Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

infected everyone.”

Feeling his cheeks burn, Jonis waited to hear what the general would say.

The general gave Jonis a passing glance. “Well, this is also a Cordril, but he will be working for the army now. So you had better take him in and have him fill out the paperwork.”

“But General, you can’t touch a Cordril! How are we supposed to fingerprint him as well as give him his physical?” The lieutenant’s voice started to sound hysterical.

“Wear gloves,” the general said, sighing as he looked at Jonis, realizing that what the policemen and Jonis had said about his fatal touch was true. He turned to leave.

“General Gomrey, you aren’t serious.” The lieutenant pled one last time.

“You have your orders.” General Gomrey walked out of the room, leaving Jonis behind.

Walking around him, keeping his distance, Lieutenant Chappel stared warily at the boy. Heading back to the door, he opened it, waving Jonis to come. “Alright. Get in there, you demon. Take a seat and don’t touch anybody, or so help me, I’ll kill you.”

There was nothing to say to that. Jonis followed without a word, passing though the door and into the next hall.

But it was not a hall as he had expected. It was a large room full of tables and chairs. Around fifty or so men of all ages were gathered inside at the tables and in clusters. Some of these men looked like farmers with weathered hands and tanned skin. Others had city written all over them, dandies, with moppish hair falling into their eyes, who seemed a bit too fashionable for the army. One appeared to be a sailor. He still wore his loose tunic for the moist sea wind. Another was so large and muscular that Jonis immediately peeked at his own scrawny muscles, realizing the man could crush him with his fingers.

“Sit here,” the lieutenant said. He slapped a paper and a pen onto an empty spot at the table in front of him.

Obeying, Jonis sat, taking the pen. He looked at it. It was one of those new pens that already had ink in them. It didn’t need to be dipped into an inkwell. He shook it to make sure the ink ran down to the nib.

“Watch it!” the man to his left snapped. He wiped off a black drop that had hit his face.

“Sorry.” Jonis ducked his head and placed the pen on the paper, reading over the application.

The paper asked for the basics: his name, his parent’s names, his date of birth, and so on. Jonis filled it out as neatly as possible, checking his script to make sure he had no smudges. The second half asked for his educational experience. Jonis had to think hard of what they wanted, checking the box indicating he got an early graduation certificate. Then more in-depth questions were listed. Why did he want to serve in the Brein Amon military?

Jonis sighed. He didn’t want to be in the military at all, but he was not so sure the real answer as to why he was stuck there would be good to put down. Saying that the village patriarch did not want the responsibility of dealing with a Cordril so he handed him off to the army was not a nice recommendation. Apologizing to the memory of honest Mr. Farren, Jonis put down, I want to serve my country with loyalty and honor.

The next question was just as bad. Do you feel worthy to represent Brein Amon in its military might?

Giving another apology to his guardian, Jonis penned, I will prove worthy where my present worthiness lacks.

The other questions were more personal. They asked about crimes he may have committed and health issues that might get in the way of him serving to his fullest extent. Jonis listed his ‘skin condition’ as a difficulty, also pointing out he needed to wear gloves for the protection of others. As for food allergies, Jonis put on alcohol and sour milk—anything fermented actually. Sauerkraut always made him feel sick.

As soon as the ink dried, he turned over the paper and listed on the back the articles of property that had to be stored the duration of his stay at Dalis. His sword, the bottles of rare ingredients and the scrolls all stored in the cabinet were well noted. When he had finished, he lifted his paper and looked up.

“Are you done already?” The lieutenant had not moved. He took the paper from Jonis’s fingers, keeping his hands away until he saw the gloves on Jonis’s hands. Seeing that, he took a hold of Jonis’s wrist. “You wear gloves? Interesting. Come with me.”

He dropped his hold and marched to where a line was already forming at the far end of the room.

Jonis stood up and followed him.

“Stand here and wait your turn. The doctor will see you. Do as he tells you, and no back talk.”

The lieutenant left him, taking the paper to the military nurse standing next to a set of curtains.

Drawing in a breath to ease his trembling nerves, Jonis swept his eyes over the room again. He seemed to be the youngest there. But he should have expected that. Most of the men were in their early twenties, though some were in their late teens. One man looked forty. The one standing in front of him in the line was a dumpy thirty-something who was starting to lose his hair. That man glanced at him once then took another look, blinking.

“Are you lost, kid?” the man asked in a gruff voice.

Shrugging, Jonis sighed. “I certainly feel like it, but no. I’m joining the army, like you.”

The man choked on a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

Jonis shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not.”

“Why are your eyes blue?” A man stepped behind Jonis in the line.

Glancing back, Jonis replied as calmly as possible. “I was born that way?”

“Don’t be smart with me, kid,” the man snapped. He was in his early twenties, very tall and fairly coarse-looking. He brushed his scraggly hair out of his face and peered down at Jonis.

Jonis’s face flushed. How could he answer that?

“He’s a Cordril, and I recommend you don’t get to close to him.” The lieutenant had returned. “Apparently the general wants him trained up for the Brein Amon army.”

The man standing in front of Jonis pulled away.

The man behind just blinked at him. “What’s that?”

Several surrounding men groaned at him.

“A Cordril is a demon from the Western Wild. He can suck the life out of you with one touch if he wanted,” the lieutenant informed him.

Jonis’s eyes widened in a stare. This man really had met a Cordril before.

“Then what is it doing here?” Pulling back with a shout, the recruit’s horrified gaze fixed on Jonis’s face.

“I do not know.” The lieutenant eyed Jonis also. “Maybe he can tell us.”

Knowing that was an order to speak, Jonis lowered his head and said, “Our village patriarch thought it was fit that I serve in the Brein Amon army.”

“That does not answer why your village patriarch chooses to consort with you,” the lieutenant snapped back.

Looking up at the men towering over him, attempting to keep from looking terrified, Jonis replied as calmly as he could. “Actually, he sent me away. Therefore, he did not choose to consort with me.”

“But he let you live!” the lieutenant said with bite.

The room echoed. No one else was talking now. All eyes were on him. Jonis felt them penetrate into his back.

He swallowed, speaking in a low voice. “That’s because I saved the village from another Cordril who had killed my guardian. He seemed to think I could be of service to the Brein Amon army also.”

“Your guardian? Not your father?”

“My father was already dead,” Jonis said.

Again the room seemed too silent, even cold, like a cave.

“And why did they let you live after your father died?”

The lieutenant’s voice was icy and hollow, contributing to the growing chills Jonis felt just standing near him. It was so uncomfortable that Jonis could not bear it any longer. He drew up his chest and looked the man straight in the eye. “Because, they are not murderers.”

There was no way the lieutenant could answer that without sounding like a prick. He made a disgruntled noise and glared but then turned from the line, going back to business.

More men finished their paperwork and joined the line. Those ahead of Jonis crowded closer together, and those behind gave him plenty of room. It was nothing like in Harsall. At least there they saw him as a someone rather than just a something. Here they looked at him as if a he were a poisonous spider they wanted to stomp on.

Luckily, or maybe just as the order of things went, the line moved and soon Jonis faced the nurse who read over his documents with a uneasy stare.

“The doctor will see you next,” the nurse said not long after.

Jonis nodded to her and stepped into the small curtained area.

“So you are the one I have to handle with gloves,” the doctor said, pulling on a pair of thick rubber gloves like the ones used by the farmers hauling milk. He peered at Jonis’s eyes and shook his head. “Whatever possessed the general to allow a demon in the army? Come here and take off your shirt.”

Crossing to the table, Jonis did as bade. He put both the shirt and jacket on the table.

“Sit here,” the doctor ordered, glancing once at the crusted-over scratch that ran from Jonis’s chest to the side of his neck.

Jonis climbed onto the table, sitting.

The doctor placed his stethoscope against Jonis’s chest and listened. It was cold to touch, and Jonis flinched.

“Very sensitive skin, I see,” the doctor murmured. “Breathe normally.”

Jonis did so, waiting as the doctor listened and then jotted down notes.

“Now take a deep breath,” the doctor said.

Jonis drew in as deep a breath possible.

“Let it out.”

He exhaled.

Standing up, the doctor continued his notes. He turned and gathered other materials, setting them on the metal stand at the side. He stuffed a ball into Jonis’s hand and pulled out a syringe. Fixing a quick tourniquet above Jonis’s elbow, he said, “Make a fist. And do not move unless I say so.”

Jonis watched until he saw the doctor move to stick the needle in his arm. Averting his eyes, he stared at the hanging lamp. He pressed his teeth together as he felt the needle prick his skin.

“Very, very sensitive skin. What’s your name?” The doctor pulled the needle out and pressed cotton into the crook of his arm.

Looking back, Jonis watched the man affix a bandage over the cotton. “Jonis Macoy.”

The doctor smirked, taking out a vial and squirting Jonis’s blood into it. “Well, Mr. Macoy, you have very broad veins. Do all Cordrils have them?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jonis blinked at the doctor. It had abruptly felt strange being talked to as a person again. This doctor reminded him of Mr. Farren with his cool manner about things. A pang of homesickness stabbed his chest.

Chuckling, the doctor went about the rest of the physical, groping about the organs and asking questions. He made remarks about how similar Jonis’s organs were to that of humans, murmuring out-loud many things that puzzled him—all without waiting for an answer. Of course, Jonis cooperated silently, listening and answering when the man sounded less whimsical in his questions.

“How old are you, kid?” The doctor folded up his calipers and peered at him. He put his hands on his hips.

“Thirteen,” Jonis replied, pulling back up his pants and tying the drawstring

“Oh, you should leave your clothes here. At the next station you will get a new set of military issue pants and shirts. All your street clothes goes to the furnace.” The doctor walked to the far curtain to let him out. “You seem awfully young to be joining the military, kid. I suppose you have no choice in the matter, huh?”

Jonis nodded, lowering his eyes to the floor.

“Cheer up,” the doctor said. “At least they let you