The Militiaman

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  To the terror of my mother and my younger siblings, a recruiter came to our village. He was a big man, intimidating-looking, wrapped in a coat of mail I had only ever seen in parades.

  My father was killed years ago—bandits, a raid on the road.

  I had to take his place as a day laborer, helping maintain the local mill. My work was hauling grain sacks, repairing basic tools, and assisting with supply transport. Nothing exciting, but safe enough to keep my head on my shoulders.

  At least it was—until I was forcibly recruited six months ago.

  “Boy, bring us beer. Now.” One of the soldiers barked at me with a sour grunt. Unlike me—wearing nothing but old rags that could barely be called “clothes”—the grotesque-looking wretch had a full kit: mail shirt, iron greaves, gauntlets of the same metal, all covered by a plain tabard with no heraldry. The typical look of a common man-at-arms.

  “I-I’m going…” I answered timidly.

  I didn’t want to bring out his worst side and get beaten like on my first day.

  I walked toward the alcohol storehouse, where the quartermasters kept the liquor and other drinks. The entire military camp was its own little fortress, packed with dozens of tents, fire pits, and latrines.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The storeroom was guarded by a soldier better equipped than my abuser. This one wore a red brigandine, trimmed greaves, matching gauntlets, and a nasal helmet that protected his nose. The unfriendly look he gave me almost made me piss myself.

  “T-They sent me for beer, my lord…”

  “You think I was born yesterday? You wouldn’t be the first idiot who comes to steal our alcohol. Only the quartermasters can request access to supplies—and you, filthy rat, aren’t one. Get out of my sight or I’ll cut off a hand!”

  I didn’t answer. I just ran, terrified he’d change his mind and decide to kill me on the spot.

  For a peasant like me—with no experience and no money—this life could be very short.

  “Brat, where are our beers?” The bully soldier had been joined by four others, all seated around a medium table piled with snacks stolen from another regiment.

  “T-There was a guard watching the place. I couldn’t bring anything…”

  “You useless piece of shit! Where does the baron find these good-for-nothings?” The armed bully stood and walked straight toward me. I wanted to run, but my muscles wouldn’t move. I stayed there like an idiot as his metal gauntlet smashed into my right cheek.

  “Ah!” By sheer luck he didn’t knock out a tooth, but I tasted blood sliding down my whole cheek.

  Damn it.

  What did I do to deserve this?

  I managed to drag myself about three meters. I felt humiliated, and the urge to cry crowded up into my throat.

  I was only sixteen. My thin, almost skeletal build made me look scrawny and miserable. My black hair was tangled and smeared with dirt. I wore no armor. My only “weapon” was an old spear they’d handed me when I was enlisted, and a kitchen knife Mother had slipped into my clothes in case I ever needed it.

  Part of me wanted to stab that bastard who hit me.

  But I couldn’t face a trial inside the camp.

  If I killed someone here, they’d hang me the next morning.

  “Are you okay, Miguel?” One of the girls called to me from a distance.

  I turned my bloody face toward her. The moment she saw me, she ran over with a damp cloth and a stressed expression. It was Hillary—my neighbor.

  Plain-looking: brown hair, lean build, pale skin with traces of soil and grime, a brown dress, and hazel eyes. Hillary fit the stereotype of a young peasant girl perfectly. Her parents had died of a plague, and she’d ended up helping at the local temple as a general assistant. Once the recruiter arrived, he decided to take her too, for noncombat duties—cooking, cleaning, and tending the wounded.

  Luckily for her, her lack of curves and “feminine charms” kept her relatively safe from the lecherous stares thrown around the camp. Even so, the prostitutes camped here as well; they served as distractions for the soldiers, and thanks to them, this place didn’t turn into a brutal brawl every night.

  “No… yeah, it hurts…” I whispered to my neighbor.

  “Don’t move. I’m going to treat you.”

  The damp cloth wiped the wound, followed by an ointment made of herbs I didn’t recognize.

  “Done. It won’t heal immediately, but it’ll let you go about your day with less trouble. Gods, those soldiers are savages.” Hillary sighed heavily. It wasn’t the first time she’d patched up recruits because of those miserable men—and we certainly had no way to stop them.

  “Thank you. I’d better get back to my duties. I don’t want you punished for talking to me.” I said goodbye and returned to my post near the fire.

  I wanted to think about all of this.

  My life had changed overnight, without warning…

  How was I supposed to digest it?

  Being thrown into a slaughterhouse, with no voice and no vote in my own circumstances, was worse than the most absurd nightmares.

  “Attention!”

  A guttural bark snapped us all out of our lethargy.

  If anything was worse than the mistreatment, it was the training.

  Our sergeant was a middle-aged man, muscular, with a face that promised no mercy. He wore a red brigandine, gray gauntlets, trimmed greaves, and a kite shield slung on his back. A huge brown beard streaked with white covered the lower half of his face, while the upper half was protected by a nasal helmet that made him look even more intimidating.

  “Run! Run!”

  Damn it.

  I started jogging with the rest of the troop, under the sun, not even given the chance to take off my shirt. When the sergeant ordered something, we had to obey to the letter—otherwise we’d be whipped the rest of the day, or worse, killed.

  “Run! You worthless little ladies!” he shouted in that disgusting, repulsive voice.

  Thanks to my work as a day laborer, the sun didn’t hit me as hard as it did some of my poor compatriots from slower trades. The baker from our village, for example, vomited countless times in our first days of training.

  The regimen was made up of runs, marches, spear-and-shield drills, and basic techniques with a falchion—the “sword” of commoners. But to me, it looked like a machete, not much different from what we used to cut grass in spring.

  “Form a shield wall!” the sergeant yelled.

  As ordered, I raised my shield in front and set my spear behind it. The others did the same until we formed a wooden barricade. I hated to admit it, but I felt safer with a man in front of me, to my side, and behind me.

  That was the power of numbers.

  “Row one! Attack!” The front rank lowered their shields slightly, thrust with their spears, then raised their guard again.

  “Row two! Attack!” The men behind stepped forward, thrusting as the first row retreated with shields raised.

  The same process repeated with rows three, four, five, and six—

  maximizing the troops’ energy and efficiency.

  We repeated the drill for nearly four hours. There was no room for small talk or distractions. According to the sergeant, any distraction could be lethal on the battlefield.

  “Training’s over. Back to your duties.”

  I dragged myself to my tent and lay down on the patch of hay assigned to me as a “bed.” Honestly, it was better than sleeping on stones. I just had to shake it out sometimes to scare off rats and other vermin.

  I closed my eyes and let myself sink into sleep.

  I saw my village—Mother’s smiling face, my brothers’ mischief, Hillary’s innocent scoldings.

  Everything felt so far away now, like a spring dream that would never be the same again.

  “I have to go home. My family is waiting for me.”

  Desertion wasn’t an option. I could only survive, and to do that, following the sergeant’s orders to the letter was my highest priority.

  . . .

  “Miguel. Miguel, wake up.” Hillary’s voice pulled me from the dream.

  It was still night, but I could hear sudden movement in the camp.

  “Ah—what is it? It’s still night. It’s not time for my watch…” I whispered, completely drained by the early wake-up.

  “Miguel, we’re moving. A messenger came to the baron, and I heard exactly what he said: ‘We will join the royal army of King Ulric.’”

  “The king’s army… does that mean we’re leaving Etrica?” Little by little, I regained my energy. I had to slap my cheeks to become fully alert.

  “Looks like it. I heard the sergeants talking while I served them wine, and shortly after they ordered camp to be broken. Oh God, Miguel—we’re marching farther from home… More and more, I think we might never return to the village.” Hillary’s face went pale. Her words struck my mood, and all I could do was nod.

  Crossing the border into the unknown would take me even farther from home.

  I hated to admit it, but our chances of surviving shrank the farther we got from our village.

  “We have to live, Hillary. Come on. It’s time to march.”

  Just as my precious childhood friend said, camp was struck at exactly eight in the morning, and by noon we were marching toward the Duchy of Tales—the first enemy stronghold belonging to the Kingdom of Apollo.

  But the scenery didn’t change at all. It was still a vast plain filled with yellow brush and horizons that looked endless. Without a map, anyone would’ve thought we were still in Etrica.

  What started as a defensive campaign quickly became an offensive one.

  It took us three weeks to join the main body of the army.

  Our retinue looked like a mere gang of thugs compared to the royal host. Even the leader of our warband—Baron Cristóbal—fell short beside the great lords riding alongside King Ulric I.

  That was where I met real soldiers, not those bullies with a little steel who made Hillary’s and my life miserable. Etrica’s true elite was here: knights encased in plate, noble banners decorating the plains like a small city, and in the distance, the sight of a trebuchet loaded and ready to fire made me understand quickly what we were stepping into:

  A siege.

  King Ulric intended to take the duchy’s capital by force.

  And we were his reinforcements…

  . . .

  I barely knew my lord’s face. To me, the king was a complete mystery—one I might never see up close. Commoners like me had no right to look upon him, and honestly, I didn’t care. Kings didn’t care about the common folk, and as a result, I didn’t give a damn about that man either.

  Even so, his actions would end up affecting peasants one way or another.

  “Militiaman Miguel.” Suddenly, my sergeant’s voice reached my ears.

  “Yes, sir. How can I help?” I answered quickly and formally. If I’d learned anything in my months of service, it was that sergeants didn’t reach their rank by being patient. I had to respond fast, or I’d be beaten for the rest of the day.

  “There’s been a change of plans. Our retinue will merge with the royal army, so you’ll become part of a regiment under another captain’s command.”

  “Understood, sergeant. Who do I report to?”

  “Go to the vanguard. You’ll be received by Lady Alda. Your neighbors from the village will be reassigned there.”

  That wasn’t a good sign.

  All of us from the village and nearby hamlets were militiamen with no real combat experience. Being placed in the vanguard could be read one way:

  dead meat.

  I swallowed as I moved through the siege camp.

  Unlike in my own retinue, no one bothered me here.

  Maybe because the enemy was right in front of them and there was no time for petty fights or out-of-place arguments.

  “Miguel, wait.” Hillary called from behind. The girl looked drenched in sweat, exhausted. I stopped to give her room to catch her breath. Then she straightened and spoke. “They assigned me as a vanguard quartermaster too. We’ll be together again in a regiment. Luck or misfortune?”

  “I think a bit of both. The vanguard isn’t the safest job in the world.” I smiled to hide my nerves.

  Shit.

  Why throw novices into the slaughter instead of professional soldiers?

  I knew the answer.

  Hillary knew.

  King Ulric knew.

  “Our lives are worth less. To them, we’re just bodies to throw into death before the real fighting starts.”

  “A-At least we won’t be alone. The vanguard’s a large regiment. There will be professional soldiers watching over you—I’m sure.” Hillary’s sad attempt to cheer me up was useless. Still, I did my best to smile again and calm her.

  “Maybe the attackers will come to an agreement with the defenders, and we won’t have to fight. I don’t know. Let’s keep a little hope. Now come on—we have to report to Lady Alda.”

  The closer we got to the siege front, the clearer the situation became. The trebuchet we’d seen from afar wasn’t the only one pounding the duchy’s gates. I counted close to eight machines from here. I didn’t know whether they’d placed more on the other side of the wall or decided to focus on a single point.

  My thoughts stopped the moment we finally reached our new commander.

  She was a young woman with long black hair and pale skin. Her blue eyes—sharp as the longsword at her side—turned to look at us. A chill ran down my spine. My survival instincts screamed the instant we made eye contact. Hillary stepped back; it was a natural reaction for a peasant girl unaccustomed to the gaze of a royal warrior.

  I almost threw up.

  T-This aura was different from Baron Cristóbal’s, or my sergeant’s. Even the bully from my old regiment couldn’t match the intensity of this terrifying woman.

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded.

  I had to summon every ounce of willpower to move my lips and answer properly.

  “W-We’re the new members of your vanguard. I-I belong to the main body, and my friend Hillary is support.” The brutal, bloodthirsty look vanished. The woman relaxed and smiled kindly.

  All that intensity disappeared as if it had never been there.

  “Ah, right. I requested infantry reinforcements for my new platoon. Thank you very much for coming. I’m Lady Alda. And what’s your name?”

  “I-I’m Miguel.”

  “I-I was introduced already, but I’ll say it again—I'm Hillary.”

  “A pleasure! Miguel, you’re an inexperienced militiaman, correct?”

  “Y-Yes, my lady,” I replied, still shaken by my first impression.

  “I see. You worked as a day laborer before this, didn’t you?” Lady Alda brought her right hand to her chin and studied me as if inspecting goods before buying them.

  “Yes, my lady. I worked as a mill laborer.”

  “Excellent. Exactly what I need. You’re the right one for the vanguard.”

  “V-Vanguard… are we going to climb the wall?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I covered my mouth.

  A peasant like me couldn’t contradict a superior—least of all a knightly lady as frightening as Lady Alda. But she smiled and shook her head.

  “No. It would be foolish of me to send you to the ladders. You’re a laborer, which means you’re well suited for physical work. Your mission—and your neighbors’—is to open the main gate.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “The main gate?” Hillary whispered, confused.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, negotiations didn’t reach a satisfactory conclusion, so we’ll attack the city with our trebuchets and march to the castle. I had a battering ram built, but it’s a heavy machine, and I need young, strong men to move it and smash the main door. We also coated the device in dry sand to keep flaming arrows from setting it ablaze.” Lady Alda paused to draw breath, then continued. “Your sergeant has informed me of your performance in training. You’re the youngest and strongest among your age group—aside from the professional soldiers. Please, Miguel—help Etrica in this great battle…”

  Oh.

  Lady Alda’s plan made sense.

  “I-I’m honored, my lady, but why our village specifically? There are many other militiamen here.”

  “That’s true. But only you have had prior training. The rest haven’t even touched a weapon.”

  Huh.

  That sentence left me speechless.

  That was when I understood how privileged my situation was.

  We had trained for nearly six months since my forced recruitment.

  We trained basic formations, physical work, and minor tactics for fighting. Simple training—but seen another way, it could be the difference between life and death.

  A grim majority of militiamen hadn’t even received basic instruction. They were dragged straight into the conflict with terrible equipment and no military sense at all.

  I hated to admit it, but now I was grateful to that miserable sergeant.

  Among all my neighbors and acquaintances from the village, I was the physically strongest. The baron’s regular soldiers didn’t count—they had their own mission in the main army.

  “Whether I agree or not, there’s nothing I can do to refuse.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, swallowing hard from nerves.

  “Excellent. As for you, Miss Hillary, I’d like you to join the quartermasters. I have a friend who can give you useful tasks. Go to the back of the camp and you’ll find her right away—a young woman with white hair and honey-colored eyes. Hard to miss.”

  “At your command, my lady.”

  “Very good. That will be all. Prepare to receive orders when the time comes. I’ll keep gathering members of the regiment to give them instructions. Have a lovely day.”

  Lady Alda left, and we stood there stunned.

  How could a girl so kind carry such a murderous aura?

  In an instant, her demeanor changed.

  “I-I have to go, Miguel… will you promise you’ll come back from the battle safe?” my poor friend whispered.

  “Of course. We can’t die here. We have to go back to the village… See you later, Hillary.”

  . . .

  The first time I saw a trebuchet fire, I couldn’t believe it.

  It hurled a massive rock—wrapped in burning straw—toward the castle walls.

  However, not every shot struck the defenses. A great many overshot and ended up smashing into civilian buildings. From here, it was impossible to hear the screams and desperation each time a projectile found a civilian target—homes, courtyards, markets.

  But they were there. Of that, I had no doubt.

  We spent three full days bombarding the Duchy of Tales.

  The army’s intent wasn’t to destroy infrastructure—only to kill its inhabitants. Most houses, walls, and buildings were to remain intact for later occupation. That was the order we received when the bombardment ended.

  “Infantry—man the ram!” Lady Alda’s command finally came.

  I had been preparing myself for this since the trebuchets began to fire. But when the moment arrived, I almost shit myself.

  I ran under the ram’s roof—like a little wooden house—and without delay began pushing it forward. The rest of the regiment did the same; it weighed like a demon and was truly hard to move. And the sound of arrows and bolts hammering the roof didn’t make it any easier.

  I swallowed and kept my gaze down.

  Fortunately, I wore the conical helmet they’d given me to protect my head from lethal projectiles. The layer of sand kept flames from spreading across the siege engine.

  CRACK.

  The defenders threw everything at us.

  Even a black liquid that ignited the moment it touched fire. Despite the sand coating the ram, we could feel the heat building above us. I nearly screamed from fear, but I was so exhausted from pushing this damn thing that I didn’t have time to panic. I focused on a single objective: reach the main gate. Nothing more, nothing less.

  The screams faded into the distance.

  For a moment I thought I’d gone deaf from the constant battle cries on both sides. But no—my concentration reached something almost inhuman. All fatigue vanished, driven by a ridiculous surge of adrenaline.

  It wasn’t just me.

  All of us pushing the ram suffered the same thing.

  Otherwise… how could we have moved this thing so far?

  Logic stopped making sense.

  The world around me disappeared, and in its place there was only this heavy chunk of wood meant to break a gate.

  “Ram! Strike!” Lady Alda’s order came the instant we reached our destination.

  I moved through the hail of projectiles to grab the back of the ram; my comrades did the same. We released the ropes and prepared to swing its head. It had no decoration—just a sharpened log with enough force to break doors.

  “Push!” I shouted as we drove the timber back and forth, using its weight to slam the gate.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Arrows hissed near me, but Lady Alda covered us with a solid team of crossbowmen who planted their pavises behind us as shooting screens and picked off the marksmen on the walls. As a result, the defenders’ numbers thinned, and we were able to strike harder.

  Four times.

  Five times.

  Six times.

  Ten times!

  “Come on! Come on!” I roared at the top of my lungs.

  Then the gate cracked, and after the eleventh blow, it collapsed…

  “Pull the ram back—now, now, now.” I wasn’t a commander or anything of the sort, but my body moved on its own and my mind worked faster than my awareness. I was flooded with adrenaline—enough to start sounding like the sergeants.

  The men obeyed me, more out of survival instinct than respect.

  We hauled the ram away from the doorway, clearing the entry for Lady Alda and her heavy infantry. King Ulric himself followed behind, with the Royal Guard and other high-ranking knights.

  It took us nearly twenty minutes to drag the machine clear. With soldiers pouring in, the defenders focused on firing at the heavy infantry and temporarily forgot about us.

  I breathed deeply and caught my breath.

  The adrenaline still hadn’t left—probably wouldn’t for the rest of the day.

  “Move! Get back with the vanguard!” A captain ordered us back into the action.

  I wanted to protest, but my brain felt switched off. I obeyed the moment the order hit me. I didn’t speak—just nodded, and with the rest of the squad we ran back to the gate to find Lady Alda.

  “Hey—vanguard.” Another sergeant-at-arms called us as soon as we reached the breach. That’s where I saw my first true scene of butchery: dozens of corpses carpeted the ground around the gate we’d broken.

  “Yes,” I answered, panting—shocked by the horror that greeted us.

  The dead were covered in cuts and bruises, and some still twitched in grotesque spasms. It was terrifying—yet instead of freezing like an idiot, I threw myself onto a mail shirt stuck to the corpse of a soldier who would never need it again. I didn’t even see the man’s face. I tore the armor off as fast as I could and pulled it over my clothes.

  I got drenched in someone else’s blood. I even had to pull bits of entrails off.

  A little filth never killed anyone.

  My comrades snapped out of it and did the same, looting bodies without shame. I also grabbed a short sword someone hadn’t even managed to draw, and a medium-quality shield—better than the plank of wood they’d given me when I left the village.

  “Good thinking, boy.” The sergeant praised me. “Lady Alda’s gone deeper into the city. You’ll come with me—we’ll serve as reinforcements for her company. Finished gearing up?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then… with me!”

  The signs of fighting—no, of massacre—were everywhere.

  I saw entrails floating in blood-red streams, heads impaled on broken spears, limbs rotting as hungry crows tore at them. But the worst was yet to come.

  We formed shoulder to shoulder, shields forward to stop stray projectiles and discourage any attempt at a counterattack. The defending forces had fallen back to the main square. Even so, a few stragglers still did everything they could to slow Etrica’s advance.

  “Lady Alda is coming.” The sergeant pointed at one of the wall towers being used as a strongpoint.

  Nothing could stop the force of our ram. The thought that I had been the one to smash the duchy’s gate made me feel truly powerful. It was hard to explain—maybe I’d never find words for it. It just… happened.

  . . .

  Minutes later, Lady Alda came down from the wall with a handful of armored knights. The woman’s once-silver armor had turned red—blood-red. I noticed small bits of viscera clinging to her gauntlets, and her breastplate had only centimeters of its original color left. Whatever happened up there—on the walls and in the towers—had been slaughter on an absolute scale.

  “Infantry, with me. We’ll support the king’s forces from the rear.” She resumed command, and without delay we marched with her straight into the city center. There, desperate townsfolk had barricaded themselves in the main plaza, raising small wooden walls to shelter their archers. From the nearby rooftops, housewives, children, and the elderly hurled things at us—arrows, stones, boiling oil. Any of it could kill.

  “Crossbowmen! Shoot the rooftops!” Lady Alda barked the murderous order.

  The shooters stopped harassing the enemy heavy infantry and redirected their efforts toward the civilians attacking from above.

  Given the small rooftop targets, Etrica’s crossbowmen had little trouble firing and killing those miserable fools who dared strike at us.

  They dropped like flies in smoke. Their bodies thudded onto the street from that height, and those unlucky enough to survive the fall were finished off by the marching infantry. It wasn’t worth describing how. It was a vile sight—one that even Lady Alda seemed to consider unnecessary. Even so, she didn’t stop the executions, and soon we advanced until we reached the central square.

  “There we go…”

  For the first time in my life, I was about to be involved in hand-to-hand combat.

  All right. It’s time.

  I just had to replay my old sergeant’s orders in my head: shoulder to shoulder, shield forward, weapon behind.

  If I followed that to the letter, in theory, my head would stay on my shoulders.

  The heavy infantry—me included—hit the defensive line. Lady Alda went first with her trusted knights. We, the second line, advanced with our spears extended, ready to support.

  “Hold firm. Keep pushing.” The sergeant-at-arms ordered us to drive forward with our shields. We were barely two meters behind the knights; if an emergency came, we could charge in instantly to cover a retreat.

  But that never happened.

  Lady Alda showed her power in battle. I saw a man with an axe try to bury it in her face. The woman didn’t even blink. Her body moved like a raging river, and without hesitation she drove the longsword into his neck. The poor devil dropped the axe, watched Alda rip the blade free, then saw her carve a second attacker who tried to surprise her with a thrust.

  Body after body, Lady Alda left one message: she was a terrifying monster. She felt no hesitation in killing—she looked practiced at it.

  How could someone lose all sensitivity to life so quickly?

  “Second line! Attack!” There was no time to think.

  The knights fell back to breathe, and then it was our turn to go forward.

  The nobles’ damage had been significant, but seeing them retreat emboldened the surviving defenders and they surged into us head-on.

  “Attack!” I screamed the battle cry at the top of my lungs—because the truth was, I was rotting with fear. Who wouldn’t be? No amount of training could prepare me to face death.

  I raised my shield just as my sergeant taught us. Seconds later, a sturdy axe bit into its center and stuck. Instinctively I thrust with my spear—and heard a strangled cry.

  “AGH.” When I lifted my face, I saw a middle-aged man with my spearpoint buried in his heart. For a few magical instants, time seemed to stop. I looked him in the eyes; his pupils widened and his face drained of color as I pulled the point out of his humanity. There was nothing remarkable about him. He was an ordinary peasant who could have been my neighbor.

  Maybe my father would have looked like that if he hadn’t been murdered.

  The enemy fell backward.

  I didn’t look down to watch him writhe. I couldn’t afford to get distracted by “small things.”

  It happened so fast my brain didn’t process the most important part:

  I had killed a human being.

  There was no crying, no screaming—nothing. Only controlled actions, guided by the martial training we’d received the moment we left the village.

  “Keep the formation!” the sergeant shouted again.

  The next clash came quickly.

  By now, the enemy’s knights and professional soldiers had withdrawn to the main castle. Only civilians and townsfolk remained to defend their homes and families—so we were on equal footing.

  We used the same tactic: shields forward, spears behind, then thrusts.

  I killed two more.

  The first was a blond youth with red freckles; he tried to rush me with a war hammer looted from a corpse. He had no experience with it, and its weight betrayed him. When he lifted his hands to strike, I drove my spear into his throat and killed him. It was clean—my squadmates were even surprised by how natural the move looked.

  I’d repeated it a thousand times in training, and now it came as easily as breathing.

  The second was harder.

  A grown man with black hair and mail on his torso.

  This time he knocked my spear aside with his shield. I was forced to let it go and draw the short sword I carried. I stabbed for his chest—but missed. The enemy militiaman slipped right, dropped his shield for mobility, and swung a club at my face. If I hadn’t reacted fast, I would have died right there.

  I threw myself down and rolled among corpses. From the ground, I slashed his unprotected ankles. He screamed and collapsed.

  “Die!” I screamed with all the hate I could gather.

  I grabbed my battered shield and used it like an improvised bludgeon to smash his face. I hit him more times than necessary. At first he tried to push me off, swinging the mace he refused to drop. But after several blows, he let it go, stopped kicking, and went still. When I finally looked down, there was only swollen ruin—his eye sockets empty—and in my hands, blood painted my leather gloves.

  Mail doesn’t protect you from this.

  When I finally killed him, I stood and moved with my squad.

  By then, Tales’ forces had been defeated.

  “Leave no one alive. Loot and kill—but do not destroy the houses and buildings!” Lady Alda ordered.

  After that command, the formation broke and everyone ran toward the residential quarter in search of a good haul. I did the same, my mind on automatic. I only wanted to fill my pockets with wealth.

  . . .

  Chaos.

  There was no other word for what I saw.

  Despite Lady Alda’s warnings, Etrica’s soldiers set homes on fire and forced villagers out so they wouldn’t die in the flames. Once outside, they butchered them without mercy. There was no quarter for women or children.

  Something took hold of my senses.

  I didn’t know if it was greed or the hunger to hurt.

  Around me, everyone stole and committed atrocities without pause.

  I remembered my mother’s words—the ones she told me before I left: “Don’t forget who you are.”

  Maybe she knew I’d face this sooner or later. Or maybe she just said it so I wouldn’t forget the road home. Either way, that talk felt like a distant memory now—like a fragment from a past life that detached itself from my mind the moment I stepped into this place.

  Cries of pain and anguish were drowned out by laughter and greed.

  The nobility didn’t want to loot here; they went to surround the castle where the Duke of Tales had taken refuge with his best men. They allowed the common soldiery to take a war prize as reward for our service—and honestly, I couldn’t have been more grateful.

  I entered a random house, kicking the door a few times to get in. Inside I saw a woman curled up with a bag clutched to her chest. She was about my age, with black hair and brown skin—pretty, in a way. Judging by her plain white dress, she likely wasn’t poor—perhaps a comfortable citizen.

  For a fleeting instant, the thought of turning around and leaving her alone passed through my head.

  This isn’t right, I…

  But I discarded the noble thoughts.

  I’d fought to get here. This plunder was my reward. In an honest life at the mill, my only real future was back pain from hauling sacks. I’d never have a beautiful woman in my arms, never have pockets full of gold, never see anything beyond the mill that fed our village.

  I hated to admit it, but this soldier’s life let me live beyond my station.

  “N-No… get out! Go!” the woman screamed, her body trembling.

  I walked toward her with a strange sense of power. She was completely at my mercy; nothing and no one could help her now.

  Is this how the bandits who killed my father felt?

  God damn it—this was intoxicating. I felt powerful, as if the terrified boy from months ago had never existed. I looked down on her from the privilege of strength and injustice.

  I quickly pushed her against the wooden wall, then tore her clothes off while she screamed in terror. She knew what was coming, and so did I. My body moved automatically; I didn't stop to think about the consequences of my actions, nor about my past life as a day laborer. None of that mattered...

  “Stop resisting!” I shouted at her.

  CLANK.

  “—Huh?” The sound of metal snapped me out of it.

  When I looked down, I saw she had driven a knife into my chest.

  “N-No…” she stammered.

  My senses screamed.

  If not for the mail I’d stolen, that dagger would have pierced deep enough to kill me. She was so terrified she couldn’t strike hard enough to punch through the armor. Her thrust was clumsy—born of inexperience and desperation.

  “You stupid bitch!” I lost control.

  I drew my own knife—the kitchen blade Mother had given me to protect myself.

  Consumed by rage at this affront, I stabbed my weapon ten times into the girl's abdomen. She groaned in pain at the first two stabs, but then she stopped moving and simply fell backward. I didn't hold back at all; why should I? She was an enemy and tried to kill me as soon as she had the first chance.

  As a natural response, I had to kill her first.

  “What a mess,” I muttered, disgusted by the amount of blood staining my armor and hands.

  I tucked the knife into my clothes and, without further ado, pushed the corpse aside.

  The fatal wound left her belly unrecognizable. She didn't even manage to close her eyes; instead, pieces of her intestines spilled out around her torso.

  “She's dead.”

  I couldn't rape her in that state, so I limited myself to ransacking her pockets and taking the bag she was clutching so tightly. It was a shame, but there was still a lot of town left to cover, and this looting was just beginning...

  “Excellent. With this I can buy new armor.” Inside the sack were silver coins—many of them—enough to afford a decent set of gear. I found a larger bag in the house, with a long cord that let me carry it like a backpack. I left plenty of room for more spoils.

  In a day I earned what a commoner makes in a lifetime—maybe more.

  Damn it.

  War was a lucrative business.

  Before leaving, I took one last look at the woman who had protected her material possessions so fiercely before being killed by my dagger.

  There were no more spasms, and her pale face had taken on a bluish hue. I saw a yellow stain between her legs, probably incontinence due to the horror of her final moments.

  I hardened my heart to the maximum. They didn’t deserve to live, I told myself. They were animals who defied our king. Seeing them as human beings with dreams and goals was a mistake.

  (Lie.)

  They deserved this and worse.

  (Lie.)

  (Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie—fucking lie!)

  After stripping the house, I returned to the streets to continue looting.

  What happened next was a festival of death and destruction. I entered numerous houses with my squadmates, killing as many civilians as I could. I plunged my weapons into their defenseless flesh again and again, without rest or remorse. I raped more than 15 different women, from young to mature, and not satisfied with that, I slit their throats once I had forced them to orgasm.

  I felt so powerful and full of life that for a moment I doubted the divine teachings.

  This felt so good.

  Why did the priests condemn it?

  All this adrenaline, all this excitement—in a simple life, I would never have had this level of pleasure.

  I slept with more women than a day laborer could ever hope for, and I obtained enough gold to make myself rich for three generations. Damn it, I even felt truly alive. Carrying shit and grain to the mill seemed like inhuman torture now.

  How could people live such a miserable existence?

  Here, amid the fire and destruction, I learned what it really meant to truly live.

  And in the end, we killed them all, there were no survivors.

  . . .

  The next day, when the flames died down and the adrenaline left my body, reality finally returned.

  I bought a full kit from the camp armorers: a blue gambeson, a long mail hauberk, a red brigandine, greaves, pauldrons, matching gauntlets, and an open-faced plate helmet. I also acquired a plain shield, a mace, and an arming sword. I no longer looked like a mere militiaman. With this equipment, I could openly claim I was a man-at-arms.

  “I suppose I got promoted,” I murmured, watching the poor militiamen hauling disfigured corpses toward the city center.

  King Ulric ordered the infantry to pile all bodies and burn them in a massive communal pyre to prevent disease. Because I looked like a professional soldier now, I didn’t have to carry the dead—we left that to the green militiamen who barely saw action during the siege.

  Even so, I watched the pyre from beginning to end.

  It took almost a full twenty-four hours to fill it.

  During that time, the knights surrounded the duke’s residence and formed squads to assault it with the same ram. My orders, however, were to set up a camp inside the city and secure the perimeter.

  The knights will divide the duke’s treasure. Whatever. With what I looted, I can live well for at least five years.

  “Are they going to light it?” A familiar voice called from behind.

  It was Hillary.

  Her eyes had lost the brightness and kindness that used to define her.

  Like me, her life would never be the same.

  “Yes. Come see.” The quartermasters gathered around the mountain of bodies, and I saw a white-haired young woman overseeing the cremation.

  Dozens of torches fell, and in less than ten minutes the fire “purified” those miserable souls.

  “I guess this is war,” I whispered, fighting with all my strength not to cry.

  I couldn’t cry now—not after what I’d done.

  Showing humanity would be hypocrisy. At least I wanted to keep some shred of dignity.

  “Yes. You’re right, Miguel.” Hillary sighed heavily, then looked me in the eyes and finally said what she’d been holding in. “Why did this happen? Why are Etrica and Apollo at war?”

  “I don’t know. The nobles play their game, and in the end we almost always lose. But not today.”

  “I think we’ll never go home again, Miguel.”

  “I thought the same. Mother’s ‘Miguelito’ is dead. There’s nothing for us there anymore.” I walked toward the pyre, drew the kitchen knife Mother had given me before I left, and without remorse, threw it into the fire.

  The last tie binding me to my old life vanished along with the thousands of corpses burning on their way to whatever came after.

  “Won’t you apologize to those you killed?” Hillary asked, her gaze empty.

  “I lost that right when I chose the violent path. I won’t apologize or regret what happened here. This is the natural order of things, and changing it is impossible.”

  “Then it’s true. Miguelito is dead—and I’m dead too. I treated our comrades’ wounds, gave them strength to commit atrocities, and in a sense I’m almost as responsible as you. I can’t look away and pretend nothing happened here.” Hillary pulled a gray handkerchief from her pocket and, like me, tossed it into the flames to leave behind her old life as a peasant girl.

  “Our sins won’t vanish. Sooner or later we’ll be punished for what happened here. But until then, we have to keep living in this war and reach its bitter end.”

  I took her hand by reflex. Even with my palm in steel, she didn’t pull away.

  She laced her fingers with mine and finally showed a faint smile, soft as moonlight.

  “We’ll live… even if we don’t deserve to.”

  We chose this path to survive—or at least, that’s what I told myself so I wouldn’t face the truth:

  I had a choice, and I chose this outcome.

  Instead of treating war as tragedy, I used it as an opportunity to climb. I broke the chains that bound me to a life of servitude at the mill, and now I could say—with complete confidence—that my future belonged to me. Glorious or fatal, the decision of how I end would be mine and no one else’s.

  Was I worse than a bandit?

  Of course.

  Did I feel remorse?

  Of course not.

  Was it worth destroying Mother’s teachings and leaving behind who I was?

  Obviously!

  We watched the pyre burn as a final sign of respect for all the lives we’d taken. Ash danced in the air, and the stench of burning replaced the rot of death. We didn’t speak for hours, letting our thoughts go blank so we wouldn’t be prey to unnecessary reflection and nonexistent guilt.

  Goodbye, Mother, brothers, and above all… goodbye, innocence.

  When the spectacle ended, we walked toward a fire where a group of soldiers were roasting sausages.

  I was surprised to see the bully from my first regiment. He’d traded his mail for a metal breastplate and also acquired plate gauntlets.

  “Hey, brats…” The thug’s voice stopped when his eyes met mine. “No—excuse me. What are your names?”

  “I’m Hillary,” my friend replied.

  “Miguel,” I answered, without enthusiasm.

  “Pleasure. I’m Guillermo. We’ve got fresh sausages—why don’t you join us? There’s still room by the fire.”

  “Sure. We’ll join.” I sat on a freshly cut log, and Hillary took a looted chair. Guillermo handed us hot sausages and a pair of cold drinks.

  And so, as the ashes vanished into the wind, the heat of the campfire made me forget the cold for a moment—and allowed a little peace in the middle of so much tragedy.

  My story as a militiaman ended.

  But my life as a soldier was only beginning…

  THE END