How many days had it been since I lost my sense of taste?
All that remained was a persistent ache, a relentless companion that plagued every inch of my weary body.
At first, it was all fun and games — a thrilling adventure. But as time wore on, the novelty faded, and doubt began to seep into my thoughts.
'The realm's at peace.'
'I've bitten off more than I can chew.'
'What business does an artist have, starting an army?'
Phoenix had warned me about this — how a devilish voice in the depths of your mind would attempt to crush your spirit, to make you abandon your cause. It was precisely this voice that the slave masters worked so relentlessly to silence.
"Are you alright, Prince Rhaenar?" a fellow squad mate interrupted my reverie, concern etched on their face.
Startled, I realized I had been lost in a daydream, consumed by the flickering flames of the campfire.
As I glanced around, I noticed the entire squad's eyes fixed on me, a palpable worry in the air.
"Ah, my apologies. I suppose I'm still recovering from yesterday's forced march," I confessed.
The weather had been merciless that day. The rain poured relentlessly throughout the night, persisting well into the morning, as if nature itself conspired against our mission.
Nathaniel, a squaddie of mine from Rosby, nodded his head, "Tell me about it. Sir Pheonix is a taskmaster."
"I eat his push-ups like George eats his fast," added Chit, "It's Sari's whacks that get me."
Just yesterday, we triumphantly completed the final checkpoint of our inaugural training phase.
Over the course of four grueling weeks, under the watchful eye of Pheonix, we underwent countless marching drills, all while donning our full gear.
Each step had to be executed with unwavering precision, no room for a single weak link to disrupt the formation. We marched for hours on end, our synchronized footsteps echoing with determination.
At times, Pheonix would halt us abruptly, signaling for us to double or even triple the depth of our ranks, testing our adaptability.
Other moments would find us executing swift and seamless turns on a dime. And then there were those instances when we stood motionless, our discipline put to the ultimate test.
While not as glamorous as the battles sung in epic ballads, this stage of training held profound significance.
Pheonix argued that synchronized marching formed the very backbone of the Lockstep Legions, emphasizing the criticality of coordination and unit cohesion, and nothing I read had contradicted that point.
Every waking moment was dedicated to instilling in us the importance of maintaining straight ranks and proper spacing between soldiers. Whenever we transitioned between formations, a process that became a personal pet peeve of Pheonix, we were expected to do so flawlessly.
It was a small mercy that Pheonix had shaved his almond-skin scalp, for the stress we inflicted upon him while attempting to execute intricate maneuvers, such as forming a wedge or defensive orb, while preserving the integrity of our ranks and spacing, was enough to drive anyone to the brink.
Such a seemingly simple task grew more difficult with hundreds of individuals striving to achieve perfect synchrony. However, Pheonix was unyielding, refusing to progress to the next training phase until we could flawlessly execute his marching orders.
Yet each day, we improved in increments. Egos slowly disintegrated until all we had on our minds was the unit, the squad, the legion, the corps, whatever fucking word fit your fancy.
Naturally, some egos weren't capable of saying goodbye. We lost even more volunteers during the first stage.
Thus it was on the day we started our next stage of training that only around 700 people remained, a far cry from the 1,881 we started with.
Our campsite, located a few miles outside Dragonstone's castle, had transformed into a bustling mini village. There were over 50 tents, each designed to accommodate 12 people. The layout resembled a linear city, still evolving as we experimented with different camp structures.
However, certain key structures such as the commander's office, hospital, and kitchen had already found their place at the center, surrounded by clusters of tents belonging to individual squads, forming their own cozy neighbourhoods.
Our mini village was a work in progress, adapted to our growing needs. We managed to construct a small chapel devoted to the Seven. It amazed me how, despite the exhaustion from training, we still summoned the energy to make use of the remaining daylight for these side endeavors.
Whenever a need arose, a select few among us possessed the necessary skills to fulfill the task, and the rest of us would lend a helping hand in any way we could. It was during these times that old timers such as Dick Mason truly shined.
One particular camp favorite was Pete, a cranky carpenter from Duskendale with a talent for delegation.
"That's the trouble with today's youth," Pete would often exclaim. "Shit workers, the lot of them!"
The morning of phase two in our training brought a surge of positive energy to the camp as I embarked on my usual morning rounds, making myself visible and approachable. The greetings of "Morning, Prince!" carried a noticeably higher, more joyful tone.
Suddenly, we heard Sari's dreaded wolf whistle, piercing through the air from the training area just outside the camp. That whistle sent a jolt of urgency through us all; we instinctively straightened our backs and knew what was expected of us.
The camp swiftly mobilized, eager to gather as quickly as possible. Sari had become quite inventive with his punishments lately, and we all dreaded his reprimands.
As we arrived at the training area, Sari and Pheonix stood there, awaiting our presence. I left the masses behind and stepped forward to address the group.
"Now that we're progressing to actual combat training," I began, "it's time for you to understand the true nature of the burdens you've been carrying in our forced marches."
With a flourish, I unrolled a bundle that bore some resemblance to a chef's knife roll but was custom-designed to hold the various specialized equipment that each soldier would carry.
Afterward, I proceeded to explain the various applications of the tools, many of which were already familiar to us, that we would utilize on our journey.
Most of these tools were well-known and appreciated by all. Pickaxes, shovels, axes, and the like—items commonly associated. However, their designs had been refined to be less cumbersome and more suitable for travel.
Brien, in his typical fashion, took pleasure in my showcase, relishing in the brilliance of his creations. But Sari's patience wore thin by the time I'd finished.
That's when Sari got into the good stuff.
"But there will be times you have to fight."
Pheonix then stepped forward, adorned in his full regalia. His stance was low and sturdy, his crimson shield shining with pride.
With a forceful thrust of his spear, Pheonix showcased his deadly skills, captivating our attention.
"Our formation thrives on unity," I explained as Pheonix twirled and thrust with his spear. "The Unsullied spear, inspired by the Lockstep Legions, is traditionally much longer for phalanx purposes.
"We have shortened the spear to enhance individual movement, while still maintaining our ability to execute the phalanx. Additionally, the shortened spear allows for easier spear-throwing, should the situation demand."
As if on cue, Pheonix hurled his spear into the sky, the weapon piercing the grass with remarkable velocity. The sight left us impressed and inspired.
"In a similar vein," I continued, "our choice of sword is tailored to formation fighting. Hence the short swords. We won't rely on heavy hacking movements in our formation; simple, precise stabs will suffice."
Pheonix drew his short sword with a swift motion, displaying his mastery with effortless finesse.
His wrist moved with dexterous grace, the blade becoming a blur of lethal precision as he thrust it through the air. Each stab seemed to carry the weight of vengeance, as if he were confronting the very slave master who had inflicted the cruel fate upon his manhood.
"Wow..." The collective gasp escaped their lips.
Once Pheonix had finished, he spoke in his broken English, "Equipment stay condition. Inspect daily."
A chorus of groans and complaints filled the air, expressing collective reluctance.
"That's not all," Sari interjected, seizing the opportunity to unveil another aspect of our training.
Sari grabbed the bow and arrow from the table. Swiftly, within a mere three seconds, he aligned his shot and pierced the heart of a strawman positioned 75 yards away.
"He's absolutely right," I chimed in. "We'll also be tested on our archery skills. And then there's this little stroke of genius."
With a flourish, Sari revealed a peculiar length of rope with handles at each end and a central pouch. He retrieved a rock and placed it snugly into the pouch, initiating a mesmerizing display of swirling motions.
The rock whizzed out of the sling, forcefully connecting with the head of a strawman stationed closer to us, approximately 35 yards away.
A collective "wow" resounded through the ranks, capturing our genuine admiration.
"This," I began, holding up the sling for everyone to see, "is called a sling."
Our arsenal was extensive.
Daggers, knuckle dusters, knee pads, helmets…
You name it, we tried it. Shelved it, dust it, and tried it again.
In the end, we went back to the basics.