Millie Thatcher sat on a table in the back room of the tent being used as a field hospital, with her arms held straight forward from her body and palms facing down. The [Hand of Solace] had insisted on regular check-ups to make sure the prosthetic was integrating well, and not even the Battlemaster would dare gainsay the duchess on matters of medicine. Lady Erin poked and prodded both her new arm and the old with a contemplative look on her face, and Millie could feel the mana flow from the other woman's healing touch. After a few moments the older woman put her hands under the girl's, palm to palm.

"Push down," said the healer, and Millie complied.

"Now push up," she said, applying pressure to hold the drummer's hands down from the top. "Don't use your elbows; lift from your shoulders." After a pause, the duchess held her own arms out to the sides and moved them in circles, then a figure eight pattern. "Now do this while I check the joints."

Millie complied as the woman put her hands over the girl's collarbones, a pleasant tingling buzzing through her joints, both in her natural arm and her prosthetic. She still wasn't used to the sensations of her new arm, having grown accustomed to only having the one. The [Hand of Solace] could regenerate lost limbs now, of course, but at the time of the bandit attack that ultimately claimed her arm, Erin Ward had been newly classed, without the skills or mana reserves to reverse the course of a poisoned arrow.

The [Thunderstrike Battle-Bard] had never expected the duke to arrange for her to get a new arm. It wasn't the kind of thing militaries or nobles ever bothered with for the commonry, not even ones with magical bard skills. Having only one arm may have been a detriment to her drumming abilities, but such things were more easily compensated for with [Skills], training, and — most importantly — leveling. Millie had counted on needing to make her own arrangements after saving up her pay from serving in the Black Lance, and had resigned herself to accepting a simple mechanical device. The duke, however, considered her advanced prosthetic an investment.

Consequently, her new arm was a masterwork of living steel alloy, witchwood, and materials she had no name for. With so little left of her arm, they had had to replace part of her actual shoulder — under Erin's supervision, of course. Where her left shoulder should be was instead a ring of flexible lifesteel, surrounded by a band of the same that transitioned to bare flesh with an almost-imperceptible seam. More of it had been bonded lower on her torso, as well; strips that ran from her spine halfway around her left side, and all the way around her left side directly under her chest. The shell of the arm was made up of firm, yet still somehow flexible, interlocking plates of the metal.

She wasn't sure what made up the muscles of the limb, but she could see something, deep purple and translucent, when the outer plates flexed apart as she made a fist. At first, she had hardly been able to move her new arm, every attempt resulting in either spastic jerks or bouts of weakness. The flamboyant gnome who had reassured her was right, however; it was becoming easier with practice. Now, over a month since leaving Expedition, she had no trouble at all, and hoped to be declared fit to resume her duties.

"Motion is good so far," declared the healer. "Reach up overhead, stretch. Now put your hands together behind your back. That's good. No pains or loss of control lately? Any weakness?"

Millie shook her head no to both, and Erin stepped back and quickly scribbled something in a small notebook. The sheet of parchment was then torn off and the book returned to one of the healer's apron pouches.

"You can go ahead and get dressed, then, and I officially pronounce you fit for duty!" proclaimed the duchess. "Drop this note off with the quartermaster so his crew can get started on your armor, and then go see Jacob. He wants to talk to you before you rejoin your squad."

The duchess didn't give Millie enough time to respond, sweeping out of the room to check on other patients in the field hospital. The bard donned her undershirt and shrugged into her tunic, taking a moment to wonder at the ease with which she now could fasten the buttons. Just because she had grown accustomed to only using one hand didn't mean it had gotten any easier or more convenient to do. The buttons dealt with, she pulled her insignia from her pocket. The symbol of the bards of the Black Lance was a pair of crossed drumsticks over a lightning bolt, set on a disk of blackened steel. With two hands, now she could fasten it to the lapel of her tunic herself.

Picking up her drum, she hung it from her shoulder by its strap and made her way out of the hospital tent. The lowlands and swampy marshes west of Kosala weren't quite as cold as Expedition had been thanks to lower elevation, but the winter weather still rolled off the Wildwall Mountains just to the north to spread across the land. She was grateful for her thicker breeches and tunic, and most importantly, the warm socks she now wore. The Battlemaster had drilled the importance of footwear and general decorum into every member of the Lance, repeatedly. As boring as many found his rants to be, nobody could complain about the results. Their camps were far more orderly and disciplined, and active, than those of Forvale's troops or Meadowspire's Knight and Mage battalions.

The march to Kosala was a vastly different experience than the rush to lift the siege at Expedition. It was a deliberate march instead of a mad dash, and the infantry spent as much time repairing the roads as they did walking along them. Their pace was limited by the speed of the baggage trains, a veritable city of tents and wagons centered around the [Oracle] and her retinue. They would spend over half of any given day on the march, crawling across the countryside and clearing beasts and other creatures — and no few groups of bandits, as well — from the path.

In the evenings, they would camp for meals and rest; at least, the other military companies would. Not the Lance. The duke kept his people training and patrolling, pitting them against the scouts of the beastkin tribes to find monster dens for the newer recruits to cut their teeth against. Others were kept busy with combat drills and physical training. No one was allowed to idle, much to the complaint of some. The mages in particular were quite vocal with their dissatisfaction at having to march in armor instead of robes, or practice with shield and spear and sword with the infantry.

The Battlemaster remained unmoved by their complaints, and even Lady Jenna had been issued a set of armor and a sword and pushed to exhaustion. She never complained though, and her silence left the rest of the mages no choice but to shut up and keep going or risk humiliation. The improvements spoke for themselves, and now the mages could keep up with the rest of the infantry in a forced march even without Millie's bardic skills to assist.

Millie herself was eager to get back to work. She had been ordered not to play her drum until the [Hand of Solace] was sure her new arm worked properly and there were no apparent side effects. There were other bards with the Lance, and even other drummers, since many of the original refugees had taken related classes. None had her range or effectiveness, though some came close when working in unison.

Setting her musings aside, Millie threaded her way through the camp. To the untrained eye, it would be a study in barely-organized chaos: clusters of tents for sleeping were separated by wide pathways the width of two wagons, with temporary workstations scattered throughout as soldiers tended to their gear or shared campfires for meals. Many were sharpening their blades, and even more were mending socks or underclothes. The Battlemaster had a proclivity to wander the camp unannounced, as did most of the officers, and nobody wanted to be caught with their kit in disrepair, lest they be given extra duties.

Usually latrine duty.

Her destination was the supply division. The quartermaster's tent wasn't any larger than the others, but it was bracketed by rows of covered wagons with a small smithy to one side. Several smiths and farriers busily hammered at armor and horseshoes, or worked on assorted weapons. Two mages worked with them, an open crate of small mana crystals within arm’s reach. Other commanders wouldn't bother with enchantments for gear issued to basic infantry, instead concentrating such expensive investments into a few elite units of higher level and specialized class. Knights serving other nobles would have equipment with various magical effects: weight reduction, speed, and enhancements for base attributes to boost their Strength or Agility. Such effects were potent, and permanent, and thus expensive.

The Battlemaster did things differently. By his orders, every piece of armor used by the Lance was to have low-level durability enchantments applied. Strengthening the base material of a piece of armor was simple enough for most magic-based classes, and did not require an actual Enchanter, nor did it use expensive materials or reagents. The effect wasn't permanent, so it was continuous work to keep the gear for an entire army in proper condition. The results, however, could not be denied. The Black Lance's infantry divisions punched above their weight class, able to stand toe-to-toe with Weldtir shield lines in training skirmishes. They also proved their worth dealing with beasts and other nasty monsters endemic to the soggy no-man's-land west of Kosala.

They had even exterminated several packs of undead. The lawlessness of the region meant there were no patrols to protect the many hamlets and small villages scattered across the lowlands, and as they were mostly clusters of people uninterested in swearing to nobles and serving any given nation, no one else would step in to fix the situation. Banditry and predation by beasts meant any village without high-leveled classers was uniquely vulnerable. That meant dead villagers, and untended corpses led to the dead rising if the ambient magic met the right conditions. Millie felt no small amount of satisfaction at the bandits they had caught and sent to the noose. She hadn't faced undead before, though, and wondered how they'd fare against her lightning.

Especially now that I can use both hands for my drum, she thought to herself, gripping the note tightly.

The quartermaster stood next to a folding table, marking tallies in a ledger and directing several workers who were stacking crates. He noticed her approach, reaching for the slip of paper with a grin.

"Back to work, Corporal?"

She nodded, signing with her hands. Most of the officers of the Lance understood her signing, and many of the regular troops did as well, at least to some extent. A silent cant to convey orders and information was useful when scouts or stealthy squads needed to communicate without giving away their position, and they had adopted the sign language taught by the duchess as an informal kind of pidgin handspeak.

"Finally! Need new armor."

"Standard gambeson with a coat of light plate," he read from the note, pulling a strip of cloth out of a pocket and stepping around the table to measure her arms and shoulders. "You're a bit taller now than when your last one was issued. Boots still fit?"

She nodded in the affirmative.

"We'll get you kitted out within the next hour or so. You'll need a spear as well—" He waved away her confused look. "Don't look at me like that, everybody learns the basics and you don't have an excuse now with your new arm. You never know when you might need it."

The quartermaster reached into one of the crates stacked behind the table, dropping a knife onto the table. "You'll need a blade as well. Standard-issue dagger."

A belt with a sheath came next, and then something Millie had not expected that caused her to grin despite herself.

"His Grace already ordered this for you," he said, placing a narrow pouch onto the table, similar to a bandolier, with a dozen drumsticks slotted into leather creases. "You drummers break them often enough that he ordered a few hundred from the woodwrights."

"Thank you, sir," she signed quickly. Donning the belt and knife, she strapped the pack of sticks to her leg at a height convenient to the reach of her hand.

"Now off with you, the commander should be expecting you."

Millie nodded respectfully, her new hand gripping her new spear, and turned back up the path towards the largest tent in the camp. The banner of the Lance fluttered in the cold damp wind as she approached.

It was time to report to the duke.

================

Jacob Ward eyed the sword laying across his desk, keeping his hands still with great effort. The Queen of Weldtir sat across from him, grinning like a child at the faire at his surprised expression. She had produced the blade from within a storage artifact, dropping it on his desk without preamble or announcement. It was a greatsword made of a smokey black steel, with a simple iron crossguard and leather-wrapped handle and a plain orb of polished metal for the pommel.

"And this is?" he asked, with one raised eyebrow.

"It's appropriate for the nobility and royals to give a gift commensurate with a service received."

"What service do you refer to?"

"You redirected an entire river when you demolished that levee, restoring trade routes to my homeland's interior after generations of exploitation had damn near choked my people economically. Forvale's tolls at the bridges and taxes, not to mention the raiders that only targeted Weldtir barges, were strangling our trade. Access to easier irrigation will also help revitalize our withering farms."

Jacob shook his head. "I can't claim that as an intentional accomplishment, though. We had no idea the entire river would change course."

Mette Weldt laughed. "Let’s call it an even trade for slapping that pig-headed shit so hard his heirs felt it in their knees."

"Yeah, King Valence of Forvale's a right piece of work, ain't he?" Jacob smirked, barely stifling a laugh of his own. He reached out, trailing his fingers along the dark material of the blade. "What manner of steel is this? I've seen this world's mithril alloys, and even a few pieces of adamantium. Let me tell you that they are a disappointment. They have cultural connotations in my world's fictions."

"Oh, you knew of them already?"

"Our stories portray adamantium as unbreakable and indestructible once it's forged. It's also shown as being a bright and shiny silver color, not a dull brownish-yellow. Mithril is strong in some stories, and soft like gold or lead in others, but with magical properties." He reached into the drawer of his desk as he spoke, withdrawing a bottle and two glasses. "Metal like this I haven't seen, and I figure that's a story worth a drink."

"Hanz did say you had good taste." Mette eyed the amber liquid with a smile as he poured. "It took me a while to find a proper gift. I couldn't grant you a land writ without wrangling my own court to give up some of their own personal holdings, and I suspect that's what this scroll from Rella is about anyway," she said, a rolled piece of parchment appearing in her hand. The wax seal of an eye held it closed as she placed it on the desk next to the sword. "The temple's coffers have you more than adequately funded, at least for the short term. Several of Weldtir's noble houses were interested in marriage arrangements seeking to curry favor and bind you to our banners, so be thankful you're already married. You don't seem the type to be interested in the political concubine game, and I don't play matchmaker with my children."

"That's refreshing, given how I've seen the nobility act so far, present company excluded. So," he added, changing the subject. "A sword. Enchanted? It doesn't feel like normal steel."

"It's not enchanted, but it is far from normal steel." She shook her head, pausing to savor a sip of the Kentucky bourbon. "The royal vaults have a few enchanted swords, of course, but most of them are frivolous trash." She tapped the hilt of her own sword, hanging at her side. "I prefer a simple sharpening enchantment with a piercing enhancement. That fancy shit that tries to make a blade seek weak points or vital organs makes them unstable and prone to jump in your hand. I prefer to wield the sword, not be wielded by it. If I have to fight my own weapon as well as the enemy, then something is wrong."

He nodded in understanding. "And this blade in particular?"

"Vesuvium alloy."

"Sounds very…" He paused. "Volcanic."

"It is. Quite often, ley lines run through or near volcanoes, and some ores are saturated with the mana. Iron in particular can soak up a lot of magic before it breaks down. Vesuvium steel is made with that iron, with a few other metals to soften it up enough to be worked at all."

"Quality workmanship." He lifted the sword carefully, one hand on the leather grip and one gently holding the blade. It felt slightly heavier than a normal greatsword, but that was of little concern with the increased strength inherent to his [Class]. "So it's magic, but not magical? What makes it difficult to forge?"

"Vesuvium doesn't like enchantments, and since it's already charged with so much mana you need an extremely hot, non-magical flame to heat and work it. Most enchanted weapons and armor are forged by blacksmiths with hybrid classes focused on creating enchanted gear, or working with mages to apply the spells at various stages of the process. You can't work vesuvium with a mana-forge or a magical fire. What it excels at, however, is the usage of [Skills]."

Jacob grinned. "I think I see what you're getting at."

"Yes. As resistant as it is to enchanting, it is that much more receptive to being affected by your class abilities and skills," she stated with an almost savage glee. "[Sweeping Strikes], [Blade Rush], [Riposte] or [Counter-Slash], any active weapon skill that applies, and many passive effects, will require less stamina to use, or will apply their effects more potently. Your class being a Battlemaster, I assume you have at least one or two sword skills even if you focus more on the spear and the lance and horsemanship."

"I have a skill or two that applies to sword techniques," he confirmed with a nod, without going into further detail. "Did you supply young Wyatt's gear as well?"

Mette chuckled in response. "Nope, that boy's kit comes by the grace of the [Oracle] herself. The girl's utterly smitten, and he's the only one that doesn't know it. No artefacts there that I can tell, but you never know what the temple has squirreled away."

"How's his training coming along?" Jacob asked, taking his eyes off the sword. "I sparred with him the one time, and he's born to stand in a shield wall."

"Once he plants his feet he doesn't take a step back, but he lacks focus. There's some kind of dynamic there with his sisters, and I've seen similar behaviors before. He's got that protector's personality and attitude, and not enough offensive mettle."

"He's a demon with that shield, though," Jacob admitted. "I wore out a mace, two spears, and a short sword, and he wasn't even winded. If he'd gone on the attack he might have forced me to really work at it."

"His sisters are far more aggressive. A dagger-wielding illusionist and a support specialist with haste and healing spells. There's definitely some co-dependence there; all three of them could likely benefit from training apart from each other for a while, but that's a fight not even the [Oracle] would win."

"Yes, the twins have their own issues. But he's been their protector since before they came here." Jacob reluctantly lowered the sword back to the desk, picking up the scroll. "And what's this, then?"

"I'm sure Rella has sent missives to all the relevant parties, but your status as a duke without any land holdings makes a lot of people nervous," said the warrior queen.

"I'm sure," he grunted with a smirk. He broke the seal on the roll of parchment, eyeing the elegant handwriting. "Nice of her to offer the Lance a list of several choices. Looks like South Hollows is a possibility." He stopped reading for a moment to look at the Iron Queen. "I take it they're worried I'm going to try to take a piece of their lands for myself."

"Well, it won't be necessary now. The temple owns plenty of estates all over the continent, of course, but she needed something that doesn't border anyone else. The [Oracle] is neutral by her very nature, but that is easy to forget for many among the nobility. She tries to avoid even the appearance of playing favorites whenever she can."

Jacob continued scanning the document. A few moments later he asked, "And where exactly is this Castra Pristis? I don't recall seeing it on any maps, although I gather it's beyond the mountains."

"On the other side of Expedition Pass, a few days' ride on the Old Road once the snows melt. It's on the edge of the Wildlands. The expedition every summer uses the abandoned fort and surviving town structures as a base camp for harvesting witchwood and hunting the higher tiered beasts of the region."

She tipped back her glass to finish the rest of her drink, eyeing the empty vessel with a forlorn gaze. "It would need a bit of work, of course, but the writ would give you the lands from the top of Expedition Pass to the edge of the Wildwood. The interior of the Wildlands isn't very well mapped out, but if you can hold Castra Pristis and rebuild the fortress, you'll have lucrative trade with Expedition itself and possibly Sprocket and Thun'Kadrass."

"Thun'Kadrass can kiss my warhorse's a... er, saddle," grumbled the Battlemaster. "They sent a representative before we left Expedition, demanding I hand over my sidearm. Claimed it violated some treaty I've never heard of and wouldn't have signed even if I had."

Mette's eyes bulged before she burst out laughing. "Forgotten Gods, that's brilliant. Their biggest fear is the secret of their cannons getting out. Every kingdom north of the desert is part of their treaty except for Kosala. They won't trade with anyone who doesn't abide by it, and they don't seem to realize that most of us don't care since mage cadres have artillery spells."

"Cannons don't really impress me, at least not the few that we saw at Expedition. And Anfealt is a century or more away from having the means to make ones comparable to Earth's artillery three centuries past," he said. "At least in any numbers worth the cost. They have their uses, certainly. They don't run out of mana or get tired. But the Dwarven guns also only do one thing really well, while also being extremely heavy and cumbersome." With a chuckle, he continued, "Mostly I just don't appreciate their attitude. Marching into my camp and demanding I give them my hand cannon is the wrong way to introduce yourself."

"They do tend to be arrogant. Thun'Kadrass is actually the more courteous of the lot," she explained with a shake of her head. "Thun'Modran would have tried to turn one of your people to steal it. They're smaller than Thun'Kadrass and far less direct. The others are probably staying away for now since you're working directly with the [Oracle]. They can definitely be dangerous though, so keep an eye out."

Jacob was about to reply, but was interrupted as the tent flap was pulled aside and his steward looked in and made eye contact. James-Peter had taken grievous wounds defending Erin from corrupted mutants when Tinkertown burned. The medics trained by the duchess had saved his life, but they lacked the potency of her [Skills] and by the time she had recovered from the battle, much of the damage was permanent. He was left with scarred vocal cords and spoke with difficulty, but the young man had proven to be a diligent steward and assistant.

"Miss Thatcher to see you, sir," he grated politely.

The Queen of Weldtir stood, giving Jacob a slight bow as he stood as well. "I'll leave you to your duties, Your Grace."

"Majesty," he replied with a slightly deeper bow of his own.

"I'll say one last thing, on Titles pertaining to such things as nobility. You're already a duke, and you have a loyal army. Your banner grows every day with more recruits and more followers. You hold land by the authority of the [Oracle] herself. Titles are not static: they can be lost with ease, but they can also change." Her smile was almost sad as she turned to leave the tent. "A seat can all too easily become a throne, and a crown is heavier than a duchy."

Jacob stood there, lost in thought until Millie's salute drew his attention.

The Title of "Duke" was heavy enough.