“I hope you men are hydrated. Moving while carrying all this extra weight, it soaks the water from you. Many a man has fallen from not drinking enough,” said Zwaird, the elder man-at-arms. “To the far wall and back, go, go , go! Run, you soft bellied girlie men, run!”

The twenty men in full plate armour groaned audibly as they began trudging, once again, the length of the compound within the Olsbachi knight training keep. The Olsbachi had long since abandoned the master-apprentice style training of the past, where a knight would take on a squire and personally train them in all aspects of knighthood. Instead, they had devised an academy style system where novice knights would be put through rigorous training in martial skills and courtly etiquette. Those that made it through were graduated as knights.

Zwaird was a man in his early sixties. He had earned the title of man-at-arms as a retired knight responsible for training novices. Despite his advanced years, he still had a strong constitution, and a strong voice.

He looked at the receding group of armoured young men, eyes brimming with a pride he would hide from them until they were graduating. He felt especially proud for having the privilege of training two of the king’s own grandsons, as he had trained Ulden’s heir, Grand Duke Viggin, some ten years before. Though he exceedingly glad that the Avdlak boys seem to be far better students than a young Viggin. The young prince was constantly dodging duties and training, only to be found in some maiden or other’s bed.

The rattling of armour plates shuffling against each other grew louder, as the group of novices made their way back. Some of them helping their fellows along. When they returned, they were panting heavily, some of them collapsing onto the ground.

Zwaird placed his balled fists on his hips, and said in a stern voice, “Get up, pair of and spar. Come on, grab the wood hammers, wrap the heads in the chalked cloth, and fight! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Orn helped one of the young novices that had collapsed back to his feet. He focused for a minute and then almost collectively the novices sighed as he forced cool air through their armour, giving them some relief from the heat of their exertions.

The novices did as they were instructed. Before long, they had paired off, and began attempting to mark their respective opponent’s armour with as many chalk spots as possible before Zwaird called time. They had been drilling like this for the past week now. Orn was hoping that they would start training in mounted techniques, if only to quiet Bullhead’s incessant nagging.

Orn felt for the horse’s plight, but that did not lesson the annoyance. He wondered if that was what it was like to have children, as a glancing blow to his helmet snapped him back to the present.

He silently cursed himself for indulging in a day dream whilst in the middle of a fight. Although it was only training, Orn had resolved to take the training seriously to, at the very least, show curtesy to their instructor.

Soon enough, Zwaird called it. He instructed the novices to remove their helmets, as a servant brought a tray with cups of water for them.

The man-at-arms scanned the faces of his novices, and then said, “Once you have had a drink, I want you to form up into two lines facing each other, either side of me. Let’s go, lads. Come on.” He clapped his hands twice to hurry them.

Once they were in their two lines, he made a show of inspecting the armour. Occasionally he would send a novice to the opposite side. Once he had finished his inspection, it became apparent that one side had novices with a lot more chalk on their armour than the other.

Orn and Erik found themselves on the side with four other novices, having a light dusting of chalk on their armour and very few spots indicating a solid hit. The other line with fourteen novices had significantly more chalk spots on them.

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“Right lads, it’s been a good week. You have shown some mettle. Usually I would have sent several of you packing by now, but I’m glad to say none of you have disappointed me that much yet. However, you fourteen on my right, I will see you tomorrow after morning prayer service and Sunday, all day, for some extra training so you can learn how not to get hit. As for the rest of you, enjoy your weekend. Monday, we begin working with mounts. Those who haven’t brough your own, fear not. For we have plenty here. Once you are paired up, that will be your mount henceforth. Off you go, then lads. Go on… unless you want to continue training-”

Before he could finish, with a new surge of energy, the young men sprinted toward the barracks. As he watched them dash away, Zwaird chuckling to himself wistfully, reflecting on his youth as a squire. An errant tear rolled down his cheek as he thought of the knight who trained him. He shook off his reverie and slowly made his way back to the instructor’s quarters.

As Orn slowed to a walk, he felt himself weighed down as his brother threw an arm around his shoulder.

“What a week!” exclaimed Erik.

Orn shrugged the arm off his shoulders as he stopped, placing his hands to the small of his back and leant his shoulders back. He felt the satisfying pops of several vertebrae, and rocked his head side to side, eliciting a couple more from there as well.

“Wasn’t it, though,” Orn replied.

“Of course you two would get the weekend off,” said Ruenal in a sullen tone. He had a shock of ginger hair and barely visible lashes, framing pale blue eyes set in a freckled face.

“Well, you would too, if you would learn to dodge and parry, Ruenal,” said Erik.

“Hey, who is that?” asked Ruenal, a touch of reverant longing in his voice as he pointed to a blonde adolescent woman approaching them.

“That would be my Orn’s betrothed,” Erik answered, as Orn had already broken from their group to head over to her.

The group of young men stopped to look, some with undisguised envy on their faces, as the beautiful young woman leapt into Orn’s arms. Several of them chuckled, as she pulled back from him wrinkling her nose.

“Would that I were a prince, so I could have a girl like that,” Ruenal breathed wistfully.

Erik said, “You know, two months ago, the only life me an Orn knew was being the sons of a retired warrior who became blacksmith, and a former shield maiden.”

“That doesn’t help. Even that sounds more interesting than the fourth son of a minor noble with few prospects and nothing short of a plague striking my family allowing me to inherit any land and title,” moaned Ruenal.

Erik snorted at the young red-head’s lamentations. “Worry not, my friend. You will be a knight soon, so you’ll have them lining up for you.”

Ruenal gave Erik a dubious sidelong glance, but held back his retort.

As Erik began moving toward the barracks, he saw several other figures walking towards Orn and Briga. Recognising Selti, he turned to Ruenal, excused himself, then strode toward his young wife, wrapping her up in an embrace.

Ruenal looked on, and sighed before peeling his eyes from the two couples to walk in silence to the barracks with the rest of the sullen novices.

Not wanting to interrupt Orn and Erik’s reunions, Vylder, Venna and Nerethe moved toward Zwaird, and engaged him in conversation. The group of veteran warriors talked as though they were old friends, drifting easily into talk of tactics and techniques.

Zwaird invited the three of them to dine with the instructors, and the small group headed to get some food and to meet the other knight instructors.

Erik turned to Selti and said, “You should catch up with my parents. I wouldn’t recommend eating with us. No doubt, the instructors are fed much better than we are.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not as though I haven’t eaten basic fare before, dear,” said Selti. “Besides, lately, I have only been able to stomach simple food. Certain herb and spice smells make me nauseous.”

“Are you alright?” asked Erik, his brow furrowed with concern. “You’ve been getting sick a lot lately.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. It will pass.”

“So, to the mess hall?” asked Orn as he approached them with Briga holding his arm.

“Yup. Soon as we get out of these steal crab shells,” answered Erik.

With that, the two couples headed back to where the brothers were billeted to help them out of their armour, so they could get cleaned up to go eat.