Siege State

Chapter Six: Muster

Sanctuary Square was a tumult of frenzied activity as Tom wandered in. It was absolutely enormous, here since Wayrest’s founding, and since set aside for exactly this purpose. It was so big they could just about Sow a new village in it.

Guards, the Idealist soldiers that protected Wayrest, stood in place, directing regulars or youths or volunteers around with harshly barked commands. Families milled about, grasping cheeks and trading assurances and shedding tears. Brave faces and wobbling lips warred against each other. Porters led horses and mules to and fro. Men drew carts full of arms and supplies and left them at junctions for units to supply themselves from.

The day was beautiful. Blue skies and enough of a breeze to wrestle the heat back from parching to pleasant.

Tom was dressed in simple black breeches and a white shirt, with sturdy leather boots. Hard leather armour enamelled in Wayrest's green and brown and fitted inside with cotton padding clung close to him. Fine mail hung at his elbows and knees, and formed a short skirt hanging from his leather breastplate. The simple Cutter sword sigil was stencilled in silver on his left breast, the only indication of his House.

He carried two swords, both simple and functional, though well made. His father would never let him carry anything ornate and, if he was being honest, he wouldn’t want it anyway. A regular human carrying an ostentatious sword would draw attention, and he had enough of that as it was.

One of his swords was a hand-and-a-half, a bastard sword, straight and double-edged. The other was much shorter, still double-edged, but leaf-bladed: good for either cutting or thrusting.

He looked around, trying to find some kind of direction for himself. The sheer volume of people created a seething kind of visual confusion, but there was a solid underlying structure of organisation. Great banners and signs directed everyone to where they needed to go, and alleys and walkways had been left clear between preparing units.

One of the opposite quarters of the square was set aside for those leaving for the Sowing. Tom could see the trepidation and hope on their faces from where he stood.

Organising everything needed for the Sowing of a new village was an enormous undertaking. Livestock of all varieties clustered under the watchful eye of farmers. What seemed like an endless line of carts stood idle, filled with grain and seeds, piled high with lengths of timber or blocks of pre-cut stone, or stuffed to their canvas tops with foodstuffs. Wheelwrights moved down the line checking axles and spokes for damage. Several hundred soldiers, over ten full units, stood at attention to one side. A full unit of Guards - a full unit! – stood with them. Tom could see a group of tradespeople, of which several must be Artisans, all wearing the varied garb of their trades, standing and discussing something excitedly. It was staggering in scope. An entire village, ready to put down roots.

Tom tried to pick out Dain, the Idealist chosen to become mayor of the new quarry village. He eventually spotted him, an imposing looking man, dressed in fine but serviceable clothes and built like a mason. It made sense too. He very well might have Ideals related to stone if they'd given him the privilege.

Dain was talking to a woman who Tom figured to be the head of the Guard unit accompanying the Sowing. She was relatively short, but her green enamelled armour, and helmet with elaborate green and brown plume marked her as a captain. She must have been an absolute terror in a fight to have made captain in the Guard.

There was also another man and woman standing with them, both wearing Guard armour but detailed in purple trim, and wearing black clothes underneath. Both had pins showing a delicate arch on their chests, and the same symbol on their helmets. Wayrest’s two portal specialists. Tom had heard his peers speaking of them with jealousy over the years, but he’d never seen them himself. Two Idealists out of the whole population of Wayrest that each had a single skill allowing them instantaneous travel over huge distances. It was no wonder people spoke of them with envy. Just the thought of the freedom in their power was making Tom a little green.

The two specialists filled a crucial niche in the Guard. The two of them held down a constant rotation that allowed one of them to always be on duty. If a village came under attack, the Watch, another of Wayrest’s military units specialising in stealth and speed, would carry word back to the city. The portal specialists would then dispatch a unit of Guards to the village as reinforcements. It was usually enough.

As the village-rings expanded further from Wayrest the response times became slower. A unit of Guards could deal with most threats out of the Deep, but some village-killers had already done too much damage by the time they arrived. And there was no shortage of village-killers wandering the Deep.

It was why only three of the last ten Sowings had eventually been declared successful. Why they were sending a full unit of Guards to accompany this one. They wouldn’t be able to stay at Dain’s Quarry forever though, and would eventually be recalled to Wayrest for other duties. Their regular complement of Guards would then have to find their feet on their own.

It was a daunting prospect, and why Idealists and regular citizens who volunteered for a Sowing were so greatly respected, and heavily rewarded too. Many of the benefits and profits of the village went straight to the villagers until the next newest village was Sown. The only permanent upside to living in the villages was that the youths weren’t required to attend a Reaping, already being subject to the conditions outside the walls every day.

Tom dragged his thoughts back on track. He needed to find his unit and prepare to ride out. He adjusted his swords as he searched for the Academy signage. Spotting it hanging from a large pavilion, he made his way through the crowd, past weeping mothers and proud fathers and nervous children. The musters for Reapings were strange. So much excitement and anticipation and fear and nervousness made for a very unsettling stew.

Upon making it to the Academy tent he found Director Steppenson and his assistant overseeing operations. A long table had been set out, stacks of paper neatly organised along it. Instructors sat behind the table, and a line of students waited their turn in front of them. Tom joined the shortest line.

When he got to the front, he recognised the youthful instructor only vaguely. Tom thought she was a combat instructor, but he guessed she’d not been at the Academy long given her age. She’d probably been assigned to teaching the new entrants classes.

She looked up as he approached, a fatalistic expression on her face that suggested how long she had, and would be, stuck in this tent.

“Name?” she queried immediately.

“Tom Cutter, Instructor.” He stood loosely at attention in front of her. Her eyebrow raised just slightly.

“I see.” she said, turning back to her stack of papers. She shuffled them about in some interminable process, eventually alighting on one in particular.

“Here we are. You’re assigned to…” she trailed her finger down the paper. “Unit Twenty-Seven. They are mustering on the middle-north side of the Square.”

He gave her a small bow and murmured his thanks. The next student in line immediately pushed forwards, so he extricated himself from the tent and turned north, searching.

A large green banner with twenty-seven on it in bold stitch snapped and twitched in the breeze. Tom wandered down walkways past units that were forming up. Most appeared to be about three-quarters full. Tom had been delayed this morning by some last minute “training” from his father. His mind was still performing its’ “empty gum” checks for now non-existent stab wounds. He looked to banner twenty-seven with renewed resolve.

It took him several minutes to wend his way through the choked pathways to reach his unit. He joined them, and was waved over by one of the Guards. There were five of them, standing together in the portion of the Square set aside for their unit. All wore the green-enamelled armour of the Guard. The one who waved him over had brown patches on their shoulders, and a single gold stripe indicating an officer.

“You are..?” he said as Tom approached him. His voice was deep and melodic, slightly at odds with his average frame.

“Tom Cutter, sir.”

“Hmmm.” a single bass note for his non-committal reply, assessing Tom with a casual glance. “I am Officer Elensfield. I am in command of this unit. This is not your first Reaping, I take it?”

“No, sir. My third.”

“Ideals?” queried Elensfield.

“None, sir,” said Tom.

Elensfield raised his eyebrow slightly. His comrades, listening, stirred slightly. Tom was clearly from a House, given the quality of his equipment and clothes, and the Academy too, given he had his own weapons. Tom was used to more visceral reactions to his failure, and their marginal surprise didn’t bother him.

“Well, you mustn’t be horrible with those swords if you’ve survived two already. Can you hold a spear line?” His voice betrayed no disdain or disgust. A serious man it seemed, this Elensfield.

“Yes, sir, I can. A shield wall too, if need be.” Tom replied evenly.

“Grand. I’m placing you with the soldiers for the duration, then. This is Gracefield,” he gestured to a thin woman with a crazed mop of brown hair and an ugly scar running down her cheek.

“Markhart,” a short and burly man with bushy eyebrows and a large, hooked nose.

“Kawlstone,” gesturing to a tall, fair and handsome man with bright blue eyes.

“And Clairvine.” he finished, indicating a younger woman with her hair in a tidy black bun and a lithe build.

“One of us says shit, you ask ‘How smelly?’ Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, caught slightly off-guard. He couldn’t tell whether Elensfield was trying for a little humour. His voice was too deep and even. He supposed it could just be his manner; all five Guards were village-born, by their names.

“Good lad,” he said, with no trace of a laugh in his voice. “There’s a cart down the way with shields and spears, go fetch some. Keep those swords handy though, Goddess knows you’ll probably need them too. Then fall in with the soldiers, Officer Woolgreen’s in charge of them. We’re almost ready. We march to Tolsa’s Crop and stage from there.”

Tom gave his crisp assent, and then jogged quickly down the way to a cart piled with neatly stacked spears and shields. Both were of the variety favoured by the soldiers of Wayrest, medium length spears and medium-large round shields. He selected one of each and returned to the unit.

Elensfield and his fellows stood discussing something quietly. Roughly ten students stood near them, other Idealists who hadn’t yet chosen a profession. Tom recognised two from the Academy; the rest must be from one of the Schools.

The Schools, not having the same elitist attitude as the Academy, generally had many more students opt out after their first Reaping. They made up for it by having ten times the amount of students between them though.

Even considering the huge danger that Reapings posed many of their Idealist students still opted for a second Reaping. The opportunity for their second, or even third Ideals, was far too good to pass up.

One hundred men and women stood about with the bored faces that only career soldiers can manage at such a time. Another thirty or so students stood near them, all younger, looking nervous. The first-timers, students sent to get a taste of the horrors beyond the safety of Wayrest’s walls.

A few seemed a little more relaxed, if not as bored as the soldiers, and older too. Older than Tom even. They would be the volunteers, citizens of Wayrest who put their hands up to come along, hoping to manifest after failing to on their previous Reaping. Or Reapings.

Tom’s eyes found a tall, rangy looking man with a silver stripe on the sleeve of his green uniform. He looked as staid as the rest of them, but his eyes constantly roamed about the crowd. They fixed on Tom as he neared.

“Officer Woolgreen, sir? Tom Cutter. Elensfield wants me with the soldiers,” said Tom.

“Petty Officer Woolgreen, if we’re being proper about it, but I’ll have no ‘sirs’ from you. That’s for the Guards. Just Woolgreen's fine, or Garth, if you must,” he explained languidly. One of the nearby soldiers snorted softly.

“Don’t look like your first harvest. You aren’t all clenched up n’ sweatin’ like them lot.” he nodded lazily at the group of first-timers. He eyed Tom’s swords. “Happy to have more who know the business end of a blade from the butt. Might be there’s a hundred of us heading out, but there’ll be less coming back.” He spat on the cobbles. “You’d know that though.”

Tom nodded grimly. He did indeed.

“Right then, find a place. Won’t be long now.” and with that Garth’s eyes went back to their patrol, ranging about the people nearby.

Tom found a spot beside some volunteers, nodding at them and strapping his shield to his pack for the journey. He figured he fit in best with them, these misfits still desperate enough to manifest that they’d answer a call when they didn’t have to.

He finished fiddling with the straps of his pack, satisfied the weight was distributed correctly, and stood up. His gaze trailed across the square. Most units seemed to be more or less full now. An expectant tension was slowly growing. The noise of the crowd had changed from a steady hum to periodic almost-pauses and recurring thrums of volume. Tom wasn’t quite sure how he knew that it meant they’d all collectively picked up that they were close to setting out.

As his eyes wandered his interest was caught by the rooftop of a nearby squat building, perhaps a shop of some kind. He wasn’t quite sure what had drawn his attention, until he saw a movement by the sturdy stone chimney.

A figure crouched on the roof, one hand pressed to the slate tiles. They were dressed in black, and their light armour was enamelled in a green so dark it might as well be black too. They had black cloth wrapped around their head and face as well. Tom could see a short length of rope or chain hanging at their hip. It was impossible to tell if they were a man or woman.

A Watchman! Tom had only seen them once or twice before, probably less times than he’d seen a high elf. But then again, that was half the point of them. The Watch were tasked with patrolling all of Wayrest’s land, from the outer village-rings, to the city itself.

Stealth and movement specialists, their role was critical to Wayrest’s defence. They brought word of any attacks against the village-rings that the villages’ Guard detachments and soldiers couldn’t handle. They also quietly dispatched any monsters that made it through the outer rings.

While some monsters, massive in size, or in numbers, or in power, presented the most obvious threat to villages, there were plenty of monsters that were sneakier, more cunning, better adapted for ambush or speed or deception. The Watch, ever vigilant, constantly patrolled against their incursions.

It was surprising to see a member of the Watch here in Wayrest itself, let alone in Sanctuary Square. Tom couldn’t fathom what they could be there for. In his entire life he’d only ever heard of a few monsters making it as far as the city. None of those incursions had been substantial, bar an injured wood dragon that had been driven mad by an infection, and had destroyed a butcher’s shop when the Guard and the Watch combined to drag it from the sky.

The figure’s head suddenly snapped to the east. A moment later they flickered, lines of darkness running up and down from them like a bolt of black silk being pulled apart at both ends, and they disappeared. Tom craned about but couldn’t see where they’d gone.

He turned back to his unit, trying to gauge how close they would be to leaving. His heart dropped. Talking to Elensfield were Gad and Ella Courser. Gad caught his eye and a huge grin split his face. He waved at Tom cheerily. Ella looked to see who he was waving at and a flicker of annoyance passed through her face.

Great, thought Tom. That’s exactly what I need.

Gad strutted over to the rest of the non-affiliated Idealists. He had a hammer slung through his belt, and from the way he kept catching it on his legs he wasn’t used to it. Likely a present from his parents. Ella followed, looking expressionless.

I absolutely cannot let Gad unbalance me. This is my last chance, and I cannot have Gad fuck it up, Tom thought.

As Tom was slowly lost in a despairing reverie he absently noted that the walkways left between units were clear. The crowds were stilling to a degree too.

Suddenly, a horn blasted a long, mournful call. Tom started as one of the soldiers in his unit took up the call. More and more added their horns in. Soon, the Square resonated with a single, sonorous note.

Everyone hefted their packs. Made last minute checks and adjustments. Tom saw abject terror on more than one face. He remembered his first Reaping; it hadn’t seemed real ‘til the horns blew then either. And then he’d realised he’d very much still been dreaming when he saw his first monster.

As the horns slowly trailed off, marching drums started a steady rapport. Elensfield led their unit out of the Square down Wayrest’s northern trade road. They marched roughly five or so abreast, alongside another unit. Tom couldn’t keep his thoughts in order, so he focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Soon enough the great walls of Wayrest loomed above them. The great bronze gates stood open to admit the flood of people leaving. The blue sky stood stark between the tilted spears of the soldiers in front of him as they filed through the gap.

The air outside the walls was immediately fresher, but there was an ominous feeling to leaving them. Tom looked back at them, forty strides high, each seamless brick tightly scrawled with enchanted runes. Wayrest’s banners and pennants snapped in the wind above it.

Tom turned and firmly placed his gaze on the horizon. Resolute. He had work to do.