Steel And Flame (Book 1) (28 page)

“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.”

“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.

“You’d better form a group if you want to practice in
a T-R on your own.  The mages get pissy when they have to set up for only one
or two.  Other band members like to schedule a time and leave a notice in the
records office.  You can check to see who’s doing what and join them.  Since
you’re the D Classes for this year, you’ll get your chance regardless.  There’s
four scheduled sessions during the winter you’re all required to attend.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s the officers’ way of making sure all you green
boys have experienced each odd terrain at least once.  If you miss, you’re
kicked out, so don’t miss.  The first one’s two eightdays from today.”

Now they walked to the armory.  Dietrik tried raising
his spirits.

“I’m sure it’s never a terribly complicated piece of
work for the mages.  They do it all the time and must be very good at it after
so much practice.”

“I still don’t see the whole point.  The only desert
like that is in Perrisan!  It would take us half the summer to reach it if we
were riding, and I doubt the Kings get any contracts there!”

“Wouldn’t you rather be prepared for the off chance?”

“Since when have the Perrisans ever involved outsiders
in their struggles?”

“The Kello-beii Desert does cross into Galemar a short
distance you know.”

“Only by a day or so at most!  No one lives on it in
Galemar, only along the edges.  The actual border might as well be the edge of
the desert.”

Dietrik changed courses.  “The desert aside, my
friend, the swamp should come in handy.  There are places throughout Galemar
with bogs and whatnot.”

“And you can bet anyone living near them doesn’t
traipse through looking for picnic spots!”  Marik kicked a broken stick while
they passed one of the few trees within the walls growing outside a training
area.  “No sane leader would send his men into a bog, and the Kings would never
follow the order if one tried to!”

“There might not be a choice if it’s a large one.”

“You and I both know the largest swampland is the
Kiadelva in Vyajion.  Are we going to cross the Stygan Gulf to take a contract
in Vyajion?  Not damn likely!”

“Regardless, the others are local and useful.  What is
your problem Marik?  So far since we’ve met you’ve been cool and thoughtful for
the most part.  I’m surprised to see you so off-center over this.”

“I’ve been better about controlling my temper, I
suppose, but I don’t trust magic.”

“I remember that, from when Hayden brought us up on
the wall.”

“Yes, well…let’s stop talking about it.  There’s the
armory.”

There it lay indeed, a two story building with no
discernable windows from their vantage to the west.  The doors were in the
north face.  When they stepped inside, Marik recalled the records building.

A long counter top also cut through this room, one
that could be folded up on a hinge for access to the area beyond.  On a chair
against the wall sat a man in stained leathers who glanced at them when they
entered.  He had not been busy and stood upon their arrival, displaying his
height.  While hardly overlarge himself, Marik rarely needed to tilt his head
so far to meet a man’s eyes.

“Yeah?”

Dietrik spoke.  “We understand we can find arms and
such here as members of the band.”

The man gazed at them.  It seemed superfluous.  Marik
felt he had taken their measure before they fully crossed the threshold. 
Finally, “New guys then?”

“Indeed, we are that.”

“You know anything about our equipment?”

“Mylor and Nyla, the two who have been speaking to us,
said you would fill us in.”

“They would have, the lazy louts.  Well, come on
then.  You’re the first of the new fish to come in this year.”  He gestured to
the counter’s other end.  They expected him to raise it so they could enter. 
Instead he reached underneath the solid desk portion and brought out two sheets
of paper.

“The way this works is simple.  You can take about
anything out that you want and use it.  If it breaks in a battle on a contract,
fine.  If it breaks any other time, you either pay for it or pay the repair
costs.  You maintain all the equipment you get.  If it’s discovered that you
haven’t, you either pay for it or repair it to my satisfaction.  It’s not my
job to clean mail you were too stupid to let go to rust.”

“So we can take anything out if we keep it in good
shape?”

“
Almost
anything.  It all has to be approved. 
You can only take out two weapons at a time unless you have special permission,
and only enough armor to make one full set.  What’s your squad and unit?”

“Ninth Squad and Fourth Unit for us both.”

“Fine.  Two Nine-Fours.”  He wrote on the sheets,
making a page each for Marik and Dietrik, listing their names as well as their
squad assignment.  “Once you get everything you want, bring it back here for
approval.  We’ll write it all down and you can sign it.”

Dietrik looked pleased, but Marik said, “I can’t
write.”

“That’s fine.  We’ll take care of that when you’re
done.  First floor’s all armor, second is weapons.  Don’t take all day.”

With that, he finally raised the countertop to let them
through.  Two doors led deeper into the building, one each on the east and west
walls.  They chose the eastern one, finding a corridor running south which
turned right after a distance.  Several doors were set in both sides of the
hall.  Behind the first they found a room packed full of shelves, chests and
helmets.  Quite a lot of helmets in fact, of every type they could name.

Marik waded through the room to open chests and
examine the helmets they contained.  Before long, Dietrik suggested they make a
brief study of the other rooms before deciding what they wanted.  They peeked
into the rest of the first floor, finding additional helmets at first but other
armor fragments filled rooms further down the hall.  Shields, breastplates,
hand protectors, different sized mail, greaves and even a smattering of full
plate; everything was to be found here.

The hallway turned at right angles and they arrived at
the western door into the armory’s entrance.  They retraced to climb a stairway
at the hallway’s south corner.  On the second floor they found as many
different weapons.  Everything they had seen during the days of orientation
filled these rooms as well as many others not touched upon.  Three doors along
the upstairs hallway were locked but they already had too much to sort through
to wonder what might rest beyond them.

After much searching, Marik found a sword he liked. 
It looked similar to the hand-and-a-half blade Mylor had shown them, except the
grip stretched slightly longer, more easily accommodating two hands.  This
moved the blade’s center of gravity slightly closer to the hilt than on other
designs, which made the sword easier to swing and feel lighter, though it was
not.

Also, leather wrapped the hilt rather than wire, as so
many hand-and-a-half blades bore.  Marik could wield it in relative ease
without needing gloves.  The ring guard extended more than the others, but he
liked the design.  He doubted the larger rings would hinder him once he grew
accustomed to the sword.

He performed as much of a practice swing as he could
in the confined area, feeling the blade flex slightly.  Good.  It was not so
rigid that it would shatter against a heavier blade, though not so flexible
that it interfered with accuracy.

Marik struggled to decide what else to requisition
from the armory.  In the end he simply settled on a sleeveless mail shirt that
reached past his waist.

Dietrik had the time of his life.  Every other minute
he would exclaim and call out for Marik to come see what he had found.  He
emerged from the storeroom chaos with a small-headed battle axe and a
swept-hilt rapier with matching dagger.

“Do you think this counts as one weapon?  It is a set
after all.”

“You’ll have to ask him when we get back downstairs.”

“I hope so!  What a magnificent blade!”

“Why do you want that thing?  Didn’t you hear Nyla? 
That’s not a good field blade.”

“But she also said a rapier is extremely deadly in the
right hands!  Just look at this!”

Its slender bone grip and elaborate sweeps of bent
silver-steel bars flowing around the hilt were indeed magnificent.  The long
thin blade shone bright, ringing when Dietrik tapped the dagger against it,
testifying to the steel’s quality.  The dagger had been designed as a
main-gauche type, with a matching bone grip and a cross hilt curving extremely
toward the blade’s tip like the pinchers on some gigantic insect.

A shout from the stairs brought them back from their
explorations.  Time had flown faster than they imagined.  The armory needed to
be locked down for the evening.

“You find everything?” the tall man asked.

“No, I think we’ll have to come back soon to get the
rest.  Were all of these made in Kingshome?” Marik inquired.