We watched as the cavalry harried the fleeing orcs toward their camp. A few of our own companies had broken ranks and given chase on foot, only for the orcs to turn suddenly, form a shield wall, and drive them back before continuing their withdrawal in good order.
"They're still disciplined," Brenn observed. "Means we'll be fighting 'em again."
The thought made my stomach sink.
Around us the battlefield settled into an uneasy quiet. The cries of the wounded replaced the clash of steel, while men searched for friends, gathered broken weapons, or simply dropped where they stood, too exhausted to move.
Brenn stretched his back with a groan.
"Soon comes the fun part."
"The... fun part?" I asked.
He grinned.
"The looting."
Several nearby soldiers who had been pretending not to listen suddenly edged a little closer.
"There probably won't be much," Brenn continued, "not after a straight field battle like this. Most warriors don't carry their fortunes into a fight. Still..." He shrugged. "A good knife. A decent purse. Maybe a ring if you're lucky."
"And?"
"The mages will be along shortly."
I frowned.
"And?"
"They'll mark what's yours."
The older veteran picked up a dented helmet and tossed it aside.
"Don't ask me how they do it. Never understood mage work myself. But once they're done, you'll know which bodies you earned."
"What if two men killed the same orc?"
"They'll know."
"How?"
He snorted.
"I just told you not to ask me."
A few of the older soldiers chuckled.
"The System and the mages sort it out. Best not to argue with either."
One of the veterans further down the line called out, "And don't get clever!"
Brenn nodded.
"He's right. Don't try slipping anything into your pouch before it's marked. The lord gets his share, the Crown gets its share, and the System has a way of noticing thieves."
"What happens if someone tries?"
Brenn looked at me as though I'd asked whether fire was hot.
"They usually end up wishing they'd just paid their taxes."
I sighed.
More taxes.
Brenn laughed, the deep, tired laugh of a man who'd survived another battle.
"Aye, lad."
He clapped me on the shoulder.
"No matter where you're born..."
"...there's always someone waiting to collect."
While we waited for the mages, I inspected my injuries properly. The shield straps had rubbed my left forearm raw, and several shallow cuts had made it through my gambeson, but none looked serious.
I had been lucky.
Especially wearing nothing more than a padded gambeson, an iron cap, and a borrowed shield.
Using a strip of cloth torn from the hem of my tunic, I wiped away the worst of the blood and dirt. I considered wasting the last of my water to clean my hands, but clean hands wouldn't help if I got thirsty again. I drank what little remained instead.
Nearby, I found one of our abandoned spears whose shaft was still straight and whose head remained firmly attached. . After what I'd done to two others, I wasn't about to stand around unarmed.
My short sword took longer.
Mud, blood, and little bits of things I didn't care to identify clung stubbornly to the blade. I wiped it clean with an orc's discarded cloak until the metal shone once more before sliding it back into its scabbard.
Only then did I look up.
The sun had barely climbed higher than it had when we'd formed the line that morning.
I frowned.
It was still morning.
Surely...
Surely we'd been fighting longer than that.
It felt like I'd lived an entire lifetime between breakfast and now.
***
Shortly after noon, we saw a line of wagons trundling out from camp, their iron-rimmed wheels groaning through the churned earth of the battlefield. Behind them came water carts, cooks, and a handful of healers still searching the rows of wounded.
"About bloody time," one of the veterans muttered.
Before long our squad was ordered to stand down while another company took over the watch.
I wasn't sure I'd ever been happier to hear those words.
Soon a cook was ladling steaming bean soup into wooden bowls while another soldier handed out thick chunks of dark, black bread.
"Beans again," someone grumbled.
"Thought we'd earned meat today."
"Could've at least salted it," another complained.
I looked down at my bowl.
The soup was hot.
There were beans, onions, and even a few scraps of bacon floating near the top. The bread was coarse and dense, but it was fresh enough that steam still escaped when I tore it apart.
I couldn't help smiling.
Back home, this would have been a fine meal.
Better than many.
There had been nights when supper was little more than broth and whatever vegetables we could coax from the garden. If winter had been especially hard...
Sometimes it had been thinner than that.
I dipped the bread into the soup and ate every bite.
One of the older soldiers watched me polish off the bowl.
"You really like the cook's beans, don't you?"
I shrugged.
"They're food."
The man blinked.
He looked at me for a moment before chuckling.
"Lad... you really did grow up poor."
I met his eyes and shrugged.
"I don't know if we were poor."
He frowned.
"No?"
I tore another piece from the black bread and dipped it into my soup.
"I was the one providing for my sister and brothers." I glanced down at my bowl. "This was as fine a meal as we had many a night."
I looked back at him.
"Maybe we were poor. Never really thought about it."
I shrugged again.
The man looked at me for a long moment.
"Didn't mean anything by it, lad."
I shrugged.
"I know."
"Just saying..." He looked down at his own bowl. "A boy your age shouldn't have had to worry about feeding anyone."
I tore off another piece of bread.
"Someone had to," I said as I took a bite of the bread.
***
I was cleaning the last of the blood from my sword when I heard Arn speak.
“Brenn, are you sure that boy’s only twelve?”
The old veteran looked up from sharpening the nick he’d put in his spearhead.
“As sure as I can be without sawing him in half and counting the rings.” He grinned. “Why?”
Arn shook his head and glanced toward me.
“But did you see what he did after his spear broke?”
“Which time?” another veteran asked.
“Exactly.” Brenn barked a laugh. “Broke two spears today.”
“Must be expensive keeping him supplied,” someone muttered.
“Maybe.” Brenn’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. “But after the second one, the lad drew that shortsword and never once lost his head.”