The man sitting across from Deniel was a puzzle to him; the black clothes he wore were not the ostentatious dress of nobility. On his breast shone a sun symbol, white and silver over blue and gray, not quartered with a personal sigil. But the black clothes were a fine cut, the quality of the wool speaking of rank and wealth, bands and slashes of white decoration standing out in sharp contrast against the fulled fabric. The face was long, partially obscured by a chestnut beard. On his head was a shapeless cap of wool, badged with a gleaming sun and four gleaming brass studs. The man’s shrewd eyes had scanned over Deniel once, before settling on a missive the escort leader had handed over. Deniel fidgeted nervously, trying to affect the same calm he had thrown over himself in the manor’s cellar.

The escort had dispersed after entering a compound adjacent to the castle itself. A wooden wall surrounded buildings made of post and beam on a stone foundation – large oblong boxes roofed in shingles. From some, woodsmoke rose out of chimneys made of fieldstone. Some stood empty and waiting. The carts had headed towards one such, which had disgorged a tide of helping hands to unload them and carry piles of sacks into the waiting doors, while yet more hands had led the horses and mules towards what Deniel presumed to be stables. He himself had been taken into one of the larger buildings, a squat two storied thing, where the captain of the escort had walked in without preamble or ceremony, handed over a stack of papers and dispatches, and walked back out without any further notice of his erstwhile charge.

Finally, the man raised his eyes back towards him. “Very well.” His voice was matter-of-fact and to the point. “The Lord Marshall will play his games, it seems.” He stood, then, idly toying with the paper. He was taller than Deniel, one of the tallest men he’d ever seen; despite the mild tone, there was an undercurrent of authority to his voice. “How much do you understand of where you are, and what you are to be doing?”

“Very little.” Deniel’s voice was dry. “I understood that I’d sworn myself to the Lord Marshall’s service, but beyond that –“

“Not,” the man interrupted him, “his personal service.” He gave a vexed sigh, then motioned Deniel to take a seat at the table. “They would have sent me a country bumpkin from the backwoods. You obviously have no experience with our organization, so we should go over at least the very basics.” They both sat, eying one another.

The man tapped at the leather badge with one finger. “You are sworn to serve in the New Army of Stanmark. Your service will initially be in an auxiliary role folded in with the Summerhall Brigade; there isn’t a Waccewalder unit raised presently. Once there is, you are likely to be reassigned there.”

Deniel gave him a look of pure incomprehension. How could one swear an oath to an idea? Who would receive his fealty and homage, who would bestow upon him their patronage? What the man was describing sounded like the armsmen of a great lord or even the king – but surely that couldn’t be what he meant?

Ignoring his frank bewilderment, the man continued to speak in his even, measured tone. “I am called Moritz; you will address me by my rank as ‘captain.’ For the duration of my stay here, I am in charge of the men quartered here. In the field, I lead the Brigade you are presently assigned to.” Conspicuous in its absence was any mention of social rank or title. “For the present, your needs will be seen to by your file.” The man – Moritz – reached out and grasped a simple iron bell, giving it a quick shake. At the chime, a head stuck in through the door. A girl in serviceable linens, Deniel saw. “Bring me…Groepleid Egbert.” The girl gave a quick curtsy before hurrying off, raising her skirts lightly with one hand as she went.

Moritz turned back to Deniel. “For now, you are here in an auxiliary role.” The man stressed the unfamiliar term. “Until you have gone through training and proving, you have no rank. If it were up to me, this would stay that way for a year.” The man shrugged. “As it is, the Lord Marshall has asked that the current cycle be compressed and overridden my objections. Regardless of this, you are the low man in the pack for now. Any questions you have…”

They were interrupted by the girl, who walked in and gestured respectfully towards Moritz. Behind her strode a heavyset man in the now familiar black wool. His face was round and full, with a brown trimmed beard and bushy eyebrows framing hard eyes. On his head rested an identical black cap, two silver studs gleaming on their bed of black wool banded with grey. The hobnails on his low leather boots clattered on the floor as he crashed to a halt before the desk, coming erect and stiff as a board. His eyes hardly flickered to Deniel as he did so, staying focused on the seated captain. “Haubterr?”

The tall man stood, smoothing down his black garment with one hand. “Groepleid.” He gestured to Deniel, who had also hastily come to his feet, still confused by the pace of events. “I am assigning this man to your file.” The newcomer turned to Deniel, his eyes narrowing in thought as he looked him over critically.

“He’s a Waccie?”

“He is from the newly integrated province, yes.” Moritz’s voice carried a note of warning. “Considering Summerhall’s own recent history, perhaps you ought to be more careful with your words.”

“No disrespect was meant,” Egbert replied gruffly. His voice was deeper, with a raspy undercurrent tinging the unfamiliar accent. “He understands how things work?”

“No. That’ll be your file’s task.” Moritz’s voice was disinterested as he glanced at the piled papers covering the surface of his table. “That’s all, Groepleid. Dismissed.”

Egbert snapped straight again before sagging into a more natural position and turning for the door, giving the girl a friendly nod as he did so. “Come along, new face.”

Deniel trailed behind the Egbert’s bulky form as the man strode purposefully through the halls of the outbuilding. The complex was still mazelike to him, seeming to be made up of endless variations on halls upon halls opening onto square or rectangular rooms. The buildings were murmurous with conversation, a quiet buzz of voices drifting through the plank and beam construction. The man glanced over his shoulder. “Keep up.” Deniel hurried up to join the man, matching his purposeful stride. Egbert continued to talk, not looking Deniel’s way. “We will take you to the barracks to get you acquainted with the rest of the file. Following that, you will go to the quartermaster and draw on our stores to get the necessary items. Training will begin after you are settled in, and we will see how quickly you pick things up.”

Deniel nodded, concentrating. The man had a strange sing-song quality to his voice on top of the Stanmarkian burr; it wasn’t impossible to understand, but still lent his words a strange quality. “What items are ‘necessary?’”

“Initially, woolens, hose, a good coat in this cold, and a cap. No badges for the cap as of yet until I am satisfied with your progress.” Egbert rattled off the list quickly and easily. “You will not need to draw on the armory until later, and your boots will serve for now as well. Gloves, if you want them, will be provided but drawn from your pay. Anything else on top of this need not overly concern you, but you can speak to Ervaren Egon if there is anything else you want.”

“Ervaren?”

“You will not be familiar with the rank structure yet, I assume?”

“I’m not certain how this is organized at all,” Deniel admitted, shamefaced. “Who appoints any of us to our posts? Where does the…Haubterr? Was that the title?” The Eastern word for “captain” was not impossible to understand but tasted strange on his tongue. At a nod, he continued: “What Lord does the Haubterr derive his authority from?” The aristocracy was the root of all authority in Deniel’s experience; if they chose to set up a structure of ranks beneath themselves, that was one thing – but inevitably, the chain of homage would inexorably lead back to one of the great lords.

Only…no, he suddenly realized. In the monastery, the monks would say their authority derived from the gods themselves. But within their order, they had the old abbot, the prelates and preachers under him, chains of organization untethered from the proper order of things. His mind churned with the possibilities. If this could be applied outside the monasteries to the lay folk…

Egbert was frowning as he considered Deniel’s last question, his thick brows furrowing. “I suppose if you want to think in those terms, from the Crown.” His voice was matter of fact. “The ranks of the New Army are…how should I say this. Removed? Yes, removed from the social order. In practice, of course, nobility receives appointment to officer ranks rather than the files. But in the field, their authority over us comes from their rank, not their social standing.”

“So the Haubterr…”

“Haubterr Mortiz can and does command knights and their retinues in the field,” the file closer confirmed. “You will pick up the nuances of the structure over time. For now – I am Groepleid for your file. We are six. Besides me, Egon is your Ervaren,” Veteran, Deniel’s mind prompted, “and the rest are simple Kriegers. You are a rank-less auxiliary for now, whatever any of us says goes, and I expect you to act on it promptly and without complaint.”

They rounded the corner as Egbert spoke and took an abrupt turn into a dark-lit room. Inside was a warm space with six bunks, arrayed along the walls. Two simple chairs stood against one wall, both occupied. On one of the bunks, two more figures lay sprawled, a set of dice scattered between them. As they entered, one of the figures made a halfhearted attempt to conceal a tankard. Egbert scowled at him.

“Vitta, you idiot, I’ve told you before – no drink in the barracks!”

Vitta, a lanky man with balding black hair, grimaced at the file closer. “It’s nothing strong, sir! And we have no training or work details tonight anyways!”

His partner at dice snorted laughter. “We can fix that for you.” He had his cap rammed tight on a head of dark curls, a trio of copper studs peeking out against the woolen fabric – a youthful face and short build on full display as he lounged, reaching languidly for the dice. Scattered among them were a smattering of small coins, the majority lying closer to him than Vitta. “Another throw before Egbert reams you out for the red water?” Focusing on Deniel: “Who’s the new face?”

“I’m Deniel Jahnsson.” Deniel voiced nervously, conscious of how the four pairs of eyes stared at him, at how his clothes and speech marked him out. “I only just arrived today.”

“This is our sixth.” Egbert grumbled, eying the bed disapprovingly. “Egon, will you run him down to the quartermaster to pull the necessities?”

Egon nodded, before visibly hesitating. Egbert pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Never mind, I don’t want you idiots wandering the barracks after you’ve been drinking. And mark my words, there is going to be hells to pay after I get back.” He waved a hand towards the rest of the small congregation. “Radek, Martin, you can introduce yourselves after we get back. And for heavens’ sakes, get rid of that ‘red water’ before I get back or anyone else sees you.”

“I assure you, sir,” Vitta said with a perfectly straight face, “it will be gone by the time you return.” The file’s laughter followed them out as Deniel and Egbert turned on their heel and began walking towards the barrack doors, the Groepleid muttering invectives into his beard.

“Draw your equipment here.” Egbert waved Deniel towards a door in the neighboring building before walking in himself, nodding greeting at the wiry man in an apron sitting at the counter. The room was covered in shelving, and filled with the scents of leather and metal, linseed oil and beeswax. Racks of bowstaves sat, younger staves seasoning in the dry air, others shaped and ready for use. Sheaves of arrows lay underneath them. Edged metal winked from another wall, catching the firelight and the imagination.

There was a sleek elegance to the sword that no other tool quite captured, a promise of danger, a whiff of romance. Wearing one had always to Deniel seemed to proclaim a deadly earnestness. But the look of their shining menace and the glint of the glaive heads racked against the other wall brought back other memories; identical glinting blades, rising and falling in the firelit interior of a watchtower, throwing showers of crimson as they moved.

Oblivious to the memories sleeting through his mind, the wiry man beckoned them both forward. Compared to Moritz or Egbert, he did cut nearly as imposing a figure. Where the Groepleid was broad, he was thin. Instead of hair cropped short, his was left long and curled, black and messy. But despite the differences, there was an odd similarity to them. All of them moved like water over stone, fast and fluid, with an easy competence and air of decisiveness. And like Moritz, the eyes on this one were shrewd and penetrating. They darted from one to the other, weighting, measuring.

“New material for the anvil, Egbert?” The voice was lightly mocking. Deniel bristled instinctively at the tone, unconsciously straining to stand taller.

“I’m an alderman’s son.” He noted, studying the man before him. The wiry man grinned irreverently, cocking his head to one side. The gesture was curiously bird-like.

“Here, all you are is raw potential, to be molded as your betters see fit…boy.” His grin widened as Deniel visibly bristled before turning towards one of the racks behind him. Over his shoulder, he looked him up and down before adding, the smile never slipping, “And a word to the wise, lad, it’s never wise to talk back to your armorer.” He turned, a neat package in his hands. He tossed it lightly to Deniel, then turned back towards the shelf and began rummaging once more, muttering measures under his breath. Once he was satisfied, another bundle of identical grey cloth was tossed over. Deniel caught it automatically, feeling the weight of the fabric. Egbert peeled off the wall where he’d leaned walking closer as the Waccian staggered under the weight.

“We’ll draw the equipment the crown provides here. That bundle will be your day-to-day clothing. You will eventually also need drill clothes, submails, a pack…”

It was a long time before they emerged once more, Deniel carrying a neatly tied bundle of grey and black cloth with serviceable brown leather peeking out here and there. On his head was rammed a black cap edged in grey, drawn down to the right side the way Egbert had shown him. No metal studs showed on his – those, the Groepleid had explained, were indicators of rank, and he did not yet qualify for one.

They began to walk briskly towards the barrack where their file was quartered. Deniel was to stow and organize his newly acquired belongings, as well as whatever meagre personal items he had brought with him – which was not much; not having had the opportunity to visit home before leaving Akenhof, most of his worldly possessions had remained in what seemed to him another world, infinitely distant.

As they passed between the two-story headquarters and the main gate, a man in ostentatious red and green sauntered past. He was fat, though with bands of muscle underneath the plump exterior, his face pulled into a pinched sneer. He bumped into Deniel as he passed, causing the Waccian to stumble and drop his bundle. Without so much as a pardon the man continued on at his leisurely pace, away from deeper inside the compound and towards the wooden gate. Egbert glared after him, kneeling down and helping Deniel gather the bundle back together – the work of a moment, though Deniel thought mournfully the file closer was likely to make him clean the mud off his coat once they returned to the barrack. Before they could continue, a bellow of frustrated anger came from the second floor of the headquarters. A moment later, the wooden shutters of a window slammed open. Haubterr Moritz was framed there, his cap and coat still immaculate but his face reddened and beard bristling with ill-concealed rage.

“Did Morgenstern just pass by you?” Without bothering for an answer, his eyes focused on the retreating figure in red, by now halfway towards the gatehouse. “MORGENSTERN! GET BACK HERE!” There was no reply, and no sign the fat man had heard him. Little enough chance of that, the captain’s voice was like to wake the dead. If anything, Moritz went another few shades of crimson darker as his call was ignored.

“Go get me Morgenstern. Tell him to get back into my headquarters, now.” Mortiz’s face looked like a thunderhead. “Why that man,” the tone clearly conveyed he wanted to say ‘idiot,’ “is still here and not with his command is beyond me.” He pulled himself back in through the window and slammed it shut again, the wooden shutters rattling with the impact. Egbert sighed deeply as if the universe itself wearied him and turned back towards the gate, towards where the colorfully bedecked man was strolling without a seeming care in the world. “If it's not one thing, it’s another. Come along, new face, stay quiet and let me do the talking.”

Without waiting for an answer, he took off at a brisk jog, surprisingly fast and graceful for a man his size. Egbert had the long stride and ground-eating lope of a man used to running long distances in all weathers, his belt clinking as he jogged with legs and arms swinging easily. His boots crunched against the half-frozen ground as he ate the ground between himself and the man in red, who had continued towards the gatehouse.

Deniel followed as best he could, trying to juggle his new belongings into a more comfortable position on his back and not drop anything again. By the time he caught up, the file closer had drawn close to Morgenstern’s retreating back. The fat man had just about reached the gate. The two wooden halves were thrown open, leaving the road free and unbarred. To either side of the portal stood a guard, standing ramrod straight with a glaive butt braced against their right instep, eyes fixed ahead. Above them rose the gatehouse itself – a covered walkway and two short towers, overlooking the path towards the entrance. On the tower tops, men paced and peered, illuminated by a brazier that smoked into the chill air.

The Gropleid caught up to his quarry just as the man entered the shadow of the portal. “Sir knight!” Unwillingly, the man turned at bay, one eyebrow quirked and a foot tapping impatiently. “Your presence is required at the headquarters.”

“Yes, yes.” A pudgy hand waved that away. “Tell your man I’ll see him at my earliest convenience.”

“Sir, you are summoned now.” Egbert’s voice remained cool and professional, though with an increasing edge to it. “The Haubterr of this garrison has requested your presence immediately. I have to insist that you go.”

“Who is he,” Morgenstern asked lazily, “to summon me? He is a mere upjumped upstart with no land or title to his name. I told them when they came up with this madcap scheme that you black birds of ill omen would forget your place.”

“He is the captain of this –“

“And I,” the fat man declared pompously, “am Bembro of Morgenstern, knight and son of a baron. No matter what delusions you crows spout, you have no authority here; I am your superior. I decide to come and go as I please.”

Egbert looked like he was about to explode with rage. Before he could get a word out edgewise, though, Deniel blurted in surprise, “you were the one commanding the tower!” Both men looked at him in askance, Bembro’s face pulling into his habitual sneer as he looked Deniel up and down, taking in the cut of his clothes and the lack of rank pins. “Tower? Who gave you the right to address me, boy?”

Deniel ignored the man’s second question and biting tone, fighting the reflexive urge to duck his head and doff his cap. “The watchpost in the Akhe valley. The one that used to overlook the road to Akenhof.”

“A Waccie? Here?” The man’s jowls quivered in indignation as he put together Deniel’s accent and words. He drew in breath to begin a fresh tirade, then paused – having registered the key point in Deniel’s statement. “What do you mean ‘used to?’ And who told you of my posting?”

Deniel couldn’t help it; a slight edge of mockery entered his voice as he remembered a burned-out ashen tower in a snowy field. It felt good, didn’t it, the demon whispered in Lord Falkenrath’s voice, the thrill of seeing a plan come off. “You neglected to see to your men’s supplies, Sir Knight. The remaining King’s Men in the valley tricked their way in and burned the tower to the ground.”

The man’s rotund face went puce with rage. “That’s impossible! How dare you insinuate such things? To me!” Spittle flew from his mouth. Behind his back, there was a slight rattle as the gate guards glanced their way, abandoning their placid immobility to see the cause of this commotion.

“I was there.” Deniel retorted, watching the man suffused with fury opposite him. “I insinuate nothing; I’m stating facts, plainly and clearly.”

“You came in with the dispatches?” Egbert interjected. At Deniel’s nod, he turned towards the fuming noble. “I think I’m starting to guess why the Haubterr wants to speak with you. And under the circumstances,” he leaned in close, his furrowed brow and perpetual scowl twitching, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Morgenstern floundered, caught on the backfoot, his face alternating between rage and fear. And, thought Deniel uncharitably, utter imbecility. The man’s inflated self-importance was obvious – as was his unconcern with anything and anyone he thought beneath him. And this is who they left to command an outpost? Deniel had grown up in Waccewald’s hinterlands; the thought that a noble should command was natural as breathing to him. But together with that was a deep-rooted instinct that with the power of their birth came a responsibility for good lordship and a rough-and-ready competence. This… fop… lacked both.

Finally, the man closed his mouth, spun on his heel and walked away – back towards the headquarters. Egbert stared after his retreating back.

“Oh, to be a fly on the wall when those two get into it,” he murmured to himself. “It’ll be a wonder if the place doesn’t catch fire.” He turned towards Deniel meditatively. “And I think you and I, we’ll have some talking to do about where you’re from.” Deniel’s heart skipped a beat at that, though the Groepleid’s attention was once again elsewhere. “And I start to get the feeling we ought to get along just fine.”