Dark Age by Felix O. Hartmann

ladies will be at my feet,” he added with his usual grin.
    “I am impressed. Then you won’t mind carrying this,” I said, throwing my bundle at him.
    We laughed together for a moment before catching up on what had happened in the past three months. I told him about Elias, which he had known nothing about. The new recruits were rarely talked to by any of the initiated guards, and did not get in on much of the news.
    “Training does not start until eight. Mind me showing you around?” he asked.
    Upon my nod, we entered the large cottage where Peter had been standing. Personal belongings and blankets had been dispersed all across the floor in straight ranks and files. Walking in between the improvised beds he said, “I claimed you a spot close to mine. Make sure to grab some hay later, the nights get bitterly cold.” He placed my bundle on the floor and turned to leave.
    “Can I just leave it here?” I asked out of precaution. “People don’t steal while you’re gone?”
    “Material things are worthless out here. We are all equally poor and equally hungry. Even the finest piece of gold is not worth a fist sized steak,” Peter responded, smiling at my naïve question. “Let’s meet some of the others, you can get settled later.”
    The cottage we left was the place where all the recruits slept. Two bigger ones were designated for the Grey Guard; anyone that had completed training. A common-hall, the most dignified of all buildings, was where the men ate, spend an hour or two at night, and celebrated completions of service or training. Two wooden statues of men in armor stood at each side of the door. Their faces were undefined, standing for the egalitarian nature of the Guard. Outside the city was the only place where rich and poor came together to fight alongside, letting status lose all its significance. One of the soldiers held his sword facing up while the other kept it facing the ground. Peter told me that it symbolized the virtue of self control, to know when to fight and when to avoid conflict.
    We entered the common-hall briefly. Most of the men sat at long tables, eating their breakfast while exchanging a few words. With numb expressions they ate what seemed to be their everyday cuisine, a bowlful of a white viscous grit-like substance and a cup of water. Approaching a table occupied by three other recruits, I felt how little everyone cared to see a new face. Part of me had expected the excitement of the celebration to be matched by the guards, but all I received were bored testing looks. One of them looked at us, lowered his spoon and nodded at his companions. Synchronous they turned their heads and marked me like a stranger intruding on their turf.
    “It’s alright comrades, this is Adam,” Peter said, dropping onto the bench next to one of the others. “I’ve told you about him, he just arrived.”
    “Happy birthday, and welcome to hell,” a man from another table said in between two spoons of his breakfast.
    “Don’t ya mind him, he’s a grumpy fella,” one of Peter’s friends said. His brown curly hair was all over the place like a wild mane, while the first stubbles grew forming an irregular beard on his boyish face. He looked somewhat familiar, and judging by his dialect was from the Industrial District, “I remember ya! Ya’r the guy that always brought us food at the lumber mill. Ma name is Nigel, glad to meet ya in person.”
    Images flashed back in my mind to the days Katrina and I went around the Industrial District to help families through the winter. I nodded to acknowledge him, just when the next one introduced himself, “I am Stephan. I don’t think we’ve met, but I have certainly seen you around. My parents run the masonry.” I had skipped his celebration with Katrina to sneak around the city. That was all I remembered about him. He looked the oldest and most mature of them all. His eyes were almost as dark as his coal colored hair, yet radiated a warmth and