“Make the choice yours, soldier,
When the time draws nigh –
A bright day to live,
A grey day to die.”
>
The old dirge ran through the young shieldman’s mind for the third time
in as many minutes as he loosened and retightened his shield strap.
Not that he needed to, but every warrior had his nervous habits before
a fight. It seemed the sky would be accommodating to the fatalistic
poetry today, refusing the sun access to the field yet not going so far
as to rain down upon him. This was what he had been training for all
these months. Battle. Pure and simple. Fight for honor. Fight for
glory. Fight to prove yourself worthy of the prize he knew was at
stake.

Command of an army.

Behind the short wall, the axe-master waited patiently. He had long
since lost count of how many tournaments like this he had survived.
Most in victory, some not so pleasant. Some for fun, most,
unfortunately, for real. Another day, another whelp to be educated.
Not that he was about to get complacent. You didn’t survive as long as
he had without learning a thing or two about underestimating youth.
But then, this was the way of things among men; the young constantly
challenging the old, daring them time and again to maintain their
status through combat. The old wolf’s position is never safe for long.
And to become Warlord yet again, he must fight yet again. Both hands
tightened on the haft.

The call to lay on sounded.

Metal sang in bursts of symphonic grace, the pealing bells of the
church of combat. Youth tends to rely on raw force, and so the
shieldman launched blow after blow across the wall at the axe-master,
only to add several nicks to an already-battered axe haft. Gauging a
pattern, the veteran ducked completely below a swing and rose, having
already begun his following counterstrike. A timely lean sent the
mighty axe glancing off the shoulder of the shieldman, yet left enough
force in the blow for a second swing. Nothing of consequence landed as
a result, but the younger fighter’s pretty new shield didn’t look quite
so pretty anymore.

Both combatants stepped back from the wall, assessing the results of
the first exchange.

"The child’s not bad." "The old man’s still got some fight in
him."

War Camp Tournament
Round 1
Barrier Fight
___________________________________________________________________________


The axe-master still dripped the water they’d had to throw in his face
to wake him up. He couldn’t remember whether the shieldman had landed
that good a shot or if he’d just had another spell. They happened, at
his age, after so many battles, so many dice rolls with Death. It
wasn’t the first time, and, if he was lucky enough to survive the day,
it probably wouldn’t be his last.

So be it, he thought. Today was not for him. Even so, there was
plenty of glory left to be had by carrying his army to victory. It
was a sure bet that the whelp knew beans about command. The damn
colt was likely to order a frontal charge against the pair of
fighters now facing them across the bare field. A Knight of the
Realm, Sir Something-or-Other, he couldn’t remember the heraldry, but
then, he’d never been formally schooled in the recognition of
familial arms. The Knight had managed to beat, and thus acquire for
his force, his own squire in the first round. Imagine that. Must be
a tough life, thought the axe-master. Well, it won’t be long before
we’re both in service to a white belt yet again.

Then the shieldman surprised him for the second time that day.

“What do you think, old man?”

A question? From a warrior this young? That didn’t happen very often.
Usually so full of themselves after an early victory, their hubris
almost immediately became their subsequent downfall. The axe-master
scratched his beard with the sharpened butt of his weapon and replied.

“What do I think? I think we’re going to get our arses handed to us,
is what I think.”

“Thank you, but I’d figured that much out for myself. Got something we
can use?”

“I left my catapult on my other horse, but there are possibilities.
See how Sir Muckety-Muck over there is lined up on our left? He’s
right-handed. That means, heh, if I’m lucky, I can keep him off us
to the outside long enough for you to slaughter that polearm-toting
squire of his, if that wasn’t just some wet patch of grass that sent
me to the ground last round and you can actually fight. Then you
come back and play the wall for Brunhilda, here.”

“Brunhil — oh. Axe, right?”

“Can you think of a better name for an old battleaxe?”, asked the
veteran with a scowl he no longer felt, and a not-unpleasant thought
struck him:

The day, like this shieldling now in command, was still young, but also
like this whelp, showed some promise after all.


War Camp Tournament
Round 2
Open Field
___________________________________________________________________________

“…And then, after I’ve disposed of their leader, the two of you should
have little trouble supporting my squire here while he instructs our
foes in the art of the polearm. So, that’s the plan then, and…”

“Button it, your Chivness.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“First of all, you lost our last engagement. That means you’re not in
charge anymore, the whelp is. Second of all, if you’d deigned to have
Squire Squeamish here describe the boat to you, you’d know that none of
us are swinging a two-handed anything, or we all get wet.”

“Now, see here, you overripe peasant…”

“I’m not a peasant, I’m Captain of the Guard to the Baron you serve,
you tin-plated blowhard, and like I said, you’re not in charge here.
That means, for good or ill, you listen to the boy. You might be
surprised. He clocked me a good one and he’s bright enough to listen
to advice. Got any? And remember, single hand weapon only – the
rest of us don’t have a Squire to clean the rust off our armor for
us.”

“I… dub… buh…”

“That’s what I figured. Now, nobody here’s got any doubts about your
ability to fight, but we’re all counting on that mighty arm of yours to
keep them busy so I can knock them over into the water.”

“You just do your job, old man. I didn’t get this belt for quilting.”

“Fair enough.”

It was taking every effort for the shieldman to keep from falling over
laughing. The Axe-master was verbally peeling this Knight -- a Knight!
– like the proverbial onion. Things would be plenty serious in the
creek soon enough, but for now, he relished the moment.

A short time later, as the boats cast off from shore, the shieldman was
not nearly so happy. The opposing force in the other punt certainly
looked a lot tougher than he felt. Four long swords, all pointed right
at him, signaling their desire to stop his run of luck right here and
now, and dump him in the drink to boot. Everybody SAID the creek was
shallow enough to stand up in, but for all he knew, the devil himself
was waiting on the bottom to pull him straight to Hell by his heels
should he fall in. Never mind winning or losing, he thought, just
promise me I won’t drown. At least he was satisfied with his plan.
Knight up front to soak up the first swings, and maybe take one or two
enemies out. The Squire and himself in the middle positions to provide
aggressive cover and keep the boat balanced, and the veteran axe-master
aft of them all, with something that ought to prove a nice surprise for
the four swords opposing him.

The Knight had yet to finish fuming over the last engagement.
How had this young bumpkin from the outer fringe bested him? Surely
his Squire had failed yet again in his solemn duty to protect his
Knight. That was always the case, after all. And the unmitigated
gall of that…that… relic! That wizened stump of a man with an axe!
At least the whelp – Commander! Pah! -- had had the sense of
propriety to place him in the front of the boat. After all, that was
where a good and proper Knight belonged. Leading the charge,
providing the target for the foes who would soon fall before his
well-seasoned sword arm. Somebody was going to pay for his loss; it
may as well be the enemy.

The Squire gripped his hilt and looked at the other boat. Those were
four of the meanest-looking fighters he had ever seen. The Axe-master
kept telling him he was going to do fine, but the Squire wasn’t
so
sure. At least the Axe-master seemed cheerful enough. He hadn’t
stopped cackling since he and the Shieldman had had their little chat
away from the Knight. The Squire was glad somebody was having a good
time; he himself was too busy being scared. Maybe, just maybe, if he
was lucky, and this team actually won the day, the Knight wouldn’t make
him clean the stalls tonight.

The Axe-master was really getting to like this young Shieldman.
Courteous, respectful, talented and creative, he could go far with the
right opportunity. Regardless of the day’s outcome, he was resolved to
keep his eye on this one. As the four opponents approached in the
other small boat, all their eyes were exactly where he and the
Shieldman had predicted they would be; on the Knight. Gleefully
posturing as befit his station, the Knight would very likely manage to
take two of the enemy with him when he fell. That suited the veteran
just fine. If things went according to plan, after the little trick he
had planned, that might just finish the whole squad.

The boats closed to just outside sword range, and the Axe-master pulled
the short blunted lance from behind his comrades. This was going to be
all too easy.

War Camp Tournament
Round 3
Boat Skirmish
_____________________________________________________________________________

"That could have gone better."

That sickening sound and sensation was still palpable as battle
replayed itself in the shieldman's head.

As their boat had tried to come alongside their opponent's, it had
snagged on an underwater log. The boat lurched and stopped, leaving
the Knight exposed to three of the four swordsmen. The narrow prow
prevented the squire and himself from providing much assistance and,
worst of all, the Axe-Master was unable to bring the short lance to
bear while trapped behind two ranks of men. Despite the bad position,
the Knight had fought like a demon, his blade flashing like the teeth
of an enraged guard dog.

"What's the plan?"

"Hmmm? What...?"

Standing in front of the shieldman was the Axe-Master and a great bear
of a man who had been yelling orders on the other boat. He had no idea
how long they'd been there or if that had been the first request.

"What is the plan? There is a bridge just past that copse of trees.
We've scouted it out and it's well defended but there shouldn't be any
surprises with stone under foot."

The Axe-Master wasn't willing to try another boat crossing. The last
had nearly ended the day. The lad's plan had been a good one. Looking
back on it, it was a lucky one as well. If they'd all had swords or
axes, they'd be fish food right now. He'd heard the boat's bottom
grind up on the submerged tree trunk. Trusting in the Knight's ability
to keep their opponents at bay, he'd set about trying to find the
obstruction and maybe use the lance to push them off. Since he
couldn't reach the swordsmen with his men in the way, it was his only
contributing option. The boat had been wedged solid and, if that
wasn't bad enough, he knew something had gone horribly wrong when he
heard the thud. The sound of the Knight falling back into the boat
should have been the end, but just then the boat had bobbed slightly,
just enough for him to push them off the stump and back into a chance
of winning.

"How wide is the bridge and what about the forces guarding it?"

At this point the large fellow, half-leaning against a massive
greatsword, spoke. "There are three shieldmen, three spears and two
with polearms. I didn't see any stinkin' archers. The bridge itself
is about four paces wide and about twenty paces across." The
Axe-Master nodded in assent.

"What do your men bring into the fight?"

"Three shieldmen and a greatsword."

"I have a task for them, send them over, we need to move in a
half-hour."

The Greatswordsman had been sure that the Knight would have been
leading the opposition. Victory seemed assured when he finally went
down like a sack of potatoes, the others should have faltered but they
hadn't. They'd rallied faster than he could have thought possible.
After that, he didn't remember much other than the bitter tastes of
brackish water and defeat. Walking past the Squire, their eyes locked
for a moment before he continued on.

"The boy wants everyone ready in a half-hour. We've got a bridge to
force."

The Squire nodded assent before returning to wringing out his gambeson.
Bastard! Four on one is hardly chivalrous. He'd done what he could to
support the Knight, parrying some blows on the right side but, like the
gambeson, he was wringing himself out for having missed the blow to the
Knight's forearm. Unable to parry, the ominous clnag of steel on helm
quickly followed and the Knight dropped. With access to the enemy no
longer hindered and mad with frustration, he'd cast discipline aside
and leapt to the other boat. With solid footing, he would have stood no
chance of overbearing the enemy leader but with the balance already
precarious, he and the leader went off the other side and into the
drink. Another of the enemy followed, overcompensating while trying to
maintain his balance. They'd emerged victorious but he wasn't finding
much to be proud about, he'd failed his Knight, he'd failed discipline,
he'd fai...

"Help me with my armor."

The Squire looked up to see his Knight, head bandaged, clenching and
unclenching his right hand, still working on getting some feeling back
into it. He quickly rose and began fastening buckles and cinching
straps.

The previous battle had not provided the Knight with much opportunity
to festoon himself with glory. That cursed log had proved to be damned
inconvenient. Running onto it had nearly pitched him off the front of
the boat. He'd barely recovered his balance before having to fend off
three swords. No way to go forward or back and clearly at the
disadvantage he had been unable to do anything but stay on the
defensive. And, he had to admit, he wouldn't have lasted nearly as
long were it not for the surprising number of blows the Squire had been
able to reach around to parry on his right.

"We're advancing on a bridge. This will be a stand up fight and we'll
be pushing through a line. I want you right behind me with your
polearm."

"Errr...bu"

"No buts, I need you blocking shots and raining blows just like on the
boat. We're taking the fight to the enemy this time. Speaking of
taking it to the enemy, excellent tactical call on the boat.
Compromised plan...indefensible position...nothing to do but lead a
glorious charge and retrieve the initiative. Taking out half of the
enemy in one fell swoop, impressive, well done."

"Now gird up. From the way the boy is gesturing to those shieldmen,
I'll wager he and the old-man have got something in mind."

War Camp Tournament
Round 4
Bridge Battle
_______________________________________________________________________

Metal. Every damned thing in the perceivable world tasted like metal
now. The Shieldman spat another bitter wad of his life’s blood into
the small lake of it gathering in the dirt and he signaled for one of
the maids carrying water. The service, he noted, was markedly faster
now that he was gaining a reputation. Well, actually, that wasn’t
true; the water had been more than timely all day, but it certainly was
prettier now. He could have sworn it was the Baron’s younger daughter
herself who was quenching him. Then again, after the bashing the
Shieldman had received on the bridge, the AxeMaster’s own mother would
probably look like the Baron’s younger daughter to him now.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” The AxeMaster’s voice scraped him
out of his reverie across a bridge of rusted sword-points back to the
all-too-painful and all-too-fatigue-ridden reality facing him.

“Hmmm-wha? Oh. Umm… twelve?”

“Quit fnarking around, boy, you’ve got two fights left to win yet, and
by God, I intend to see that you at least stay awake for ‘em. Now,
blink a few times and count how many fingers for me.”

“Two ‘n’ half, damn ‘fernal crow.”

“Hmph. Suppose I earned that. Right. Lucky for you, you’ve got a
while yet to recover before the field battle since we’re going
second. Got any more of your cockeyed ideas for this one while
you’re still dizzy?”

“Uhhbbb… no. Tired. Bru’ force. We got a Knight ‘n’ey do not.
Heh.
Send him out ‘n’ lett’m kill’m’all for us.”

“Hey, lad, even I’m ready to admit he’s damn good, but not quite that
good, alright? Rest a spell and I’ll get back with you in a moment.

And no grab-happy monkey play with the girls while I’m gone, you hear?”

“Yessir.”

The AxeMaster strode purposefully back toward the Knight’s pavilion.
Whatever bad blood might have been left between them needed to be
washed away once and for all, and that white-belted demon had damned
well earned it after the near disaster on the bridge.

“Ah, good. AxeMaster, I’m glad you’re here. Listen, I want you to
know that, upon reflection, I may have been a bit… blustery in my
initial conversations with you and the lad there. As I imagine
you’ve guessed, I don’t take to defeat very well, and the one you two
handed me stung for a bit. But there’s no doubt in my mind that it
was well-earned and the boy shows quite a bit of promise, not to
mention no small amount of ingenuity. I look forward to serving with
the two of you for the remainder of the tourney, and may our victory
be honorable and glorious. Now, what can I help you with?”

The AxeMaster was brought up short, but recovered.

“Well, to be honest, I guess I came here for much the same purpose – to
clear the air, so to speak, between us, and extend both the boy’s and
my own thanks for fighting so well on our behalf there on the bridge.
If you weren’t so handy with that oddball two-sword style of yours, I’m
certain that gash on the boy’s melon would be a deadly one, rather than
just a bit of a bleeder, and we’d certainly have lost the bridge once
and for all.”

“It was my pleasant duty. As I said before, I didn’t earn this just
for quilting.”

“Just where did you learn to handle two weapons like that, anyway? I
admit, I’m impressed. I prefer to have a nice portable wall to throw
between me and my foes, myself.”

“The Florentine stance? Many a warrior’s been caught off guard by it,
but honestly, it’s not nearly as effective in raw tactical terms as it
is for its surprise or quick-strike value. I was off on the Continent
a few years back and a Knight from Burgundy showed me a few tricks he’d
picked up away in some campaign near Rome, of all places. Said it was
the fashion down there for a while. Personally, I almost never use it,
but I admit, that young Shieldman’s willingness to try different
tactics is rubbing off on me. Takes me back a few years, I suppose.”

“Well, it was damn useful for parrying that poleaxe that almost cleaved
that boy in half lengthwise, so I can assure you, he’s grateful. As am
I.”

“Plan on taking him under wing, do you?”

“If I can get away with it. I certainly won’t be getting any younger,
and the Baron’s already on my back about recommending a successor to
the Captaincy. The boy, for all his talents, doesn’t have a pure
bloodline, so any honest military option he gets will be good for
him, and I’d hate to see him wasted in the front line of some damn
fool charge into oblivion up in Northumberland or some other
godforsaken place.”

“Agreed. I’d be happy to put in a good word for him.”

“My thanks, good Sir. Speaking of the boy, what was left on that
overhead smash rang his bell good and loud. He needs all the rest he
can get before the field melee, and that last bunch of mercenaries we
picked up isn’t proving any smarter than the four from the river. So, I
came to pick your brain for any ideas. I can’t see anything other than
a classic field battle ahead of us, and even though the Shieldman’s a
bit dizzy, he sees it pretty much the same way.”

“As do I. I expect this one will come down to whomever wants it more,
gets it. Although, now that I think about it, an innovative bunch of
drunkards away up north did once show me a remarkable method of
maintaining good rotation between shields, polearms, and spears that we
might try if we can drill our new acquisitions quickly enough.”

“Really? If you can draw it, I promise you, I can drill it.”

“Very well, then, have a look and judge for yourself. To begin with,
it all hinges on the flexibility of the shield wall…”

Back at the assembly area, the Shieldman was finally able to clear his
thoughts. He looked over the field away behind a row of the
ever-increasing onlookers. Glory. All for glory and opportunity. The
chance to become more than he was, and all he was right now was tired.
Fifteen men now depended on him to make the right choices. Most of them
he couldn’t even name anymore, incorporated into his forces after the
last two engagements. The men from the river had a presence in his
mind at least, but even his opposite commander from the bridge battle
didn’t have a face; just another blank wall of metal, like all the
metal that was gathering for the first battle of the fifth round.
Metal on their arms, metal on their poles, metal on their heads.

And every drop of water he was drinking right now still tasted like
metal.

God, he was tired.


War Camp
Tournament Round 5
Open Field Battle
_______________________________________________________________________

I am a bloody genius.

So the Baron told himself as he surveyed the field before him. All
along, he had witnessed the progression of single fighters to small
unit leaders to this. All the sweat, leather, metal, soil, water and
blood that had been left on his fields thus far today had resulted in
this; a final, desperate clash in the bowels of the earth itself.
Surely this grand tournament, rather than any inane political posturing
or monetary chicanery, would prove once and for all who truly deserved
the rank of Regional Commander, and that worthy soul would prove it by
being the one to crawl out of these caverns alive. The King himself had
warned that war on the Continent was likely again, and that all major
vassals were to begin mustering for an extended campaign. The Baron
was determined that his name would not go unnoticed, and that the army
he provided would have as good a chance of coming home alive and
wealthy as any.

After all, of what use to anyone, King, Prince, or peasant, was an
empty Barony? Certainly, it was of no use to him. No. Whoever wanted
this victory enough to win it in this engineered hell would be good
enough to win it on the fields of France or Denmark or wherever the war
might take him, and bring his men back.

* * *

The Axe-master knew what this was. He had seen it before, and before,
and before that again. War was coming. That had to be it. There were
so many ways any fool with a horse or a name could become important in
this Barony, let alone this Kingdom, but a contest this fierce had only
two possible purposes; one was bloody damn smart, and the other had
destroyed what used to be the whole godforsaken Roman Empire. Given
that he had been Captain of the Guard to this Baron for almost ten
years, and that he knew the man as well as anyone could, he tended to
discount that this was all just an excuse for rampant, pointless bloody
spectacle. No. The Baron was a purposeful man, and this organized
bedlam represented a purpose. Someone was going to have to lead the
men of the Barony off to war, and a big one, or the search for a
Commander would have been as simple as pointing a finger at some random
functionary and saying, “Fetch me a Commander”. Whoever won this day
was going to get stuck with the job of keeping a thousand men alive off
in the middle of who-knows-where.

The Axe-master sat down hard and slow as he contemplated this. He
looked over at the other group of thirty-two men preparing to crawl
into the earth for their commander. No less battered, no less
honorable, no less worthy. They had fought hard to get where they
were. Some looked to be held together with the bandages applied
overnight by some generous soul’s tender mercies. Only one, though,
now had the bad luck to be vying for the prize along with that young
Shieldman. The Axe-master picked him out with his eyes and looked him
over. A stout man, the enemy commander had managed to scarf up his own
Knight somewhere along the way. A bad day for the Chivalry, he
guessed, but stranger coincidences had happened.

Unfortunately, the Axe-master also knew that all this woolgathering
still led to one inescapable decision. Whom did he want leading him
when the war came? Whom was he prepared to follow when the arrows flew
for real and the weapons had been sharpened beyond reason? Whom did he
want to look to when hope danced just out of his reach one more time?

He looked again at the opposing leader, then back at the young
Shieldman and made his choice. The boy or no man, and he would bleed
to insure it.

Maces. They were going to need a lot of short maces.

* * *

The Knight and the Squire finished their morning prayers and began
strapping on their armor. The Squire finished all the Knight’s
unreachable fasteners, then proceed with his own lighter protection.

“Boy.”

“Sire?”

“This young man, this swordsman whom you’ve now followed for a day.
What have you learned from studying him?”

“Master?”

“I said, what have you learned from him? He was good enough to best
me, though he had excellent help, and he has now led us to three
successive victories since then. He is obviously a man of worth, and I
should be most disappointed to learn that you have missed an
opportunity to educate yourself from both his strengths and
weaknesses.”

“Well, he’s smart. We know this because he always has a good idea that
seems to catch our enemies, not to mention ourselves, off-guard. Also,
I see him asking the old man for advice from time to time, which
indicated that he knows what he doesn’t know, if that makes sense.”

“It does indeed, lad. Good. Go on.”

“I believe he is honorable, sire. He could have gloated over his
victories, but instead, he merely prepares himself for the next fight.
All day yesterday he accepted the defeated into our ranks without
mocking them, nor with any lack of respect. They were all worthy men
to him, it seemed, though I must confess a few possessed rather less
integrity than I would like.”

“You will find, Squire, that a great many men on this earth possess
rather less integrity than we would like.”

“Yes, Master. Well, besides all that, if you’ll forgive me, there’s a
quality in the Shieldman that I find helps me when I become afraid. In
that, Sire, he reminds me of you. You know, on those days when it
rains all day and I’m shoveling the stables for hours and then the
weapon training starts after my arms are already tired. On those days,
Sire, I do sometimes wonder if it’s worth it, if I may say. I think,
maybe it’s not so bad to just carry things and polish armor and that
would be a nice safe life and some girl would find me good enough and
we could just have a nice quiet life together. I can’t help it,
Master, sometimes that’s just where my thoughts go. But then, there
you are, standing all tall and straight and proud, knowing that anyone
who challenges you will have a hard time of it and that’s when I
realize that yes, I do want that for myself, and yes, it’s worth
another shovelful of dung, and another swing of the sword, and another
run ‘round the barn."

"Well, Sire, yesterday, in that awful field battle, after you had been
cut off by those five men and I couldn’t get to you, and the Axe-master
had fallen down, I stopped right there in the middle of the field and I
knew I was going to die. Not just a conk on the head or a small slice
on my arm. I was certain I would be dead soon. And then there he was,
just behind me to my right, yelling in that voice he has for all the
remaining shields to form up on him. Well, I looked at him there and I
saw that there was my hope, if you take my meaning. If I could make it
that far, just that far, maybe I, maybe we all had a chance, if a small
one, to make it through. And I knew right then that I would follow him
as I’d follow you. Not that I want to leave you or anything of course,
but if I’m ever cut off from you in a battle again, I hope the man
that’s left to help me not die is him. Is there a word for that,
Sire?”

The Knight remained silent for a moment, then spoke as he reached
around behind himself to retrieve something.

“I imagine there is, young Squire. Thought up, no doubt, by some
wizened old scraggle-hat in a tower somewhere. Well, lad, now we’ve
got one last fight to fight to make sure that that man is indeed the
one to help us all not die. Having heard your thoughts, I now realize
you’ve grown up some yourself. In this battle, under the earth itself,
I offer you this shield, which I had crafted for the day you were ready
for the next step on your path. Today, you fight by my side as a
warrior, not just a student. This tournament is leading to larger
things than we can speak of now, and that Shieldman has great days
ahead of him. It is upon us to make sure he gets his chance. What say
you?”

* * *

Somebody in that damned castle is insane.

The Shieldman pondered the significance of that thought for a moment,
and decided that, barring something he might have missed, that simply
had to be the case. Never before, in all his training, had he ever
heard of anyone holding a tournament fight underground. The river had
been bad enough, wondering just how shallow that godforsaken water
really was, but this whole idea of trying to swing a sword, or anything
longer than a dirk for that matter, in a half-high cave was flat-out
bonkers. He had effectively broken himself upon thirty-one men
yesterday merely for the chance to gain some small notoriety, and all
the night’s rest had done was to give his muscles renewed strength to
protest the abuse they had suffered. Maybe, he had hoped, his
performance would be just enough that some worthy swordsman would take
him on as a squire to learn how to at least behave like a nobleman, if
not someday to actually be named one.

Now, instead, here he was, in charge. The old Axe-master, with
god-knew-how-many fights under his belt; not one, but now two Knights
of the Realm, titans of the battlefield; twenty-eight other men, all
blooded and competent, and all expecting him to lead them to victory,
wine, women, song, whatever their hearts desired. Is this how all
those great leaders he was hearing stories about started? Was it just
bloody damn luck and a couple of good guesses that made a good
commander? The Shieldman refused to believe this. Somewhere, somehow,
he had to have done something right, but if he hadn’t have gotten lucky
against the Axe-master, and then against the Knight and his Squire…

If, if, if. He could spend all his life wallowing in if. No. He had
done what he had to do to get here, and now he needed to be ready to
pay the price. In blood, if necessary. The Baron had said he wanted a
new Commander, and the Shieldman had done everything in his power and
then some to grab that chance for himself. Somewhere in there the idea
of doing “just enough” had been forgotten. Everything had been
forgotten, suborned to the need to dodge the next blow, or point his
spears to the hole in the enemy shield wall, or haul a comrade up by
the scruff of his neck and scream him back to fighting readiness after
a blow had dizzied him.

Somewhere out there, across that field, was a man, just one man, who
wanted what he wanted. Well, thought the Shieldman, if he wants it,
he’s going to have to come down into my cave – MY cave, reach down my
throat, and pull it from my chest still beating and dripping and
howling and swinging.

With that, the wheels started clicking again. It was a lot easier to
take one cave than two, wasn’t it? Let them come to me and my
Axe-master, and my Knight, and my Squire, and we’ll see what happens,
won’t we? A hard grin scorched itself onto the Shieldman’s face
without him noticing.

It was going to be one hell of a fight.

War Camp Tournament
Round 6
Counter-Mining Operations
_____________________________________________________________________________

The Shieldman stood upon the battlement of his tallest tower, looking

out over the cloudy countryside; his land, his people, his duty.
Time, tide, and blood had brought him to this point, the point of
decision that every leader of consequence faced so many times over
the course of a life few ever get a chance to lead.

So many deaths, so many empty threats, shattered promises, desecrated
churches, ignored lives like the one he had had all those years ago.

And now, war was coming again. The King himself had ordered him to
provide men, for the war on the continent would be won once again by
men. Men and metal. Just like every other time somebody needed to
have an enormous pissing contest, it would be upon the backs of men to
bleed for it. His men. His duty.

He stroked his beard, fingers tracing across the narrow swath where an
old wound still kept it from growing in properly, and thought back on

the good men that had brought him this far. A wry but irresistible
grin twisted his lips at the thought of the old Axe-master, gone these
last years, but happily, in his sleep, luckier than so very many others
who had fought half as much as had the great veteran. A better Captain
of the Baronial Guard there never had been.

As it happened every other time he thought of them, his old companions,
the Shieldman set his jaw hard and clenched his fist in memory of the
Knight. Murdered. Murdered basely and cruelly, lured by false
distress into a cowardly ambush off in the forest. It should never
have happened in his forest. His Knight. His duty.

The Squire, at least, had fared better. Elevated of his own accord on
the field after a particularly frightening engagement with a pack of…
who had they been again, anyway? It mattered not. The Squire earned
the mantle of Knighthood himself, returning so quickly at the news of
his old sire’s death and bravely spending his own life rooting out the
bandits who had preyed on the local villages for months. His villages.
His people. His duty.

“Thinking again, my lord?”

The Shieldman turned his greying head to look at his wife. Still so
very beautiful after all this time, by her mere presence she reminded
him of how fortunate he was to even be alive, let alone in the
unenviable position he now held. She slid into his arm automatically
as he reached for her. He felt her warmth in the biting wind and was
thankful. His wife, the mother of his children. His duty.

“Thinking, yes.”

“Not, I hope, of leading the King’s army again yourself. Haven’t you

had enough of that by now?”

He placed both arms around her waist, gently pulled her close, and
kissed her once on the forehead. He brushed that amazing single
shock of white hair off her forehead where the wind always carelessly
dropped it, and looked into her eyes.

“My love, my dear, sweet, beautiful love, I believe I have. I think I
can finally let someone else keep the men alive. Someone else may now
assume that unhappy duty.”

“Oh? And have you already chosen this great leader of men, my Baron?”

“Actually, my Lady, I was thinking of holding a tournament.”

War Camp
Epilogue

Stories written by The Mad Sentinel of Glastonbury and Padruig Maclennan

[Activities/Adult]