Aleksandr turned to face the other prospective recruits. He had been hoping for more turnout.
Hoping, but not expecting, he reminded himself. We are unknown here. That anyone is seeking to work for us is a good step.
There were only three more men waiting in the yard. One of them caught Aleksandr’s eyes immediately.
“You,” Aleksandr said. “Come forward. What is your name?”
The man stepped forward. He was young, but he had the look of wealth and privilege. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong nose and fair skin. His brown hair looked freshly washed, his cheeks freshly shaven. What most caught Aleksandr’s eye, however, was his armor.
He wore iron plate and mail, closely fitted to his frame. The metal plates were layered meticulously, overlapping like the skeleton of a crab. Aleksandr had never seen anything like it. It looked to be beautifully made, every piece crafted to interlock and fitted precisely to the man.
“Bonjour, monsieur” the young knight said. Aleksandr did not recognize the language. Fortunately, his next words were in accented Middish. “I am Sir Leon DuPont, son of Comte Florian DuPont.” He gave Aleksandr a bow, sweeping his hand out to the side in a sort of flourish. Then he gestured behind him. “This is my valet, Michel.”
The second man was shorter, slimmer, and considerably older. His hair was brown salted with a bit of gray, his cheeks were clean-shaven but he had a well-groomed mustache. He wore little in the way of armor, and the only weapon Aleksandr saw was a long dagger on his belt. His arms were tucked behind him in a rigid posture of attention. He bowed to Aleksandr as well.
“I am Aleksandr Kerensky,” Aleksandr said. “Good to meet you. Your accent…”
“He’s a Loonie,” Yorrin offered. “Met one in Nasarat once, he talked the same way. Like he had a mouthful of pebbles.”
Leon gave Yorrin a narrow-eyed glare. “Oui,” he said. “I come from the isles of Lorraine, Monsieur Kerensky. Across the channel. Though… not Loonie. I am Loranette, if you please.”
“Definitely a Loonie,” agreed Robin from the sidelines.
Leon’s cheeks flushed, and he turned to Robin. “I—”
“Apologies,” Aleksandr said, raising a hand to silence his men and Leon both. “We have not worked with a Loranette before. I am sure they meant no offense. You are... noble blood, da?”
“I am,” Leon said. “House DuPont.”
Aleksandr scratched his beard. “And you have come to Caedia to fight Svards?”
“Oui, I have,” Leon agreed. “To seek glory and fortune on the battlefield!”
Beside him, the older man—Michel—let his eyes roll towards the sky. The look was fleeting, but it told much.
“And you sought us out because…” Aleksandr prompted.
Leon frowned. “Because… you are a mercenary company with which I may take service?” he said. “A place to seek the glory I referred to. And your name, Steelshod. It is evocative, no?”
Aleksandr shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. “But if you are a noble, a knight, then why not seek service with a Caedian lord?”
Leon shook his head. “I am not an ‘edge knight,” he said, his accent entirely dropping the H in hedge. “I am a DuPont. Firstborn son of Comte Florian DuPont. I will inherit one day, oui? I will not swear fealty to a Caedian.” He said the words as if they sullied him purely by considering them.
“Then why aren’t you back home serving your father, if he’s so great?” Yorrin asked.
Leon’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “My father the Comte is tending to his lands. He is a wise man, and careful. Le Comté DuPont is at war with no neighbors, and Lorraine is at war with none either. I wished for the glory a chevalier can only find on the battlefield, do you see? Les tournois have lost their luster.”
He really has come here for glory, Aleksandr realized. He is young. Even younger than he looks, in spirit if not in body.
“I can serve Caedia as le mercenaire without issue,” Leon continued. “Fighting northern sauvages serves Lorraine and the Midlands both, oui? Everybody wins. Except the savages.”
Aleksandr nodded. “I see,” he said. “If you wish to ride with Steelshod, you will follow our commands, da? You will treat all in the company with respect.”
“Oui, monsieur. I understand. La fraternité! We are frères d'armes, oui? Ah, how do you say—brothers in arms!”
“Da,” Aleksandr agreed. “We are.” He glanced at the older man, Michel. “And you? Michel, yes?”
“Yes,” Michel said. His accent was still audible, but much less pronounced than Leon’s.
“You wish to join as well?” Aleksandr asked.
Leon frowned. “No, Monsieur Kerensky. Michel is my valet. He serves me. I shall join your co—”
“No,” Aleksandr said firmly. “That is not how we do things, Leon.”
“Sir DuPont, please,” Leon corrected.
“That’s not how we do things either, Leon,” Yorrin said.
Leon narrowed his eyes.
“Yorrin is blunt, but correct,” Aleksandr said. “We are all equal in this. You may call me Aleksandr, please. We shall call you Leon. And if your valet wishes to travel with us, he will join us. He shall take an equal share of risk, and duty, and pay, as you.”
Michel spoke suddenly. His voice was low, and he rattled off a lengthy string of incomprehensible sounds that Aleksandr could only assume was the Loranette tongue. Aleksandr could not understand a word of it, but he could perceive the tone.
He is not speaking with deference, Aleksandr decided. He is not scolding Leon, but he is not speaking to him in the tone of a serf to a master. Aleksandr listened carefully, and watched Leon’s expression. Leon spoke, just a few words, and then Michel interjected again. He interrupted, I’m almost sure of it. Michel is giving Leon advice.
Leon nodded. He looked back to Aleksandr. “Oui, very well. We will do as you say. I wish to join Steelshod. I am a chevalier of some years, and have performed well at les tournois—tournaments—back home. I have armor and horse.”
“Good,” Aleksandr said. “We are looking for more cavalry. You are most welcome, Leon. I would like for one of us to test your mettle on the field.”
“Oui, as you did the Spits,” Leon says, nodding towards where Alejandra, Carlito, and Martín now stood. “Happily.”
“Sir Kerensky,” Michel said. Then, “Aleksandr.”
“Da?”
“I am Michel de Berges, valet to House DuPont. I wish to join your company as well.”
“And what skills do you bring, Michel?” Aleksandr asked.
Michel smiled thinly. “I am adequate at many tasks: cooking, cleaning, mending clothes and tools, tending to arms and armor, riding, husbandry, and figures.”
“We’re mercs, not maids!” interjected Conrad from where he stood. He chuckled, and a few others chuckled with him. They fell silent when Dylan shot them an annoyed glare.
“I am sure the men will appreciate such skills,” Aleksandr said. “I think we are all tired of Robin’s brigand stew, as he calls it.”
The men chuckled again, Conrad loudest of all.
“Can you fight?” asked Yorrin. “Not disagreeing with Aleksandr—skills like those will be handy if we plan to be a proper company. But still, we can’t guarantee anyone’s safety in the field. If—”
“I can defend myself,” Michel said. “I am best with blade or sling, but I have trained with many weapons.”
“Good,” Aleksandr said. “You will not object to a friendly test as well?”
“No,” Michel said. “Of course not.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Gunnar,” he said. “You will test Leon.”
The Svard stepped up. He stood just an inch or two taller than Leon, with a similar muscular frame.
“Ja, no problem,” Gunnar said. He smiled at Leon. “Whenever you’re ready.” He already had shield and sword in hand.
Leon looked Gunnar over. “I do not recognize that accent,” he commented. He gestured to Michel, who stepped back to where their two horses waited and rummaged about their saddlebags.
“I am Svardic,” Gunnar said, his smile taking on an edge. “I’d guess you haven’t spoken to many of us.”
Leon’s eyes widened. Michel brought his knight a teardrop-shaped shield and a heavy, fearsome looking weapon. It seemed to consist of an iron haft, a short iron chain, and a heavy flanged head. Leon accepted them, but he did not move his eyes from Gunnar.
“Svardic,” he repeated. He finally gave Aleksandr a questioning look.
“Gunnar’s got more reason to fight the Svards than you do,” Yorrin interjected. “Don’t worry about him. He may worship a heathen squid, but he’s got his head on straight aside from that.”
Leon shrugged as he strapped the shield to his arm and hefted the flail. “Very well,” he said. He stepped out to meet Gunnar in the dirt.
Gunnar put Leon through his paces, but it soon became clear that Leon knew what he was doing as well. The flail seemed to Aleksandr an awkward weapon, but the young Loranette knight made it his own.
“He’s good,” Yorrin murmured to Aleksandr. “Don’t care for his attitude much, and he is a Loonie… but we could use another heavy knight, couldn’t we?”
“Da,” Aleksandr agreed. “He will fit in fine. His attitude—eh. He is young. He will learn.”
“Suppose he’ll have to,” Yorrin said. “The other one… he’s more dangerous than he looks, Aleksandr.”
“I had wondered. What makes you say this?”
“He’s got at least one extra dagger, for a start. Hidden beneath his clothes, I saw the outline of it. And you see that leather armband?”
“Da.”
“It’s not. It didn’t look right, but I didn’t realize what it was until he said it out loud. It’s a sling. Tied up on his arm like it’s a scrap of clothes or armor.”
“You do not think he is valet?” Aleksandr asked.
Yorrin shrugged at that. “Dunno. Could be. He acts like it, at least a little. But he’s not just a valet, I’d bet on that.”
“Yield!” Gunnar called out.
Aleksandr had nearly lost track of the fight, but he refocused and saw Gunnar’s sword in the dirt. The Svard’s shield was visibly cracked and dented by Leon’s onslaught with the flail, but he grinned when Leon lowered his weapon.
“You are a good fighter,” Gunnar said, giving Leon an appreciative nod.
“Merci,” Leon said, smiling.
“No, lad, he’s the one that asked for mercy!” Cam called from the sidelines, laughing.
Leon rolled his eyes, but he turned to face the men and smiled at them as well. “Oui, apologies. Thanks, I meant. My thanks for his kind words. He—” Leon gave Gunnar a nod in turn. “Is a good fighter as well.”
Gunnar retrieved his sword and both men walked side-by-side to join the rest of Steelshod. Aleksandr noticed that the Spatalians still stood a few paces away from everyone else.
They feel out of place, he thought. Not just because they come from a different land. They were not so welcome even among their peers. Aleksandr found their apparent relationship confusing, and frankly distasteful to think about. But I do not have any reason to think about it. And, if I am honest, I find Robin’s “relationships” no less distasteful to think about.
Alejandra and the two men seemed nice enough, and they knew their way around spear and horse. What they did beyond that was of no concern to Aleksandr, nor should it concern anyone else.
“Michel, how about you and I cross blades a little,” Yorrin suggested, stepping out into the field. He drew the tapered steel dagger from his belt, but he left Olivenco’s sword sheathed. “Daggers only, if you prefer?”
Michel nodded. “Of course,” he said.
The fight was short. Yorrin took a few shallow cuts on his armored coat, but nothing serious. They called a halt when he failed to pull back enough and opened a shallow gash on Michel’s forearm. The Loranette valet seemed unperturbed. He sat down, rolled up his sleeve, and calmly let Orson clean and dress the wound. Aleksandr noticed him flinch a few times, but even those expressions were tightly constrained.
“You both fight well,” Aleksandr said. “Welcome to Steelshod, Leon. Welcome, Michel.”
“Mer—thank you,” Leon said. “Aleksandr.”
“Perhaps later, you might allow me to examine your armor more closely,” Aleksandr said. At Leon’s perplexed expression, Aleksandr clarified. “I have been learning the smithing arts, a little. I have never seen plate like that. I would love to understand how it works.”
“Ah! You are a smith? Huh,” Leon said. At first a look of understanding dawned, but then he seemed just as confused as before.
Aleksandr knew what caused his confusion. Knights do not usually dabble in smithing.
Finally, Leon nodded. “Of course you may look at it, monsieur. It is the newest armor in Lorraine,” he said. “Worn only by the best chevaliers. Last year I won Duc Baudouin le Dauphin’s tourney at his summer home in Champ de Fleurs. This, it was my récompense. I was fitted for a suit by one of the Duc’s own smiths.”
“Sir DuPont won the melee,” Michel said with a wry smile. He stood, Orson’s handiwork complete. “He did not win the joust.”
Leon frowned, and narrowed his eyes at Michel. “Oui, I did not say otherwise!” he growled.
Aleksandr furrowed his brow. “Joust? I am not familiar with this word.”
“It is a tradition, back home on the isles,” Michel said. “Chevaliers test their mettle with the lance. The melee is considered less prestigious than the joust.”
“I did not misrepresent myself,” Leon said indignantly. “I am good in the saddle. And on foot. But my choice of armament is flail, axe, and blade. Not so much the lance.”
“I don’t think any of us care about Loonie traditions,” Yorrin said. “You can ride and you can fight. You’re in, for now.”
Leon nodded. “Merci,” he said.
The two Loranettes moved to stand with the rest of Steelshod, and Aleksandr turned to face the last applicant.
“My turn?” the man said, lifting himself from where he’d been lounging against a barrel of water.
He lumbered forward with long, slow strides. He was tall. Taller than most Aleksandr had seen, though perhaps a bit shorter than the tallest men in Aleksandr’s company.
His shoulders and arms were extremely thick, with visible cords of muscle moving beneath his clothes. His hair was a sandy shade of blond, cropped short. His cheeks bore enough scruffy stubble that it constituted something of a beard, a darker shade than the hair on his scalp. Even so, Aleksandr could see the weathered lines on the man’s face. He was older than the other recruits. Older than most in Steelshod, even.
A long-handled hammer was slung across his shoulder on a leather strap. A quiver stuffed full of arrows hung from his belt, and he held an unstrung bow stave in his hand. Aleksandr noticed that the unstrung length of wood was quite a bit longer than the man was tall.
Even strung, that bow will be as tall as he is, Aleksandr though.
“Hullo,” the man said. “Name’s Ben, but most folk ‘round here call me Longshanks.”
“Hello, Ben. I am—”
“Sir Kerensky, aye, I heard,” Ben gave a slow nod. “You really reckon we’re all to call you ‘Aleksandr’ though?”
Aleksandr frowned. “Da,” he said. “I really do. You are an archer?”
“He’s not just an archer,” said Perrin from the crowd. He took a half step forward. “Look at him. He’s a Caedian longbowman.”
Ben glanced at Perrin, and grinned. “Lad knows his business,” he said.
“I do not understand. Is longbowman not an archer?” Aleksandr asked.
“Sure he is,” Perrin said, shrugging. “The way a knight is a soldier. We trained with good longbows back at Taraam, but some Caedian yeomen train with the damn things for their whole lives.”
“Nah,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Not just my whole life. We got a sayin’ round here. You want a good longbowman, start training his grandfather.”
Aleksandr smiled. “Ah,” he said. “And your grandfather… he was good archer?”
“Damn right,” Ben said. “And so was his grandpa.”
“Nice bow you’ve got,” Perrin said. “What’s the weight on that thing, Longshanks? A hundred pounds?”
Ben laughed. “I look like a stripling to you, lad? Bowyer rated the draw at a hundred and twoscore,” he said. “But these days I use long arrows, expect I draw it at least another ten past that.”
Aleksandr’s eyes widened.
“Quite the claim,” Yorrin said. “We’ll need to test your aim, of course.”
Ben shrugged. “I’d expect nothing else, little man.”
“This is Yorrin,” Aleksandr said. “My second-in-command. Understood?”
“Yessuh,” Ben said, giving Aleksandr a nod. “Sorry Yorrin.”
“No problem” Yorrin said flicking his hand dismissively. “I’m little enough compared to a man of your height. On with the testing, then.”
“Wait, one more question for you,” Perrin interjected again. He glanced at Aleksandr nervously. “Sorry.”
“No, go on Perrin,” Aleksandr said. “Ask what you like.”
“Well, I was born in Caedia. Grew up here,” Perrin said. “Unless something’s changed recently… a well-trained longbowman is a valued yeoman to any lord.”
Ben frowned. “That’s not a question.”
“He’s askin’ why you aren’t in the service of your lord,” Nathan said from amidst the crowd. “Obviously. What’d you do to piss him off? Can’t follow orders?”
Ben’s frown deepened. “Ah.” He spat in the dirt. “That.”
“Is not a bad question,” Aleksandr said. “I would have waited until after tests, but… da. We would like to know.”
Ben sighed. He glanced at the other recruits. “Well, fuck it. Not exactly proud, but at least I’m not a degenerate fornicator like them folks. Or worse, a Loonie,” he shuddered, and Leon crossed his arms over his chest. “I put my time in with old Lord Waverly. Served him since I was barely a man. Fought a few wars for him. Or as close to wars as we saw back in Longhythe. Few battles with Loonies, Kilchester Uprising, that sort of thing. Lord Waverly.. . he was a good man.” Ben scratched his chin.
“Something changed?” Aleksandr prompted.
“You could say that. Old Lord Waverly died a couple years back. His boy, little Hal, he’s taken over. Little Hal and I… we don’t see eye-to-eye, you could say.”
“How so?” Aleksandr asked.
“He reckons I’m past my prime,” Ben said. “Says I ought to settle down on a farm or somewhat. Thanks for your loyal service, goodman. Bugger that. Tried that a long while ago, didn’t much care for it. I can still put goosefeathers where I want ‘em at three hundred paces. If little Hal don’t want me, I figured I’d find someone who did. Get paid better for it too.”
“Just how old are you, Longshanks?” Robin asked. “If your own lord is putting you out to pasture…”
“Eat your words or eat an arrow,” Ben snapped. “Old enough not to listen to horseshit.”
Aleksandr held up a cautioning hand, and Robin chose not to reply. “Apologies, Ben,” he said. “You look as though there is still much strength in your arms. Robin, please set up a target to test Ben’s skill.” Robin grumbled under his breath, but he moved to obey the command. “Until then, it would be good to get a feeling for your other skills. That hammer—you can fight up close with it?”
Ben nodded. “Most likely enemy to make it to the archers is some kind of armored knight. Maul’s a good back-up—long handle means I can take him off the saddle. And mail don’t offer much protection from a hammer blow.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. He drew Kholodny. “I shall test you, then. When we are finished, you will shoot. Good?”
Ben took a few steps to the side and carefully laid down his unstrung bow. He unslung his maul and advanced on Aleksandr, grinning. “Aye,” he said. “Good enough.”
Aleksandr tested Ben with a few prodding strikes. The maul did not afford many options for defense, so Ben was forced to keep his distance. Aleksandr intentionally began leaving openings after each strike, hesitating on his return to a stable guard position. He wondered how long before Ben would notice—
The gangly archer surged forward, crossing the distance very quickly with his long strides. He brought his maul down heavy, and it was all Aleksandr could do to scramble back and deflect the blows. He managed it, but only just. His hands felt numb from the impacts, and he knew that he had diverted most of force of each blow.
This man is stronger than I am, Aleksandr realized. In his arms, at least.
Aleksandr backpedaled out of Ben’s reach and relied on his footwork to regain the upper hand. In the end, it was not too difficult. Ben was strong, but his form in single combat was sloppy. Too much focus on attack, without enough footwork or defense to keep him alive. It took only a few more exchanges before Aleksandr had his sword well within Ben’s reach, the tip dangerously close to Ben’s chest.
“Yield,” Ben said, panting. He grinned. “Yield. Damn, you’re good! I think you were just playing with me at first.”
“Not playing,” Aleksandr said. “Testing. You could improve. But this is not your specialty, da? For that, you did well enough. Now I would like to see you shoot.”
Ben nodded. “Yessuh,” he said. He dropped his maul in the dirt with far less care than he had shown his bow. He picked up the bow and carefully wiped the dirt from it. “Am I to compete with anyone?”
“How about me?” Dylan asked, stepping forward. He had already strung his own bow, and he had an arrow in his hand.
Ben looked him up and down. He bent his bow into his body and strung it in a smooth rocking motion, so fast Aleksandr almost could not follow what he had done. “Sure,” he said.
They moved into position. Ben drew out a fistful of arrows from his quiver and stuck them in the dirt in front of him one by one, lining them up like fenceposts. He eyed the target Robin had set up.
“Tad close, isn’t it?” he asked.
Not really, Aleksandr thought. That is a good distance. “We can move it further in time,” was all he said.
Ben shrugged. “How many arrows? Who goes first?”
“Let’s say three to start,” Dylan said. “And you can go—”
Ben plucked an arrow out of the row and fired it, almost faster than Aleksandr could track. The man seemed to roll his entire body into the shot, pushing the bow out as much as he was drawing the string back. He did it all in one motion, loosing the arrow the instant he had it at full draw. While the first arrow was in the air he was already grabbing a second. He rocked back and forth in a rhythm, launching each arrow in succession..
“—first,” Dylan said. His brow furrowed. “Damn.”
Even at a distance, Aleksandr could make out the feathers of Ben’s three arrows. They were tightly grouped near the center of the target.
The longbowman cleared his throat and leaned his bow into the crook of one arm. He interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Your turn, mate,” he said to Dylan.
“Uh. Right,” Dylan said, shaking himself out of a momentary reverie. He stepped into position, nocked an arrow, sighted, and let fly. The arrow impacted a short but very noticeable distance further out than Ben’s arrows.
“Take your time,” Ben said. “You don’t need to rush it just ‘cause I did, lad.”
Dylan said nothing as he drew out a second arrow and carefully nocked it. But Aleksandr noticed that he took an extra moment staring at the target. He released on a long, steady exhale.
“There it is!” Ben said, grinning.
The arrow was much closer to the longbowman’s. He seems to be genuinely encouraging Dylan, at least, Aleksandr noticed. Good-natured in his competition. That is a good sign.
Dylan’s final arrow impacted in the middle of Ben’s group. It was actually closer to the center of the target than any of Ben’s three.
“Well done. What was your name again?” Ben asked.
“Dylan. Some call me the Whip,” Dylan said, smiling wanly. “I think you won.”
Ben shrugged. “Just a friendly test, wasn’t it? You’ve got some real skill with that thing.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said. He extended a hand, and Ben shook it in a sturdy looking grip.
“We done here?”
Dylan’s smile deepened with real mirth. “Not sure. I think you said something about that target being a little close?”
Ben smiled back. “I did,” he said.
“Robin, move it back another… twenty paces?”
Ben shrugged. “Don’t want to waste everyone’s time doin’ this over and over, do we? Fifty.”
“Fifty then. And grab our arrows while you’re at it?”
Robin glowered at them. “I already set the damn thing up,” he protested. “Why don’t you make—”
“Robin,” Aleksandr said.
Robin sighed loudly as he stomped down the yard towards the target.
“Longshanks, is it?” An accented voice called out from the crowd. Leon DuPont.
“It is,” Ben said.
“You said you fought in past wars against Lorraine, oui?”
“I did,” Ben said, frowning.
“I am too young to have fought in these, but my father participated in several. What battles did you fight in? If I may ask?”
“Don’t see as it matters much,” Ben grumbled. “I haven’t got a grudge against you or any other frog.”
Aleksandr wondered if he ought to step in, but thought better of it. This sort of thing will happen more than once, if you continue to hire across regional borders, he reminded himself.
“First Loonie, now frog,” Leon complained. “But no grudge, bien sûr. This is not why I was asking. I was just curious. Perhaps your arrows slew my father’s men-at-arms, oui? Sir Edmond Bouchard, one of my father’s liegemen, his leg hurts in cold weather even now. He was struck by a Caedian arrow, more than ten years past. Maybe this was your work?”
Ben scratched his scruffy chin. “Might be it was,” he said. “What battle was that?”
“I am not sure of the Caedian,” Leon said. “We call it Champ d'Ormes.”
Michel had been silently standing at Leon’s side, but he cleared his throat. “The Field of E—”
“Elms,” Ben said. “Field of Elms. Aye, we called it the same. Down near Beckborough. I was there.”
“Fucking hell! Can someone give me a hand?” Robin’s voice resounded across the field.
Aleksandr was not the only one to look his way. Robin had moved the target and pulled out Dylan’s arrows, but he was struggling to dislodge Ben’s.
Ben laughed. “Sorry mate, it’s not my fault. Blame the bow, she’s got a hell of a kick.”
“Bear, go lend Rotten your mighty thews,” Yorrin said.
“Da!” Bear grinned, and began sauntering towards the target. “Robin! Move to side! Bear is here!”
Ben and Leon both looked around the smiling faces of Steelshod, then returned to staring at each other. Aleksandr thought he saw an expression of mutual confusion pass between them. “What did we get ourselves into?” said their faces.
“Field of Elms,” Ben finally said. “Nasty battle, that was. I dumped two full quivers on your heads, but it wasn’t enough. Your chivalry ran us down in the end and won the day.”
“Oui, then lost the war a short time later,” Leon said wistfully.
Ben nodded. “Battle of Beckford,” he said. “I was there, too.”
“One of my uncles died there,” Leon said. After a momentary silence, he added “Not an arrow, mon ami. His horse was impaled during a charge, crushed him in the fall.”
“Nasty way to go,” Ben said.
Leon shrugged. “Pas du tout!” he said. “No, no. He died in battle! He died a warrior. It is not so bad.”
“So,” Dylan said. “Looks like they’re headed back with the arrows. So… are we going to keep shooting, or are you two doing something here, or what?”
Leon cocked his head. “I do not understand,” he said.
“Ben hurt your dad’s vassal or whoever,” Dylan said. “Fought battles against your homeland. Do you have to settle some score or something before you serve together?”
Leon looked aghast. “Non mais t'es pas bien? Settle a score? What are you saying, monsieur?”
Dylan furrowed his brow. “Uh. Well, I thought…”
“I am to seek recompense? With a peasant? No, monsieur. Non.”
Dylan glanced at Ben. “And you?”
Ben just shrugged. “Just a job. I grew up in Longhythe, Whip. Dogs bark, the ocean’s wet, and Loonies always want what ain’t theirs. Nothing personal.”
Dylan scratched his head. “I guess I misunderstood. I thought this was some sort of tension brewing between you two,” he said.
You are not alone in that, Aleksandr thought. He held his tongue. It was probably better that he appear wise and magnanimous in front of the men.
“Nah, the lad seems alright,” Ben said. “For a Loonie.”
“Oui,” Leon said with a smirk. “The old man seems competent. For a Goddam.”
“Damn right,” Ben said, winking. “Looks like the target’s ready for me. How’s about I show you how competent I am?”
Ben turned and stepped back into position in front of his readied arrows. He stared at the target for a single silent moment, then snapped into action.
Once again, he moved with a liquid grace that he seemed to lack when doing anything but shooting a longbow. Each arrow was plucked up from its position, notched onto his string, pulled back to full extension, and released. Each moment was fluid, flowing one into the next with such speed and grace it was just as difficult to track as it had been the first time.
His grouping was just as tight as it had been before, at fifty paces more distant.
Ben spat in the dirt and cradled his bow in the crook of his arm again. He glanced at Dylan, then at Leon, and finally at Aleksandr.
“Monsieur Kerensky!” Leon said. “Aleksandr, I mean. May I speak?”
“Da, Leon,” Aleksandr said. “Of course.”
Leon smiled. “I believe we should hire this man,” he said.
Am I asking the advice of a foolhardy boy, now? Aleksandr arched an eyebrow at the Loranette knight. “Da,” he finally said with a sigh. “I agree. Welcome to Steelshod, Ben.”
He stepped further out into the yard, so that when he turned he could bring everyone in his sightline easily. “In fact,” he said. “Welcome, all newcomers. Follow me. Our first mission may come at any time, and I would like for us all to get to know each other better before then.”
“Sounds like the first round’s on Aleksandr!” Robin called out.
Aleksandr gave Robin a blank stare. He had begun to realize they were more effective than glares. As expected, Robin fell silent immediately.
“We are not going to a tavern,” Aleksandr said. “Arm up, everyone. The training yard is ours.”
Soon the yard would be filled with the sound of iron clashing with iron and hooves beating the dirt.
A good sound, Aleksandr decided. The sound of a mercenary company getting to know itself.