Battlesquire: First Blood - C. 2017 M.H. Johnson

"Estocs at the ready!" Jess shivered at those words, the strong baritone voice of her armsmaster washing over the collective assembly of Jess and her fellow Squires, presently mounted on their restive horses, each and every one of those mounts a destrier bred to endure the trials of war. Their owners wore identical steel helms and breastplates over full hauberks of mail, arms and legs additionally protected by thick plates of hardened rawhide, boiled and treated to resist rot and mold, with thick quilted gambesons underneath it all.

To be fully warded as Jess and her companions were, protected by steel far more finicky to work with than it once had been, well able to ward any thrust or cut by sword or spear, gave the noblemen who could so afford to armor themselves a huge edge on the battlefield. Of course, the edge that coin brought could only take one so far.

In mastering the arts of war nothing beat dedicated training, and Jess knew she could do no better than study the tactics and techniques of the most brilliant and feared commander ever to lead Erovering's troops in living memory. To dedicate herself to the general turned instructor who was glaring at her even now.

“Jess! Focus!”

Jess took a trembling breath and forced herself to concentrate, catching sight of her brother-in-arms, whose worried gaze Jess could sense even through his visor, and forced herself to focus on the here and now, slowly drawing her estoc, worthless for slashing but the best suited of all blades for piercing armor, as all her fellow Squires already had.

“Charge!”

The crack of her commander's voice. The sudden pounding of her heart as she, along with every other Squire of War, kicked their armored heels to their destrier's flanks, a flood of horseflesh and steel surging towards the scores of armored mannequins just a hundred yards away, dozens of spring mounted spears jutting out of the ground as they charged right for them.

"Jess!" She could barely hear him above the din, but the intensity of their nominal leader's voice cut through the din. "Now, Jess!"

"I'm on it, Neal!" Jess said, even as she leaned into the charge, tilting forward in her stirrups, head lowered, her blade held in tierce with braced wrist and thumb, estoc aimed straight ahead, ready to give point to devastating effect, even as the forest of spears parted for them but moments before impact.

The sudden jarring of her estoc spearing into the frontmost target before her, effortlessly piercing the salted and dried pig's carcass dressed in much-patched cuir bouilli, once her blade bit through the armor.

Jess's momentary elation turned instantly to panic as the blade rammed straight through to the hilt, and she had to immediately let go and draw Mercy's reins as the thin leather cord securing her weapon to her wrist snapped away, so fast she had charged.

A momentary jolt of pain, and hottest shame flushed her cheeks.

She was using an estoc, not a spear or lance! Angled death was the order of the day. Not spearing straight on if she was to flow away as her fellows were doing, and form up for further charges.

Unless slamming into her foes moments before lashing out with war hammer or saber in melee, the estoc was only for lancing her foes at angles. Clever angles that allowed her to pivot and lean forward so that her shoulder took no strain as her weapon plunged into her target's torso an instant before she relaxed her wrist and dipped her shoulder as her arm gently windmilled back, the post mounted carcass spinning about from the power of Mercy's charge, her blade sliding free as her destrier rode past.

Expertly done, her foe would be spitted, spun about, and utterly disoriented for the few moments he still lived, organs ruptured as her blade tore free, with a minimum of strain to her arm. Done incorrectly, she could break her wrist unless coming to a quick stop or immediately releasing her blade, as she had been forced to do today.

And here she was, all but flat-footed before an entire host of hypothetical foes, most of her fellow Squires already retreating.

With a frustrated curse, she pivoted Mercy around and galloped back to the blank gazes of her peers, and the icy blue stare of her mentor, General Eloquin, froze her to her core.

“Calenbry!” His voice cut through her.

"Yes, sir."

Jess winced her eyes shut. She couldn't help it, just imagining all the things he could say.

Here she was, training so hard to be a part of their elite band, cut flat-footed like a fool in an encounter that could have spelled her death.

That he said nothing for so long, just gazing at her so coldly, was a torment her racing heart could barely stand.

“Angled death for estocs, sir. Straight on charge is only for spear and lance, unless and until we are to engage in melee," Jess said, unable to bear the silence any longer.

And even as those words escaped her lips she winced, knowing that she shouldn't have said a word at all.

Strangely, even as several soft whispers from her peers made her think she was truly in for it, General Eloquin did naught but give a single curt nod.

“See that your hands recall that as well as your head, Calenbry, and you might just live to see the far side of your first engagement.”

Heart pounding, Jess just bobbed her head. For all that it was, for him, an exceedingly mild rebuke, still Jess wanted to curl up in shame.

She had never made that mistake before.

Why the hell was she so bloody distracted today?

“Perhaps it is not because of the fields of grass and flowers waving so prettily in the morning breeze, mistress, but what, during the dead hours of darkness, is soon to come.”

Jess winced and nodded, refusing to say a word to the cat perched upon her shoulder.

“Squires! Ready yourselves. For we are to practice that maneuver again until every one of you gets it right! Your lives, and the lives of your brothers and sisters-in-arms depend upon it!”

He turned to Jess once more. “Calenbry!”

Jess stiffened to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Retrieve your estoc! And do so at a walk. Gazing into the eyes of each and every one of your fellows. Let the shame of your failure burn only so long as it takes for you to remember that one day soon, far more than shame will be the cost of folly, when your peers lives are held in your hands.”

So soft it was almost a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

At a walk, feeling the hot gazes of her fellows piercing her back, she made her way to the other end of their jousting run, taking deep, steadying breaths as she worked her weapon free of the massive carcass smelling of toughened rawhide and salted gamy meat, finding momentary peace in the vast and beautiful forest and fields all about the school she had called home these last few years, gazing with awe at the massive keep carved directly into the steep face of the mountainside, well deserving of its name Highrock, and its reputation as the best martial academy to be found anywhere in Erovering, and perhaps the continent entire.

She, Jessica de Calenbry, for all her faults, was a student of this school, and a member of one of the most elite bands of proteges to be found anywhere in Erovering. She would bear the weight of her master's displeasure with head held high.

No matter her faults, she would prove herself worthy of the mantle Squire of War.

Still, heading back to her band with over three score of her peers gazing right at her was almost more than she could endure. She didn't even try to resheathe her estoc, so hard was her hand trembling.

And when she arrived, pinned by the gaze of Neal, one of the most skilled tacticians among them, no scorn did she see in his gaze.

He merely smiled and nodded. “Angled death, sister. And for warding us from their death in turn, you have proven yourself, as always.”

Perhaps because he was their squad leader, Eloquin chose to let Neal's soft words of comfort go.

Twilight smirked. “Considering how useful you are, I think they can forgive you giving point less than perfectly. Still, let's try not to mess up again, all right, my mistress? I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a might bit peckish, and I can smell Cook's wonderful whitefish stew, even from here.” Her familiar purred.

Jess wisely said not a word, merely saluting her cold-eyed mentor with blade in hand before rejoining her peers, this time determined to be worthy of her band.