The new conscripts and recruits slowly filtered on to the parade grounds. Most of them looked sheepish, many of them unsure if they were in the right place, tugging on their neighbor's sleeves for confirmation. Almost none of them looked like soldiers. They stood around the dusty courtyard, occasionally glancing up at the clouded sky, which seemed to herald rain. At least they'd be spared drilling in the hot sun.

It was the only thing they'd be spared that afternoon, if Sergeant Evander Kincade had anything to say about it. "Come on strong, be tough, and be a bloody bastard the second they meet you." Those had been the words of Lieutenant Bracken, Evan's superior officer when he'd been campaigning in eastern Scalia, working as a mercenary in a Barony war. "Be cruel. Be harsh. Don't let them like you. Don't let them get away with jack." He could hear his former lieutenant's gravelly voice as clear as if he'd been standing beside him, though Bracken had been dead these past five years. "Cause in the end, boy, you'll be doing them a favor. Cause if they can survive you, they can survive anything."

"Troop Nine, Regiment One!" he bellowed, voice low and gravelly, "Atten-SHUN!"

The recruits appeared panicked for a second, then formed into haphazard lines, snapping a series of unsynchronized salutes.

He had his work cut out for him.

Evander clasped his hands behind his back and glared at them all. He then began to walk slowly across the front line, stalking like some armored predator. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped in volume, but remained harsh: "My name is Sergeant Kincade. When you speak to me, you will address me as sir. When I give you an order, you will obey it. When you disappoint me, you will do so at your own risk." He paused and waited for several beats. Just enough time for them to stew a bit. And then...

"You, soldier!" he barked into the face of the nearest hapless recruit. "What is your name?"

François tried to linger at the back.

If only he'd managed to get some decent armor in time. But he really wasn't the type for armor, so he had bartered off bits of it. Gambling debt was a terrible thing, and his finances really couldn't stand it. Then there was the damage he'd caused to the mess hall starting a brawl... He prodded his tender nose and left eye. Of course he had come out the victor, even if most watching would say he was definitely worse off for the encounter. Until he'd stuck a knife in the other man's ribs.

Probably a bad idea. So now here he was, to all intents and purposes part and party with the newest country recruits. A knight! A famed swordsman in his own land. Well--a little famous. At least within his family's circles. Never mind that here they expected--he didn't know what the expected, but if it was bloody obedience, good luck with it.

He snapped off a lazy salute, doing his best to lounge whilst standing at attention. He soon dropped any pretense of attention whatsoever, and made a point of not-so-delicately covering a yawn with one hand. That brute of a sergeant was coming near. François would show him what was what.

"You, soldier! What is your name?"

"Sir François Villon," he said, a tad coldly, meeting the man's eyes. He dropped his gaze to his shoulder, and brushed an imaginary fleck of spittle from the shoulder of his maroon-and-teal standard-issue tunic, as though it were made of finest silk. "And yours? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch it." He smiled pleasantly up at the larger man.

The soldier didn't flinch. If anything, he lounged, standing at ease, oozing self-satisfaction. Kincade immediately found himself hating this man. Respect, Discipline, and Efficiency were the cornerstones of a successful fighting force. This tosser possessed none of these qualities.

"Sir François Villon. And yours? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch it." The recruit smirked up at him. A few nearby soldiers drew away.

Kincade stood still for a moment. And then, he smiled. He smiled a cold, mirthless smile that failed to reach his eyes, which shone darkly. He looked like a wolf baring its teeth before lunging in for the kill.

And then he re-broke François' nose.

Swiftly and deftly, he swung a fist across the impertinent soldier's face with a satisfying crunch. He then spun, swinging a kick into the back of Villon's knees and bringing him to the ground. The nearest soldiers cringed, and did their best to stand rail-straight.

"In that case," Kincade said, voice low and sibilant, "I advise you to pay closer attention in the future."

Filing in with the other conscripts, Isaac's face had an unpleasant scowl - not that he his general expression was anything different, but today he was feeling particularly moody. Although physically fit and well-versed in the use of daggers and torture methods, he certainly didn't have much experience handling other weapons, and was rather worried that he was going to make a complete fool of himself in front of the other conscripts, and sully whatever intimidating reputation he had amongst them. He would much rather be making money than playing with swords, anyway.

Secondly, just being around such a large crowd of people made him uncomfortable. He couldn't help but be uneasy, gaze skittering from side to side, shifting his weight from foot to food, and in general just fidgeting like a nervous, cornered animal. To make matters worse, the sergeant decided to confront the soldier standing just to his left. Isaac quickly averted his gaze, staring stoically at the ground, until he heard the soldier's disrespectful response. His eyes widened slightly and he took an automatic step backwards, quickly glancing up just in time to catch sight of Sergeant Kincade 'disciplining' the soldier.

Unable to help himself, a slow smile eased on to his usually impassive face at the sight, thoroughly entertained by the show of brutality. A soft snicker escaped him as his gaze flickered briefly to meet the sergeant's eyes, holding a newfound respect for the man. Maybe this wouldn't be as terrible as he had thought...

François had experienced pain enough before that he refused to cry out when the Sergeant's fist connected messily with his face, but the crunch of cartilege and bone sent unwitting tears to his eyes. One hand coming up to staunch the blood, his eyes shut and watering, he didn't see the kick that felled him. He stumbled to his knees, and caught himself with his free hand. For an instant he took stock. Face: a mass of pain, throbbing, his nose bleeding a sticky salt trickle to pool at his lip. His shoulders tense, one hand braced in the sand of the arena, he slid a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped at the flow.

Someone's snicker interrupted him, and anger flared into life, extinguishing pain. He let the handkerchief drop and leapt to his feet, pain exploding like starbursts in his skull, his sidesword out of its scabbard in a flash, help straight out at that ass of a sergeant.

"Dishonorable!" he hissed, the intended effect set a little off course by the thickly nasal quality in his voice. "Fight someone who's ready for it, and don't use your rank to bully, you son of a bitch." There was a precise quality to his Duainian-accented voice, even when he cursed; he gave weight and consideration to every epithet, as though they were apt descriptions and not insults. "That's right, this is a challenge--coward."

Thomas had started the morning eager. He usually did; each new day brought more chances for him to test his strength and build what skills he had. It was certainly gratifying. Every new trick brought him one step closer to the level of the Baskari warrior who had taken his sister, and for the time being his only goal was to surpass that. So far he was doing a fairly good job. Training, keeping quiet, paying attention, more training, maybe some time off for eating and sleeping and then more training on his own time.

He hadn't been worried about the new sergeant; not as much as others had, at least. Sergeants were in the army to take care of business. You could be a corporal or captain or lieutenant without an ounce of backbone but sergeants-well, they were basically anointed. They were promoted for knowing what was what, and from the moment his trainer stepped onto the field Tom knew that this one was know different. He straightened his posture before the man even had a chance to speak and kept his eyes fixed on him, drinking in his every movement. It was just a man walking, turning his head here and there, pausing to bellow...but there was also something practiced about it; something decidedly wary. Definitely someone used to battle. Someone to learn from.

Sergeant Kincade. Thomas memorized the name, although he didn't worry about addressing him as 'sir.' His place in life and his mother had combined to make the courtesy a knee-jerk reaction, and one used regardless of station or creed. To him, everyone was 'sir.'

Everyone except the Baskari.

And then the recruit Kincade was addressing responded, and the farm lad had to turn his head and stare. What did this person think he was about, to be so insolent? Instantly he guessed that he was some petty noble, used to giving himself airs and getting his own way...and one decidedly not interested in being in the army. Tom snapped his gaze back to the sergeant and wondered what he would do about it, although he had to tighten his own hands into fists to keep from lashing out at the idiot fop ruining his training. They hadn't even been there five minutes!

It was incredibly gratifying to see Kincade's fist smashing into the fop's nose, and Thomas had to choke back a laugh. That was how things worked and ought to work. That's what happened back home. Those who tried to lift themselves above everyone else were quickly driven back to their proper place, and it was reassuring to know that even a noble wouldn't get away with that here.

And then the fop drew his sword. It was all Tom could do to keep his mouth from dropping, but there was nothing to prevent the white-hot anger sweeping through him. Discipline was forgotten, control was forgotten, caution was forgotten-in one step the farm lad had broken the line, and was facing Villon with his eyes blazing. "You want to issue a bloody challenge?!"

His mother would have washed his mouth out for that one, but he was past caring. "Daft, you are. Daft. This is a war. We don't have time to do the pretty little dances and play with dolls and sip tea or whatever the stars you do. Like it or not you're stuck here. An' idiocy like this!-" He waved to the sword. "-Could get us all killed, you included. Do it in battle and you throw everything over." Tom glared. "If I were him I wouldn't bother tryin' to train ya. I'd have you build your own gallows and have done so the REST OF US-" He gestured again. "-Could learn how to fight. You waste our time."

Tom glared at the fop, his shoulders heaving. God help any recruit to get in the way here; if the Sergeant made them miserable in training there was one soldier ready and willing to do it after hours.

A challenge? It was all Kincade could do not to laugh. 'Dittthhhhonorable' indeed. But before he could so much as react to Villon's insolence, another recruit leaped into the fray, tearing into Francois like a veteran officer. This was also rather entertaining, since the boy barely looked old enough to shave, let alone have first-hand knowledge of war. Still, Kincade had to admire his enthusiasm. Perhaps there was some hope for a few of the conscripts. He'd be watching this young man closely over the next few days.

"That's enough soldier," he barked to Mochrie. "Return to your post."

He then turned to Villon, and leered wolfishly at him, not flinching at the sword whose tip hovered inches from his chest. "I think you'll find, Private Villon," he said, placing emphasis on the low rank, "that this is the infantry. The cavalry is assembling at the Garrison a few dozen miles to the east." He raised his voice a notch. "The enemy will not wait for you to have your trousers up before they attack. You will be fought whether you're ready or not. I advise ye get used to it. Now put that thing away until you learn how to use it."

Common sense dictated that Deoras' chances of being decapitated by a howling barbarian correlated very nicely with the competence of the soldiers around him. He fully intended on following the army ,despite his personal talents. He leaned against the walls of a building facing the parade grounds. Apparently designing weaponry made one a little bit more valuable then the average waiting-to-be-dead soldier.

He uncorked his canteen and took a long drought of cooled tea. He didn't need the canteen ,but he found it quite efficient. He wasn't sure what to make of the mess in front of him. It seemed as if the hand of god had plucked men from all walks of life. Dumped the into a basin and dumped the contents of said basin into the grounds. A few of them looked as if they were on that damn barbarian weed. Sifting through this delightful mess would be the sergeants' job. Said man was currently in the process of crunching an upstart recruit. Deora approved of this action since he'd seen this man pull a knife in the mess hall. It was all well and good to control the odds ,but when everyone had swords what was he good for. Deora considered how he was still one more idiot between him and barbarians.

He took another drought of the tea and recrossed his legs. Today was going to be very informative.

Rage built inside François, and crested. It was almost like desire, but furious, whip-quick, and demanded a much faster release. This man had insulted his pride, insulted his new rank, and seemed to think he was better than he was--simply because he was a sergeant and François was--whatever the Hell he was--an exile with no more rich father to pay for him to take part in the cavalry.

Learn how to use it!

He brought his sword up in a blur of motion, whipping the thin tip of the blade up toward the sergeant's unprotected face.

"Watch your words," he snarled, satisfied at the sight of a thin trickle of blood, though he still veritably vibrated with rage. "Someday you'll insult someone more competent than you are. Bastard."

A delicate sting touched Kincade's cheek, and blood began to well up in a thin red line. There was an audible intake of breath, and the entire parade grounds were blanketed with a deathly silence. Kincade resisted the urge to flinch when the sword touched his face, forcing himself to be stone cold in the face of this recruit's fiery temper. Thiasa might not have been at war yet, but Kincade and Villon certainly were. Whoever won this engagement would have the respect of the soldiers. It was not a battle he had any intention of losing.

"I believe, Private Villon," he replied, voice low and quiet, but still resonant in the silence of the courtyard, "that you've already made that mistake."

In a blur of gleaming steel, Kincade's side-sword was was out of its scabbard and plunging forward. He deftly slid the blade into the intricate work of François' sword's hilt, then applied pressure, using the steel as a lever to send Villon's weapon flying out of his hand. It arced through the air, the tip slicing neatly across Villon's cheek as it soared along its trajectory before clattering in the dust.

Then his fist came up, still clenched around the hilt of his own nicked and battered sword. He caught Villon with a forceful upper-cut to the jaw, knocking the young man off his feet.

Resheathing his blade, Kincade casually brushed off his knuckles, then looked at a timid, freckled recruit. "Get him out of here, soldier," he commanded, jerking his head in the direction of the prone and bloody Villon.

The soldier took a step forward then paused, "Uh, Sir, er, w-where to, Sir?"

Kincade shrugged. "A medic. The stocks. Anywhere out of my bloody sight." He reached up and brushed away the blood that had begun to trickle down his cheek. The recruit nodded, the n scurried away. The Sergeant returned his attention to the remaining body of recruits.

"Discipline is key in war. I expect that incident to be the last of its kind. I will not be so lenient with insubordination in the future." He scanned them all with a cold, dark gaze. His eyes eventually fell on the fair-haired soldier who had snapped at Villon.

"You, Private. Your name."

The result of Villon's challenge hardly came as a surprise, and Tom watched the nobleman's blade arc through the air with an even greater satisfaction. Maybe Villon was an accomplished swordsman; many of the nobility were. But noblesse oblige was not nearly the same game as full-out war, and he figured the foreigner would be well-served to learn the rules before he tried to play. Still, he managed to keep his face smooth as the fop had the snot beat out of him once again. He'd lost his temper already; it wouldn't do to make more of a spectacle of himself on the very first day.

And then the Sergeant was calling him forward, addressing him just as he had Villon, and Thomas steeled himself. Mam had said over and over that his temper had gotten him into more scrapes than the rest of her children combined, and this instance was no different. Kincade would be completely justified in punishing him for speaking out when it was not his place to do so...but the farm lad resolved to bear it as manfully as he could. So long as he didn't die, all was well. Well enough, at least. At this point he was used to pain.

The lad took a step forward, then stood with his feet together and his hands at his sides. He met the Sergeant's gaze for one solitary moment, then stared straight ahead and answered calmly. "Thomas Mochrie, sir."

Kincade looked the lad over. Good posture, good frame. His earlier outburst had shown a lack of discipline, but there may be hope yet. He was but a few years out of boyhood, from the look of him, but there was something in his eyes that bespoke of more years than his face showed. Something burned and simmered beneath the surface, no doubt driving him. If it boiled over, it could prove dangerous, but with any luck, the danger would be greater for the enemy than anyone else. You've got the makings of a soldier, lad. Probably one of the few in this sorry lot of farm hands and clod-breakers. Kincade wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised to hear the boy wasn't a conscript, but a volunteer.

"Private Mochrie." Kincade leveled his gaze, looking the young man in the eye. "With what weapons are you proficient?"

Thomas resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck. It was a bad habit of his, and basically the equivilant of a sailor tugging at his forelock. But given the situation the young man figured that such sheepish modesty would not be becoming....he was here to reach manhood, after all, and not to come across as some kind of bumpkin boy. There was a short pause as Mochrie looked at his commanding officer again, and his brows knitted slightly as he thought. It didn't look as though Kincade would beat him, not just yet, but the question demanded an honest answer.

Now he really did reach to tug at his forelock, but caught himself just in time and offered Kincade a slightly lopsided smile. "Well, sir, I reckon I've got more tongue and temper than any man needs...Mam would say I'm proficient at getting into scrapes." He nodded to the sword still quivering in the dust. "But I tell you truly, sir. Any weapon you could name, I'd say I'm not nearly as proficient as I'd like to be. Meaning, sir, that I'm lucky to be alive. Also meanin' that I'm eager for you to beat the stuffing out of me so that's not the case."

Blue eyes twinkled with good humor, and the young private gave him a grin. "Although I think my comrades don't quite share that feeling."

He was being cheeky, he knew; but as always there was no ill feeling behind it and only eager honesty. The fire had been disguised briefly by youthful teasing, but it had never fully disappeared-and Mochrie's obvious sincerity only bore another, quieter witness of its existance. The lad shrugged then and quickly slipped back into position as he sobered himself-a change so sudden and instantaneous that it was startling. "...I like the sword best, so far."

Not that he'd had too much opportunity to use anything else. Tom was furious with himself; he'd forgotten that this game was serious. Deadly so....he'd forgotten why he was so earnest to train. It had only been for a moment, but Renna deserved better than that in her brother.

Kincade watched the fire behind Mochrie's eyes abate as the lad let a bit of cheek creep into his answers. While the light-hearted tone failed to demonstrate the strict adherence to discipline Kincade typically expected of soldiers under his command, it lacked the venom and outright disrespect Villon had shown. But before Kincade had a chance to decide whether or not to give the youth a reprimand, Mochrie seemed to rebuke himself and stood at attention.

"The sword, eh?" Kincade raised a brow. He himself was fondest of the blade when it came to weapons, though he could make do with anything in a fight, if necessary. "A good-weapon, the sword. The spear, pike, and halberd are more traditional infantry weapons, but this is not, as I see it, a traditional war." He continued to walk across the line, then stood up on a large block of stone that had come dislodged from the masonry long enough ago that the elements had started to wear on it. From this point, he could see all his men, and they could see him. "The Baskar are skilled riders," he stated. Well, obviously. He wasn't even Thiasan and he knew that much. "But take the horse out from under them with a long weapon, and all you've got is a skilled fighter on foot instead of on horseback. Which is why this –" he drew his blade and held it up in the air, its edges rough from much use. "Is about to be your new best friend, lads."

He nodded to Mochrie. "You may get the stuffing kicked out of you yet, lad. Come here, soldier." He tossed the blade to the boy, then turned and nodded to the recruits. "There are side-swords in the racks to the right. All of you take one. Keep it with you at all times. Eat with it, sleep with it, and bloody bath with it."

The boy's hands closed over the hilt lightly, his fingers tightening to grasp the sergeant's sword firmly in his hands. The new stance revealed a wiry but very obvious musculature that had hitherto been hidden, and as he stepped out of the ranks Mochrie showed himself to be a rather strapping lad. Years and years of farm work had made him strong to begin with, and added to weeks of his own training regimen...well...he certainly was no slip of a boy.

Thomas held the sergeant's sword with a near reverence in his eyes, and allowed himself a brief glance up and down the blade. It wasn't shiny; not in the way Villon's had been...not polished to a mirror finish, but rather pitted and stained and chipped away, and in Tom's eyes it was therefore holy. The blade had been used. Perhaps it had only taken the lives of those who stood in the way of something like cold duty, but perhaps it had also blazed in to protect those who had no way of doing so themselves. Perhaps it was a noble sword.

It certainly felt like one. Maybe it was just an overawe of experience, but as Tom hefted the blade in his hands he had the impression that with it he could battle the very winds. "...It's beautiful."

He was talking mostly to himself. In a moment he shook his head and took another step towards the sergeant, ready and waiting to hear what he had to say. He didn't need a lecture on the Baskari's fighting talents...he knew all too well what they were capable of. Images swirled in his mind, starting with a one-eyed guard falling through the doorway with an axe in his head, and ending with his sister's despairing moan. Mochrie's fingers tightened around the hilt until his knuckles stood white, and he looked up at Kincade with something haunted in his eyes. "Thrash away, sir."

Kincade watched as the 'soldiers' collected their new sideswords and reformed into crooked ranks. He was frankly impressed with some of them for knowing which end to hold.

The exercise with Mochrie had a twofold purpose. Firstly, and most evidently, he would be using the boy to demonstrate certain maneuvers, which would then become drills for the remainder of the afternoon. But in addition, he intended to find more out about the youth. Kincade came from the school of thought that believed you could tell nearly everything about a man by how he fought. Villon was brash, hot-headed, and painfully proud. What was Mochrie? And what can I make him in to?

Drawing his second-sword from the scabbard strapped across his back, Kincade assumed a fighting stance - knees bent, one foot slightly behind the other for balance, and blade held horizontally at shoulder height, easily moved to block a high or low attack. "Now, Private," he began, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. "I want you to strike me." Or try.

Tom bit back a laugh at the order, knowing full well that he would not be able to land a hit on the man. But he nodded assent and met his eyes.

There was a moment of silence as the lad studied Kincade, and then another pause as he sank into the same crouch with his feet staggered in perfect imitation of his sergeant. Mochrie toyed idly with his blade for a moment, marveling at how light it was compared to the weighted staves he'd been training with on a daily basis. It wasn't exactly a featherweight, but on the other hand it fit-more like an extension of the body than an actual weapon.

The private lifted his head again, and stared Kincade right in the eyes. In the space of a moment the Scot was transformed-Thomas wasn't facing a sergeant, but a young Baskari warrior stained in blood with his hand wrapped around Renna's wrist. Mochrie wasn't going to hit him, it was true-but he was going to try, and the effort was going to be surprising.

Without warning, he leapt forward and sliced the blade out in a blinding arc, aiming first for the head and then blazing down towards the knees in a double strike. One thing was immediately certain. Thomas was not slow.

The stance: good: The grip: good. The attack?

Kincade watched as Mochrie's expression started incredulous, became focused, then contorted into something feral... something hateful and angry and strong. The attack came fast. Kincade swung his blade up to block the lad's strike as soon as he espied the telltale folding of cloth in his shirt, belying the imminent movement of his torso and arm. The swords clashed with a ringing of metal, followed by a rasping sound as Mochrie's sword continued to arc downwards with Kincade's continuing to meet it, until the middle of the recruit's blade was locked against the iron hilt of the Sergeant's.

"Good!" he barked, then disengaged, slapping Mochrie's blade down with the flat of his own. He'd been able to block the blow, but he could still feel the ringing of the steel all the way up his arm. He's strong. And he had definite potential.

He turned to the rest of the recruits. "That was a downward arc, countered by a high rightblock. When a barbarian comes at you with a weapon, don't bloody stand there. Stop him. Then stick the bastard like a pig. You're no good to the King's army if your head's been split like a melon." There were a few fervent nods of comprehension from the front ranks. "Right. The standard blocks are high center, high right and left, center right and left, and low right and left. You will be practicing these blocks until you can do them in your bleedin' sleep, you sorry sops! Now," he glanced towards Mochrie to confirm the dangerous rage had gone, "Private Mochrie will assist in demonstrating."

Again the lad nodded, and exhaled slowly as he remembered where he was. He had done well, and that was good; but now he had to continue to do well without losing his grip. Tom bit down a smile when he realized that he had been singled out for demonstrations, and allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. This was why he'd joined the army. This was why he'd exhausted himself, day after day. This was why he'd tried to face Zeru as a brand-new recruit, and this was why he was going to work his way up to greatness.

Mochrie looked once more at the pitted blade and nodded to it, once, in a kind of wordless salute. It felt wonderful to be able to turn his head and see Renna standing in the corner of his mind, and even more wonderful to see that she was smiling at him. She would be proud, he knew it, and Tom resolved that every stroke from here on out would be as brilliant as the ones he had just made. He didn't care if he killed himself with the effort of swinging the sword that way a thousand times over; he would make them worthy of his little sister and closest friend.

He saluted briefly to Kincade, then moved again at the nearest command. Thomas executed strike after strike as ordered, taking deepest pleasure in the movement of the blade and the dance his sergeant was making to spare himself from its edge. It was going to be glorious.

Block, upper-center. Block, lower-left. Center-right parry. Mochrie threw himself in to each strike, and Kincade found himself working up a mild sweat as his arm darted through the air to halt the boy's blows. It felt good. Not as good as an actual fight or battle, where fire coursed through your veins and bloodlust throbbed in your head. But enough to bring a familiar strain to his muscles, and enough to serve as practice. They were locked in a bizarre martial dance, the rhythmic clanging of the swords serving as music, punctuated by Kincade's bellowing as he named the various maneuvers. He made a mental note to work with Mochrie on conserving his strength. The boy could rain down attacks like a Viking thunder god, but no one had enough stamina to keep that up for long.

"Right," he finally finished, lowering his sword and nodding. "You may return to the ranks, Private." He'd have a word with him later. It wouldn't do to single him out too much now. Good behavior was to be rewarded, but Kincade knew enough to realize he'd do Mochrie no favors by treating him as a favorite. If anything, he intended to drive the lad harder and further than any of the others.

"Now." He sheathed his remaining sword, and folded his hands behind his back, making another mental note to acquire a new sword to replace the one he'd given Mochrie. "Form lines. Hut-two! Straighten yourselves out, lassies, this isn't a bloody dancing party! Right! Now - at attention! Assume fighting stances! Aaaaand RIGHT UPPER BLOCK!"

Deora had nearly choked from the brief glance at Mochries' face. He'd worked with gunpowder that was less volatile then the lad. He'd seen feral in the streets of Scalia ,but that had not been simple anger. It had been intense righteous hatred. Like a small mother bird fighting the massive snake that had stolen its' egg. A blinding rage that cared nothing for personal safety or well being. The Sergeant was indeed lucky to possess such a soldier. It easily counterbalanced the indignant predecessor. He made a point to remember the lad.

He'd recently perfected his blaze rod and would like to see it in the right hands. In a moment of odd sentimentality he raised the canteen and silently toasted three individuals. Aedan for giving him war. The Sergeant for giving him soldiers and God for giving him powder.

The sun was low in the sky when Kincade finally dismissed the recruits with a bark. He'd drilled them on parries and blocks most of the afternoon, with a few breaks to make them run circles around the parade ground, and to practice formation. On a few occasions he'd pulled hapless victims from the ranks and forced them to assist in demonstrations. A few showed smatterings of potential, but none could follow up Thomas Mochrie.

More than half of the men looked dead on their feet as they limped off to the mess hall and the barracks, but Kincade did not let himself feel pity. Every day of torment would make them stronger. Those who gasped for breath today would in a month's time be able to sprint across the courtyard ten times without breaking a sweat. They would learn defense, then offense, then tactics and group maneuvers. The project might be a daunting one, but Kincade has every intention of turning these farm boys into fighting men. And when they faced the Baskar, theirs wouldn't be the only blood to water the battlefields.

When the courtyard was nearly empty, Kincade sat down on the stone slab he'd stood on earlier that day and stretched his legs. Reaching into the pouch that hung from his stell-studded belt, he withdrew a small tin flask and took a draw from it.

Every muscle ached.

Tom realished the feel of it and swung his arms experimentally, stretching them out. He was walking in circles around the training arena while the other soldiers dragged themselves off to dinner, vainly trying to relax his heartbeat. He was tired, just as much as they were. He was hungry. But something had happened, and he wasn't ready for it to stop. He wanted to swing the sword again. He wanted every muscle to strain in the pursuit of something incredible. Something legendary.

In another ten minutes the arena was nearly empty, with at least one notable exception. Thomas paused mid-stride to look at his commanding officer, and hesitated. Kincade was sitting and reclining against a wall. Just resting? Or waiting for him?

Well, either way, he had to return the sword. The lad moved forward and eyed the borrowed blade with with some regret, but he coudln't very well walk away with it. So he paused before his sergeant and offered it out, hilt first. "Thank you."

Blue eyes lifted to meet the Scot's, and the merry gaze of earlier was once again gone. It was a deadly serious man who was now looking at Kincade, and one alight with purpose. There was a moment of silence, and then Tom could contain himself no longer. His whisper was fervent. "Teach me more."

Kincade was not surprised when Mochrie lingered behind. He and Villon had been the only two to make an impression that first day, and he honestly wouldn't have been shocked if Villon had packed up and deserted come sunrise. Assuming he'd been let out of the stocks by then...

Mochrie proferred the sword Kincade had lent him hilt first, treating the battered piece of steel like a holy relic. The muscles of the Sergeant's face twitched in something that may have been a smile as he pushed the pommel away. "Keep it," he replied, voice having switched from his gravelly bark to the low and quiet tone he reserved for conversation. "The sword dun' matter. Only the man holdin' it."

He doubted Mochrie had seen war, and no doubt his first skirmish would eradicate some of these glorified notions the lad probably had of battle. The legendary heroes were just men who managed to stab the other blokes first, after all. There was nothing more honorable in a soldiers profession, as far as Kincade was concerned, than any other. Some men herded goats. Some mean built houses. And some men killed people in large groups while shouting silly patriotic slogans. At the end of the day, it was just another service for which you were paid, received food, and place to sleep at night.

But even if the boy had a lot to learn, he had a gift. There was fire there. The sword called to him... there was a born warrior in there somewhere.

"Go home, private. Eat an' sleep." He took another draw, then screwed the cap back on the flask and pocketed it, pulling himself to his feet. "Mind that ye stretch too. Works the bad humors out o' yer muscles." He began to walk and was halfway across the courtyard when he turned and let loose in his sergeant's voice once more:

"I'll expect you here an hour before sunrise, private! Washed, dressed and ready. Dismissed!"

Then he was off to his own barracks for a few precious hours of dreamless sleep.