1 Ymiden, 720
Fortress
Fortress
Toothpick tightened his fingers around the grip of the Pavise, dividing his attention between holding the shield so that its pointed bottom did not drag against the sandy pit and matching his march to the beat of the percussion behind him. He was in the middle of this mobile shield wall, advancing across the empty ground at the forefront of the contingent, His shield, held in his left hand, protected that man who trudged along beside him, while he himself was protected by the man to his right. Thus, he was dependent on the unity and cohesion of his fellow Heavies. Failure bore consequences that went beyond the individual in such a formation.
Such a foreign concept, that.
Before the compulsory draft last cycle, Toothpick had only known self-preservation in its most aggressive state. Fighting and warring were familiar friends to the Quacian, but not in this capacity. No, such a relationship had been cultivated in seedy taverns and dimly lit alleyways, a quick-sprouting fungus that was edible only when the consumer understood the rules; to be ignorant or arrogant was a poison that often led to death. Toothpick had understood those exchanges back then; more so, he had excelled in them. But very rarely did he claim a loyalty to anyone that he had met along the way that had superseded his loyalty to himself. He had been a weapon back then, not a shield.
If Toothpick could comprehend the concept of irony, his current circumstance might’ve amused him, but it wasn’t in his nature to waste his attention on such thoughts. He was not simple-minded, but he did prefer things to remain simple in their application. ‘Carry this shield to protect those behind you, Heavy!’ Those were the commands Toothpick appreciated. ‘And kill any of the fecking Creep who dares to get too close while you’re at it.’ That was even better.
Still, the man paid attention the larger picture as well, much of which took shape out of his periphery, because at the end of the day he was not resigned to the fact that he was going to die holding a shield for someone else. His service was compulsory, but it would not be stagnant. Toothpick was slow with words, but his mind was sharp when it came to these sorts of things, and he wasn’t going to die before he could exploit it.
Twenty Heavies per block, Toothpick had learned in the earliest days of his service, each carrying the oblong Pavise in the left arm. Their primary weapons were usually up to the user; the only theme was devastation. Most had chosen hacking weapons, swords and axes to cleave through their foes. Toothpick had settled for a war pick, hoping its dual ability to bludgeon and pierce would prove versatile in whatever engagement he found himself in, be it against foes faunal or floral. Depending on the theater, Toothpick’s kit also included spears for prodding and daggers for gutting. In his training exercise, though, he carried only the pick, which he had given the appropriate name of Tooth.
Indeed, simple things for a simple man.
Behind the Heavies came the bulk of the block. Four men to a shield, each knowing that one of them would have to take it up if the Heavy is slain. The primary tactic of this subunit was ranged warfare, firing crossbows from behind the Pavise in the small gaps left at the upper half. Somewhat like the parapets of a castle wall really. Two men could fire at the same time, resting the barrel on the shoulder of the Heavy for stability, while the others stayed in the rear providing auxiliary support, mostly in the form of passing their own bows back and forth for the purposes of reloading. Three of the four carried a small buckler shield strapped to their forearm to defend for projectiles falling from above, while one carried a larger shield that could cover both himself and the heavy. A more useful tactic for human assaults than from the Creep, who were more melee oriented.
Eighty men in all. Toothpick knew them all in number, but not by name, nor by face. Why bother, he thought, given that they both would change in the course of a conflict? His assigned bowmen were the only exception he made, knowing that these were the men who would have the greatest hand in keeping him alive. Tom-Tom, son of a Gleam farmer with a stutter that only got worse when his adrenaline started pumping. Lips, a pock-marked youth that was the only child of a prostitute in Lair that Toothpick was acquainted with—and my, what a pair of lips she had had that night. Custard, the baker’s apprentice turned crack shot with the crossbow. And Whiskers, the lad of sixteen years barely old enough to grow hair on his chin and yet was expected to defend his country. Toothpick was the oldest, and not by much. They, and hundreds more just like them, were Dragoons.
The drums were drowned out by the burst of trumpets marking a halt. A second set of notes signaled for a stationary defense. The Heavies exploded into movement, slamming the Pavise downward into the pit floor, wedging the shield in place. Toothpick dropped to one knee after that, using his weight to brace the defense while squaring his shoulders to provide a spot for the bowmen to lay their bows across. Custard and Tom-Tom took point in this exercise; Toothpick knew by their rituals they performed in those first moments. Custard always tapped the barrel of the bow on the Heavy’s shoulder before settling in, and Tooth could hear the hushed litany that Tom-Tom muttered to his right, ripe with repeat phrases. Toothpick bowed his head too, not in prayer or thought, but as an instinctual brace. In these first few moments, before the hypothetical enemy had covered the ground and engaged with the shield wall, Toothpick was at his safest. And then it passed, marked by yet another round of trumpets. He knew this signal was a placeholder for the real indicator.
The screams of those around him.
The bows retracted on cue as Toothpick rose to his feet, twisting so that his left shoulder and knee were pressed against the Pavise. This freed his right hand to strike out at any weapon or appendage that tried to test the gap. When the line held, his spear would prove more useful in these moments as he jabbed outward. When a Heavy fell and the enemy filled the hole, then his war pick would take a bite of flesh instead. All the while, someone fired shots over top of him.
Figures appeared in front of Toothpick, walking the line. The drill sergeants inspected the formation, shouting at the Heavies who yielded weak spots. Every once in a while, the sergeant shouted the name and that soldier dropped to the floor to simulate their death. They were being trained to adapt within their subunit to the inevitable changes that casualties brought, along with cohesion between the front line. The death of a bowman was unfortunate, but it was not the end of the engagement. The collapse of the Heavies, though, forfeited the lives of those behind them, whose short swords and leather armor were fair far worse against the enemy than Toothpick’s scale armor and heavy weaponry.
The sergeant shouted a name that Toothpick didn’t know, and the man to his immediate right fell away, opening a gap. Shouting a battle cry, the Heavy widened his stance, trying his best to fill the gap against encroachment long enough for one of the bowmen to pick up the shield. Swinging his pick, Toothpick shattered the invisible assault before falling back into position. He calmed his breathing, which had spiked despite the low stakes of the exercise.
Because, deep down, he knew what the stakes would be when they left the safety of Fortress.
The block cycled through the steps, their size dwindling over time as more and more men were “slain.” The general inactivity of this drill allowed Toothpick time to analyze the scenario, which was probably not what his superiors wanted. Because, truth be told, the expectation that was being drilled into them was not one of success, but of prolonged attrition. ‘Die slowly, conscripts, while the real Dragoons turn the tide.’ It was a truth lost in the front, eyes facing forward, without the ability to see the men far behind you directing the conflict.
He would never even know when they turned their backs on him to accept his sacrifice.
It was not a truth that he would accept willingly. No, Toothpick would do what he has done best in his nineteen years: adapt. He was asked to be a body in the way under the guise of a soldier, but he intended on surpassing expectation. He would survive each and every obstacle thrown his way, whether it came from on the other side of his shield, or like a dagger from behind. Neither would faze him, nor would they defeat him.
“Toothpick,” shouted the drill sergeant.
Maybe today, not when it mattered the most.
