Things were going well. The move to the desert had been all to the good.
“Young Lord,” called Kovrack one morning as we were doing our dawn exercises. “I clocked your men running yesterday. They were not near fast enough.”
“They’ve been dragging all week,” I said, spinning on my heel and launching my knife at a wooden post halfway down the hill. The blade dug deep, right at the mark. And I was drawing it twice as fast as I could when I first came to the desert. “I plan to run them double time this morning.”
When I walked down the rise for morning inspection, I told my troop what I intended. But our morning sword practice took much longer than I had calculated, and so the sun was almost at the zenith by the time we were ready to run. “I suppose I’ll have to run them this evening instead,” I said to Kovrack, who had come down to watch. To run in the midday sun could be deadly.
Kovrack curled his lip the way he always did when he thought I was being weak or stupid. “Indeed you will not, my lord. You told them they would run double time this morning. You cannot back down from your word. The news of your softness would travel throughout the entire camp by nightfall.”
I looked around the cluster of tents. Several of the older men were already lounging in the shade of their tents, assuming I wouldn’t make them run. They were the same warriors who never seemed to draw blood when they fought each other and looked sullen when I insisted they clean and polish their weapons every night. They were on the verge of not taking me seriously. I nodded to Kovrack. I understood.
“All of you malingerers, up. Now! Run!”
I ran them two hours in the desert noonday. At the end of the first hour they were dripping and panting. When they passed by the place where I stood watching them with my hands clasped behind my back, I didn’t change my expression or say anything. They ran on. A half-hour more and they were laboring. One soldier dropped to his knees, holding his belly, about two hundred paces from where I stood watching. Cramps.
I was tempted to stop the exercise, but Kovrack was beside me, glaring, just waiting for me to show how weak I was. And Lord Parven was inside, whispering. You know what to do, young Lord. He is worthless if he cannot follow your commands. He knows it, too. A soldier has pride, or he will turn traitor when battle is hard. The warriors of Zhev’Na do not live if they do not obey.
I drew my sword and walked across the cracked ground to where the soldier had slumped over. It was Lak. I had a full waterskin at my belt, but it might as well have been at Comigor for all the good it could do him. I touched the point of my sword to his neck. “Run,” I said.
His breath came in harsh gulps, and he didn’t look up.
I pressed just enough harder to break the skin. “Run,” I said again. I willed him to run; every muscle in my body begged him to get up. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered forward through the heat shimmer.
Only nine of the soldiers returned. The oldest one collapsed and died fifty paces from the end. Lak returned with the others, falling on the ground and grabbing for his waterskin.
What should you do? asked Parven. Has he obeyed your command completely?
He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew what I had to do, even though I hated it. “Hold, Lak,” I said. “You haven’t finished the course.”
Lak gaped at me stupidly, holding his middle, bent double with cramps.
“You were told to run double time, but you spent a quarter of an hour on the ground until I persuaded you to continue. You’ll not drink with your obedient comrades until you’ve done what I told you.” I kicked his waterskin out of his hand. A look of such hatred blossomed on his face that I drew my sword. “Run,” I said.
He stood up and stumbled away. “Neto, clock him a quarter of an hour.” I turned away and watched the other men drinking and wiping their faces. It seemed like a year until the other soldier gave the call. With a loud thud Lak collapsed behind me.
Well done. Parven was still with me. But you know you are not finished. He defied you. You had to tell him twice.
Lak lay on his back in the dirt. One of the other soldiers was dribbling water in his mouth. He coughed it up several times until his cramps eased enough to let him hold a little of it. I stood over him and watched him heave. He was weak. I could read it in his face, and he didn’t think I could. He wasn’t afraid of me at all.
And he must be. He defies you with his lack of fear. What will he do when you tell him to die for you? Will you have to tell him twice?
“Bind him,” I said. “Ten lashes. Five for making me say it twice, and five for thinking I wouldn’t notice that he shortened the time.”
Lak started to protest, but I raised my hand. “One word… one whimper… one cry, and there will be ten more… and ten more after that.”
I laid on the first two stripes myself, as a symbol of my authority, and then gave the whip to one of the other men who could do a better job of it. When it was done, I returned to my tent and had my slave bring water to wash off the blood and flesh that had spattered on me.
The Lords were pleased: It was necessary… Not pleasant… Perhaps now he will live to serve you… You learn the hardships of command…
I did not go out the rest of that afternoon. That way the others could clean Lak’s wounds without me seeing it. It would bind them together in fear of me. Well done…
For several months more I trained my nine soldiers long and hard, punishing them severely for the least imperfection. Lak and I no longer practiced together. On the day after I had him lashed, I made him get out and run with the others and do every exercise his comrades did. His hatred followed me about like the shadows of the desert afternoon.
Day after day we drilled in the broiling sun, fighting with lead-weighted cudgels to gain strength, striking at wooden posts to practice footwork and precision with swords and pikes, practicing with blindfolds to develop perception and with hobbled feet to develop balance. Finally I decided my troop was ready for testing. We brought in twenty-five practice slaves to fight us. It was a good day. Only one of my nine soldiers was wounded, while seven slaves were killed. On another day we sent fifty slaves into the cliffs. Each was given a skin of water and a supply of graybread. I allowed them a day’s start and told them that they could have their freedom if they could keep it. On the next morning we started hunting, using all our skills to track them down. Some had banded together to fight or to ambush us; some had gone their own way. Within three days we had them all back, except for three who had tried to bring down an avalanche on us and were themselves crushed by it. My men had no wounds.
It was my idea to leave the slave pen unlocked on the night we put the slaves back, thinking that their short taste of freedom might induce them to run again. I was right, and my troop and I chased them all down again on the next two days. I didn’t permit my men to sleep until every slave was retaken, and I had the slavekeeper lashed severely for leaving the pen unlocked. He didn’t know that I had done it. He believed he deserved the beating. It made a good lesson for the men.
On the morning after we recaptured the slaves, I came out of my tent and looked down the hill to see my troop and their tents, weapons, and horses gone. “Where are they?” I demanded.