Soldiers of Crow's Nest

This notebook had not been given to him by the system. Erwin had written it out word by word. He closed it and set it on the table.

"This isn't urgent," he said.

"As for construction, we'll first get the fortifications and training grounds built. Repair the walls and watchtowers first. Leave the collapsed section of the main building alone for now. As long as there's enough room to live in, that's fine.

"Once the training grounds are finished, the soldiers' daily training can be more systematic and efficient. The costs of these two projects won't exceed our current funds, so they can proceed at the same time."

"When I'm away, discuss manor affairs with Karl and handle them accordingly," he said. "Tomorrow, I'll announce the appointments."

Erwin's pen stopped over the paper. He said nothing, only looked at Ron.

"You will be the steward of Calrad Manor."

"Karl will be the military steward."

Erwin set down his pen and nodded. "All right."

Two mornings later, a group arrived at Crow's Nest—the first garrison patrol dispatched by Crow's Nest, a dozen or so men.

They carried several halberds rusted beyond recognition. The leader at the front wore a half-suit of armor and had an old Velen sword at his waist. Judging by his face, he had likely served under the baron for years.

Ten soldiers were already lined up at the manor gate, ready to leave with Ron for Crow's Nest. This was one of the baron's conditions.

Every week, they would go to Crow's Nest to take part in garrison duty and patrols. If Ron was absent, the soldiers would rotate through the assignment. Today was his first time going there after receiving his appointment as sergeant major.

When the two groups faced each other at the gate, the soldiers from Crow's Nest all froze for a moment.

They knew why they had come, and they knew the men opposite them were doing the same job. But standing together, they did not look like they belonged to the same side at all.

The Crow's Nest soldiers carried spears with shafts of varying lengths, their spearheads wobbling on the poles, and their armor was a patchwork of mismatched pieces. Meanwhile, the row of iron-armored soldiers opposite them stood still, their lances held as straight as if measured with a ruler.

The two sides glanced at each other without saying anything, then handed over the patrol zone map and the password for changing shifts.

The Crow's Nest soldiers entered the manor gates, while Ron led his men down the road to Crow's Nest.

Ron did nothing else on his first day at Crow's Nest. He patrolled—two circuits of the outskirts in the morning, then through the village along the main road in the afternoon.

The villagers of Crow's Nest had recently grown somewhat used to seeing these soldiers in purple surcoats coming and going, but when Ron rode past, some still instinctively shut their doors.

More people reacted differently than before, though. Fewer shut their doors, and those squatting by the roadside did not get up and run away.

A few children even followed the patrol for half a street before Miko looked back at them, sending them scattering.

The Crow's Nest soldiers changed the most. The first time they walked together, the Crow's Nest men stayed on the left while the manor soldiers stayed on the right, neither side getting near the other.

After returning from patrol, the leader muttered, "Damn it, why is walking with these people so tiring?"

It was not physical exhaustion. The two sides simply marched at completely different rhythms, even though the manor soldiers did not walk quickly.

Every step they took landed at the same cadence. After following them for a while, the Crow's Nest men began to pant. Their legs were not weak—the rhythm had simply dragged them along.

During their second joint patrol, an old soldier noticed someone among the cavalry watching him.

It was not a stare. It was the kind of look that swept over him, withdrew, and memorized his position.

The old soldier was drinking with a companion while squatting by a doorway. He said, "When those people walk beside me, I don't feel like I'm on patrol. I feel like I'm being inspected."

On the third day, a young soldier was sent to help the manor men move supplies. He was carrying a crate of cured meat and was about to ask where it should go when he caught sight of something in the corner.

A man stood there with his back to him, a bow resting at his side.

He had grown up in a village in Velen and had followed his father into the woods to hunt deer since childhood. The best bow he had ever seen was Old Tom's longbow—eighty pounds, and only two people in the whole village could draw it. His father was one of them.

Old Tom treated that bow like his life and never let anyone touch it. Yet the bow at this man's side was a full foot longer than Old Tom's, its limbs a whole size thicker.

It was not decorative. It was solid, heavy craftsmanship built from sheer material. The bow had no lacquer, only the natural color of wood, with the places repeatedly gripped polished bright.

The man looked up and saw him staring blankly at the bow. He smiled, nocked an arrow, and drew it—not at anything in particular, just casually.

The limbs bent into a deep arc, the string pulled back to the corner of his mouth, where it paused before slowly easing back. The entire motion showed no effort at all, as easy as pulling a length of clothesline.

"How many pounds is that bow...?" he asked hesitantly.

The man smiled again, said something he could not understand, then spoke two words in stiff Common.

"Very heavy."

He later learned it was called a Heavy Woodland Longbow. After returning to the barracks, he secretly told two fellow soldiers about it.

The three of them slipped into one of the group's temporary armories while they were away and found the bow.

He strained with both hands until his face turned red, but he could not draw the string even halfway as far as that man had with a casual pull.

He put the bow back. The three were silent for a while before he muttered, "Fuck, what the hell did these people grow up eating?"

Another evening, that same soldier squatted beside the training grounds and secretly watched the group train.

Two men were sparring with wooden swords, but the sound was nothing like wooden swords should have made. It was not a dull thud, but a sharp crack, like thunder exploding.

Every collision between the two figures shook dust up from the ground at the edge of the field. He saw one of them use some kind of technique, knocking his opponent's wooden sword into the air. It slammed into the ground and sent up a cloud of dust.

"Good!" he shouted.

The two men stopped and looked at him. He tried to run, but his legs would not obey.

The man who had knocked away his opponent's weapon tossed him a wooden sword. The hilt struck into his arms, and he caught it in a fluster, his palms slick with sweat.

He charged in. Three seconds later, he was lying in the mud, his ass smashed into who knew how many pieces.

The man reached down and pulled him to his feet, patted his shoulder, and said something to the person beside him that he could not understand.

The other man laughed. He later learned that the man's Common was not very fluent, and that what he had said meant, "This kid's got guts."

One night at the Crow's Nest camp, several soldiers sat around the entrance to the barracks, drinking ale.

A Crow's Nest veteran who had dealt with Ron three times downed half a cup and slammed it onto the ground.

"That sergeant major," he said. "When I first heard about him, I figured the baron had just casually handed out another title. You know what the baron's like. Once, when he got drunk, he nearly made a stray dog patrol captain."

The two men beside him laughed.

"But this man is different," the veteran said.

"That day, he went into the baron's hall and talked with him alone for ages. The baron personally stamped and signed his appointment papers. Have any of you ever seen the baron stamp papers for someone else? I haven't."

Another man chimed in. "The soldiers under him are the same. I don't know where they came from, but they're definitely not from Temeria.

"I've stood guard with Temerian veterans. Those men sigh and complain. These people don't. When they walk through camp, they barely even chat."

"It's not that they don't chat," said the man beside him—the young soldier who had been thrown into the mud earlier.

"They speak differently. I've heard them, but I can't understand a word. It isn't a dialect from anywhere in the North. Their pronunciation is short, every word hard, like stones smashing against stones."

Everyone fell silent for a while.

The veteran raised his bowl and took another swig. "I only know one thing. Thank goodness they're on our side. If they weren't, we wouldn't be drinking here right now. We'd be lying in the swamp, waiting for drowners to carry off our corpses."

No one argued with him.