A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

“Now, what are you doing standing about?  Isn’t it past time for your evening run up the mountain?”

Of course, I had immediately run up the mountain behind her cabin, as I did every morning and every night.  Two weeks later, we had descended from the Drodacian mountains and made the journey to Haven in the heart of Montshire.

The morning of the trials, we rode together to the military fields where the testing would occur.

“What do you see?” she asked as we rode onto the fields and toward the enlistment tables.

I had already seen my father’s steward, Tupper, talking to one of the higher-ranking officers off to one side.  The old aide must have felt our eyes upon him as we approached because he suddenly looked up and spotted me.  But that observation was too obvious.  When Jella asked questions, one did well to listen, look, smell, and feel first, think carefully second, and answer thoughtfully third.

So, I took my time and noticed that more than a few officers were watching our approach with interest.  I hadn’t been to Haven in several years, but really, how hard was it to pick me out?  How many recruits show up with a Drodacian Forester?  Also, Father knew I would be enlisting this year and doubtless wanted Tupper to witness my placement in the trials. Can’t have the boy shaming the family honor, now can we? And I hadn’t been quiet about my plans, telling Brona and mother multiple times over the last two years.

I noticed a man off to one side, talking with an officer of the royal guard.  The lord marshal himself, Kiven Armstrong, who administered the royal city of Haven on the king’s behalf and commanded the city’s constables.  That seemed unusual, as the lord marshal had no power over the military.  Then the royal guardsman turned and I recognized him with a start.  Colonel Erser, head of the royal guard.

This wasn’t graduation day for the Montshire Basic Military Training class; this was just the trials that would rank inductees and weed out those not even worthy of training.  Top officers do not waste their time with the beginnings of a military class; they have much better things to do.

The obvious answer flowed to my lips and I was about to speak it when I noticed yet one more officer, this one hidden in the shadows, his mottled green and brown cloak fading into the background, the complete opposite of the bright, almost garish dress uniforms of the other military officers that shone in the morning sun.

“There are a lot of factions here to witness the trials,” I said to Jella.

“Why?  What is that they are here to see?” she pressed.

“My father’s man is here to see how I do.  Father would not want me to perform poorly and cast shade upon the DelaCrotia name.”

“And?”

“Colonel Erser is here on behalf of the king, also likely to see how I do.  The man in back is an officer in the Ranged Reconnaissance Squadron, perhaps here on a whisper or two from Brona, as she knows my ultimate goal.”  I took another moment to pause and think.  Eventually, I shook my head.  “I fail to think of why the lord marshal is here.”

Jella gave me a sharp look and I braced myself for her even sharper tongue.  Explaining my deductive and tactical failings was almost an art for her and certainly her favorite pastime.

“I fail to find a reason as well, and that bothers me.  I will look into it, even as you show them all what they’re here to see,” she said, turning back to the people in front of us.

I fought to keep my expression bland, as surprise filled me from head to toe.  That was a first, I thought.

“Were this a real test of your skills, I would demand that you make me proud.  But this is just basic selection.  If you can’t pass this, I will end you myself,” Jella said, instantly returning me to familiar ground and, in an odd way, settling my nerves.

“Yes, Battlemaster.”

Still abed, I tucked my hands behind my head, fingers laced. I hadn’t thought about that day, eight years ago, in, well, eight years. Most of my memories tended to travel to so many other more momentous days instead.  Still thinking about the recruitment trials, I rose from my bed and stirred up the fire, adding birch bark and a couple of sticks of pine fatwood to the glowing embers and blowing until flame rose up amid the ashes.  Slightly larger pieces of well-split spruce went on next, followed by a couple of hunks of oak and maple.  When the fire was burning soundly, I poured water from a pitcher on my chest of drawers into the small cast iron kettle, hung it from the fireplace crane, and swung it out over the hot flames.

While it heated, I ground caffe beans and poured them into a metal mesh basket that rested in a tripod, a clever and expensive device that Brona had given me, and then set the whole contraption over my favorite clay mug.  The device was vaguely scandalous but had no moving parts and was cleared by the church.

The water would take time to reach the proper temperature, so I chose to get dressed for the day. I pulled on thick trousers, warm socks, and several layers of wool shirts. Next came weapons. My long-bladed belt knife, a punch dagger in each of my boots, and a long, slim blade sheathed horizontally at the small of my back. A small prototype single shot bolter in a clever sheath that hid between my pants and stomach just to the right of my belt buckle, roughly over my appendix. That weapon had a double lock on its triggering system, at my insistence, as it spent a lot of time primed and pointed at portions of my anatomy that I would really, really not like injured.  No sword or axe, as carrying those around Haven