Cleon let one of his boots fall to the floor of the junior officers’ barracks and stifled a sigh of relief. The last three days had been the hardest he’d had since he had reported to the High Kings Junior Officer Academy. In fact, there had been no comparison.

He’d arrived on this amazing island that held the town of Outpost one day more than a moon quarter ago. The local count, Count Errock, had greeted the two dozen new officers and ten dozen new recruits warmly — but the last thing he said was that this next moon quarter they were going to be evaluated for their new duties. Whatever anyone had promised them before Outpost had been wrong ... the count alone would make the decision of what everyone would do, from the lowest private to a captain that had been the detachment commander.

The first day had been an evaluation of their basic military skills — from digging fighting holes to erecting tents. The second day they had fired rifles at targets, then were tested on horseback. Cleon could hit a target and didn’t fall off his horse, so he thought he had done well enough.

The third day was the beginning of hell. They were all ordered to fall out with their combat packs and then the enlisted men had been told to carry four mortar rounds and the officers three. Then they had been taken across the lake.

The sergeant in charge had made them line up as if they were on parade, in a company formation, then they had faced right and commanded to march. Then they were told to run, but they had to keep in step and stay in ranks, unless they had to stop. The sergeant had been blunt. “You will cover the course in an hour or less, or you will be sent home — no longer a soldier of the High King.”

The ground where they were running was hard-packed dirt, covered with a thin skein of dust, and there were a lot of tracks. Nothing green grew on the path. Cleon contemplated how many feet it had taken to pack down the earth and keep it packed down. Evidently, this was a familiar exercise.

They had gone less than two miles when a man pulled up. The sergeant pacing them said, “When someone falls out, move up and fill the gap. You will be —encouraged— to complete the course regardless of how tired you are.”

That was the source of a few groans — if you had to fill the gaps, it meant you had to speed up for a few steps. And the path rolled with the terrain, uphill and down, straight as an arrow, and Cleon couldn’t see a turn. It turned out the turn was another half mile on, and continued arrow straight for half a mile before it turned again, returning in the direction they had come.

Cleon relaxed a little. Six miles — he could do six miles easily, whether or not he had a hundred pounds on his back. Except they didn’t stop where they had started; the sergeant calling the step never hesitated or wavered, his voice as fresh as ever, and he was carrying a pack and rifle as well. Cleon blinked. Evidently, this was more of a test than he thought. Still, he could run at this pace for hours, as it was well below his usual pace.

A little past the three-mile mark, they passed the stragglers, who were moving just at the edge of the path. When they started the third lap, several men gave up, but Cleon mentally sneered at them. You weren’t going to go far in the High King’s army if you were satisfied with “good enough.” He glanced at the sun; laps less than six fingers, closer to five. It was halfway to the noon meal, and Cleon wondered if they’d stop then.

Two laps later, it was time for the High Sun meal, and there still were fifty men, and two-thirds had fallen out. Two laps later, the command was given to the twenty-five who remained, to resume regular march cadence. Cleon saw he was the only officer remaining. They were marched a ways off the path, to some covered tables, and there were pails of water on them. It was a hot day, and most had emptied their canteens long since. Cleon sniffed at the foolish men who made a beeline to the pails; instead, he walked around for a finger width while the sweat poured from every pore. He had never sweated like this before!

The sergeant walked up to him and handed him some white pills. “These are salt; take two unless you feel dizzy, then take three.”

Cleon noted that the sergeant started with him and three others that were cooling off slowly. Two of the ones who were gulping water promptly lost what they had. A corporal who had been hanging back moved up and took the two who had been sick in hand and led them back towards the lake.

One of the others who kept up sidled up next to Cleon. “Lieutenant, are they going to feed us?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Cleon replied. “I don’t see any fixings, so maybe not.”

The man looked around. “I left the barracks this morning and didn’t take any rations, but I did take my empty canteen. At least I’ve got a full canteen now.”

Cleon nodded. “Pass the word to the others to fill their canteens and use the buckets instead.”

“Good idea, sir!”

A finger width later, the sergeant called for the men’s attention. “The path you ran today is known as the ‘Mortar Path’ and is where Captain and later Duke Tuck trained the first mortarmen from Outpost. They ran twice around each morning and night before they ate. Tonight, we will camp here.”

Cleon raised his hand, and the sergeant nodded to him. “The evening meal, Sergeant?”

The sergeant laughed. “How many of you have ever missed a meal?”

Everyone’s hands went up. “Two, three at a time? More?”

Some hands were down, but most of the men were common soldiers and had been attracted by recruiters’ immortal promise of “three hots and a cot.”

“It’s like this, you men. Mortarmen have the ability to carry their weapons and ammunition on their backs and run to the battle. Tomorrow, we’ll see which of you will make mortarmen. I want any rations you brought along piled up on the table behind me. The fastest way out of the High King’s army is me catching you eating something until you are given leave. You men have free time from now until morning roll call. Lieutenant, you are in charge of siting latrines and a watch fire. And doing up a guard roster.”

The sergeant waved around them. “The Lost Ruthani are our allies, and even now there are some out there within sight of our camp. Wander away from camp, and they will catch you, tie you up like a pig on a spit, and deliver you to Count Errock. The Lost Ruthani don’t tell time like we do; they’ll deliver you to the Count straight away. I imagine the Count —and his wife— will be upset if their sleep is disturbed.

“The Lost Ruthani may try to slip into camp if you aren’t alert. I can’t imagine what Count Errock will do to a lieutenant brought so to him in the middle of the night.

“One last thing. The Lost Ruthani have paid a stiff price for unwillingness to follow the High King’s Field Regulations. They have gotten a promise in writing from the High King that if one of you fires his weapon —whether or not you hit anything— you will pay with your life. You will walk your guard posts armed, but your weapons unloaded. The Lost Ruthani have water skins that they squeeze, and a stream of water shoots out. They may shoot water at you. If you are hit, you are considered dead. If you should draw a knife and strike the Ruthani — you will be really dead.

“Have a nice evening.”

If Cleon hadn’t seen it, he’d never have believed it. The sergeant took two steps to his left and seemed to vanish.

Cleon stepped a little back. “I am Junior Lieutenant Cleon. I count twenty-four of us, including me.” He pointed to the man who had asked him about dinner. “You are a temporary watch sergeant, and so are you.” He pointed to the largest man in the group. “That leaves 21, which is evenly divisible by 3, myself, and the two watch sergeants.”

Cleon waved around the covered tables. “This is obviously a place that sees much use. You and you,” he pointed to two men on one end of the group, “Go together and look for the latrine pits. Do not get out of sight of the tables, and sing out if you see anything.”

“That sergeant is just trying to scare us with bogey men,” someone said.

A stream of water shot out from under a table, hitting him squarely in the face. Someone grabbed a bucket and sloshed it in the direction of the table — alas, they had emptied it. A brown streak emerged, ran six steps, and dodged behind a bush. In those two seconds, Cleon realized a number of things. The streak was a girl of about twelve — and she never emerged from behind the bush. Two men took full buckets and stepped in the direction she had gone.

“You might want to think about throwing about a tenth of our water away,” Cleon said. That brought them up short. One of the men took a ladle full and checked behind the bush. There was no one there. There was a hasty inspection of the other tables, but there were no further lurkers there.

It was a good thing the girl was gone because the others kidded the man who had been squirted unmercifully, particularly the fact that the “bogeyman” was a girl, and a young one at that. She had been three feet away from him, and he’d never noticed.

“If nothing else, we have been warned,” Cleon told everyone. “We can’t go shooting water at every shadow — like as not, this is all that we have.”

The two men who had been seeking out the latrines pointed out the hill they were behind. Cleon grimaced. “We go to the latrine in groups, no smaller than ten and no larger than fourteen. Twenty-four is also evenly divisible by four — the number of sides of a square. We will form a square to sleep, about sixteen feet on a side...” Cleon vamped, waiting for everyone to get the joke.

About a palm width later, half the men went to piss, then the other half. They spent an uneasy, but uneventful, night. At first light, the sergeant was back with a half dozen corporals. “Up on your feet! Get ready to move out!” Evidently, they were going to miss another meal.