The past week had been exhausting. It had had many successes, including a few more level ups, gaining a second Cleric, and a Fighter (though it had used up the two EXP boxes he’d had before the death of the deformed bear, ‘Snapper’ brought 5 more) who had gained a truly bizarre ability, to accelerate themselves so fast, they could load and fire a gun twice in only six seconds, though only once per ‘short rest’ or ‘long rest’. Loading and firing once every six seconds was already absurd, to be able to do so twice in that time was insane. He was already considering creating a special group made up of Fighters to unleash a truly devastating initial salvo.

  But...making assignments based on class felt like a slippery slope. Indeed, there had been a long discussion about who to assign as company Chaplain, and whether it was appropriate to select a non ‘Cleric.’ In the end, they had all agreed that Private Watson was a godly man, who knew his bible, even if he was not the most learned in theology, he had been a preacher before enlisting and the men respected him. That was enough (though it made his Catholic leaning heart squirm to say it). So what if his ‘Class’ was Commoner? They would not make decisions based on such things. But how firmly could that hold as the leveled gained more and more abilities which suited them to the role they were cast in? He had a similar feeling about assigning men to kill the giant rats for EXP and sending a squad to kill the bear, which had proven to be some strange mutant thing that had nearly taken a man’s arm off. Would he have risked men for glowworms and the mobile light spell they could power, without the quest reward dangling in front of him?

  He had learned from it, one of the question marks on the spinning wheel of rewards allowed you to spin twice and select one. Again, he’d selected retainers rather than some sort of magical wand. The mare he’d gotten was useful...but he wished he’d been smart enough to decline, let it lower the reward and see if he could get chickens, or pigs, or something else. With his luck, he’d probably have gotten pigs mere moments before the hunting party returned with the piglets. They clearly weren’t domesticated, but he hoped the animal experts would be able to make use of them regardless, especially if he could get a domesticated pig through the quest rewards to add some calm to their bloodline.

  The five EXP boxes they’d won had all been for killing the bear, just like the last set came from killing the Storm Claws. Given they got EXP when they killed things, there was an obvious and uncomfortable inference to be drawn. He was holding onto those boxes for the moment, until their next combat operation was decided upon. Perhaps that was a mistake, he could level up another cleric, or try a druid or wizard...but since he really wanted to level himself up, he was concerned his judgment might be compromised in this matter. He wasn’t the only Paladin. There were two of them in total, just as there were two Rangers,

  If he was going purely by numbers, the next ought to have been a Commoner, as they were the most frequent...but he feared that the name perhaps did not suggest a lot of gain upon leveling, especially given the paucity, or rather, complete absence of additional features beyond the base species and background ones they all possessed.

  The next most frequent were Fighters, but he already had one of those leveled, then Clerics, two of those leveled, then Wizards. Wizards next was the obvious solution, especially given the benefits they’d gained from the other spellcaster. But it would depend on deployment and the next need. The other concern was that as word spread about EXP and the benefits of ‘leveling up,’ men were starting to push for more combat, for rat-slaughter duty, for other opportunities to earn EXP and advance.

  Given his own curiosity and desires, he could not blame them for that, but the dangers of it were obvious. It wasn’t as bad as the squabbles over Miss Silene, as earning EXP mostly included some danger, as the business with the bear and orcs had made clear, whereas almost none of them saw any danger in attempting to court Miss Silene.

  Fortunately, the NCOs and other officers were keeping that in hand, with hard drill and lots of work, though if they didn’t find more women and she didn’t choose someone, there was going to be trouble, eventually. As he thought, he kept an eye out for her, as the new path to the field (not quite complete, but quit a lot of progress) led directly past her tree. He also kept his eyes open for any trouble. There were five of them (as Rawlins had chosen to remain with his babies, who were growing shockingly fast and consuming a terrifying amount of meat) and they were all armed. And he had the Sending Stone, the other was with Sergeant Wilson, in case something happened.

  But still, men usually went about in squad sized groups outside the walls, just to be safe, as though many animals seemed the same, every time they started to think they understood everything that was going on they ran into something like the strange beaked bear and were reminded that this was another world.

  Despite his best efforts, he didn’t see her before she literally stepped out of a tree and startled all five of them, though he was the only one to actually draw his revolver, before he realized who it was. Her repeated trips to town, limited only by the length of her [Tongues] spell, had somehow not dulled her enthusiasm and she was talking about starting to show up at other times to try to learn English. “Hello, hello, hello, Colonel! What are you doing out here with so few people?” To Robert that sounded menacing, but the other officers clearly did not see it that way.

  “We’re taking over the watch on the field, while the others are deciding our governmental structure and leadership.”

  “Oh! That sounds like fun!” he wasn’t sure which she meant, until she took off at a sprint down the path towards the town. Well...oops. Hopefully she wouldn’t have too much influence over the others. He wondered what influence she would have...especially on the question of the involvement of women. No one was likely to want to kick her out. Well, regardless, the others frowned at him, clearly annoyed that it was his words that had sent the pretty woman away. He ignored them as they continued on.

  They chatted idly about what must be happening back there. Russel and Simpkins argued quite a bit about the whole business of women being involved in the discussion, with Simpkins viewing politics as a sordid affair which would undoubtedly sully them. Or sully Miss Silene, anyway, his concern about goblins was…low. Russel took the contrary view, no doubt echoing what his own female relatives had told him as a young man, arguing that you couldn’t shield someone from politics without shielding them from public life. Which Simpkins was happy to concede, arguing forcefully that a woman’s place was in the home. Russel hadn’t expected an actual defense of that position, so spluttered for a moment. Merriman didn’t say much on the topic, clearly nervous and Cabot cut in gently to disarm the disagreement before it could become angry.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Robert asked, curiously. It wasn’t a topic which had come up with any of the enlisted men before, though he knew generally where his officers stood on the matter. Most, even those still living would be reasonably in favor of women’s participation, if only because of their strong role in the anti-slavery movement, which all of the officers who’d been selected for the 54th were firm proponents of. Indeed, many of the officers had relatives in the Women’s Loyal National League, and though the organization was focused on abolitionism, it did not hide its push for women’s rights.

  “Don’t know that we’ve got enough people that it makes sense to try to keep anyone home, sir,” Merriman said after a moment, drawing a clap on the back from Russel and a frown from Simpkins, who then smirked at the other man.

  “Oh? Want Miss Silene running around with the entire army, if she says yes to you, do you?” the mockery was unkind and unfair, as both men were trying to court her, as were the unmarried (and a few of the married) men in the regiment.

  Cabot cut in again, “What do you think, Colonel?” the misdirection was quick, but not unfair given Robert had tossed Merriman into it.

  “My sympathies are with the movement for women’s rights, by nature and experience…” Russel puffed up slightly, as did Merriman. “But, the business with the Storm Claws...war is an ugly enough business, without adding women to the battlefield.”

  “No one’s proposing that!” Russel hurried to state.

  “On what principled difference will you draw that line, Captain?” Robert asked. “If a citizen, then the rights and obligations of defending the state fall on you, or else you will be despised as a coward by all those who fulfill their duties.”

  “A woman cannot be expected to—” Simpkins began.

  “A woman cannot—” Russel began at the same time.

  Merriman stood their considering, the argument was not precisely that which had brought him and the rest to the 54th, but he remembered the note from Senator Sumner that he’d seen on recruiting posters, and muttered quietly, “Do your duty to our country, and you will set an example of generous self-sacrifice which will conquer prejudice and open hearts.”

  Both Captains turned to look at him and he flinched, despite himself, but the Colonel nodded slightly.

  “But surely women couldn’t endure the sort of training that the men were put through,” Simpkins argued.

  “Shouldn’t, I would say, sir! Treating a woman in that fashion, I’d have any man who did it thrown out of the army!” Russel snapped.

  “This won’t be our decision,” Cabot said, then smiled, a smile Robert knew all too well, “but there’s always Deborah Samson.”

  “A unique personage, no doubt, sir,” Simpkins argued, “but there is a reason she was discharged from the army when her deception was discovered.”

  “Honorably. And granted full pension, eventually,” Cabot pointed out.

  “And yet, discharged. Do we know better than the founders of our Union?”

  There was a moment of silence and all eyes skittered towards, than away from Merriman, before Robert spoke up, “It would be our failing if we did not, having had almost a hundred years of advancement since their time.”

  Everyone took the out and Cabot swiftly changed the subject to what sports they should support being set up. The men wanted boxing, but usually there was concern about the injuries that might cause. With magical healing it was less a problem, but Robert viewed it as distasteful for soldiers, especially boxing one another. Between regiments was possible, with enemies was possible, but within the regiment it seemed like to encourage gambling and dissension. Wrestling he was less concerned with, but the men were less interested in, as it lacked the bloody spectacle of fisticuffs.

  Horse racing was obviously out and though footraces were a fine idea, they would keep the men fit and encourage healthy competition, not enmity, the men were not particularly interested, taking the view that they marched and ran plenty as it was. Cards and dice were the classical entertainment and he had no doubt the men were already making use of the gambling devices, but Robert had no expectation of actually being able to prevent that and frankly, if it distracted them from their circumstances, so be it. It wasn’t like gambling could ruin a man when there was nothing to gamble for. And their current circumstances were such that gambling debts were not likely to have the deleterious effect on unit morale they might otherwise have.

  Which left the two team games, the kings of American sport (if you didn’t count horse racing, or boxing, which he didn’t as both were more spectacle and gambling object than sport, in his view) cricket and baseball. Both were competitive, yes, but hopefully not in a damaging way and were team games rather than individual ones.

  The question was, which? They admittedly had a lot of space, but they didn’t have enough people, or equipment for both. That debate went on for quite a while, but was significantly less vitriolic than the other and Robert had no strong opinion. Well, he had one strong opinion, anything was better than the entertainment the men had figured out for themselves, with the spellcasters who lacked healing spells and so were free to use their spells at will. Not the use of [Silent Image] for truly elaborate (if time limited, given the 10 minute duration) plays (with Uncle Tom’s Cabin not resonating at all with the goblin viewers, though an alternate version where Tom slits Simon Legree’s throat in the night, escaping with Cassy and Emmeline was rather more warmly received, even if Robert rather thought it spoiled the sentimental Christ allegory that Mrs. Stowe had been writing).

  No, his concern was about the practice of ‘proving’ their manhood by leaping from the top of the mesa and using [Feather Fall] to slow their descent to a safe landing. He supposed he should be glad they’d tested the distance and spell by flinging one of the piglets (a mostly natural barrow, so there was no loss of breeding potential if anything went wrong) from the top and casting the spell as it squealed its way down. Fortunately, Chaplain Watson had lectured them on the unChristian cruelty of that act before he had to get involved and the spell was effective. Personally, Robert thought it reckless and foolish, but it seemed to build esprit de corps and many of men found the closeness to flying to be inspiring, or pleasant.

  Poor Trip though, the man was clearly scared of heights, but had been easily bullied into going up. Terrified of heights he may have been, but he was even more terrified of looking afraid. They leapt in groups of eight-to-ten, as that was how many the spell could slow to safe descents, but Trip had been unwilling to wait, racing ahead and bellowing as if to force the fear from his path and deny himself any chance to turn away, leaping so far he ended up falling into the pit which would soon be filled with water to act as a mill pond, he’d had to be pulled out.

  The men had thumped him heartily on the back, celebrating his courage and triumph over his natural caution. Indeed, their celebrations had grown so noisesome it had drawn Robert’s attention, which was how he had learned of this little practice, to his frustration, especially as several of his officers had already allowed themselves to be bullied into it (and Cabot had been one of the first to jump, after a scout on patrol with him had leapt from a treetop and cast [Feather Fall] on himself rather than climb down).

  It wasn’t so bad that they be close to the lower officers, or for them to participate in the rituals and traditions of a regiment. Every regiment Robert had been in had either had its own traditions, or created them almost instantly, but this wasn’t exactly one he was thrilled to see spread, especially by his own officers...but he had no desire to participate himself, which he probably would have to do at some point. An officer who didn’t lead from the front didn’t lead, he’d learned that from his first commander and this was part of it, unfortunately. Oh, well, at least he wasn’t afraid of heights.

  Was he jealous of Cabot’s popularity? Even with the decision to somewhat relax the distance from the men, he lacked Cabot’s easy manner and could never forget that he led the men. And had led them to their death. The fact that none had overthrown him, or replaced him, did not reduce that fact and he dared not let them too close, lest his fears be revealed.

  But, Robert didn’t distract the other officers with his musing, or annoyance. Their conversation shifted to a debate of various players and teams, which Robert again had little interest in. They’d set up in the field and were keeping a general watch on the area by the time that conversation died and they went looking for another topic. Again, less vitriolic, they were trying to guess what format the government would end up taking. A few copies of the U.S. and Massachusetts Constitutions had come through (as well as a heavily defaced version of the Rebel Constitution) and the obvious answer was to copy one of those, with some modifications.

  But as everyone acknowledged, having such an elaborate government when there were less than two hundred people involved was insane. Cabot argued they’d probably make a town meeting act as an assembly, while electing a small town council to deal with matters between meetings and a judge to run any legal issues. That seemed likeliest to Robert as well, but there was a lot of discussion about contingencies. Wouldn’t it be best to sort out what happened if they did grow significantly? After all, they’d already had many more visitors than the goblins were used to and their village was much larger (physically) and more visible than the goblins hidden hideaway.

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

  Personally, that sounded like unwarranted optimism to Robert. An attempt to bridge the growing divide he’d created in the men by opening up the question of politics and path forward to more than just himself and the other officers. It was no surprise that many of the men wanted to strike out in search of other humans (or dryads), or simply for larger civilization, where they would not be trying to create everything themselves, from scratch. He didn’t precisely agree with Wilson that given the circumstances, this was clearly holy ground and they should build their ‘city on the hill’ here, but certainly it was the best place they’d seen so far for a settlement and base of operations. Striking out randomly up or downriver seemed foolish to Robert, though he admitted they needed more people (and yes, especially women), but his preference would be to take the year to fully establish the settlement, then they could properly outfit either a small vessel or expedition to properly scout the region, looking for people.

  Especially given how swiftly they could be strengthened by basic combat, and some of the monsters Miss Silene and the goblins had referenced, he wanted any such expedition to have clear lines of retreat and be composed of strong men as leveled up as he could get them. Admittedly, he was a married man, and did not view his oaths as having been broken by his ‘death’ and therefore was less interested than many of the men in the near total absence of women.

  They too up position in the center of the field, where the men had already dug a fire pit (or had Thomas or one of the other spellcasters do it). Firewood lay by it, making things easy enough. The men on guard duty had fortified the place a bit, but just a ditch and earthworks around the perimeter, with one flat area, leading to the path out.

  It wasn’t perfect, even wolves could have cleared the ditch and wall relatively quickly, but it would slow down any advance and give them time to respond, as well as a somewhat elevated position as they circulated around the perimeter. The conversation ran through many light subjects, including the attempts by poor Privates Campbell and Brooks to learn the bugle calls (3 gold pieces each) as none of their buglers had come through and both had some experience with musicians, through to the annoying discovery that field glasses and spyglasses both cost over 100gp, so Rawlins couldn’t make them, which prompted many questions about how the things were being valued, given you could get a pistol, rifle and 30 rounds of ammunition for that! However the boxes valued things, it was very odd.

  But the conversation had somehow turned to beards. Or lack thereof. Cabot’s mustache was praised for its restrained dignity. Robert’s own beard comes in for some debate as to whether it is an Imperial or a Handlebar and Chin Puff. There are a few questions regarding why he went with that style and he smirked slightly at Cabot, “Proves I can grow a beard, while still being restrained enough to indicate virtuous self-discipline.”

  Cabot sneered at his old friend, “I can grow a beard!”

  “I know, I’ve seen it, comes in like alternately planted acres, patches here and there and bare ground in between.”

  Cabot shook his head furiously at the chuckles of the other officers. The two captains looked too young to Robert’s admittedly somewhat jaded eye to manage more than peach fuzz, though he knew they shaved religiously, in his view probably seeking to conceal that fact. Merriman was older, older even than him and Cabot, at least thirty years, and had a neatly trimmed beard, grown long enough he could use scissors rather than the razor that Robert himself used for most of his face. Though at least he actually had to use it, lest a full beard start to erupt these days.

  The rest of the day went on like that, talking of everything and nothing as they waited for the decisions to be made without them. They circulated, built a fire and had some lunch, warmed over the fire, bear meat and mushrooms and some foraged roots. It was funny, the usual problem was insufficient meat, or meat gone bad, but now it was bread and grain they lacked, though as they talked Merriman mentioned that Miss Silene said there was wild rice growing in ponds and the marshlands to the north where the river spread out, but she’d only heard about it from others, as it was too far to get there and back in a day and besides the forces that usually occupied this field, he was not eager for longer expeditions which would take portions of his tiny force out of immediate ability to support one another.

  Robert, despite theoretically (and actually) being on watch, found himself surprisingly relaxed, in a way he hadn’t been since he’d taken over the 54th. It wasn’t just the limited command, or being only among other officers, a Colonel needed to keep a little distance even there. Nor was it the lack of outside eyes measuring him and the men. They weren’t on parade, but it wasn’t that. No, this wasn’t a relaxing of the tension he’d grown used to in his time commanding the 54th that had never really gone away. Even here, the eyes were just watching for something else, not for the failures that they expected of negroes, but instead they were watching for the brutality they expected of conquerers.

  But it wasn’t the absence of eyes, or expectations that relaxed him. No, it was the certainty that he could actually do this. He knew how to command a patrol and keep watch. He knew how to lead four other men. Leading a thousand. Building a town. Creating a government. These were not things he knew and he feared they were things he was messing up.

  Oh, the 54th had been as fine a regiment as he’d ever seen, or served with, but he knew his assault had failed. What he didn’t know was what consequence that would have. They had tried as bravely as the 2nd Massachusetts at Antietam, or any other regiment in the war. But as Tacitus wrote, Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur. The injustice of war is that victory is claimed by everyone and defeat falls on a single man. Would that old saying prove true, or would they claim that it was the regiment that had failed? The concept of negro soldiers? Or would they blame him? Or both? Would the fools say it was them who’d failed him and the wise men say it was he who failed them and the cause? He’d volunteered to lead the attack and it had failed, costing a hundred lives and the good Lord alone only knew how many limbs and souls.

  Whether that was a heroic sacrifice which proved the worth of his men, or a cowardly failure that proved the folly of the whole project, he didn’t know. But he knew how to lead a patrol. Keep your eyes on the treeline, let your eyes slightly unfocus, to detect any movement. Keep up light conversation to keep men focused (if you don’t trust them to be silent) and awake, but not so loud that you couldn’t hear anyone approaching. Don’t follow a set patrol pattern. Make sure you pay enough attention to the group that you know if a man disappears and keep alert for any change in atmosphere, birds, animals, or men. Animal instinct is an incredibly thing.

  But human instinct is a thing of experience and training and Roberts experience did not tell him he needed to be worried about attack from above, at least not in an open field, even as night started to fall.

  And so none of them were prepared when two massive creatures plummeted out of the sky, aiming for Simpkins and Russel, the two smallest men. Simpkins got lucky, the bird misjudged its strike in the half-light and pulled up right above them, but the other smashed Russel into the ground, massive talons piercing through his shoulders and knocking him out at best, if not killing him in a single strike, as seemed more likely. It didn’t land, or strike him into the ground, instead, massive wings spread, stopping it as it transferred all that force to Russel’s tiny body and beat back into the air, preparing to lift off with its prey in its talons.

  A vulture. A vulture bigger than a man, attacking a man. A group of men. A group of soldiers. Robert had seen vultures eat corpses and on one occasion had driven one away from a dying man on a battlefield with a wild yell and shout, but this would take rather more. All four of them scrabbled for their pistols and opened up on the beast holding Russel. Fortunately, the damnable creature was so massive and positioned directly above Russel, allowing them to blast it freely. Three rounds impacted its body, though he could not have said who hit it and who missed, though his guess would have been Merriman, as the man hadn’t had much cause to practice with the pistol since he’d been issued it.

  But three shots was enough, one must have hit something crucial in the mass of feathers and flesh, it plummeted. Fortunately for Russel, its own flapping and the impact of the shots caused it to flop backwards, as it slammed into the ground, rather than falling atop the young man.

  The other massive vulture, a mated pair, perhaps? Regardless, it reacted with fury, launching itself at Cabot, a massive slash with its beak tearing into his shoulder, but he swung away from the talons. His sword flew free, as did Robert’s and they attacked again as a group. Cabot’s sword strike, though weakened by the blow, forced it back and his shot took it in the wing. Robert snapped forward, his sword swinging at empty air as it lunged upwards, but that handily took it into the path of his pistol, which he fired instantly, knocking the bird out of the air with a lucky shot to the throat.

  It crumpled to the ground and it was Simpkins turn for bad luck as it collapsed atop him, impaling itself on the sword he’d just managed to draw. Robert shared a single glance with Cabot and sprinted towards Russel, while Cabot moved more slowly towards the pinned captain. He was bleeding badly, but still able to move, at least until the adrenaline ran out. Merriman glanced back and forth between the two, before Robert yelled, “With me, Lieutenant!” Simpkins was cursing up a storm under the dead bird, which meant he was alive, which meant he could be healed, but Russel...he reached the man, who was nonresponsive. The birds talons had relaxed when it died and Robert managed to heave it out of the wounds with Merriman’s help. Blood gushed out for a moment, giving Robert hope. Dead men bleed only by the force of gravity, not with the gushing fervor that only the heart can bring forth.

  He pressed his hand against the wound and pressed in everything the boxes gave him, and a prayer of his own. “Don’t let me have killed this boy, Lord. If my pride deserves punishment. Inflict it upon me.”

  The boy’s eyes flickered shut and open and they focused on him as the blood stopped flowing and the wounds closed. They weren’t fully healed but they’d turned into livid red puncture marks, rather than gaping holes in the flesh. “Not a boy, sir, I’m a man grown!” he managed to get out.

  “Of course you are, son, of course,” Robert looked up at Merriman, smiled broadly, then sent the Lieutenant to help Cabot as he himself ordered Simpkins to stay down and turned his attention to the sky to make damn sure that there was nothing else up there. His mind raced. The blow...he wasn’t shocked it wasn’t fatal, but that had as much to do with what he’d seen since he got here as anything else. He wasn’t sure if it was something the boxes were doing, but he had yet to see any of his men actually killed in a single blow (or at all, to be fair, but that wasn’t something he was eager to test). The worst a blow did was knock a man unconscious, but they were still bleeding, still dying, if something wasn’t done. How this worked was as unclear as the rest of the madness of this place and their role in it.

  A howl broke the air. Wolves scented blood. Robert frowned and groped blindly at his belt as he kept his eyes on the treeline. He finally found the Sending Stone as the others managed to push the second corpse off Simpkins and free the cursing captain.

  He squeezed the stone desperately, “Trouble, animals. One injured. Support required.”

  A moment later, words echoed in his head, Relief is already on its way. Ten minutes. That was Rawlins, not Sergeant Wilson, the meeting must be over and he’d turned it over...

  Robert nodded, there was no more communication to have, so he instead nodded towards the firepit. “Fall back to the fire, if the wolves want the corpses they can have them. Cabot, you can light it?”

  Cabot nodded, “Yes, sir,” his voice was tight with pain from the bleeding wound on his shoulder, but he’d gotten lucky and it hadn’t hit anything that was causing him to bleed to death.

  “Lieutenant Merriman, help Captain Russel, Cabot, you’ve got the lead, I’ll take the rear, Captain Simpkins, with Merriman.” That put the injured man on point, but the threat was behind them and it meant if Cabot fell, one of the others could help him. He’d have preferred to put Simpkins with Cabot, but the major would be insulted by the care as he was still mobile.

  He got a chorus of nods and they moved out quickly. Howls were getting closer. They moved quickly, but as a group, until they got to the fireplace, where Cabot instantly snapped his fingers and [Prestidigitation] caused the fire to leap to life. “Damnation Robert, if I got to choose my spells the way the Clerics and Druids do, I could heal him myself. It burns me to run from a pack of wolves and let them have the beasts we killed.” He didn’t mention his own wound, which he now pressed a hand and handkerchief to. Robert didn’t mention it either, but he made sure to position Cabot and Russel together, with Simpkins to keep an eye on them.

  Robert nodded. He didn’t exactly want to eat vulture and he had never been a hunter or a man interested in hunting trophies, but having nearly lost a b—man to the beasts, he was suddenly much more understanding of the desire of men for trophies, or the historic desire to stick heads on sticks. See this? It tried to kill me and now it’s a decoration! A warning. A threat. He’d been in battle before and had felt the exhilaration of survival many times, but usually it was tempered either by loss, or the need to control other men. He shook it off, though it was less easy than he’d like and to his shame, his subconscious brought up the boxes. 135/300 EXP, how much more would the wolves he heard in the dark, tearing apart the vultures that had nearly killed Russel?

  It wasn’t worth risking the lives of his men, or himself for that. But it did indicate, given that it must have been divided four or five ways, depending on if Russel got any, given he was unconscious the entire fight, that the giant vultures were dangerous creatures. Not that that wasn’t obvious, if not for good luck in the first attack, it would have been two versus three, or they might simply have flown off with their prey, daring the survivors to shoot at them from below, past the swinging bodies of their victims…

  He glanced over at Russel who was standing on his own, though Simpkins stood nearby, ready to steady him if he slipped, especially forward. Robert had seen a man fall in a campfire while drunk and he’d only needed to see that once.

  The rest of them faced outwards, keeping their eyes and ears on the shadows moving in the growing darkness outside the circle of firelight and the approaching light in the distance that had to be their relief. It would only a few minutes, and Robert was confident the wolves would focus on the free meal they already had, rather than fighting for an extra one. He spoke quietly, trying to confirm something that seemed to be correct based on what the men who’d fought the bear had reported. “Everyone, what is your current Hit Points?”

  He got a number of responses and it confirmed what had seemed likely based on the language of his healing abilities and the reports he’d received from the injured. Cabot had several fewer Hit Points than previously, Russel had exactly 5, the same number of ‘HP’ that Robert had healed, and Simpkins had lost only one from having the bird fall upon him. It appeared having 0 hit points caused men to fall unconscious. How that interacted with actual death, or wounds, he didn’t know and didn’t see any safe way to find out, so he left it. At least he’d confirmed that Hit Points and HP were the same thing. An unfortunate number of acronyms in the boxes were entirely unexplained...As expected, the wolf pack did not bother them, not with two massive meals just lying there and the garrison arrived swiftly.

  Sergeant Wilson lead the two squads and as he approached, the wolves howled and fled rather than fighting such a large group. “Need medical spells for Captain Russel and Major Cabot,” he caroled as soon as they were within earshot and the men sped up. Moments later, both the wounded were fully healed. Robert sighed in relief, then restrained a sigh of concern. Given Wilson was here...he probably had not carried the day in his arguments. Though perhaps they would have a later election? He’d said the officers would not stand, not that they would not vote...well, regardless, he’d learn soon enough.

  “What happened, Colonel?” he asked.

  “Giant vultures. Follow me, Sergeant,” he ordered and the men fell in around him. The tension that returned was a weight, but a familiar one by now. The other officers moved as well, though both Cabot and Russel were surreptitiously poking their bare, pink flesh, visible as their uniforms had been torn open at the shoulders.

  The men followed and stones with [Light] spells on them were lifted high, to see the damage the wolves had done to the corpses. It was quite impressive how much they’d managed to eat in only a few minutes. But the birds were still massive and the wolves had focused on the core of the first body and a few bites on the core of the second, leaving the massive wings almost entirely alone. The men gasped at the size once it had been spread out and lifted. They pulled the bodies back towards the fire and examined them in more detail. “Keep an eye on the sky, Sergeant. They’re most dangerous when they strike from surprise.”

  He nodded.

  Robert continued briefly, “They struck silently, each trying to carry off one man, then attacked with talons and beak, given the size, rifles will probably do better than pistols. We were lucky with our shots, given the size of the creature.”

  The Sergeant nodded and snapped a few orders. Men began to dress the birds, collecting the bones to be traded to the goblins, plucking the feathers, most likely as decoration, or trade goods, assuming...whatever they were and wherever they were going, they could find someone to trade with. They were careful with that, but called over to Cabot to help clean off the down as they pulled it free from under the larger feathers. That was a precious commodity for the men themselves. Every man had a bedroll, but a down pillow, or down stuffing in the blanket would be a true luxury.

  And one the regimental quartermaster would need to manage for fairness. Russel was still poking his no-longer bloodied shoulders, but Cabot was already there, shaking him slightly and sending him on to take over management and make sure nothing went missing. “Well, at least we’ll figure out how much it costs to make a uniform,” Robert muttered, though he was not happy with the answer, 20 gold pieces for a full uniform, 8 for just the top. But the tears were so large that they couldn’t be sewn up the way a clean axe blow could. And they were able to salvage the cloth from the damaged tops for other uses.

  Robert looked over to Sergeant Wilson. “So, what was decided?” he asked quietly, to spare the man’s feelings, as he’d been one of the main contenders for leadership.

  “Well sir, it was the queerest thing I ever saw…”

  AN: Private Cornelius Watson, 31, had his occupation listed as preacher and died at Fort Wagner in the real world, based on the roster here: . I know no more about the man than his profession, age, rank and death.

  Comments/critiques/corrections are always welcome as are likes/reviews/kudos. I am sick this week and my motivation is leaking out my nose along with gallons of snot.