The road climbed steadily through a stand of wind-bent pines before leveling off atop a broad ridge.
"Keep moving," Sergeant Harlan called. "Don't stop on the crest."
No one listened.
As the first ranks reached the top of the rise, the entire column seemed to slow of its own accord.
I stepped onto the ridge and forgot to breathe.
The valley beyond had disappeared beneath canvas.
Thousands of tents stretched across the rolling ground, row after perfectly ordered row, their pale linen catching the afternoon sun until they resembled a second town built entirely of cloth. Bright banners snapped lazily in the breeze, each bearing the colors and devices of noble houses, knightly orders, or the King's own army. Thin columns of smoke climbed into the sky from what looked like hundreds of cookfires.
The distant ring of blacksmiths' hammers carried faintly on the wind.
Somewhere below, a trumpet sounded.
Then another answered.
I had never imagined so many people could gather in one place.
"Gods above..." one of the recruits whispered.
"How many?"
Brenn shaded his eyes with one hand.
"Fifteen thousand, maybe sixteen."
Someone behind me let out a low whistle.
"I didn't know the kingdom even had that many soldiers."
Brenn chuckled.
"It doesn't."
The younger recruits looked at him.
"Not soldiers."
He pointed beyond the ordered lines of military tents.
Only then did I notice what lay outside the army's neat rows.
The land surrounding the encampment was crowded with another settlement entirely.
Ramshackle tents made from patched canvas and rough wool blankets sprawled in every direction. Wagons stood wheel to wheel. Makeshift corrals held hundreds of horses, mules, oxen, goats, and pigs. Laundry fluttered from ropes strung between carts. Children darted through the maze while women stirred kettles over open fires. Merchants shouted from stalls hastily built from rough timber. The smell of baking bread drifted up the hillside, mingling with smoke, horse manure, roasting meat, and the pungent odor of thousands of people living too close together.
"What is all that?" I asked quietly.
"The army's shadow," Brenn answered.
I frowned.
"The camp followers."
Seeing my puzzled expression, Brenn continued.
"Smiths. Teamsters. Merchants. Cobblers. Laundresses. Cooks. Sutlers selling anything a soldier might need. Families following husbands. Women looking to earn a coin." He shrugged. "An army marches because they do."
"They're not soldiers?"
"No." Brenn smiled. "But half this army would starve inside a fortnight without them."
The column resumed its march.
As we descended toward the valley, the sounds grew louder with every step.
Hammer on anvil.
The crack of drill sergeants shouting orders.
The rhythmic thud of thousands of boots marching in unison.
Horses whinnied.
Dogs barked.
Children laughed somewhere among the wagons.
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Above it all, dozens of banners fluttered against the afternoon sky.
I tightened my grip on the shield hanging from my left arm.
For twenty-two days I had believed I was marching to join an army.
Only now, standing above the sprawling sea of canvas and humanity, did I understand.
The company had barely stacked its spears before the quartermaster pointed us toward a patch of open ground
"This is yours," the clerk said, scratching something onto a wax tablet before moving on to the next arriving company.
Within moments the camp came alive.
Some men unloaded wagons.
Others drove tent pegs.
Cook fires were already being laid.
The veterans scarcely needed orders. Each man simply drifted toward the task he'd performed a hundred times before.
I carried my bedroll to the spot beside Brenn and Morgan, laid it beneath the half-raised tent canvas, then looked around.
Without a word, I picked up a shovel.
I paced off a short distance downwind of the tents, just as Sergeant Harlan always chose, and drove the blade into the earth.
The soil was softer than I'd expected.
By the third shovelful, sweat was already running down my temples.
I never heard the stranger approach.
"Ah, now what's this?"
The voice carried an unfamiliar lilt, the words rolling together in an accent I had never heard before.
I kept digging.
"Scarce here a sun's width, and the lad's diggin' like it's all he's worth."
I glanced over my shoulder.
The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and a thick reddish beard braided into two forks. His mail shirt bore no crest I recognized, and a battered round shield hung from his back instead of the long kite shields carried by most of the King's soldiers.
The stranger folded his arms, watching with open amusement.
"Didn't even wait to be told."
I shrugged as I tossed another shovelful aside.
"It needs doing."
The older man barked a laugh.
"Aye, that's true enough."
He looked back toward the rest of the company.
Most of the recruits were still arguing over where to pitch the tents.
Only the veterans had settled immediately to work.
Then he nodded toward me.
"Whose lad is he?"
Before I could answer, Sergeant Harlan's voice carried across the camp.
"Mine."
The stranger raised an eyebrow.
"Yours?"
Harlan strode over, stopping beside the half-finished trench.
"Captain Caldwell's orders."
The bearded veteran looked from the sergeant to me, then down at the neatly cut trench already taking shape.
A slow grin spread beneath his beard.
"So that's the one I've been hearing about."
I paused, the shovel still in my hands.
"Hearing about?"
The two older soldiers exchanged a glance.
The stranger chuckled.
"Nothing for you to worry about, lad."
He tipped two fingers in farewell before turning away.
"Just keep diggin'. Like he said, there's nothing to worry about."
Sergeant Harlan stood quietly beside the trench, saying nothing as I continued to work.
The shovel bit into the earth with a steady rhythm.
Lift.
Turn.
Throw.
The sides of the trench were straight, the bottom nearly level. Twenty-two days earlier I had hacked at the ground until I was exhausted. Now I worked with practiced efficiency, barely wasting a movement.
At length the sergeant gave a satisfied nod.
"That'll do."
I rested both hands on the top of the shovel and looked up.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"Tonight's a drill night."
The words immediately chased away the fatigue.
"Bring your spear, shield, and sword."
I blinked.
"All three?"
"All three."
The sergeant glanced toward the center of the sprawling encampment where dozens of banners fluttered above the sea of tents.
"The captain's been making inquiries."
"Inquiries?"
Harlan grunted.
"Said if an army this size doesn't have a proper spear master, then the kingdom's in worse shape than he thought."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Figure he'll find one."
I wasn't sure what to say.
"A... spear master?"
"For training," Harlan replied. "Not one of these farm lads who knows which end to hold."
He jerked a thumb toward the heart of the encampment.
"There'll be men there who've carried a spear longer than you've been alive. Some'll have fought three wars. Others'll have served noble houses since they were boys."
The sergeant looked me squarely in the eye.
"If the captain can borrow one for an hour each evening..."
He let the thought hang in the air before giving a short nod.
"...you'd do well to pay attention."
I swallowed.
"Yes, Sergeant."
Harlan started to walk away, then paused.
"And Rowan."
"Sergeant?"
"Finish the latrine first."
I glanced down at the half-completed trench and gave a sheepish nod.
"Yes, Sergeant."
The sergeant snorted.
"Thought so."
He continued back toward the tents while I drove the shovel into the earth once more.
For the first time since leaving Gilfordshire, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps the extra work wasn't the only thing waiting for me in camp.
Grumbling under my breath, I climbed out of the finished latrine trench and leaned the shovel against a wagon.
My back ached.
My hands were sore.
The thought of another evening of drills was enough to make me sigh.
After brushing the loose dirt from my tunic and trousers, I made my way back to the squad's tents. My bedroll lay where I'd left it beneath the canvas.
I knelt, unwrapped the bundle, and checked my equipment.
The spear came first.
Then the shield.
Finally, Old Man McCallam’s shortsword.
I buckled the worn belt around my waist.
I slipped my arm through the shield straps and stood.
Somewhere near the center of the enormous camp, Captain Caldwell was searching for a spear master.
For me.
I still couldn’t understand why breaking one spear required this much trouble.
Still... I couldn't help wondering if breaking my spear had somehow gotten me into even more trouble than I'd thought.