The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) by Glenn Wilson

Allen.” He proudly patted his rifle holstered to his pack.
    “ Right,” Ian said.
    “So just keep steady,” Rory went on, “I don’t want to be getting fouled up by any rookies when I’m reloading.”
    “I don’t think that will be an issue,” Ian snapped. “And not just because nothing is probably going to happen on this trip.”
    “Never know,” Rory said.
    “I know enough that anyone worried about their partner probably is actually more worried about themselves.” Ian noticed that he was making sharp, expansive gestures, and stopped that quickly.
    “I’m just worried about getting stuck with someone who can’t shoot,” Rory said, “that’s all. And with some rookie —”
    “You’re a rookie, too. We’re all just out of training,” Ian said.
    “I ain’t a rookie,” Rory grumbled, “I just told you that.”
    “So don’t call me one,” Ian said.
    “I ain’t,” Rory insisted. “No need to get your back up. I just said I’m afraid you are.”
    Ian lost his self -restraint about not gesturing.
    “Yeah?” Ian said. “And I’m afraid you shoot like a girl.”
    “What? Tha—that’s —” Rory’s face blustered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m way better than you’ll ever be.”
    “Better than a girl?” Ian asked, throwing the emphasis of the question like the other person was supposed to say—
    “No—I mean yes, I mean— you know what I mean!”
    “Of course I do.”
    Ian turned and left at that, frustrated at how badly he wanted to make it worse. The last glimpse he caught was of Rory shaking his head in anger, confusion.
    Ian crossed the grass their company was lounging in, ignoring Kieran and Brodie, who were staring at him, Kieran talking in low tones. It was blistering out in the sun, and getting even hotter the longer the day drew on. At first his trajectory was a bit aimless, as he really hadn’t planned out where he wanted to go, but he quickly took a chance and headed toward Corporal Wesshire, who was standing in the shade of one of the taller stones, eating by himself.
    That had been a terribly dumb thing to do.
    Each step Ian took drove that deeper into his awareness. He’d made all sorts of plans all sorts of times about how he was going to win—preferably instantly—all of his company over, and especially his captain, especially his second. This was a blasted terrible start to things, all only because he was in a poor mood. And it wasn’t just that it had been foolish. It was something that would probably also make things more difficult for him in the future and hurt the cohesiveness of the company.
    It had also been a terribly mean thing to do.
    “Hello,” Ian said quietly, hopefully at an appropriate enough distance not to startle the other. “Glad we’re finally off and all.”
    “Yes,” Corporal Wesshire said, without looking back at him, “purpose is always agreeable.”
    “I rather regret,” Ian started carefully, “not heading back to the quarters at your more, um, prudent hour.”
    “Why is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. He was chewing his ration bar methodically at intervals from one hand, his eyes slowly scanning the distance like he was looking for something, but not especially caring if he should find it.
    “It certainly made for an awful start to everything,” Ian said. “It was a stupid thing to do.”
    “Something is only foolish,” Corporal Wesshire answered, “if it conflicts with the goals one should have.”
    “Well, it did a brilliant job of that,” Ian said, wondering if his blustering tone at hims elf was failing in an opposite way to the goal he had for it—which he realized was to impress Corporal Wesshire with his regret and intelligence in knowing well enough to be regretful.
    “ And how is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. “What goals came to ill because of it?”
    “Are you making fun of me?” Ian asked, smiling and not sure if he should be. Corporal Wesshire looked at him without