Dawn, April 11th, Anno Domini 1200
The Keep of Falkenstrand
Alaric awoke before the weak grey light of dawn had fully infiltrated his chamber through the narrow arrow-slit window. His body still ached, a dull protest from muscles unaccustomed to even the modest exertions of the previous evening, but the profound weakness was receding. More potent than any physical discomfort was the cold, sharp clarity in his mind, a sense of purpose that was almost exhilarating. Today, the practical application of his will would begin.
He rose, his movements more fluid than the day before, and splashed icy water onto his face from the ewer. As he was dressing in the simple, dark tunic and braies, there was a soft knock at his door.
"Enter," he called, his voice steady.
The door opened to reveal Elara, and behind her, two men. They were young, clad in freshly cleaned, if still worn, leather jacks, and equipped with short swords at their belts and newly polished steel caps tucked under their arms. They were of a similar height, sturdily built, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes alert, watchful.
"My lord," Elara said with a curtsy. "Ser Kaelan sent these men, as you requested. He says they are Willem and Rolf, brothers. He awaits you in the bailey when you are ready."
Alaric surveyed the two men. Willem, the elder by perhaps a year or two, had a square jaw and a steady gaze. Rolf was leaner, his eyes quicker to move, taking in every detail of the room, and of Alaric himself. They both bore the rough-hewn look of Falkenstrand men, but there was a core of solidity to them that the other guardsmen had lacked.
"Willem, Rolf," Alaric acknowledged them with a nod. "You understand your duties?"
"To guard your person, Lord Baron," Willem replied, his voice a low rumble. "At all times."
"And to be discreet," Alaric added, his gaze pointed.
Rolf dipped his head. "Understood, my lord."
"Very well. You will attend me. Elara, ensure they are fed and that their duties do not preclude their own necessary rest. A tired guard is a poor guard."
Elara curtsied again. "Yes, my lord."
With Willem and Rolf taking up positions on either side of his chamber door, Alaric felt a small, almost imperceptible shift in his own sense of security. It was a pragmatic measure, not born of fear, but of an understanding of the world he now inhabited. A baron, especially one intending to make changes, was a target.
He broke his fast alone in his chambers, a simple meal of coarse bread, hard cheese, and watered ale brought by Elara. He ate slowly, methodically, his mind already on the day's agenda. He had no desire for the performative family meal in the great hall just yet; there was too much to do, and he preferred to set his own pace.
When he descended into the bailey, the morning air was crisp and cool. The keep was already stirring with more activity than he had seen previously. A palpable sense of anticipation, or perhaps apprehension, hung in the air. Ser Kaelan stood near the sad excuse for a training yard, looking as though he had not slept, his aged face etched with worry but also a new determination. The twenty men of the garrison were assembled, not in the ragged line of the previous evening, but in two ranks, their expressions a mixture of sullenness, curiosity, and outright fear.
Willem and Rolf fell in a few paces behind Alaric as he approached.
"Ser Kaelan," Alaric greeted him.
"My lord." Kaelan gestured towards the men. "They are ready. As ready as they can be."
Alaric's gaze swept over the assembled men. They were still poorly equipped, their clothing mismatched, but he noted that some effort had been made to clean weapons and straighten attire. Small changes, but a start.
"The directives I gave you last night, Captain," Alaric began, his voice clear and carrying easily across the yard. "Are they understood by all?"
A low murmur of assent, hesitant and uneven, came from the ranks.
"Good." Alaric stepped forward. "Discipline is the bedrock of any fighting force. Without it, you are merely an armed mob, a danger to yourselves as much as to any enemy. From this day forward, when an order is given, it is to be obeyed. Instantly. Without question. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Lord Baron!" The response was louder this time, sharper, if still lacking true conviction.
"We will begin with the basics. Stance. Grip. The spear is your primary weapon. It is your reach, your life. You will learn to treat it as an extension of your own arm."
For the next two hours, Alaric, with Kaelan echoing his commands and occasionally offering gruff encouragement, drilled the men relentlessly. He did not possess the refined swordsmanship of a knight, nor the deep practical experience of a lifelong soldier like Kaelan. But his modern understanding of body mechanics, of efficient movement, and of the psychological impact of disciplined repetition, gave him an unexpected edge.
He corrected their stances, showing them how to root themselves to the ground, how to use their body weight in a thrust. He made them practice holding their shields, not as passive lumps of wood, but as active weapons, their edges to be used, their coverage maximized. He had them drill simple forward and backward movements in formation, over and over, until the initial clumsiness began to lessen, replaced by a weary, aching synchronicity.
He was a demanding taskmaster, his voice rarely raised but his critiques sharp and precise. When a young guard, struggling with fatigue, let his spear tip dip, Alaric was before him in an instant.
"Your spear point is your intention, soldier," Alaric said, his voice low but intense, his grey eyes locking onto the startled youth's. "If it wavers, your intention wavers. If it drops, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?"
The young man, pale and sweating, could only nod mutely.
"Again," Alaric commanded the ranks. "From the beginning."
He pushed them hard, harder than they had ever been pushed. There were grumbles, quickly silenced by a look from Kaelan or by Alaric's own unnerving, focused stare. He saw the fatigue, the resentment, but he also saw, in some, a flicker of something new: the dawning realization that this was serious, that their new Baron, for all his youth, was not playing at soldiering.
Lady Mathilda appeared on the wooden gallery overlooking the bailey at one point, her expression unreadable as she watched the unfamiliar scene below. Alaric merely glanced up, gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment, and returned his attention to the men. He would speak with her later; the men's training took precedence.
By mid-morning, when Alaric finally called a halt, the garrison soldiers were exhausted, leaning on their spears, their tunics soaked with sweat despite the cool air. But they stood a little straighter. Their movements, though still far from perfect, had a nascent cohesion.
"Better," Alaric conceded, his tone neutral. "But still far from adequate. This will be your routine. Every morning. Without fail. Ser Kaelan will continue the drills this afternoon. Tomorrow, we add archery for those with aptitude. And physical conditioning for all." He saw a few groans barely suppressed. "Strength and stamina are as vital as skill with a blade. Dismissed for the morning meal. Be ready for Kaelan's summons."
As the men trudged off, Kaelan approached Alaric, wiping his brow with a trembling hand. "My lord, they are not accustomed… I fear you will break them."
"They will bend, Kaelan, or they will break under an enemy's sword far sooner," Alaric replied coolly. "We cannot afford weakness. Now, your reports. The inventory and the census."
They retreated to Kaelan's small office. The old knight produced two rolls of parchment, painstakingly inscribed. Alaric spread them on the table.
The armory inventory was as bleak as he remembered from his brief inspection. It listed every chipped sword, every rusted spearhead, every moth-eaten leather jack. The number of serviceable bows was pitifully small, and the arrow count even worse. There were perhaps enough well-maintained arms and armor to equip a dozen men to a reasonable standard, and another dozen to a barely passable one. The rest was little better than scrap.
The census was more revealing. Beyond the twenty men of the keep garrison, Kaelan had identified approximately one hundred and fifty men between the ages of sixteen and forty in Falkenau village and the five outlying hamlets who were, in theory, capable of bearing arms. The list included their primary occupations: farmers, shepherds, woodsmen, a blacksmith, a miller, a few trappers. Perhaps a third owned some manner of personal weapon, usually a hunting bow, a wood axe, or an old spear.
One hundred and seventy potential fighting men in the entire Barony, most untrained and unarmed. Alaric's lips thinned. Steinthal, he recalled his mother mentioning, could likely field at least that many retainers and men-at-arms, far better equipped and trained.
"This is the sum of our strength, Kaelan?" Alaric asked, his voice quiet.
"It is, my lord. Save for a few old men in the villages who claim to have seen battle in their youth, but whose fighting days are long past."
Alaric tapped the parchment. "Every man on this list from sixteen to thirty-five, who is not infirm, will present himself for training in rotation. We will start with the younger men of Falkenau. They will drill with the garrison. We need to expand our core of trained men, however slowly."
Kaelan looked aghast. "My lord, these are farmers, craftsmen! Their families depend on their labor, especially now with the spring planting…"
"And their families also depend on Falkenstrand not being overrun by Steinthal's reavers or ravaged by bandits," Alaric countered, his gaze like chips of ice. "A dead farmer provides no sustenance. We will organize the training to minimize disruption to essential work, but the training will happen. They will learn to defend their homes, or they will have no homes to defend."
The sheer pragmatism, the cold logic, seemed to momentarily silence Kaelan. The old knight clearly understood the danger, but the traditions of feudal levy, of sporadic service, were deeply ingrained. This talk of systematic, ongoing training for commoners was radical.
"It will cause… unrest, my lord," Kaelan finally said, his voice hesitant.
"Unrest is preferable to annihilation, Captain," Alaric stated. "Convey my orders. The first contingent from the village will report for training the day after tomorrow. Two hours, after their morning's field work. We will see who has aptitude." He paused. "And find me Gregor, the reeve. I need to understand our financial state and our stores with the same clarity I now have of our defenses. Send him to the solar before the midday meal."
Kaelan, looking older and more burdened than ever, but also with a reluctant flicker of grim acceptance, bowed. "As you command, Lord Baron."
After Kaelan departed, Alaric remained at the table, staring at the bleak reports. The numbers were stark. His modern mind grappled with the scale of the challenge. He needed weapons, armor, food, money. He needed to instill discipline, create a fighting force from virtually nothing. He needed to do it quickly, before their myriad vulnerabilities were fatally exploited.
He thought of the resources mentioned by his mother: wool, timber, tolls, a small quarry. Each would need to be maximized, every ounce of potential squeezed from this impoverished barony. His mind began to churn with nascent ideas: organized forestry, improved sheep yields through better land management (a long term project), stricter toll enforcement, perhaps even a way to refine the quarry's output for more than just local building.
The door creaked open and Willem, one of his new guards, entered, looking apologetic. "My lord, a… a Master Gregor is here. Sent by Ser Kaelan. He says you summoned him."
Alaric nodded, the first small cog in his machine already turning. "Send him in." The path ahead was a mountain of obstacles, but Alaric felt the first, faint tremor of his will beginning to reshape the landscape of Falkenstrand. It was a slow, arduous turn of a very large screw, but it was turning.