mountain trolls!".
Kain drew his sword from its scabbard. The heavy piece of reforged crowbar fit into his roughly gloved hand perfectly. He followed the instructor into the mud of the training square.
The dirt sparring ground of the Minor Courtyard was a rectangle thickly covered with river sand, which the morning rain had turned into a viscous, squelching slush. Hundreds of recruits from the Third and Fourth ranks gathered around the square. On a small wooden platform stood Magister Rorch. Today he was without his cloak, wearing his invariable worn leather armor. The Magister's single eye coldly scanned the crowd of youths clad in standard-issue iron.
"You look like a herd of pregnant cows locked in pots," Rorch said calmly, without shouting, but his voice carried over the parade ground in absolute silence. "The Empire gave you steel. But steel does not kill by itself. It is the man holding it who kills.". He stepped down from the platform and slowly walked along the uneven ranks of the Thirteenth Regiment. "We don't have time to teach you the pretty stances of Valois. We don't have time to teach you noble fencing. In three days, you march into the northern forests. And there you will be torn to pieces by beasts who know no rules of honor. Therefore, we will conduct a weeding out right now.".
Rorch stopped in the center of the mud square. "There will be no wooden swords. You will use the weapons you will take into battle. Blunt the edges or strike with the flat. The rules are simple: no killing!". "Fight until the opponent surrenders or until he stops getting up.". "Whoever refuses to step into the square immediately hands in his armor and is sent to muck out the stables for the rest of his days.".
A nervous whisper ran through the ranks. Fight with real iron? On the very first day?.
"You," Rorch's finger poked at the heavyset, tattooed convict who had slept in the bunk next to Kain. "Into the ring.". "And you..." The Magister looked over the ranks, and his gaze stopped on the northerner. "The scum with a piece of fence on his back. Into the ring.".
Kain silently stepped out of line. His boots sank heavily into the wet sand. Opposite him stood the big guy, rolling his massive shoulders. In the convict's hands were a heavy spiked war mace and a round wooden shield bound with a steel strip. "Gross," the big guy introduced himself, baring his teeth fiercely. The thrill of a street fighter flared up in his eyes. "No hard feelings, northerner. But I'm not going to die in the woods because my flank will be held by a weakling. I'll break your ribs.".
Kain didn't answer. He took a stance. Coarse, ugly, wide. He raised his ugly two-handed sword and pointed its tip at the ground. No aura. Only the physical strength forged in the forest mud.
"Begin," Rorch tossed out indifferently.
Gross didn't wait. He roared and charged forward, putting his shield in front of him like a battering ram. The calculation was simple—knock the lighter guy off his feet with mass and finish him off with the mace. Kain did not retreat. When the edge of the shield was an inch from his face, he abruptly, using the weight of his heavy armor, shifted to the right. His boot slid in the mud. He let the convict's bulk pass him by and, turning his body, delivered a short, chopping blow with the pommel of his heavy sword straight to Gross's unprotected nape.
Crack.
The sound of metal striking bone echoed over the parade ground. Driven by momentum, the big guy flew a few more feet and crashed face-first straight into the runny mud, dropping his mace. He groaned, trying to get on all fours, but his hands slipped in the slush. A trickle of blood ran down his neck from the smashed nape. The fight lasted exactly three seconds.
Dead silence hung over the parade ground. The recruits stared dumbfounded at the dirty northerner, who hadn't even lost his breath. He simply lowered his piece of iron back to the ground.
Magister Rorch stepped closer. His single eye slid attentively and appraisingly over Kain's figure. He saw not a noble warrior, but a perfect, rational predator who didn't waste energy on unnecessary movements.
"Enough," the Magister tossed out. Two medics ran up to Gross and dragged the concussed convict toward the infirmary.
Rorch turned to the frozen ranks. "This is what survival looks like!" he barked. "He didn't try to break through the shield! He didn't try to dance with him! He found a weak spot and struck!". "In the woods, an orc or a goblin won't hit you in your protected chest, they'll bite your throat out!". "Remember this if you want to return home on your own feet and not in a pine box!".
The Magister looked at Kain again. Something faintly resembling satisfaction flickered in his gaze. "What is your name, cadet?". "Kain Alseif, Master.". "Fall in, Alseif. Your steel drank first today.".
Kain shook non-existent dirt from his guard and returned to his place. Finn looked at him with huge eyes full of holy terror, not even daring to open his mouth.
Somewhere out there, beyond the fortress walls, Avalon continued to live its luxurious life. But here, in the mud of the training square, Kain realized one simple thing. He didn't care about the Empire. He didn't care about the orcs. He would survive. At any cost. And let Terra tremble when he learned to control what burned inside his chest. Three days until the march to the North. The clock was ticking.