CH1047 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1047: Tests

A ripple of noise moved through the crowd.

The army had always drawn from official residents, and the requirements had only grown tighter over time. The last open recruitment—available to all residents regardless of status—had been during the fight for the throne. Why was Roland doing it again?

Even Good, who had arrived only recently, had heard from his uncle about what army life offered. If he could get into the First Army, livelihood was no longer a question. Food, clothing, shelter—all supplied. A pension for his family if he died in service. And the food was not oatmeal and dry pancakes: there was fillet, jerky, butter, served without limit. Set against the disadvantage of possibly dying in the line of duty, it was, by any reasonable measure, a perfect arrangement.

No—it is a perfect arrangement.

If I could secure all that, isn’t it already worth more than the value of my life?

Good had seen too much during the crossing from Wolfheart to Graycastle. Bodies left on the roadside like discarded things. Crows dancing on them. Sometimes a human life was worth less than a patch of grass. If joining this army—the one that had defeated the Church of Hermes—meant safety and a future, it was better than serving as a squire under some minor knight, where the next battle could scatter everything.

The Second Army was also an option. Conditions were not quite as good, deployment might mean another city, and they had not been in any major battles he had heard of. Still: far better than nothing.

Either way, the army was the best path forward for someone in his position.

Good and Sanko looked at each other, then at Bucky. “Uncle!”

Bucky hesitated. His face worked through something. “I’d better not,” he said at last, with a rueful smile. “The foreman went out of his way to hire me. It wouldn’t be right to break that agreement.”

“Today’s only registration,” Sanko said. “You can decide when the results come out.”

“Then I won’t have the willpower to refuse.” Bucky shook his head. “Go on. I’ll wait for good news.”

Sanko opened his mouth, then felt Good’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s get in the line,” Good said.

Sanko looked back at Bucky for a moment, then nodded.

The registration area was already chaotic—many applicants could not read, which slowed everything—but the black-uniformed guards moved them efficiently, separating those who had finished signing up from the crowd. As word spread, city residents who had not been there at the start came in waves, until the area nearly flooded. Eventually the organizers had to close the passage and announce continuation the next day. Even then, dispersing the crowd took time. Many stayed to watch how the test would be conducted.

Good was grateful for having arrived early.

On the other side of the registration desk, small groups of candidates were being taken into the tent by guards—ten at a time, he counted. The tent was enormous, nearly a hundred paces across in each direction, large enough to hold far more than that. The slow pace meant something. Either the tests took longer than expected, or more happened inside than the outside suggested.

Shrill cries emerged from the tent.

The faces of the applicants still waiting went rigid.

“This—” Sanko shrank his neck. “They’re not testing how many beatings we can take, are they?”

“If it were beatings, the cries would be regular.” Good kept his voice low. “These are random. Sporadic. I think they’re being frightened.”

“You seem very familiar with this.”

“I’ve only heard of it from others.” A slight pause. “I’m experienced at both beating and being beaten.”

Then came the sound of vomiting.

The crowd’s faces went from rigid to grey.

When the first batch finally emerged, the arithmetic was grim. One out of ten remained inside. The nine who came out could barely stand—and they looked physically capable, every one of them.

No time to wonder what the test involved. A guard called his name.

“Good!”

“Here.” He clenched his fists and walked in.

The tent was divided by curtains into separate areas. The arriving candidates sat in sequence before a man in uniform. The stools were strange—too high, requiring tiptoe to stay seated comfortably. Sanko, he was glad to see, was in the same group.

“I’m in charge of this test,” the officer said. “You don’t need my name. Most of you will be eliminated before the end. And if you pass this, it’s only a first step. There is far more to learn before you’re a soldier.”

Second Army? Some reserve force? Either way—if the pay is enough to give Rachel and me a better life, I’m trying.

“The rules are simple,” the officer continued. “Place your feet on the footboard and hold that position for five minutes. Whatever you see, stay on the stool. If your feet touch the ground, you’re done.”

The candidates looked around at each other. That’s all?

The officer’s expression didn’t change. He pulled the curtains aside.

A wall of white light hit Good with no warning.

When it cleared, he was floating in open sky.

“Ah—ah—”

Shrill cries from the others. Toneless thuds. Good’s body wanted to thrash, every instinct screaming that the ground was impossibly far below and he was about to hit it—but the faint pressure beneath him, the invisible solidity of the stool, dragged his reason back from the edge.

Still sitting. Still sitting.

What followed was worse.

He didn’t stay floating. The clouds began to rise around him, which meant he was falling—and the sensation was beyond description. His heart climbed to his throat. Every part of his brain registered the alert: extreme danger, extreme danger—while his reason countered: there is a stool under you, there is a stool under you. Between the two signals, Rachel’s face appeared in his mind.

The white light dissolved. The tent reappeared.

“Not bad.” The officer surveyed the survivors. “You’ve passed the first test. Your group performed better than the previous batch.” A pause. “There are several more. I hope you’ll stick to the end.”

This was only the first?

Good’s hands were shaking. His back was soaked, as if he’d been pulled from a river. The fall he’d just experienced had not been the end—after it, there had been climbing, near-vertical ridges, a sensation of skimming along cliff faces with the rocks close enough to touch. Each time, the stool was a rumor his body refused to entirely believe.

He tilted his head and looked both ways.

Half the stools were empty. Sanko was not in his.

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