The bronze blade gleamed in the sunlight, a fine blade polished to a glorious shine. Grim scowled at it. Sure- he’d used a sword before, but he was twice the hand with an axe. Swords required a certain measure of finesse which he distinctly lacked, preferring to crush through his problems with brute strength.

The armor he’d been given was equally disappointing. Bronze plates riveted into a leather coat, presenting gleaming bronze scales. It was clearly made with a somewhat smaller man in mind. He had the straps tied as loosely as was practical, and still the edges dug into his skin just enough to be uncomfortable. The armor in general was heavy and lacked the mobility that mail provided, but he supposed he’d be happy for it if an axe took him in the gut. He shrugged his shoulders, feeling the scales on his shoulders flex and grate against one another.

Grim sighed, sheathing the sword. He’d asked for an axe, but it seemed the Venarans didn’t keep anything of the quality for war. Besides, he’d need the sword for the blade challenge a few days later. Assuming he lived that long.

Edgar grunted in tacit agreement as he inspected his own weaponry. In the distance, soldiers milled about the barracks, preparing for the day’s events. Grim and Edgar stood near the training rings where the nobility was hard at work sparring in preparation for the coming event.

The Marshal had granted Grim permission the leave the premises of the manse after the first trial, but he was still confined to the fort itself. He longed to get the hell out of here. He glanced to Edgar. It’d been quite some time since he’d seen the man. His left eye was swollen shut and much of his skin was covered in mottled bruises. It seemed his accommodations in the Venaran barracks were far less kind than Grim’s in the manse. A pang of guilt ran through him as his gaze drifted to the man’ severed fingers. What right did he have to complain?

“You ready for today?” he asked.

Edgar snorted. “I’d rather shit blood than fight for these fuckers.”

Grim nodded sagely. “I’d rather drink piss than fight for these fuckers.”

Edgar grinned. “I’d rather suck Longreen’s cock than fight by his men.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “I can try to arrange that.”

Edgar raised an eyebrow back at him. “I dare you.”

Grim laughed, shaking his head. “How fucked you think we are?”

“Fucking fucked, in my estimation,” Edgar answered.

“Fuck,” Grim said.

“Fuck,” Edgar agreed.”

That was all there was to say on the matter. Grim glanced in the direction where Brian and Rafe stood muttering to each other, wondering what they were arguing about now. Edgar followed his gaze. “You trust them?”

“More than anyone else here,” Grim answered. “They have their own ambitions.” He paused. “Well, Brian does at any rate.”

“Could try and run today,” Edgar commented.

Grim bit his lip. The thought had occurred to him. “Wouldn’t blame you, but the family needs me to stay.”

Edgar sighed. “Thought that might be the case.”

Grim nodded to where Brian and Rafe stood. “I ought to check on them before they start henpecking each other.”

Edgar shrugged and followed Grim as he walked across the yard, past the dozen or so nobles training with their retainers. Most were decent hands with a blade. Others- decidedly less so. As Rafe caught sight of Grim, the man’s face brightened. “Ah, Grim!” he exclaimed, glancing at Brian askance. “I was just trying to convey to young Barrington here a fool proof way of ensuring he has a good showing in the next challenge.”

“I’m not doing that,” Brian muttered.

“Doing what?” Grim asked, coming to a stop beside them.

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Brian glared at Rafe. Rafe smiled in return. “I was explaining to young Brian here the merits of making myself his second and feigning an injury for the competition.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “What good would that do him?”

“If you’re injured, your second fights in your stead,” Brian explained.

Rafe put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “And therefore, it is common practice for our less- martially inclined peers to take a knee for this leg of the competition and let their retainers fight in their place.”

Brian scowled. “It’s dishonorable.”

“It’s Venarn,” Rafe countered, waggling his finger in the air as if chiding a child. He turned to Grim. “Harren once described his brother’s swordplay to me as akin to watching a child discovering his willie for the first time.”

Brian’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t argue the point.

Girm snorted. “He might have a point, Brian. But, I’m questioning his choice in your second.”

Rafe held a hand over his heart, eyes wide as if wounded. “Grim, you do me a great disservice. When sober, I’m a fine hand with a blade. In my year, I placed second- behind only Brian’s most honorable brother.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “You? Sober?”

Rafe nodded, deathly serious. “A sacrifice, I’m willing to make to ensure our friend’s triumph.”

Grim looked to Brian. “I kind of want to see this.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “No.”

Rafe sighed, shoulders sagging in an exaggerated fashion as he conceded defeat. “Fine. I concede. At least let me give you a few pointers your brother gave me in my time.” He gestured to the sword at Brian’s hip a moment. “Draw your blade.”

Brian did so, a question in his eyes.

Rafe nodded his approval. “Hold it out in a defensive stance, I want to see your form.”

Brian did so, holding the blade in both hands before him in a middle guard.

Rafe walked in a circle around Brian.

“What are you looking for?” Grim asked.

Rafe ignored the question. “Hmmm. His grip is a little off.” He reached out to Brian’s hands and pulled the fingers of his sword arm off the blade. A snap sounded as Rafe wrenched the boy’s index finger in a circular motion.

Brian cried out, dropping the blade in the grass. He backed away from Rafe, cradling the wounded hand to his chest. “What the hell?” he screamed.

Rafe shrugged as if it were of no consequence. He held up his hands in a calming gesture. “You wouldn’t fake an injury. What was I supposed to do, stand by and watch you get trounced?” he asked.

Grim could only stare, barely believing his own eyes and ears. Brian’s eyes seemed to be about to burst from his head. “You weren’t supposed to break my finger, you ass.” Brian glared at Rafe before turning to stalk away toward the manse, cradling his injured hand.

“You’re welcome!” Rafe called after him.

Grim watched Brian go for a moment before turning to Edgar. “You want any swordplay tips from his lordship?”

Edgar snorted. “I’m good.”

Rafe regarded the man. “Your loss. I’m sure I could teach you a thing or two.” He winked.

Edgar didn’t bother responding. Rafe lost interest a moment later, his eyes drifting toward the Barracks where most of the sixth legion was held. “What in the blazes do you think they’re up to? Is our good host running another one of his raids during the thaw?”

The cat would be out of the bag in less than half an hour. Grim saw no need to hide it any longer. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. “Aye. And we have the distinction of joining them an extra dose of cannon fodder.”

Seeing Rafe genuinely surprised was satisfying. The man looked to Grim with wide eyes. “You’re what?”

Grim grinned “No need to look so worried.”

Rafe shook his head. “My good man- if you and Harren fall in battle, I’ll find myself so awfully bored,” he said, “Can you imagine a worse fate?”

Grim nodded along. “My heart bleeds for you.”

Rafe met Grim’s eyes with a serious look, reaching out and grasping his hand. “And mine beats for you.”

Grim stared at him, watching as the corners of Rafe’s lips twitched until he couldn’t handle it anymore and burst out laughing. He patted Grim on the shoulder. “Well, I supposed I had best be off to see Harren and wish him luck. The Fifth never march without their glorious leader.”

Grim blinked. “The Fifth, as in Fifth Cohort?” He had a sinking feeling.

“Best soldiers under the golden sun,” Rafe said with a snicker. His eyes widened and a fresh grin broke across his face. “Goddess kiss my hairy ass. You’re assigned under him, aren’t you?”

Grim scowled. “The Marshal wanted to spring that on the fifth’s Prefectus as a nice surprise,” he said, “If you see him, keep that close to your chest or Longreen will make us both regret it.”

Rafe waved at him dismissively. “Well, if you’re just going to take all the fun out of it, then I’ll simply return to the manse and drink to your victory. Starting tomorrow, I’ll have to put the bottle away and shake out my cobwebs, lest I give Brian a poor showing.”

A scream sounded from across the yard. Grim’s eyes snapped to where he saw one of his fellow competitors nursing a limp wrist, his sword lost to the dirt. To Grim’s eyes, it was at worst a sprain, but for all the yelling the boy was doing, you’d think he’d have cut the damn thing off.

“Another terrible injury, I’m sure,” Rafe said, with a chuckle.

Grim sighed. He hated these people. “Why does the Marshal let them do this?

“The sooner you realize this is all just for the old fart’s amusement, the sooner it will all make sense,” Rafe said before turning back to the manse. “Good Luck, Thorne,” he called over his shoulder.

“Are all of them like that?” Edgar asked.

Grim shook his head. “He’s a special breed. Better in some ways, worse in others.”

Edgar was quiet a moment. “You think we’ll ever make it out of here?”

Grim shrugged. “On our feet or in a casket.”