Jonis by Rowan Erlking (manga ereader TXT) 📕

off the ground. Jonis moaned, feeling his gloved grip pinch. “Get moving, you wimp! Twenty-seven!”

Pushing off the ground, Jonis clenched his teeth.

“Twenty-eight!”

The pain was too much. He fell back down.

“Get up you slobbering blue-eyed piece of trash! You wanted to be in the army? Well, welcome to the army! Thirty!” The sergeant’s grip pinched tighter, pulling him off the ground. “Thirty-one! Thirty-two!”

Jonis pushed up as best as he could. His arms throbbed, but he continued on, as hold on his neck would not let go if he didn’t. It might even choke him.

“Thirty-five! Thirty-six! Thirty-seven! Thirty-eight…!”

His arms and back were killing him. His neck throbbed from the pinch hold. Jonis wished he could grab the drill sergeant’s ankle and drain all the excess energy out of him just to shut him up. He kept to the pushups, though, taking his anger out on the floor instead.

“Forty-seven! Forty-eight…”

Many men were moaning now. Jonis felt the grip release and heard the drill sergeant’s boots tromp over to harass someone else. “Up you piece of flab! You are not here to lie as a slug! Fifty!”

His shoulder blades seemed to touch when he was down on the ground. Prying them apart never seemed more difficult. Jonis continued, though, knowing the vise would be on his neck if he stopped.

“Sixty-two!”

His toes felt as if they were now made of glass, sore and chipping. His knees could hardly keep straight. His elbows didn’t want to stay bent. He panted, watching his sweat speckle the ground below his face.

“Sixty-nine!”

His lungs ached. His fingers were growing numb. Jonis could barely feel his knuckles.

“Seventy-five! Seventy-six! Seventy-seven! Get off the floor, recruit! Seventy-eight!”

Jonis’s head suddenly felt light.

“Eighty-one!”

He fell.

The pinch hold was there, lifting him up. “I didn’t say you could take a nap! Get off the floor!”

Jonis blinked, groping the ground for balance. He pushed up again, gasping.

“Eighty-two!”

He could barely get off the ground.

“Eighty-three! Come on you maggot! Push with your bones if you don’t have muscle!”

He pushed, panting hard now.

“Eighty-four!”

Jonis fought against that floor, shoving up again.

“Eighty-five!”

He struggled for the next push.

“Eighty-six!”

His head swam, but instead of fainting, a grueling memory of being stuck on a slave barge forced to row hundreds of hours day in and day out washed over him. The ground was now the oar and the drill sergeant was the slaver, beating him with his whip. He had to push and never stop.

“Ninety-eight!”

Jonis blinked, panting.

“Ninety-nine! One hundred! Get up you slime and get dressed! Join the camp outside at o’ five hundred hours!” The drill sergeant was not even on his neck anymore, but was shouting near some other recruit.

Jonis achingly got to his feet, swayed there, and looked right at him. The sergeant cast him a small smirk and nodded.

Crossing the room to him, the sergeant tossed over a pair of gloves. They had buckles so they would not slip off his hands. “Put these on, recruit.”

Jonis stared, feeling how sore his arms and hands were. He watched as the other men started to dress, most groaning. The man to Jonis’s left nodded also to him.

“You did pretty good, for a kid.”

He tore off his shirt.

Still tired and sore, Jonis followed.

 

The morning inspection was as grueling as the pushups had been. The captains had the sergeants peer over the recruits, checking to see if they were dressed according to regulation. One stopped and glanced at Jonis’s gloves, but passed by when he saw Jonis’s eyes and tags. That captain was already wearing his gloves, as was the drill sergeant.  Once dismissed, the men broke up for morning exercises.

Jonis soon learned how the camp operated. The ranking military officers ate first. The second shift was the staff. The third shift for the mess hall was for the oldest recruits, going down to the newest. That meant that Jonis’s troop were the last to eat, often getting the dregs of a meal after an incredibly exhausting workout.

Their drill sergeant had them run three miles that morning, informing them that it would increase to five when they were more fit. Jonis ran as best as he could, and lucky for him, he was not at the tail end. Korin wasn’t either. He actually ran in the middle of the group. There was a fatter man that toddled at the end of the troop, breathless. When he jogged in, the drill sergeant chewed the entire group out.

“You are to march as a group! You are to fight at a group! If one from your troop is left behind, you all are left behind! Now, go and run that again!”

“Idiot!” “Fat lard!” “You fart!” The men curse this and worse as they ran back out, aching and sore. Jonis was no less tired, but he watched as the man tried to keep from crying while he jogged. Jonis slowed his pace and ran next to him.

“Come on, you can do it. Just imagine I’m chasing you,” Jonis said, a smirk crooking across his lips.

Korin looked back and slowed also. “Come on, I’ll stay with you. If we pace ourselves, we can make it.”

The man did not answer. He just panted, jogging.

“One, two. One two—say it with me,” Korin said, nodding as he ran. “It helps.”

Pant, pant, pant.

Jonis counted aloud. “One, two. One, two. One, two.”

“Up the hill the ants will march, and down the hill the ants will march, and into the woods the ants will march, so early in the morning,” Korin sang.

Jonis and the man both stared at him.

“What was that?” Jonis asked, laughing.

Korin shrugged, drawing in a breath. “It’s a song we sing in my village. It helps to keep a beat.”

The man between them hummed and then started to chant. “A thumpity thump, jumped the gump, a clappity clap, flapped the bat, a chiggery chig sang the gnat—so early in the morning.”

Jonis laughed again.

“I didn’t think a demon’s laugh would be so pleasant,” the man said, wheezing.

There was no way to respond to that. Jonis shrugged. Offering his gloved hand. “I’m Jonis Macoy.”

The fat man smiled, taking his grip. “I’m Temis Fugid. Pleased to make your acquaintance. For a moment, I thought you were coming back to eat me.”

Jonis blinked but then decided to let that roll off his back. “The pleasure’s mine, and I don’t eat people.”

“What do you like to eat?” Korin asked, genuinely curious.

They matched their pace, actually gaining on the end of the group so they were not so far behind.

“Sandwiches,” Jonis replied, chuckling. “Though I do make a mean pastry.”

“You cook?” Temis emitted a relieved laugh.

“What is in the sandwich?” Korin persisted.

Jonis knew Korin’s questions were loaded with fears. He replied mildly, “Tomato, lettuce, other dark greens, green pepper, shredded carrots, and some very lean slices of turkey, preferably smoked.”

“You’re making me hungry,” Temis said, slowing his pace.

Jonis hooked his arm in his. “Come on, I know you’re tired, but just imagine that drill sergeant running on our heels, shouting at us.”

“That is not motivational,” Temis murmured, gasping.

“All right,” Jonis said, peering at the man’s bulging belly. “Then imagine your favorite meal waiting for you in the mess hall.”

“I think singing works better,” Korin said, and he started his song again. “Up the hill the ants will march, and down the hill the ants will march, and into the woods….”

“A thumpity thump, jumped the gump, a clappity clap, flapped the bat, a chiggery chig….” Temis chanted along.

Jonis shrugged, throwing in a song he knew:

“Out by the mountains, over the grassy hills, out in the starry sky above the forest stills, whispers the wind so low blowing the heather so, in the darkness where I have met my sweet love and firm regret. Singing ooh!”

He glanced over at the other two who stared at him. “What? Can’t I sing too?”

They blinked at him. Korin choked on a laugh and shook his head.

Temis wheezed and drew in a breath to reply, “Well, uh, where did you get that song?”

Blinking at them, Jonis shrugged. “I grew up with it. My father used to sing it.”

“He grew up with it,” Korin murmured. He shook his head.

Temis still stared. “I can’t believe it.”

Jonis panted. “What? It was just a song.”

“A Sky Child song,” Korin replied. “Which is why I can’t believe it. Aren’t Cordrils enemies to the Sky Children?”

He had no answer to that. Jonis blinked. He had known that song since forever. It was even in the memory his father had passed to him, going back thousands of years. Jonis had altered it somewhat from a different language, but in essence it was still the same.

When they finished the run, the drill sergeant watched them take their places. Jonis and Korin had Temis sprint the last part so they could be with the group. The sergeant grinned again, with his eyes always watching Jonis.

They were allowed to eat.

 

After breakfast, they were given a small break to prepare for inspection and the afternoon drills. Jonis begged permission from his drill sergeant to open his cabinet to take one scroll out for study. At first the sergeant had denied the request, but later when Jonis explained the nature of the scrolls, they went to the general for authorization. General Gomery would only allow the medicinal scrolls to be taken. Gratefully, Jonis bowed to him and used the rest of his free time to study the medicinal properties of a potato. He hid the scroll under his mattress, wrapping binding tape around it, and hastily sealing it with a spell. When he joined his troop, they were already talking about it.

“So, I hear you were studying to be a magister before they sent you to the army,” one man said. He snorted with a disdainful look at Jonis. “Don’t you know people don’t want a demon for a magister?”

“I have become aware of it,” Jonis replied casually, taking his place in line.

That recruit shoved him, sticking his broad chest into Jonis’s face. “You aren’t wanted here either. Even if you helped fat man over there, he’s not your friend. He doesn’t like you. He’s afraid of you.”

Jonis drew in a breath, regaining his place in line.

The recruit shoved him again. “But I’m not afraid of you. You’re nothing but a kid.”

Stepping back to his place in line, Jonis glared up at him. “So?”

“So,” the recruit snapped. “I can kick your backside.”

Jonis snorted, folding his arms. “Not according to the camp rules, you can’t.”

“Are you being smart with me?” The man shoved Jonis out of line again. He shoved Jonis back further. “Come on kid! Show your stuff! You’re not so scary, demon.”

The men standing around watched. Some smirked, waiting for the fight. Jonis held his ground.

“Do you want scary?” Jonis asked, unbuckling the clasp to one of the gloves.

“Recruit! What is that you are doing right there? Get in line!” the drill sergeant bellowed.

“Yes, drill sergeant, sir!” both of them replied. The other recruit shoved Jonis again before taking his place.

Jonis straightened his glove.

The drill sergeant stopped right in front of him. He halted just a nose from Jonis’s face. “If I see you attempting to take off that glove again to touch someone, you will feel pain like you have never experienced before.”

The man next to Jonis grinned smugly.

The drill sergeant stood to his full height. He marched along the line calling out commands. “Attention! Right face! Forward, march!”

They marched the greater half of the day, learning simply to march. Their drill sergeant drilled and drilled them to act and move as a team. It was harder for some than others. The ones that had already been parts of teams at work had no problem going along and matching others. But the dandified city men and the rough, independent country men had a more trying time squeezing into the mold. Jonis’s difficulty was keeping up with grown men. By lunch, all of their thighs ached and their feet were sore.

 

Back on the field after lunch, the recruits were given more drills. Then they were sent to sit in a classroom to learn the history