The spear shot out, and he jerked his head out of the way, a twist of his wrist snapped languet against languet, preventing the sideways slice of Leo’s practice spear from striking Ethans armored cheek, then slicing his own spear head in a neath slash at Leo’s neck, a slash the other man back stepped to avoid and followed with a low thrust that was deflected by Ethan’s ferulle.

  Thrust, perry, block spin slashes and clubbed ferrules. Both ends of the spears were equally weaponized, as was the center and the hands and feet of both combatants as they danced through a very different dance.

  Not the dance of the shield wall or sarrisa block.

  No.

  This was the unconstrained fight of men on a mountainside or prairie. Their footing deliberately unsmooth. Stepping over and on piles of bricks and between crates.

  And then it ended, Leo’s thrust deceptively freezing mid blow, letting Ethan’s block slide by, then darting in behind it for a solid, clanging blow to his chest.

  They froze, then in unison took a solid step back and saluted, spear upright and held parallel to the forearm, before flicking down in a full-length slash.

  “A tricky strike, Sir Leosige.”

  “Yous was getting tired.”

  Ethan snorted, walking off their prototype sparing ground. An effort to train the men for a very different battlefield. And to train themselves, if truth was to be told.

  The rest of their Tier 2s were out there still, striking away at each other as they worked at new tactics, traps and even style changes. Well, mostly tier 2s. One young Tier 1 was being hard pressed by Conner to the side. Boy was shaping up pretty well.

  “Are you implying that I’m getting soft?” Ethan offered as he lowered himself to sit against the wall.

  Leo grunted, his eyes twinkling and his eyes doing an obvious dart towards Ethan’s, still trim dammit, middle. “Been desk-bound, haven’t you?”

  “I still make time for practice every morning.”

  “A morning. No day’s march after, no rift.” He spat softly to the side.

  Ethan sighed. It was hard to argue when you agreed.

  “What’s it look like out there?”

  “Changing the subject? Fine.” Leo’s voice was alive with mocking humor, though perhaps you had to know him to hear it. “She rises like a one man tent. Both sides. Ridges like dull knives frame narrow meadows. Turning to goat trails at their tops, then to trails even goats blanch at.”

  “Thousands of feet up in the first mile. And it gets worse. Sharp jagged stones that make the wind whistle.” His spear swung almost absently, filling in details from his brief sentences. Shaping a land in thrusts and jagged arcs more than rolling swings and gentle lines.

  “Trees thin out as you get higher, but still there for miles. Rough, hard to even walk, no marching. Paths go a mile, then peter out to nothing. Takes patience and a good nose for direction, or you’ll never get out.”

  He paused, considering, but with a warm light in his eyes that Ethan had rarely seen. “It's…. Jagged, unforgiving and … Beautiful.”

  He considered his words, then nodded and stood up. His breathing already stable, fresh as a man on eight hours of sleep. “Again?”

  Ethan let out a long breath and stood, his own breath still noticeably uneven. “Of course.

  ___

  Ethan walked down the main tunnel, absently wiping sweat away from his forehead and neck with a more grey than white towel. His breathing was deep and ragged, but it didn’t stop him from moving lightly, easily even in a full kit of armor.

  He swerved to the side, darting in through a large arched entrance and into the Cook House, its many ovens steaming against the pillars and great soup pots ever boiling away on top of enclosed grated flames that burned on no discernible fuel.

  He accepted a bowl with a word of thanks, pulling a fork carved from a bit of wood from his belt pouch and stirring the brown liquid hopefully and indeed spotting a stalk of green onion along with some sparse bits of rice. He said a quiet thank you to the Rift teams as he took a careful, it was quite hot, sip.

  He ate it while walking, offering a quiet greeting to every face that passed. By name to any Bandsmen and most of their families.

  He stepped through another arch and glanced around at the busy square still struggling its way into existence. The Tannery to his right was the only building fully operational, with 10 Tanners stretching, scraping or soaking hides and furs between them.

  But while it was the only one fully operational, that didn’t mean the rest weren’t in use.

  A smith with a mobile furnace and anvil was set up in the central open area, hammering away at a chisel while a dozen workers, skilled and unskilled, were stacking bricks in what would become a smithy behind him.

  A potter on his wheel in front of another quarter-built building and an equally unfinished Leatherworks right beside the Tannery.

  It had a long way to go still, and more BPs that he didn’t have to spare. But it was coming along.

  He nodded and retraced his steps. Turning into the familiar council chamber turn off after a minute of walking.

  A dozen steps down the side tunnel brought him to The Bir’Ding gate, finished half a month ago except for the final BP costs.

  Points he hadn’t had till this morning.

  There was already a smallish crowd in the room and spilling into the tunnel outside of it. Senior Bandsman, Decurions and up, but for a few experienced troops here as guinea pigs. They moved to the sides, if with difficulty, to allow Ethan through. He made his way over and slapped an armed and fully armored man on the shoulder. Striking hard so he’d feel it through pauldrons and the padding beneath.

  “You ready there Milo?”

  “Aye Milord! Never tought I’d have the chance, what with horses no caring much for me. I’m ready and eager!”

  “Then let’s not make you wait.” He offered, glancing around at the full complement of their mountain nobility, though the term still felt like a pair of over new shoes.

  Nobility and Magister, who stood to the side his eyes glinting and his hands rubbing together eagerly as he stared at the works of his labor. Herculean if you were to ask him.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Ethan let it be. It had saved them around 350 points! He had a right to brag. Ethan brought the interface up with a familiar mental twist. Rapidly selecting the room they stood in and the mostly finished structure within.

  Build The Bir’Ding Gate!

  Yes!

  It was a small thing, at first. The stacked bones somehow twitched. The runes and shapes carved into them becoming just a hair sharper, cleaner. Then those shapes lit with an iridescent liquid light. Shining forth, but somehow contained, bubbling up from within till it overfilled and dropped towards the center of the opening, slowly building up a twisting, contorting ball of multicolored light. It pulsed, brighter and brighter, then exploded outward, reconnecting with the runes that spawned it before collapsing again, but leaving tethers behind.

  It bounced, back and forth several times, colors bleeding out and in, until it at last stabilized as a brilliant disk of polished silver, reflecting the room at large, though in images that were slightly clouded.

  Ethan finally tore his eyes away from the spectacle, darting around the room to most of those who hadn’t managed the same yet. Wide-eyed and impressed as only magic could do, no doubt. There was something about it… even for old warriors that spoke to the child inside.

  Ethan let a smile grow to the sides of his face, glancing to the side at a purple-robed figure who never seemed to have the same reluctance to show that child. Blake was scribbling wildly with a charcoal stick and a cheap parchment, his eyes literally glowing as he chanted something under his breath.

  “Hastati Milo!”

  “Milord!”

  “Are you at the 19th level? Have you maxed out all your stats?” He spoke carefully, enunciating every word. This would become a tradition, and it was only fair to give the man and the watchers the pomp that it required.

  “I am Milord.”

  “Will you risk all that for this chance?”

  “I will, gladly Milord!”

  “Then step forward bravely, and return triumphant!”

  He moved his short spear to his shield hand, then slammed his fist to his scaled chest armor in a resounding clang. Then turned and marched forward, regulation step by step, towards the gate, his reflection growing in size to match, staring him in the eye till the Milo and reflection touched, then disappeared into one another. Leaving the disk rippling like a still pond with a rock thrown into the middle.

  It wobbled for a few moments, then returned to stillness, no longer reflecting anything at all. Blake took an easy step forward, touching the disk lightly, then raising his hand and knocking at it with an audible tap tap.

  One at a time then. Good to know.

  They waited, mostly silent. Holding a vigil, if an unintended one, for a stalwart who’d given decades of loyal, talented service to the Band. Who’d saved many a life, even of those who were now far more important than him.

  They stood and waited.

  And waited.

  Time passed in dribs and drabs, but even if he had many a task that needed doing, Ethan refused to step away. Milo had earned far better than that.

  A gasp announced a change. A spot of blackness appeared at the center of the disk, a wobbling, undulating spot that rapidly expanded and grew into a person stepping through the plane.

  Milo’s coat was missing several scales, and large, deep scratches marked more scales on his arms and legs. Not to mention what looked like teeth marks on his helm and a severely mangled tower shield.

  But for all of that, he stood proudly, grinning wide enough to be visible even beneath the T-shaped opening on his helm.

  He raised a bloodied arm, spear blade to the ceiling. “Second Tier!”

  The room exploded in cheers, Ethan first among them. For Milo, yes, but also for what his success meant.

  The crows collapsed into the center, pounding him on back and shoulder fit to knock the stumbling and clearly wounded man over. Not that either side cared.

  Ethan let them be for a while, but eventually had to call a halt, “If the rest of you want a chance at it, we need to hear today’s hero’s tale.”

  They let him go with grumbles, but good-natured ones. Ethan pushed the man out of the room and down the hall towards the council room. Tagging his knights, Ermina and Milo with his eyes.

  Then, after a second thought, reached out to tap Decurion Marco and the rest of Milo’s squad. They should hear the tale as well.

  He stepped through the curtain and almost let out a sigh of relief as the noise wards mercifully cut the sounds of ongoing merriment short. Caves and loud noises took some getting used to.

  He stepped to the side and accepted a chalice of wine gratefully from Miro, before finding his seat. Catching Leo’s eye on the way past with a raised eyebrow. He nodded with a small smile.

  Excellent! “Well? Don’t leave us wondering, Pahadi Milo! Tell us your tale.”

  “Its loike dis, Milords, Milady.”

  ___

  Milo stepped through his reflection and into a land of dim light, fog and little else. His feet made no sound and gave no return as he continued to move forward. Walking onward. Or rather, marching. When in doubt, keep moving. So he did.

  Time passed, a moment or endlessly, he couldn’t tell in this featureless place. But small sounds at last began to rise up, unintelligible at first, but rising up to a level where the words were at last clear. “Are you really prepared?” he snorted and kept walking. A Bandsman was always prepared! What a stupid question.

  “Are you worthy?” Of what? Another dumb one. He was worthy of whatever he could grasp. Every good fighting man knew this.

  “Do you deserve this?” He began to tune it out. He focused on his marching, and that made it easy. He’d spent far too many years doing that for it ever to be anything but automatic.

  The questions were silly. They all broke down to one thing. “Who are you?” And Milo, he knew that already. He was Milo of the Band. Loyal veteran, generous teacher and long-term soldier. Everything else was merely dust in the wind, and he let it blow by. Since when did a fog have the right to question him? Ridiculous!

  He steps through a wispy bit of nothing and into a clearing in some foreign forest. The trees are too tall, too skinny and the leaves are blue-veined in purple. Not that this matters to him much, as not 20 feet away, in spiral twists of bright pink grasses is a six-legged cat-like creature. Its mouth is vertical, not horizontal and with two beady eyes split by that mouth and down where a chin should be.

  With a high bitched shriek, like a spearhead through an iron breastplate, it barrels towards the intruder at a speed too fast to be natural.

  Milo snorted. No green welp was he. There was no path from this clearing that involved running. Not with something that moved that fast. So he didn’t bother to try. One foot dropped back, the other forward and sideways, his shield slammed down to dig into the earth and his shoulder struck against its upper edge around the pivot of this arm. His helmeted head half hidden behind it, just leaving steady, iron-like grey eyes to stare above the rim at the rapidly closing monster, his short spear held ready and waiting.

  Then it was on him, and he took its lunging blow on his shield, spear darting forward to meet it in the same moment, to sink blade deep into the side of its throat even as he flew backward before all that mass in motion. Even braced he could not take the blow. He landed on his back, the monster on top of him, its six clawed feet scratching and scraping over his exposed armor and shield face, its vertical fanged mouth darting at his head, barely held back by the edge of his half-trapped shield.

  His hand slid up the side of his spear, grabbing it barely behind the head, and, knife-like, slammed it into the monster's ribs. Again, and again. Ignoring the two and a half feet of shaft behind his hand and tucking as much of himself behind his shield as he could manage, all except his eyes. For he must be able to see! He shifted and jerked his shield, head and limbs to avoid the worst of the slashes and bites. All the while stabbing again and again.

  It wasn’t over quickly. It was a long, rough and painful encounter.

  But so was life. And Milo? He was a survivor!

  The monster slumped on top of him, blue blood running freely from three dozen stab wounds in its side and a deeper gash to the side of its neck. Milo, light-headed from a lack of breath and the sheer wait compressing his chest, just lay there for a few moments. Then, refusing to faint beneath wounds, bruises and pressure, he slowly, carefully wedged himself free.

  Rolling out to the side to gasp deeply for the first, full breath of air in what felt like an hour. Then several more such breaths, till the darkness receded form the edges of his eyes and he laboriously pushed to his feet.

  He moved back towards the alien creature, stumbling more than he’d like, with his spear a walking stick to support himself. He reached down and grabbed a tulip-shaped ear, determined to have a trophy from this fever dream of a fight.

  But as the spear blade slashed into its flesh, the flesh turned to mist and smoke.

  Blue mist and blue smoke that twisted and turned before expanding back outward into a familiar box.

  ___

  “Sos dat’s hows it went.” He finished.

  “Hail Pahadi!” Ethan barks loudly, echoed by the rest of the room. Then in a lower conversational voice. “Well done Milo. Well done indeed.”

  “Tank yous Milord! Is done it! Tier 2 at las’. Did no tink I would do it, no in dis life.” Ermina winced widely to the side, but thankfully from out of the poor man’s field of view. Still, Ethan thought with a small, devilish grin, they might need to arrange some lessons for a new tier 2. Couldn’t have someone of that rank talking quite that poorly. He carefully didn’t look at Conner beside him.

  And Ermina, she had been getting a bit bored locked inside like she was…

  He grinned even wider.

  ___