Legends Never Die: Unification (ch. 126)

“That road work helped us along, eh?” Hjalmar heard to his right as he laid on the sand, breathing deeply as he tried to get a grip on his racing heart. All around him, he could hear the panting and grunts of everyone else in the troop as they did much the same. His side pinched like someone was stabbing him with a knife, while his arms and shoulders screamed with strain. He couldn't even feel his legs. 

“How… are you… still talking?” Hjalmar panted, looking to Trym to find the older man sitting down and gazing out at the sea. “Did the gods… give you bigger lungs… when they took your wits?” 

Trym snorted, “My mother always said my father could talk the whole day away without breathing once, so I suppose I got it from him. And it's easier to recover if you stand up, curling up like a turtle might feel nice, but it won't help you breathe.” He advised and Hjalmar groaned, truly questioning every decision that had led up to this point. 

The plan had been simple. Over the course of fall and winter, more details had come forth about the alleged conquest -- they would seize all of the North, then sweep to the east until they were marching south to conquer along the southern Baltic coast. People spoke in hushed whispers about the length of the campaign, some thinking that it would take a lifetime, others a decade, with a few thinking that the King intended to conquer the whole thing in a single year. 

Money granted opportunity, and there were few ways to earn more coin than war. There had been some grumbling about how the loot would be divided -- all of the goods divided up, then everyone receiving a base payout with those that brought more valuable things receiving an additional fee. Some were already chafing under the idea, but not Hjalmar. No, he was quite the opposite. 

Any who participated in the conquest would receive spoils and a base amount of pay. Finding good loot would increase that pay, as would keeping certain valuables to himself to sell at a later date for additional profit. Given the King's reputation -- both for winning against long odds, and for looting any and everything that had a semblance of value, all the way down to the nails and timber of people's homes… it seemed a safe bet that he would make more in a few years as a warrior than he would as a road builder. 

There were other opportunities, a surprising amount in all honesty. Apprenticeships for every trade that Hjalmar could think of and many more that he hadn't even been aware of, such as glassworking. He could try his hand at something like that, he knew. Take the apprenticeship for roughly five years and ply that trade until he was old and gray. It wouldn't be a bad life. It would be a better life than most got. It just wasn't the life that he wanted. 

It had been a quick decision to go to the recruitment hall like so many others once the roadwork dried up. There were those who were clamoring to earn a glorious position -- to join the Rangers, to become a cavalryman, to impress one of the armor-clad veterans into taking them as a student to master the art of war. And they were welcome to those positions. What Hjalmar wanted was the role of an average infantryman. Steady pay, good chance for spoils, and no greater risk than any of the other men he stood shoulder to shoulder with. 

But now…

“Regretting it already?” Trym asked him, a smirk in his voice and Hjalmar waved him off, deciding to rise to his feet, even if his legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Much to his annoyance, while the pinch in his side felt worse, it was easier to breathe. Worse, he was really considering the question. 

“Ask me again in the morning,” he sighed, looking out at the others as they recovered from their latest training exercise. Some were better off than him, while others were worse. Every day, for the past few weeks, they had been earning the right to join the King's army, and the competition was a lot stiffer than Hjalmar had prepared himself for. 

In the end, many had had the same exact idea as he did -- to join the army and get rich. So many people had the same idea, in fact, that the King created filters to get rid of the unworthy, the unfit, and the fairweathered. In an army that boasted being twenty thousand strong when it was all said and done, it would be filled with only the most able-bodied and dedicated recruits. Quality steel that the King intended to sharpen to a deadly edge. He just needed to make sure he made the cut. 

A horn rang out, telling them that they were done for the day. Hjalmar sighed with relief before he waded into the ice-cold waves of the sea to wash off the sand and sweat. Others would be spending their coin at the bathhouse, and while he couldn’t deny the temptation, he also knew that it would be easier to give in the next time, so he held off. The coin that he had needed to last him through the winter, and unlike the work crews, he wasn’t willing to risk his coin gambling. 

Men with weapons were more inclined to use them, and while they might be willing to laugh off a poor roll of the dice, you also didn’t want a man that you took money from to be in a position to save your life. 

After a quick wash, he headed back into where he and so many other recruits would be staying. It was a wide building rather than a tall one, located on the outskirts of Miklagard. There, roughly five hundred potential recruits would be sifted. Those who proved worthy would be recruited, and those who didn't, wouldn’t be. Hjalmar wasn’t sure how he felt about his odds. Or the fact that this was merely the training before the proper training once he actually became a recruit in the King’s army. 

Assuming he made the cut, at least.

“They’ll take more than they need to make up for the loss in military training,” Hjalmar reassured himself as he entered the warm hall that immediately vanished the lingering chill. The once rowdy building was quieter now as everyone suffered the effects of pushing themselves to the limit and beyond for the sake of standing out. In a class of five hundred, they’d take only two hundred and fifty because there would be those who either dropped out during training, injured themselves, or had the physical ability but not the mentality the King was looking for. 

Hjalmar fell face-first into his hay bed in the barracks, every muscle in his body weeping with relief. He only realized that he had fallen asleep when he felt a hand roughly shaking him awake and he peeled his eyes open to see it was Trym. 

“It’s time. They’re making the announcement,” Trym informed, and that certainly woke him up. It was something of a relief that he wasn’t the only one who had to be coaxed out of bed, the night passing in what felt like a blink of the eye. His muscles ached as he dressed himself, forced to take small steps into the central courtyard where all of the potential recruits were gathering. 

They stood in rows of twenty-five, and before them were the few that would decide if they had a future with the army that King Siegfried was building. There were ten in total, each of whom had watched and graded them for the past few weeks. It wasn’t just about the physical, Hjalmar reminded himself. They were looking for leadership skills, watching how well they each got on with their fellow recruits, and for individual skill. It was another reason why he wouldn’t be taking anyone's money at the gambling tables -- it could count against him.

“All of you have done well,” A man stepped forward, a veteran by the name of Steinn -- a large and burly man with a long brown beard with woven pieces of bone and gold. “You have endured all that we have asked of you these few weeks. Of the five hundred that arrived, three hundred and eighty-six remain. The rest didn’t have the spine to endure such hardship and challenges.” More than a hundred had been culled from the herd, simply packing up their things and leaving in the dead of the night if they had any shame. 

“However, we cannot accept all of you at this time,” Steinn continued, his tone blunt. “Some of you will be recruited directly to the King’s army. Others will be held in reserve when some of our brothers inevitably fall and are welcomed into Odin’s Hall. When you hear your name, step forward and take your place amongst those that shall be honored to follow the King into battle.” A parchment was unfurled and in a loud booming voice, Steinn started calling names. 

The list was in alphabetical order, so he didn’t have to wait too long to know if he made the cut. 

“Hjalmar of Orinsted,” he heard, and Hjalmar nearly went limp as he approached, joining the growing group of accepted warriors. Those who had been passed over still lingered, desperately hoping that it was some mistake or that their names could still be called. Much to Hjalmar’s relief, Trym was also called. The man had become a friend since their roadworking days, and it was reassuring that he wouldn’t go into this alone.  

He stood proudly amongst the two hundred and fifty that were recruited. While another fifty made the list to be brought in as reserves. The rest were dismissed, but cautioned against giving up so easily, as there would be wars to be fought in the future. Yet, there was no time to celebrate as Steinn addressed them, his expression flat. “From this moment on, you are now recruits who have the potential to be worthy of fighting and dying for our King. It is said that all who fight in his name are welcomed into the halls of Valhalla with a position of honor… and in life, they find themselves with more wealth than their great-grandchildren could hope to spend in their lifetime.” 

“Yet, you are not yet deserving to call yourselves warriors! But you will be. From this moment onward, until we depart, I will be training all of you in preparation of the wars to come. I will be your commander in the field, and we shall be part of the greater whole that will conquer these lands.” Steinn continued, walking the front of the three hundred men before he slipped into the gaps between them. “You will be taught how to fight in a shield wall, and with other formations or tactics. Your individual skills will be honed. I hope that you are prepared, because this was the easy part. It only gets more difficult from here, and those in reserve will be chomping at the bit to take your place.” 

Hjalmar tried to appear unremarkable as the commander passed by him, and he managed that feat, though Steinn lingered nearby. “The five men before you are your commanders in the field. Each is responsible for fifty men, just as I am for the two hundred and fifty of you. Just as you shall be responsible for those you stand shoulder to shoulder with, and they you.” 

He breathed a little easier when the commander moved on, but he listened attentively. “You are to divide yourselves into groups of five. Those five shall be your squad. You will eat together, sleep together, fight together, and die together. Begin.” Steinn finished, and for a moment, there was inaction. Then, almost as if given a cue, they all began to drift towards those they were familiar with. Those that they got on with during training. 

Hjalmar found Trym rather quickly, but that left three open spots with their squad. He stepped back, scouting those that already hadn't grouped up and it was only some of them that he had any interest in. Familiarity was one thing, but skill was another. 

Those that had performed well during training, regardless of their attitude, whether they be arrogant, surly, or friendly, were quickly surrounded. Those, he discounted quickly. He wouldn’t be able to convince them to allow the two of them to join their squad, and in the time that he’d spend trying to the other prospects would be snatched up. 

No -- the cream of the crop was not what he wanted. What he wanted in squadmates was two things: strength and intelligence. However, strength could be cultivated. Skill could be earned. Intelligence? Odin granted each man a limited number of wits, and most were content to drink or beat them out. The ones that he wanted were the ones like him. The ones taking a step back, surveying the greater whole for those that had potential but weren’t immediately obvious. 

“Found our squadmates,” he told Trym, who cocked an eyebrow at that, but seemed content to let him take the lead. He approached one on the fringe -- a tall spindly man with gaunt cheeks but sharp blue eyes. He noticed their approach and Hjalmar welcomed the inspection. He noted their sizes, their builds, the calluses on their hands, all before he met their gazes. “We could use a third,” he said to him and he paused before replying. 

“Isulf,” He introduced himself without so much as a shred of warmth, but he still offered a hand. Like Isulf had done to him, Hjalmar had inspected his new squadmate. He was passed over because of his thin build and lanky height, but his hands were rough from hard labor and underneath the baggy clothing were iron cords of strength. 

“Hjalmar,” He introduced himself before inclining his head to Trym. “Trym. Did you have your eyes on another?” He asked, but based on how Isulf’s eyes sharpened, looking over his shoulder, Hjalmar suspected that they were being approached. Following Isulf’s gaze, his eyes widened a fraction at who was approaching them. 

They were a pair that was well known to him to the point he already knew their names. They were the two that lead the pack -- the ones that did the best in every exercise, who possessed a seemingly limitless amount of stamina, and any time they lost a training bout, it was exclusively with each other. 

Ulfar and Lokar. 

Ulfar was on the shorter side but built like a wall, and entirely too quick in a way that felt unnatural every time he saw it. His hair was a reddish brown with bright green eyes and an easy smile on his face. He contrasted harshly with Lokar, who had blonde hair and blue eyes, while being half a head taller and leaner. 

“Greetings -- Do the three of you have room for two more?” Ulfar asked, his smile growing when Hjalmar couldn’t stop himself from narrowing his eyes. They were the kind of men that Hjalmar had written off. They would have had their pick of the litter when it came to deciding squadmates, and the fact that they were approaching them felt… suspect. Almost to the point he checked over his shoulder to make sure that they were talking to them. 

Thankfully, Trym said the words that Hjalmar was thinking. “You mean us? Don’t you have better options?” A little honest, but the sentiment was the same. 

To that, Ulfar’s smile grew a fraction, and it was only then that Hjalmar noticed the cunning glint in his eyes. “Ah, well -- I knew about the squads for some time. Benefits of having the right father, I suppose. So, I’ve been keeping an eye on who I would be putting on my squad. Lokar impressed me from the beginning, and you three… well, two of you were on my short list.” 

Then his gaze slid to Trym, “Sorry.” He elaborated, offering an unapologetic shrug. Meaning that Trym had been the one that hadn’t caught his eye. 

There was a lot to unpack. First and foremost was that Ulfar had a father of some influence. How much, he wasn’t certain, but one that was likely connected to the army in some way. Secondly, it meant that he had been watched. The information wasn’t exactly surprising -- it was hardly as if everyone else was so dull that the thought never occurred to them, but it meant that he had apparently impressed Ulfar enough that he was being recruited. 

A sour expression flickered across Trym’s face, but even as understanding filled his eyes, Hjalmar knew what he expected him to do. And it would be a bald-faced lie to say that he wasn’t considering it. While he liked Trym well enough, this was an opportunity that wasn’t likely to come again. He’d be squadmates with one of the best performing warriors in their class, one who had influential connections, and that could be the key to the future he desired. 

But to get that key, he had to betray Trym. 

“No, thank you,” Hjalmar replied, making Ulfar tilt his head to the side ever so slightly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll look elsewhere for squadmates. I have a difficult time trusting someone who’d treat others so callously.”

He hadn’t been sure what kind of reaction to expect, but it wasn’t for Ulfar’s smile to become a full blown grin. “Ah, there’s no need for that. Because Trym was one of the two I was looking to recruit. You were the one I was undecided about,” he informed, and that caught Hjalmar off guard. “You’re a ladder climber. Not sure why, or for what, but I wanted to see if you were the kind of shit that’d write off the one friend you’d made here if the opportunity struck.”

What?

That was a little hurtful, he thought to himself. Though, less hurtful than when Ulfar clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team, you three.” Ulfar said, easily assuming the role of the leader of the squad and taking his acceptance for granted. Which he was right to, but it did leave Hjalmar feeling like he had been walked over. 

The feeling was mollified when Trym thumped him on the other shoulder when the five of them went to confirm their squad. Hjalmar didn't look at him, “Shut up.”

He could feel his grin, “Didn't say nothing.” 

After their squad was confirmed, Ulfar placed himself as the squad leader. It was something of a loss, but hardly a major one. What he wanted from the military was wealth, which he would get so long as he survived the wars to come. Earning a higher position would be nice, as it came with a higher share of spoils, but it was hardly a necessity. In fact, it was better this way. Hjalmar wasn't sure who exactly Ulfar's father was, but given that he was starting as an infantryman, he couldn't be too high up the chain of command. 

Once the squads were made, some having an easier time than others, Commander Steinn stood before them once more with his sub-commanders. Hjalmar turned to the one that they were answerable to -- them, and nine other squads. Hemingr, who was one of King Siegfried's lesser veterans as he was amongst those that joined his army just before the Great Raid, and he was one of the few that hadn't left the army with his absurd wealth. Which told Hjalmar that he was either especially greedy, or a true believer. 

“You are now a fighting squad. Each squad is answerable to your squad leader. From this moment onward, you will succeed and fail as a squad. Should one of you fail, you all will fail, and failure is unacceptable so it will be punished accordingly,” Commander Steinn began, his voice carrying out. “Your squad leaders will decide your personalized training, while your troop leader will decide your troop training. However, I will tell you the absolute minimum you must do and I swear to the gods, if I find any of you doing the bare minimum I will choke the life out of you and bury your corpse with your head up your arse!” 

There were a few chuckles that died in people's throats when they saw that the oath was made on his armring, meaning that it was an oath to Thor. It was no idle threat. 

He proceeded to lay out their basic expectations, which were broken down by week -- five hours of sparring, ten miles ran, five hours in the training area lifting heavy stones and other exercises meant to build muscle. It was fairly light in comparison to what they had been up to until now. But things started to make more sense when they received the weekly training they would receive under Hemingr. 

An additional five hours of sparring and formation training. Twenty-one miles, or three miles a day, ran -- sometimes with their arms and armor on. Then, an additional ten hours of physical training. Sometimes there would be group training with all the squads, other times there would be a rotation of groups of two or five. 

Spread out each day, it amounted to roughly two hours of sparring, three miles ran, two hours of physical training. Which wasn't terrible. Not really. It was something he could get used to easily enough and it was nothing compared to working sixteen-hour days building the Kingsroad. 

But that was where the squad leader's personal expectations came in. And Ulfar made his expectations very clear. Everything that could be doubled, would be. 

Hjalmar accepted the news with the grace of a man whose execution had just been decided, understanding deep in his gut that he had bitten off far more than he could ever hope to chew. It must have shown because Trym nudged him. 

“I forgot to ask -- you regret joining up yet?”

Hjalmar closed his eyes and swallowed his internal screaming. “You're hilarious, Trym. You really are.” 

…

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Fall turned into winter, with Yule passing by barely noticed as their training continued. The mild winter, which had felt like such a blessing, now felt like a curse. There was perhaps a week when the snow and chill were bad enough to call off outdoor training, which just meant that they did what they could indoors. It was relentless, with every single squad trying to outperform the others. 

Hjalmar never quite got used to the demand on his body that only seemed to grow, always outpacing his ability to adapt to the harshness of the training. But he did adapt. The little fat that he had seemed to be stripped away, replaced with muscle. Sprints that used to take him out for a day could be managed within an hour, barely feeling like a warm up. Yet, things generally developed a rhythm to them. A painful rhythm, one that left him sore and collapsing into his bed when the day was done. 

It was a rhythm that carried onward all the way to spring and the day that he had been longing for and dreading in equal measures. 

“That's the King?” Hjalmar muttered, standing in formation, but one of many. He had a spear-axe in one hand, a shield in the other, while a padded gambisson covered him. He would have preferred armor, like that ‘plate mail’ that the veterans wore, but evidently that was something one had to earn by collecting iron from the battlefield. 

“Aye, that's him. Impressive, hm?” Ulfar remarked to him in a low voice, looking up at the King as he emerged upon a platform that overlooked them all. “He lives up to his reputation. Believe me.” 

He looked like he did, Hjalmar agreed. He was massive, looming larger than life over them all with his blood red hair pulled back from his face while his equally red beard was cut short. Hjalmar couldn't see the legendary scar on his neck from where he was kissed by Fenrir, but he could see the pelt of Loki's child draped over his shoulders. Underneath it, he wore a full set of plate mail -- it covered his chest, stomach, arms and legs with a long skirt of chainmail ending at his knees. At his waist was the legendary sword Gram, a hand resting on it as he seemed to drink the sight in. 

Hjalmar could only imagine what the view looked like. Twenty thousand men were arranged in armies of five thousand, each one possessing their own archers, scouts, and cavalry. The King seemed unfazed by such a sight, his intense blue eyes flickering over all of them as if it was all to be expected. 

He wore no crown, for one was utterly unnecessary. No one could look upon King Seigfried and mistake him for anything but a king. 

“For a year, you have prepared for this day,” the King said at last, speaking to those that had been amongst the first to join rather than those like him, who’d waited until the last minute. “Your reasons are your own. Perhaps you seek glory and a saga. Perhaps wealth and prestige. Perhaps you are a believer in my dream of what our people can become and the future we shall build together. But, whatever your reason might be, one thing remains true -- you have sacrificed to stand here. You have sacrificed your blood, your sweat, and even your tears to be amongst my legions. The first of many, who shall unite our people.” 

King Siegfried didn't shout or scream. He didn't need to. He spoke loudly, and Hjalmar never could have imagined that twenty thousand people could be so silent. Even the birds and the waves that lapped at the shore they were arranged on seemed to wait and listen. 

“Our enemies know that we are coming, as I have informed them. Some will resist. Some will surrender. However, all will submit, as you are my closed fist who will crush those who oppose us,” King Siegfried continued, raising up a giant hand and closing it into a fist. There was a rumbling that swept over the armies, the image appealing to them. Hjalmar couldn't say that he was immune to it either. 

He felt unbeatable. If he had to describe what he was feeling at that moment, then it was that -- he couldn't imagine that they would encounter an enemy that could best them. Not against the core of veterans who had followed King Siegfried into dozens of battles. Not when even the weakest recruits had trained and drilled relentlessly. Not when King Siegfried himself would lead them. 

No, he couldn't imagine losing. Not any more than the Geats and the Swedes could possibly imagine winning against such a force. 

“Let us begin the great conquest which will bind our people into one whole. Generals… begin boarding.” King Siegfried finished his speech, and even as the armies began to move forward, they cheered. 

Hjalmar found himself grinning as they approached the ship that would take them to new lands filled with possibility. And he knew… if nothing else, the next few years would prove interesting.