"Close it up!" Conner barked, reaching out with his leather-wrapped rod of office and popping the offending Hastati on the helmet. He leaned back, snorted contemptuously as the same man received a quick and fairly brutal drubbing. The veteran one to the right in the opposing line slipped a spear through the gap his poorly spaced shield opened, and slammed the blunted blade into his poorly armored ribs.

  Ethan hid a smile. They were all there once. But neither they nor he could afford to let it linger. Thankfully, he had the right tool for the job. Veterans to drive the results of sloppiness into their flesh and bones. In bruises and contusions, if necessary, to prevent blood and guts later. And with more recruits than bandsmen, it was more key than ever.

  Lines of Hastati were slamming into one another in an ear-jarring symphony. The very order and consistent rhythm of crashes, grunts and cries as unblocked blows struck flesh, even through the armor keeping it just shy of cacophony.

  Over 200 new Bandsmen, no, over 200 new armsmen Ethan mused. It was hard to step away from old terms and embrace the new.

  Embrace the new, he mused, glancing off to the side where Philangites, new and old, struggled through their drills. The 16-foot spears unable to be held upright in the 10-foot cavern. And while he could, and might soon, raise that ceiling, it wouldn't fix the conditions outside.

  Long spears would never go completely out of style. They were, and would remain, one of the most effective tools against large beasts and cavalry. But they were a bastard to maneuver in normal conditions and nearly useless when defending walls or guard duty inside a keep or manor.

  Was it time to slowly phase them out? He blessed the foresight that had decreased the number of such men as soon as he'd seen the rugged ground of the mountains. But fewer recruits didn't change the facts, what was once three to one sarissa to the rest was nearly the reverse now, if you threw in the Pahadi.

  Nearly 450 armsmen all told, and even with the better part of them green, it was still a significant force. And even that didn't represent their total strength.

  He glanced the other way, where a narrow slice that ran the length of the practice cave gave archers a chance to work on their craft. Old Bandsmen Bowmen directing and teaching a decade of Alpine Hunters, while another 5 decades were pacing their way through basic spear drills.

  Outside the practice room, wherever they could find room for it, the rest were probably sitting for lectures taught by one of Leo's scouts. Everything from the lay of the land, to common beasts and tricks to hunting them.

  It wasn't optimum and the lack of space was as telling as the lack of local experience. But it was already a block of men that outnumbered his armsmen. If barely. And it was this force, stiffened with a smattering of veterans, that would have to hold the ground, from the valleys and meadows to the nearest ridges.

  The rest of them would be busy with rifts!

  He tapped at his side as Conner leapt forward, bringing his rod down across a man's shoulders, his shield having risen too high and blocked his sight, leading to quickly bruised shins and his neighbors to either side sporting their own bruises. In formation drills, it was rare that the man who made the mistake was the only sufferer.

  They all needed work. Armsmen and these half civilians and while he couldn't wave a wand and make them veterans, by the end of winter, he hoped to at least have their feet on the right path. Beyond that, the job itself and the veterans beside them would teach them the rest.

  Their winter forays had focused on the closer minute rifts. The ones a decade of men could close. Where their limited numbers of Pahadi, reinforced by a few Lancers willing to brave the winter winds on foot, could safely clear. Providing much-needed supplies that ranged from the occasional bits of fodder, vegetables and grains to metal ore and the always welcome meat and hides.

  But come spring they'd need to handle the minors. The century of men rifts. For loot of course, but mostly for protection. It was going to be hard enough to protect the farmers and herders from the local wildlife. No need to add a steady stream of monsters with it.

  Ethan winced as a man deflected a practice spear into his own helmet, bellowing out an invective-laden tongue lashing before reforming the line with repeated blows with his training rod and beginning the drill again. Plans for later would have to wait for later.

  ___

  Ethan prodded a small clay figurine; its bow and fur hat more an impression on the sides of the vaguely human-shaped blobs than actual weapons or armor. It was a far cry from the elaborately carved figures he'd made dance in Rivervald, but they served the same purpose. And served it well enough.

  He made another minor adjustment, placing it with two other figurines, each standing in for a decade of the new Alpine Hunters, to the top of the meadow to the north-east, where a small plaque showed an image of a guard tower. Yet to be built, of course, but if situated correctly, it would provide a significant observation and reaction point, though not a barrier, to the meadow’s largest ingress front. Hardly the only such, with small draws and saddles breaking up the otherwise steep mountain sides erratically.

  Or the mountainsides themselves, however steep they were, for sufficiently sure-footed threats. He couldn't forget that.

  To the north, a similar situation sprawled out. Six acres of farmland drawn in a fairly narrow strip to the north along the valley's bottom. The river to the east provided a barrier of a kind. Not absolute of course, but in these climes and temperatures it was a significant one. But the mountains to the west were equally porous.

  The valley to the south was far more contained, with little beyond the southern river opening as a usable entrance. Another token for a planned watchtower, built into the stone mountain wall this time, overlooked that opening. Leaving a great deal of grass, if not a node, for pasturage or haying. Nor was the gap and the narrow road carved into the side of the hill leading up to the stone neglected in their plans.

  A clay plaque with a gate lay in that opening and with a few chutes overlooking it to roll rocks out of, it wasn't an avenue he was particularly worried about.

  Up the western ridge was a different matter. The makeshift bridge they'd first used gave access to that ridge line now, and to the road as well, though they would have to change that. Quarrying the wall back to separate the Stone’s entrance from the ridge top. Leaving access, if restricted access, only to the defenders in event of a siege.

  A condition he intended to manage on both sides of the Stone. The east bridge would have an upper brother, leading to a Guard tower overlooking, but completely separate from, the ramp down to the meadow.

  Not that they would get even a portion of that done this year. A few of the outer guard towers of necessity. And improving a few of the upper trails for use, scouting or harvesting, this they would do.

  More than that, they'd have to wait and see.

  And until they were completed, more men would be needed to watch for and respond to incursions. He adjusted a nodal force, 2 decades of Hastati, to stand on top of a clay icon featuring the spiked ditches and berms of a standard encampment to the center of the farming lands, then after a moment of hesitation, withdrew his hands.

  "Thoughts?" He asked, glancing up at Conner, Andrew, Sigismund and Guile where they stood looming over the sand table.

  "You sure about dis, Ethan?" Conner tapped a trio of crude horses, each with something that almost resembled a lance indented lengthwise from wither to extended, lopsided head, that were positioned just beyond the southern valley entrance. Off the map really and with a shiny little lead figurine in front of them. Carved to a much finer detail, part of a set that was a gift from the village seeds at midwinter, the shield and spear were as clear as the older man's shorn hair and even a bit of his eyes.

  "It's you or Andrew." A squawk of outrage rang out and Ethan sighed. Reluctantly adding, “Maybe Guile.” Ethan was sure the man would love the chance to get out and he’d handle a fight as well or better than any man. He wasn’t a half-bad talker either, despite his reputation. He had a good old boy’s talent at fitting in with soldiers. But with civilians and nobles? Especially after being cooped up all winter? Not likely.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  "What about Centurion Sigismund?" Andrew nodded to the man while tapping a different lead figurine, a much cleaner lancer, even including a pennant, though a blank one. They'd have to fix that, and soon.

  Ethan shook his head, catching the man's eyes. "I'd trust you to lead them and in any fight that came your way, Sigismund, but having a noble to lead will cut both road flag fees and prevent many a subtler form of harassment." He mentally stuck another mental question mark next to Guile's name.

  It was going to be a job. And one that would require the man leading it to think on his feet. Traveling to Rivervald, with 26 lancers at his back, anyone of them could do it. Nearly blindfolded, if he could get them safely free of the mountains.

  But escorting their Scrimshawers, armor and whatever additional goods they could afford back was a different matter. And at the top of that list of dangers was noble interference. The Count of Auenland and their dear neighbor were the most obvious troublemakers, but hardly the only ones.

  No, they needed a knight in the lead. And a knight with a cool head on his shoulders, willing to work with or around obstacles, not crash straight through them. Arguably, Andrew would be better on that end. He lacked the older man's experience and skill in a fight, though he was no slouch by any less herculean standards, and he'd taken to the noble manners and diction in a way the older man had not. But the Lancers remained the strongest concentration of, and most reputable, force they had. Having his best commander at their helm was a strong temptation.

  The Centurian shrugged agreeably. "Just as well. Fair lot of work for me here."

  And wasn't that the truth!

  "What about Sir James?" Andrew offered. "Noble, diplomatic and a far better Mercator when it comes time to sell and buy."

  "Best not be calling a knight a Mercator in front of Ermina, yes?" Or any other noble, for that matter. But... "Not that you're wrong." Conner nodded easily to the self-evident fact. And they were good goods too. A nice selection of premium tier 2 hides and some small cores. Light but highly valuable and hopefully enough to give their coin-strapped baronetcy enough leeway to pick up some essentials... and if they could carry it, some wine!

  "It's a thought..." Would Miro go with them? She'd have trouble keeping up with the hardened cavalrymen on the way out, so his first impulse was no. And if they tried to get a jump on the spring melt, even less so. And crossing the frozen-over river several times was a far sight faster and safer than trying to ford it overflowing with spring melt. But if she could make it, safely, she’d be a real asset on the other end. That he would not deny.

  He tapped at the table, considering the mountains and valleys dotted with figurines for workers, hunters and armsmen. And through it all, numerous clay tokens, mostly tiny but with a handful of much larger versions. Each with a simple swirl embossed on it. Rifts. Both Andrew and Conner would be a welcome addition in those minor rifts; he'd not deny it. And in training the men before and after them. But James was no less useful organizing the valley at large. Logistics, oversight and management. Frankly, he was one of the most pivotal pieces on the board, useful in any place Ethan could put him.

  Oddly enough, he found himself considering Leo for the job. Not because he would be useful in some noble’s great hall, but he had the savvy to get the team there, and back, finding his way around those obstacles. Silently, no doubt.

  And after the job training the Pahadi all winter, he was also a knight they could afford to do without. And if he could stick him with someone who could do that talking… it had potential.

  He tapped a few more times, then sighed. Too many good options, and each with its own demerits. "I'll run it past James later and see what he thinks. In the meantime, let's break down these rifts. According to Leo this is a -"

  They continued to discuss deployments until A page arrived to call them to dinner.

  ___

  Ethan winced as a haymaker connected and sent a man spinning from the ring to a chorus of groans and cheers. Tokens changed hands rapidly. Not money, but an informal sort of IOU. For chores, time allotments to walk through the mushroom grottos and even promissories of a more, hmm, personal nature. Those he was carefully unaware of. The worst thing a commander could do was to dictate the goings on between the sexes.

  They'd tried to bet more than a few other things, from tools, clothing and even dinner invitations to this hall. Those, Ermina had come down on like a hammer to an egg.

  They couldn't afford deaths to exposure and dinner was at her invitation. Non-transferable.

  Guile, damn him, whooping as loud as any down below, despite Ermina's occasional glare, reached over and swept a small pile of chits to join his already respectable pile. "Is that three to one in my favor, My Lord?" He prodded, his rumbling chuckle setting the chits rattling against each other.

  Ethan gave him a sour glance, but didn't contest the braggart.

  "Shoulda just broken down and built the Pit." He offered, though in a much lower voice, pitched such that few even at the ends of the high table could hear him, much less the tables below. And again, Ethan didn't contest. This hadn't worked out quite how he'd imagined.

  What started as half punishment, half a chance to work out their aggression under eyes that would hopefully prevent such aggression from causing permanent effects had morphed with shocking quickness into something else altogether. Grudges were still worked out here but, for the most part, before it came time for punishment.

  Men came together and volunteered for the ring, and an authorized chance to beat each other's heads in. Nor were they alone in this endeavor. Armsman, veterans or green were just as likely to join in as the civilians, and for the most part, provided a much better show. For a chance to show off, a portion of the pot or just to have something to do.

  And he'd felt so proud of himself that first night. Solving a problem without resorting to a full flogging.

  He wasn't sure which deity commanded unintended consequences. But he hoped he was providing them with rare entertainment. And if it was, as he half suspected, the Lady of Fortune, then may she bless them by getting it out of her system now and not later!

  But the bars had dropped and the race was on. He'd not stop it now without far more angst and unhappiness than it was worth.

  No, all that was left was to hold on for the ride. He sawed a thick slice from the roast that took pride of place, stretching out most of six feet long and several feet high. If he held his eyes just right, it could be a pig.

  Maybe?

  Either way, its crisped skin and the thick layer of fat beneath it was a succulent treat that he wasn't about to turn down due to uncertain origins.

  He took another small bite, just to make sure, smiling at the crunch and the garlic-fennel infused juice that flowed with it, before dishing the slice, minus a small corner, onto a plate and with a gesture and a few soft words to a server, to find its way in front of the victor. Such should always be rewarded.

  Even if he had lost Ethan the next minute rift. Damn Guile!

  Catching the man's eye as the plate was placed before him to congratulatory back slaps from either side, the Lord's attention and food from the high table was an honor; he raised his mug in salute, then took a deep drink of the pine tea within to a chorus of cheers.

  It wasn't wine, but it was starting to grow on him. Anything was better than water.

  He glanced to the other side, where a much bruised but still conscious loser was gingerly taking a seat at the end of the tables. The very end, closest to the door. The losers' seat was becoming a tradition, and as poor a seat as it was. It was still a seat at their table and prized as such.

  Ethan shook a mock fist at the man. "And I bet on you, Goodman. Shame!" Then cut a slice just the same. Making a great production of cutting it exactly half as thick as the victor’s, to the general good-humored mocking of the crowd, and sent it to the poor man.

  The cook's spice skill was a rare treat and he had the stamina to use it so many times. Food from the main table wasn't just an honor, it was also by far the best thing they'd taste this winter.

  It was a treat he made a point of not offering to the punitive fights.

  He leaned back, snacking absently on another bit of crispy fat fat-lined skin. "What do you think, My Lady?" He waited a half beat as the familiar distortion began to dance in the air around them. "Conner, Andrew, James, Leo or even Guile?"

  She tapped her fingers on the table a few times and shrugged. "I’d trust Conner, Andrew, Leo or James to keep their heads and avoid fights that don’t need fighting.” Ethan hid a smile at the deliberate omission of Guile from that list. He’d earned her antipathy. While the rest at least tried to learn, even Conner despite the old saw about dogs and tricks, Guile just didn't give a... fig.

  He learned what he found useful and ignored the rest. And for all of that, what he found useful was mostly what Ethan needed from the man. Challenge protocol, how and when a duel could proceed and between what gap in ranks. If he refused to give up his crude ways on the side, well, that was hardly a surprise to Ethan.

  Ermina took a different view.

  For all the good it had done her.

  “I’d, hmmm, worry about Leo’s terseness. Though I’ve noticed that he can speak when he needs to. He just has to decide when that is, and no one else.” A fair summation of the man.

  “Honestly, I’d prefer James for his wit, tongue and the information he’d return with.” Her head nodded with some real appreciation in both posture and tone. Spymaster indeed, Ethan hid a smile behind another small bite. Mmmm. “But can we spare him? We’ll be running flat out on string and sap gum. He’s the best logistical juggler we have.” She didn’t mention herself, Ethan noted, though their specialties were indeed fairly different.

  "Is it worth it to lose his help here for a superior performance there? Will the gains from his going, between trades, information and diplomacy, exceed the very real organizational and oversight help he would give here?" She shrugged and began to address her plate instead of him.

  Ethan nodded, waiting.

  And waiting.

  "And?" He finally prodded.

  "And what? If it was that easy to balance the scales, we wouldn't be having this discussion. He would be useful in both places. Make a choice."

  Ethan grunted, his mouth snapping shut as the distortion left the air. He gave her smirking face a sour look, but wasn't willing to air that bit of laundry in front of the entire hall.

  He sighed as a new pair of men stepped into the ring, wooden practice spears, bucklers and padded armor covering them as they saluted, weapons held against their forearms as they raised them straight up, then flicked down and out. Shaft ending up behind the head and blunted, padded blade pointed at the ground.

  "Begin!" Ethan offered and they snapped into motion, spears daring out viperishly as the small shields flicked out in near mirrors of each other. Deflecting instead of blocking as the men danced back and forth, side to side. Blades, shafts, shield and fists as much weapons as their occasionally kicking feet. All with a fluid grace that while it still showed some rough edges, was turning into something impressive,

  But even the skilled display in front of him wasn't enough to get his mind to stop turning the problem over.

  Who was he going to send?

  ___