Colorful pennants, screaming revelers, hawkers and the clash of shield and spear fought for attention on this hot summer morning. The Stone extended uncompromisingly austere overhead, but even its rather dour background couldn’t dampen the joyful mood.

  Quite the opposite. An ultimate symbol of shelter and safety it lent, permission perhaps, to let go and simply enjoy. A reminder that it was ok to take a day every now and then to celebrate. It was still there. And when the hard times came, it would still be ready.

  And in the meantime, Ethan walked through it, a noticeably Pregnant Ermina on his arm with Sigismund and Guile to either side. And of course, a quartet of guards behind. It wouldn’t do to forget them. Not that they were needed in this crowd.

  “Demesner’s Blessing on you Milady!” Yet another goodwife called, naming the goddess of life and fecundity as she stepped to the side and offering up a small blue flower. An edelweiss, if he was any judge, and surprisingly still in bloom this late in the year. It wasn’t just a pretty flower; it was a valuable dye, if only in bulk. But here it was offered up for its beauty rather than cost. And either way, a heartfelt blessing. Ermina smiled radiantly and reached out to take it, adding it to an already substantial bouquet.

  They walked onward, pausing briefly to congratulate Farmer Marcus, his wife beaming beside him with a stoat scarf wrapped around her rather substantial neck, on a rather prodigious cabbage. Larger by half then Ethan’s head and already bearing a small blue ribbon.

  A few steps further they paused to watch two decades with attached auxilia clash, wooden training weapons smashed into shields and rarely flesh while chalk bag tipped arrows flashed over and around them in a duet of choreographed violence. And it was that, violent and aggressive. To an almost desperate extent.

  It wasn’t just a show. Nor sport for the sake of sport.

  It was an audition.

  On either side of the rope lined arena stood tents under their own colorful banners. Tall boards topped with an individual seal and fixed with symbols had pride of place, with men and women sitting or standing below them ardently hawking their contents.

  The boards told a story, in symbols and markers for the unlettered. Of resources obtained, skills owned and Classes committed. Even as he watched, the winning side, a clever refused flank baited an overextension that was punished with a point blank charge and it was over but for the mopping up, signed up three more members.

  Ethan stopped for a moment, then several more as the winners took their time with that mopping. “That was a well-done feint, Decurion Oswald. Impressive control and discipline under fire. But… might not want to leave your opponent so much time to turn things around, yes?”

  “Damn right,” Muttered Guile. “Don’t play with your food, would-be Decurion. Kill it and eat it quick, before it gets away.”

  The armored, low-leveled Hastati, if matching fairly low-end gear of hide reinforced with bits of bone, flinched beneath the larger, and considerably better armored man’s glare. As he should, much of military status could be seen at a glance. Quality of gear and the strength and Skill to carry it well spoke for themselves. Sometimes they spoke too loudly.

  “Softly Sir Guile.” Ethan refuted. “We don’t expect masterwork from an apprentice, yes? It’s a lesson for you, but it doesn’t refute your victory. Just something to keep in mind.”

  Guild shrugged but reached out to slap the man’s shoulder companionably. And predictably, Oswald's knees flexed significantly before he caught himself.

  “Ah! Thank you sir, milord. I’ll, ah, work on that.”

  “Do, but again, congratulations.”

  He gave Provisional Decurion Bailen, standing to the side with a half-dead look on his face, a pat on the shoulder as they walked away, but no words of sympathy. That was life. There were always winners and losers. And pretending otherwise changed nothing.

  A dozen steps found them beside an archery range set up against the mountainside, with a dozen volunteers hiding behind large boulders, swinging straw targets on long handles out and around in mostly random jerks and sweeps while hunters and bowmen plinked away with marked arrows.

  The crowd cheered as their favorites sunk quick arrows into the dancing targets, or groaned as they missed entirely.

  “You were saying, Sigismund?” He offered as they paused to watch.

  “The high ridges are hot as a frying pan. Two dozen skirmishes in the last month. Some as light as warn off with posturing. Others left a decade of bodies on the ground, mostly theirs. And maybe more unnumbered as spilt blood attracts beasts and monsters to the wounded.”

  “But we hold them, yes? A scout screen that doesn’t stop scouts isn’t worth much.”

  “We do.” It was spoken definitively, without doubt or worry. “And if they slipped a single party past the ridgelines, I’d be shocked. The grounds rough and there aren’t that many usable passes.”

  “I don’t really get that.” Ermina broke in, equally softly. “I’ve seen men climb halfway up the side of the stone, for all its walls are sheer. The ridges surely aren’t nearly so steep.”

  “In some places they are, Milady.” The old campaigner offered easily and without being bothered by her questioning. “But it doesn’t matter. Those climbers you mentioned, they were alone I trust? Damn fool boys showing off most likely. Wearing a tabard or less? And if they carried more than a knife on them, I’ll take up farming.”

  She hesitated, then nodded, starting to get the lay of it.

  “Being nearly unarmed and unarmored up along those ridges? A man wouldn’t survive a half hour. Even armed and armored, I’d be leery of going it alone.”

  “It’s why we can interdict such a large range.” Ethan offered, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. “A single man can slip through many a watch line. But a group, and by necessity a largish group, is much harder beast to hide.”

  “I see,” and her eyes sharpened enough that he figured she really did, not just giving them the benefit of the doubt. “Anyway, thank you for explaining, but do please continue.”

  “Yes Milady.” He continued for a time, sketching out the general shape of the skirmishes, where and how they were occurring and where the cracks and chinks in their armor lay. And the biggest one was –

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  “Archery then.”

  “Yes Milord. Them forest boys are better at it then we are. Hasn’t helped them as much as it could have, what with a tier armor and positioning deficit. But it's been more than merely painful, even so. Once the fights collapse to melee, it swings the other way. And hard. But in the rough terrain and steep slopes? That mid and long engagement is often most of the fight.”

  “Proper skirmishing.” Ethan mused.

  “Yes Milord.”

  “Any way to force it into melee?”

  “Mostly no. At least not solely melee. The terrain just doesn’t support fast closure. And picking your way through it while dodging arrows is just asking for trouble. And casualties.”

  He grunted, turning his eyes back to the range in front of them.

  “It’s not like we didn’t see this coming.”

  “True.” Guile sighed to his side. “But a soldier isn’t made in an afternoon. Any skill takes time to train up.”

  They all nodded at that. “Still might need to do some pushing.” Ethan mused.

  “More than we already are?” Ermina asked, eyebrow arched. “The prizes for the various archery competitions are already head and shoulders above the melee.”

  “Not just prizes, and not for today. We need to make it a culture. Or a habit. If we lead the way, they will follow. Without having to make it an order. So we save an hour in the evening, or morning perhaps, to stand around and chat, while emptying a quiver of practice shafts.”

  “Hell, throw in some actual incentives! Like a generous wine allotment and some refreshment tents set up beside the range. Make it a fun activity, not a chore and, like dinner fight rings, it becomes entertainment and training.”

  “Not sure drunk archers is a good plan, My Lord.” Ermina fired back with a smile that fit to split her face. A smile that had something else to it. Pride. He patted her hand again. He wasn’t too proud to admit that was a trick he’d shamelessly stolen. And from her!

  “Worth doing.” Guile tossed in. “I’ll have more archery duels added in the Pit too.” But he didn’t look too pleased about it. Nor did it take much prodding to find out why. “It’s boring to watch. There is something thrilling, engaging about the grand melee that a couple arrow boys tossing twigs back and forth just don’t compare to.”

  “That might be your bias speaking.” Ermina shot back.

  “Might.” Ethan said, but his heart wasn’t in it. Masters saw the skill, but the commons? They wanted the spectacle. “You could try a few to test it, see if you can find a way to make it interesting. But don’t ruin the Pit for it.”

  He nodded, thinking for a moment, then perked up. “Say, you ever seen a Secutor versus Lapidarius match?”

  “Chaser vs Stone Thrower? I don’t think so…”

  “It’s not common. But it is a treat. They set a slinger up against a shielded, heavily armored fighter. The melee pursues, the slinger in little more than a loincloth and sandals has to move, and move damn fast to keep away, while spicing things up by flinging leather balls filled with paint at the warrior.”

  “But he only has so many bullets, and so much space. It’s a game of nerve, of timing and of feints. Where the slinger tries to get the shieldsman to hide behind his shield. To blind himself. Too little and he gets a knot on his head. Too much and he loses track of his opponent. Deadly with a skilled slinger.”

  Ethan considered. It did sound like an interesting spectacle. “Why rare if it’s such a show?”

  “Slings aren’t great against demons.” Guile gestured upwards and Ethan’s mind supplied the 20-odd-foot-tall four-armed monstrosity. Well, that did make a kind of sense. “Damn fine weapons against men though.” Guile continued. “Outranges most bows. A skilled slinger in the first tier, with shaped lead bullets not rocks, can kill at a hundred, hundred and fifty yards. And do it through light armor.”

  “And you are suggesting training some…?”

  “What? No! Not at all. Just thinking of applying the style.”

  Ethan gave him a side eye. “Bit harder to fire while moving with a bow.”

  “Depends on the bow.” He shot back.

  “Our composite bows?” They were amazing weapons. With incredible power and range. But it came at a cost. A man had to set his feet properly and really push the stave and string apart. They weren’t the 2-foot hunting bows he’d seen men run, jump and even do acrobatics with while firing.

  And Guile was no fool to miss that. He raised a hand, mouth open, then dropped it with a soft oath. “Damnit.”

  Ethan almost felt bad. “The direction isn’t wrong. What about a Venationes instead? Let a wolf loose from one side with a man and a bow on the other. No back up weapon allowed. If he misses, then you best pull the wolf off quickly.” And on the positive side, more dead wolves.

  Fuckers.

  “Train Bestiarii then? Men fit only for hunting?”

  Sigismund snorted. “Only? A man that won’t hunt along the ridges will be hunted.”

  Guile shrugged. Rolling the idea around in his mind. Ethan didn’t prod him. The pit was his baby, and he was quite good at it. Many forgot that while he did love to put on a good show, those shows were based in a real, expert understanding of weaponry and the men who used it. He’d figure it out.

  The match finished and the points were quickly counted as Ethan led Ermina forward to crown the victor. A crown of laurel upon his head, and a small but fat purse for his belt and considering the bit of streamer tied about the archer’s upper arm, and the matching pendent on a tent behind them, those coins would be returning to his own purse soon enough anyway.

  After a few heartfelt words of praise, they moved on. Making their way slowly through the Gap, and to the north side of the stone, where even now the small grain mill, its waterwheel nearly in contact with the back wall of the Stone, turned easily with a merry bit of splashing.

  And around it, the baker's tents. Flat bread for the most part as the local buckwheat wasn’t much for rising. But it was good flatbread and after a winter with barely a scrap of any kind of bread, it was a right treat.

  Even before it was drizzled with a bit of mountain honey and shredded mint.

  He congratulated the winner, and took another sample while he was at it, before leaving another, smaller purse behind as he continued onward.

  “And what about James? Still playing with the spies?”

  “Of course Milord!” Sigismund muttered, half-amused, half-horrified. Ethan could relate. It needed doing, but you had to wonder about a man who liked dealing with such a slippery, backstabbing snake pit.

  “And he’s had plenty to play it with at that. Three full trade caravans have made it in. Wine, tools, linen cloth and even some fresh stock for our herds.”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “A curious lack of weapons in all three.”

  Ethan coughed slightly to hide a laugh. Ermina didn’t bother. Neither were surprised. His neighbors were not fools.

  “Immigrants?”

  “Yes, near a hundred already. And half spies in all likelihood.”

  “Now, now Centurion.” Ermina offered, faux demurely. “Not half. An eighth at best. Half would cost too much.”

  The man snorted ruefully. “Maybe so. Makes me nervous, it does.”

  “That’s fine.” Ethan interjected. “Leave it to James. He’ll sort it all out. And for that matter… the dam doesn’t have to hold. A few leaks won’t matter much now. Not at this point in the year. It can leak, it just can’t burst!” He considered it, then shrugged, repeating himself. “Leave it to James. He’ll sort it all out.”

  Then they passed over the river on a makeshift bridge. Large ladder-like platforms placed across the fishing boats, tied nose to stern, and rising a bit to make it over the 10 foot of river carved stone that made up the opposite bank.

  Then into what had been dubbed the northern meadow, where sheep and goats dotted the luscious pasturage in an idyllic scene, with the second woodlot on their left and the dairy cut into the cliff face on their right.

  Farther up the meadow and set up against the same cliff was the half-finished adventure’s guild, with a dozen games of skill set up around it. Ring tosses, dart throws, balance beams and wrestling rings. It was a riot of color, sound and chaos, and his new half-citizens were enjoying themselves immensely. Even if weapons were close at hand for all of them.

  Wise of them, considering. Even with the watchtower finished, and manned even now, up where the meadow broke past its cliff-like walls and extended back into the mountains proper, everyone hereabouts had to be careful about leakers.

  The herds were too much of a draw to fully keep beasts away.

  And that was yet another reason he’d granted the Adventurers the land where he had.

  But that wasn’t what drew his eyes now.

  Nor was it the colorful half tents filled with scarves, hats, clothing and even rolls of woven cloth. Wool in all of its forms. Critically important, and a nice, warm extra to their mostly hide clothing supply. It was nevertheless not his target today.

  Beside the weavers' stand was a different counter. One topped with a large stack of soft white rounds, so different from their long-aged and preserved rock-like cousins. It drew his eyes and he didn’t bother to resist. Nor to hide his interest. He politely ignored the soft chuckles as he dragged, that is, he guided with stately vigor, his wife and friends to the stall.

  The day would go on. Decisions would have to be made and men sent off to uncertain futures.

  But for now?

  Now there was cheese!

  ___