The Bannermen – Professionals

Harvir’s practice sword fell to the ground with a muted clang.  “No!  Do it again!”  Barim’s voice thundered across the field where the infantry was training.  Even though Barim was admonishing the entire company, he was staring right at Harvir.  Harvir gave a rueful smile as he picked up his sword and retook his ready stance.  ‘By the gods, I’m out of shape,’ Harvir thought as he raised his practice shield in a half-hearted salute to his sparring partner, a younger, smaller and faster man named Filian. 

 Barim shouted more instructions to the men.  “This time keep your bloody shields in FRONT of you!  I know you’re all bloodthirsty savages, but if you keep over-reaching with your swords you’ll expose your guts to the enemy.  At the ready!”  Harvir nodded at the instruction and he joined the chorus of voices that shouted “Yes sir!”  The men had been at it for less then an hour, but Harvir was already dragging.  Drilling in the afternoon sun, with a full leather jerkin that came down to his knees, he was soaked in sweat after the first five minutes.  The practice sword and body shield were purposely heavier than the equipment he’d use in battle, and a dull ache was spreading further through his upper body the longer he held them.  He could work a forge and swing a hammer for days, but sparring with full kit was different.  He knew from experience that it was only a matter of time before he got his old stamina back, but in the meantime…

“Go!” Barim bellowed the order to begin, and Filian immediately came with an overhand swing.  Harvir raised his practice shield to meet it, and the shock of impact shot up his arm to his shoulder.  He grimaced as he thrust low with his sword, but Filian easily blocked with his shield.  The younger man gave a smile as he came with another overhand swing.  Again, Harvir brought up his shield to block, and again he winced at the impact.  Filian winked at Harvir and, before Harvir could counter, came quickly with another downward slash.  This time, on instinct, Harvir ducked down and stepped in, shield up over his head.  The move should have pushed Filian back to give Harvir some space, but Filian deftly stepped to the side.  With his head down behind his shield, Harvir couldn’t see to adjust.  Meeting no resistance, he tripped forward and Filian yelled “Gotcha!” as he slapped Harvir on the thigh with the flat of his sword, sending the blacksmith face first into the dirt. 

Harvir got to his hands and knees, and heaved a giant breath before standing up.  As he came around to face Filian, Barim called the troops to halt.  “You,” Harvir said between gasps, “were lucky, Fil.” gasp “I was just” gasp “getting my second,” gasp “wind.”  Filian smiled back and gave Harvir an exaggerated wink. 

Barim paced over to the pair after giving instructions to some of the other troops.  “Harvir,” Barim’s tone was low and meant for the blacksmith alone. “I like what you were thinking with the shield bash against the smaller man.  But you can’t obstruct your own view with the shield.  You want to see the blows coming.  Next time move less.  You don’t have to move big to be big.”  Barim then raised his voice so the rest of the men could hear.  “And stop reaching!  You have to keep your empty heads over your pimpled asses, do you hear?  Craning your head way out or back is the best way to lose your balance!  At the Ready!”

Harvir nodded as he brushed the dirt out of his beard.  He nodded at Filian and took his ready position just before Barim shouted “Go!”  This time Harvir hunkered down in the face of Filian’s rapid assault.  He barely moved, and let the large shield do most of the work.  Within the first two seconds Filian’s sword clattered off of Harvir’s shield four times.  Harvir was consciously trying to keep his movements small.  The shield barely moved from side to side to block the sword thrusts.  Filian swept his sword up high for an overhand slash, and Harvir shuffled forward half a step, snaked his practice sword past Filian’s shield and tapped him on the stomach.  Filian blanched and his sword stroke fell flat.  Harvir smiled and gave Filian a wink.  Filian smiled back, “’I guess I deserved that.  ‘Bout time you stopped flailing about.  Good job.”

 “Harvir!”  The blacksmith turned at his name and saw Garold standing nearby.  “Come, walk with me for a while.  Filian won’t mind.”  Garold nodded at Filian and Barim as he said it.  Barim smiled, patted Harvir on the shoulder, and took his shield and practice sword.  As Harvir walked off, Barim set his feet in front of Filian, and the younger man grimaced.  “At the Ready!”

 As they wandered off into the trees Harvir heard Barim bellow “Go!”  Three seconds later he heard Filian cry out in surprise with a crash of armor on the ground.  “What did I tell you about balance?  Get up!”  Harvir looked back in time to see Barim kicking Filian in the ass while the man was trying to get up, pushing him back down into the ground.  “Don’t give me any of that fancy footwork, boy!  What do you think I am, an old man?”

Barim’s words echoed through the trees as the two men made their way to a small clearing just off the path back to the camp.  Harvir was happy to be out of the sun.  The dwarf’s baritone thundered out the order to come to the ready.  Garold glanced sideways at Harvir.  “Barim is right, you know.  Your movements are too big and anxious.  It’s been a while since you held a sword, but the muscle memory will return soon enough.”  Garold gave a smile, “In the meantime, try to conserve your strength.  Us old men have to stick together.”  Harvir gave a snort of laughter at that.  The sound of the men clashing weapons against shields could be heard above the wind in the trees.  Garold went on, “To be honest, during battle you’ll spend most of your time back with the halflings and the artillery.  If you must swing a sword things will have gone rather badly.  But in the end, it’s better to be prepared just in case.”

Barim called out, “At the Ready!” to the men.

 Garold gave a wry grin.  “You didn’t deny having fought before.  I figured you had experience.  You have that look about you.  Where did you fight?”

            The clash of arms rang out again.

“I’m originally from Basilea.  I was recruited into the army and campaigned against the neighboring hill dwarves.  Never understood why we were fighting dwarves when the world is full of demons, goblins and monsters.  It all seemed backwards to me.  Our leaders preached that it was the will of the gods, but to me it was just greed with a halo.  After a year I met Gwen, and we decided to leave Basilea and head to the Young Kingdoms to start our lives anew.”

Garold thought for a moment.  “The gods, because of their dual nature, have a way of being used to justify all kinds of human shortcomings.  I can see where you would become jaded.”  Garold changed the subject.  “It’s been a few days now.  How are you settling in with the rest of the men?” 

Harvir thought for a few moments.  “Pretty well so far.  Most of the men in my squad have been friendly enough.  I’ve had to spend most of my time during the day with Orryn and Parrin, so I haven’t had too much time to get to know them.  I know it will take time for them to accept me.” 

Garold nodded in agreement.  “Yes.  Most things get easier with time.”  Garold looked Harvir in the eye.  “I’ve heard from some of the men that you won’t play games or gamble with them.”  When the men were on the march there weren’t a lot of opportunities to spend their wages.  Given the long periods of downtime they had on their hands, it was only natural that they spent the evenings gambling, among other things.  The men would wager on anything; dice, cards, flipping coins, darts, even cockroach races. 

Barim’s voice could be heard in the distance.  “At the ready!”

Harvir averted his eyes.  “It’s because I don’t have the money to wager, sir.”

Barim yelled “Go!”

Garold continued to gaze at Harvir, silently inviting him to go on. “I gave most of it to my wife and daughter, sir, before we left Farleaf.”

Garold’s eyes softened and he rested his hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder.  “That’s why you wanted all of the pay up front. It makes sense now.  That must have been hard.” The clash of weapons echoed. 

Harvir bowed his head, closed his eyes and nodded silently.  He whispered, “Yes sir.  Leah is too young to really comprehend, and Gwen is strong. Far stronger than me, thank the gods.”  Garold embraced Harvir.  For a moment they just stood there while the sound of sparring receded. 

“At the Ready!”

 “Go!”

Garold disengaged and took a step back.  “A good man does the best he can with the hand the gods give him.  Farleaf is a good town.  The money should help them settle down and live comfortably for a long while.  And after our contract with the Baron expires there’s nothing stopping you from reuniting with your girls.  The life of a camp follower can be hard, but you’d be trading one set of circumstances, good and bad, for another.”  Seeing Harvir’s skepticism, Garold explained.  “There are no camp followers because the company left most of them in Valentica.  It’s our custom, when taking a contract, to settle our loved ones together in a friendly town.  This way they can look after each other.  The battlefield isn’t the only place where there’s strength in numbers.”

The two men started walking back to camp, and Harvir seemed to grow taller with every step.  He had thought that he’d have to leave his wife and daughter behind for years.  That Gwen and he would grow distant with time, and that Leah would forget the father she never really knew.  He had assumed that since he saw no wives or girlfriends in camp, that it wasn’t allowed.  But Garold had given him hope.  Not now, but within a few seasons, they could continue their lives together.  And in the meantime, Harvir would be defending Baron Rokur’s lands, which included Farleaf.  They passed the rest of the walk in silence. 

Eventually they emerged from the woods and approached the north gate of the camp.  The guards recognized Garold and snapped a salute before letting them pass.  Garold addressed one of them as they went by.  “What news, Eoin?”

The guard captain answered loud enough for his words to carry.  “The Baron has arrived to meet with the captain, and review the troops.”  Eoin’s voice dropped low enough so only Garold and Harvir could hear.  “It’s turning into a real Basilean Compromise.” 

Garold blanched at that and picked up his pace, Harvir in tow.  ‘Basliean Compromise?  I wonder what he meant by that?’ Harvir thought.  As they got closer to the command tent, it became clear.  The sound of arguing was coming from inside the tent.  ‘Oh, well that makes sense.  Those arrogant Basileans have no compromise in them.’  The two guards stationed outside stared stoically forward, while four more warriors, all dressed in maroon and black stared back at them.  When they were within a few steps from the tent, Harvir could distinguish words.  The Captain was speaking.  “You hired us to take the surrounding towns for you, lord Baron, and that’s what we’ll do.”

A higher, shriller voice screamed back.  “Damn right, you will!  And when you take Esterfield, I want you to make an example of them for resisting!  You will kill one tenth of their men folk.  I want you to decimate the town so that the other towns will think before resisting me!  It makes strategic sense, Logaire!”

Garold nodded to the men as he strode boldly into the tent.  Harvir didn’t ask permission, and the guards assumed he was with the chaplain, so he entered right on Garold’s heels.  Harvir’s eyes adjusted swiftly to relative darkness inside the tent.  The tent furnishings were sparse, with a rug, a small brazier, two chests, a cot, a small folding table, and three chairs.  Logaire sat in one of them, a second stood unused, and the third was lying upset on the floor.  The Baron, who had apparently jumped up during his outburst, stood astride the chair.  Rokur was a tall, thin man with an angular face, brown eyes and a hawkish nose.  The black trim on his fine clothes matched his black oiled goatee and the maroon on his tabard matched his face, which was red from shouting. 

The Captain’s voice got quieter in response.  “You hired me to conquer the surrounding towns.  You can rest assured that we’ll do just that.  However, you get to tell me and my men what to do, but you don’t get to dictate how we do it.”

Rokur took a step forward.  “No!  In this matter you’ll do as I say!  I hired you to obey me!  That’s what mercenaries do, they get paid to obey!”

 Logaire’s voice dropped again, and he used the same tone he would have used to explain to a child why he can’t eat more honeycomb for dinner. “You hired professional soldiers, not butchers.  I won’t order my men to perform needless killing on your behalf.  We’ll take the towns.  If you want your men to kill your new subjects, then go ahead.  But if you do, then good luck keeping your newly acquired lands.”

“Bah!  The locals won’t dare rise up, once we put the fear into them.”

Garold stepped forward.  “The only thing you’ll put into them is resentment and a reason to hate you.  Unless you have a couple thousand soldiers you won’t have enough men to keep the inevitable rebellion down.”

At the mention of his soldiers, Rokur’s face changed, and a sly nonchalance came over him.  “Fine.  Have it your way.  But I want Esterfield in my hands in three days. I want to be dining in their great hall in three days, Logaire!”  With that he stormed out, shoving Harvir to the side. 

Harvir had been watching Logaire during the entire exchange, and he marveled at how calm he had been in the face of the Baron’s rage.  It was obvious that Rokur was a man who wasn’t used to hearing the word “no”.  Garold had a serious look as he turned from the tent flap to Logaire.  “I would say that you did the right thing, but you already know that.  I’ll take the opportunity to ask again, are you sure about working for Rokur?”

Logaire took a moment before he answered.  “The Company’s only two assets are its professional ability and its reputation.  We have spent years building the Bannermen’s reputation as professional, reliable and honorable.  The means that when we take a contract, we follow it to the end.  We don’t quit.”  Garold raised an eyebrow, but Logaire went on.  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t fulfill our obligations our way.  I’ll be damned if that young pup is going to force us to debase ourselves doing his dirty work.  I’ve said in the past that it’s all dirty work, but you know what I mean.”

As silence fell over the tent Harvir locked eyes with Logaire.  The blacksmith realized that he hadn’t been invited in to see the Captain, and he became very self conscious.  Garold turned, and reading Harvir’s face said, “You may go, Harvir.  Please keep what you’ve seen and heard here to yourself.  The Captain and I will decide what to share with the squad leaders.” 

Harvir turned to go, but before he could leave, Logaire said to him, “We’re professionals, Harvir, not thugs.  The day we do things only for ourselves we’ll be nothing more than a group of bandits.  Keep that in mind.”  Harvir nodded and beat a hasty retreat back to the forge.