TSA: Chapter Thirty-Seven: Merit’s Due

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Merit’s Due

Faywyn 4th Moon, 27th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The sun had not yet crested the distant hills, though the pale grey of dawn had begun its slow, inevitable creep across the heavens. A low mist clung to the earth, beading on the grass and the rough wood of the tents that still lined the trampled fields outside the town. The banners of the von Grifenburgs fluttered faintly in the breeze, their snapping the only sound in this quiet hour.

Donner rose before the sun, as was his habit, the pale light of early morning filtering through the slats in the shuttered window. His arms still ached from the relentless heft of his pike, and his ribs bore the memory of the strike that had nearly felled him. He had been lucky, the healers had said. A step closer, and his insides might have spilt into the mud alongside Trim and the others.

He swung his legs off the cot, the straw-stuffed mattress creaking under his weight. Around him, the barracks stirred to life. Men grumbled, the rustle of blankets mingling with the clink of mail as those on early duty strapped on their gear.

Donner rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reached for his boots, sturdy leather things that had seen better days but held together well enough. As he laced them, his mind flicked to the previous day when the Commander had announced his elevation to Sergeant. The knight’s words echoed in his mind, a refrain he could not shake. Though no one really understood what such an elevation truly meant, the men of the militia had cheered for him regardless, Mob louder than any of the others. But in the silence of this morning, it felt less like triumph and more like weight—a burden he was only beginning to understand.

Outside his tent, the camp was stirring. A few men milled about, yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. The fires had burned low, their embers glowing faintly in the mist. Mob was seated on a stump not far from the mess line, gnawing on a hunk of blackened bread. His face lit up when he spotted Donner.

“Sergeant Donner,” Mob called, his grin wide enough to split his face. “Fancy seeing you up so early. Eager to meet the good lord, are you?”

Donner shook his head as he approached. “Not quite.”

“No? Then what’s got you awake before the crows? The keep’s not going anywhere, you know. You’ve time to sleep in now, with all the glory you’ve earned.” Mob’s tone was light, but there was something behind it—a flicker of envy, perhaps, or a bitterness he couldn’t quite hide.

“Glory,” Donner repeated, his voice flat. “That what you think this is?”

Mob shrugged, tearing off another bite of bread. “It’s what they say, isn’t it? Glory and honour and all that shite. Doesn’t matter if the rest of us are mucking about in the trenches so long as someone gets a fancy title and a purse to match. Don’t get me wrong, mate, I’m happy for you. Just saying, you’re lucky to be alive to enjoy it.”

Donner said nothing, his gaze drifting to the makeshift memorial that stood near the centre of the camp. It was little more than a pile of stones, hastily gathered and arranged in memory of the fallen. Those who had a better grasp of their letters than others had scratched the names of the fallen on the rocks. Donner had personally etched Trim’s name had been scratched onto one of them, alongside a dozen others. He could almost hear the dead Sawyer’s voice now, laughing at Mob’s bluster and calling him a fool. He turned away, the weight in his chest growing heavier.

“You think they’ll promote me next?” Mob asked, his voice breaking the silence. “I held the line same as you. Maybe not as well as you, sure, but I was there. Reckon they’ll need more sergeants soon enough, with the way things are going.”

Donner’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. If you survive the next battle.”

Mob’s grin faltered, just for a moment, before he waved the comment away. “Ah, you’re always so bloody serious. Lighten up, mate. It’s a good thing, what you’ve done. What you’ve earned. You should enjoy it.”

Donner didn’t reply. He glanced at the sky, the grey of dawn shifting toward pale gold. It was time.

The sun had not yet crested the hills when Donner reached the Keep, its weathered stone walls rising like a sentinel over the mist-laden fields. Around him, fourteen others gathered in the courtyard, each bearing the look of men who had earned their place here—and the scars to prove it. They were the newly named sergeants of the militia, plucked from the ranks by merit and hardened in the fires of battle. Some wore expressions of pride, others of quiet determination. Donner’s face, in comparison, betrayed little

A trumpet’s note pierced the morning air, and the heavy doors of the keep swung open. A knighted man emerged, his sharp-nosed visage framed by the golden light spilling from within. “Men,” he called, his voice clipped and formal. “Follow me. Your lord awaits.”

The group shuffled into a wide hall dominated by a dais at its far end. There, Lord Levi stood beneath the twin banners of his house: a red field emblazoned with a black, armoured gryphon rampant. Though younger than Donner, the lord’s presence filled the room. When the last of them had fallen into a rough line, the ruler of Faywyn stepped forward. His voice was steady, carrying easily to every corner of the chamber.

“You stand here today because you have proven yourselves in the fires of battle. Men of lesser courage fell, and yet you held. Men of lesser discipline faltered, and yet you stood firm. For that, I name you sergeants, to lead and to bear the weight of command. But know this: titles alone will not suffice. You must rise to the task. You must learn, and you must grow, for the burden of leadership is heavier than any pike or shield.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them. “To aid you in this, I have assembled men of knowledge and skill, experts in their craft, to guide you. Today marks the beginning of that journey. You will learn the art of strategy, the discipline of logistics, the craft of fortification, and the ways of diplomacy. You will know the land as a surveyor knows his map, and you will understand the men you lead as a mason understands his stone. If you succeed, you will forge a company that can stand against any foe. If you fail… you will not.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Levi’s gaze lingered on them a moment longer before he stepped back. He gestured to Ser Carter, the Knight Commander, who stepped forward to take his place. The grizzled man’s voice was as rough-hewn as his visage.

“Welcome to your new station,” Ser Carter began, surveying the group with an appraising eye. “Make no mistake, this is no idle honour. You have earned the right to stand here, but what you do next will determine whether you keep it. Let us begin.”

He gestured to a board mounted on the wall behind him, upon which was inscribed the chain of command. “This is the order of authority in Lord Levi’s forces,” he said, pointing to the topmost position. “At the pinnacle stands the Lord himself, whose word is law. Beneath him is myself, the Knight Commander. Below me, you will find the Knight Lieutenants, who command specific divisions of our forces. Reporting to them are the Knight Standards, honoured men responsible for fortifying the will of my lieutenants as they do mine. Below them stand you, the sergeants who will lead the smaller units, and finally, the enlisted men in said units who look to you for guidance.”

Carter’s finger traced the chain back to its peak. “Never forget your place in this order. Each link in the chain relies on the others. If you falter, the entire structure weakens. Now, as to your education.”

He stepped aside as a procession of figures who were previously in the background stepped forward, each bearing tools or tokens of their craft. “You will be instructed by the finest minds at your Lord’s disposal,” Carter announced.

First came a tall, wiry man with ink-stained fingers and a weathered satchel slung over one shoulder. “This is Garth Holbrook, a surveyor and cartographer. He will teach you to read and draw maps, to know the land as if it were the back of your hand. Geography and cartography are the foundation of strategy.”

Next was a wiry old man with a ledger tucked under one arm. “Steward Robert, master of Faywyn’s finances. Logistics is his domain, and you will learn to manage the lifeblood of any army—food, arms, and coin.”

A burly, grizzled figure followed, his hands calloused and his clothes streaked with chalk. “Master Bertram,” Carter said, “the mason who oversees the maintenance of Faywyn’s Keep and Harbour. He will instruct you in masonry and fortifications, teaching you how to build and how to destroy.”

The last two men were introduced with little fanfare. “These two men are Wren and Torran, the first a forester and the other a trapper. You will learn from them the way of the woods.” 

“And finally, Lord Levi himself will guide you in diplomacy, strategy, and warcraft,” Carter said in the end. “From him, you will learn the rules of negotiation, the balance of power, and the art of war.”

The Knight Commander turned back to the sergeants. “These men are your tutors, but they are also your tests. Learn from them, prove yourselves to them, and you will become the leaders this army needs. Dismissed.”