The Training Field

A Junian Story of Legend

"J̌ed! Dvům! Schtret! …TETTUN!" The captain bellowed to the grassy meadow of combatants. In response, the field came alive with the sounds of mock combat. These rapid, controlled motions of braying steel coupled with the rhythmic metallic clanging had almost instantaneously transformed the natural scene into something akin to the awakening of a momentous, deafening machine. 

Alwyn arced his sword through the air with a deadly whirr and watched the sparks fly as the sun-flashed steel collided in the spar. Sweat dripped down his brow, pitching off the crook in his nose and onto his greaves before evaporating just as quick - though the knight was far too focused to be troubled by a tad bit of perspiration - the day had only just begun. Eyes locked with those of his sparring partner. Alwyn quickly realized that the overhead slash that Orwick had thrown at him was a feint and, though he sidestepped with ease, the jab that would have pierced his chest was still only narrowly dodged. 

"Well met, Jormund, But I have you outmatched," said Orwick with a cheerful laugh.

He pointed the tip of his glimmering blade at his opponent as if to assess his target. Alwyn retorted with an easy smile, raising his own blade to cross that of its partner in challenge. 

"Well met indeed, Danheim, but I've a half-cade in service over your head whilst you were saddling horses!" Alwyn retorted with an easy smile.

Orwick rolled his eyes to the clouds at the sally - he had only been a squire half a roat, and one of the fastest to be promoted into full knighthood; a considerable feat, once one takes into account that most royal squires aren't knighted for at least twice that amount of time. Surrounding the two poised figures the simulated combat roared on, the air filling with shouts of victory and cries of defeat amongst the ringing of weaponry. The traditional, ornate design of the weapons created a mosaic of color as orange sliced at purple, green chopped at red, and so on as the training grounds took on the appearance of a deadly rainbow. The Regganorian Army was exceptionally well trained, and, up until the outlawing of all combative magical arts, they had doubtless been the greatest of all the human armies in the world. As any Regganorian saw it, they had to be. 

Though both bountiful and beautiful in all its splendor, the lands that formed the five Duchys of Regganor could be merciless and cruel at times. Whether that cruelty took the form of hazardous weather, perilous natural features, or the sometimes less-than-friendly creatures native to the continent, this hardly mattered to the rulers of Regganor, as they had always ensured that their forces were the apex predators of the land. Besides the fact was that if their unity or quality in training were to slip at any time, their watchful neighbors would eagerly snatch up Regganorian land without a second thought. Once a force to be feared through land, sea, and sky over the last two centuries, the schools of battlecraft had been systematically dismantled - on the orders of their greatest adversaries no less - as war reparations. Now, only their traditional ground forces remained, giving reason for their unnaturally high standards. 

However, those standards extended past the regular army, which served under the five duchy generals and barons in each fief. Above them all stood the Royal Army that answered directly to the Commander, serving in and for the Capital of Privatis under the King's hand. Setting the standard, the few two-thousand knights chosen to rise to this level of service disregarded all fear of injury by relentlessly carrying on their daily drills and sparring with the deadliest weapons in their arsenal.

Orwick spun to dodge a chop and responded with a lethal slash at the abdomen - one which was neatly parried by Alwyn. The pair carried on in that fashion without either of them gaining the upper hand long enough for a decisive victor to be declared. With heavy breaths and aching muscles long before the sun began to crest on the horizon, where the world would take on that signature amber hue that signaled the days' end, Captain Ashburn made his way to the center of the battle and called out a halt. It was the first time since the rigorous session had begun that the knights had allowed themselves to lower arms and feel the stiffness in their joints. Orwick and Alwyn took a moment to stand in the cool evening breeze, regarding one another and the progress they had made. 

"You nearly pierced me once or twice, your movements have quickened," Alwyn conceded, scratching his beard, "Last time we were paired, I'd kicked you on your hind so many times that your arse should be as calloused as my hands." 

Orwick barked out a short laugh before taking on an overwhelming air of arrogance in mimicry of the loftiest officers they had seen in their time. 

"You'd wish that had been so. Had it been, you wouldn't feel the need to paint over the embarrassment felt in your own shoddy swordwork. Perhaps if you were to spend more time polishing your boots and buffing the nicks out of your weapon, your dueling skill would improve some." 

After holding the pompous act for only a number of seconds to imitate examining the state of Alwyn's uniform, it was Orwick that broke first into a fit of heaving laughter before allowing his toothy smile to break through. Alwyn was, although more subtle as was his nature, quick to follow with a shake of his head. He offered out his hand and, taking it, was pulled into a brotherly embrace by Orwick. Their weapons sheathed at last, they clapped one another on the back before beginning their long trek in the throng of other knights to their garrison. 

Alwyn whistled a tune as they continued through the trodden grass; he recalled it had something to do with a drunkard, his mule, and his two wives, but couldn't quite get the melody right before he was interrupted by a sharp elbow in his ribs. Annoyed, he turned to his friend.

"Your admirers have returned." 

Whispered Orwick without turning his head, the same goofy smile still plastered on his face. Realization had dawned on Alwyn as he followed Orwicks gaze to the source of his amusement. Only a number of yards away near the outskirts of their training grounds stood three little girls, dressed in the plain clothes of local peasants with hands and feet muddied from a days' worth of play. This trio burst into a fit of merry giggles as Alwyn noticed them. Klara, a girl of thirteen and the eldest of the trio, stepped carefully onto the edge of a water trough. Facing the herd of passing knights, she boldly gave a hasty salute in the Regganorian fashion - with her arm vertical and rigid in front of her chest and face, fingers pointing to the clouds above. Their eyes met and Klara held the position with a radiant smile. Alwyn had no problem in professionally returning the salute and causing them all to squeal in delight, nearly tripping their friend into the icy water behind her in their excitement. 

"Karheath girls. You tease them too much." Orwick tsked like an old schoolmaster they used to know as boys. 

Alwyn gave him a sidelong glance. "Come off it." 

Though the land owned by the Royal Army outside Privatis' western gate was off-limits to the general populace, it was not uncommon for the children of some of the outlying villages to slink out from the sights of their busy mothers in order to steal over to the training grounds to watch the knights practice their swordsmanship. Karheath was one of the nearest such villages, and of recent days, it had become commonplace for Alwyn to catch sight of curious eyes peering at him just within the fenceline of the training grounds - ready to dart off in a moment's notice if any were willing to give chase.

Alwyn saw no harm in the marveling of the onlookers, as it reminded him of his time as a boy watching the warriors in glinting armor as they passed through his village. Life within the walls of the city was for the privileged children of artisans and aristocrats, and seldom was such a life lacking in entertainment. Village life could be rather dull at times, and the children who grew up there lived in a different world from their city-dwelling kin, as Alwyn knew all too well. 

Orwick sighed longingly beside him. "Oh how I wish some of your masculine charm would rub off on me. Some folk have just been kissed by Lady Luck I suppose." 

Alwyn blinked once or twice, shaking his head in astonishment. "Aren't you the stew pot calling the kettle black with all your talk of teasing and luck?" 

Orwick appeared surprised. "Whatever do you mean?" he scoffed. 

Alwyn snorted as he perused his mental library of Orwick's most recent conquests. "Eleanor Lestraine, Honeycomb Street." he said at last. 

Orwick thought back with a finger to his chin, the name stirring a memory. "Ah yes! Baker Lestraine's second daughter. Yes, I quite liked Ellie," he recalled. 

Alwyn couldn't help but laugh at the sincerity in his voice. You could almost call it innocence if you had never met the man who had said it. "You stopped seeing her on the account that you believed her surname to sound akin to a sickness." 

Orwick shrugged casually. "It was no personal slight - I never bought my dough from her father either. With a name such as Lestraine the man should have been a physician or an alchemist even."

"Very well," Said Alwyn, already moving on to his next example. "Two moons ago you were seeing the seamstress from Hangley Hill - Talia Norstrym, I believe was her name." 

Orwick frowned now, attempting to recall. "Norstrym…was she the one married to the farrier?" he ventured hopefully. 

Alwyn rolled his eyes, "Hardly. You're thinking of her mother, Margarette, who you'd had a moon prior. Try once more." 

"Ah, of course - easy mistake, that." 

Orwick cleared his throat in embarrassment before beginning his second attempt. Racking his brain, suddenly Orwick smiled wryly and waggled his finger.

"You hound! You're trying to trick me!" 

Alwyn raised his eyebrows but said nothing, prompting Orwick further into his theory. 

"Two moons ago I could not have been seeing Talia Norstrym, because at that time I had occupied all of my days with Miss. Lorelle Glinton all the way over in Muddlesbrooke." 

Nodding slowly, Alwyn revealed that Orwick had been at least partially correct, prompting a victorious and preemptive grin to emerge on his end. "Impressive, I'd thought you'd forgotten all about Miss. Lorelle." 

"How could I?" Orwick snickered. "Constant riding from the Eastern gate to that putrid swamp town would leave even the best rider saddle-sore, not to mention scraping the muck off my boots every night." 

"Then your thighs must have been chaffed to the bone." Alwyn added. "Considering that most days you had ridden twice the distance from Muddlesbrooke directly to Hangley Hill - since you had been bedding both girls at once." 

"Oh." Said Orwick dumbly, his surefire demeanor fading. "Oh, yes, I recall." 

"I am certain you don't," Alwyn chuckled, "Taking into account the braining you received from the Norstrym girls." 

Orwick furrowed his brow and Alwyn, seeing his lack of understanding, elaborated. "After a rather raucous night in your 'putrid swamp town', as you call it, you made a quite memorable entrance into Hangley Hill with your boots caked in mud and breath smelling of mead." 

Orwick huffed and crossed his arms. "Is that all? I do doubly worse at the end of each nock just within the walls of Privatis, and it does nothing to explain my supposed injury. Anyhow, there is no way to tell for certain where I had been by those two things alone." 

"Perhaps not," Alwyn conceded. "Though through the undergarments you were sporting like a national flag I believe even a fool could fit the pieces together, which is likely why the Norstrym girls took turns bludgeoning you half to death when you turned up on their doorstep."

"That might explain the dizziness I'd felt for nocks after," said Orwick at last. 

"Word is you came up with a pretty memorable song that you'd sung throughout the streets of Hangley about your love," said Alwyn, at last recalling the words to his whistled melody.

Orwick winced as he caught the mischievous look that so rarely appeared in Alwyn's eye, "I couldn't have." 

"Ah but you did." 

"Was it at least in good taste?" Orwick wondered.

Alwyn pursed his lips, humming a bouncy rhythm as he attempted to arrange the lyrics:

"O My Lovely Miss. Lo-relle,

My sweet Lor-el-ey,

For the maid they named Glinton

Puts a glint-in my eye…"

"Sacred stars don't sing the damned thing!" Orwick cursed as Alwyn's jaunty tone was beginning to draw eyes, "I asked for a judgment of taste - not a live performance!" 

"And what would your assessment of quality be?" Alwyn asked, dodging a sideward blow in the process. 

"Poor. Although I am relieved it is less vulgar than I had imagined." 

"You should have let me reach the chorus, then." 

Orwick shook his head in wonderment, "Incredible how I only find of these things moons after the fact. How word on these matters reaches you first is beyond me." 

Alwyn shrugged. "I picked up pieces here and there, some of the boys who had gone down to the alehouse in Hangley had heard the whole thing when you came riding in and had sung it for days after." 

Orwick gave Alwyn a long, pained stare. "Did you have a point hidden somewhere in all this mockery?" 

Alwyn broke into a rare, wide grin. In terms of wit, both knights were evenly matched - though Alwyn, being the far more reserved of the two, was more prone to retreat from the more lengthy verbal sparrings that Orwick was fond of. A victory such as this was an uncommon occurrence meant to be savored. "The point, dear friend, is that you tease far more than what is good for anyone's health, and are sporting more luck than any charm could give." 

"I can hardly see how those tales of misfortune amount to any possession of luck on my end." Said Orwick, kicking a stone across the cobbled footpath they had made their trek over to. 

"Your fortune comes from the fact that, no matter the degree of your blunder, another woman manages to find a place in your bed the following nock. Junis knows why," lectured Alwyn pointedly. "Perhaps the unsavory length of your hair reminds them of the affection their wet nurses used to give." 

Orwick turned to him and narrowed his eyes, as he had in that moment taken the opportunity to neatly re-tie the string that bound his hair into a tail. 

"Or a pony," Alwyn considered.

"You're simply jealous," Orwick scoffed, "So for the lack of hair on your head you've grown that greasy rat nest of a beard." 

Alwyn had tried to retort but it was too late, Orwick had joined the river of men flowing into the garrison once more. He reached up and ran his fingers through the curled blonde hair that he'd chopped short for many roats now. Perhaps it was time to grow it out at last, thought Alwyn, as he rejoined the crowd himself.