In the camp of the Morguhn Freefighters, their numbers swelled both by the additions of the contingents of the Morguhn and Daiviz petty nobles and by Bili’s fresh recruitments, nearly two hundred warriors lazed about their cookfires, bragging, lying, swapping lewd tales, discussing women and weapons and horses and women and past battles and former patrons and women, dicing and doing necessary maintenance on their gear. Within a torchlit area, ten pairs of men clad in weighted brigandines and full-face helms stamped and shouted and swung blunted swords, under the watchful eyes of a scar-faced weapon master, whose hoarse bellows of instruction or reprimand rang even above the din of the mock combats. In a nearby area, more pairs practiced spearwork, while others took turns casting darts or dirks or light axes at man-sized logs or bundles of straw and a group of archers honed their skills on more difficult and tricky targets. As the men tired and went back to quaff watered wine at the firesides, their places and equipment were readily taken by onlookers. For these were all professionals, men whose lives and livings depended upon consummate ability to utilize a variety of weapons, and they would seldom pass up an opportunity to polish their dexterity.
So no one in camp thought it odd that Geros should spend the most of every evening absorbing the rudiments of sword-play and spearfence, gaining increasing accuracy with cast weapons, learning unarmed rough-and-tumble and even borrowing a hornbow on occasion. The shy, timid valet and musician who, in an agony of terror, had accidentally speared two rebels on a darkened Horse County road while fleeing a battle had become in the few short months since a capable, self-assured fighter, who could deliver hard, true blows. Though polite and soft-spoken as ever, there was that in his eyes and bearing which discouraged patronization or the taking of undue liberties even on the part of those newer men who had not yet heard of his deeds and courage. Captain of Freefighters Raikuh, recognizing the potential value of Geros’ clear tenor voice in transmitting orders amid the din of battle, had named him a sergeant, a move approved by all his comrades.
And Sergeant Geros could not recall ever having been so happy as he now was, bathed in the respect of both his peers and his superiors, secure in the knowledge that while his fears would always be with him he could now control them, which is all that true bravery really is.
A few hundred yards away, Geros’ former employer, Vahrohneeskos Ahndros, sat at wine in the tent of Komees Djeen Morguhn, retired strahteegoi of the Confederation Army. Wounded in the ambush and battle at Forest Bridge-which midnight affray most men now considered to have been the initial engagement of the rebellion-he had lain invalided and then recuperating at Morguhn Hall until recently and had just ridden into camp with his contingent.
Standing or squatting within the same tent were most of the noblemen and Freefighter officers of the duchy, and Geros was the present topic of their conversation.
The saturnine young Ahndros shook his head, his dark hair cwaying across his neck and shoulders. “I simply cannot credit it, Uncle Djeen. Personable, affable and obedient Geros had been since first I took him in, and his former employer’s letter attested the same. But he’s only the son of up. per servants and has never had even minimal war training. I sent him back that night because I knew he could not fight and I feared for his safety. And besides, he’s a gentle person and shy almost to the point of timorousness.”
Captain Pawl Raikuh guffawed freely, his military rank combined with his noble birth giving him a near equality with . these relatives of Duke Bili, his employer, while the dangers and battles he had shared with most of them had forged bonds of friendship. ‘Timorous, my lord baronet? Gentle? We cannot be thinking or speaking of the same man. Why not two hours gone, Sergeant Geros was tongue-lashing a Lainzburker near twice his size for having rust specks on his sword and dirk! And the language he was using would’ve burned the ears of a muleskinner! Hardly my interpretation of gentle and shy, my lord.”