Steamworks in the Bylea by V.C. Remus

Author:V.C. Remus
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 34

The day for which every Tiro had so patiently awaited finally arrived.

The legate had left his men with these words: “If you can hull anything away from these past months of blood and tears, remember to duck, dodge, and retreat—but only when absolutely necessary and as instructed, for cowards are better dispatched than living, and the pursuit of honor is the right of all proud Thortonans.” Legate Cyneward had then called for a brief prayer, to which every Tiro had obliged with heads downcast and eyes closed. They murmured Alexander Cady the First’s words with great reverence, more relieved than proud that their training had come to expiry.

“Look there.” Alistair remembers Esmond directing his gaze to the Tirones’ faces after the legate had stepped off his podium. “Observe their gratitude; it’s nearly comedic, dear brother. They really believe that war, like death, is a stale winter in the midst of a comely spring—far off in the distance—or radiant like a candle in the windowsill of a neighbor's home.”

Alistair had come to find that Esmond was right to assume the Tirones’ elations were misplaced; talk of honor and glory around the barracks withered. The truth raced forth with lightning haste, slicing through one façade after another, demanding attention. Honor and glory were becoming of every Tiro; that manner of talk fit like a glove during training, because it had to. However, upon the biannual Pointe Graduation Parade, honor and glory fit like a new and shiny pair of undersized marching boots.

On the week’s end, the Treasury of the Royal Thortonan Army delivered a crimson, Cady-sealed envelope addressed to Alistair. Inside, there gleamed compensation. Oddly, there was no second envelope addressed to Esmond.

Alistair sits up and grabs his boot. He reaches in and begins counting every single coin, making sure each gleaming ro is exactly where it should be. He is no different than any other rightfully suspicious Tiro; he knows their storage area is the same as his.

“For king and country,” Alistair whispers repeatedly, resting his head on one arm. He stares through the dark of the barracks, thankful for his new, bedbug-free bunk.

“What’s the matter, brother?” Esmond groans, rolling over and gazing up at Alistair’s bunk. “We need rest.”

“‘Matter’? There’s no matter. Go to sleep.”

“I think I know a problem when I see one—or rather, in this case, hear one.” Esmond yawns and shuts his eyes. “Until you’re at ease, I’ll be awake, wondering when the Five Daemons you’ll pipe down.”

“I’m at ease, really.”

Esmond scoffs. “Make your peace before I change my mind.”

“Fine.” Alistair scoots toward the edge of his bunk. One arm dangling over the side like a clothed pendulum, he says, “After marching for Cady; sweating for Cady; running for Cady; drilling for Cady; stabbing frumpy, straw-filled dummies of bandits and thieves for Cady, as well as literally bleeding for Cady, the thought of it—all of this—fits nothing short of awkwardly.”

“We’re talking about our king, correct?”

“Who else?”

“Alistair, you’re talking about a king inside the capital’s barracks; ponder that for a while.

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