Home!

The first stop after Derek's discharge was home.

He had no intention of building his future there, but as a member of House Ferreira, he could surely count on some help.

For instance... money.

Derek stood in the study while the current Baron Ferreira—his father, Leandro—looked him over.

The family had educated him from childhood, trained him in arms, then placed him under Count Perez as a squire for three years. A formal knight's education lasted twelve years in total. The investment had been considerable.

"Derek, as head of House Ferreira, I do not approve of your choice. You are about to throw away the family's investment.

"As your father... I do not approve either. The world out there is more dangerous and more brutal than you imagine.

"I will ask you one last time. Are you ready to live as a wandering knight?"

Derek met his gaze. The answer required no further thought. "Of course. I've decided."

"Fine!" Baron Ferreira rose and tossed him a purse of coins. "There's my sponsorship. If you can't make it out there, come home and work off the debt."

Derek smiled. Wasn't this exactly what he had come home for?

Without money you couldn't take a single step—true in any world, this one included.

He opened the purse without ceremony. The little golden beauties inside made his eyes shine.

He counted. Fifty gold coins, on the nose.

Was that a lot?

A lot. A professional soldier earned about one gold coin a year.

Too little? House Ferreira's poll tax brought in perhaps seven or eight hundred gold a year; add the manors and the businesses, and a good year meant two thousand, a lean one barely over a thousand.

Subtract the upkeep of a guard company and the household expenses, and what remained was truly not much.

Fifty gold was no small sum. A commoner might not save that much in a lifetime.

A knight's full plate was out of reach, but an ordinary half-plate? Easily. Lower the standards a bit, and iron-studded leather ran only a gold or two.

It was enough to maintain a fully equipped squad of professional soldiers for a year. If he made a success of it, he would keep going; if not, he would crawl home and work off the debt.

"Thank you for your generosity, Father. I will make something of myself—and add a few branches to the Ferreira family tree of titles."

"Let us hope." The baron's voice did not sound especially confident in him.

Perhaps he assumed this third son of his would either die out there or come slinking back.

A wandering knight's life really wasn't that easy.

Derek heard the doubt clearly. Fair enough—without the Panel, he would have found himself a comfortable family post, just as his uncles had.

"One more thing, Father. I'd like to recruit a few soldiers from the family lands."

"Granted. I'll have the constable assist you.

"Stay a while longer if you like. Whip them into shape before you set out."

Men recruited from the family lands were about as reliable as soldiers came. They would think twice before doing anything foolish when their homes were known.

And the selection was wide. At the very least he could pick from militia who'd already had some training.

After a few good meals at home, Derek was eager to leave the castle.

As for House Ferreira: the fief held two villages and one castle.

Sitting deep in the kingdom's interior, the castle had gathered quite a few residents beyond its walls—its role was more political than military these days.

Add two tiny manors and some minor business interests in the nearby city, and the house was, all things considered, comfortably well off.

Haystack Village lay far from Ferreira Castle, at the northern edge of the fief.

Derek marched into the constabulary with the baron's warrant in hand.

The village held a thousand-odd souls. The constabulary kept one squad of regular infantry year-round, plus twenty temporarily levied militia—the backbone of local law and order.

Derek had been here many times; in truth, he did not need the warrant. No one would dare give him trouble.

Because the constable was his second uncle—a middle-aged man who'd scraped through knight training and had been coasting ever since.

Seeing Uncle Andrew again, Derek felt mainly envy: the man had managed to grow a proper little paunch even in this day and age.

And judging by his rolling swagger, whatever skills he had possessed in his youth were long gone.

Layabout or not, Ferreira blood ran in his veins, and he'd received a full education. Out here, that made him a rare talent.

The moment they met, Andrew swept him into an enthusiastic hug.

"Derek, my dear nephew! I heard you finished your knight's schooling with top marks. You should have stayed on there."

Andrew knew exactly what top marks meant. Marks like that made a man competitive.

Derek wasn't the least surprised the family already knew his results. When your family are the local powers-that-be, news travels just that fast.

He offered only a casual explanation: "Knight Croya and Father's friendship—you understand."

Andrew was not so easily fooled. He had been through knight training himself. He knew no one would stop a candidate from earning a passing mark, but top marks were not handed out for merely doing well.

A clever man doesn't dig. He wisely let the question go.

The current Baron Ferreira was Leandro, after all. Andrew kept a hand on Derek's arm, "nephew" this and "nephew" that, showing everyone present exactly where he stood.

Shameless? Certainly. Necessary? Absolutely.

The family's legacy would just about run dry by his generation.

Derek had no shortage of brothers; the important posts were reserved for them.

Andrew had his own sons to think about.

"Derek, I hope you've chosen right. How many men do you need this time? I'll introduce you to the best lads we have." Andrew hesitated, visibly swallowing the urge to stuff his own son into Derek's little band, then declared with generosity anyway: "And I've prepared a few gifts. I hope you'll like them."

Money would have been too crude—he was the boy's own uncle, after all.

So Andrew had prepared a longsword of fine steel.

"From my own collection. Sadly, I can't dance with a sword anymore. Well? Satisfied?"

Andrew patted his little paunch with regret. A fine-steel sword like this took a smith a dozen days at the anvil—worth five or six gold, easily.

Derek was only the baron's third son, and one leaving to seek his fortune at that. This gift was mostly affection.

Otherwise, a handful of iron spearheads would have been generous enough.

Derek drew the blade one-handed.

Forge patterns rippled dense across the steel—beautiful work.

The cold gleam along its edge said this was no parade-piece.

He spun a flourish with one hand, and the polish of his swordsmanship showed itself instantly.

Andrew's eyes lit up. "That level of skill... you're better than most of the family's knights."

Derek played through a few more passes, thoroughly pleased, and slid the sword home in one smooth motion—again, the ease of long practice.

"A wonderful gift. Thank you, Uncle."

...

The welcome done, Derek got down to business. "I need to recruit ten fresh soldiers, one attendant, and one blacksmith."

Andrew blinked. The first two were simple enough—but what did he want a blacksmith for?

He cautioned, "Derek, a village smith patches farm tools and hammers out a few spearheads at best. He cannot guarantee the quality of even a simple iron sword. If it's repairs you're after, you don't need to levy a smith of your own."

"Rest easy, Uncle. I have other uses for him."

"Then it's no trouble. As it happens, there's a fresh batch of militia just through their first training cycle—strapping young lads, every one. I've already asked around; even if you wanted twenty, we'd have the numbers.

"As for the smith, the old blacksmith's boy is about your age. He should have picked up some of the craft."

Andrew had truly put in the effort—he'd prepared everything in advance.

"I'll also need to buy a house. And borrow the training yard, if I can."

"Buy a house? The constabulary yard out past the fields has everything you need. Live there—you'll be saving me the trouble of watching it."

Andrew waved a grand hand. What was a little thing like that? It all belonged to his old man anyway.

Derek thought it over: a saving was a saving. He could never truly cut ties with the family, so he might as well soak up the benefits.

With the local powers-that-be smoothing the way, Derek's grand preparations went off without a hitch—everything settled in a single day.

Bedding, daily necessities—Andrew covered it all.

He even sent men over with several sacks of wheat. Food expenses: also zero.

The other relatives didn't sit idle either. Gifts arrived one after another.

All ruthlessly practical. Third Uncle sent thirty spearheads.

Fourth Uncle sent three suits of simple leather armor.

Eldest Aunt had five iron swords delivered.

...

In the blink of an eye, without spending a single copper, Derek had his equipment assembled.

Looking over his twelve strapping recruits, he nearly burst into song.

"Ah, back when this old man's outfit first opened shop, all we had was... a full squad's worth of weapons. No—forget it. Any more of this and it's just showing off."

Such was the joy of the nobly born. What knight risen from common stock could ever understand?

The relatives' gifts each ran from one or two gold coins to three or five. And mind—this generosity came only because he was the sole one striking out into the world. Otherwise it would certainly have been less.

With the basics secured, the first thing Derek did with his recruits was build a smith's forge.

That's right. A smith's forge.

Little Tru, the blacksmith's son, formally joined up—and was duly filed under the Army tab of the Panel.

Tru

Class: Army Blacksmith, Level 1 (22/100)

Experience Pool: 0/100

Indeed—the Panel's coverage was even broader than he'd imagined.

Every new function he teased out gave Derek more options.

Compared to licking blood off a blade's edge, the arms business simply paid better.

Especially high-value weapons and armor—the margins there were fat.

A full suit of heavy plate went for sixty or seventy gold. How long would an ordinary man work to earn that?

The other eleven recruits began their training. Blacksmith Little Tru, meanwhile, began his forging journey.

In truth, smithing was a perfectly decent trade—enough to feed a family.

So why was Little Tru in a military camp? Because he "volunteered," naturally.

When the baron's young lord takes a liking to you, do you dare not volunteer? Say no, and who's to say your whole family won't tragically stab themselves in the back tomorrow?

Little Tru had braced himself for life as a soldier. But upon arriving at the yard, his first job was bricking up a simple furnace and raising a workbench.

Then a hammer was pressed into his hands, and Lord Derek said, ever so gently, "Little Tru, your family have been smiths for generations. If you're missing anything, don't be shy. Go home and fetch it. I'll pay."

"I... I... I can only make farm tools, and mend broken weapons a little." Little Tru was on the verge of tears. Surely Lord Derek didn't imagine he could forge weapons and armor? When the rejects piled up, wouldn't his head be the price?

"I know. Start with spearheads—I need them for training. No one will come after you over quality."

Lord Derek was bafflingly easy to deal with. Little Tru remained deeply unconvinced.

The word of a noble lord... well. House Ferreira did keep its word, at least.

That evening, Little Tru went home and told the tale. Old Tru immediately packed up his own tools and sent them over.

If Derek had accepted, the old man would have gladly taken his son's place on the scaffold.

Yes—the scaffold. That's what this was, in his eyes.

Expecting Little Tru to do what his own father couldn't? If that wasn't deliberate torment, what was?

Derek didn't bother explaining. He simply put on the full airs of a baron's son, and the Tru family fell obediently into line.

Before leaving, Old Tru clutched his son, eyes brimming: "Hold on in there, boy. You're the only seed I've got. Who else is going to look after me when I'm old?"

Little Tru's eyes brimmed right back. His future felt very uncertain indeed.

The moment he turned away, Old Tru marched home and shut the door.

"Wife, we'd best hurry up and make another one."

Rumor has it the smithy stayed closed for several days after that.

...

Little Tru fired up the furnace, and his forging career began.

The next day, recruit training.

"Thrust!"

"Recover!"

"Thrust!"

CRACK!

A spearhead snapped.

Little Tru's spearheads: quality catastrophically below standard.

Derek's face showed nothing. He kept calling the drill. "What are you looking at? A broken spearhead means you can slack off? The enemy won't wait for you on a battlefield. Keep going... Thrust!"

The training went on!

Through those days, Andrew wandered over now and then. Derek ran things strictly by the book; there was nothing to criticize.

As for results—too early to tell.

The Little Tru situation, though, drew his quiet disapproval. He tried talking his nephew out of it a few times, got nowhere, and let it drop.

Fine—let the third nephew learn the hard way and buy himself a lesson. The losses would hardly amount to much.

A month passed.

When Derek opened the Panel again—training heavier now, his standards stricter—all eleven recruits held militia levels of five and above.

Little Tru's progress was a touch slower. He had only reached Level 3.

Past Level 3, his experience gain had slowed once again.

At the current pace, the next level would take at least another month.

Tru

Class: Army Blacksmith, Level 3 (11/100)

Experience Pool: 0/100

Forging had a daily limit, after all. It could not compare with drilling soldiers.

And the further one went, the harder experience came.

Still, from Level 3 on, Little Tru's spearheads were perfectly serviceable. Cost: twenty or thirty coppers apiece. Selling price: an easy seventy or eighty.

He could hammer out three to five a day, which put the profit at around two hundred coppers, give or take.

The official exchange set 1 gold at 10 silver, and 1 silver at 100 coppers.

Of course, the official rate was worth little—the street rate never stopped shifting.

One gold actually fetched fifteen to seventeen silver; one silver, a hundred twenty to a hundred thirty coppers.

Which meant a competent blacksmith could clear over one and a half silver a day.

Two to three gold a year—triple a common soldier's pay.

Improve the craft a little further, and it would be more still.

Not that it mattered to Little Tru. He'd signed an indenture. There was no running away now.