The sun was several hand spans above the horizon when the drums began to roll. And like a kicked anthill, men stumbled from their tents, throwing on armor as they moved. Mates of the same decade helping each other into their assortment of scalemail hauberk, called lorica squamata, chainmail, lorica hamata and hardened bits of leather called corium, though cow was the least of the animals the leather came from. And with the tiers involved, high-tier leather was often stronger and more wearable than low-tier chain mail.

  In less than five minutes, the Band was assembled in neat rows, columns and blocks.

  Their armor didn’t match, their weapons, shields and even the towering sarrisa spears with their wide-spread bladed crossbars showed a great deal of individuality. The more successful, or those less prone to drinking away their prize money, sported higher-tier metal, demon hide shield facing and alchemical rust-proof lacquers. But rich or poor, they all sported elaborate decorations that covered nearly every visible surface.

  Weapons and armor were often all these men really owned, and they were the difference between life and death. The care and attention they showed each piece reflected this. Carved, painted or those same lacquers swirled in multiple colors. Emphasize, each in his own way, the value and pride they took in their gear. The only true rule, was to never impede functionality.

  And while their accoutrements were colorful, individual and even gaudy at times. There was one thing that was uniform between them.

  Discipline.

  The ranks were ordered and perfectly still, shields braced and grounded identically. Weapons held at the same angles and presenting a uniform forest of points. Conner walked up and down the rows, checking spears, straps and even sheathed secondary weapons. Not with an eye for pomp or such, but for survival.

  Those who fell short of his high standards, and there were very few, were not ridiculed. Not punished. Merely given a look of disappointment, then ignored as unfit for the man's attention. They’d get their just deserts later. If they wanted to risk their own lives, it was one thing. But squads lived and died together, and their squadmates would make themselves heard on the subject in private. Or rather felt.

  Still, his inspection didn’t last long, not with a centurion and three decurions to share the burden. A mere 15 minutes had passed before he returned to the front of the impromptu muster yard. Not long, but long enough to draw a crowd of onlookers.

  The labor legions had their own drum beats, and that beat had not been heard. Still, it didn’t stop them from sculking around the outside, watching closely, and with no small amount of envy, the men before them.

  Then Conner gestured sharply, and the drums began again. A slow, stately beat this time. Not the rapid rat tat tat of the assembly, but a slower, more dignified march.

  A march that saw an eight-man honor guard in cleaned and shined-to-the-nines armor step forth from the company shrine, the Standard at their center. The 14-foot shaft holding aloft a demon skull impaled on a Sarrisa head.

  With slow, steady steps they marched to the fore, stopping with the standard facing Conner in his burnished new knightly plate, its honor guard facing outward in all directions, entirely functional and deadly weapons close at hand, and fully willing to be used.

  This was the heart and soul of the Band. And to lose it, was to lose all hope.

  Conner paced around them. The easy, fluid movements even in heavy armor of a man born to it. Who’d graced a hundred battlefields and left honored dead and brutalized opponents behind on nearly all of them.

  Then with a satisfied nod, he stopped, then spun on his heels to face the formation of men. Removing his helm and tucking it under an arm as he did so.

  “Dis is a great day!” He boomed. “A day where wes add to da bounty dose who went afore us. Raise da Standard!” With a grunt, the massive spear shot into the air. Displaying proudly a line of sockets in its solid metal shaft. From the bottom up, four sockets were filled with inset gems that shone brightly. More than reflected the morning sun, they glowed with a bit of their own. Conspicuously, there were four empty sockets beneath them, ready and waiting.

  He pointed to the lowest of the gems. “Da first class stone, Phalangite.” The gem glowed a vibrant blue, shining light that quickly formed a box inside their heads. It didn’t block sight, but even those who couldn’t read, which was most of them, could understand its contents.

  “-was found with da standard. Give honors to da founder, Cultane!”

  “Honor!” The massed men cried.

  He pointed to the next. “Hastati-”

  “was granted for da battle merits dat cost the founder his life, along with a quarter of da Band. His son Geroald took up da reins an held us together on dat dark day. Honor!”

  “Honor!”

  “Bowman-”

  “was earned with battle merits by da grandson of the Founder, Bertram. Honor!”

  “Honor!”

  “And Lancer-”

  “was acquired by US. 10 years ago, from minor demon rift at Listera where da graves of our honored dead lie! Bertram and 42 others didna come home dat day. But wes closed it! Honor!”

  “Honor!”

  He looked around, and at last nodded, satisfied. He turned as Ethan, in his best armor equally polished, sword to his side and horsmans lance in hand, marched out as the drums began to roll again. Stopping precisely before them, he paused, then called. “Pre-sent! Standard!”

  The banner was lowered horizontal to the ground, the muscles on the massive man holding it bulging out to hold its weight steady. Ethan raised his hands above his head, opening them to reveal two glowing gems. The training grounds fell silent. Ethan carefully placed both gems against open sockets and with barely a touch, they snapped into place.

  His trained voice rose. “Bowyer and Scrimshawer.”

  “Not combat classes, but Uncommon support classes! Makers! A source of better weapons and armor and a chance of advancement for our Craftsmen. Dose who’ve long built and maintained our gear. A sign of the changing times. Not just hired spears anymore, but a people who can and will stand on our own feet!”

  “Raise the Standard,” Conner called. Waiting a moment for it to rise back to full height. “Render Honors,” He barked, and men, weapons raised and faces fierce, screamed out “Hail!”

  Conner, turned red in the face. “Bastard inbred creatins!” He roared. Then even he couldn’t keep anger on his face before the surprised troops. “Is dat how yous salute a NOBLE STANDARD?” He raised his right hand straight out, and made a slow, obvious fist. The men followed suit.

  Then with a nod to the bannermen, still holding the heavy standard high, he repeated himself. “Render Honors!” And slammed his closed fist to his chest, with every man present, even as the standard slammed its iron shot feral downward. Striking the ground with a powerful CRACK and sending a pulse of golden light outward.

  It outlined the men for a few moments, then slowly soaked into them.

  Ethan grinned widely as he felt the buff take hold. Breathing easily as he felt its effects. Nearly double the previous buff! A spontaneous cheer rose as the men felt the power of the buff, and good buffs were the difference between victory and defeat. The cheering continued for a full half minute before at last, Connor waved for silence. Ethan, with a small nod, walked off the field, leaving the Master at Arms (Knight) to do what he did best.

  “Bandsmen, dismissed. Arms training to commence in five minutes and open to ANY whos wish to join.” He emphasized the word and cast his gaze in a deliberate way toward the Labori. They stared at him, shocked for a time, then several turned and ran towards the tents, sounds of flesh striking flesh and yells quickly ensued, as men erupted from them in a steady stream, even as those already present rushed to stand on the field.

  “Good!” Connor barked. Generously ignoring the laggards as they raced to fill in the forming ranks. “Before wes can start, dere is a ritual yous is privileged to perform. A Class is a rare thing. And they comes from damn few places! Even if yous find a stone, and in four generations look how few dat is, you can’t do nothing with it! You got to offer it to a rift spawned Standard or a settlement Core. Then get da class from dem. But!

  “They only offer to their own.”

  He waited a moment, then grinned. “Are yous ours? Prove it! Give honor to da standard!”

  He raised a closed fist again, looking out with steely eyes. “Render –“ he paused, ensuring every hand was raised and ready. “Honors!” Fists in mass crashed to chests. More meaty than metallic without armor, but no less emphatic.

  A smaller pulse of glittering light shot from the standard. Outlining all but a few men. Bandsmen quickly collected these, shoving them from the formation, but gently, not giving them the beating more than a few expected.

  Conner nodded, pity in his eyes. “You have ta mean it.” He explained, “And some can no bring themselves to hope. Poor bastards.” He didn’t mention spies or sabateurs, they’d be checked for and seen off by James without his bothering. “After a bit to see that it’s real, that we are offering you a real chance to be something better, they’ll come around.”

  “For da rest, yous only gets a class offered on tier up and while many of you are damn close to that leap, yous don’t get to stand around with yous thumbs up yous asses waiting!” Nor could he help them break through. Each tier up required a man to make a small personal leap. In understanding, in breaking through physical limits, or even just in attitude. For some, it was as easy as waking up in the morning. Some never made it.

  “A man’s time is never wasted learning something new. It’s harder without the appropriate class focus or skills, but it can still be done. There are what the learned call, prerequisites.” He pronounced the word as if it was from a foreign language. “Dat means the requirements yous has to have before yous can get it.”

  “For a basic class, dat’s none. For a common, its just attitude and a bit of effort. But uncommons and up? Thas something else. So work hard, ma boys. Yous never know, some sweat here might set yous on da high road.”

  “Now, these–“ He gestured and several large rolls of leather were carried out between two Bandsmen. They were placed on the ground and slowly unrolled to reveal 100 gleaming, but deliberately blunted spears and an equal number of 4-foot-tall unstrung bow staves. “-are treasures. Master Crafted Training weapons. Magic tools for making soldiers out of boys! And something only nobles as gets to use most often! You lot are damn lucky to even look at them! And if you fuck around, you won’t be lucky for long!”

  He gave the men a harsh glare, estimating their numbers with the skill of long practice. It wasn’t quite the full lot, short by 200, but he’d get most of the rest soon enough. “With 1200 it’ll be a bit before yous each gets a turn. But any dat wants it, WILL gets dat turn.”

  “And we’ll make soldiers out of you! That’s a chance at something better than just peasantry, and youse is damn lucky for the chance, so act like it!”

  “Now watch.” With a gesture, dozens of bandsmen jogged onto the field carrying a variety of equipment. A set picked up some of the training spears and faced off against others in full armor and tower shields.

  At a call, the shield-bearing Hastati began walking forward, while a group of three Phalangites in a steady rotation, thrust heavily into his shield, forcing him back slightly, again. And again. And again. Attempting to slide the spear tip past the shield at times, hooking the edge with the crossbar at others. But with thrust after thrust, ringing out as steady and regular as a blacksmith's hammer. And with as much or more force!

  Off to the side, a decade of Hastati, shields presented forward were pushing a heavy wooden sled, one hammered together from whatever was available but no less useful for its makeshift construction, around. Their massed strength and coordination overcame its significant weight to push it backward at a slow but steady pace.

  A shouting decurion stood on top of the sled yelling a cadence even as he flung dirt clods and stones at the men, seeking for bits of flesh or armor revealed when a shield wasn’t properly raised or was pushed a bit too far out of line.

  Against one wall of the palisade, the one facing away from the city, a set of archery butts were being serviced en masse by decades of Bowmen, better than half women as even camp followers were expected to aid in the defense of the camp or column. At shouted commands they’d fire a volley, then after a measured beat and another command the next.

  Decurions walked up and down the line, adjusting stances and calling out missed or mis-timed shots.

  Beside them, another set of men were lobbing wooden training pilum in volleys of their own at a line of straw figures. Off to the side, several 1st tier craftsmen were carving more of the practice throwing spears out of branches and whatever odds and ends of wood they’d scrounged up.

  Through it all, Conner strode, barking suggestions, physically adjusting stances and barking insults and instructions with a firm, even voice that bounced and rang across the field effortlessly.

  About 10 minutes later, the first set of Laborers were ushered in, and were put through the most basic of paces. They were already trained to march, and even trained to march while carrying long heavy objects, but how to face together, present weapons together without hitting the people in front of them, how not to get the crossbars stuck on one another and a hundred and one small details had to be beaten into muscle memory.

  And beat it he did. With good humor, will and a heavy hand.

  Still, the base material was good. Solid, muscled youngsters already trained to discipline in a harsh, often deadly environment. The stupid had already been knocked out of most of them; now he just had to replace it with skill. He nodded, not satisfied, but hopeful.

  He’d make soldiers of them. He repeated to himself. It would just take some time.

  __

  The porticoed courtyard was elegant and vibrant with greenery. A welcome change from the demon-infested scrub of the war camp. It was further elevated by numerous pots filled with vibrant flowers, elegantly shaped bushes and even fruit trees.

  Carved marble columns bedecked in ribbons and streamers surrounded the rooftop courtyard and lent it a cheerfully dignified presence.

  But all of it paled in comparison to the true luxury being displayed here.

  Space.

  The capital was a warren of towering buildings and narrow streets. A sky view and unproductive greenery were luxuries indeed, but the amount of open space that included both was a statement of wealth, and no mistake.

  One Ethan was bound and determined to enjoy, chalice of wine in hand, no matter the approaching provocation.

  “Good evening your lordship, a pleasure to see one of your status lending gravitas to such an event.”

  “Sir James is one of my best men, master Vesta, and a valued member of my staff. Of course I’d attend on such a happy occasion.”

  The chairman of the Southern Mercator Union, one of many in the Capital and the author of the rather offensive bans on the buying of war goods outside of specific vendors, wasn’t much for looks. He was tall, but quite round with it. A florid man who seemed on the verge of exploding out of his expensive brocade toga. And he was looking with what appeared to be bewilderment at Ethan.

  Perhaps long-time nobles didn’t give their close subordinates much attention? Even if that was the standard, he had no intention of aping it. “Well yes, quite. Anyway, I was most impressed with this entire arrangement, quite the coup.” He clearly didn’t mean the young lady marrying up either.

  Ethan simply grinned. “If a coup it is, then it was one of your own that pulled it. Quite the impressive young lady. Your union’s training is to be congratulated.”

  “Your lordship is pleased to jest.” He brushed it off.

  Ethan gave him a steady, considering look. “No, I don’t believe I do. I’m a plain-spoken warrior, master Vesta. I generally reserve sneaking and deceitful behavior for the battlefield. When I say she is most impressive, it is because all that I have seen supports that. From her level, age and accomplishments.”

  “Ah, that is..” He trailed off, looking a bit nonplussed. Awkward even.

  Ethan waved it away. “No insult meant, good master, but I find it best to let people know where I stand early. I’m not here to bluster, nor will I bother myself to lie. It’s unlikely that either of us will see each other again, so beyond the demands of politeness and pleasant conversation, I’ve nothing to gain from buttering you up.”

  “I am bound for the far side of the empire,” He pointed out, taking a small sip of the excellent wine, “and if I see the Blessed Capital afore the decade is out, it will be at the Lady of Lucks, or the Emperor’s, may his light ever shine, bequest.”

  He stared at Ethan for a moment, then nodded cautiously. “That. Well that makes a certain sense. Even nearly makes you a neutral party. A rare thing that. Especially as you’ve neatly found your way around our…” He considered for a moment, then continued, “agreed upon price point, and not having anything to gain, either way, why don’t you tell me what you think of it. As a disinterested observer.”

  Ethan shrugged, giving the man a sharper look. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he was starting to think the man wasn’t quite as confident with his chosen path as he’d first thought. “Disinterested? Not quite, but I don’t mind giving it a try. But are you sure you want me to? Giving advice to those as aren’t going to take it, those as already made up their minds, is just wasting breath.”

  He smiled widely, but shook his head at the same time. “You don’t stay as successful as I have if you can’t listen, especially when it's things I don’t want to hear. I won’t say I’ll act on your say-so. But it costs me nothing to listen, and might gain me much.”

  Ethan gave him a considering look, then decided to take a gamble. It might not change anything for him, but many of the men coming after were friends. And even as future competitors, he’d rather they didn’t get into some of the trouble he could vaguely see on the horizon.

  “It seems dangerously, almost lethally, foolish to me.” He raised a hand quickly to wave away the first hints of offense. “Oh, any tabernus is going to try to get the best price, and any fighting man is going to begrudge him the way he chints and chisels away at what cost blood to gain.”

  “But it’s not just Bandsmen that are about to be chiseled. It’s Nobles to. New nobles. Men I know. And they’ve just been given, I’ve just been given, our first taste of that most heady of brews.”

  He raised his glass, then took a sip before speaking again. “Respectability. The first sight of rarefied heights. Sure, it might be the bottom of those heights, but still heights unseen and barely hoped for.”

  “Now imagine you’re that man, with just a taste or two of something as fine as this.” He raised the chalice of wine before taking a second appreciative sip. Damn but it was better than the slop usually sold to the camps. “And then you toss ale at him. Ale as fit for the cheapest brothel. You’re not a noble. You’re not a fighting man. And you’ve just given him an insult that few ever have. Not because he hasn’t had worse, but because he’d just, for the first time, had better.” He gave the man a meaningful glance.

  “It doesn’t take an army to deal with a single tabernus, nor a factories either. If you think your hired guards will stand off a man knighted, or ennobled for battle merits rendered, well…” he chuckled harshly.

  The man swallowed, turning a bit pale, then rallied. “It’s the Emperor's city, and neither he nor the city guard tolerates troublemakers.”

  Ethan waved a hand. “It is and they don’t. But it depends entirely on who is causing the trouble, eh? What might get a Bandsman hung, will only get a noble a fine. Might be a harsh fine, but then it might not. Responding to an insult to noble prestige is a duty, not trouble.” There was a slight tightening at the corner of his eyes. As master Rainer had said, that wasn’t a charge any tradesman wanted to suffer under. It wouldn’t be the first time a commoner, even a wealthy one, was publicly flogged for that offense.

  Ethan continued on. “But neither fine nor declared innocence will put spilled blood back inside a man. Now, I don’t know you well, master, but I do know those men, and with a few exceptions, I’d just as soon not see the noble magistrate flip that coin.”

  The man nodded, considering this time. “I hadn’t fully put it in those terms.”

  Ethan waved it away. Not sure if the man was serious or not. He’d done the best he could, and a man had to pay the piper for the tunes he’d asked for.

  “Yes, I’ll have to think about it. Maybe even get an opinion from a lower magistrate I know. But that’s for later. You’ve done me a favor Lord Ethan, however the magistrate may decide. How about I do you one in return?”

  Ethan paused, chalice half way to his mouth. Then finished the gesture. Ummm. There was nothing more dangerous than a Mercator claiming he was about to do you a favor.

  “Go on.”

  “I happen to have collected a large number of, shall we say, previously used armors.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Militia armor, but sets in a fairly poor state of repair.” The man hinted.

  Ethan winced slightly, suddenly understanding where this conversation was going. Levies had a fairly high death rate. You either died in the armor or quickly replaced it with something better. The intact stuff was reused, but cleaning up the dead was a different matter. A rather nasty contract, but it wasn’t like they could use it where they were going. And at least those contracts required a decent burial be thrown in. Priests and all.

  Then chunks of the worst pieces were used to repair the best before tossing it onto the next poor bastard to be levied in a never-ending cycle. It took a bit of time, but not much skill nor coin. Unfortunately, the never-ending circle just ended and he was sitting on a now unmovable lot. With a drop in demand and a horde of fresh hides, cores, bones and any other tidbits that were gleaned from the battlefield about to pour in, no wonder he wanted to do Ethan a favor.

  But militia armor was the bottom of the barrel. Low-end demon hide scraps sewn into a sleeved jerkin, a pturgis, a skirt of hardened leather strips, and a leather hat. He wouldn’t give it the dignity of calling it a helmet. Good greater demon hide armor, shaped and boiled in beeswax, was better than chain mail. Even if it could be on the warm side.

  This wasn’t that. It was crap gear that he didn’t tolerate in the band. He didn’t want his men under protected and in danger of a heat stroke-. Huh. He froze. They were heading to a much colder climate…

  It might work. Ethan had a great many hands at the moment, and sometime before the armor would be usable. If he could acquire a large amount of it for cheap. Maybe improve it a bit. They did have a good amount of demon materials left over. Materials in abundance of what Cedric could easily handle.

  He’d need to outfit the Labor anyway, and just keeping them warm wasn’t a bad benefit. Hmmm. Possible.

  “And what would you want in exchange for this favor you’re doing me? In broad terms, mind you. Tis not the time for dickering.”

  “Ah broadly I can do, with the current union agreements,” he said it without the slightest shame, Ethan noted, almost horrified at the hypocrisy on display. “I can’t do much in coin here, but I did notice that Master Cenric, a quite talented leatherworker with a number of almost as talented men working for him, has gifted his daughter a bride price of a number of pristine Hastati armors and some wagons. I might fill one or two of the second in exchange for the first.”

  Ethan had to hold back a snort. That was a fool’s bargain. With the time, effort and losses he’d get from scrapping some for patches and raw hide thongs, he’d rather keep a far smaller number of better armor sets.

  But the idea was sound, it was just the ratio. And hadn’t the Crimson Count just taught him this lesson? He grinned widely, perhaps a bit two widely considering the way the man’s complexation bleached to an almost normal olive. “Sir James, Mistress Mira!” He called the bridal couple over. It was a shame to interrupt their party with business, but then it was technically ‘her’ bridal gifts in question.

  And if that put a much better bargainer in charge, why, what a coincidence.

  “Master Vesta, I do believe I will give you the opportunity to see if I was joking or not for yourself!”

  He quietly slid his way through the crowd towards the exit, looking for a place to drop off his chalice. His nearly empty chalice. He paused and tossed the rest back.

  It really was good wine!

  And four hours later, as the beaming newlyweds walked under an arch of torches into the camp, they handed him a contract for 4 wagons filled with scrap militia armors.