Chapter 2: The Camp

Ticks and Shave led me out of the tent. I could barely walk, and whenever I stepped, pins and needles shot through my legs, like I’d been studying at my desk too long. I staggered a few steps, but Shave, whose hair was shaved short on the sides, threw my arm over his shoulder to help hold me up.

This body was too weak to resist, and no matter how much I wanted to walk on my own, I just couldn’t.

Without speaking, they led me to a campfire. A few other Dupes were sitting on logs around it, but they scattered as soon as they saw me. For a few moments, Ticks disappeared, but he returned moments later with a stained tunic and tattered pants and tossed them unceremoniously in my lap.

Thank god for that. It might have been summer, but a cool breeze blew through the camp, rustling the tarps of the tents. I quickly put the clothes on. It didn’t help. I kept shivering. I was too hungry, too starved, and this body had nothing to metabolize.

Finally, Shave thrust a wooden bowl into my hands. I grabbed the spoon and began eating, unconcerned about what was in the bowl. I finished it without even thinking, without even tasting, and it hadn’t put a dent in this body’s—no, my body’s—hunger.

Another bowl helped. I stopped shivering, and I slowed down enough that I could taste the stew. It was starchy, with potatoes and carrots and shreds of meat and animal fat. There wasn’t much flavour except salt, but it didn’t matter. It felt heavenly in my mouth.

Finally, Ticks said, “So. Lemming. But I s’pose that’s not your name anymore, is it?”

“It’s not, sir,” I said.

“I’m not sir. I’m not a thegn. I’m a man-at-arms, like you.”

“Right. Sorry.” I took another spoonful and stuffed it in my mouth.

“He wants to know what we should call you,” Shave added. “Most Atoning go by the names they were born with, but us Dupes don’t have that luxury. We name each other.”

“Uh…you can call me Levi?” I said. Quickly, I added, “Sergeant, sir.”

“Just sergeant,” Shave said.

“Levi it is,” Ticks grumbled. “Better than earning your name by being a magnet for those blood-suckers.”

As the hunger faded, I glanced around the camp. There were nearly fifty tents all stuffed within a wooden palisade, with mud paths and weedy boulevards winding between them. Dupes tended fires, sharpened and cleaned their axes and spears, or sparred in the open patches. Wagons trundled along the paths, splattering mud wherever they rolled, and there were a few non-Dupes rushing around, but none of them wore armour. They were just helping out around the camp.

I probably should have been losing my mind, but I was still trying to process it all.

“So…how do I know my rank?” I asked.

“Lemming was at the start of his service,” Shave said. “Shipped fresh from the Fleshknitters, straight to the front. It’s a shame for one of our brothers to go loopy that soon, but at least we recognized the signs of an Atoning coming to possess his body and didn’t put him down. You’ll inherit the same rank as him: man-at-arms. As well as what little gear he had.”

I swallowed. “Is there a way to—”

“Galliard gave you the slate, sarge?” Ticks asked.

“One sec,” Shave replied. He rummaged around in his haversack for a few seconds, before pulling out a small stone tablet. “A reading slate,” he said. “A lesser front-line battalion like the 294th only gets one slate like this. Be careful with it. If you break it, the replacement comes off your salary.”

“Salary?” I tilted my head. I knew Galliard had mentioned a salary, but I still had it in my mind that we were a slave army.

“Dupes still get paid,” Shave said. “While we don’t get a choice of whether we serve or not, the Kingdom of Gate pays us. Straight from the Warlord’s coffers.” He pressed the slate into my hands and took the empty bowl away from me.

I stared at the slate for a few seconds. It was about the size of a cell phone, but its edges were rigid and flat, and it was about twice as thick. The front of the slate was made of some kind of silvery-black sand, and I hated to admit it, but my mind hoped it was a screen.

Instead of flashing to life and telling me the latest news from Earth, giving me a few comforting notifications, it formed into rigid letters. They weren’t English, but I could still read them. Probably for the same reason I could understand what the Dupes were saying: I was in one of their bodies, and traces of Lemming’s old consciousness remained.

The slate read:

Name: Levi Gordon (ID#: DD-333)

Class: Soldier

Rank: Man-at-Arms

Tier: Copper

Vitality: 0

Agility: 1

Strength: 0

Perception: 1

Focus: 0

Presence: 0

Skills: Skiing (Apprentice), Eye For Framing (Novice)

I nearly dropped the slate, but my emaciated fingers kept hold of it. “What’s this?” I asked, voice trembling. “What does any of it mean?”

“The System,” Ticks said.

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“It’s a set of rules and fundamental principles that governs our world’s magic,” Shave said. “Most people can’t use magic, and even then, they don’t call it the System. To them, it’s just the ‘Path.’ Only Dupes can see this. Some function of the Fleshknitters imbuing resonance nodes throughout our bodies.”

My mouth was probably gaping. “Magic? We have magic?”

“Of sorts. Our magic lets us grow our bodies beyond the limits of mortal men and resonate with weapons. If you’re lucky, you’ll get an Art, but there’s no guarantee. We’re brawlers, not pure mages.”