Page 17 of Blood Fist

Maybe that was worth the risk.

Brune, son of somebody, was many things. He was tall and strong. He was optimistic. He was always hungry.

And he was bored.

When told he was going to be marching out, he imagined endless adventures. New sights. Wild animals and people with stories and lore they’d share with him around a campfire.

What he got was a lot of walking.

The endless vistas he was sure he would see turned out to be the sweaty neck of the soldier marching in front of him. The exotic foods? Soldier rations and dust that crunched between his teeth.

At least the dust was foreign. Tasted the same, though.

Brune sighed for the fourth time that mile, squinting against the bright sun. It was warmer outside of the city. The road they marched on occasionally snaked through some trees, but it was open and he could feel his skin burning under the harsh glare of the sun. Was it closer in the countryside? It felt closer.

Niklas trudged beside him, arrows rattling in his quiver with each step. He was silent, choosing to observe rather than waste energy whining. Brune could respect that. He couldn’t say the same for the officers. Whenever they thought they were out of range, they moaned, complaining about how slowly the men were walking.

Big talk from someone riding a horse, but Brunehad seen what happened to the first alpha who pointed that out. He liked his blood on the inside.

The excitement of seeing a horse for the first time faded pretty quickly. He had no idea they could be so big. But he didn’t have much of a chance to see them. The officers stayed at the front of their march, occasionally drifting back to yell at them to walk faster.

He tripped over a crack in the dry earth and cursed, shaking out his foot. The thin leather sole on his boots did nothing to protect him from the long march. His feet ached. Everything ached. The sword at his hip was heavy, dragging the attached belt down over his hip. It didn’t fit, and the leather was cracked.

Screwing up his face, Brune lifted his head and forced himself to look around. Even if it was boring, he wanted to remember it.

And it was interesting, in a way. Sure, he had hoped to see the ocean or a mountain, something massive and awe inspiring, but he had seen some things. Birds, for one. Quick things that flitted from branch to branch. Some of them even sang high, lilting songs that rose and fell with the sun. He spent one lunch break watching a small gray bird carry sticks to another, showcasing the branch between its narrow beak before seeming to get approval to place in their nest. He wondered if that was a bird’s version of courting.

Look at me, I’m such a good provider. See how I build our nest? Safe and warm for our babies. Choose me.

It wasn’t so different from people at all.

That had been days ago, and now there was a disappointing lack of birds. Brune missed them. Niklas told him they were walking through fields of planted wheat. Golden stalks that waved in the breeze as far as the eye could see. They didn’t look anything like the bread heknew. He liked to run his hands along the stalks, letting the tips tickle his palm.

Looking up from doing just that, he gasped as he saw something moving through the field. Its tawny fur nearly blended into the wheat, long legs traversing silently, barely causing a ripple in the long stalks. It seemed to watch them with big, round eyes set in an angular head.

He smacked Niklas. “Is that a horse?”

Niklas jerked, startled out of the daze he’d fallen into while walking. He squinted in the direction Brune pointed.

“That’s a deer, Gutter Gut,” Folsom said, exasperated.

Brune wanted to make a face at the insult, but it was far from the first time he’d heard it. As far as insults go, it was one of the more tame. It was true, too. Only someone from Guttersnipes would eatanything.

“What’s a deer?”

“It’s like a horse,” Niklas observed, head cocked.

It had four legs with hooves, large eyes, and a long neck. It seemed to move like one, too. But it was smaller, bones impossibly frail looking. When it turned, Brune could see the sun shining through its sinewy legs.

Folsom seemed to enjoy the audience. “That’s a female. Harmless outside of breeding season. The males are bigger and grow antlers bigger than their stomachs.” He held his hands out over his head, splaying his fingers wide.

Brune and Niklas hung off his every word. They took it as truth. Folsom would know. He’d marched out three times before being transferred to their battalion. He told them how the males locked antlers, slamming into each other for the right to breed a female. And then when the season was over, the antlers would justfall off, like a pup tooth, and grow back bigger the next year.

“Do you think we’ll see them with their antlers?” Niklas asked.

Folsom shook his head. “Doubt it. We’ll all be dead before winter.”

Brune felt cold dread grip him. The ease with which Folsom announced their impending doom was chilling. His mouth opened and closed—whether to cling to denial or beg for clarification, he wasn’t sure.