If continental people were colorful, the Free Cities were a riot. They came a month after our arrival. The dust they raised heralded their coming. When they came into sight, they made a statement. I have come to love the energy and color of the Free Cities. But my first impression was one of amused bemusement. They marched in step with each other. Their captain had paraded them through the city and now it was our turn to be given a show.

Our band had volunteered to be on watch that afternoon. Lord Cedric and the pick of his housecarls were absent from the camp that morning. We assumed they had business in the city. I was in for a shock when I saw the large host making straight for our camp. They marched in neat squares to the beat of a rattling drum. Marching right up to our gates, they made an about face and marched around our outer perimeter. The maneuver was damned impressive when executed in the hundreds.

I had no idea who they were, but it was all very exciting. In retrospect, I should have been a lot more wary of rapidly approaching armed men. But they looked like a moving carnival. In the north we do not shy away from bold color. Though it must be said that we prefer more subdued tones. Seeing Free City condottiere for the first time, I had never seen so much tassel and braid on a man. As I said, a riot of color. And the codpieces! Thank the powers that be they went out of fashion. Some were so large I thought they were worn out of of irony.

Once the novelty of the situation had worn off, I realized that a host of unknown warriors had just formed up outside our camp. I was not strategist, but it seemed like we were in a potentially perilous situation. Looking around me I noticed that none of my fellow sentries were too alarmed. But they were still equally slack jawed distracted as I had just been. I caught the eye of a housecarl on our section of the perimeter. He just gave me a knowing shake of his head before leisurely walking his route.

With our immediate security assured, I noticed a small band of riders were outlined on a nearby hill. Beside them was the unmistakable silhouette of lord Cedric. He was about as tall as mounted individual. This party slowly descended the high ground and approached our camp. At the head of the group was Lord Cedric flanked by two horsemen. Ah, let me correct myself, a horseman and a horsewoman. The woman was striking the moment I saw her. Short black hair, olive skin. She wore an enormous leather brimmed hat plumed with a colorful feather. She was downright exotic to my dreary northern sensibilities. This was Captain General Alessia Faccini, infamous scholar, mercenary captain, engineer extraordinaire. Beside her rode a paler but nevertheless sun touched youth. Frankly, he was an overdressed fop with a ridiculous moustache. He was the first person, let alone man, I had ever seen wear an earring. I disliked him on sight.

We were not integrated together as a fighting force. If we were to be a fighting force, it would have made sense to. Instead we were kept segregated out of convenience. An attempt to bring us together would have elicited the tricky question of who would be in overall command. The housecarls and condottiere would fight tooth and nail over who would lead them. There was also the language and culture divide between both forces. There was no doubt that as a whole, the Free Cities contingent were far superior professionals. There were eight hundred of them in total. Six hundred fighting men and two hundred support auxiliaries. Whilst our housecarls were most certainly a match for the condottiere, they were but a fraction of our force. Even their auxiliaries were better equipped than most of us.

Questions abounded when the dust had settled, and the southerners set up camp. Most of us had been too wrapped up with their arrival to have ask any earlier. Our curiosity was addressed in the evening when Lord Cedric gave us our orders. They were our allies and we would be marching on the capital beside them. Soon confirmation from the Duke of Artois would arrive and we would head south. There would be various stops on our tour. We would have to be on our best behavior. Our job was to act professional and look intimidating. To that effect we were all handed black cloaks and ordered to daub our shields in pitch. Whilst our arms and armor were a plethora of quantity and quality, a menacing aesthetic would cover for our shortcomings. Officers from the recently arrived Free Cities contingent would teach our warband how to move in formation. We would have mass maneuver drills in the morning.

Not everybody appreciated being roused early in the morning. For our band it changed little to our standing routine. Oskar had ingrained into us a regimen of caution and awareness. He was not a little paranoid in his ways. Still it was good practice for all of us. We kept a night watch, for whom or what we had no idea. It was just the way things were done under him. I for one was excited for the morning drill. Not because I was a bright-eyed recruit, but more so that I was interested in the new southerners.

My excitement was soon quashed by the exertions subjected to us. Everybody moving in step in large numbers sounds easy. It was a simple concept at that. But simple did not necessarily mean easy. Getting us all out of camp was a task in and of itself. Most of us trickled out of our quarters on time. We milled about on the plains right outside of our encampment. There were a few stragglers, but we all took the event seriously enough. What Lord Cedric commanded, we obeyed. Though not with enough alacrity for our new handlers.

Our instructors came in the form of hard-faced veterans. They may have dressed flamboyantly, but their craggy visages were more than a match for even our hardest mugs. When we were all assembled, the meanest looking one of them stepped up to address us all. His name was Arturo. His men called him Bestia. He was in charge of making us into a presentable body of men. One that wouldn’t flock into the capital like a gaggle of children. He said a lot more, especially about our questionable parentage and copulating habits. But I will not go into the details. We all got his stirring words through a pasty young translator next to him. The boys voice broke through several parts of his translation. Considering the nature of his words, some of us broke into chuckles at the delivery. We would come to regret that.

Bestia means beast in Old Imperial. We did not know that, so we just called him a bastard. And what a bastard old Bestia was. He was like a miniature bull rampaging through our shambling formation. Before we even began to practice the parade march, we had to form a square. We were very good at making an amorphous mass. That was not what he wanted. Getting into ranks and columns was a nightmare. We tried to form up by bands but that did not work. Some bands were larger others smaller. Our uneven height differences made the whole formation look patchy. Bestia shouted himself horse trying to make some sense of us all. Lord Cedric just stood to the side with a slightly bemused expression. There was a lot of work to do before we could enter the capital.

Thankfully, it seemed like we had a lot to time to get into shape. The afore mentioned orders must have been delayed. We spent an additional week without departing from Dusien. In the meantime, we practiced formations whilst the city inhabitants came to watch us. We became something of a carnival to the city of Dusien. Initially they just came to see us bumble about whilst getting screamed at by Bestia and his cadre. Soon the Free City mercenaries started to publicly drill in front of the civilian viewers. They fenced with swords, held melee’s, even jousted to the crowd’s delight. Our leaders must have felt that they had to do something as well. Getting shouted at did not paint a good image of the Isles.

Lord Cedric announced that we would be holding dules and mock shield walls. Participants were offered prizes for competing in the events. Oskar was set against participating. He did not care if we as individuals took part, but he himself would not. Alwin and I immediately signed ourselves up for the games. Godwin and Winston had also put their names down. We would be dueling opponents in the hazel branch circle. Of course, we would be using blunt edges. But it was still done without armor and with metal weapons.

We all got into a festive mood as the sound of metal on metal rang through our camp. There was a week until the first bouts would be held. Winston borrowed my sword to practice with. Watching him try cuts and thrusts made me realize the sword suited him better than it did me. I had never cared about a weapon beyond it having a keen edge and a strong back. I never named them or saw fit to add ornamentation. It was a tool, something that warranted care and maintenance not fetishization. But I noticed that there was something more to weapons than simple serviceability. Winston was both taller and broader than me. I was short for my age, even now I am short for a highborn. When I held that sword, I had never thought about it. Whilst Winston lacked my confidence with the weapon, he wielded it easily. In watching him I reflected that I had often found the blade awkward in little ways. It was a little too long and a little too heavy. I may grow into it but in some ways, I would never grow into the sparth axe like Winston could.

There was not much improvement you could make in week of practice. Nevertheless, we all made our token preparations. I got back into the habit of fighting. I know it is a rather obvious consideration. Listen, working for Wulfric had kept my sword in its scabbard for long months. It was strange how the senses could dull over time. My reaction speed and the effortless ability to read opponents movements had grown rusty. Godwin and Alwin sparred like old partners. They probably were old partners. Winston was new to the world of warriors. He had none of Alwin’s training nor my experience. What he did have was a ruddy big physique that gave him a nasty reach and jarring blows. The only glaring issue he had was that he was sword shy. He did not flinch oncoming blows. Rather he hesitated to give any of his own. Violence did not easily come to him.

The week quickly passed. Between morning drills and afternoon practice, time seemed to flow like water. We eagerly anticipated the first round of competitions. The southerners preening themselves whilst impressive at first, was starting to become grating. It was a matter of pride now. Speaking for myself, I found the styles of the Free Cities fascinating. Their system or arms was more mature than our own. If that translated into real effectiveness on the battlefield, I had no idea. But in a man to man duel, they were lethal. Their system of parries and guards reflected their penchant for fighting without shields. Their swords had more developed hand protection than our own. I took note of their technique and tried to incorporate it into my own.

The four of us watched the first bout of the tournament. It had attracted a curious crowd from the city and the Free Cities camp. As was tradition, a hazel branch was used to mark the circle in which the two men would enter. In a real duel only one would exit. For the duration of this contest however, it ended when one man yielded, or his knees hit the earth. It was the hazel court where men were tested. Both fighters were highlanders. Their individual tartan denoted their clans. I did not recognise their colors but evidently, they each other. Or by clan at least. If there was one thing to know about highland politics; if they remembered you, they most likely held a grudge against you. The fight was promising to be a bloody one.

Red and green plaid fluttered as both men rushed to hack into each other. Wheeling cuts and near misses flew between duelists. It was a kind of fighting that southerners were unaccustomed to. Their dueling rings were less… ferocious. There was a frenetic energy as the highlanders furiously laid into each other. It was the kind of fighting I was familiar with. Speed and brutality were the hallmark of the clans. It was the embodiment of highland warfare. Attack, attack, and attack. Maintain a ferocious tempo so that the foe could not exploit your weaknesses.

There was blood on the blades as the men fought. They were keening a death wail at each other. The cheering and jeering had grown silent. A horrified fascination captivated the people of Dusien. The Free Cities mercenaries were split between disdain and admiration. Our fighting lacked their technique and refinement. I suspect it was barbaric to southern eyes. The fight ended in a draw. The judicator called the match even. If left to their own devices, both would have beaten the other to death. One was already bloody from the gash to his head. Although the blades were blunt, they still had an edge driven by muscle and weight. His ear was left hanging by gristle. We cheered both warriors. The southerners looked pale.

Alwin had the first fight amongst us. He worked his magic and somehow managed to blindside his opponent. The man stumbled as he tried to meet the oblique threat. Alwin ended the fight with a dismissive backhand cut. Godwin was next, he was paired with another housecarl as an opponent. Both were solid veterans. Their fight stated slowly. Both tested the other’s capabilities in probing attacks neither committed to. Cut parry, cut parry. They circled each other in a strained exchange. Dueling oft times bears little resemblance to stage fighting. On the battlefield boldness wins. In a duel it is often caution and timing that are king. There were abrupt stops and starts in their exchange. After a quick parry and disengage, Godwin must had sensed an opportunity. He immediately closed the distance with a lunge. I was the first thrust of the fight and it ended the competition. Pity of all pities his opponent awkwardly parried the blow. Godwin overextended and slipped on the grass. He fell. His knees hit the earth and he was disqualified from the competition.

Winston and I had our matches the next day. Godwin became the target of our ribbing for that evening. The stoic housecarl took it all with good humor. Oskar, despite displaying an initial front of disinterest, had a lot to say about the competition. As a man at arms he was a difficult creature to quantify. He neither failed nor excelled with any weapon. Regardless, he could consistently bring down better men. Watching him fight was an education on how anything could be a weapon. Winston listened to his observations with wide eyed attention.

I went off into the darkness to work myself into tiredness. It was going to be a long day tomorrow and I wanted to have a good night’s sleep. I went through the motions with my sword. I tried to replicate the way I saw the southerners fought. Without a shield it was the superior system in my eyes. It was all about angles for them. A poor guard was easily broken. I waved my arms about in a seemingly ridiculous fashion. A snort of laughter interrupted my exercise. Flushing, I spun to find Alwin watching me.

“Unless you were imitating a drunk, that was the most imaginative way of flailing a weapon I’ve ever seen.”

The boy was smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were the same serene calmness they always had. I shrugged and dropped my sword in frustration. It was pointless getting angry at him. More so it was unfair to get angry at him.

“Might as well be. I was trying to copy something I had seen before.”

“Oh?”

“The southerners. You’ve seen them fight.”

Alwin’s eyes now sparkled as his favorite topic came to the fore. He was obsessed with any and all kinds of fighting. Despite my effort not to, I found myself venting my and frustration at him.

“They seem not linger when their blades meet. At first, I thought it was because they lacked the strength to break though. But the more I look at it, their guards are perfect. They disengage because pushing the contest is pointless. There is an economy to their way of fighting. It is as if they build a wall of steel around themselves without moving. I just can’t seem to find a way of copying it myself.”

Without a teacher, my attempts to replicate their style would be difficult. We were a people who were married to our shields in warfare. Our parries with the sword were proactive, it was more along the lines of beating out opponents’ blade away. I was not so worried about my competition tomorrow as I was irritated at my… at what? I was angry but I did not know why. Anger came easily to me and it felt strange. Alwin drew his weapon and suggested I slowly work it out with him. It was an odd sparring session. It was more an effort of reconstruction than sparring. I took up a guard and he slowly attempted to push through it. We were on to something and it felt good. Distracted we worked ourselves to exhaustion. I slept soundly that night.

Bestia’s efforts started to show their effects that morning. We manage to assemble into a passable formation on our first attempt. It was more difficult than one initially thought it would be. Mass precision of any kind was difficult. And we didn’t even need to goose step for our part. Though goose stepping was more an innovation of modern times. Whilst we were reaching satisfactory standards of presentability, our leaders were frustrated by the delays. The Duke of Artois was receiving the cold shoulder from the capital. Without the summons of the Estate General, he had no pretext to have us in the capital. We were to be his honor guard on his way to the city. The scheduled session had been held off for weeks now. There was no sign that the King would end the recess. Such a move whilst not a breach of feudal law, was highly unprecedented. An Estate General was traditionally held four times a year. Invitations should have been sent for the Autumn session. The nobles needed time assemble their retinue, book accommodations, and prepare cases for the assembly.

For us northern volunteers however, the delays were inconsequential compared to the current tournament. Like before, once drills were over the hazel branches formed the ring of honor. Winston went before me and was finished in a moment. At the first exchange of blows, Winston swung a haymaker cut. He knocked the weapon out of his opponent’s hand prompting a quick surrender. It was an unexpected but fantastical conclusion to the bout. He bashful basked in the adoration from the crowd.

When it became my turn to enter the ring, I found that I was looking a familiar face across from me. He was a young man with long arms and a mean face. We both took our substitute weapons and entered the ring. I gave him a perfunctory salute with my sword, he spat in response. He looked at me with such venom I was momentarily confused. Again, he looked familiar. Did he know me? I had no time to think for when the judicator raised his hazel branch, he came for me. Fast and reckless he led with the point. I turned aside the lunge. He was bigger and heavier than me, whilst he had me beat in reach, I was the better blade.

We clashed over and over again. I used the forms Alwin and I had practiced overnight. When faced with his clumsy heavy sword work, I was untouchable. I admit that I was still having trouble dealing with him. If this were a death struggle with sharp edges, I would have crippled him by now. I had inflicted wrist cuts and short thrusts to his torso. None had bought him down. This kind of duel was equally a contest of strength and skill. I needed to deliver something devastating to bring him to his knees.

Another wild cut was preempted by a swift jab to his forearm. He winced at the blow but then pushed into my space in another bull charge. I leaped back to give myself room. I raised my sword arm and locked blades with his. Trapping the weapon so he could not bludgeon me with it, we were almost face to face. I looked into his eyes and they were mad with fury. Leaning into my ear he hissed, “murderer”. I flinched for a second and then saw stars. With his free hand he had landed a hook on the side of head. Reeling from the blow I attempted to steady myself. It was Erik.

I had enough presence of mind to stumble out of the way of a vicious downward cut. Had it landed it would have split my skull. This was clearly breaching the spirit of the competition, but the judicator remained unmoved. My head swam but I could see that something was foul. I parried the next blow that came at me. Still swimming from the punch, I failed to properly cover the third and got clipped on the head. It was a blow that had lost most of its strength from my failed parry. I back peddled to get some space between us. Erik let me go. He was gloating now. He had that same smug grin that he had five years ago. The same smug grin that he had when he blinded Winston. I looked toward the judicator and he met my eyes with indifference. He was in on it. Fine. If he was throwing out the rulebook, so would I.

Moving unsteadily, I waited for Erik to make his next overreaching swing. My sword low before me I presented an easy kill. I wanted him to feel like he was delivering the final blow. I wanted him to commit. Erik stood before me, legs apart, sword overhead. He looked me in the eyes with murderous glee.

“This is justice” He growled.

I smiled at that statement. There was no justice in this world, only winners and losers. And if you were not cheating you were not trying hard enough. His confidence faltered when he saw my expression. It was too late. I raised my point and jabbed my arm forwards. He had walked right into it. Tip met groin and Erik let out a squeal. I sprang forwards and caught him with my free hand. The Judicator roared for us to disengage but I ignored him. I had caught Erik before his knees could hit the ground. Raising the pommel of my sword, I looked at his flushed face. He owed Winston an eye and I would collect with interest.

All sounds from the crowd grew silent as I sank into that blissful red rage. The judicator eventually removed me from Erik. He ranted and raged at me. But he too fell silent when my bloody sword arm twitched. It felt good to hurt Erik. It felt better to see fear in everybody’s eyes.