“Ho the conquering hero,” Farthing Grain called, waving at me from among the pile of dead he was currently standing over. The archer and his brother had joined my Lancer troupe six months prior to the battle, and we had spent enough time together for the man to get comfortable letting his sarcasm show around me. He was the elder of the two of us, somewhere in his early twenties, but had never known a life outside of his family farm or the local hamlet until he joined Gresham, Giddy and I.

“Farthing, I assume by that look on your face your brother is alive somewhere around here?” I asked.

“Aye, Shilling said he was gon’ look for you or your corpse, whichever he could come across,” Farthing said.

“How’s business?” I asked. “Gresham is laid up with a hip wound, so you’re the only one working the field.”

Free Lancers were Guilded; mercenary knights protected by the Charter of Free Lancers as set down by Sir Vincenzo Vancetti two centuries prior during the birth of the Free Kingdoms. Anyone could commission a Free Lancer to a contract, with standard rates for certain tasks and lengths of service. A commissioned Lancer was bound to fulfill their contract, and woe be the man who betrayed a contract - the Guild acted harshly on even the faintest rumour of a betrayed commission. Kingdoms had fallen for less.

Unlike Free Lancers, the other members of a Lancer troupe had less protection. Most Lancers traveled with a man-at-arms or squire, usually equipped to serve as heavy cavalry behind the shock cavalry of a Lancer charge. A man-at-arms might earn half as much as their Lancer for a pitched battle, and less for other work. Archers, like Farthing and Shilling, earned a pittance for any work at all - sellswords, the mercenary infantry who roamed from conflict to conflict, made only slightly more than archers and rivalry ran deep between the two professions. The way sellswords and archers made up the pay was in the rights to looting the battlefield after a victory, picking pockets and purses, pulling gold teeth and the like, and the enemy encampment. The only things they weren’t allowed to take were the weapons and armor of fallen Lancers - those belonged to the enemy Lancer or man-at-arms who had felled them. Of course, in a battle it was difficult to know who had killed who, so there were often disagreements over the subject of property rights.

“Business is bustling, Jon,” Farthing said. “Shilling and I got shoved off a rich patch by some ‘swords, but I think we got the best o’ the pickings anyways.”

“Alright. If you see Castor, try and get him back to camp,” I said. “And Warthog. I have no idea where he might be, or if he’s alive.” The horse I’d found Gresham pinned under hadn’t been his own, and he hadn’t mentioned anything.

“Aye,” Farthing nodded, then bent back to his work.

I shook my head, trying not to breathe too deeply as I sighed. The copper tang of fresh blood was starting to fade from the battlefield, leaving all of the worse smells to rise. Men released a horrid stink as they died - it was something I had realized growing up in rough halls of Bloodbraid. Soon enough this entire battlefield would start to really ripen - the heat of the afternoon would mount, and with it the stench of death.

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Moving deeper into the battlefield, I saw the congregation of men and horses forming around the banner of Baron Vicelli. Muttering under my breath, I stepped up my pace. Formalities were an unfortunate expectation to go along with the title of Knight.

The gathering consisted entirely of Free Lancers, some mounted and some lacking their mounts, and the Baron with his seneschal and marshal. Marshal Reiner was a retired Lancer who knew his business - he and Gresham had tossed back cups in camp together two nights back, regaling the Lancer troupes with their stories of battles fought before I’d been born. The Baron and his seneschal were less experienced in these matters, but had been demanding commissioners nonetheless.

As I and a few other stragglers joined the group, I pushed my way through the mounted Lancers to a spot where I could see and be seen. Several grumbled at first, reacting to someone pushing too close, but when they looked at me they stopped. Even with my blackened steel sallet helm lowered, and lacking much in the way of pageantry to my armour, they could tell who I was by my height; I stood easily a head taller than any but the tallest of other men on foot, and could have grabbed them by the shoulder to haul them down from their mounts.

“Victoria Vicelli!” The Marshal declared as he looked around the gathered Lancers, who gave a halfhearted, tired cheer. There were under twenty still standing, and several were wounded. I had to wonder how many had died on the field, and how many of those we faced were currently gathered at the enemy encampment a short ride away, salvaging anything they could before our sellswords caught up and began their pillaging. “Today the vile Duke Tirnollo has been defeated, his claims proven false on the battlefield and in the eyes of men. May any who deny Baron Otturo Vicelli’s rightful rule of these lands remember this bloody day.”

It was all standard pageantry, designed in the minds of bards singing tales of battles long past and parroted by men who thought it tradition. Not a one of the Free Lancers cared a jot about the Baron’s rightful claim, or Tirnollo being kicked in the teeth.

“Horses and godsteel unclaimed as trophy will be collected by our Baron’s outriders,” the Marshal continued. “You will have until daybreak tomorrow to make claims against your coming purses. Final payments shall be made as the camp breaks on the morrow. If any of you have taken noble hostages, let it be known the Baron expects them to be well treated and kept.”

The Baron stood in his saddle, his banner of a cobalt lion rampant on a yellow field fluttering in the breeze beside him. “I extend my personal thanks to each of you, good Lancers. Your service has been satisfactory.”

I rolled my eyes beneath my helm, as I’m sure did many of the other knights around me. Men bled and died for the pompous fool, and we’d been satisfactory. It was as good a dismissal as we were likely to receive, so some those at the back began to disperse - most towards where the Lancer fighting had been thickest to try and find men they had slain, or friends they had lost. Occasionally those were the same if they met each other by chance on opposing lines. Some, mostly those still ahorse, looked to have already made their pickings and were headed back to camp.

“Ahem, Lancer,” a reedy voice coughed, and I turned to find the seneschal looking down at me. He had a wiry face, like a weasel contemplating whether to play with its food or not. There wasn’t a panel of armour on him, and the closest thing to a proper battlefield weapon he carried was a riding crop he held timidly in one hand. His other fist clenched the reins of his riding horse with white knuckles as if he expected it to bolt at any moment. “The Baron demands your attention.”

Well, shit.