by Damien Lake
“Dellen was bounced because of your skinny ass! You think I’m going to do nothing about it?”
Beld reached a meaty hand for his shirt. Marik stepped beyond the huge man’s reach.
“You have a funny sense of justice, Beld. It was a competition and he lost. I fail to see how that’s my fault.”
Beld’s brows knitted together as he advanced. “You think those dirty tricks was fighting? Dellen could pound your ass like a tent stake!”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Marik anticipated Beld’s reaction, yet once again the huge man’s speed surprised him. Beld lashed out with a fist and Marik only dodged half the distance he had meant to before the blow made contact with his shoulder. The attack’s strength hurled him backward. He landed near the doors to the Twelfth Squad’s barracks. Men who had been going about their business stopped to watch the fight. A few called cheers. Others jeered.
Marik regained his feet unsteadily while a voice from much further away joined the fray.
“Hey! You two knock it off! Hey! Look up here, damn it!”
Beld saw him first, a man atop the southern wall. He was pointing at them.
“No fighting off the training areas! Break it up before I have the Homeguard drag you off to the holding cells!”
He shouted to be heard across the distance but his faint words made his meaning clear. Dietrik decided to further elaborate for those of slower wit. “Perhaps you should listen to the man. Unless of course you care to join up with your friend Dellen outside, that is.”
Beld’s furious gaze turned on Dietrik. “And don’t think I forgot about you! Sucker-punching bastard!”
Dietrik’s reply burned in his eyes although he held it behind his teeth. Beld’s two cronies muttered quietly to him. They reluctantly retreated. The fight having ended before it had fairly begun, the disappointed spectators resumed their interrupted business.
“I don’t think you have a friend there, Marik.”
“You neither. Let’s steer clear of them as best we can.”
“Agreed.”
Marik rolled his shoulder to loosen it while they walked back to their barracks and lunch.
* * * * *
The rest of the second day and all the third contained similar lectures. Mylor covered battle axes and war hammers while Nyla dealt with different flails. Braydon actually took a turn and spoke about various pole arms in a quiet voice that soon had men sneering at him to relieve their impotent frustrations.
Mylor ran roughshod over them, allowing Braydon to finish, though the information on pole arms was sketchy, less thorough than the other weapon types. Marik mentally noted to try and expand his knowledge in this area by spring if time allowed.
They were left very little time outside the training hall. Both Marik and Dietrik kept meaning to visit Ale House Row except the days wore them both out. The short time left combined with their efforts to avoid Beld’s group conspired to keep them on the town’s east side, close to their barracks.
“Which squad was Beld and company assigned to anyway?”
“I don’t know, mate. A higher number than ours or we would have seen him called up by old Janus.”
“Which means he probably knows where I am. How typical.”
“Pardon?”
Marik sighed. “I left Tattersfield to get away from this kind of thing. If I wanted an enemy, I had plenty to choose from back there.”
“I thought you were the pious son, filled with filial responsibility to discover the lost fate of your father.”
“Don’t sound like Chatham.”
“Like who? Oh, that mate of yours?”
“Never mind.” Marik gathered his thoughts. “I did leave for that reason, but not only for that. If my mother was still alive, I would have stayed chained to that town, never leaving and enduring the worst. I still want to find out about father, but I think I might have used my wanting to find him as an excuse to leave everything behind.”
“It’s a far sight better than digging in while bewailing your fate, you know. At least you are going forward.”
“Maybe, but I don’t feel right about it. I should have left just to find him and to the hells with all those fools back there.”
“Not ‘back home’?”
“No. I don’t think that’s been home for a long time. Come on, it’s cold out here.”
They increased their pace to arrive at the training hall under dawn’s brightening colors. As usual, they were the first to arrive.
Today should be different. Mylor had told them the weapons familiarity sessions were through and they would be working on technique and method today. Unsure what to expect, Marik and Dietrik had both donned double layers of clothing. They had been lucky thus far, avoiding the demonstrations which left men kneeling on the floor, yet Mylor’s implications suggested their lucky streak might end today.
Mylor started as soon as the last man walked through the door. He handed the customary papers to Braydon who left, also as usual.
“We’ll spend a few moments on armor, then we’ll start with killing methods.”
With Braydon gone, he needed to rummage through the cart himself. He pulled out a thick leather vest long enough to reach below the waist.
“You already know about mail, so I’ll skip that. This is a brigandine. It’s a pair of leather vests with steel plates sewn between them.” He rapped his knuckles on the coat’s chest. Everyone heard them thunking against the metal inside. “Real plate armor is ten leagues beyond expensive, so these are becoming popular among the not-as-rich classes. It still costs more than you’d want to pay, but it’s not so expensive that you’ll never encounter it.
“All of you take a good look at it, because if you live long enough, you’ll end up fighting a man wearing it. The main feature is its higher protection against swords. If anyone in your company has a battle axe or a war hammer, have them go for the head. Those giant claymores can cut the legs out from under your enemy or a good flail can give them a bad day, but swords are much less effective against the plates.”
He gave the brigandine to a man across the crowd from Marik, then produced a second set from the cart.
“This is the same, except it’s attached to a long-sleeved shirt of mail as well to increase protection to the arms.”
He gave this one to Dietrik who sat closest to the cart. Dietrik examined it a moment before dumping it in Marik’s lap.
“Ooof!” The thing weighed as much as he did! It did not help any that his so called ‘friend’ had dropped it on his crotch. Dietrik winked before turning back toward Mylor. I’ll make him remember this!
“No other armors are so deceptive that you can’t figure them out after a moment’s glance, though you should familiarize yourselves with any you aren’t familiar with during the winter.” He straightened, his posture proclaiming serious work was about to be undergone. “Now we’ll talk about how to kill a man. It takes more than whipping your blade around, you know. Who knew about the centerline method? All right, you over there, come on up. Come up!”
Resigned, the man singled out rose to his feet. Most had abandoned the idea of taking out their irritation with Mylor’s attitude on the formidable Mylor himself. After three days, his skill at fighting had been made abundantly clear.
Mylor held the broadsword he had used the first day when introducing hand-and-a-half blades. He turned his volunteer to face the crowd, then slapped the flat tip against the man’s chest. The unfortunate soul stood completely still.
“Jussler here is going to help us understand. Hold out your arms from your body. Good. All of you look. This is your target on the battlefield. The objective in open battle is to kill your enemy as quickly as possible, then move on to the next enemy and kill him as quickly as possible, too. Cutting an arm or a leg might disable him for a moment, but he’s not out of the fight.
“The most effective way to kill him or take him down for good is the centerline method. Every single one of the most
vital organs in your body are arranged in a line straight up from your crotch to your neck to the top of your head. Even the heart, which is mostly on your left side, extends over this line. Strike any point along the centerline and your foe is either dead or in greater pain than he thought possible for the rest of the battle. Then he dies anyway unless a field chirurgeon or a priest finds him quickly and performs a miracle.”
While he spoke, he kept running the sword tip up and down the centerline of Jussler’s torso. The man looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“If you strike hard and dead on, you can sever the spinal cord and paralyze your enemy for good. Out in the training areas, each of the practice dummies have red lines painted down their center, so practice the method. You should also practice breaking point methods for shattering mail so you can strike the centerline. We’ll get to those later.
“Next is two-handed combat, meaning you hold equipment in each hand. We have shields of various sizes, but if you’re going to carry something in your free hand, I say it’s sensible to carry another weapon. You can defend with it and use it for attacks. Shields can cause more trouble than they’re worth. Watch.”
Mylor pulled from the cart a round shield two feet across. He tossed it to Jussler, saying simply, “Defend.”
Jussler grasped it by the straps and held it ready. Mylor cut languidly toward Jussler’s face, which prompted him to raise the shield to protect himself. As soon as the shield covered his eyes, Mylor changed direction, striking much faster at his legs. He struck the undefended limbs with the blade’s flat, eliciting a yelp from his assistant.
“You see the problems with a large shield? If you can get your enemy to cover his face with it, he can’t see what you’re doing. Shields are most practical against arrow showers. The rest of the time they tend to cost you more than you gain. If you must have a shield, one of these smaller targes might be suitable.”
He tossed the reclaimed shield back into the cart and withdrew a much smaller one, less than a foot wide. A spike protruded from its center.
“A targe is smaller than a shield, and is strapped to the back of the forearm not holding your primary weapon. You can defend against most attacks, though a heavy weapon might break your arm. The spike on this one adds a minor offensive capability, as you can see.”
Mylor continued the lectures nonstop, ranging from topic to topic, finally releasing them for their noon meal. Marik learned enough about effective fighting styles and dirty tricks that might not win honor, but would win the battle, that he could almost smell blood clinging to him where he sat with Dietrik for today’s meal. It consisted of the usual vegetables with a different bread and ground meat in a brown sauce over lettuce leaves. Maybe the smell was from the food rather than in his mind.
Maybe.
* * * * *
Nyla told them to assemble on the Marching Grounds for the end of the fourth day. She began with a quick statement.
“Tomorrow I’ll have you all day and show you how to use the different training areas. I’ll also show you the armory and tell you how to requisition weapons and armor as members of the band.”
This last comment sparked a murmuring wave through the men. What exactly had she said?
“Right now we’re going to use the rest of the light to learn a few formations. I’ll say right out that the Kings don’t use formations. We’re not the damned army after all, but there are a few effective ones and enemy field commanders may feel like using them. You sweeties will practice them so you know what the weak points are. We’re going to do the square first, and then the spear point.”
A horse-drawn wagon full of tower shields had been waiting for them courtesy of Braydon and they each took one. The damn things were heavy! They were rectangles close to Marik’s own height, curved slightly as if to surround his body. For the next few candlemarks, Marik and Dietrik struggled along with the others to satisfy Nyla’s constant shouted commands. Sweat poured off everyone’s faces despite the chill of approaching winter.
For a long time they struggled to hold the shield edges in the correct positions to each other’s, forming a wall ten men long. Nine men behind and off center to them held long spears protruding between the shields, ready to skewer any foes who came their way. Behind them, ten men held the heavy shields aloft to form an unsteady roof that could protect them from arrows.
The men quickly learned that Nyla’s idea of ‘two formations’ did not include variations. She rotated them through the various positions in the walking square, then rearranged them for the defensive square. Six men on a side formed the square’s four walls while the men inside used spears to fend off attackers.
After that, she ordered seven men to form lines at an angle with one man at the head as a cap. A line of seven men across the open back formed a triangle in a spearhead shape. The men inside marched with their shield bearers, keeping their spears in attack position. Nyla explained to anybody who cared, which was nobody, that this formation worked effectively to break an enemy line. Everyone only wished for her to shut up so this cursed exercise would end. Her cocked grin said she enjoyed lashing their backs with the incorporeal whip of her authority too much to want to rush it.
When dark at last fell, the exhausted men returned the demons-damned shields to Braydon, then managed at great effort to drag themselves back to their respective barracks.
Marik skipped dinner, choosing instead to collapse directly onto his cot. He tried to ignore the screams from muscles he had never before known existed.
“I say,” huffed Dietrik from the next bunk, but then said nothing further.
“You say what?”
“I say…I say it’s a good thing the Kings do not use strategies like that or we’d be spending the entire winter lifting weights.”
“I say you’re right.”
“I say we’d be lucky to survive a fight where they think fighting like that is necessary.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Sorry, mate. At least after tomorrow we can set our own pace.”
“True. We still haven’t made it back to Ale House Row. I really need to check the rest of those shops soon.”
“We were just within spitting distance.”
“That doesn’t count. Hmm…I seem to be falling asleep. Make sure I’m up in time tomorrow.”
“Only if I manage to wake up mysel..ahh…ahhhhh…myself.”
Chapter 11
“Armory?”
“May as well. Then we can head over to the taverns for dinner.”
“Indeed, mate. I’d rather not try my luck again. I doubt an afternoon in the pot could improve a meal like that!”
The lunch in question was Marik’s first encounter with the egg-based noodles popular in Olander. They had been mixed with a ground meat, onions, peppers, cheese and other unnamable ingredients which had curled his leg hairs. Every ingredient combined for a truly foul taste that left him wondering about the sanity of the other men at the table eating it with apparent enthusiasm. Of course, each of those men had also been seen around the barracks gnawing on old, stale leftover remnants of other meals, so Marik reserved doubts concerning their ability to actually taste anything they ate. Dietrik shared his belief the stuff would make a better rat poison or rust cleaner than a meal, validating his tongue’s assertions. He had missed the dish’s name, except that it sounded like ‘slime-from-a-gully’, or something close to. A more suitable reference could not be found, he expected.
They departed the Third Training Area, the other D Class men having scattered the moment Nyla released them after her final lecture. Both had learned only two new facts during the last day. Nyla’s tour had mostly been covered by Hayden their first day.
The first new fact held little surprise in itself. While the band did not require every unit member to bear an identical weapon like the forces maintained by the kingdom, it preferred they bore weapons of high quality. To that end, they retained skilled smiths, cutlers and armorers to create a
well stocked armory filled with equipment.
Any of which a band member could requisition for his own use. Nyla explained certain restrictions were in effect, but declined to elaborate, stating instead that all would be made clear by the armory staff. The two decided they would stop by later to see what they could get. Marik still intended to find a better sword and the ones Mylor used in his demonstrations seemed dreamlike to him.
The second, and much less welcomed by Marik, piece of new information came on the training areas. Behind the archery range in the Third Training Area, Nyla casually commented on the terrain there, which included a large sand patch and a swampy corner with tall weeds growing from the water.
“All of these were made by the band. The mages are responsible for their maintenance, so you can tear up the ground all day and find it fresh as daisies the next morning. Well, maybe not quite. Anyway, go over to the records building and you can request a T-R for the terrain you want to practice on.”
A fellow D Class asked, “A what?”
“A Temperature Reality. Most of these grounds are typical terrain for Galemar. The shacks, the flatland, the trees, the gully; all of them can be found anywhere. Their setup is an accurate reflection of what you’ll experience in the field. But our contracts can take us farther away. Here,” she gestured at the ground before them, “is a patch of sandy desert, and over there is a swamp, to name two. In that kind of desert, the most crippling element isn’t the constant struggle of trying of walking through the sand, which is tough enough. It’s the heat! And in the swamp, the humidity there will suck the energy right out of your body.
“The mages can set one of their spells over the place, make it seem like the real thing. Step onto the sand when they’re done and you’re suddenly baking in the middle of winter!” She barked a harsh sound that Marik supposed was a laugh.
Dietrik seemed interested, though Marik could not see why. Who would want to step into the middle of a witch-working where anything could go wrong? When sparring, if accidents occurred, the worst that could result were a few bruises, a cut or maybe a gash. But what about stepping into a spell going awry? You could be killed if you were lucky, turned into an abomination or maybe driven insane if you were not! Nyla’s next words only agitated him further.