A Sergeant's Ire

"Your first placement is with Outer Patrol Three. It's the least dangerous of the three patrols in our jurisdiction. You'll be placed alongside the main thoroughfare. Your duty is to guide people if they ask and to learn how to properly apprehend someone should they be in violation of our laws. Don't worry about any of the legal business; your partner is the sergeant of the patrol. Do your best to learn from him, Jacob," Lieutenant Edward told him the following morning.

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best," Jacob promised. He turned and approached the gathering guardsmen. All were wearing dull, iron armor, but bright tabards in the kingdom's colors covered the heavy plate. Jacob thought the blue and green led for an easily identifiable combination. Seeking the sergeant the lieutenant had pointed out, Jacob searched for a small, bald guardsman. It wasn't hard to find him.

"Are you Sergeant Ross, sir?" Jacob asked the man politely once he entered earshot.

"Aye, that'd be me. You're the newbie?" the man grumbled. He looked Jacob up and down, disdain clearly evident. "You wear that armor like a moron, kid. You look like you'll blow over with a bit of a breeze."

"I assure you, sir, I am more resilient than that," Jacob's temper rose. He'd never been the built type, but he was happy with his improvements in the past few months. He didn't need a sergeant telling him otherwise. After all, what could he change?

"I hope you are, for your sake. We don't usually deal with the tough types, but when we do, someone always dies," the man growled, turning about on his heels, and leaving Jacob behind. The rest of Outer Patrol Three, a group of dour-faced men, followed their leader outside the compound. With a shake of his head, Jacob wondered if he'd learn anything from the combative sergeant.

It was not destined to be so. Jacob followed the man like a lost puppy, an appearance at odds with his impressively armored self. The people on the main street gave them a wide berth, but even some of them glanced at Jacob with amusement glinting in their eyes.

A couple of times, he was asked to provide directions to a part of town he had never head before, irritating the sergeant when he deferred the questions onto him. If the man was going to hate him for hate's sake, then might as well give him a valid reason to. For the most part, they avoided any kind of confrontation. Sergeant Ross did lead Jacob around the road in a wild goose chase after a beggar, once. It had been the highlight of the day to see the sergeant tire before he did, despite Jacob having never worn armor nearly so heavy as this. Praise to Will.

Towards the end of the shift, when the armor was beginning to chafe and his body grew weary, Jacob heard a shriek from one of the side streets. He made to investigate when an armored hand pulled him away. "That's Patrol Two's job. Not ours. Don't go set a precedent, newbie," Ross said, trudging along the route.

"Will they get there in time? There's only four pairs of them," Jacob asked, biting back the proud part of himself that demanded he speak to the short man as little as possible.

"They always do. Don't go worrying about that. That's how we get extra duties," Ross replied, helpfully for once. The response mollified Jacob, convincing him that whoever had screamed would receive aid in little time. When Sergeant Ross and Jacob returned to the guardhouse, Jacob eagerly climbed out of his armor. A deathtrap, it was.

He found his bunk at the end of the barracks, a small, but long, building consisting of forty-eight cots. Sixteen for each patrol. The first patrol wasn't even really a patrol, but the name was such to remain consistent. They were the ones responsible for manning the gate. Patrol Two monitored the side streets in the mile or two radius about the guardhouse. It was the most physically strenuous and the most dangerous work, so they were better compensated than those in the Jacob's patrol. Only half the cots were ever in use; those with day and night shifts lived in the same building.

Heck, even their beds were better. Not that Jacob could complain; anything was better than that decaying straw bag he slept on at the Happy Hog. Jacob dropped his things but retained his sword. It was a special perk given to members of the military and the guard; the legal right to bear arms at all times. In the villages, the laws didn't matter so much and the mercenaries took full advantage of that fact to brandish their weapons in broad daylight. In Steelshade, the law was strict, and the only people that could carry weapons unbound by cloth wrappings and rope were the guard and the soldiers.

Jacob made his way to the taverns, ones of higher quality than the Happy Hog's common room. Spending a couple copper extra on a drink was well worth it; tonight he celebrated his new job, even if it wasn't the most enjoyable of work.

Asking around, he was told that the best place to get a drink was the "Prized Pint." It was an apt name. The prices were exorbitant, but Jacob shelled out all of his money to buy a mug or two of beer. He supposed he wasn't just paying for the alcohol, though. There was entertainment in the form of a lute player. Some songs he hadn't heard before, and he spent extra time memorizing the notes so that he could try learning them himself later.

It was late in the night when he left, still mostly clear of head but certainly lighter of purse. A single copper jiggled around, jumping with every step. It was a sad state of affairs for the poor bag. Jacob was walking up the main street towards the interior of the city and his bed, when he heard another scream as he had earlier in the day. Without a grumpy sergeant to stop him, Jacob sprinted to investigate.