Chapter 9

- Company - stand up! We obey the order of the Corps commander, Colonel Heverad! - Drancon glanced at the frozen ranks of spearmen, shining with polished steel armor - fifteen squads of those who came to training from civilian life several months ago - men who had never held spears before. Most of them were very young boys - they recruited from the age of sixteen. However - who checked this age? As long as the shoulders were broad and the arms were strong. And how old is he - what does it matter? He will die just like adults.

The ranks of infantrymen froze, as if holding their breath - could it really be that what they had been thinking about all these months had happened? What they had been preparing for with difficult days, from dawn to dusk - war? Was it time for them to go to war?

- Colonel Heverad, this is to announce: for outstanding service, Corporal Ned Black is being promoted to sergeant! - The dragon looked around at the stunned soldiers, paused, and added - any soldier who serves honestly and conscientiously, serving as an example to his comrades, may be promoted to sergeant, with a corresponding increase in pay and benefits. Sergeant Ned Black, step down!

Ned, more stunned than his comrades, took three steps forward, pivoted sharply on his shoulder, and made a military salute - his hand, clenched into a fist, thrown above his head, then returned to its place - on the short spear with which he stood in the front rank.

The dragon examined the newly-minted sergeant's equipment, nodded his head with satisfaction – everything was polished, everything was shiny, not a spot anywhere, then he commanded:

- Disperse for lunch! Assemble on signal! - and quietly added - Ned, follow me. Let's talk.

Drancon walked forward, not looking to see if Ned was following him. He followed, carrying a spear over his shoulder and holding a short sword at his belt with the other hand.

As Ned walked, he kept thinking about the news – what could it mean? And why on earth had he suddenly become a sergeant, practically a junior officer in the army, the only officer the corps commander could appoint without any training. No – Ned wasn't against it, but what could it mean? Suddenly – bam! And it's done! And he knows almost nothing about the service, how could he possibly compare to such tough guys as Sergeant Drancon?!

They went into the house where Drancon lived - the sergeant refused to live in the officers' town, his whole life was spent on the base, so he lived here. The other sergeants lived in the city, some had their own families.

Drancon took off his tall cap with relief and nodded to Ned:

- Take off your helmet and armor, let your shoulders rest. You'll still get some iron.

Ned nodded, unlatched the clasps of his carapace, and pulled off the heavy armor of a first-rank fighter. He carefully placed everything on a wide bench by the wall and, remaining in the special quilted clothing worn under his equipment, looked questioningly at Drankon.

- Sit down - he nodded - drink - it's water with agura juice - sour, quenches thirst well. I bet questions are spinning in your head, huh? - The dragon grinned out of the corner of his mouth - they were spinning in his own. I tried to find out - what was it? And I couldn't. Are you fucking the colonel's daughter there? Or maybe a relative of his mistress? Okay, don't frown. I myself was stunned today - a messenger brought a package, I read it - everything is correct. You are a sergeant. Went for an explanation. You were granted an audience with the base commander. Exactly - no doubt. You were awarded the rank of sergeant. Probably for that fight, or something. Someone told me that the colonel won a lot of money in that fight. However - so did I. Maybe for this they awarded the recruit the rank of junior officer? We can only guess. Okay. Do you at least understand what you are supposed to do? Usually, we are given a sergeant from among the veterans who have proven themselves in combat. Those who have already worked at least one contract and know what to do in any circumstances. You are a zero. If you are put in charge of a company now, you will ruin it. A sergeant is a field commander who closely monitors how his company fights and quickly closes gaps. A lieutenant is responsible for two companies, for their interaction with other specialties. Tomorrow we begin training with swordsmen and crossbowmen. Do you know how to interact with them? No. That's too bad.

Drancon sighed, paused, and added gloomily:

- I will teach. Not only them, but you too. What can I do? I was told to train you to command a company of spearmen as soon as possible. So you will have one hundred and fifty men under your command. Are you happy? I see - not happy at all - laughed Drancon - but what can you do? The commander's orders are not discussed. He knows better who to appoint, who to promote and who to execute. Oh well! But now you have a better chance of surviving. The front ranks are usually the first to fall when confronted by an enemy army. Then the rest of the spearmen. Then it's the turn of the swordsmen - they fight in the closest combat. We are the vanguard unit, meeting the enemy head-on. Oh well, don't be sad - you now have "carrots" that are unavailable to ordinary soldiers. Now your salary is three gold pieces a week. For villagers, that's a lot of money! You can even go to the officers' quarters, rent an apartment outside the base, and come and go to the base whenever you need to. No pass required. You have two days off a week, and you can eat with the officers or the soldiers, whichever you prefer. What else... the uniform is better quality and prettier. You can live in the junior officers' barracks here. By the way, I highly recommend moving there if you're not planning on renting a room in town. There will be less familiarity, which is not encouraged. A soldier should be at a distance from an officer. A corporal is a different matter, he's practically a senior soldier. But a sergeant is already an officer. So... what else? You hand over your gear to the warehouse, and get a sergeant's combat gear. What kind? Chainmail, a long sword, a dagger, an oval shield. Now you don't have to stand in line, you have to lead the soldiers, giving commands to the signalmen. Any questions?

- Hmm...let me figure it out now...I'm stunned. No, that's not the word - I...

- And me too - ... And what will you do? Service. I am not surprised by anything anymore. I have seen a lot over the long years of service. I am sure you will make a good sergeant, you just need to be trained properly. Otherwise, you will ruin the case and destroy people. Who would you appoint as a corporal instead of yourself?

- You know better, Mr. Drancon...

- Hmmm... funny. I thought you were going to name one of your friends - Oydar, or Arnot. But look at you. By the way - you can call me by my name - Lisard, and on a familiar basis. Now we have the same rank. It is customary for us to call our fellow sergeants "you". And by name - when addressing them informally, of course. On duty - it depends. So - your friends are not suitable for the position of corporal? Be honest!

- No. Maybe Arnot, but he has no authority. Oydar is hot-blooded, he might not be able to handle it. He needs supervision himself. You... you know the company people better, put them there yourself. By the way, I don't understand about the company. After all, you're a sergeant here. This is your company.

– I'm a training sergeant, boy. When you go into battle, you'll have another sergeant. And I'll stay behind and wait for new recruits. After you go to war, your numbers will be greatly reduced. So there'll be a new intake soon… Before you sail, you were supposed to be handed over to new sergeants, and you spend about two weeks getting used to each other. I tell the sergeant about the company, he looks up who's who, and… that's it. Traditionally, after your assignment, you have three days off, starting tomorrow. You arrange your life, think about where you'll live, get your uniform, party, drink, and then you come and start learning to be a sergeant. Got it?

- I see. Can we do this without drinking? - Ned smiled.

- Yes, but not advisable. How can you be a soldier and not get drunk?! Just kidding, just kidding... I know you don't drink. It's strange, actually. Do you have some kind of vow that prevents you from drinking? Your health seems fine. What's the matter? People who are different from others always arouse suspicion. If you don't drink with the group, it means you're either sick or planning to rat on security by relaying conversations at the table. Many people will think so, keep that in mind.

"Why don't I drink wine?" Ned asked again. "Because I don't like it. It's… bitter!"

For a while the Dragon sat silently, looking at Ned, his lips twitching as if from the cold, then he could not help but laugh so hard that tears ran down his eyes:

- Bitter?! Oh, he killed me... what a joke... I thought he was joking, but he really was. A child is a child... Don't be offended, boy. I'm old enough to be your father. I've seen a lot, but this... pure soul, how did you end up here? - he asked sadly, finishing laughing. - I can't understand you. It's almost impossible to meet a more righteous person, dude. And at the same time - I close my eyes and see that guy's head. You killed him like you swatted a fly. Without emotion, without regret. Was that the first person you killed? - Drancon asked unexpectedly, not expecting an answer.

- No.

- How many?

- Ten. They were bad people. They came to kill me, and they killed my friend. I didn't want to kill them, they...

- Quiet, quiet! That's it! It's in the past, don't burden me with your problems. I'm not your mother or father. If I killed them, they deserved it. Knowing you, I'm sure you wouldn't kill a fly for no reason. That's it, boy, run away from here. Go to the officers' mess for lunch. Hand over the hardware after lunch, there's no one in the warehouse anyway - everyone's run off to eat, the damned gluttons. Well, what else can I say - good luck, sergeant! Serve. Survive...

There was no one in the barracks - except for the orderly. He looked at Ned with curiosity, nodding his head - of course, the news that the soldier had been promoted to sergeant by order of the colonel had spread throughout the Corps like a hurricane wind.

This was, of course, an exceptional case. Usually such appointments took place after military actions, from those soldiers who had really distinguished themselves in the war, and not only by individual actions, but mainly in group military skirmishes. For example, a sergeant was killed, and a soldier (a corporal) took command of the company. And here - for what? Well - he fought in a duel, yes. He beautifully tore off the enemy's head (why, one wonders?!). And what, now all the duelists will be made officers? These thoughts were written on the face of the orderly, and also - he was thinking them.

Ned rarely turned on his extrasensory perception now, although he had learned to slightly dampen the background of general thoughts when he was going to eavesdrop on the thoughts of a particular object. He simply lost interest. Listening to friends - so they say what they think. Listen to soldiers? Why? Find out about how they drank, how they tumbled with a dirty woman? What's the interest in that? No - well, it's educational, yeah. Ned was not very enlightened about women, and at first he was very interested and amused by some details of physical love between men and women, described by soldiers and presented by them in the form of pictures. But when you listen to it for the hundred and thirtieth time, in all its details, the novelty is lost, and it all just gets boring. And there's no need for unnecessary excitement...

Ned was a healthy, sexually mature guy, not stupid, and quickly grasping what was what. He, like all young men of that age, wanted a woman, dreamed of a woman, women came to him in his dreams – beckoning, smiling, sparkling with their smooth, attractive bodies… Waking up, he sometimes discovered that he had received a discharge in his sleep, and while washing, avoiding his comrades, who unashamedly discussed the process of self-satisfaction, he went away to the side and washed himself in the shower, not wanting to put his problems and dreams on display.

To be honest, that time when his friends asked him to meet a girl at the Red Stallion, he regretted refusing. At first, he regretted it. And his polite speech about puddles was nothing more than fear that someone, for example a girl, would find out how uneducated and inept he was.

Ned was annoyed to discover that he had this quality - slight vanity. How could anyone know that he was so uneducated, inept, ignorant of simple things? And this after Ned had become known throughout the corps as a skilled fighter?

After discovering this bad trait in himself, Ned began to resolutely suppress his vanity and timidity. Too shy to ask? He goes and asks. Can't do it? He goes and asks someone who can. It was like that during military exercises, and it was like that during learning to read and write.

Oddly enough, people were happy to show and tell Ned everything he asked. It was nice to realize that such a formidable fighter, respected Ned, didn't know something! The person he asked seemed to rise above himself, to rise in his own eyes, and he was pleased. And since he was pleased at Ned's expense, it meant that Ned was associated with pleasure, with a good mood. Therefore, Ned had excellent relations with most of the soldiers he communicated with.

Yes, there were exceptions. Envious people, spiteful people, and also those whom he forced to follow the rules, to serve. The same Ditas, whom Ned laid out in the tavern, almost killing him. The criminal had made friends, the same as himself - including from other companies. But he did not touch Ned, did not bother him, trying not to even approach him, because Ned did not probe his thoughts. And why probe? He lives and lives, and the demon with him. Ned was not going to be friends with him, so ... does he care?

Having packed his things into the bag, Ned looked at his bed, neatly made as he had been taught. He had spent several months here, and it must be admitted that it had been the best time of his life. He even felt a little sad - his friends were staying, and he was leaving... How would he be friends with Oydar and Arnot now? Wouldn't the guys look at him as an upstart, as someone who was no longer acceptable to communicate with? The authorities, they say... He, personally, was not going to end the friendship, but how would they look at it all?

Sighing, he shouldered two bags - with armor and clothes - and wandered out of the barracks. At the entrance, he grabbed his spear from the pyramid, polished to a shine by his palms over many months of training, and headed for the military warehouse located behind the headquarters.

The arsenal building, built of large white stones, loomed over the headquarters like a huge landing craft would over a small fishing boat. And it was no wonder it was so big – the warehouse stored everything from weapons and armor to laces and buttons. Everything a soldier needed to cheerfully lay his head on the altar of state power and go to his grave praising the generosity of the king.

On the other side of the warehouse building there were food warehouses, half buried in the ground and filled with sacks of cereals, dried meat, corned beef – basically, everything that could be stored for a long time and that could be eaten here and taken with you on a business trip. These products might not have been very tasty, but they were nutritious, and they could be stored for a long time even in the damp sea climate, for example, on ships.

Colonel Kheverad strictly monitored the safety of the contents of the warehouses and once ordered cats to be brought in to fight the rats, which he hated with every fiber of his soul - real rats and office rats. He could not exterminate the latter, no matter how much he wanted to, but for the former he ordered a gift - rat-catching cats, once bred in Isfira.

War is war, but the turnover of goods between the states proceeded smoothly, without delays, and soon striped, huge cats reigned in the warehouses, mercilessly dealing with tailed terrorists. After that, the soldiers stopped finding rat tails in their cutlets and mouse shit in their porridge.

The cats multiplied and often walked around the parade ground even during drill exercises, looking with displeasure at the stomping people, who for some reason did not understand that it was time for a cat walk and were disturbing their peace.

These striped bandits have become a symbol of the Marine Corps, just like the tall caps with the three shiny letters KMP. The cats were not touched, not offended, and the soldiers even fed them, bringing the overfed cats the bits left over from lunch. At one time, the colonel even forbade feeding the cats – under threat of reprisals, afraid that they would stop catching rats. But they caught them anyway, leaving the corpses of the vile creatures at the doors of the headquarters, as if they knew to whom they owed their existence. The ban was lifted.

Cats served as a kind of outlet for the callous souls of soldiers who had no family, no normal life, and in the future, no life at all.

- Aaah! Newly acquired sergeant! - the duty storekeeper lazily drawled, lying on a bench by the entrance and scratching his belly through his unbuttoned uniform. - It's my lunch, actually! Come in an hour - I'll take everything, give you everything. You don't march during lunch, do you? Well, neither do I - I don't work when it's lunch. Go, sergeant, go from here!

- Well, at least accept it, or what? - Ned was indignant. - Am I supposed to drag around bags?

- What were you thinking when you came here? What, you couldn't come after lunch? And now you're standing here, racking your brains! Get out of here, get out of here! I don't care if you're a sergeant or... Anyway, the shop is closed!

The storekeeper groaned and stood up from the bench and began to demonstratively close the gate, not paying any attention to Ned.

"Hey, boy," Ned touched the storekeeper on the shoulder, "take this stuff. And nothing will happen to you. Except... this," he handed the storekeeper a silver pool, which he immediately dropped into his oversized pocket.

– Now that's a different matter! – the storekeeper beamed – we have money for beer! Otherwise, everyone is bothering us, and there's no one to take care of the unfortunate soldier! And you'll be a good officer, I know it for sure! You understand the soul of a soldier, and why is that? You're a soldier yourself! I'm sure you'll go far. Follow me. Here, lay out the armor… yeah. Throw it on the floor, I'll sort it out later. You still need to have lunch, right? No big deal, it'll lie there. So… the complete set… yeah… plates… greaves… throw it down, I'll give you new ones now, better quality. And a different uniform. You're entitled to three sets – two for every day, and one for the weekend, a dress one, to impress the girls in town. I have one batch of uniforms – they were slapped together from major's cloth by mistake – oh, and what a cool thing it turned out to be! The cloth is thin, woolen, it blows through – you can walk in the heat… yeah, thanks! You're a good boy! (Ned got the hint and gave him another silver coin. He already knew how important good equipment was, and this goat was what it would be like. So saving is not worth it. Drancon had warned him.) Well done! Always come to Pernal – I'll pick out the best for you! Look at this dress uniform – class! It's not grey, but bluish, like the senior officers wear! And nothing against regulations – everything meets the requirements! Is it our fault that we accidentally sewed major's cloth for the sergeants? We can't burn them, can we? I'm keeping them for my own, use them to your heart's content! A handsome man like you definitely needs them! All the girls will be yours, that's a copper against a hundred gold! Now the boots. So – two sandals, dress boots and boots for the field. Look, these are strong, bound with iron. Strong – like armor! You can even give a good kick with them. I recommend them. And for a parade and walks with a girl – these soft ones. Your feet won't get tired in them. Try them on. Do they fit? Good. You change right here, then I'll write down your clothes in the register. And boots too. Put on your sandals for now, it's hot. Here, I have them. I'll give you a new duffel bag – two duffel bags, one for your armor, one for your uniform. Teeeeks… a combat suit under your armor. It's the same for everyone… a first aid kit – bandages and ointment, a shoulder belt, a cap… oh, you're a beauty! The uniform fits you like a glove! Then it'll sag a little, the wrinkles will disappear. Let's go pick out a weapon for you. Trust Pernal – I know a thing or two about stabbing. Come over here, into the corner. "Come on, look at this sword..." The storekeeper pulled out a long blade from somewhere under a pile of old swords laid out on a shelf, its matte tip glinting dully. It was dusty, completely invisible, and Ned looked at this work of an unknown blacksmith with a little disappointment. The storekeeper apparently noticed this, because he chuckled and beckoned Ned to follow him:

- You don't get it, huh? Come on, follow me!

They left the semi-dark warehouse, and Ned spent a few seconds getting used to the bright light, blinking his eyes helplessly. The storekeeper managed to grab a rag and lovingly wiped the blade, took it by the handle, and weighed it:

- What a balance, a miracle! Actually, I wanted to give it to Sergeant Evos. He's been asking me for a long time to pick something real, cool!

"What's so cool about it?" Ned shrugged.

- Look here! - the storekeeper threw up a rag, the sword whistled easily, and the rag fell to the ground divided into two parts - and also - it cuts armor like paper! And it doesn't dull! Look at the blade pattern! Do you see the pattern? Such swords were forged for months, then given a rest, and forged again. And do you see any signs on its blade? They say these swords are enchanted, they have some kind of supernatural powers! Well - I can't guarantee that, but I can say with complete confidence that it is incredibly sharp and always holds an edge.

Ned carefully picked up the sword and began to examine it carefully, testing its sharpness and balance. It was beautiful. A strange pattern of metal that Ned had never seen before - gray-steel, intertwined, wavy. The sharpest blade - as soon as he touched it, the leather immediately began to give in, unraveling under the slightest pressure. On the blade, in the middle, along the groove - small golden letters in a language unknown to Ned. The handle - simple, straight, without any frills, wrapped in some rough black material.

- Shark skin! - the storekeeper explained with the air of an expert. - They say it's a very old sword. It's several hundred years old. Where did it come from? Who knows? There's plenty of iron here. I was cleaning up and found it in the corner. I wanted to sell it... - the storekeeper stopped short and glanced sideways at Ned - did he understand? He made sure that he didn't react, and continued:

– I'm keeping it for my people… maybe it will save someone's life… Yeah, thanks! Well done! What a clever boy! Now I've earned a bonus! I'll pick out a sheath for you now, and a dagger, and a boot knife, and two throwing knives with a sling! Three knives! Put your fingerprint here… yeah. And sign, can you do it? Well done. That's it. Excellent. Let's go, I'll find everything for you. Leave it here, don't be afraid. Everyone's at lunch now, no one will steal it. Take the shaft with you. You've had enough of carrying it around.

Loaded like a pack donkey, Ned trudged toward the sergeants' quarters. There was a chill inside him—to just come into the officers' quarters like that—his heart sank and beat fast, like a bird in a cage. Until now, he had held a certain respect for the sergeants, the symbols of the army service. So he walked slowly, as if delaying the moment of arrival.

However, everything went smoothly and routinely. He introduced himself to the orderly, asked to be shown a spare room, who led him to a corner room with a view of the mountains – which Ned liked very much – and wished him a pleasant rest, and retired to his desk, where he again assumed a resting pose, raising his legs as high as possible.

Ned put the bags on the floor, stood in the middle of the room and laughed happily - his room! His first room and no one, no one can enter here without permission! He can lock it and leave! Put things here the way he wants and no one will say that they are not lying the way they should be!

A window covered with a thick grate, a simple table, three chairs – the sergeant can receive guests, his comrades! The bed is narrow, not at all for sleeping with a girlfriend. And what kind of girlfriend is there here, in a military camp?

Here was the most important, the most valuable thing that can be in the army - privacy. After all, a soldier has nowhere to hide - he sleeps with everyone, eats with everyone, washes with everyone, even in the toilet, and with everyone! Like mountain eagles, in orderly rows ... Many swore - at least they should have put up partitions, otherwise everything is in plain sight. But this has been the case since ancient times and no one was going to change the state of affairs. Here, in the hostel, the toilet was in the corridor, as was the shower - the orderly immediately showed him where the "amenities" were - war is war, but the toilet, like lunch, is important.

Ned carefully placed his cap on the nightstand by the bed, and without making the bed, he fell onto the mattress, throwing his hands behind his head. He didn't know what was ahead, but now he felt good. Very good!

After lying down, he got up, put his things on the shelves in the closet, the armor and sword in a special weapons cabinet, the shoes in the shoe closet. He admired them, then suddenly remembered – lunch! Why the hell didn't he go to lunch?! His stomach immediately started to rumble and he was terribly hungry. His body was used to receiving food at a strictly allotted time and now he was violently indignant at the violence committed against him. He looked out the window – judging by the sun, the lunch break was coming to an end. The soldiers had eaten long ago, and what about the officers' mess? Was it open?

He quickly put on his boots, straightened his uniform, went out into the corridor, locked the door, and past the orderly who was watching him, went out into the sun's rays, which pierced him as if they wanted to turn him into a roasted piece of meat. He thought for a second and resolutely headed for the officers' mess.

It was cooler here, the thick stone walls protected from the heat. Unlike the soldiers' barrack-type dining room, the officers' room was divided into small rooms, fenced off with a wicker net, to which small wooden plaques with burnt-in pictures were attached. Mostly beautiful maidens with courageous young men on horseback or battle scenes with piles of defeated enemies.

Probably the unknown artist believed that for a military man there is nothing sweeter than the sight of heaps of defeated enemies and images of half-naked ladies in their underwear near a weeping willow. As for the second - perhaps, and most likely, this is true. But the officers were already sick of the first during their service in the coolest of the corps of the Zamara army, and they constantly grumbled that this obscenity-dismemberment should have been taken down long ago and demonstratively burned on the parade ground, and then urinated on the ashes. But as always, no one got around to these pictures, so they hung there from time immemorial, and will hang there for as long, unless they are burned by a random lightning bolt sent by the creator god.

The hall was empty, only a couple of lieutenants and a sergeant from the crossbowmen were finishing their lunch, hastily swallowing pieces of pie and washing them down with water mixed with juice – they had stayed on duty, sorting out a fight that had suddenly broken out right in the middle of the parade ground. One of the soldiers had fallen, struck down by heat stroke, the next one had plopped down on him, the one who was walking behind him had kicked the fallen one, the friend of the kicked one had punched the aggressor in the face, the other one had punched him in the opposite direction – everything had almost escalated into a mass brawl. They had to resort to the help of the guard platoon on duty, who had dispersed everyone with clubs and buckets of water, prudently prepared in the guard room.

This was not the first fight that broke out out of nowhere - the heat and exhaustion did their job. The culprits were flogged, though not severely - everyone was in a bad way, and even the executioners had a hard time lifting and lowering their sticks on the backs of their enemies in such a hell.

- Look, a newly-minted sergeant has appeared! - muttered one of the lieutenants - I wonder how he got his rank? What did the colonel like about him so much?

- Do you care? - the second one said, perplexed. - What business is it of yours? Well, you got it, so you got it! What are you asking for?

- No, well, still! - insisted the second, a young guy, a little older than Ned, who had just arrived at the unit from the officer school. - Maybe he's an expert on men, huh? You did well for the colonel, and here's your position! From a country bumpkin to an officer! This way he'll go further, he'll command us, "silver lips"! See what plump, working lips he has! Damned upstart, man-lover!

The guy spoke deliberately loudly, probably so that Ned would hear and immediately understand his place in this world, where a redneck and a villager like him had no place at the same table next to an impoverished, but glorious noble family.

Here it is necessary to explain. "Sodomy" in the Marine Corps, and in general in the army of Zamara, was considered the most terrible crime, on par with fleeing from the battlefield or attacking a superior officer. It was believed that this vice was inherent in depraved civilians and slaves deprived of female company. And that it was done by those who, in addition to this sin, also used the services of various types of large and small cattle. In general - in fact, according to the canons of the army, Ned was inflicted with the most severe insult, washed away only with blood. Ned knew about it. Soldiers could be called whatever you wanted, but officers ... there was a code of honor here, and no one could cross it. A sodomite soldier caught red-handed "in the act" was put through the gauntlet, beaten to death with sticks, while an officer was expelled, stripped of all ranks and given ten hot sticks. It was believed that these people were corrupting the army and thinking only about how to seduce their fellow soldiers.

Where did this come from? It is unknown. But only the army had a sharp, categorically negative attitude towards manifestations of sodomy (And this despite the fact that the top leadership, as always, did not deny itself any "pleasures", even such!)

During his service, Ned had encountered hidden sodomites - their thoughts were visible to him as if on the palm of his hand. But they never allowed themselves to do anything to him or to those around them, because - he didn't care what they did when no one saw them. He didn't care.

But in this case, he did care. As he entered the officers' collective, so his service would go - Drancon explained this to him. And the old, seasoned sergeant was right. The "upstart" would have to win his place in the sun.

Ned changed direction, and instead of going to the food distribution, he went to the table with the two lieutenants. The one who insulted him looked at the guy's face with a cheerful smile, and casually asked:

- What do you want? What do you want, country bumpkin?

The second lieutenant, who knew Ned and had seen his fight, quickly wiped his lips with a napkin and, without finishing his juice, stood up and walked away, watching what was happening sideways. Of course, he was terribly interested in what would happen next, but he was not going to be in the center of a scandal, with the risk of getting a black eye.

The newly arrived lieutenant was a swordsman. Large, broad-shouldered, with strong muscular arms accustomed to physical exercise. He was only five years older than Ned, but had already fought six duels, winning all six of them – due to his swordsmanship, natural animal speed and strength. Actually, he was not such a hopeless guy, but inside him sat a toad that demanded constant self-affirmation, and preferably – at the expense of other, weaker people. An ordinary guy, of which there are many. The gods gave him excessive strength and dexterity, but did not give him intelligence and at least a little leniency to those weaker than him. Such people become tyrants and murderers, if they are not stopped on the road strewn with the bodies of their trampled victims.

Besides, despite the fact that the guy was from impoverished nobility – otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in such a corps – he had connections – his uncle, an assistant to the imperial treasurer, was preparing a cushy job for him in the capital. After Zasler served in the Marine Corps for six months, it wouldn't be difficult – of course, he was a hero! After all, the Marine Corps is always at the forefront of the attack on the enemy. The fact that he was about to transfer to the Security Service, under the wing of Major Shentel, didn't matter at all – the documents would still note that Zasler participated in the Corps' combat operations. Even if he never went on the attack, and saw the enemy only as a corpse, made by other comrades.

Today Lieutenant Zasler was very angry. He had to deal with a fight, and then, in the blazing sun, beat up some negligent soldiers – so his mood was lower than the lowest. And then there was this redneck in his unwrinkled sergeant's uniform! Well, he was a real brute, and nothing more! The pun really amused Zasler, so he smiled in the idiot's face.

"I need you to apologize," Ned said quietly, and closed his eyes for a second - such a wave of hatred and rage rose from the depths of his mind that he almost began to perform magic.

- In front of whom, in front of you, idiot? Man-loving country bumpkin! - the guy grinned, and immediately followed a deafening slap, from which the lieutenant flew off the chair. Ned's hand was very, very heavy. And during the training at the base it had not become any lighter.

- What's going on here? - a sharp commanding voice sounded, Ned turned around and saw Major Shentel, the head of the Corps' security, standing in front of him. Two captains and three lieutenants - his entire department - were standing next to him. Apparently, this valiant detachment had been delayed during the interrogation of those who had taken part in the fight today, and only now had the officers been able to start eating dinner. And what did they see? In the mess hall, where all conversations were only in low voices, in the holy of holies of the Corps - a fight! And who was the instigator? A sergeant! Yesterday's soldier! Beating an officer of higher rank! Yes, Shentel was convinced - sedition had taken root too deeply in the Marine Corps. Colonel Heverad had disbanded his subordinates. And here is the result - the sergeant appointed by him is beating up senior officers!

- Take him! - Shentel commanded. - You are under arrest, Sergeant! For violating paragraph four of the rank code! Lieutenant Nitras, Lieutenant Dart - deliver Sergeant Cherny to the garrison prison!

Ned's first thought was to rip the heads off everyone there. Everyone! A furious killing intent twisted his face into a demonic mask, and the officers who had stepped toward him froze in place, not daring to come any closer. They remembered who Ned was and what he had done to the prize fighter.

Then Ned calmed down and allowed them to take him by the arms, and so, accompanied by two officers, he proceeded to the garrison prison - a low building behind the food warehouse, dug into the ground almost to the roof.

As Ned was led away, Shentel, who was angry at Ned for refusing to cooperate, asked the battered lieutenant:

- So what happened here?

- A redneck came up to me and hit me in the face. I told him off about saying hello when you enter the dining room. He hit me. That's all.

Zasler's face was serene and calm, as if he was sitting on the seashore and admiring the sunset. His blue eyes and simple-minded "good guy" face expressed complete innocence - except for the sergeant, who was sitting far away and busy with his bowl, and the lieutenant from his battalion, there was no one else in the canteen, which meant there was no one to turn him in to. And he would somehow come to an agreement with the witnesses.

Shentel was pleased. He had long wanted to put a pin in Heverad, who, as it seemed to him, was destroying the Corps. He had long reported this to the higher-ups, to the leadership, but no conclusions were drawn in the ministry. To be honest, he wanted to take the place of the corps commander himself. He would be better able to cope with the tasks assigned to the Marine Corps. And most importantly, he would gain control over the cash flow. He had enough years of service, he should have received a colonel's patent long ago, but the position that Shentel occupied was only a major's. As the saying goes, you can't jump higher than a major. Now, after the colonel's protégé started a fight in the very first hours after his appointment, attacked an officer of higher rank - Heverad will not get out of trouble. He has had enough of sitting in his place, it's time to retire!

The news that Ned had been arrested spread through the corps in an instant. The lunch break had not yet ended when the entire corps began to buzz like a hornet's nest. Soldiers gathered in groups, discussed what had happened, and the picture grew with more and more details.

After the twentieth transmission of information, it turned out that Ned had drunkenly entered the officers' mess, urinated on the table where Major Shentel, his brothers, and Lieutenant Zasler were sitting, and when they tried to subdue Ned, he broke their arms and legs, and was stopped only by half a company of swordsmen in full combat armor. And even then, with nets. The soldiers argued among themselves, made assumptions, cursed until they were hoarse, and agreed on only one thing - this would not end well. The criminal would at least be degraded and beaten with sticks, and at most - death by hanging.

Zheresar stomped through the office to the door of the colonel's office, and looking back at Adjutant Kheverad, asked:

- Are you there? Not busy?

- Actually, he's busy, - the lieutenant shrugged, - he has suppliers of food and cloth. They've been sitting there for two hours. I don't know when he'll be free. He ordered not to let anyone in. Oh! You're lucky. It seems we're done.

The office doors swung open, and the merchants came out, flushed and red-faced. The colonel was squeezing money out of them once again, and after the merchants' fierce resistance, he managed to squeeze out a kickback on each item. It wasn't much, but when delivered to the entire building, it was a very acceptable amount. The merchants came out looking as battered as if they had been knocked down by a mad mule and then rolled around the floor by a chained dog. The colonel knew how to insist on his own way when he needed to.

- Hey, Bonebreaker, what are you doing here? I told you - they'll bring bandages and everything else tomorrow! What happened? - Heverad looked closely at the face of the gloomy, cloud-like doctor and waved his hand - come in!

He closed the door and quietly asked:

- What? Is something wrong with Elsa? What happened? The children? Can I help with something?

"No, thank the gods!" Zheresar boomed with feeling. "Ned is in trouble."

- Phew...you're scaring me. I was already thinking...so...what's wrong with Ned? What's the problem?

- Beat up Lieutenant Zasler.

- This bastard? This spy from the capital? Honestly, I would have punched his face myself... yeah. Bad! - the colonel suddenly remembered - he was a sergeant, and that one was a lieutenant. And with connections, too. And how did it happen?

- According to Zasler: Ned came to the canteen, entering - did not say hello. Zasler made a remark to him, he punched him in the face. And as luck would have it - Shentel appeared behind his back! Ned was arrested and put in the garrison prison. Wait - Shentel himself will show up soon. I came running to warn you.

"Did he resist arrest? Did he hit anyone?" Heverad asked, concerned.

- No, thank the gods! Everything is quiet.

- At least that's good - the colonel chuckled, feverishly thinking over what had happened - you see, I told you - they don't like upstarts. It's unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Have you talked to Ned?

- No one is allowed to see him. Shentel walks around proudly, as if he had stormed the capital of Isfir. He simply glows with happiness.

- Of course! The little brat has been eyeing my place for a long time - Heverad grinned - now he has a reason to send a nasty letter describing how I glorify those who violate the charter, and how I disbanded the unit entrusted to me.

- Can you hold on?

- I'll hold on...to hell with him! This jerk won't knock me over! But it'll cost me money...a lot of money! Oh, how untimely, how untimely! There's some unrest in the capital, they say there will be changes in the ministry, I hope it doesn't come back to haunt me. And then there's this shitty story...

- Colonel! Major Shentel is here to see you! - He knocked on the door, and after answering, the adjutant entered. - Should I let him in?

- Will you stay?

- No way... seeing his oily mug is beyond my strength. I don't believe that Ned just punched the bastard in the face. I've heard a few things about this Zasler.

"And I heard…" the colonel nodded thoughtfully and ordered the adjutant, "Let the major in. Let him come in."

Zheresar left, not paying attention to the major – in fact, he and Shentel were of the same rank. Although the doctor was not a combatant, he could be called up for service if necessary, and then his rank would be exactly equal to Shentel's. The doctor and the security officer had long disliked each other. Zheresar could not stand the major for his duplicity, and the major did not like anyone at all. Except himself. He did not like Zheresar for his independent character and unwillingness to cooperate with the security service. Shentel had long had a whole pile of denunciations on the doctor, from which it was clear that he had spoken disapprovingly of the policies of the king, the state and the top leadership of the army. For now, the major did not move the papers – he was waiting for an opportunity. It seemed that such an opportunity would come soon. As soon as his patron disappeared…

- Greetings, Colonel! - Shentel was as gracious, calm and at the same time emphatically formal as ever - I have come to you with a report. May I?

"Report, Major," Heverad answered dryly and sat down in his chair at the desk.

"You've probably already been informed about the unfortunate incident in the dining room?" the security guard continued calmly.

"Yes, I know," the colonel said abruptly, shuffling through papers on the table and not looking at the major.

- Excellent. What day shall we set for the officer's honor court?

- We'll set it for this evening. For six o'clock in the afternoon. Why waste time? Have you questioned the witnesses? Have you clarified all the circumstances of the case?

- Yes, of course. There were no witnesses nearby. The officer's word against the word of... the criminal.

- Until the court of honor has declared him a criminal, Ned is not a criminal! You, a man of the security service, should know this better than me, Shentel!

- Yes, you are right. I apologize - the major readily agreed with a smile - I am very sorry that this happened to your protégé, Colonel! Now allow me to leave your office - I must inform all available officers about the upcoming trial. And most importantly - warn the judges. You are already aware, all that remains is to inform Colonel Zaid and Colonel Evora.

Shentel saluted sharply and left the office. The colonel sat silently for a minute, then furiously grabbed some paper and tore it to shreds, growling with excitement. He calmed down and sadly shook his head:

- What have you done, Ned? Your officer school was in tears. It's good if we save your stupid head. He looked at the fragments of the performance and shook his head again.