"Forget it. Even with the river bed, it's suicide." Torm said dismissively, trudging along the banks of uplifted dirt that served for battlements in this small patch of land at the edge of the Shimmering Sea. The western wind carried the scent of smoke and death to waft into the Palona streets as if to remind the citizens they were a mere two hundred paces from a thousand men who's only goal to kill them and relieve them of all their mortal belongings. Even if they survived the siege, it was going to be a hard winter for Palona. The Knight wanted to help, but his duty was to his company first, and that dictated he not make foolish decisions because his subordinates were overeager. 

"But-" 

"I'm not giving that order, Carston." He said with a tone of finality. "It's not my decision to make."

The contingent of Knights and their war-steeds had been the most restless of the Silver Swords since their encirclement by the soldiers of the Priest-Queen a month ago. They were men trained to fight from adolescence, that is to say, at least the 'real' knights among them. Out of their number of five dozen, Torm was one of only sixteen that had actually been knighted by a lord and granted a title. Most of the others were men-at-arms, Cataphraktoi, and even a few Mamluks from the warrings states of the endless sun. It didn't matter, at least. They had been trained together, practiced drills, and fought together in over eighteen pitched battles and skirmishes. They were all Knights of the Silver Sword to sir Torm Draufkrieg, the Grey Wolf. 

"But The Captain listens to you." Sir Carston argued, having not bothered to fully remove his bascinet helm, likely in case of stray projectiles. Torm recalled he had been raised in far Wildevalt, over the Karkasson Mountains across the sea. He was one of the deadliest with a lance, but he lacked strategy and still had more than his fair share of useless fretting from his time at court, before his long exile that led him into the mercenary life. On his tabard, a red flower was being cut in twain by a silver blade. He had insisted one be made for him to. Torm's had been gifted to him, with twin silver swords behind the head of a snarling wolf. Once the Knights had seen the embroidery, all of them had wanted their own personalized tabards. Of course, the Captain didn't deigned to gift any others, and so those that cared enough paid for it out of their own pockets.

"The Captain listens to everyone. That's why he's a good Captain." Torm said with a tone that warned this was the end of the conversation. The two walked past a group of sentries playing cards, their eyes widening when they saw Torm regard them sternly. They hastily pulled away the dice and the cards and stood back up, trying to appear as if it never happened. Torm remembered his time as a page, scrambling to erase away whatever he had just done wrong as if it could just cause it all to disappear. The commander turned to Sir Carston. "We'll speak no more of this. The Captain says we wait, we wait." 

"Yes, sir. It was only an idea, is all." He said by way of retreat. The problem with anointed knights was their arrogance. Even an errant had a hard time keeping his pride in check, making them dangerously close to believing they were above their superior officer in certain matters. No one knew where the Captain was from, but he had never introduced himself as an aristocrat or one of the gentry. Some openly whispered Torm should lead, but sir Draufkrieg had punished any who suggested it in his presence.

The two stepped over a small embankment where the Silver Swords only real artillery piece lay. A siege arbalest they had obtained a year ago in at the Battle of Belhold. It was as large as two horses and had to be drawn by three oxen. Tough it couldn't effectively crush a stone wall like a trebuchet or a cannon, it had a simple loading system that allowed the company to arm it with a number of different alchemical concoctions or explosives, or even a bag of the heads of a besieged city's dead men. Whatever worked. More than once Torm had watched, amazed, as a slow fuse in a barrel of phosphorous powder had exploded over an enemy line, showing them in flames.

Passing it by, the sappers saluted Torm and Castor who gave curt, returning gestures before they stepped up the slope and into the first tent, one of the many that had been pitched up near the edge of town. Some of the men had been given quarters provided by Palona, but Torm had insisted his men live outside of them and make their own dwellings, to remind them they were apart of a team. He followed his own advice as well, his tent just half a mile up the road. Shoving aside the flap, he and Castor stood before two of their number, on their knees and bound. Both sported bruises and dried blood. The man on the left was Sir Montague Blakeny, and it looked like stitches were in order. He had a nasty black eye that swelled like an unwanted pregnancy. The right man was Aeneas Mirkanto, a Cataphract with a penchant for womanizing and screaming his own name in combat. His nose had been reset, but his jaw had seen better days. 

Sir Robert Longfellow and a Man-At-Arms named Brightshot, dubbed so for his shiny white teeth, stood behind them, waiting patiently with their arms crossed. Torm was glad Longfellow was there, he always had a way of mediating between the boys. He was surprised to see Brightshot there, but then again he didn't know much about the man other than he liked to dance any moment he could and was a good saber fencer. Apparently having been raised and trained in both in one of the Free Cities along the coast to the east. 

"What happened?" Torm asked. 

"What do you think sir? It was over a woman." Brightshot remarked. Torm was already planting a palm on his face when Sir Longfellow began speaking. "A local girl named Clarissa promised she would meet Blakeny behind the tavern for some fun, but he found her and Mirkanto in the act. By the time I got there a few tables had already been broken. I got them off each other, but they had already roughed each other up something fierce." 

"I let him get his pants on first, sir," sir Montague remarked. He couldn't look his commander in the eyes, just glancing Mirkanto's way. "Wouldn't have been decent otherwise, even if he is a cur." 

"Thee would have had a thad night with you, quithquilian." The Cataphract managed to say with a noticeable lisp. 

"Shut up!" Torm ordered, and all four of the men snapped to attention. Even Castor seemed perturbed. "Over a woman?" Torm asked incredulously, slowly shaking his head. They both opened their mouths but Torm held up a hand, his grey eyes wintry in their disdain. "No, stop. I don't care what your reasonings were. If this was over some expensive booze or a game of cards I might get it. If one of you had stolen some money, sure. Though you should come to me for such things, but a woman? There's millions of them. You cannot throw a stone without landing in the lap of some farm girl who sees a coat of mail and thinks you're from the legends. You two, you're both taking double shifts in the stables for three months. I want to be able to see myself in the shine of those horseshoes. And the tables you broke are coming our of your pay. I would reduce your rations but we need every man at peak fighting strength." 

"Do you know when we'll be fighting, sir?" Robert Longfellow interjected. Torm looked at Castor as if daring him to speak, and then regarded sir Robert. 

"I don't know. Any day now, I'm sure." 

"Sir!" A voice rang out, the tent flap billowing open. A courier from Palona, one of the men the master of the town had given to the service of the mercs. "The Captain wants to see you. Now, sir."