Makarov stood rigidly, a heavy cross buckled over his back, as he carried the acrobatic sting of the training drill. "What's the point of this foolish training to stop pirates? What on earth are you doing?" he muttered to himself in annoyance, exasperation increasing by the second. He longed to glance sideway to check the state of the soldier next to him but promptly stifled the desire. He had seen what happened to others who tried to move even a fraction under Major Claude's watchful eyes—punishments as severe as starving. He did not want to endure such an experience.
The little lord's quirks were becoming increasingly frustrating by the minute. Makarov seethed inwardly, recalling the absurd drills they'd had to endure: standing at attention, executing clunky forward kicks. The veteran knights had even been forced to endure the same absurd drills. Makarov winced recalling the goose-step drill—shame flooded him at how he must have looked. Bless the gods they hadn't trained in the village; he could just imagine the villagers' laughter.
It was as if the little lord had some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder, with his compulsive demanding of "tidiness" and "uniformity." The fellow even folded his quilt into foursquare neatness. Makarov half-thought the little lord was teasing them, not to mention after he personally demonstrated the correct way of folding to the soldiers when they could not do it precisely right.
The only thing that seemed like routine was the assassination training conducted by Major Claude himself. To Makarov, these were battlefield survival skills. Every lesson was an eye-opener, and he learned every line the major instructed him to learn, working himself hard.
Despite his grumbling, Makarov had a deep respect for the little master—not merely because he had eaten meat twice this week, but for a far nobler reason: the master had deemed it fit to teach them to read and write.
The majority of plain folk spent their entire lives without ever having the opportunity for schooling. While a few might have recognized some letters, especially those who dealt in trade or worked for the nobles, the majority were illiterate. Writing was at times thought to be a form of magic, reserved for the nobles, in distant villages. Makarov had witnessed the expression of amazement on the faces of his comrades when the small lord ordered night classes in reading. Major Claude's astonishment had been tangible, as if he had just been shown a precious treasure. However, most of the soldiers had remained uncaring, thinking that their job was just to fight for rations. Makarov silently scoffed at their complacency.
Suddenly a shrill whistle sliced through the air, then the deafening roar of Major Claude: "All troops, form up!" Makarov dispersed his distractions eagerly and fell in formation, placing himself beside the "pacetrooper" by his side. Seven days' training had honed this action to reflex.
"Relax!" the major continued, voice steady and authoritative.
As the wee lord approached, the atmosphere lightened.
"Soldiers, well done this week. I am pleased to inform you that your military posture has been up to standards that I expect. From today, you will no longer need to wear the cross when you practice drills."
He paused, seeing the look of dismay on the soldiers. Satisfied, he continued, "But there are some things that must be improved. All your skills fall short, according to Major Claude. If you want to combat the bandits well, you will have to train day and night. Sweat now, or bleed later!"
Makarov felt the rumbling discontent of a few of the soldiers. "Isn't it because, my lord, you waste half our training time marching around and standing around?" they muttered to themselves.
"And regarding your own cleanliness. I remind you: if I catch one more individual littering in any tent, I assure you, I will have every student in that class running laps around camp until they are exhausted."
He subsequently declared, "Now, I have some good news. I have instructed Philip to create uniforms for us, which have just arrived. I shall be handing them out now."
The soldiers lined up, in order, to receive their new uniforms. The uniforms, based on designs from Eugene's previous existence, were dark green and included jackets, trousers, hats, leather belts, and boots. The uniforms all bore insignia to indicate rank.
As the soldiers undressed out of their new apparel, exhilaration took the place of the previous weariness. The tattered old clothes gave them constant reminder of all they had endured and now, having put on uniform, they dressed with pride. Their morale high, they regained their companionship, and despite being gagged by discipline, the excitement that filled the atmosphere could not be hidden.
Claude gazed out at the newly drilled ranks, a tide of pride washing over him. These were raw farmers only a week ago, some so ignorant they did not know left from right. Now they stood as one, the set of purpose on their faces the very form of an actual army. The transformation was startling; even the kingdom's regular forces could not boast such immediate cohesion. He understood the value of the little lord's insistence on the apparently pointless drill.
But Claude had seen a glaring weakness: nearly half of these men had not seen combat.
Eugene told Claude to proceed with the planned training drill, then led the supply servants into an adjacent tent where they were assigned under internal sentries.
"My lord, everything you requested is present. This is the first batch. Philip is still gathering the others, so it will take time."
"Good. That will have to do for now, but we must keep watch for the others."
Piles of supplies littered the ground, an odor of sulfur lingering in the air inside the tent. Claude examined the goods with satisfaction before asking, "Where are the men I requested?"
The servant replied, "They are outside in the other tent."
"Are they to be trusted?"
"Have no fear, they are loyal men who have served your kin for generations. Philip personally screened them."
"Good. Ron, you will still deliver supplies here. I will compensate you well, but don't forget: discretion is the ultimate virtue. Not one word of this to anyone, understand?"
"I understand, my lord. I vow on the Light that I will not utter a word. If I betray a secret, let me be damned," Ron said piously.
"Very well, you may go. But don't forget what I said."