Muted clangs resounded throughout the small valley wedged between two of the foothills surrounding Westhill. Trading limp blows, two of Durakel’s recruited farmhands sparred with swords wrapped in linen rags to dull and protect the blades. He spectated the practice duel in silence, his trained gaze dissecting their posture and footwork. After a few moments, the third recruit entered the fray, replacing his defeated comrade. A half hour of practice passed before Durakel called the men to halt. They trotted back to where he stood and dropped to their knees. He smiled at the gesture and beckoned them back to their feet, grabbing each of them by the shoulder.

“How much did my cousin tell you before sending you to the tavern?”

The youngest of the laborers answered first, “He said his cousin from the city was goin’ north to help some other farmers. Said it would bring honor and silver to our homestead. Figured I had to help out.”

“What do they call you, my friend?”

“Varag, lord.”

Durakel rubbed his beard, looking at Varag’s eager face. Short and stocky, Varag seemed to have worked a lifetime on the farm, but the scant wisps of hair on his cheeks revealed his youth. The other two men sported fuller beards and stood a few inches taller than Varag.

“You can call me Durakel. You are here to help me rescue some farmers up north and I am here to make sure we all get back home in one piece.”

“I’m here for the silver and honor,” one of the other workers spoke up.

Durakel flashed a grin at the outspoken man, clenching a fist and tapping it to his chest.

“There will be plenty of both. What do they call you?”

“Vuk.”

The man’s tan and weathered skin crawled with old and young scars and his brown eyes darted around the valley. Durakel studied the older man’s muscular and scarred arms and noticed several faded runes inked on Vuk’s upper arm. Fidgeting under the inspection, Vuk crossed his arms and aimed a frown at Durakel.

“So when do we head north?”

Grunting, Durakel turned to check the sun’s height in the sky and peered back towards the village.

“The other two should be here soon, I want to get a look at what they can do before we head out.”

Durakel watched the men spar for another half hour before Agarn and Kinsa arrived at the field. He grunted at the pair and pointed at a trio of wooden blocks arrayed at different distances on the hillside. Brow raised, Kinsa began stringing her bow and then took aim at the targets. All three arrows landed plum center on the blocks, earning her a few open mouths from the practicing farmhands. She smirked and turned to Durakel, a broad smile plastered on her face.

“Not bad. Again.”

Her eyes rolled as she turned again and took aim. Before she could release the first arrow, Durakel sidled up next to her and yelled into her ear. Startled, her shot flew wide to the right, and she turned to scowl at Durakel, “What the hell?”

“I don’t care if you can stand here and shoot your little bow. If I’m dumping silver into your pockets and trusting your aim to save my ass, I need to know you can handle it when the battle falls to pieces.”

Jaw clenched, Kinsa glared at Durakel before returning her aim to the first of the targets. He caught his breath and stepped close again, but she fired before he could scream again. The arrow flew true, striking the first block next to her other arrow. Durakel released his breath and watched as she leveled her arrow at the next target. As she drew back on the string, he roared again, but Kinsa held on until Durakel exhausted himself. Grunting in satisfaction, Durakel smiled as she proceeded to nail the two remaining targets.

“Next challenge. A live target.”

Kinsa’s eyes flew open as she watched Durakel trot out to the hillside in between the three blocks. About a hundred paces away, Durakel turned and drew his sword. He stood still for a moment and then howled, racing toward her. Fumbling with her quiver, she hurried to notch an arrow and launch it at the roaring swordsman. He watched her draw the arrow and dove into the grass, scrambling again to his feet as he heard the arrow fly overhead. Gritting her teeth and taking her time to aim at her assailant, Kinsa waited until Durakel had cut the gap in half to fire again.

Spinning, Durakel grunted as the arrow ripped a gash in his leather jerkin and tore the flesh along his ribcage. He slowed his charge to a walk and bit his lip as he strode over to the gaping Kinsa and Agarn.

“Not a terrible shot, I guess, but if I hadn’t let you hit me, you’d have a sword in your gut right now.”

Doubling over, Vuk roared with laughter and the two other farmhands followed suit. Kinsa’s mouth opened and closed as she watched Durakel saunter up to her cousin and begin shedding his chest piece. Hair covered Durakel’s large chest and stomach and blood seeped out of a broad gash on his right flank. He sucked his breath in as he poked around the wound with tender fingers. An expectant glance at Agarn set the man in motion and he drew closer to inspect the cut.

“Well, if you claim to be a healer, this shouldn’t be difficult to fix up.”

The bald healer muttered under his breath and scowled as his fingers danced in the air over the wound.

“Nothing important got hit, but that’s a nasty gash you got there. Idiot.”

Durakel cocked his eyebrow and watched the man work, clenching his jaw tight. Bending over, Agarn drew closer to the bleeding flesh. From his elevated vantage point, Durakel eyed the tattoos crawling down Agarn’s neck into his shirt and blinked as the faded green ink began glowing for a brief instant. The glow faded and Durakel felt a sudden and intense itching sensation as his flesh knit itself together. Staring at the closed wound, Durakel failed to hear the shaman bark another spell and jerked backwards when a fistful of water splashed over his midsection.

The blood sloughed out of the dense hair covering his abdomen and the globe of water reformed, this time tinted a muddy red color. A flick of Agarn’s wrist sent the ball to the side where it fell into the grass. Durakel grunted, continuing to appreciate the clean healing on his side, only a small pink scar remaining. Turning to look at the shaman, a grin cracked Durakel’s impassive face and he grabbed Agarn’s forearm, shaking it with vigor.

“I guess I might be able to find a use for ya on this trek after all. Let’s just hope your cousin here doesn’t miss next time she shoots a warrior.”

Agarn cackled as Durakel’s barbs focused their attention on his cousin. Scowling, Kinsa nocked another arrow and gestured for Durakel to head back out into the field. He chortled and winked at her. The farmhands regained their composure and stopped gaping after Durakel donned his leather jerkin again and returned his focus to them.

Vuk stepped forward and thumped his chest with a closed fist. Glancing at each other, the other two farmers repeated the action and stood straighter as the lord inspected each of them.

“So when do we head north?”

Weariness opening the door to a raucous series of jokes, the small band loosened up and regaled one another with their greatest exploits. Durakel walked a few paces ahead of his group. Lips pursed, he fiddled with the pommel of his sword as he considered marching his followers in the morning. They ambled back into town on a well trod dirt path skirting the tavern. Halting, Durakel paused as a burly man with a scraggly beard pushed off the wall of the bar. He took a few measured steps and rested his hands on his hips as he traded stares with Durakel.

“Fella running the bar said you needed extra blades and had extra silver.”

Keeping silent, Durakel nodded.

“How much silver we talkin’?”

“Depends how well you can handle a blade,” Durakel countered.

The man grinned and drew a claymore, settling into a stance as he stared at Durakel. Groaning, Durakel returned the gesture, handing his pack to Vuk and slinging a buckler off his shoulder. A few minutes passed as the two circled one another, trading taunts as they waited. Feeling the gaze of his recruits, Durakel scowled and lifted his buckler higher before running toward his opponent. Grinding his heels in the dust, he pivoted and swung the flat of his sword at his challenger’s back. A breathless gasp rewarded his maneuver and the two men separated again to prowl in a circle. His opponent made the next move, taking short steps toward Durakel, leveraging the longer reach of his blade. Parrying most of the strikes, Durakel shifted backwards. He caught the next blow on his shield and put his shoulder behind it, shoving the other fighter.

Off balance, his foe staggered back, deflecting Durakel’s pursuing strike just before it caught his leather jerkin. Settling back into their stances, the men launched another rapid exchange, neither able to land anything more than a glancing blow. Durakel back peddled to his small band and waved the other fighter over.

“I’ve seen enough, friend. I can tell your blade is more than just an ornament. What do they call you?”

“Leganad. Where are we headed and where’s the silver?”

“To the point, I respect that. I’m Durakel Ramhorn. I’ll show you a map and a bag of silver when we get to my camp in the hills.”

Leganad grunted and fell into step at the rear of the line, following Durakel’s band back to Murago’s farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. The sun approached its last legs in the sky as they reached the house. Holding up a fist, he stopped and watched a handful of workers trickle out of the fields and into the house, following the smoke rising from a stone chimney on the roof. His stomach growled and he patted it before turning to his recruited band, “Anyone hungry?”

Quieting down the eager mouths of his band, Durakel stepped inside his cousin’s home and gestured his group toward the long tables. He ambled over to the kitchen, trailing his hands along the large fireplace he used to climb every summer with Murago. He found his cousin facing a kitchen table, slicing away at fresh loaves of bread and roasted meats.

“I was gonna clap your shoulders and startle you, but I know how you handle a knife and I’d like to keep my fingers.”

Murago snorted and set the knife down before turning and clasping his cousin in a hug. Durakel settled into a rickety wooden chair, catching up about the day as Murago continued slicing the food.

“I’ll be leaving a bag of silver here for all the food and ale we’ve liberated from you,” Durakel said, grinning as he swiped a sliver of boar off the counter top.

“Oh I know you will,” his cousin replied, tapping the blade of the knife on the counter near Durakel’s hand.

“I appreciate you sending some of your boys out to me. I know you told me not to make any promises, but I’ll do my best to bring ‘em all home.”

His cousin offered no reply, placing the sliced food onto a large platter and beckoning one of the farm hands over. Murago rested his knuckles on the table and bowed his head. The muscles in Murago’s jaw clenched a few times and Durakel stood up, placing a hand on his cousin’s back.

“I’ve known them since I was a boy. I can’t let them not come home.”

Durakel’s chin dipped and he scratched his beard, “I understand. I’ll tell them that I just got word Ironhill wants us to keep the warband tight.”

His cousin turned to face him and furrowed his brow, “I can’t let you not come home either, Dura. I’ll be grabbing my sword and walking behind ya when you break camp tomorrow.”

A wide grin broke across Durakel’s face and he wrapped his cousin in a crushing hug. Murago laughed and then considered the ground for a few moments before speaking again, “I need you to ask Ironhill for a few extra farm hands and I’m gonna be needing you to pay me as well. I’m with you, but I gotta do right by Ma before I leave.”

“Absolutely, cousin. Anything you need.”

In Murago’s study, Durakel scrawled a quick note asking Gurunder if he would hire a few extra laborers to replace the farmhands accompanying the warband. Clambering back up the basement ladder, Durakel tracked down Shegara, slipped the note in her hand, and told her to make sure Rogden could find the group at Murago’s farm. She clasped Durakel’s arm and nodded at him before striding out the door and back to Ironhill to deliver the note.

The next few hours as the last of the evening light left the sky, Durakel made several introductions, seeking to familiarize Rogden and his pair of guards and Murago and his men with the recruits from Westhill’s tavern. Feeling confident and full of roasted boar, Durakel stood and cleared his throat.

“I know it takes a lot for warriors such as yourself to refrain from drinking too much, but we do have some miles to go and some details to discuss. As I promised, I will give you half of the silver when we reach my camp a few miles north of here. Should you agree to continue accompanying me, the rest of the silver will await you here. When we make camp tonight, I will crack one of the kegs I bought in town and you will have the privilege of learning how to earn the glory and silver of Ironhill.”

Cheers erupted from the table and the energetic younger recruits sprang up and set about tracking down their gear with haste. Durakel waited by the door with Shegara and Relad, waiting for the warband to ready themselves. Fiddling with the sigil around his neck, Durakel watched the eagerness of the band and noticed the rapid tapping of his right foot. Relad clapped him on the back and gave him a soft smile and a firm nod. Durakel exhaled and let his hand fall to his side.

“I hope the cheers were for the glory of Ironhill and not for the casks of ale waiting at the camp.”

Shegara snickered and offered small consolation, “Sometimes such things are one and the same.”

The trek out to his men’s campsite only took the group an hour. Seeing his lord return, Bagrad jumped atop a stone outcropping and roused the men, “He returns! Tap the kegs!”

Durakel smiled and turned to the party behind him, raising his arms in their direction, he yelled, “Enjoy the ale, enjoy the silver I will pass out, and enjoy listening to how we tonight will begin earning our place in the histories. Our place among the warriors of legend.”

Hurrahs blasted out of the group and they flowed around Durakel and into the camp, swarming the pair of kegs and the lucky warriors chosen to tap the barrels. After a brief frenzy, the men settled down with their fresh flagons and formed a ring around Durakel. Flanked by his two lieutenants and Rogden, Durakel stood atop a short boulder and surveyed his warband. Seventeen warriors stood at attention, eyes glued to Durakel as the firelight reflected off his chain armor.

“This mission is not to go and engage an enemy and defeat them on the field. This mission is to go and defend and protect and empower our villages and farms in the north. West River is threatening our villagers and farmers and shepherds and this cannot continue. They want to threaten our friends and families and steal their crops and steal their livelihoods.”

The crowd jeered and scowled and Durakel gave a few moments for his words to sink in. The jeers and angry looks grew as they drained their ale and began talking amongst themselves. He looked past his men to the dancing fire and then out to the farms surrounding their camp. Resting his hands on his sword hilt, he sighed and cast a quick glance to his right, catching Rogden’s eyes. The other lord breathed in and gave Durakel a slow nod, jaw clenching as he looked away. Durakel chewed his lip and returned to the eager faces hanging on his words.

“We are going to send a message, to strike their warriors and make damn sure those pig lovers never again dream they can threaten our farmers or take our lands from us. For Ironhill!”

The scowls and angry muttering turned into cheers and battle cries as the warband clinked their mugs with one another. Durakel’s heart pumped faster as he watched the excitement grow and a slow grin snuck onto his face. A firm bump on his left leg made him look down and he accepted the flagon of ale from Relad’s stern face. He raised his own cup to the sky and Rogden hollered at the men to quiet them down for Durakel’s last words.

“Tomorrow we begin marching northwest for a few days. Scouts will be sent out and further plans will be outlined. The final day we march at night, so get the drinking and gambling and laughter out of your system tonight. I want to cover some ground tomorrow.”

Hopping down, Durakel walked a few dozen yards outside of the glow from the bonfire. Rogden ambled over and placed an arm around Durakel’s shoulders, keeping their faces turned away from the carousing of the camp.

“I can tell you’re stuck on something.”

Durakel grunted, fingers twisting the iron ramhead hanging from his necklace. He watched the rolling hills surrounding the village then stared up at the blanket of stars glimmering above the countryside.

“I fully believe in what your father sent us out here to do. I’m just starting to struggle with claiming burning down a bunch of fields is glorious.”

Silent, Rogden nodded his head and squeezed Durakel’s shoulder. He kept quiet, watching the stars and listening to the crickets chittering outside the camp.

“Burning one season worth of crops to make sure our farms can grow them for a lifetime seems honorable to me,” Rogden spoke up after several minutes.

“Hmph. Not a bad point, my friend. I might have to keep my eyes forward and think about that.”

Rogden clapped him on the back and turned to stride back into the camp, seeking out his own flagon for the night. Remaining outside of the camp, Durakel turned to inspect the men dancing around the fire. Peals of laughter and song sailed into the sky as his warband celebrated their last night before the march. He took a few deep breaths and downed the remainder of his cup before tossing it down and cracking his knuckles. Bounding back into the camp and onto the rock he used for his speech, he yelled into the crowd.

“I need two more cups and a fool that thinks he drinks faster than me!”