Second Life as a Soldier

I left the command building with the reports still in my hand. Once I reached the Longhall, I slipped them into my leather bag where I kept ink, parchment, and a few personal belongings. Every soldier carried one, but mine already felt heavier than most. An intelligence private was expected to write.

Walter and Michael were waiting outside, the conscripts trailing a lazy distance behind. We started toward the supply yard when Walter’s voice cut across the clatter of boots.

“Conscript! Cart duty,” he barked.

I blinked. Fenward’s orders had only mentioned the three of us. For a moment I thought Walter had misspoken. When we were far enough ahead of the conscripts not to be overheard, I asked carefully,

“Ahm, Walter… didn’t the sergeant tell us to gather supplies?”

Walter’s eyes shifted to me, dull and weary. “Yeah. He’s like that. Don’t talk to conscripts.”

Wow. He really hates talking, I thought. Still, the lieutenant had told me to seek his advice. That was reason enough to push a little.

“Can you explain? As an intelligence private, I’ll need close contact with them.”

Walter grunted, but to my surprise, he answered. “Sergeant doesn’t care much for conscripts. Most of his orders go to us. We use them when we need labor or bodies. That’s it.”

For you, maybe, I thought. But I doubted they’d even listen if I gave a command. I had noticed earlier that when Walter called, the conscripts obeyed without a sound, while the sergeant at least got a grunt or two in reply. For some reason, they seemed more afraid of Walter than of Fenward.

I thought that was all he would say, but after a pause he added, “In my experience, it helps to keep them busy. Involve them in exercises, drills, or anything that keeps their hands occupied. Tires them out. Keeps them from causing trouble.”

That actually made sense. I might have to find a few ways to keep them occupied, if not physically, then maybe mentally. Soon after, we reached the supply yard. Walter had already pushed himself to the front, taking the lead again. He rattled off the list in his flat tone: dried rations, water skins, one small barrel of water. Our personal kits already had bedrolls, but we added spare spear shafts, replacement straps, ropes, hooks, tarps, and salt.

When it was my turn, I requested bandages, poultices, and medicines, along with rune chalk, sealant paste, and a flare-stone — standard issue for intelligence privates with my specialization. The quartermaster studied me twice before handing them over, but in the end he gave me a small signaling device as well: a carved rune token linked directly to the command center. My first real expedition. I wasn’t going to leave a single detail unchecked.

The conscripts stacked everything onto the handcart and lashed it down, while I packed my own supplies into a backpack. Without hesitation, Walter called out again: “Garran, cart duty.”

Garran moved without a word, shoulders slumping as he gripped the shafts. Anger flickered across his face, quickly smothered by resignation. A mix of unease and guilt settled over me. The squad treated conscripts as tools, ignored until needed, then worked like beasts of burden. Harsh, but not entirely without reason. Still, it gave me an idea. I might never erase the “us versus them” divide, but with some effort, I could at least place myself firmly on the “us” side without compromising my integrity within the squad.

We returned to the barracks. The sun had climbed higher, glinting across the walls of the fort, and the yard throbbed with the rhythm of boots, clashing steel, and shouted orders. The barracks door swung open as we filed in. Sergeant Fenward stood waiting, looking more awake than earlier, his eyes clearer, his cuirass strapped tight, his voice steady when he barked for us to gather around.

We formed a loose semicircle, boots scraping the floor. The conscripts lingered on the edges. Fenward rolled a crude map across the table, tapping it with two thick fingers.

“Here’s our route,” he said. “We start north. For the first twenty kilometers, Edward and Michael will do most of the fighting. Your levels are too low for a standard fort. Walter or the other veterans will step in if you face something you can’t handle. If we encounter a larger pack, the full squad joins. I’ll watch the conscripts.”

His eyes narrowed as he swept over us. “Higher command wants you two in fighting shape.”

My gut tightened. Two fresh Tier Ones fighting at the edge of the Untamed Forest? It was both an opportunity and a risk.

“After the first twenty,” Fenward went on, “you’ll still fight, but the veterans take more of the load. End point is here─” he jabbed the map where a ribbon of blue curved. “Fifty kilometers north, near the river. From there we follow it northeast, targeting a handful of nests scouts have marked. Seventy-five kilometers northeast in total. Then we turn back. Three weeks, all told. We’ll check in with two scouting parties for updates on nest activity.”

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He leaned heavier on the table, voice flat. “Expect late Tier Two beasts. Maybe a Tier Three. One, maybe two.”

I kept my face steady, but my thoughts churned.

Why keep the conscripts out? He hadn’t once mentioned them fighting. He seemed content to use them as haulers and little else. Yet men like Varric and Garran practically vibrated with bloodlust. Keeping them idle was dangerous; letting them strike a few kills might bleed off the pressure. But maybe that was exactly what Fenward didn’t want. By keeping them dependent, denying them growth, stalling their class and mana cultivation, he kept them under control. Crude, perhaps, but not without reason.

He straightened. “Four hours. Eat your fill, check your gear. Walter, Colin, Jack, Owen, take the recruits and run formation drills. Gauge their level. Adjust if needed. We march at midday.”

We all dispersed and made our way to the mess hall.

I swallowed a lump of nerves with my meal, forcing down salted pork and flatbread while Colin and Owen joked in the back as if this were just routine. Excitement thrummed beneath my fear. The Untamed had earned its name honestly. Even the fort itself, wrapped in forest, marked only the edge. Beyond lay a stretch where Tier-Six beasts roamed, monsters that could wipe out the entire fort. Our route would skim only the outer border, but even there the danger was constant.

After lunch, Michael and I joined Walter, Colin, Jack, and Owen in the yard. I expected Walter to take charge, but Colin stepped forward instead, a grin tugging at his scarred jaw. “Come on then, greenies. Let’s see if you can lift a spear,” he said. “Attack me. Go all out. Think of me as a beast. Don’t worry, I’m mid Tier Two and wearing armor. If you can hurt me, I’ll already be dead.

We readied our shields and charged. This was my first real spar outside training drills. Michael struck first; I followed. Colin knocked Michael’s spear aside, then stepped through the gap and shoved both of us back with his shield.

“I know it’s your first time fighting together,” he said, “but keep shoulder to shoulder. No gaps unless you’re fighting a pack. If it’s a pack, then back-to-back, no blind spots.”

This time, we braced properly, shields touching, spears thrusting in rhythm. Colin still parried and dodged, but his shove carried weight rather than surprise.

“Good,” he grunted. “Solid foundation. Good strength. You’ll pierce a mid–high Tier One hide with that. The first twenty kilometers will be mostly high-tier ones or early-tier twos. If you run into an early Tier Two, Jack or Owen will join. Pack fight, six of us together.”

After several passes, Jack stepped in, and Colin gestured toward Walter.

“Now you three against him.”

Walter said nothing, only lifted his shield and lowered his spear. His stance was calm, almost casual, but the moment we moved, he met us with precision. My thrust was batted aside, Michael’s spear knocked wide, Jack’s advance turned with a twist of Walter’s shield. His counterstrikes were sharp, measured, always driving us back a step.

Even three against one, we couldn’t break him. When Colin finally called a halt, Walter lowered his shield without a word and stepped back.

“See the difference?” Colin asked. “One man, stronger tier, can hold a line if he keeps calm and doesn’t waste movement. Against someone like him, or against multiple lesser beasts, you don’t scatter. You bring the wall.”

He motioned us all into place, Michael on my left, Jack on my right, Colin behind, Walter and Owen anchoring the flanks. Six shields, edges brushing, spears angled forward.

“This is how you fight when numbers are against you,” Colin said. “A strong Tier Two will try to break through one man at a time. Don’t give them the chance. Stay locked, keep the rhythm. If it’s more than one, you don’t chase; you hold. Shields hold, spears thrust, line doesn’t break. That’s how six Tier Ones and Twos survive against stronger prey.”

We moved as he ordered, advancing a few steps, thrusting in unison, then bracing under an imagined counterattack. Step, thrust, brace. Step, thrust, brace. When Colin finally signaled the end, I nearly let my spear slip from my hands in relief. This was a different experience than in Stonegate, where we mostly formed up and drilled with people of similar strength. Here, training with men of different tiers and levels required constant adjustment, as every movement needed to match despite the uneven power behind it. We broke formation and gathered our gear.

By the time we returned to the yard, the sun was already high overhead. Other squads were assembling, armor creaking and packs thudding as straps were pulled tight. A few carts rolled forward, each drawn by conscripts or unlucky privates. Ours groaned behind Garran, the ropes biting into his palms.

Fenward called us to order. His voice cut across the noise, sharp now, steady.

“Formation! Eleven-man squad, standard patrol.”

He pointed as he spoke. “Walter forward scout. Edward and Michael, flanks. Veterans hold the center with me. Conscripts on rear haul. Jack, Owen, eyes on our back. Garran, cart duty. Colin, second support with Michael.”

The squad shifted into shape, a staggered column weighted to shield the weakest points.

“Day march,” Fenward growled. “Fifteen kilometers, give or take, depending on terrain. Break every four hours. Full meal at dusk. Camp before nightfall. Watch shifts three hours each. Pairings rotate: veteran with green, or veteran with conscript. No exceptions.”

Walter gave a grunt of approval. The veterans nodded.

Leaving the fort was a ritual.

The gates creaked open, iron-banded timbers groaning as they swung wide. A horn gave a single low note, more a signal than a ceremony, the sound vibrating through my chest. Our squad fell into column, gear checked, cart in tow, while a clerk at the gate marked down our names and supplies before waving us through.

The air shifted instantly. Inside the fort was smoke, steel, sweat. Outside was damp earth, loam, bark, and a faint copper tang that spoke of beasts somewhere ahead. The trees rose tall and black, their branches knitting overhead until the sky was broken into thin slivers of light.