"Get up." The man barked again. Marcus was still blinking, overwhelmed and off balance. The soldier made an angry gesture, and two pairs of hands clasped Marcus' shoulders. He looked, startled to find more soldiers there. "Drag him if he refuses to walk."
The so-far silent soldiers nodded, Marcus getting his feet under him to avoid being carried. The soldier, who Marcus belatedly realized was probably an officer, led them onwards through the chaos of the camp.
Elves, Dwarves, more Orcs. Marcus was pretty sure he spotted an actual Giant, and all appeared full-blooded. Nothing like the few non-Humans he was accustomed to.
Non-Humans were Humans with slight differences. Pointy eared, elegant men. Stocky, short woman. Even Giants weren't that big, never mind that these possessed three eyes. The Dwarves here were covered in hair so thick it was almost fur, and the elves…
Marcus stared, seeing a pair of them move over the tents. Their feet barely touched cloth before they launched themselves into the air again, the material—which shouldn't be able to hold their weight—not even bending.
"If you're lucky one of them will invite you for 'wine and poetry'." One of the soldiers whispered in a gruff, unpleasant sort of tone. "They like their men covered in blood, though, so probably not until after your first battle."
Explaining he wasn't staring for that reason was pointless, he knew that from experience, so Marcus looked away. Full-blooded Elves, all of them. Those hadn't been seen on Abilos, let alone in the Empire for centuries. Not after continental trade dwindled to nothing.
They stuck on their side of the world when it died, or mixed with Humans, though even the lesser Elves, Dwarves and Giants he was familiar with were few in number.
"You're responsible for him, Krasus." The officer said, side stepping a five legged horse. The fuck? "If he dies in his first battle I'll be docking half your pay."
Krasus grumbled something unkind, spitting to the side as he answered. "Understood."
"There was a problem with soldiers pushing newbies to their death." Not-Krasus whispered, Marcus' eyes snapping to the man. "Don't worry, that's been fixed. Mostly. Still, no one wants to deal with the new guy, Krasus least of all. Good at training people, though."
"I'm not- Where- What the fuck is going on?"
"You nobles never cease to amaze." The sergeant laughed. "You know why you're here, private Lannoy. You pissed off daddy and he sent you to the front lines to be seasoned. That fancy armor isn't going to mean shit if you're as dumb as you look."
Marcus looked down, seeing that the armor that he was now apparently wearing was indeed higher quality than that of the soldiers pushing him forward, and he increased his speed. Increased it just enough so that the soldiers looked like they were following him, not pushing him forward.
"If I'm a noble then you're risking quite a bit speaking to me like this, sergeant." Marcus said, putting as much steel in his tone as he could. The guards back home always backed down when he did. "What happens when I leave and return wi-"
The fist caught him in his side, knocking the breath out of him even through the armor. Krasus grunted, slapping Marcus' head for good measure. "Don't threaten your superior officer, private. You're nothing until you're done here, and I wouldn't count on your father. If he'd cared you wouldn't be here in the first place."
"And where in the nine Hells is 'here'?" Marcus demanded, glaring at the older man. Magic would have lit up his eyes, it always did when he got angry, but that damned block stopped even that. "Extinct Orcs, foreign armor, vague references to nobility. What the fuck is going on, soldier?!"
Krasus got a weird look on his face, as did his partner, and the sergeant ignored them wholesale. Marcus kept marching, because being half-pushed forward sucked, and no one ended up answering his very sensible question.
Where had that fucking artifact sent him?
He felt a twinge in his side, a bruise forming as the pain slowly grew worse. The adrenaline was lessening and the pain grew worse yet, Marcus' scowl deepening. And the kicking from was no doubt going to leave bruises, too. Even a proficient healer, which he could only charitably claim to be on a good day, would need hours to heal that. Bones took days.
Better than the months it otherwise took, of course, but it was a moot point. He couldn't access his magic. No magic, no healing. No short-ranged telekinesis or fireballs or demon summoning.
Just him, a set of armor that felt uncomfortably heavy and a sword he barely knew how to use.
Marcus swallowed, only just about managing to hold his Royal Demeanor in place. That had never happened before. He'd had few friends, preferred magic over socializing and often shut himself away for days at the time, but that was his choice. His desire.
No, this was a new kind of loneliness. New and thoroughly unwelcome.
"Home sweet home." The sergeant muttered, slowing his pace. Marcus blinked, taking in the tent. The entrance was pinned open with poles, he spied six beds cramped inside, and as clouds rolled overhead Marcus was uncomfortably aware of the mud on his boots. "Get the new guy settled and make sure he doesn't run off."
Krasus grunted, pushing Marcus deeper into the miniature campsite. Two others were working within, one peeling potatoes while the other cleaned his gear, and Karsus pointed them out. "The big guy is Elmus. Leave Elmus alone if you don't want your head caved in. The ugly piece of shit cleaning his armor is Illmar. Pier is fetching water. You already know me, the sergeant is called 'yes sir' or 'no sir', and you make six. Wait here."
"The sergeant's name is Bobe." Illmar said, tone marginally kinder. "Probably a safe bet to do as Krasus says, though."
Marcus was barely done looking between them when Krasus came back, shoving a wooden sword in his hands. Marcus gripped it out of sheer instinct, turning to face Krasus properly. If his old instructors had taught him anything about combat instincts, it was telling him that he was ab-
The sword came flying towards his face, Marcus raising his own weapon. The wood thrummed in his hand from the blow, the block hasty but able to spare his face the pain. Krasus took a step forward, Marcus trying to scramble back even as a foot lashed out to kick at his knee.
He fell, hard, and his fingers tightened around the sword. Never drop the sword. Marcus could almost hear his old instructor barking that, though the man had never done something like this.
"So you're not entirely useless." Krasus grunted. It didn't sound like a compliment. "Probably had the best teachers money could buy and wasted the opportunity."
That hit uncomfortably close, so Marcus did as his training bade him to. He wiped all emotion from his face, staring the older soldier in the eye. A shadow of a grin flickered over the man, and then the sword hit low.
Marcus blocked, tried to step forward and fell for a faint. The weapon hit him in the shoulder, hard, and as he tried to bully through another kick landed on his chest. Marcus fell, the flow of curses cut off as the ground knocked the air out of him.
And from that position he saw another campsite, similar to their own, with four women sitting around a fire. Two Orcs and a pair of Elves, watching him with bored interest. The kind one feels when what's going on isn't interesting but better than nothing.
The squads were segregated between gender?
A shape loomed over him, Marcus flinching, but it wasn't Krasus. Illmar held out a hand, hauling Marcus to his feet with a grunt. "You're too skinny. I should barely be able to get you up, let alone when you're wearing expensive half-plate like that. And don't even think about sneaking off. The sergeant will have you flogged."
More people who assumed he'd see a woman and immediately want to fuck her. Beauty he could understand, but what was everyone's obsession with the damn practice?
"Does it stop anyone?" He asked instead. "The segregation, I mean."
"Of course not. But it does stop squads from falling apart when people who shouldn't hook up do. Now they glower at each other from across camp instead of trying to strangle them in their sleep. Come on. We've got an assault in three days, and you need to eat."
An assault? "What assault?"
Illmar pointed, Marcus following the finger. They were in a valley, though not a particularly deep one, and a stream ran through the whole thing. Hundreds were near it, mostly to wash and bathe and gather water. But past that, half shrouded by mist, was a castle.
It wasn't huge, it wasn't beautiful, but it did block one side of the valley. And this army, whoever it belonged to, clearly needed to pass. More mist blew in and hid the fortification entirely, though it couldn't possibly house more than a thousand men.
Conventional wisdom dictated you'd need to outnumber the defending force three to one to take a castle. From the number of people near the water there couldn't be more than two thousand on the attackers side.
Wait, three days?
Marcus didn't voice that thought, not only because it sounded stupid but because it would make sneaking out harder. No way in hell was he going to join some random assault on some random castle.
Yet, as he ate flavorless soup and coal-baked bread he found that idea less than easy to execute. Elves roamed everywhere, always in pairs or more, and though he couldn't see the edge of the camp there would undoubtedly be sentries.
Bluffing his way out wouldn't work, not when he couldn't answer the most basic of questions, and without magic he couldn't force his way out. Speaking of magic, Marcus inhaled.
There was plenty of it in the air. Whatever the block did, it didn't quite stop him from feeling the flow of the arcane. Didn't stop him from interpreting its purpose and history. And this valley smelt of blackened stone and rotting corpses. Siege magic.
Take from magic everything that is elegant, add an irresponsible amount of power then remove every shred of compassion. That's how siege magic had been described in an old tome he'd read. Giant fireballs, lightning spears, rock-slides and more.
No aiming, no contemplating morality. Just power and death, fired from a position where it would surely hit someone you weren't supposed to like.
Marcus looked back at the castle. Yeah, better to risk the sentries. Fuck that. Fuck that with access to magic, and fuck that doubly without.
And he still needed to learn better curse words.
It seemed like no time at all before it was time to sleep, which Marcus did with an almost pathetic amount of gratitude, and he was woken up before the sun had even risen. His fear had turned into a low anxiety as Krasus guided him through chores, his sneer growing every time Marcus stumbled.
Elmus, surprisingly, helped him. The man didn't say anything, didn't even really look at him, but he helped. Marcus copied the silent soldier wordlessly, fingers aching before long.
And as the morning turned to noon, which Marcus quickly found to consist of drills, running and then more drills, he wasn't left alone. Ever. There was always someone from the squad close by. Always someone keeping an eye on him.
His skill did not increase. It hadn't in years, and even his father had given up on turning him into a fighter. Worse yet, as Krasus barked corrections while the sergeant led the rest of them through more advanced drills, Marcus was finding that his old instructors had gone easy on him.
Krasus did not. Bruises covered half his torso by dinner, and while magic was not a pain-free affair this was ridiculous. Marcus winced every time he had to twist his torso, every time he had to bend or take a step, and Illmar shoved a wooden box in his hands before they went to bed.
The ointment, whatever it was made out of, numbed some of the pain. Enough to sleep, if poorly, and the next day proved a repeat of the one before. Yet the day after that, the day before they were to go to battle, there were no drills.
Chores, yes, and some light exercise, but nothing else. When he wasn't looking for a chance to escape Marcus mostly found himself trying to worm his way past the block on his magic, stealing nervous glances at Pier. The designated water-fetcher, apparently, and also the one watching him at the moment.
There. Pier looked away, glancing at an Elf dragging an Orc into a tent, and Marcus stepped behind a passing Giant. One of its eyes looked down, moving independently from the others, but Marcus didn't pause to look back.
He got used to the long-dead races disturbingly easy. The constant anxiety helped.
Marcus kept moving, grateful now more than ever for his etiquette lessons. They taught useless things, like which fork to eat which salad with, but they also taught him how to belong. How to pretend to be confident no matter his emotional state.
A king who questions his own decisions is wise. A king who lets others see him question his own decisions will not be king for long.
His father had flaws, Marcus knew that, and he didn't agree with the quote entirely, but it had a certain ring to it.
Then a hand came down on his shoulder, sergeant Bobe glaring at him, and Marcus raised an eyebrow. Couldn't quite stop the flinch, but he hoped it was small enough the man wouldn't notice.
The sergeant noticed. "Going somewhere, private?"
"I got lost." Marcus replied promptly. The sergeant blinked at the sheer confidence in Marcus' tone, though he also didn't seem to care much. "I was told we didn't have drills on the day before battle."
"We don't. You do. Follow."
Marcus followed, suppressing the angry vitriol that threatened to spill forth. It would get him nothing but more bruises, and the sergeant seemed pissed enough as it was. Not obviously so, but he'd learned to read the body language of those with the ability and authority to beat him half to death.
An opportunity to ditch the man came not half a minute later, three Dwarves squaring off against a squad of Humans, but as Marcus waited for his sergeant to break up the fight the man just moved past them. Marcus blinked, seeing what might just be his last chance at not dying a horrible death vanish.
Fear made people stupid, he knew that. But despite what circumstances might suggest, he was not unaccustomed to fear. Of hesitating and pushing through with dangerous rituals despite the risk.
That was when he'd had magic, though. Without it he was significantly less confident, even if what he was doing was less dangerous in turn. It wasn't like he was expected to bind demons or bargain with devils.
No, he was just expected to assault a castle which possessed mages capable of siege magic. With a sword. Marcus stuttered and slowed, ignoring the glare the sergeant sent his way.
Holy Hells he was going to assault a castle.
Bobe's hand pushed him forward, and Marcus' mind going in circles as they went back to the camp. Fear became panic which became dread, sleep coming only hesitantly and in the early hours of the morning.
And of course it wasn't even close to morning when he was woken up. Stiff, cold fingers worked on the straps of his armor, a bowl of hot slop pushed into his hands when he stepped outside. The whole camp was as busy as an anthill, captains and lieutenants stalking throughout.
He hadn't seen much of either these past few days, but now they seemed to be absolutely everywhere. Collecting sergeants, inspecting gear, Marcus was pretty sure he saw an Orc get beheaded for refusing to join the battle.
Marcus swallowed, sticking close to those he knew. For all that the sergeant was a dick and Krasus enjoyed training him a little too much, both seemed competent. Confident, even. So he and his followed a captain, joining some fifteen gathered squads overall, and Marcus found only Humans among them.
Illmar saw him looking, tone low as he spoke. "We're the frontal assault. First up the ladders, first to fight. The Elves will pick off anyone sticking their heads over the battlements, the Orcs and Giants are assaulting the gate."
"The Dwarves?" Marcus asked, not particularly interested. Anything to distract himself, though. "Wait, how many Giants do we have?"
"Four. We should have at least ten to assault a fortress like this. The Empire convinced too many clans to stay neutral."
Illmar shot Elmus a look. Marcus hadn't heard the potato obsessed man speak that much since he got here, though the use of the word Empire was curious. As far as Marcus knew, there'd only ever been one Empire worth the name on his continent. Did that mea-
"Look alive." The sergeant whispered harshly. Marcus snapped his head to look at the man, seeing the trees had thinned at some point. The fog hadn't, and Marcus saw each squad carrying a ladder. Where had those come from? "When I say run, you run and you don't stop until your face hits that wall."
Wall? Marcus strained his eyes, realizing the shape in the not-so-far distance was in fact the castle walls. He swallowed.
Krasus passed around a flask, Marcus seeing Illmar taking a drink before passing it to Elmus. Then Elmus passed it to Pier, who passed it to the sergeant, who passed it to him. Marcus drank, the horrid burn of cheap rum a welcome distraction.
Before he could manage to make a fool out of himself by coughing loudly, someone started running. The sergeant cursed, and before Marcus knew what was happening he was running too. Out past the trees, over the clearing and towards the wall.
Arrows rained down alongside low-level spellfire, though none hit him. He ignored the screams of pain out of sheer panic, his mind focussing to a point. Get to the wall. No one gets shot when they're against the wall.
His shoulder slammed against stone, seeing he was the last of his squad to make it. Illmar slapped him on the shoulder and pushed him aside, Elmus and Pier pushing up the ladder. Marcus looked up, the wall looming over him.
Fifteen feet doesn't seem that high until you have to climb it. The sergeant pulled at him, pushing him up against the ladder. Someone screamed, someone close by, and Marcus refused to look. Put his feet on wood and climbed, very nearly falling off as something impacted him from above.
Marcus couldn't help himself and looked, regretting it the moment he did. Krasus laid on the ground with a bolt sticking out of his face, entering at the chin. Dwarf, his mind supplied, shooting with an upwards angle.
He kept climbing, blood pounding in his ears. The smell of burnt hair started to fill the air, the ladder seemed to stretch on forever, and then Marcus found it far too short. He heaved, pushing himself up and onto the wall as the sergeant barked from behind.
There was a Dwarf there, reloading a crossbow. She cursed and dropped it, hands going for an axe at her side. Marcus lashed out, sword striking her over the head. She staggered, Marcus pushing her away with a kick.
She fell off the other side, a short scream escaping her lungs before it cut off abruptly. Marcus felt his stomach heave and didn't notice the Orc charging him from the side, though the slab of muscle didn't reach him.
The sergeant pulled himself over the wall, sword slashing at the Orc's neck. Blood flowed. The man nodded to Marcus, making him nod back instinctively, then he turned right. Three soldiers bellowed a challenge and ran towards them, Marcus realising there was nowhere to run.
Before the soldiers even reached them an arrow took the sergeant through the neck. Marcus traced its path dumbly. He found a group of Elves picking off anyone managing to get over the wall, and before he could express how fucked they were the three soldiers had closed the distance.
The hammer he only barely dodged, the sword he blocked and the third woman's axe bit into his side. Marcus gasped, stumbling as the air was knocked out of his lungs, furiously trying to ready his sword for another block. The weak defence was knocked aside again by the hammer, the sword finding a gap in his armor.
Then again, and again.
Marcus collapsed, pain screaming through his body as he bled. Someone wailed, he wailed, and by some circumstance of luck he landed with a view of the gate. The gate that the Giants had smashed through, hundreds of Orcs and Dwarves streaming through at their heels.
Magic filled the air and prickled at Marcus' senses. By some twisted virtue it soothed him even as he watched a stream of white-hot fire wash over those attacking the gate. A translucent shield-bubble went up, but it had always been easier to kill with magic than to defend against it. It didn't even hold for a full three seconds.
He felt his body go cold, a welcome distraction from the sharp pain, and Giants roared as Dwarves were cooked in their armor.
A trap. He thought, vision fading at the edges as he watched hundreds burn alive. It was a trap.
"Get up." The man barked. Marcus blinked, letting out a deep breath as the absence of pain fully registered. He looked around, his mind stuttering from the abrupt change. "Drag him if he refuses to walk."
Marcus felt a pair of hands pull him up, blinking at the very much alive sergeant. He looked around, finding himself exactly where he'd woken up days ago.
"What the fuck?"
Afterword
And no, I did not forget to mark this as a time-loop story. Strange, isn't it?
Discord (The first four chapters are on it, I guess?) [Check author profile or pinned comment on the chapter.]