Kildragon did not look Trolledyngjan. He was tall but on the lean side, with delicate features and feminine hands. He seemed more typically Itaskian.

"Hawkwind? Lauder? The White Company?" he babbled.

Bragi shrugged. "Wickhard's got a chance at the White. If we can get him through. It's spooky, the way he can use a bow."

"It's the regiments for us," Haaken grumbled. "Lauder and Hawkwind don't take Greens."

"I'd guess the regiment in Simballawein," Bragi said. "That's where the war scare is."

"Farther south," Haaken complained. "And it's still summer."

"Me," said Reskird, "I think we ought to kiss Sanguinet's ass so he'll recommend us for Octylya." Sardygo, the Prince of Octylya, maintained a Guild bodyguard consisting entirely of Trolledyngjans.

A demonic creature looking nine feet tall and seven wide lumbered into the barracks room. "Kiss it all you want, boy. I'm still getting rid of you before you get your shield."

Ragnarson squawked a startled, " 'Ten-shut!"

"Failing that, Kildragon, I'll get you the honeybucket concession for the whole damned castle."

Reskird did not cringe. This was what passed for light banter with the sergeant.

Sanguinet stalked round the cramped little room occupied by Bragi's squad. He poked fingers into cracks. He thumped hammocks. He hunted mercilessly, and could find nothing to bitch about.

"Ragnarson!"

"Sir?"

"You making fun of me, boy?"

"Sir? I don't understand, sir."

"You're playing some kind of game. It's too perfect. Your squad is always too perfect." He grinned wickedly. "So maybe I'll change the rules."

Corporal Trubacik stuck his head in the doorway. "Sarge? The Old Man wants you. Said make it yesterday."

"What is it now?"

"Another messenger came in. Looks set. He's expecting word from the Citadel."

"Damn it all to Hell! The rumor was right. And us stuck with Greens." The demon stalked out in the wake of his apprentice.

"What was that all about?" Bragi wondered. Haaken and Reskird shrugged.

Kildragon said, "We've got to give him something to gnash his teeth on, Bragi. He's foaming at the mouth because you won't give him anything."

"Not going to, either. I don't like his game. As long as I'm stuck with it, I'm going to play it better than he does. All that growl is just for show, anyway. My father did the same thing. Bet you he isn't half a hardass once we've won our shields."

"Hrumph!" Haaken opined.

Rumors flew like panicky pigeons at breakfast. The old men in the Citadel had accepted a big commission. The drill instructors did not deny that. The recruit company would be included. The noncoms would not confirm or deny that. Going on from that point, virtually every imaginable possibility was aired. Sanguinet and Trubacik apparently knew the truth, but they weren't talking. The sergeant was pale, and he roared more than normal. He altered the training routine to include more weapons practice and drill to battlefield signals.

"We're going," Bragi guessed, stomach heavy. "And he expects action. The enemy won't be anybody who'll fold when he hears we're in the field."

Haaken grunted affirmatively. Reskird observed, "He's scared."

Bragi grumbled, "Hell, you can't blame him. His life will depend on us. And we've never been in combat."

"He should have more faith in his ability as an instructor."

"Would you, in his boots?"

Reskird shrugged. "No. You never know what a man will do till he's stuck in a situation. We're the only ones in the outfit who've ever been in a real fight."

There was no official comment till evening parade. Then a Colonel from the Citadel addressed the assembled troops, veterans and recruits alike. He said, yes, a commission had been accepted. A thousand men would be involved. General Hawkwind would command. Details he kept to himself, perhaps for security reasons. He urged all brothers not actively participating to remember Hawkwind's force in their prayers.

"Hawkwind!" Reskird enthused. "What a break. First time out and we get the grand master. You hear what he did at Balewyne last year? Beat the whole Kisten army with five hundred men."

Bragi grunted. "With five hundred veterans from his own and the White Company."

"You're as bad as Haaken. Know that? What about Wadi el Kuf? Fifteen thousand enemy dead on the field. He's never lost a battle."

"Always a first time," Haaken grumbled.

"I don't believe you. How soon you think we'll head out?"

The word passed through the barracks that night: the recruit company would complete its training. Five days of Hell remained.

"So much for marching off to war, Reskird." Bragi whispered after lights out. "You're full of it, you know that? Enjoy the obstacle course."

One regular company departed two days later, bound for a rendezvous with Hawkwind somewhere to the south. Word spread quickly: the recruit company would have to catch up on the road. Grim faces appeared. The pace would be hard. Graduation would provide no respite.

Corporal Trubacik was amused. "You're all young men. In prime shape, I hear. You should be able to do it walking backward."

Bragi said little the next few days. He went through the exercises and drills numbly. Haaken finally asked, "You all right? Sure you don't want to bow out?"

"I started it. I'll finish it. I just have trouble when I think about dying out there. Wherever." They had not been told where they were going.

Bragi could not buy all the brotherhood of the Guild. He felt solidarity with his squad and company, of course. That was one function of the training program. A group went through Hell together and learned to depend upon one another. But the larger belonging that made the Guild had not infected him. The honor and nobility had not become tangible to him. And that worried him. Those things were important to both his superiors and to his comrades. They made the Guild what it was.

He tried hard to sell himself. It was like trying to force sleep. Self-defeating.

It seemed to take forever arriving, but Shielding Day did come. All the grand old men, the great and famous generals, came down from the Citadel to review the recruits and make speeches. They kept their remarks refreshingly brief. The Castellan, the senior member of the order present, apologized because the recruits would have no opportunity to enjoy the leave traditional after completing training.

Then came the final ceremony, when each new Guildsman was awarded the shield of a Guild footsoldier. Each had to go before the assembly to accept. Trainees who had excelled received honor ribbons with their shields. Bragi was awarded one for having had the best squad during inspections.

The award embarrassed him terribly. He hustled back into line. His comrades grinned wolfishly. He knew he would not hear the end of it soon. He examined shield and ribbons, found a lump rising in his throat, felt his pride swelling. "Damn," he murmured. "They got to me after all."

Corporal Trubacik bellowed, "Up and at them, lads. Up and at them. It's another glorious day in the outfit." He whipped blankets off the new young soldiers. "Let's go. Let's go. You know the drill. Company formation in half an hour." Out the door he went, leaving the lamp turned a little higher.

"Damn," Reskird said. "Ain't nothing changed. I hoped we'd at least get to sleep in."

Bragi did not say anything. He got his soap and razor and stumbled to the lavatory. His head was stuffed up and his temper was foul. He washed and shaved in silence, refusing to respond to jibes about his ribbon.

"Fall in!" Trubacik bellowed across the parade yard. "Platoon leaders, report!" The platoon sergeants turned and bellowed for reports from the squads. Bragi reported all present and accounted for without checking. Nobody had missed muster yet.