Chương 20: The Trial Week (1)

"Up, boy. We've arrived." Teren blinked his eyes. The cage wagon rocked beneath him. Chains pulled at his wrists and ankles. The same sour smell of old sweat, damp straw, and fear sat heavy inside the bars. For a moment, he still felt the broken shield on his arm. Then the memory came to him at once. Gate Seventeen. The stone tunnels. The ashbacks forcing their way through the line. Dagan leaving his place to fight another monster on his own.

Teren pinned against the wall with a broken shield, a useless splinter of wood in his hand, and nothing at his side except panic. He lay still and let the wagon jolt under him. The last loop had not made him any braver. But it had made him certain of something he should have understood sooner. A weapon in his hand did not make him dangerous. Having a strong body did not make him a veteran.

And whatever power he held under his skin—purple fire, bloodline, mana, whatever Edras had been so frightened and excited about—was worth nothing if Teren could not make it answer when he needed it. But a line of shields had kept him alive far longer than anger, running, or desperately swinging whatever weapon he could find in a pit. He needed training. Real training.

But he couldn't wait for it until he understood the city or found some new route hoping to survive longer, only for this damned city to kill him in yet another way. He needed it now. Salen, the old slave across from him, watched him for a few seconds, then looked away. The man had likely seen too many captives wake from bad dreams. Near the back of the cage, Dagan sat with his head bowed, wrists chained together, shoulders hunched so wide that the man beside him had to lean away. Teren looked at him for a while.

In the last loop, he had talked Dagan out of attacking the guards after reaching the compound. That had put the big man beside him at Gate Seventeen. It had also shown Teren exactly what Dagan was when fear got close. The lizardfolk was strong and capable enough, but when things went wrong, Dagan was loyal to himself first, second, and last. That kind of man might still matter later. A man who hated authority that much might know ways to escape it. But he did not belong in a shield line.

Teren said nothing to him this time. The lizardfolk deserved nothing less than the beating coming to him within a few minutes for leaving the shield line and letting others die just so he could fight more monsters. The wagon rolled through the outer approach of the city. The huge walls of Karthane rose ahead, gray and cold under the late morning light.

The moat, the drawbridge, the gatehouse, the portcullis, the bronze token passed through the bars, the orange crystal lamps—each part arrived in the same order as before. Teren watched without trying to change any of it. He had died enough times to know that cleverness for its own sake was just another way to invite a beating. The wagon entered the city, then the intake compound. The moment the cage door opened, Dagan attacked. Teren had known it was coming. He had no intention to stop it this time.

He still flinched when it happened. Dagan came down from the wagon with his chains still on and drove his shoulder into the nearest guard. The man stumbled back hard enough to strike the wagon wheel. Another guard shouted. A spear haft cracked against Dagan's ribs. Dagan caught the shaft under one arm and yanked, dragging the guard half a step forward and headbutting him, before two more men hit him from the side. For a few breaths, he looked almost impossible to put down.

Then one of the guards struck the back of his knee. Dagan dropped. He tried to rise anyway. A second blow caught him behind the ear. His face hit the dirt, and the guards laid into him until his body stopped doing more than twitching.

"Enough," Gannik ordered. The yard-master had come over during the beating. He stood with both thumbs tucked into his belt, looking more annoyed than angry. One guard snarled at the lizardfolk and lifted his spear haft for another strike. Gannik caught the man's wrist.

"I said enough. If you kill him before sorting, you will do the paperwork." The guard lowered the spear. Dagan lay unconscious on his side, blood coating his teeth. Gannik looked down at him.

"Take him to the healers. When he wakes up, send him to the pits. If he starts again, chain him to a dung cart until he learns his place." A few men laughed. Teren did not. His mind was already thinking about the sorting. He kept his place with the other captives and waited for the line to form. The intake yard had its usual noise: clerks calling names, guards shoving captives into order, horses and skarnaks stamping in the stables, men cheering near the fighting pit. Teren let the noise pass around him.

He only needed to change the order of the line. In one loop, the candidate quota had closed before he had been sorted. In another, he had reached it in time. The difference had not been magic or luck. Reaching the quota had come down to nothing more than his position in line. So he paid attention. Dagan wouldn't be chosen as a candidate ahead of him anymore, so Teren didn't need to swap places with anyone this time. The coughing man in front of him kept turning as if looking for someone to help him.

When the line jerked forward, Teren leaned closer.

"Say you can carry water." The man blinked at him.

"What?"

"When they ask what you can do. Say water. Simple work. No tools." Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The man stared, uncertain whether this was kindness or a trap.

"Or cough on the clerk until he sends you to the sick shed," Teren said.

"Your choice." The man faced forward again. When his turn came, he stammered through his name, coughed twice, then said he could carry water and follow orders. The clerk barely listened before marking him for labor. The line moved. Teren stepped up, and gave the answers to the same questions, while expressing his interest in joining up as a recruit. The clerk looked at his arms, shoulders, and legs.

"Healthy. No trade. Literate." He made a mark on the slate beside him.

"Possible military candidate." Gannik was close enough to hear. He turned and studied Teren properly.

"No trade at all?"

"No, sir."

"You answer quick for a man with no trade." Teren shrugged.

"I know what I don't know." That earned him a long look. Teren kept his face still. He had meant the words to sound humble. They had come out closer to dry than he liked. Gannik snorted.

"Assay first. If the crystal says mage, you're not my problem." Teren stepped to the brass-caged device when his turn came. The cloudy crystal sat below the curved grip, dull and harmless-looking. It had killed him more than once by doing exactly what it was meant to do. He wrapped his hand around the grip. Cold spread into his palm. A pull followed, thin and insistent, searching beneath the skin. Teren clamped down. He did not push or try to guide anything.

He just clamped down on the mana with every ugly memory he had. He held on to the memories of the white fire crossing the yard, Edras's trapped doorway, Gannik waiting in the dark lane, and the ashback's tusk tearing into his chest. The crystal stayed dark. One heartbeat passed. Then another. Gannik grunted.

"No magic." Teren released the grip before his fingers could start shaking.

"Candidate line," Gannik said. Teren walked to the marked space near the low wooden fence that separated the restricted third of the compound from the rest of the yard. There were already several men there. A broad-shouldered captive with a split lip, a younger man trying very hard not to look frightened, and a compact man with quick eyes and the stiff posture of someone who had been beaten before and learned not to show it. One more man was chosen after Teren before Gannik closed the quota for the week.

"Move," Gannik ordered once he walked over to them. The candidates were taken through the low fence into the restricted section. Inside, the yard was cleaner and more controlled. Barracks stood along one side. A roofed weapon shed held racks of practice spears, wooden swords, and shields. There was a separate training yard with packed sand, a stable with better doors, and a long building guarded by two men in mail. Pale crystals were mounted near a doorway, unlit in the daylight. Just like last time.

Near the larger building, Captain Rastor stood with a guest. Teren didn't remember seeing the other man last time, but he already knew that some things changed from one loop to the next. Rastor was easy to recognize by his short, gray-black beard and straight-backed posture in his dark surcoat over mail. The other man was not dressed like a military officer. His coat was too fine, though travel dust marked the hem. His boots were clean enough that someone must have wiped them after the road.

He didn't wear gauntlets, and the soldiers nearby kept a respectful distance from him. Teren looked only for a moment. The soldiers' behavior suggested the man was important, but he knew staring would only invite the yard-master's attention. Gannik's attention came anyway.

"Eyes ahead, Marr." Teren faced forward. The marking came next. The man at the marking table was thin, gray-haired, and bored in the way of someone who hurt people by routine rather than anger. Teren held still as the rod touched the inside of his left forearm and the same piercing pain cut beneath his skin. When it was over, the black mark had returned—a small crest surrounded by a ring of tiny runes. The slave mark. The older man examined it for a moment.

"Clean. Get moving." Teren lowered his sleeve. Candidate or not, he could still be tracked. The mark would still bring men like Gannik to a dark lane if he ran without knowing how to break it. The candidates were fed after the marking. They received bread, bean stew, and a strip of salted meat. The food was plain, but there was enough of it that no one had to snatch or guard every bite. Teren ate carefully, though his body wanted him to shovel it down.

Across from him, the young candidate stared at his meat for several seconds. A guard noticed.

"Eat it or hand it back." The young man shoved it into his mouth. The guard laughed once and moved on. After the meal, the candidates were sent to rest and told to report back around evening for a briefing by the captain.

Around sunset, they were lined up in the training yard. This time, evening arrived without a messenger from Gate Seventeen or any alarm sending the guards scrambling for weapons. The compound simply continued with its normal routine. That bothered Teren. The attack in the last loop had seemed important, yet there was no sign of it now. No wounded messenger or even a mention of Gate Seventeen. So important things could change too between loops. Or they happened only when certain conditions were met.

He did not like that though. If major events could change between loops, he could never assume that knowing what happened before meant knowing what would happen next. Captain Rastor arrived soon. He did not bring the fine-coated guest with him. Teren noticed it clearly, but put the thought aside for now. Rastor stopped before the line of candidates and looked them over as if deciding which of them might last a day.

"You are candidates for military service," he began.

"That is not the same as being recruited. A recruit has passed trial and belongs to this gate command. You have passed nothing." Nobody said anything.

"You get a week as a candidate. During that time, you will eat, sleep in the candidate barracks, and train. Spear, swords, shield line, watch duty, and enough discipline to stop you from killing the man beside you by mistake." His gaze moved along the line.

"Some of you think this is better than labor. It is. But anyone expecting it to be easy will learn otherwise very quickly." The youngest candidate swallowed. Rastor saw it but did not pause.

"Food is not charity in Karthane, certainly not these days. A man who cannot hold a line is worth less than the bread he eats. If you pass the basic training, you become a recruit. Your mark changes and you get paid. You get better food and more training. Serve your term well enough, and even freedom is possible." The word did its work. Teren saw it in the men around him. The quick lift of an eye or the loosening of a jaw.

The small, dangerous hope that made men easier to command if they believed the commands led to a life of freedom. Rastor's voice did not soften.

"If you fail, you return to Gannik. He will decide what use remains in you." Gannik smiled without warmth. Rastor gave a nod.

"Barracks now. Training begins at dawn." Then the captain walked away and the candidates were sent to the barracks again. The place still smelled of sweat, old straw, damp clothes, and men trying not to show fear. To Teren, it looked almost comfortable. He chose a lower bunk next to the wall. The straw mattress was thin but dry, and thankfully, nobody lay coughing beside him.

No old man was curled on the floor after all the bunks were taken, and there was no guard standing inside waiting to kick anyone who spoke too loudly. The short candidate with quick eyes took the bunk across from him.

"I'm called Drem," the man said.

"Teren." Drem rubbed the mark on his forearm and winced.

"Ya think they mean it? Freedom after term?"

"I think they want us to think they mean it." Drem gave him a quick look, then snorted.

"Ya sound like you've met officers before." Teren just shrugged. The younger candidate sat on the edge of a bunk nearby.

"How long is the term anyway?" No one answered. Drem leaned back on the bunk.

"Long enough that they don't say it before supper." That drew a few low laughs. Quiet ones. No one wanted the guards outside to hear too much cheer. Teren let himself lean against the wall. His arms still felt the memory of the broken shield from Gate Seventeen. His leg remembered the tusk and his skull remembered Brakka's pit. He knew the candidate route would hurt too, even without the dungeon emergency. But if that pain taught him how to fight, it would be worth enduring. First, though, he needed more food.

His stomach was still painfully empty.