Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 23 (Patreon)

It turned out Swift could make them haul logs and chop firewood for a long time. The sun climbed higher in the sky on Lys and the other recruits as they labored.

Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes and soaking through her shirt. Her muscles burned with each swing, her hands feeling like they would blister from the rough handle.

Eventually, Swift had the recruits swap jobs.

She found herself paired with Garrett, Davian, and Orin for hauling logs. This task was even more challenging than chopping. The logs were heavy, and the uneven terrain made it difficult to keep a steady footing.

Orin, being almost as small as she was, struggled to keep up with the pace. Davian made up for it with a log under each arm, but even he grunted with exertion as they drug the wood across the clearing.

Their group moved slow compared to the previous group, and the logs brought to them by the felling team seemed to multiply with each trip. The chopping group soon caught up to them, getting bursts of rest as they struggled to get them material to work with.

She braced herself for a tongue-lashing from Swift, expecting him to berate them for their slow progress. But the sergeant seemed more concerned with the overall firewood production than individual performances.

“You won’t eat until you’re done,” Swift barked, his voice cutting through the air. “Move faster!”

Lys gritted her teeth, her stomach growling at the mention of food. She redoubled her efforts, her arms straining as she lifted log after log. Some of the chopping group moved to help them. That sped things back up.

Swift did not comment—it seemed to confirm that for this task at least the overall work was what was important. “Faster! Put your backs into it recruits, we don’t have all day!”

The recruits pushed themselves to their limits, their movements becoming frantic as they raced to finish the task. Lys’s vision blurred, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she hauled the final log with Orin.

When the last piece of wood was chopped, the recruits collapsed to the ground, their chests heaving. Some lay sprawled on their backs, while others sat hunched over, gulping in air.

Lys sat and leaned her back against a tree stump, her entire body trembling from exhaustion.

Swift gave them a few minutes to catch their breath before ordering them back on their feet. He barked at them to form a line, then marched them out of the woods and back towards the camp.

Lys’s legs felt like lead as she tried to keep in step with the others. They stumbled and bumped into each other, a far cry from the precise formations of the seasoned mercenaries she had seen around the camp.

Halfway back, Swift halted them with a sharp command. “Lunch is canceled until you lot can march without falling over each other like a bunch of drunken tavern wenches!”

He then proceeded to instruct them on the proper way to march, demonstrating the rhythm and posture they should maintain. They marched back and forth until the fear that they really would miss dinner was more concern to her than the ache in her muscles.

Finally, Swift deemed them passable enough to enter the mess hall. Everyone else had already eaten. She realized the marching drills were simply so they would slot into their meal slot.

Thoughts of why or how things worked disappeared as soon as the scent of food reached her. They were all directed to grab two bowls then move down the line.

The first cook dumped a thick glop of mashed potatoes and then a spoon full of dark gravy in her first bowl. The second carried seasoned chunks of meat, topped with corn and herbs. A piece of bread got jambed into her mash and gravy.

The recruits took their time finding seats, unsure of where they belonged. Lys found herself wedged between Orin and a burly man she didn’t recognize, feeling out of place and uncertain.

Just as she reached for a piece of bread, Swift’s voice cut through the tent. “It took you seven minutes to get your food and sit down,” Swift announced. “Three minutes left!”

A frantic scramble ensued as the recruits began shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as possible. Lys tore into a hunk of tough, overcooked meat, barely tasting it in her haste.

She worked fast, taking gulps of water between bites, barely chewing before swallowing. Around her, the other recruits were in a similar state of panic, gulping down their drinks to wash down their hastily consumed meals.

The mess hall’s chaos faded as the recruits were herded out and into their barracks.

Lys felt a small measure of relief, her stomach feeling pleasantly full for the first time since leaving Arlo’s farm. The respite was short-lived as Sergeant Swift began inspecting each person’s bunk for infractions.

He moved down the line, his keen eyes spotting every wrinkle and imperfection. Recruits scrambled to correct their mistakes, straightening sheets and smoothing out blankets when he pointed out the issues.

Lys stood aside, unsure of what to do. When Swift reached her, his brow furrowed in displeasure. “What are you doing, recruit?” he demanded.

“I don’t know which bunk is mine, Sergeant,” Lys replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Swift pointed at a nearby bunk seemingly assigning her one at random. “This one’s yours.”

Lys quickly moved to stand beside it, hoping to avoid further attention. But Swift wasn’t finished. He looked at the bunk, then back at her. “Why isn’t it squared away? There’s a wrinkle on the cover.”

“I haven’t been shown how to take care of my bunk yet, Sir,” Lys explained, her heart pounding in her chest. Also, it was just assigned to her, but she didn’t mention that.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem like his ire was actually directed at her specifically. The other recruits held their breaths as Swift’s gaze ran down the line of bunks. “Stormwell!” he shouted. “Get over here!”

A young man with wild, unkempt hair stepped forward, his posture rigid. Swift looked at Lys. “Stormwell is your group leader. He’ll instruct you on your bunk and the evening routine.” He then addressed the room, his voice booming. “You have an hour to rest and tidy your bunks. I don’t want to see a pig pen when I return!”

With that, Swift strode out of the barracks, leaving the recruits to their tasks. Stormwell approached her, offering a handshake and a brief hello before launching into an explanation of how to properly make her bed.

Lys listened attentively, trying to absorb the information despite her exhaustion. When they finished going over the details, she decided against undoing the sheets and instead lay down on top of the covers, mimicking the actions of the other recruits.

As she closed her eyes, the events of the day played out in her mind - the grueling labor, the frantic meal, and the constant pressure to meet expectations.

Lys lay on her bunk, her eyes closed but her mind still racing. The brief respite felt like a cruel tease, her body craving more rest than the allotted hour would allow. Around her, the other recruits shifted and murmured, some already succumbing to exhaustion.

Before the hour was up, Stormwell walked through the barracks, gently shaking everyone awake. “Ten minutes,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Lys sat up, blinking away the lingering drowsiness. She watched as the others began to square away their bunks, smoothing out sheets and adjusting blankets with practiced precision. She did her best to make sure her own bunk was neater than when Swift had left.

As expected, Swift returned, his eyes sharp and critical as he began to inspect each person’s bunk once more. Lys held her breath, hoping that her efforts would be enough to pass muster. But as Swift moved from bunk to bunk, he found problems with everyone’s work, his voice rising with each infraction.

When he reached Lys’s bunk, she thought for a moment that hers would be the exception. She was very, very wrong.

“Stormwell!” Swift shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “Get over here!”

Stormwell hurried to Swift’s side, his posture rigid. “Yes, Sergeant!”

“Did you show this recruit how to make his bunk?” Swift demanded, his eyes boring into Lys.

“Yes, Sergeant!” Stormwell replied, his voice steady.

Swift turned to Lys, his gaze intense. “Is that true, recruit?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” Lys said, trying to keep her voice from wavering.

Swift pointed out several minor flaws in her bunk, his finger jabbing at each imperfection. Lys’s heart sank as he listed off the infractions, realizing that her best efforts had fallen short.

“One hundred and forty-four infractions,” Swift announced, his voice dripping with displeasure. “You’ll all be doing one hundred and forty-four pushups! Right now!”

Lys dropped to the ground beside her bunk, assuming the pushup position along with the other recruits. As Swift began to count, his voice booming with each number, Lys’s arms trembled with the effort.

Midway through the correction, a private arrived, escorting four new recruits into the barracks. Swift barely glanced at them, pointing to empty bunks and barking at them to join in the pushups.

Beside her, some of the recruits faltered, their arms giving out under the strain.

Swift’s voice grew louder, his admonishments ringing in Lys’s ears as she fought to keep pace.

Eventually they reached the required count. Swift looked them over. “Good work, recruits. Get some sleep, you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

She didn’t doubt it.