Olimpia

As I approached the older man, he stood rooted in place with his arms crossed over his chest. He did turn his head slightly in acknowledgment of my presence, but he never took a step away from where he stopped with his men. Despite his attitude, I gave him a crisp salute as I came to a stop and said, "Centurion."

I was kind of surprised that he was here, though then again, I shouldn't be given the situation. In the Fish Camp, most people who weren't the actual fish were commanders — or guard commanders if you are getting technical — and optios learning to lead larger groups. Centurions and tribunes oversaw everything, but those with that rank usually had better things to do than teach someone how to hold a sword and march.

In the Fish Camp, one to three guard commanders are usually placed in charge of anywhere from twenty to a hundred fish to whip them into shape for basic training, with an optio thrown in, depending on the size. However, there were hardly ever a hundred fish in a training group, as they were typically broken down into smaller units unless multiple groups came together for special practice.

Within an actual legion, there were around ninety centurions on active duty. But in a fish legion, there might be as few as ten, but more likely around twenty centurions inside the whole camp. All of whom reported to a single tribune overseeing the camp with his many sub-tribunes.

I hadn't seen any sign of the tribune, and the two subs and one other centurion I saw all had their necks torn out. A stark difference from the usually non-serious wounds inflicted on the fish I was finding. I might be taking a leap here… but I think they were targeted.

Glancing at the long strip of red running along the outside of the man's pant legs, signifying the rank of a centurion, I reassured myself that I wasn't seeing things. Apparently, the beastkin didn't do a good enough job disrupting the Fish Camp's command structure, as they missed at least this one.

I stood, shoulders slightly slumped, as the steal gaze of the man raked over me once before he went back to looking at the wounded all around us. "What's a scout doing here and not looking for the enemy." His voice was calm, but there was steel laced through his words. An iron-clad resolve that others would bend to or be broken by.

A slight feeling of amusement filled me at his accusation, though I was too tired to show it. He was accusing me of shirking my duty during wartime without actually saying it. It was a legitimate question after finding a scout in the Fish Camp on such a night.

Emotions were high, and scouts weren't known for being in such locations when their legion was preparing for war. Now that there were hundreds dead and thousands more wounded, people would be looking to point fingers. It could have been a problem for me if I was actually shirking my duty, but I wasn't, so I had nothing to be concerned about, making the comment fall into the amusing category.

"I was training the scout trainees out on the Grounds." I tiredly said, "And when I saw them coming, I sent out a pulse message. Glad it did something," I said, looking over the organized century of men behind the centurion.

"Humph." The man grunted and gave me a look of surprise and slight skepticism, "That was you?" He asked, and I felt a slight brush against my mind as he sent out a tendril of energy to probe me. "Huh… Thought for sure whoever sent that was dead. Guess I was wrong."

A brief smile of pride flashed on my face at his tone of mild surprise before I answered his unasked question. "We gathered around the pitfalls and had a team dig out a bunker while the rest of us held the beastkins off. Once the bunker was made, it was easy to hold out with our swords and new ammunition."

The man let out a grunt of approval as he asked, "You used the compressed dirt from digging as projectiles? Haven't heard of that trick being used in decades."

"Yes, Centurion. My dad told me of the trick from his time in the 18th when he served in it a few decades ago."

"He was in the trenches at Mara's Gorge?"

"No, he was one of the scouts working the cliffs," I said with more than a hint of pride.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Damn," The older man drew out the word while giving me a look that could almost be called respect and was definitely a reappraisal of my skills. "Not many scouts made it through that mess. Not that those of us in the trenches did much better. Though they damn well always needed us to save their asses when they got caught coming back with their reports. What was his name?"

There was an air of normalcy between us, and the atmosphere was spreading outwards as we spoke. "His name is Cloud. And I wouldn't know about you saving anyone, as my father always told me that without the scouts collapsing the western cliff face onto the hoard, the right flank would have been overrun long before relief arrived. He always told me how the grunts couldn't ever seem to hold a trench 'longer than a damn hour.'" At the end of the sentence, I tried to mimic my father's voice.

"Hmm? I don't recall him. And is that what he told you?" He asked, his mustache twitching in what could either be a smile or a grimace.

"Well, my experience might be limited and relatively recent, but from what I have learned, holding a trench or tunnel isn't that hard. So I can understand my father's opinion if the grunts had difficulty lasting in that battle."

"Haa! Complete and utter Kawra crap!" He scoffed with a sweep of his arm, gesturing behind him. "These legionaries aren't even half-trained, and I bet you'll drop long before them! However, I do appreciate you doing the easy part of informing us of the enemy. If you can take a request from an old dog, a little more warning next time would be appreciated. Getting out of bed too fast hurts my back."

There was a rustle of movement as the century behind him stuck out their chests in pride and nodded in agreement with the centurion's statement. "You might be right. I'm feeling a little tired," I said, making a show of rolling my shoulders and yawning, "I should take my trainees and go. I still need to teach them how to waltz through a forest properly and find pleasant beds of moss to sleep all day on. You know, typical scout stuff."

"Leaving these fine boys and me all the hard work of cleaning up this mess?"

"You know what they say, Centurion."

"Scouts are only around when there's no work, or they have bad news?"

I saluted him before taking a few steps back, saying, "Took the words right out of my mouth, Centurion. I got no more bad news, and to me, this looks like hard work."

With that, I spun and shouted over the growing grumbles, jeers, and snickering of the century behind me, "Scout trainees! Gather at the camp's entrance. We're leaving!"

Behind me, more and louder jibes and jeers were thrown out as it became apparent that I really was leaving, but I ignored them. If I stayed, it would defeat the whole point of the conversation with the centurion.

"What's your name, Scout?" The centurion called out to me as I left.

"Scout Green," I yelled over my shoulder as I kept walking towards the camp's exit. When the centurion first called me over, he damn well didn't want a report on the wounded and dead.

Anything of that nature would be too soon to be accurate. While it was clear he was trying to take over command of the wounded collection area, he was also looking for a conversation to lighten the mood of the troops and possibly put some fire inside them.

Since I was a scout and was basically outside of the standard command structure, and with the well-known tension between scouts and legion grunts, it was a perfect opportunity. Besides, I was wasting my time here. Someone needed to help out and set up a casualty collection point when we arrived, but everything was already rolling, and others could take over for me. The centurion was right in that I had other things to do.

Either I would be training the… far fewer potential scouts to the limit they could bear, or we would all head out into the forest for real scouting regardless of their skills. Those were the only options, and the sooner I found out which one would be demanded of us, the sooner we could rest and prepare for what was to come.

I watched as the centurion started handing out duties to the squads of the century and anyone who looked like they were standing around. He told three of the squads to help the wounded and carry those on stretchers back to the Triad, while the rest he sent out searching for more wounded in the destruction. Any and everyone could hear his voice barking over the groans of the injured as he set a fire under their asses to get to work.

As the centurion took control of the chaos, word spread that I had called for my trainees to gather at the entrance to the camp. Those who didn't hear my shout immediately wrapped up what they were doing and joined the group soon after hearing the grumbles of the fish legionaries about us leaving.

Once we were all gathered, I led the group out of the Fish Camp and along the dirt road leading to the Triad. The road was only half a mile long, and even in the moon's dim light, we quickly covered the distance at a steady pace.

Halfway along the journey, when the din of the wounded faded and the shouts and noise of the reconstruction of the main entrance to the Western Fort were building, I turned and spoke to the trainees. "We are heading to the scout barracks inside the Western Fort. You will settle in and rest, and in the morning, I will tell you what to expect. Understood?"

"Yes, Instructor!" Shouted a chorus of voices. At least they're actually treating me like an Instructor now. A silver lining, I guess. As I spun and continued walking, I internally groaned. I wanted to find a bunk and sleep, but I still needed to find out what we were supposed to do now. I fucking hate being in command,