I heard the whispers as I slumped to the ground after the day's march. It had been two days since the goblins had attacked the column.
"Poor bastard."
"Captain must've come down hard on him."
"Wonder what he did."
"Who knows? Whatever it was, the sergeant's making sure he remembers it."
I glanced at the shield still hanging from my left arm. The leather straps had rubbed the skin raw beneath my sleeve, and my shoulder ached with every movement.
At least they gave me a new spear, I thought as I loosened one of the straps.
A waterskin appeared in front of me.
"Here." One of the other recruits said.
I accepted it gratefully and drank deeply before handing it back.
"Thanks."
The recruit shrugged. "Didn't think you'd survive another mile carrying that thing."
“Neither did I," I admitted.
The recruit frowned. "What'd you do?"
"Do?"
"To make the sergeant so mad."
I blinked. "It was the ambush. I broke my spear fighting a goblin." I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling my cheeks grow warm. "They called the captain and everything."
The recruit whistled.
I glanced at the shield still hanging from my arm.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
“Rowan!”
I groaned and pushed myself to my feet, the heavy training shield still strapped to my left arm.
“Sergeant says you’re on latrine duty. He wants them deep.”
Several recruits groaned in sympathy.
I found a shovel and got to work.
When I finished, Sergeant Harlan inspected the trench and gave a curt nod.
“Good work. Master Helmut’s short a man. Get to the smithy.”
By the time I trudged back toward our section of camp, I was soot-stained and exhausted.
The sleeves of my tunic were black with coal dust from working Master Helmut's bellows, and every muscle in my shoulders ached from hours of hauling charcoal, pumping the forge, and carrying bundles of repaired spears back to the quartermaster's wagon.
My left arm still felt strangely heavy even though the training shield had finally been removed.
As I neared the fire, I noticed two recruits glance my way. One nudged the other with an elbow before subtly pointing at me.
"...there he is..."
"...still working..."
"...whatever he did..."
The rest of the conversation was lost beneath the ringing in my ears. I wasn't sure I cared enough to listen. Right now all I wanted was to sit down and eat something before the sergeant found another job that needed doing.
With a weary groan, I lowered myself beside the fire.
"Anything left in the pot?" I asked hopefully.
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Old Brenn, one of the older recruits in the squad, glanced over from where he was sharpening a knife.
"Saved you some beans," the man grunted. "But you scrub the pot."
A tired smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"That's fair."
I retrieved my wooden bowl, scooped out the last of the warm beans, and settled back against a log. They weren't much—mostly beans swimming in a thin broth with a few scraps of salt pork—but after the day's work they smelled better than any feast I could remember.
For several blessed minutes, no one spoke.
The crackle of the fire, the clink of bowls and spoons, and the distant ring of Master Helmut's hammer were enough.
I finished every last bean, wiped the bowl clean with the heel of a piece of hard bread, then stood with a sigh.
Without another word, I carried the blackened cooking pot toward the water barrels.
A few of the recruits watched me go.
"He never complains," I heard one mutter.
Old Brenn snorted.
"Farm boy," the older man said with a shrug. "Besides, it's not like complaining would help."
As though that explained everything.
***
"Rowan."
I looked up from where I was tightening the straps on my shield.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
The sergeant eyed me for a moment before giving a curt nod.
"Today we're going to rest your left arm."
Around us, several recruits exchanged knowing smiles.
"About time," someone muttered under his breath.
Another chuckled. "Thought the old man was trying to kill him."
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. My shoulder had been burning for days, and even after removing the shield each evening, it still ached well into the night.
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"You get to carry the squad's extra spear shafts."
The camp fell silent.
I blinked.
"...The whole bundle, Sergeant?"
"The whole bundle."
A grin spread across the corporal's face as he pointed toward a stack of freshly repaired ash shafts leaning against Master Helmut's wagon.
"There are twelve of them."
One of the recruits burst out laughing.
"So much for resting."
The sergeant fixed him with a look.
"I said I was resting his left arm."
His gaze shifted back to me.
"Your right one looked lonely."
A ripple of laughter spread through the squad.
I looked at the bundle, then at my sore left arm.
After a moment I gave a resigned nod.
"Yes, Sergeant."
I hefted the dozen spear shafts onto my right shoulder. They weren't terribly heavy individually, but together they were awkward, constantly shifting with every step.
As I started after the marching column, the older recruit from the night before shook his head.
"Farm boy."
Another recruit frowned.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
The older man shrugged.
"Means he'll grumble to himself, pick 'em up, and keep walking."
I did exactly that.
***
"Rowan!"
I looked up from where I had been trudging into camp. My shoulders sagged beneath the bundle of spare spear shafts balanced across one shoulder. Soot still streaked my face from another afternoon at Master Helmut's forge, and every step made my tired legs protest.
Morgan lounged beside the fire, already seated with a bowl in one hand.
"Go fetch me some water."
The words carried more command than request, accompanied by a sneer that made several of the recruits glance up.
I stopped.
For a heartbeat, I simply stared. My mind was too tired to argue. I shifted the weight of the spear shafts and started to turn toward the water barrels.
"Go get it yourself, Morgan."
The voice came from Brenn.
The older soldier looked up from whetting the edge of his eating knife.
"You've got two good legs, and you've been sitting on your arse since dinner."
A few of the men snorted.
Morgan scowled.
"Why not? That's all he's good for, fetching and carrying." He jabbed a thumb toward me. "Doesn't even stand a watch."
Brenn slid the knife back into its sheath and met Morgan's glare.
"No."
Morgan frowned.
"No?"
"No." Brenn rose to his feet. "That's the sergeant's recruit."
Morgan opened his mouth.
Brenn cut him off.
"You notice who's always giving the boy jobs?"
Morgan didn't answer.
"The sergeant."
Brenn nodded toward me.
"If the sergeant wants Rowan hauling water, he'll tell him. If he wants him carrying spears, he'll tell him. If he wants him digging latrines, he'll tell him."
He took a step closer.
"But if you want water..."
He pointed toward the barrels.
"...you've got two feet."
For a long moment Morgan held his stare.
Then he muttered something under his breath, grabbed his waterskin, and stalked off toward the barrels.
Brenn watched him go before looking at me.
"Well?"
I shifted the awkward bundle on my shoulder.
"I've still got to return these to the quartermaster."
Brenn grinned.
"Then quit standing there. Sergeant'll find another job soon enough."
A few of the recruits laughed.
I couldn't help smiling as I continued toward the baggage wagons. His defense of me made me feel oddly better.