The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) by Garrett Robinson (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

over to a row of targets, while Mag took hers to the practice rings. Some of the archers began to line up and prepare to fire, but I called them back.

“Hold a moment. You know my name, but I have not learned any of yours. I can hardly instruct you if I must resort to calling out ‘You there!’ every time.” I pointed to the closest of them, a large man whose black skin and great height spoke of Feldemarian descent. His thick locs were bound into a tail that swayed when he moved. “What is your name?”

He looked uncomfortably to either side of him as if making sure I was talking to him and not someone else. “Chausiku, ser.”

“Well met, Chausiku,” I said. “If you do not mind my asking, why are you here?”

Chausiku blinked. “Ser? I answered the call to defend Dorsea from—”

“Forgive me, that is not what I meant,” I said. “I mean that you look to be at least ten hands tall, and your shoulders are almost as broad as my bow is long. Why are you here, in this squadron, rather than with the swordfighters?”

His dark face darkened still further in a flush. “I am a hunter by trade, ser. I am skilled with a bow already, and I have never wielded a sword, and do not want to.”

“Well, you shall have to learn, regardless,” I told him. “Bowcraft is all well and good, but if the enemy gets close, you shall be glad of a blade with which to defend yourself. Still, I am glad you are already familiar with your weapon. Who else here already knows something of archery?”

Seven of them threw their hands up, but one woman did so faster than the rest. She was short and slight, with black hair cut to sweep forwards rakishly. Her skin looked only recently sun-browned, as though she were more used to spending her days indoors. Her eyes were sharp and focused on me like a hawk’s. I pointed to her. “You. What is your name?”

“Jian, ser,” she said, lifting her chin slightly.

“And where did you learn to shoot?”

“My father was a hunter and a bowyer,” she said. “I studied bowcraft under him, and I still work with him in his shop.”

“A bowyer!” I said, delighted. “I am one myself—or was, until almost a year ago. We shall have to trade techniques sometime.”

“I would be glad to, ser,” she said. Then her smile twisted. “And I am not afraid to learn how to kill up close, as some others are.”

That gave me pause, and I noticed another flush creeping into Chausiku’s cheeks—but this time from anger rather than embarrassment.

“Well, I am afraid I must disappoint you, as well,” I said, and raised my voice to address the entire squadron. “The most important thing you will learn from me is not how to kill. That is something you will learn as an unfortunate matter of course. But I hope you will focus on another skill that is much more important. First and foremost, I will teach all of you how to stay alive.”

Jian frowned and pushed her hair back off her forehead. “It seems to me that the best way to stay alive is to kill one’s enemy so that they are no threat.”

“And do you imagine your enemy will stand there and let you plant an arrow in their eye?” I countered. “I would say rather that the best way to kill your foe is to stay alive long enough to do it. And besides, there are many more dangers in a campaign than the soldiers you will face on the battlefield. Hunger and cold, and especially disease, have killed far more soldiers than any battle in the long pages of history. Yet the bards will never sing songs of dysentery. Being a good soldier mostly means keeping yourself healthy until battle finally comes. If you do not learn how to survive a forced march, no tricks of archery I could teach you will be of the least use. Do you understand?”

They gave me a scattered chorus of “Yes, ser.” Jian mumbled it along with the rest of them, but I wondered if she genuinely grasped my meaning, or if she even wished to. I decided to let it go for the moment. I was new to these people, and it is an inferior officer whose first action is to throw their weight around.

“Very good,” I said. “Now, has anyone here fought before? Any veterans at all?”

To my dismay, only one man raised his hand: a man slightly older than me, whose pale skin and flaming red hair and beard marked him as a Heddan. He looked around at the rest of the squadron, and he seemed surprised to be the only one with his hand up. That told me the unit had only recently formed, and most of them had not had time to meet or learn much about each other.

“Well, that is one, at least,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “What is your name?”

“Hallan, ser,” he said crisply, drawing up straight. He spoke with the rolling, lilting quality and strange affects of Hedgemond, and his great beard jumped when he talked. “I’m a veteran of King Kashonnel’s army in my youth, though thass nearly a score of years ago now. But I saw action, ser.”

“I am glad to hear it,” I said. “Do you remember your training drills, Hallan?”

He flashed a grin to reveal bright teeth, but also two gaps in them. “I’m sure they’ll come back quick, ser.”

His smile was infectious, and I found myself returning it. “Very good. Then let us finish our instructions and get to work. We have much to do and not enough time for it.”

I quickly learned the names of the rest of my squadron. But now, these many years later, I cannot remember all of them. That is the way of things, I fear,