The Free Company - Book VI: For Whom the Bells Toll

April 11th, Ancona - The docks

"I've already checked! TWICE! How do you think Captain's going to react when his troops have half the arrows they're supposed to? I don't think he's going to be --"

They can all feel it coming, Lochlan was right. It will be time to move soon, to face their old enemies.

The irate Greek was cut off by a sudden roar from the sailors on the far side of the dock. All heads snapped up as an unidentified ship pulled up alongside and lowered its gangway.

Perhaps I should talk to Constance, she's been doing this for far longer than I have....what? Allessandra reacted the ships movement as everyone else did.

"What the devil?! That's Athene's slip!" cried Maria. She launched into a stream of profanity so foul that it could -- and indeed, did -- make sailors blush.

"Maria." The profanites continued despite Allessandra's attempted interruption.

"Maria." Milo tried as well.

"Maria!" Allessandra yelled.

Startled out of her ranting, the Captain of the Athene turned intent into action as she ran toward where her ship was apparently leaving without her, for somewhere she wasn't aware of.

She is indeed beautiful. Allessandra shook her head. But she carries so much with her, her shoulders are close to hitting the groound with the weight. She needs to learn that arrogance is not the way to deal with the difficulties in life.

"What the hell is going on around here?" Milo mumbled.

"Never mind, head back to camp and have a squad or so of the guards meet me here, then get back to counting arrows." Allessandra said lightly, concealing her smile when Milo trotted away, swearing.

Now, if they could just figure out what in the name of god was going on with the Athene.

April 11th - Morning - One Thumb's

O'Floinn walked out of One Thumb's with a broad grin. For the past half hour he had been busying himself telling fanciful stories of adventures of the Company to hopeful young mercenaries, trying to join the legendary group of warrior. Jean D'Auxonne, O'Floinn's commander, suddenly burst out of the building and sprinted away down the street. The Celt wandered around a few moments, then decided to go back inside and see how the recruits were coming. Spotting Chen Hui, O'Floinn walked over and greeted him warmly.

"Ah, Chen, great to see you 'ard at work, lieutenant. How're the new lads comin'?"

Ali strolled towards the One Thumb, vaguely worried about being in a bar. You know, someplace where they serve alcohol. He was muslim and not a Caliph, so, therefore, religiously opposed to drinking. However, Ali had been in a bar enough times to be able to survive, and entered after spitting at a man who was shouting and banging a pot. Something like Bring oot yeer ded. Ali never liked certain accents.

"Hello, I am Abdul Ali, you may remember me." he said. "I and my tribe were with you some time ago."

Lachlan looked starngely at Ali. He had never found this man to be a friendly sort. "And you wish to come back. I see. Are you with the same group?"

"Not exactly. Several have been killed in an incident which would not interest you. Please put me down at, perhaps, fifty fighting men, and families of those men, and direct me to any people I should speak to."

Ali looked around. Drinking fights! Hmph

Johan was deep in a conversation with Rosa, when suddenly Lochlan yelled at him, reluctantly he looked up and saw the officer waving like mad to attract his attention. He sighed, perhaps accepting the promotion had been a bad thing? At least Bernhard had thought so, though Rosa seemed more impressed, he smiled and looked into her eyes, yes she was happy for him.

Now if only One Thumb could be as easily convinced, but the old barkeep had at least allowed him to court her now, that counted for something he guessed.

Trotting over he found Lochlan talking to a cavalry type, not easy to place.

“Johan take this one of my hands will you? Take him to Kent and find out if he is good enough? Perhaps show him Hannibal?” Lochlan smiled mercilessly and turned away.

Johan looked up and down the other man, “Alright, you smell of horse, so I guess you’d better come with me.”

Once outside Johan went to where his horse was tethered, “do you have a mount?”

The other man looked dubiously at Hannibal and then fetched a far smaller mount.

“That one? Are you sure you are not Light Cavalry? Ah well, let’s go find Kent.”

Johan mounted his horse and rode out of the town towards the camp dwarfing the other man on his big mount.

“So, where are you from and most importantly, what brings you here?” Without really waiting for an answer they swung through the gate, “Ah, there is Kent.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve got a new recruit for us.”

April 11th, Morning - the East Field

The twelve Czechs walked towards the so-called east field in an orderly fashion. So far they had been delighted about the welcome they had received at the Company. As they approached the field, they saw a man, presumably an officer, speaking agitatedly with three others.

One of the three approached them.

"Greetings. My name is George Finby.", the man said in English.

An uneasy silence ensued.

"Do you speak a language or are you all dumb like Gerd over there?"

Perhaps realizing the meaning of that comment instinctively, Nykodem started talking to the man in Czech. Finby, taking a hint, waved and yelled at van Krieg. The latter came over and started talking to them in German.

"What weapons do you use?"

"Mainly swords, these days, though we're also quite competent with various ranged weapons."

"Good. Line up over there. Drills will begin shortly, to seperate the wheat from the chaff."

11 April 1442, Morning: Somewhere in Ancona

Laszlo woke up, and immediately decided that this was the worst possible way he could have started his day. The echoes of laughter from last night's carousing still rang in his ears, only now former notes of good cheer seemed to mock the horrible, throbbing pain that pounded through his skull. He rolled away from the light that poured through the window and was about to close his eyes when he saw a sheathed sword resting against the wall.

Oh, good, Laszlo thought as he rolled off the flimsy mattress and picked up the blade. I can run myself through and be rid of this bedamned headache. But...when did I buy this...

Suddenly, the hangover-induced haze fled from Laszlo's mind as he recalled the events of the past few days--leaving his crewmates at the docks--purchasing new clothes, the sword--hearing of the Free Company.

Today!

Laszlo belted on his sword and dagger, strapped his crossbow to his back, and burst out of the inn at a full run, sprinting toward One-Thumbs. He arrived a few minutes later; after taking a moment to compose himself, he joined the line of hopeful mercenaries.

St. Georg, aid me, Laszlo prayed, for these men go forth to face a terrible foe, and I need to be with them.

We have many dragons to slay.

11 April 1442, Morning---East Field

Amric, hearing the foreign tongue wandered over to see what was going on. A dozen men with heavy packs were setting the packs aside with slight trepidation.

"Carl, George," Amric said," Why do these fellows look nervous?"

"They are hoping nothing happens to their packs," Carl replied.

"Who are they?" Amric queried.

"Czechs."

Amric looked somewhat surprised," You don't say? Interesting. They speak German? Perhaps Polish? No matter. Carl, they will be your meat. You'll have to teach them English as well. George, the next ones are yours."

He turns to the men and speaks to them first in Polish and then German," Be easy. Your packs will be safe. This is the Free Company. We don't steal from each other. My name is Amric Al'Aeshir, serjeant of the Free Company. Carl here will be your guide and teacher."

With that he nodded and let Carl get back to his job. The twelve men were soon jockying for position to show off their skills. Amric faded back to watch, and even more importantly, listen.

11 April 1442, Lost Near Ancona

Christian Jensen sees a group of about a dozen men in a field near Ancona. He had been told by an Austrian that this was where the Free Company was located for the time being, but since he could not speak Italian, this was all the information he could get.

He had been travelling for near a week now, and his strong legs shake as if they are about to collapse from under him. He finally approaches the man who looks to be the leader of this circle of twelve men.

"Is this the Free Company?" Christian asks in Latin. The tall man with dark hair looks befuddled, as if he doesn't speak any Latin. Christian, believing that every civilized man speaks the language of the Romans, tries again. "Is this the Free Company?" Still, only confusion on the man's face.

He tries Greek and Danish, the only other languages that he speaks. The man now looks irritated, as he apparently speaks none of these languages. He mutters something in a language Christian cannot understand and points toward the River Arno. Christian, still not knowing where to go, wanders along the banks until he reaches a tavern with a name that he does not understand. He decides to go in and get something to eat and drink. He hopes that someone there speaks Latin, or else he will be tempted to use the international language of the sword.

The man at the end of the bar, who was now smiling broadly and patting his stomach, saw Abdul Ali come in and ask if there was anybody he needed to talk to. "Hello, sir, do sit down here!" He gave Ali no choice; he put a hand on his shoulder and forced him down onto a seat. "My name is Roger DuPont. I come from England.

"Now just let me tell you how I got to Ancona, sir..."

Ancona, 11th of April, 1442.

Irkut hears about One Thumb's, and hears that the Free Company people is always there. Sometime during the morning, maybe approaching to noon, he finds and enters it.

Slowly he goes into the bartender's front.

Hello. So is this the place where the Free Company people usualy come to?

11 April 1442, Morning – One Thumbs

"Cyril," Amric grinned, "Handling Kincaid with the skill and tact that you do takes talent. Teaching English is yet another way of leadership. It is not all skill at arms that requires leadership. Leading requires brains. You have plenty of those. You can LEAD, if you choose to do so. I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think you could do it."

Maybe I can lead, but will the men follow? Who would want to follow a 37 year old ex-manservant into the heart of battle? But if Sergeant Amric thinks I’m capable... am I in position to disagree? "Can I think about it?" Cyril queried.

"Absolutely," Amric nodded.

***

11 April 1442, Late Morning – East Field

After running a gauntlet of new recruits, Cyril finally tracked down the tireless Amric. At the moment, he was watching some swordsmen demonstrate their skills. Without taking his eyes off the pair of duelers, he addressed Cyril. “Yes, Cyril?”

“It’s about the position you offered me.”

Amric waited, thinking Cyril had more to say, but after an awkward silence, he decided he had to keep the conversation going. “What about it?”

“Do you still think I’m the best choice for the position?”

“I’m not so fickle that I’ll change my mind in so short a time. Of course I think you’re right for the role.”

“Thank you for your confidence, sir. I accept.”

“Good. Your first assignment is to gain a little self confidence. Your second assignment,” Amric grinned, “is to stop being so rigid all the time.”

Cyril saluted sharply. “Yes, sir!” Amric would have rolled his eyes, but they were glued to the new recruits.

11 April 1442, Morning – One Thumbs

"Ah, Chen, great to see you 'ard at work, lieutenant. How're the new lads comin'?"

Chen looked up to see the smiling face of O'Floinn. Chen clasped his hand warmly," Ah, good to see you O'Floinn. In fact just the person i needed. Those recruits behind me, they volunteered for light cavalry. Why don't you take them to the East Field and try them out, see if they're good enough for the Free Company?"

O'Floinn nodded," Will do, Lieutanent."

Chen groaned," Not you too. Anyway, take Lim, Zhang and Sebutai with you to help. Yes, I know they are gambing but tell them it's an order from me."

O'Floinn nodded and ambled off to gather up the others. A chorus of complaints could quickly be heard from the direction of the gambling tables.

He looked at the group he selected. Hmm, all men and no seargents. He better choose one seargent as well. He went over to Wu'Tu and asked him," Wu'tu, I got a task for you. O'Floinn and some of the others had just taken the new recruits to the East Field for trials. I need a seargent there to supervise. You mind taking a trip over there?"

11 April 1442, Morning

"Can I help you sir?" Master sergeant Baer rumbled.

A truly, deeply, evil grin appeared on Lochlan's face. "Indeed you can Seargent, this recruit needs a little demonstration of just what its like in the Free Company."

"Yes sir." Baer reached out and grabbed a startled self professed Messiah and dragged him out of the tavern even as the man began to exclaim how he was reconsidering his position on a great many things.

Baer pushed through the crowd dragging the man behind him like one would carry a cat, by the scruff of the neck. Baer burst through the doors not even stopping to look at the men that he merely pushed aside.

"Blessed are the merciful!" the man being dragged along by Baer yelled. The bigger man, clearly unimpressed hardened his grip. "For they will be shown meeeercy!!"

“Boy… I don’t know who you think you are, but you will not find mercy here.” Baer tossed the walking messiah to the cobblestone. The other veterans of the Free Company that were about chuckled a little bit, this was either a common sight to them or even happened to them as well.

The man straightened himself and brushed himself off. He began to regain some of his composure and opened his mouth to speak, but the gravelly voice of Baer interrupted him, “Run” The man never realized a single word could hold such violence and promise of violence.

Once more the man looked as if to speak and Baer quickly turned to one of the men standing by and grabbed a crossbow. Quickly pulling the heavy draw without the use of a windlass and placing a bolt in the groove he sighted the weapon at the man. The man hesitated.

“You’re dead, we don’t need you. Off with ya now.” Baer uncocked the loaded crossbow and tossed it to the man he appropriated it from. As Baer turned the veterans began to chuckle in amusement. Baer stopped and turned his face towards them with eyes glimmering. “Are you boys needing something to do or perhaps you were just resting before heading to the east field…”

There was a bunch of jumbled acknowledgements and soon the gaggle of men was gone. All seemed to be intent upon a different destination such as the East Training Field. Baer nodded his head and returned to the inn.

He entered and saw Erik talking to some men and seemed to be getting agitated. Baer snickered, he knew that Erik belonged in the field and commanding men, not recruiting. Erik caught sight of Baer and his smile and scowled at him. They had been together nearly 15 years and could tell what was going on behind the facial expressions.

Baer turned and walked up to Lochlan stating, “Problem solved, sir. Any other issues you wish me to address?”

Lochlan chuckled darkly, “Not yet Baer but be available just in case.”

“Yes, sir. I shall… mingle.”

Lochlan once more chuckled as the big German wandered around the inn. The next man stepped forward seeing Lochlan in a better humor then he was with the previous applicant and smiled as he made to introduce himself. Lochlan cut him off, “What are you smiling at? Am I your friend? Funny I don’t remember you… Now wipe that smile off your face before I have that big man remove it for me.”

The applicant quickly let his smile fade and gulped quickly and muttered in an uneasy voice, “Ahh… Jonathan Bixby, sir. I’m a good hand with a bow, nothing like the Welsh I’ve seen wandering about but I can hunt.”

Lochlan merely pointed to one side where other men, most attired as woodsmen stood. “Stand there and wait.”

Jonathan merely nodded and moved to stand by the other men, “Good day gentlesirs, I am Jonathan Bixby…” He held out his hand to the group in general waiting for someone to return his handshake.

****

Erik scowled as the next aspiring God of Battle approached him. “I am Roger of Gladdensburg, Mighty swordsman and slayer of the Turk…”

“Enough Roger of Boisterville.” The man blanched at the mocking tone of the hard man before him. “I care not of your deeds, for your skill will tell all soon. Report to the East Training Fields for drill, we shall see if you are truly that mighty or just a windbag. NEXT”

Roger was taken aback by the demeanor and rudeness of the man before him. “Sir I protest your tone, I wish to speak to the leader of the infantry; perhaps he will be more civil.” Roger stood there with a smirk upon his face thinking that he had just stepped down on some minor sergeant trying to make him self feel superior at his expense.

“Oh… you want to talk to the leader of the infantry do you? Hmmm… perhaps you want to talk to the Lieutenant in charge of the group you are requesting to join?”

“Yes, that will suffice.”

“Oh very well, let me get him for you.”

Roger looked like a cat that had swallowed a nice fat mouse as Erik stood up from behind his makeshift desk. Quicker then a striking snake Erik’s hand flashed out grabbed the tunic front of Roger the Great and slammed him down into the table Erik was using. The man reeled back to his feet dazed and with a bloody lip and broken nose.

“I am the leader of the infantry foolish man. I will not tolerate someone who can not follow simple orders. Find yourself a tug away from here, you will not be admitted into my infantry. Now leave.”

Roger regained his wits and began to turn red with rage. He turned back to Erik with murder in his eyes but stopped before he could do anything. Standing about the lithe German were a half dozen hard men. All had the look of seasoned veterans and none had the look of mercy in their eyes. “You wish to start something with our Lieutenant?” One of the men growled out.

Roger turned on his foot and stormed away from the table and the inn. His hopes of joining the Free Company dashed with a simple statement.

Erik turned to the other men waiting in line. All seemed a little shocked at the quick and easy way their future Lieutenant seemed to wield violence. Some started to think twice about joining under this tyrant.

“I don’t care where you come from or what you think you’ve done. Simply state your name and your preferred weapon. Once I have that I will direct you further. We shall see if you live up to your own ideas of greatness. Believe me, what you think you have endured is nothing compared to what you are about to get into.”

There were many mutters of agreement among the veterans that stood about Erik. All knew what he had meant. Even the men who had been with the Company for years knew of Baer’s training regime. Although at the time they cursed the German for it, they now knew that their training and endurance had saved them upon the field at Cremona.

“NEXT”

Another man stepped forward. He looked of Italian stock and Erik raised his eyebrow as he sat back down.

In halting Latin the man responded, “Alexandro DiContellaro. Crossbow.”

Erik responded in almost fluent Italian, “Grab your gear and fall out front and wait. I will have a man escort you and several others to your destination for your trial.”

Alexandro nodded and turned to the door without comment. He flinched ever so slightly when he heard the cutting, “NEXT” behind him.

****
“So, where are you from and most importantly, what brings you here?” Without really waiting for an answer they swung through the gate, “Ah, there is Kent.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve got a new recruit for us.”

Kent looked up from his papers he was reading. He had moved his field desk outside to take in the glorious weather they were having. Thaddeus Kent scowled at his paperwork. He always seemed to be stuck doing this god awful chore. Kent made a mental note to talk to LeClerc or Jaeger and find out how they managed to get their paperwork done.

Kent looked up at Johan. He smirked slightly thinking back to the time before Cremona when this man was always getting himself into trouble. He showed his true colors on the field of battle and even though Kent had felt reservations with giving the man rank he was pleased with the results.

Sergeant Johan no longer seemed inclined to get himself into trouble. He was aware of his new status and rank. He also knew he was now an example to the new men as well as proving to the old men that he deserved the rank. Johan had shaped up and Kent was pleased.

“Ah Sergeant Johan, how is Hannibal?” Kent eyed Johan’s steed carefully.

“Sir, you insult me, I take better care of Hannibal then anyone else.”

Kent let a very rare sly smile touch his lips and stated, “I will make sure Rosa does not hear of such things from me.”

Johan blanched slightly and wondered how Kent seemed to know what was going on with every man in his unit. He had this particular knack even before Cremona when Johan first joined the Free Company.

“Uh… that would be much appreciated sir.”

“You are dismissed Johan, but return by an hour past noon. I will need you as a second set of eyes to see if any of these men are worthy to join the Heavy Horse.”

“Yes sir,” Johan saluted and turned his massive steed to return back to the inn and his Rosa.

“Now gentleman, who are you?” Kent looked at the other man in expectation.

11 April 1442, Morning - outside One Thumb's

For a second Henry forgot. He forgot his left arm didn't work so good. He forgot that his leg was barely more than a hunk of dead flesh. He forgot that his days on the battlefield were long over. Henry's hand flashed down to his hip, but the familiar sword was not there. In it's place as an empty old flask. The spell had been broken and Henry remembered it all again.

“Aww hell, I've shit things tougher than ya two. Now go to hell.”

Henry turned his back on the youths and entered One-Thumb's.

Before the door closed behind Henry he felt a hand grab him from behind and pulled him hard. Henry instinctively shifted to compensate for the pull but he moved his bad leg to steady himself, once more he fell to the dirt facing the two boys that had tormented him a moment ago. They looked down at the gnarled cripple and poked him with their booted feet.

“Hey Felix do you think it can dance like those monkeys at the circus?” The boy on the left said to the one on the right.

“I don’t know Michael, he seems a bit too ugly to be mistaken as a monkey.” This caused the two young men to laugh.

The people saw this confrontation developing and moved to get a better look.

Henry looked around at the gathering circle of people and saw only pity in their eyes. None of the expectant violence in their eyes only pity. They viewed Henry already as a loser and caused the rage in Henry grow.

Henry lurched on the ground and grabbed Felix’s ankle and heaved with his good arm. Felix fell back with a hard thump. Henry grinned as he realized he caught them unawares. Once more he rolled on the ground to try and grab the other man’s ankle but the surprise had worn off. Michael merely moved his foot and stepped down hard on Henry’s good hand.

Grunting in pain Henry rolled some more, trying desperately to find some way to leverage himself back to his feet. At least there he could face these boys eye to eye instead of rolling around in the dirt like some Turkish harem girl. His rolling was abruptly stopped as he rolled into a pair of legs. Looking up he saw that Felix has returned to the fray.

Before Henry could move Michael took two quick steps and then kicked him in the stomach. Air escaped Henry’s lungs with a loud whoosh and a grunt of pain. Michael took two steps back and quickly kicked Henry again.

Henry then felt something kick him in the back and realized Felix had joined in with his feet as well. Henry tried to curl up and protect the more vital parts of him, but he raged inwardly that he was a coward and a cripple. The blackness of unconsciousness loomed before him and he almost welcomed it, hoping that perhaps he would not wake up.

Suddenly the constant kicks stopped and Henry was dimly aware of an angry bellow. Slowly Henry looked up to see the Giant Grizzly throttling the two boys. Hanging by their necks almost a good foot off the ground Baer had one boy in each hand.

“Feel like kicking a man who’s done more in their life and seen more in a year then you two will in the short time you have left do you?”

Slowly Baer squeezed his hands closed. The boys who were making choking noises before now merely mad gurgling noises as their windpipes were slowly being crushed. The rage was evident on his face and there was no room for forgiveness in his eyes. Everyone saw that he truly intended to kill these two boys.

“SERGEANT BAER!”

Baer’s eyes flicked over to see Captain’s young son walking towards him.

“Put them down Baer, this isn’t like you at all.”

Baer glared at young John as the two boys’ heads began to loll back and forth.

“Yes they deserve a lesson but are their deaths one they will learn or will they just die ignorant?”

The rage subsided from Baer’s face and he dropped the two men in a heap. He turned to one of the men standing by the door. “You, when these two men wake back up tell them they are no longer welcomed here.” The man nodded and Baer turned back towards the inn. He stopped and reached down lifting Henry to his feet easily and patted him on the back. “Let me buy you a drink Henry, it’s awfully dusty out here.”

11 April 1442, Morning East Field

"Cyril," Amric sighed, keeping his eyes on the men," You have just got to learn to relax a little. Don't worry. I am going to be putting Alexander, Carl, and George in the same position as you."

"Understood, sir," Cyril replied," These fellows aren't bad, but having seen you in action they could use.....seasoning."

Amric laughed," That is one way to put it, Corporal."

"Corporal?" Cyril looked confused," I've never heard of such a rank."

"I made it up," Amric shrugged," No! Not like that! Do you want to get your HEAD taken off? NEVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN! Try the maneuver again. This time do NOT get fancy. Sorry, Cyril. Where was I?"

"The rank of corporal, sir," Cyril prompted him.

"Oh yes, that's right," Amric nearly screamed in frustration," Which part of NEVER DO THAT AGAIN did you NOT understand? Cyril, do you mind? Show him what he is doing wrong."

"Yes sir!" Cyril saluted and trotted out to the two men.

"The serjeant is getting a tad bit irritated with you," Cyril stated.

"But I saw a master of Heidelberg do that," the man spluttered.

"Fencing masters are NOT soldiers," Cyril replied gently," This is a mercenary company. Our job is death. Do you realize that our motto is 'Death Rides With Us'?"

"Yes, but...."

"I was not finished speaking," Cyril frowned," When a superior is speaking to you, you are to listen."

"Who do you think you are?" he snapped.

"I'm a corporal under that fellow there," Cyril jabbed a thumb toward Amric who was glowering with his arms crossed.

Amric less than subtly adjusted his sword belt with the twin blades.

"Um, I don't know what a corporal is, but I get the message."

"Now this is how you do it," Cyril began," Serjeant if you would be so kind as to assist me."

"Certainly, Corporal," Amric frowned at the one cheeky fellow.

"If you would be the defender, I shall be the attacker," Cyril said.

Amric pulled out his right hand blade. Quick as a blink of the eye. So fast that the two men who had been sparring shivered. They looked at each other with the same thought, Nobody ought to be that fast. 'Steeth!

"Whenever you are ready, corporal," Amric nodded and set himself.

Cyril began the attack sequence. Amric defended as should be until the sequence was over. Cyril's bladework had been improving steadily, but he was still in need of improvement. He was still about as good as the two sparring men however.

"Now that is how it should be done," Cyril stated," Now again, sir. This time we shall slow it down even more and you do what he did."

Amric grimaced," Fine, although it grates to do something that foolish."

Again Cyril attacked, at a slower speed, with Amric defending until he made the same error that the first man had done,which was switching hands with his blade in the midst of the fight. He, of course, would have been killed if he had done it at the speed of the man.

"Now do you see?" Cyril queried," You cannot do that in the midst of battle. This is not a fencing yard or arena. This could have been an actual battle. If it had been you would be dead."

The man pointed at Amric," I bet he could do it."

Amric sighed," Son, that is NOT the point! Fancy sword tricks are all well and good to impress one's mates, if you are into that sort of thing. However, it is NOT something to do when you are not really capable of it."

"I could practice?"

"You are not going to ever be fast enough to do that," Cyril responded gently.

"Regardless of practice," Amric snapped," I don't EVER want to see you do that again. Or you will match blades with me in a sparring match."

Cyril shuddered," You do NOT want to do that. I've seen it. It's not pretty, and the poor sot that has to ends up in a lot of pain. He won't cut you, but you'll be black and blue."

Amric still looked thunderous. The two men blanched and nodded vigorously.

"Now do it again," Cyril said," And do it correctly this time."

With that the two non coms stepped back and watched as the men went back at it.

"Cyril."

"Yes sir?" Cyril asked.

"Stop being so damned polite," Amric sighed," You are a corporal. One step away from serjeant. Which is the left hand of God Himself. But don't repeat that last part. It's common knowledge to good commanders that serjeants are the backbone of an army, but they don't necessarily want to hear about it."

"Yes sir!" Cyril saluted again.

"Cyril! Stop saluting me all the time," Amric shook his head," I haven't actually given you an order. Although I do expect you to be far less polite while in drill and in the field. You do NOT have time to be polite and deferential in those situations."

"Yes sir!" Cyril began to nod," No! Now why would you do THAT? Spinning around like that is an invitation to be stabbed in the back! To quote the serjeant, NEVER DO THAT AGAIN! Try it again, and do TRY to stop be fancy! Sorry sir."

"Better," Amric chuckled," Much better. Oh, and while in actual camp you are a non commissioned officer. You are above them in rank. Never forget it. You don't have to lord it over them, but you never forget it, and they won't either."

Cyril nodded," I understand, sir."

"Oh, and Cyril," Amric noted," If you ever want to receive more advanced sword training, I would be happy to help you out with that."

"Thank you sir," Cyril replied," I will keep that in mind."

"I'll leave these two to your care," Amric nodded," Do NOT be too merciful with them. The Turk won't, you can be sure of that."

"Understood."

With that Amric went back to watching the rest of his 'corporals' working the men out. The newest batch of recruits were being sorted out by Carl and George. He had earlier tasked Alexander to work out the other recruits that had been signed in earlier in the recruitment drive.

Yes, Cyril will do fine, once he gets over that politeness issue. I think he will work on it. Should give Kincaid a shock over time as Cyril gets more used to being a corporal in charge of men, responsible for their lives and leading them into battle.

With that thought he continued to scan the field as he walked along it to check on everything. Whenever he passed near sweating recruits they all managed to put extra effort into their exertions.

More veterans began filtering into the field. Amric started having them work into some of the newcomer ranks to help instruct and get to know the new men. The vets seemed to be a bit abashed, and he could have sworn he heard something about Baer, but passed it off as typical muttering about serjeants.

April 11th, Morning -- the East Field

Carl van Krieg shifted from one leg to another uncomfortably. The Hussites were good, that much was immediately obvious, and he hardly had to show them which end of the sword to hold. He limited himself to occasionally shouting criticism, but it was more to feel involved than to actually correct flaws. He knew the Czechs were Company material the moment he laid eyes on them -- it was the way they moved, the way they handled themselves.

Carl shuddered. You're starting to think like an officer. Next thing, you'll be worrying about supply lines or grand strategy. To dispell that awful thought, he muttered disgustedly, "Teach them English!"

Behind him, Alexander and George, loafing in the shade of a tree while Amric was handling the newcomers, guffawed loudly. Carl rounded on them. "Well, really! Do I look like a teacher to you? I'm not..." He trailed off, and suddenly broke into a wide grin, his attention across the field. "Say, Alex, how 'bout getting old Cyril for me? I've got a job for him."

Alex returned the grin and shot off across the field. Carl turned back to his Hussites, only to nearly bump into a man who, by his garb, was clearly a warrior. Though not tall, he was clearly beefy enough to hold his own on the battlefield. The one thing he seemed to lack was speaking skills. He babbled something that sounded vaguely like French; Carl's only response was to look confused.

The man tried twice more, in two other languages, all to no avail. Finally, Carl offered, "One Thumb's. Lochlan. That way." He pointed vaguely west. Seeming satisfied by this, the blond man headed off. Carl glanced at George Finby and shook his head ruefully.

All the while, more men were streaming onto the East Field. Carl even spied a few men leading horses in the mix. He waved to Amric. "Hey, Sergeant! It's going to get crowded right quick! Isn't this what we have the West Field for?"

11 April 1442 East Field, Morning

Amric heard Carl's shout and the horsemen surging onto the field.

"Righto, Carl!" Amric shouted back," I'll deal with them."

Amric sauntered over to the milling horsemen who saw the serjeant bearing down on them. Some of them, having already been hounded away from One Thumbs by Baer were a little concerned when the other serjeant started heading their direction.

"What are you fellows thinking?" Amric bellowed.

"Serjeant Baer sent us over here," one said.

"You don't say?" Amric's eyes glittered with amusement," What were you doing? Loafing? Again?"

The men shifted in their saddles nervously until O'Floinn showed up. They began to look a little more relaxed.

"Daniel," Amric began," We cannot have both the infantry and cavalry testing and drilling on the same field."

O'Floinn shrugged," I just do what I'm told."

Amric looked surprised," Since when?"

"Well..."

"I'm kidding," Amric smiled," Why not lead these fellows over to the west field?"

"Could do that," O'Floinn nodded slowly," Not sure I want to, though."

"C'mon," Amric grinned," You guys are all riding horses. You'd get there faster than the footmen. I'd waste a lot of time shifting all these guys over there."

"You have a point," O'Floinn agreed.

"I'll tell you what," Amric offered," I'll send a runner over to One Thumbs to have the cavalry recruits sent to the west field. That way you won't have guys coming here first before getting over there."

"Done," O'Floinn nodded," Okay men! We're off to the west field. Let's leave this field for the mud suckers!"

Amric grinned as the horsemen reversed direction and rode off to the west field. He sent a runner to inform the officers that the cavalry was being sent to the west field.

Once that was done he looked at the men who had been standing there watching the interplay between O'Floinn and himself.

"Why are you standing around?" Amric bellowed," Get back to WORK! This is NOT your rest period!"

Everyone scrambled back to work with a will. Amric again started to work his way through the field until he came to the Czechs.

"Carl," Amric said quietly," What is your opinion of them?"

"They are good," he replied," And we can make them better."

"I agree," Amric nodded," Let them know that they are in. Get them squared away and have them report to the quartermaster for uniforms and whatever other equipment they need. Sparingly, mind you. Field kits only. Milo will throw a fit if we start unpacking stuff willy nilly."

"Yes sir," Carl saluted and started speaking to the Czechs.

Amric went back toward Cyril who was nearly tearing his hair in frustration with the one man who just wouldn't listen. He continued to try fancy moves.

"Cyril," Amric motioned him over.

"Sir?"

"He's out. He doesn't listen," Amric snapped," He'll get people killed with his stupidity."

"I agree, sir," Cyril hesitated," You want me to tell him?"

Amric did roll his eyes," Yes, Cyril, I do. Get him the hell out of here before I take him apart. He is beginning to annoy me."

"Yes sir!" Cyril saluted and turned back to the two men.

Pointing to the miscreant Cyril snapped," You! What is your name?"

"Andre Despreaux."

"Get out."

"Pardon Moi?"

"Do you have wool in your ears?" Cyril snapped," Get out. Of. Here. Now. You don't listen to instruction. You continue to try to do things your own way. I have tried to be patient with you."

"You can't do that!"

"Yes I can. I have my orders," Cyril sighed," Now leave."

The man yelled in fury," You can't do this to me! I want to join the Free Company!"

"Rome was supposed to last forever too," Cyril shrugged," Didn't happen. Neither will you be joining the Free Company."

"I won't go!"

"We can do this the easy way," Cyril frowned," Or we can do this the hard way. Which is it to be?"

The man rushed Cyril with naked sword in hand. Cyril hastily backpedaled, drawing his own sword to defend himself. The desperate Despreax started hacking away at him with wild swings. Cyril calmly defended himself, looking for an opening. Amric dashed over to the fray.

"Hold!" Amric shouted," I said HOLD! Damn you!"

The man ignored the serjeant. Cyril began to wear the man down. He had been working out for awhile, while Cyril was more rested. With a twist of his blade, Cyril disarmed the man. Despreaux backpedaled quickly.

Cyril stepped back," Now pick up your sword and get out of here. You, what is your name?"

"Fraser O'Donnel."

"I'll get you another partner, so come with me."

Carl and O'Donnel turned away. Despreaux picked up his blade and looked at the back of the man who had humiliated him. With an oath he charged Cyril. Amric suddenly appeared in front of him with both blades bared. With a contemptuous flick of his left blade he flicked the sword away while the right blade was at the throat of Despreaux.

"You were told to leave," Amric grated," Now I am telling you. But I will go further. Leave Ancona. Now. Don't wait. If I see you again, I will kill you."

Despreaux cringed," But....but..."

"I am not going to repeat myself," Amric snapped.

"My sword..."

"Leave it," Amric snarled," You are too stupid to use it properly and might hurt someone with it. Vanish. NOW!"

Amric slammed his blades back into their sheaths. Crossing his arms and frowning he watched the further humiliated man trudged off the field. He sent another runner to One Thumbs to let them know that Despreaux was out and his attack on Cyril. Plus that he was warned to leave Ancona.

You do NOT screw with the Free Company. You do NOT try to attack a superior. The Free Company takes care of it's own. First, last, and always.

Cyril had already found another man for O'Donnel to work out with and Amric picked up Despreaux' blade and carried it over to the pile of other weapons that were waiting to be used. A free sword might as well be used by someone who could really use it.

“Let me buy you a drink Henry, it’s awfully dusty out here.”

Henry shrugged off Baer and turn back to the street. Moving as quickly as his battered body allowed, he made his way over to the slumped bodies of his tormenters. Barely parting his lips, Henry spat through his remaining teeth. With pinpoint aim, he found his marks. Henry gave one of them a kick to the ribs, but his broken limbs couldn't deliver the savagery painted on his gnarled face.

“You're damn lucky you won't be goin' where we're a goin'. Sonna bitches woulda been mince meat first engagement ... and woulda served 'em right.”

Henry exhaled deeply, and with that breath all the venom in him was gone. The sad fact remained that two green half wits had bested him without breaking a sweat. “Sonna bitches,” Henry muttered under his breath before he turned back towards Baer. “I'll take that drink you were talkin' about ...” Henry stopped short, unsure of how to address the mammoth German. Technically, he didn't have to address Baer by rank, especially considering Henry had never even served under him. Yet, the Free Company lifer felt awkward addressing a seargent by his given name.

Baer smiled down at Henry. The two walked into One-Thumb's without further incident and ordered a pair of drinks, ale for Baer and something much stronger for Jameson. Henry made his way over to a lonely table in the corner. Somewhere away from most of the stares and snickers. The German pikeman followed grabbed a seat directly across from Jameson.

“Another day in the life of a broken down old soldier. I swear, sometimes I wonder what I was fightin' for when I was laying in that field, bleedin' from every which way. 'Cause I can tell ya for sure this ain't it.” Henry gestured around him with a bitter, grandiose wave.

April 11th, Morning - One Thumb's

The tavern was starting to empty out as Jaeger, Lochlan, and Captain took to simply hearding the prospective recruits out to their appropriate field. Infantry to the east, cavalry to the west. Wait, weren't the rangers on the west field. Oh hell. Lochlan thought for a moment, then he mentally shrugged, Landen would survive.

“Another day in the life of a broken down old soldier. I swear, sometimes I wonder what I was fightin' for when I was laying in that field, bleedin' from every which way. 'Cause I can tell ya for sure this ain't it.” Henry gestured around him with a bitter, grandiose wave. Lochlan saw the wave as he approached the table from behind, and he heard the words as well, in his mind, and in his swoul.

"I know what you were fighting for Henry." The Lieutenant said from behind the disabled veteran. "You were fighting for you brothers, the brothers who look after you now."

"Yes..." Henry trailed off, obviously not sure if he could even call Lochlan sir anymore.

"Remember what I said, you need anything, come talk to me. I've heard from Milo your doing fine work with the quartermasters, keep it up." Lochlan nodded to Baer, acknowledging the big germans concern.

Shaking his head Lochlan glanced around. Captain and Erik had taken seats at a table on the far side of the tavern, and now, for the most part One Thumb's was actually calm. As calm as it ever got anyway.

"You heading out Lochlan?" Erik asked.

Lochlan nodded. "Landen and I are reorganizing the rangers, and I think one of us ought to go make sure poor Kent and Jacques don't drown in a sea of idiot recruits."

Captain chuckled, and waved a hand. "Get out of here then, we'll talk later." Lochlan flashed a grin, and favored his commander with a vague ranger salute.

April 11th, Morning - West Field

"Bloody hell, lets move to the south field." Lochlan muttered to Landen.

"Agreed, damn cavalry."