A Morning at the Field

“Everybody get the fuck up! All of you louts, you think you’d get to sleep in because you got plastered yesterday? Up, up, up, you scum!” Friedrick, the company sergeant screamed as he banged a pot and wooden ladle above his head. More banging and yelling resounded throughout the camp as Friedrick’s adjutants woke up the rest of the mercenaries. Gideon sighed as he gingerly removed himself from his bedroll. Although he had padded the ground underneath with straw, sleeping on the ground had left him sore all over. Additionally, the humid summer heat was unbearable even at night. The other fifteen men that shared the tent with Gideon groaned and moaned as they stirred from their sweet dreams. After no small amount of complaining about what a cold-hearted bastard Friedrick was, the men got dressed, including their armor; Friedrick loved early morning drill, and anybody not up to muster in time would regret it. Most of them could only afford gambesons and padded coifs, but a few of them, including Gideon, had been with the company long enough to sport metal helmets and chain shirts.

After getting dressed, Gideon dug through his pack that contained his scant possessions and gently removed a small, plain cloth parcel. He unwound it, and within there was a bundle of brown hair tied up with a cord, and a small silver signet ring, embossed with a sigil of a hawk. The ring was made into a necklace by threading a thin leather strap through it. He offered a brief prayer to Aurelia, the god of life, then stuffed the bundle of hair into his pocket and put on the necklace. He and the other men filed out of the tent and into an open field just outside of the camp and stood in formation. Of course, as waking up with the sun was for the weak and infirm, it was still before dawn. The few unfortunates who arrived late were screamed at until the sergeants’ voices were hoarse. A few of the greener men even started to cry, which only prompted a string of visceral verbal abuse.

Nobody knew how old Friedrick really was, but the short gray hair and wrinkles forming on his face told enough. There were even laugh lines creasing the corners of his mouth, but as Friedrick never smiled, let alone laughed, any mention or evidence of mirth coming from that old man were clearly baseless lies. Of the hundred or so men gathered in the field, most were under twenty, some were even as young as fifteen or sixteen. The oldest among them were between twenty-five and thirty. Naturally excluding those who fancied the mercenary life at old age, those who had lived that long in this line of work were rare and considered true veterans. Those who lived to Friedrick’s age were more elusive than unicorns. Everybody respected, and more importantly, feared him.

Drill began with marching. The Sons of the Sword was a fairly professional outfit, and they were able to afford three large banners which were placed evenly across the front rank. The design on the banner consisted of a sword, point down on a blue field. A gauntleted hand gripped the blade in the middle. Being such a professional company, standards were also stringent. They marched for an hour that felt like forever, each misstep incurring the wrath of the instructors. The weather that morning was muggy, and within a few minutes Gideon was covered in sweat, his clothes adhering to his skin incessantly. There was a brief, graceful reprieve of five minutes for the men to drink from their waterskins. Obviously, they were not allowed to sit during this period or to otherwise engage in pointless prattling.

Once the break ended, it was time for weapons practice. Friedrick and his underlings would demonstrate a set of techniques. In today’s case it was methods for closing in with a dagger and fighting in extremely close quarters. Then the men would be forced to practice what was taught repeatedly, while the instructors circled the group like buzzards, watching for the slightest error. Those who failed to demonstrate reasonable competence in the new techniques were harshly punished.

After new techniques, they practiced old fundamentals. Each day, the men were given a different wooden weapon to practice with, typically maces, clubs and spears. Those who owned one also could practice with a sword, but only after practicing with a mace or spear. The men went through motions and forms, both with and without heavy round shields. By the end of this, many of the less fit men looked like they were nearly going to fall over. Next, they split into pairs and sparred. By this point, the sun had risen and the rest of the camp: cooks, tinkers, smiths, porters and other supporting members had awoken and begun their duties. Some of them cheered the fighting men on.

The field was filled with a cacophony of wood against wood, intermingled with heavy breathing. The malignant odor of sweat and dirt clung to the throng like a parasite. After a few bouts, they were ordered to swap opponents. Again and again, this dance repeated. The instructors would filter through the men, ever vigilant, correcting mistakes and giving advice where needed, seldom speaking to those who could hold their own. Even exhausted, Gideon handily won most of his bouts, and those he lost he made sure his foe earned. The men changed opponents again, and Gideon faced off with Paz.

Gideon was already fairly tall himself, and Paz stood at least a head and a half taller than him. He boasted an imposing frame and ugly mug that belied his good nature. The two were good friends, they both joined the Sons of the Sword at about the same time. They often drank, gambled and caroused together after successful contracts. Paz was also a mean bastard with a spear. Contrary to what his physique would imply, he was quite fast, and his height afforded him great reach. In brief, he was an incredible pain to spar against. Of course, Paz’s massive size had its own disadvantages; it was harder for him to defend once his opponent was in range. The two of them circled each other, jabbing and probing lightly with their wooden spears and deflecting with their shields. They were evenly matched, each accumulating his share of hits.

After they finished their bouts, Gideon grinned and patted Paz’s shoulder. “You’re such a pain! Don’t you know overgrown bastards such as yourself are supposed to be slow and cumbersome? How could this happen to me?”

Paz laughed. “For such a little runt, you pack quite a punch!” Then he looked behind Gideon and went paler than a ghost.

“Gideon!”

The shout felt like a whip on his back. Gideon felt a rock sink right past his stomach and into his bowels. Nothing good could come of this. He immediately stiffened and turned to face Friedrick. “Yes sir!”

The old man was carrying two wooden longswords. A thin smile, yes a smile, parted his lips as he threw the sword at Gideon’s feet. A cold hand ran itself up Gideon’s spine and gripped his heart. Friedrick spread his arms in a showy manner and shouted, “Watching you all, I’m feeling a little lonely. Why do you get to have all the fun?” He locked eyes with Gideon and pointed. “You will be my opponent, prepare yourself!”