They marched out the north gate of Obstrgartenfeld nearly five hours later. Unbothered and unmolested, likely because they were simply beneath the notice of anyone high enough in the duke’s court to dare.

  That rankled. But if they were but bugs to those worthies, then let them at least be mosquitoes or a horse fly. A small bite was better than nothing.

  They marched late into the evening before encamping with a complete set of ditches and earthworks. Ethan grinned as he saw Miro running a proprietary and somewhat nervous eye over them until they were completed.

  A true convert!

  But the next day started like most others, except for the addition of a pair of Lancers at the command team's morning practice.

  ___

  The crack of wooden training weapons connecting, the deeper thump against shields and the metallic clang of blades slipping through to strike armor competed through the clear morning air, punctuated by the occasional meatier thap of wood finding flesh.

  Ethan’s wooden spatha snapped out and up, blocking a blade directly and feeling the shock of it all the way to his shoulder, while his scutum shield snapped out and down towards a set of overextended toes.

  A soft crunch told its own tale as Ethan hid a grimace. Still, that was what healing rituals were for. A man had to learn somewhere. Vincent stumbled backward and out of line while Hasrile stepped forward, trying to both protect Vincent and plug the breach made by his exit.

  Trying.

  “Push!” Ethan bellowed, loath to let him. The golden light enveloped the dozen men surrounding him in a loose wall as they lunged forward together, bashing shields and following it up with a quick thrust at ankles or head.

  Lancers with scutum and spatha needed more room to fight than the Hastati with tower shield and spear or short sword, and it showed in half a dozen half-duels.

  Half because- there! Ethans blade shot sideways even as he slammed his scutum forward into Hasrile before he could get his feet properly set. Slipping the blade beneath the shield to his right and into a meaty blow on an exposed calf.

  A move Andrew to his right took full advantage of. Deftly sliding a thrust around the unbalanced shield, then turning to his right to continue the chain.

  Only to ram into Conner's uncompromising shield, deftly stepping into the forming breach and stopping the crumble cold.

  Not bad. But they were still down 2 men, and..

  The lines crashed into each other again, Ethans with a blue cord tied atop their helms. Conners with a red cord. Men fell, holding broken bones and crushed toes or fingers as even wooden swords and blunt shields were no light weapons with both high body stats and the skills involved.

  “Hold!” Ethan bellowed at last, as Conner's line, now down to 4 men versus Ethans 6 was at last overwhelmed.

  Conner stepped back in sync, flicking his spatha upwards in a salute, before turning to the men around him. “Vincent!” He bellowed. “What has I said about leading with dat fooking foot?”

  “Keep dem back, Sir!” He managed, white faced but still standing, though not on that foot. His shield braced him on onside, his good leg on the other.

  “Keep dem back. But does yous listen? No! Maybe does toes will finally teach yous da lesson, hmm?”

  “Yes Sir.” He bellowed.

  “Tell me after yous finish da run on dem.” Ethan winced, wondering how long that poor fool had been making this particular mistake. Conner wasn’t a cruel man without reason.

  Though with that reason, Ethan glanced sideways casually at two black and blue Lancers to the far right. Flagged blue today, and a large part of his victory. Conner had been a bit busy dealing with them and let him get an edge up.

  Still, he’d have his reasons. And as Captain, and even more as Baronet, it was best to leave that kind of low-level discipline to Conner. He’d let him know when he needed to intervene.

  “Pick 'em up folks!” He called, glancing to the side where the tail end of the band's marching column was starting to catch up to them. “Today is a Plank Day!” He cheerfully finished, to no few groans.

  Walking wounded fell into position, but those who were ‘killed’ lay back on the ground, stiffening their bodies into a flattish ‘plank’ while four men picked them up. Legs and armpits.

  “Double time – March!” Ethan called, holding a shoulder himself and starting to jog forward. Conner’s group did the same, but in the opposite direction, around the tail of the column before running up the other side.

  Defeat always had a cost. Even in practice.

  They jogged forward at easily two or three times the pace of the Band's column, jogging the half mile moving length of it in a few minutes, heavily armored and carrying the ‘dead’, the pace set was deliberately brutal.

  But at the front, Blake was already waiting, his wooden platform well inked in circles, geometric figures and symbols that made Ethan's eyes want to bleed. He went to work with an easy confidence and a few jokes to put the men at ease.

  A few minutes later, the worst of the wounded, broken bones and one concussion, were healed up and, after a bit of jerky and slightly wined water, ready to begin again. Expensive in cores to heal during training, but you got what you paid for. It was worth the expense ten times over if it saved a far more expensive Tier 2 soldier's life.

  Tier 1’s had to be a bit more careful and restrained, of course. Rank hath its privileges.

  But even at Tier 2, not everything was healed. Those with bruises got to keep them. Not worth the cores, and frankly, it was a good reminder of what not to do next time.

  Then they lined up against each other and did it again.

  Rinse and repeat, though Conner managed to eke out the next win.

  Then they switched out with preselected blocks of infantry. Never more than a tenth of the band involved at a given time, but taking advantage of the difference in tiers, and the speed of higher body stats compared with the Labori to get some weapons drill in while they could.

  But even that was only a side note. A task so normal it almost blended into the background.

  And what a background it was. The Silberstrom river road wasn’t a patch on the High Road. But it was cobbled and well-maintained. Twelve feet wide and with another twelve of sod beside it. All built up on a berm above the river proper. It gave an excellent view of the river, the frequent warships on its waters and the unused plains across it. A plain that was spoken of with fear and worry by the inhabitants of the equally picturesque hamlets and villages they passed through.

  Each of which sported a wall. Nothing fancy, but a palisade on a raised berm of earth. A barricade against beasts and not men.

  The manor houses and keeps of the nobles were a different story. They followed the old Motte and Bailey style. A walled town at the base of a hill, natural or manmade, topped with a keep. Moats were common, with an upriver feed from the river itself diverted to fill them. There was a highly variable mix of wood and stone involved. With most of the keeps constructed in the better material, but the bailey walls rarely so.

  Another small pattern also emerged. The mottes were always on the riverside of their towns, and well equipped with onagers and ballistae overlooking that river. While the towns at their feet were generally bounded by river tributaries and large ditches that acted as both defense and drainage.

  Spreading inland from them were the fertile fields he’d come to expect, irrigated by those ditches that expanded from river or tributary in parallel series of diagonal channels that spoke to elevation better than any map. Hugging the curves of the land to make use of the constant decline. The fields themselves followed the same pattern, being long and thin patches of cleared land between. Long, thin, and above all, green!

  Green fields of semi-ripe wheat, even this early in the season. Onions, beans, flax and grape arbors were intermixed in various stages of maturity. Not to mention orchards of olives, apricots, pears and quince. Apples, the locals assured them, were also common, just from farther north where the weather was cooler.

  It told a story of plenty, but also the story of how contests occurred around here. The village walls were more tall fences than war fortifications. No wall walks nor crenelations, simply pointed logs joined together. Indefensible against any kind of trained force.

  And yet, the orchards were old. Not just fully grown, but several generations of mature plants had grown and died in the same place without the touch of fire or a siege camp. The irrigation ditches were frequently bridged with simple planks, but no permanent constructions, despite the road showing they had the skill for that.

  This was a land often fought over, but in a ritualized way. The towns couldn’t be defended so they weren’t. They went with whoever owned the castles. In the meantime, the lack of bridges on the channels, the plentiful siege engines and warships spoke of controlling and if he were being generous, protecting trade.

  Taking wagons over the frequent ditches would be a nightmare and each baronial seat had a small curtain wall extending out to control traffic on the river road, which would swing inland, rarely allowed to go through the towns. A tall watch tower usually sat at the end of that wall. Partially to watch for threats.

  But mostly to prevent travelers from trying to circumvent their fee collectors.

  With the Emperor’s writ they were immune to most of that nonsense. Merely charged the meanest of road fees, enough to maintain the road and make a small profit for its patrollers, but nothing outrageous. He wondered how much they would be without the writ.

  Wondered enough to set Miro to check.

  “It depends My Lord.”

  “On?”

  “On if you are in favor with the good Duke. Though from a few bits and pieces they let slip, I feel the opposite is true further north.”

  “How much will our goods be charged? Eventually we’ll need to send trade this way, no? Say in riverboats or log rafts a few years from now?”

  “Unfortunately, My Lord, that also depends. Should this conflict still be progressing at that point, I’d not risk sending them at all. Not without enough soldiers to make the trip unprofitable. Too much opportunity for someone to confiscate it and blame the war. But if it dies down, the usual fee at each demesne is from 10 to 50 silver drachma per boat. Size dependent.”

  “And with, what, 30 of them lining the river? That’s not a small number!”

  “Not quite that bad My Lord. They are packed quite densely here in the plains, but spread out as you pass into the forest. More like twenty.”

  “That’s still not a small number.”

  “True.” She hesitated, then didn’t keep speaking. Though he could guess what she didn’t say. There were always factions and consortia. Join the right one and fees had a way of disappearing. But join the wrong one and your goods might just disappear. It was always a risk.

  The days bled into weeks in much the same manner. Interspacing training with marching broken up by the occasional curtesy visit to a passing noble manor or keep. Miro made good use of these stops to peddle trade goods and luxuries, but little of it in any large quantities.

  But it served dual use, giving Ethan and his knights experience in the new battleground of feasting hall and ballroom.

  It was also an excuse for the men to have a hot meal in the towns below while they waited.

  Then another half day of marching before they could camp, preferably near the borders between demesnes. A standard enough method that there were frequently large plots of land already featuring minor ditch and berm combos.

  They spotted bandits here and there, even more from what Leofsige’s scouting trips spoke of, but none foolish enough to try an army on the move.

  Pity that. Bandits were a relatively safe way to blood new soldiers. Not much experience, but the risks were low. And if they were going to hesitate at taking a human life, as many did, they might as well get that out of the way now.

  If the fight had been offered, he’d have done it. But it wasn’t worth chasing them across half a barony. They didn’t have time for that.

  So it was with a great deal of dust and a bit of fatigue, but little of anything else of note, that the column approached yet another bailey. Though with The Forest faintly visible far to the north. This was the last Barony nominally under the Duke of Obstrgartenfeld.

  Fitting for the northernmost demesne in the dukedom, it was considerably more fortified than its southern neighbors. Solid stone walls of forty or so feet were well dotted with projecting towers and topped by an impressive set of merlons.

  The noise and chatter of a thriving township echoed over the tall walls and through a set of open gates.

  Ethan trotted up well ahead of the column and with Guile and Andrew backing him before offering a quick greeting to Rainer and Leo, who’d traveled ahead with a small escort to give the good Baron a warning. A common curtsey when marching a small army toward someone’s home.

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  A warning and a request for an audience, in fact. One that appeared to be in the offing.

  “Introduce me to this brave knight if you would Sir Leofsige.”

  For the welcomer was clearly that. His plate armor was of excellent make and flawlessly maintained, but had the well-used look of a family relic. It could simply be a sign of poverty, but equally likely, it was enchanted or a rift reward. Something so valuable it was passed down in the family for generations.

  “Happily My Lord. Be presented with Sir Valamir, First knight of Baron Theodric of Rivervald.”

  “Barronet Ethan of Alfwin Pass, my liege welcomes you to his hearth and home. He offers hospitality to you and your knights, but regrettably must request that no more than a century of your men enter the town at a time.”

  Ethan smiled broadly, a century? That was quite generous, really. Most of the towns before this held at thirty. A sign of goodwill or confidence in his own military? Well, they’d see soon enough. “But of course. Have you guides to settle my men..?”

  Four men stepped forward from the gate guards and saluted fist to chest before trotting off towards the band. Ethan let them pass without additional instruction. Conner and Blake were with the Band still and would handle things appropriately.

  “Excellent, then by all means lead the way.”

  With a final fist to chest, the knight jumped lightly into the saddle. And in what must be thirty pounds of armor and a large mount, that was no small feat. A body stat well into the 2nd tier than and him being south of 30. Impressive.

  Ethan tagged Miro with his eyes and jerked his head forward.

  Sir Valamir led them through the usual compact cored castle town, with an emphasis on town. This was no military core, but generations of effort had pushed it in a far more militant direction than most. Three to four-story buildings were packed in like sardines, but with more open space than that might suggest.

  It was just on the bottom story of these buildings. Pillars and three walls held residences up above an open coral of pigs on one side, while an open market of stalls filled the next building over. A lumber mill graced another opposite a blacksmith hammering away.

  It was quite lively, and despite the height, it felt less claustrophobic than he’d expected. The open bottom floors gave it a roomy sort of feel, despite the ceiling overhead, that the townspeople were obviously enjoying as well. Tradesmen, shopkeepers and basics swirled about in a dance that had a deliberate feel to it, despite the clatter and clutter.

  And for all that, they and the wagons that were pulling goods of all types through the streets quickly made way for the mounted nobility as expected, but with little of the fear he’d seen in some places.

  They’d step to the side, bow, knuckle a forehead or put a fist to chest, but then move on about their day. Felt rather healthy, actually. The scents of cooking food dominated the air, not tanning, pig shit, human waste or any of the usual smells that an uncored town would host.

  But for all that it was densely populated, it was still a fortified town and while the space could occasionally be generous by moving upward, the footprint that needed to be walled was not. It took little more than 10 minutes to ride from the outer gate to the base of the motte and, after passing through yet another fortified gatehouse, to the steep ramp leading up it to the bailey.

  He glanced up the stone-lined path and felt his stomach clench. The gates at the top were wide open and framed a large cylindrical rock, fully head height on a mounted man and weighing who knew how much.

  With a stone wall lining the walkway to either side, all a defender would have to do was knock out a few wooden stops and that multi-ton wheel would grind the lot of them into paste.

  Damn good thing they were friendly, but he made a mental note of the trick for the future. To use it himself and to watch out for it.

  Riding through the last gate, they dismounted and handed the horses off to waiting grooms before striding through a pair of metal-strapped, heavy oak doors and into a great hall. The room was solid stone with narrow slit windows for arrow fire rather than a view. A large fireplace graced one end while large trestle tables stood in two lines leading up to the dais with a wide walkway between them. Solid stone pillars stood in from the outer walls, holding torches and the occasional tapestry.

  The dais itself hosted a nicer table about a foot higher than the rest of the room. A large padded wooden chair dominated the center of the table without bothering with anything so gaudy as gold leaf or gems.

  The master of the house stood waiting for them in front of that table, off the dais itself and at an equal height to his visitors. He was gray-haired and visibly so with his helm placed on the table behind him, with a face well lined by the passage of time.

  For all his obvious age, he wasn’t decrepit. He stood straight and unbowed beneath his plate and mail equipage. The spatha at his side, a war blade as opposed to the more comfortable indoor gladius, stood as a natural brace for his hand in the way only those who had worn it for decades had.

  Considering he and his knights were similarly equipped from the road, he didn’t take it as a threat. Merely intelligent caution.

  Ethan walked till he was a good ten feet from the man before stopping, and slapping a gauntleted hand to his scaled shirt. It was a rattling sound rather than the clean boom of the four knights behind him. He was really looking forward to his Umbral Plate being finished!

  “Baronet Ethan, your reputation precedes you. My son had the privilege of following you at Hestan. He wrote me of your skill.”

  “Ah, I was not in command, Barron Theodric.” Ethan prevaricated, trying not to flinch at the memory of that cluster fuck.

  The man waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not, of course not. You were without your current rank at that time. But when others wait and watch you for their cues, rank or no, that says a great deal. And when those that did came out of it mangled but alive, and those that ignored you didn’t make it out at all? Why, that says something more. With your reputation as a war leader, and now that you do have the rank to command, I wonder what you could do with it.”

  A pleasant thought. And one he’d not turn down given the chance. But neither was it likely. Not anytime soon at least. “Kind of you to say so, but I imagine I will be quite busy with my new fief for quite some time.”

  “True. Too true indeed. Do you know that I have a journal from my many-times ancestor? Written into the stone of the town’s foundation, telling the tale of its founding. And of the many obstacles he was forced to overcome. It’s a thrilling, if also unsettling, read. You have a task in front of you, young lord. A task and no mistake. But where are my manners? Please. A seat! A seat and some wine!”

  “Happily Baron. But if you would accept a small gift?” He gestured behind where Andrew held a small amphora with the familiar looming wall branded onto it.

  “Great wall wine? My, quite a treat. It rarely makes its way past the City. Few of the nicer things in life do.” He gestured a servant forward and quickly, they were seated with more servants scurrying around them, dropping off platters of bread, olives and fresh fruits, snacks to go with the wine rather than a full repast.

  For a time, it was merely small talk. The state of the roads, the harvest and how long he expected his son to take returning from the front.

  But eventually the servants cleared out, leaving only Sir Valamir and a few senior centurions at the Baron's side. Ethan eventually turned the conversation to his intentions. “You mentioned a problem with trade passing by Obstgartenfeld, and as fate would have it, it’s a problem I’m not unaware of. I found myself quite unhappily braced by dock rats brave enough to extort nobles. Surprising at first. But less so when you notice the suspicious number of off-duty soldiers lingering about.”

  The baron grimaced and took another swig of wine. “You’ve heard the rumors then.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Indeed, and while the map can tell you I’d have to pass by your fief either way, I might not have stopped without them. While my people have needs and I expect your fief can fill them, I’ll admit that spitting on the duke's discourtesy is a welcome bonus.”

  “I will drink to that!” The Baron raised his goblet high, and, along with the rest of the table, drank with a will.

  “Well, I obviously respect the sentiment and would be happy to encourage it. But the scales must, of course, balance. What sort of needs did you have?”

  “Resupply. Foodstuffs for the most part, but some breeding livestock and a number of other small bits and pieces that might make the founding of a settlement easier would not go amiss.”

  “In exchange, we had the good fortune of clearing out a rift on the way here that offered a considerable quantity of natural armor-making materials in the first tier. A small amount we’ve already made into armor of high quality. Not to mention a few luxuries and about ten pounds of adamantite.” And hadn’t that cost him a quarter of their funds! But a nugget alloyed into a suit of tier 1 iron armor could raise the entire set a full tier.

  “Ahh, I could play the merchant and deny my need of such, but as you said, you too can read a map. That and those rumors make my needs rather obvious, I trust.”

  Ethan nodded.

  “I agree, in spirit at least. My men will need to get a look at this natural armor?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Umbral plates. You are welcome to have them try their hands at one of the finished Lorica Segmentata.”

  “Ahh! Natural Plate then? I’ve heard of the stuff, but never had the opportunity to see it firsthand. Something to look forward to. But where was I? Let my men get a look at your goods and list of your wants and we’ll go from there. For a party of your size, and the goods you offer, I might not be able to handle the business alone.”

  He raised a hand placatingly as Ethan hid a sigh of disappointment. Badly apparently.

  “But, if you don’t mind a minor delay, I have quite good relations with my neighbors,” And they could thank the Duke for that, no doubt. “and I’ll be pleased to act the intermediary. Between us, I’ve no doubt we can come to an equitable arrangement.”

  He tapped the table a few times, considering. Then looked up with a sharklike smile. “With that set aside, would you consider a different sort of trade? The advice of an Old Blood noble on the subject of rule and a bit of that history I mentioned - I wasn’t merely buttering you up with compliments to your skill at war, you see - in exchange for your advice and some time at the sand table. Strategic and tactical planning for the coming conflict.”

  Ethan froze, goblet halfway to his lips, but barely so. He continued the motion and took a sip before setting it down. “I’d be honored to hear your advice on the subject. And if my own will aid you in some way, I’d be equally honored to offer it.”

  “Then we shall both have it! But not yet. The road has been long. I offer the sacred oath of hospitality, no harm shall see you that you do not seek inside my walls. Please. Refresh yourselves, take your rest. We will talk after dinner.”

  Fists again struck to chest plates and they followed a set of servants from the hall.

  ____

  Dinner was lavish. Served in the local style that aped the Capital, but without the couches and prevalence of figs. The first course was the traditional puls, though the stewed legumes were greatly improved with fresh rosemary and a local tangy goat cheese. Followed by platters of thinly sliced beef, well-seasoned and mixed with diced onions and carrots before being seared in olive oil and wrapped in legana, the flat pasta noodles a treat he hadn’t expected this far north.

  The meal continued with a whole river trout dressed in garum, a pungent fish sauce and brightened with lime juice while piles of pomegranate seeds gave the whole dish a colorful gravitas. The meal came to a close with dessert, an Auenland Red and dulcia, nuts and berries enveloped in a lightly fried breading and drizzled with honey.

  And all the while a pair of Minstrels on a cithara and tibia filled the air with pleasant background melodies while a small troop of acrobats bounced and flipped between the tables.

  It was quite an enjoyable experience if one that felt quite strange. Entertainment in the camps was little better than the food. Contests of strength and skill, with a healthy dose of gambling. Perhaps the occasional traveling brothels. Diversions sought out to pass the time rather than delights meant to embellish an already luxurious feast.

  But all good things must eventually come to an end, and at the close of the meal with the Minstrels taking their bows and the servers removing the last crumb-filled platters, the baron tapped Ethan on the shoulder and gestured to a small door. A door that hid a twisting stair that led to the battlements and eventually, two chairs set out on a corner tower with a pleasant view of the evening sun setting across the distant mountains.

  They watched quietly for a time before the Baron began to speak. “I’m getting old, and that gives me some leeway to speak plainly.” He began. “You, however, have no such excuse. Would you like to know what you could have done better earlier? It’s an honest question, mind, I’ve no intent to offend.” He sipped from a goblet and stared outward. Giving Ethan a chance to chew on that.

  “I’ve as much ego as any good soldier. But I’d be a fool indeed to ignore my faults. By all means, expose me.”

  “Expose hmm? Very well. You were too quick to come to the point. A noble must keep his bearing. That means beating around the bush for hours at times before gradually coming to the purpose of a visit. We all know there will be a purpose, but still, manners demand we act as if our company alone has supreme value. You should have waited till after dinner to discuss your requests. And yes, I realize that would waste nearly a day.”

  Ethan grimaced. Rainer had made some comments about everything at its proper time, but apparently, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant.

  “You spoke too plainly as well. Too many details that should have been left to the seneschals. A lord must always –” He listed out flaws, continuing to speak while Ethan paid close attention.

  “You brought 4 knights to the table while I had but one. As the guest, you should always limit yourself to match the table, or when the numbers are larger, be a bit shy. To crowd the table can be seen as an attempt at intimidation. You must be cautious of the accidental insult as much or more than the deliberate. –”

  His faults lasted most of an hour, and all delivered in an even, kindly tone. An old man bestowing wisdom and teachings, not an indictment.

  And at the end of it, though it was far from a comfortable experience, Ethan forced himself to thank the Baron for it. And more, he meant it.

  “Tis no bother. As you grow older, I find great pleasure in teaching. And you, my young friend, need to learn as fast as possible. At Auenland you will be tested. I don’t have to be Cassandra to see this. The count might be your future liege. And if not yours, then your children’s. He’ll wish to take your measure and that first impression might linger for generations.”

  Ethan grimaced again. “Does not the Imperial title shield me from such for a time?”

  “It is rather ironic. Though I don’t expect you to see it yet. The count himself is an Imperial noble. He owes fealty directly to the Emperor too and this is why, more or less, he is ever at odds with the Duke of Obstrgartenfeld. That worthy would prefer that as a lesser noble, the count should serve himself. But any fool can see the Emperor won’t allow his already significant holdings to expand.”

  “Instead, in a generation or two, perhaps earlier if the stars align. The Emperor might raise the Count to a Duke of the Northwest. There are two other Imperial counts. One at Serena on the lake. Do you know it?”

  “Aye. At the blood line. He holds the southern border against the goblin raids. Or did before this most recent ennoblement.”

  “Exactly. And the third is the Falxians Hillfolk under Count Comosicus at Enterbrun. Though his baron’s holdings at Castrum Isnord might give you a better clue.”

  “The gateway to the Northern Fjords.” Ethan nodded.

  “Indeed. The three counts each see an influx of new nobles, imperial at first, but few hold on to that title. The irony is that those few amount to the three counts and the dukes. But as the two dukes must now look behind them for daggers distracting them from competing for scraps from the Emperor’s table, so too are you and your peers to the three Imperial Counts. If they can gather you and your brethren into the fold, their rise to Dukedom is nearly assured. But should they fail to, you might turn into the tool the Emperor uses to keep them in their place in the future.”

  “Now tell me, will the Count of Auenland ignore your passing?”

  Ethan made the arena gesture for first blood.

  The baron grinned. “Exactly so. My seneschal expects that to gather the list your man supplied will take at least a week. I suggest you spend most of that week with me. We will ride the fief and I will explain what is expected, what to watch for and much of why such things are done. Lessons you would have learned at your father’s knee should you have been born a noble.”

  “A generous offer. But what do you expect in return?”

  “Good man! You were listening. Indeed, there must always be balance where ties of blood don’t exist. And even sometimes then. But this cost I’ve already mentioned. I want the Strategos of the Demon War to sit with me and a few of my fellow barons at the sand table and mock out the coming conflict with duke.”

  Ethan nodded. It was something he’d been thinking on a great deal already, and with the barons able to fill in the blanks with troop counts, tiers and levels, he could indeed provide a great deal of aid here. But perhaps…

  “It’s not a cost I mind paying. But perhaps I can offer another kind of coin in addition. You did mention ties of blood and it appears that I might need more teaching than you can offer in just a week. Have you any unmarried daughters?”

  He stared for a moment, then leaned back and laughed. Good and hard. “Ah, now that I had not thought of. But indeed I do and indeed they do. This might get you the knowledge and training you lack. But are you sure you can handle it? It’s not many a man who can stand training from his wife.”

  “I’ve been leading men for over a decade. I am by no means the best at every task I’ve seen accomplished. I’m not threatened by competence. Nor too proud to learn from it.”

  “Subordinates and wives are a different matter entirely, young man. But for all of that, it is a good idea. I’d not mind the connection. Your house defines youth. But youth and potential come as a pair. Yes, I can see this working out quite nicely. But are you sure? Between the two of us this is just a jest. An idea. But once the arrow is on the string, it will not be so easy to return to the quiver. You must be sure.”

  “I am. Though with a few requirements.”

  “Want to avoid me pawning off an ugly daughter on you, eh?”

  “Not my aim. I’d prefer she was pleasant to look at. What man wouldn’t? But I’d rather she was a battle axe of a lass with a brain and self-control then an empty-headed beauty who will make me enemies at every turn.”

  “Then you are wiser than my own son. He’s been sending me letters about some Baron's sister to the west of Veifurt. An Adelheid I think.”

  Ethan choked on his wine.

  The Baron raised an eyebrow. “You know the lass then?”

  “A bit.” Though not nearly so well as he might have. Pity. “T’was on her land that we ran the rift I mentioned. And she is indeed a beauty worth both bards and poets raving. But she’s no empty-headed git, Baron. She’s as sharp as they come. Bright enough to let fools deceive themselves into thinking otherwise. Including me, if truth be told.”

  “This promises to be a story, youngster! Do tell, do tell.”

  And why not? There was no secret involved, nor any misdeeds. Only a bit of his own foolishness. He could bear to expose it.

  “It began at the toll fortress between Veifurt County and –”

  _____