The Reader

Chapter Two - The Trouble With Berta

Chapter Two.

 

Merric raked his sharp eyes over the horizon, which wavered and danced in the heat. To his left the peaks of the Savar Mountains towered high above, but they threw no shadow in the high noon sun. Sweat dripped steadily from his face, his rough uniform chafing at his neck and limbs.

The stone was hard underfoot as he stepped along the outer wall, cradling a crossbow in the crook of his right arm. Guard-duty was a monotonous chore, one which Merric despised. He had not enlisted for the pomp and pageantry of endless parades and stiff uniforms. He had signed up to fight the enemies of his kingdom. The only conflict he had seen so far were the occasional wrestling matches conducted by his comrades, and the ongoing war against the heat.

Before him the wall stretched ahead, straight as an arrow shaft. Merric quickly settled into the usual routine of watching the endless desert, all the while seething at the injustice of such a job. He was no green country boy. He had trained for years before signing up, dreaming of becoming an officer and leading men into battle. His own father had given his life for Ohadi when Merric was just a child, and a nobler sacrifice Merric couldn't imagine. It was his destiny, too, to perish on the battlefield.

Instead he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, as far away from action as it was possible to get. Here there were no hordes of Gyurel raiders to fight, only straw dummies to poke with spears. Most of the soldiers at Fort Savar were young men who greatly preferred being yelled at by an officer to slaving away in the mines and fields. They hardly knew which end of the sword they held, and which end they were supposed to stick the enemy with. The only thing they had going for them was their fierce patriotism.

They disgusted Merric. Most were scrawny, gangly specimens stunted from a lifetime of malnutrition and hard work. Some were thieves granted a reprieve by volunteering for the army. A few were shrewdly cunning, very able at pick-pocketing and good in a knife-fight, but the vast majority were stupid and relied on the strength of numbers rather than individual skill.

In contrast Merric was tall and powerfully built, with broad-shoulders and well-muscled arms. Short blonde hair, a mark of nobility, rested above sharp blue eyes which missed nothing. When he fixed someone in his gaze he gave the impression of a snake mesmerizing a rat, scrutinizing every flaw, vice and sin.

His father had been a wealthy horse-breeder before he died, well apt at weeding out the weak, a trait Merric had inherited. It was a skill he applied not only to the stables, but also to society. With one glance he could tell who would be worth his time, and who belonged on the midden heap. Which beggar deserved a coin and which needed a boot in the rear. Who was worth teaching and who was a lost cause.

Intelligent, courageous, strong and handsome, he was everything a good noble should be. As the heir to a fortune he could have married any girl he wished, and there were plenty who would have gladly gone to his bed had he only asked. But Merric didn't like the way the daughters of the gentry giggled at everything, or how they whispered behind their hands to one another when he passed. He hated the way they blushed when he was introduced to them, and constantly craved his attention. They were so fragile and immature and vulnerable, bred and raised to marry the richest suitor and bring wealth to their families.

At least they couldn't follow him out here. This barren, sun-kissed land was not where one would expect to find such delicacy. He could be thankful for that much. The only woman out here was the large cook Berta, and only the most foolish of soldiers would try his luck with her.

Merric could see her from where he marched along the battlement. She was standing by the cookhouse, wearing a loose brown dress with large sweat-patches under the armpits. Her white apron, cinched tightly around her substantial girth, looked like it had never seen soap. A blackened wooden spoon was being brandished like a sabre in her pudgy fist as she reprimanded one of her subordinates. Due to distance, Merric couldn't hear the words, but a tub of freshly plucked chickens lay overturned at the assistant's feet, apparently knocked down by a wagon.