Chapter 21 – Between the Field and the Hall
The host field was its own kingdom.
Tents sprawled in uneven rows, banners snapping above them like restless birds. Fires smoked, cooks shouted, gamblers clapped dice, and the stink of horse, sweat, and spice hung heavy in the dusk. Every noble house carved out a patch of ground and claimed it as if it were a fortress.
Aric's camp stood apart. Hawks drove their pegs in straight lines, fires burned low, ropes were tight. Boots were polished, shields cleaned, wagons positioned where no hand could touch them unseen. Other escorts drifted by, stealing glances. Some sneered at the order. Others lingered too long, measuring it with envy.
By the second night, visitors came. Two minor lords, their men drunk and loud, pressed close with flasks of wine. "The crown's coin goes to those who stand nearest its table," one slurred. "Best stand with us, valley lord. We'll see you rewarded."
Aric accepted their wine with a nod but gave no promises. Malrec wrote their names later, scratching in the lamplight. "Cheap voices," he muttered. "Never worth the price."
Later, a younger knight from the coast walked up, his cloak smelling faintly of salt. He grinned, half pride, half challenge. "My father says the valley breeds mud-foot soldiers. Tomorrow, let us see if he's right. Your men against mine, at drill."
Aric looked him over. The knight's men waited nearby, eager and nervous. "Done," he said.
The next morning, a crowd gathered at the practice yard. Nobles ringed the circle, whispering wagers. The coastal knight's men moved fast, their blades flashing, but their lines bent whenever pressed. Hawks moved in silence, shields locking, spears thrusting as one. No wasted steps. No shouted commands. The nobles murmured, seeing the difference.
Aric did not boast. He simply called the forms: Cross-Current, Stone-Notch, Hook-and-Throw. Hawks obeyed, seamless. When it ended, the coastal knight stood red-faced but laughing. "You've made your point, Delsar," he said, and clapped Aric's shoulder.
Whispers carried before noon: the valley lord's escort drilled like the king's own guard, and some swore their lord fought with hands strong enough to fell ladders.
That evening, a runner brought summons to a banquet in the lesser hall. Aric left half his men to guard the camp and took the others. He wore the coat the tailor had cut, plain ring in his pocket.
The lesser hall blazed with candlelight. Long tables groaned with food and wine. Nobles clustered in packs, their laughter edged like steel. The king was not here. This was the ground where lords tested one another before blades were drawn.
Lord Fenrel was waiting. His green wave banner hung behind him, and his smile was sharp. He raised his cup high. "So the valley sends men who march like the crown's own. Tell us, Delsar, did you train them with sword or whip?"
Aric took his place without hurry. "Neither. We trained them with hunger—until they chose order over empty bowls."
A stir went through the room. Some nobles laughed, others nodded with respect. Fenrel's smile held, but the knuckles on his cup whitened.
Later, a gray-bearded duke leaned in close. "The king will want more than drills and numbers. Will you show him something worth remembering?"
Aric met his eyes. "Once. And only once. That will be enough."
The duke chuckled and sat back. Fenrel said nothing, though his gaze followed Aric the rest of the night.
When the banquet ended, Aric returned to the host field. The Hawks were awake, fires banked low. Wren met him at the ropes. "Eyes everywhere tonight," he said. "Some friendly, some not."
Aric looked back toward the palace, its towers lit like stars against the dark. "Let them watch," he said. "Soon, they'll see what they came for."