“He who fails to learn from history is doomed to repeat it…”

That quote, and multiple others, was hammered into me over the many months of my

Legion training, so much so that I now have one for almost every occasion…

Instructors are always like that, “This is your lesson for today, now lets see you

implement it…”

It was amazing just how many recruits were held back, if not outright sent down, for

failing to heed such ‘warnings’

It would seem it pays to “Expect the unexpected”, Yes?

I have therefore decided to take heed of that day’s lesson, and have started a diary of the

thoughts and events that shape my life.

Who knows, if nothing else mayhaps it will save whomever stumbles across my corpse

from making the same mistakes I did…?

And if not, at least the pages are easier on the posterior than grass or leaves…

Let me begin by highlighting some of the earlier years of my life, a time before the

discipline of the Legions, or the influence of the Scholars had taken hold.

I was born on Skorus, the 6^th day of Ilvin, in the province of the Thardic Republic known

as Gerium.

My father served in the Imrium Cohort, a humble foot soldier who worked his way up

into the Veteran ranks of the Thardic Heavy Infantry.

I had always marvelled at the martial displays of our soldiers, the bright colours of the

various district cloaks covering, but not quite hiding, the armoured carapaces beneath.

In a way they were a reflection of the Republic itself, pageantry and glamour without, but

the beating heart protected by the iron discipline of the Legions.

It was not long after the end of the winter of 717 when the first stirrings of wanderlust

came upon me.

Father was but two years from mustering out as a "20-year man" and thoughts of my

future were just starting to intrude on my childhood meandering.

I suppose I had always intended to follow him into the Legion, but it had never seemed

real to me until that moment in time.

I had grown up with the military life around me, and so was fully aware (or more so than

most) of the harshness of the soldiers life.

With that in mind I sought help, and found it in the guise of Folda of Besilin, a regular

whom had served under the late Marshal Holsine in the Geshtei Cohort and an

acquaintance of my father for many years.

Life after the Legion had not been kind to the old man, leaving him to scratch out a living

as a tenant farmer, working the lands of one of the wealthy clans of Imrium.

The difficulties of tending to both the fields of his ‘Lord’ and the small patch of land he

called his own with but a single arm, led me to moot a potentially ‘advantageous’

transaction, namely my physical toil, for his knowledge and skills as a soldier.

This led to an enlightening, (though tiring) 12 months during which he put me through

my paces.

I spent my time moving boulders, swinging lumps of firewood in intricate patterns as I

carried it from place to place, even building little maps of the battles and campaigns as he

described them, then digging it all up to replace it with neat planting rows.

He also taught me skills that would make the going easier when I finally passed through

the recruitment and training stage of my enlistment.

Things such as the maintenance of your kit, basic weapons handling, as well as some of

the background information regarding the units in which he thought I might serve,

occupied the times when I was not actively working in the field.

Folda’s training was no where near as hard as the ‘real thing’, but I give thanks that I was

not caught as flatfooted by the experience as some of the poor souls who had signed up

when I had.

The weapons-work alone soon proved it’s worth as, within 6 months of leaving the town,

I would find myself fighting for my life in the wilds of the Rethem/Tharda frontier.

No, not in the Legion, though they were destined to play a part in my little drama.

Despite my contribution to the familial workforce, times were hard, and alternate funds

had to be located.

Still finding myself below the minimum age for enrolment, I determined that my best

efforts would be to work in the salt mines, a hard life, but potentially more rewarding

than grubbing in the soil.

Folda thought it a great idea (he constantly commented that I looked too scrawny to be a

legionnaire), but I like to think that even he was sorry to see my tenure with him come to

an end.

Thus, after discussing it with my parents, I signed up as a labourer, earning a penny a day

for my troubles.

That is how I found myself aboard a wagon bound for the Rayesha mountains to the

north-west of Imrium, the slush of the spring melt softening the road ahead into a swamp.

The work there was back breaking, but you became inured to it after a while.

The effort helped strengthen me and, while the food wasn’t great, it was filling (and there

was plenty of it).

I hauled salt, learnt how to break it down and grade it, as well as how it was packed.

On the rest days I wandered down to the stream to swim, as well as taking the time out to

run laps of the small plateau upon which the campsite was constructed, keeping faithfully

to the regime Folda had set out for me.

I also spoke with the veterans who formed the mines ‘guard’, a set of mercenaries hired

to keep the peace, as well as to repel unwanted visitors.

Most were not interested in answering the questions of an inquisitive 14-year-old boy, but

a few took pity and shared the stories of their travels and adventures, helping to make the

days go by just a little quicker.

I helped out in return, polishing up their weapons and armour when I was able, I laugh to

think of it now.

After 9 months on the job, and frugally saving all I could, I was sent home on leave,

almost 190 pennies burning a hole in my beltpouch.

After handing mother 50 to help tide things over, and passing 10 to Folda as a gratuity, I

was left with 129 pennies, a heady sum!

Unfortunately though, not enough to equip me as I desired.

Sensing my disappointment, my father (who was also on leave at the time), passed on to

me a gift-a shortsword he had used early in his career.

A little worse for wear, but more than serviceable, it inspired me to push harder to

achieve my goals, and after a few days rest, I found myself once more upon the wagon

heading for the pass.

It was a spring day, the sun dazzling on the untouched mountain snow, when we first

heard the stirrings of trouble.

One of the scouts reported seeing a trail in the snow an hours ride north of the

encampment.

Not normally a startling problem, save they were convinced these were the prints of a

‘Gargun’, a particularly nasty brand of humanoid prone to travelling in large ‘swarms’

(or so one of the mercenaries had advised me…).

The camp immediately erupted into an uproar, with an advance force of ‘scouts’ being

sent forth to verify the sighting, while the rest debated the wisdom of fleeing back toward

the town, and the protection of the Imrium Cohort.

Eventually with tact, guile, and finally sheer intimidation, the overseer had convinced the

majority to make their stand at the mine, a position I am sure was taken more due to his

responsibility for the place than concern for the workers safety.

As a matter of fact, the points were still being hotly debated when the remnants of our

scouting team returned, one of who was being practically carried by his companion, and

blithely informed us that the rampaging hordes would be upon our doorstep within the

hour.

Never let it be said that fear is incapacitating, for that day I saw it galvanise a collection

of passive miners into siege-men of the first rank.

Furniture was reduced and applied to the fortification of the buildings within a fraction of

the time you would have suspected earlier.

Any and all forms of hardware was brought forth to be used as potential weapons, even

the cook could be seen clutching his heavy skillet, his eyes wide in trepidation and

standing forth from his florid face like those of a catfish.

Only Garret seemed happy, but when you consider his appointed task was to ride to the

town and call for the Legion, I have the sinking suspicion he did not expect to find much

on his return, and was therefore quite happy to be out of it altogether.

Even I had the opportunity to contribute to the defence, positing that we pack the Mine

entrances with brush and fire them.

It was my hope that the blaze (and maybe the collapse if we destroyed the support

timbers) would prevent the vermin from getting a foothold in the tunnels.

You can imagine my surprise when the men at arms not only considered my suggestion

seriously, but also implemented it almost untouched.

My first ‘spurt’ of tactical inspiration.

Those few hours we spent huddled in the 5 reinforced buildings waiting for the creatures

approach, as well as the frenetic night that followed after sit with me still, the faces of the

men etched in my memory.

I can still see Hogun the cook bludgeoning to oblivion a Gargun foolish enough to climb

down the chimney of the cookhouse, or Fafnir, the north-man guard who made a stand

against nearly a half dozen of the creatures while the rest of us evacuated to the sorting

room nearby.

I, myself, managed to finish 3 of the nasty little trogs, and came away with a quality

shortsword for my troubles.

There were many heroes that night, but before the arrival of the Garrison we had suffered

the loss of 2 huts full of people, a steep price to pay just to keep some nobles salt tariff

rolling in.

The final insult had to be when they deigned to acknowledge our protection of their

livelihood by sending a young girl to survey the aftermath…

So nice to know your efforts are appreciated, yes?

I think it was at that time I had decided to complete my year, and then move on.

We had fought to defend ourselves, but we had chosen to do it in a way that would

protect the investment by both the Guild, and their patron, just as Johannes, the overseer,

had asked.

The reward for most was work rebuilding the damage, for the rest, a solemn burial.

If I was going to fight, I intended to get paid to do so, here I was paid merely to dig, sort

and pack.

Nobody gets me to fight his or her battles for free.

Next Story.

Written By: Shane Saunders (a.k.a Lothar of Barkus)