After the Battle

Ron wiped the axe blade clean on the officer's uniform, revealing its iron gleam once more. He straightened and swept his gaze over the village entrance, where bodies lay scattered across the mud and blood had already seeped into the earth.

"Karl, collect anything that can prove their identities—nameplates, military orders, marked equipment. Don't miss a single thing."

Ron planted his battle axe on the ground. "Drag all the Nilfgaardian bodies deep into the swamp and bury them separately. Strip the officer's plate armor apart and melt it down. Let the villagers claim their dead and bury them according to their customs." He paused.

"What happened today is classified. No one is to speak of it."

No one spoke. Karl pushed up his visor, nodded once, and turned toward the bodies of the shield soldiers.

Miko had already begun sorting through the weapons scattered across the ground. He pulled crossbow bolts from the mud and arranged them in separate piles according to the condition of their shafts.

Ron turned and walked toward the cart that was still smoking.

Ves crouched beside the cart, using a strip of torn cloth to bandage her injured companion. The strip was not long enough, so she clenched one end in her teeth and pulled it tight before tying a dead knot. The wounded man gave a muffled groan but did not cry out.

"His wound won't hold for long." Ron stood before her. "My estate has a doctor."

Ves raised her head. Her short blonde hair was disheveled, and the soot on her face had been dampened by sweat into streaks of gray. She studied Ron with those gray-blue eyes for a long while.

"Big guy, being this kind comes with conditions, doesn't it?"

"During treatment, surrender all weapons and do not leave the designated area."

"Ha, I knew it. Fine. Your territory, your rules."

"Don't misunderstand. It's for protection, for both sides." Ron's voice did not waver in the slightest.

"You earned your lives yourselves. Now you have two choices: take some medicine and leave now—I won't stop you—or return to the estate with me. Food, lodging, and treatment will be provided until you can travel on your own. Your choice."

Ves looked at the wounded man lying on the ground. Blood had already soaked through the cloth around his forehead. His eyes remained open, but his breathing was shallow, every rise of his chest accompanied by a faint rasping hiss.

"We'll go with you." Ves rose to her feet and sheathed her sword at her hip. Her movements were crisp, though it took her several tries to line the sword up with the scabbard.

"I'll remember this favor."

"Mm." Ron turned and walked toward the formation.

Old Gott was already speaking with several villagers. He crouched before a man clutching a pitchfork, speaking in the Temerian dialect.

The man first looked back at the smoking thatched huts behind him. Only a few charred roof beams remained standing. He lowered his pitchfork and nodded. The woman behind him hugged her child tightly and nodded as well.

Old Gott stood and gestured to Ron. Ron withdrew his gaze and glanced toward the village entrance.

Karl led several men in dragging the Nilfgaardian soldiers' bodies into a pile, loading them onto a flatbed cart, and covering them with straw.

"Form up. Wounded in the middle. Move out."

The group rearranged itself. The wounded were lifted onto makeshift stretchers, while the lightly injured Blue Stripes walked beside them.

Seven or eight villagers followed at the rear. Some carried sacks of grain salvaged from the ruins, some held children in their arms, and some had empty hands, having had no time to take anything.

Ves walked on the other side of the stretchers, one hand resting on her sword hilt. But she was not looking at the village. She was watching the giant ahead carrying the battle axe.

By the time the estate emerged in the afternoon sunlight, the group had been walking for most of the day. The soldiers in the watchtower spotted them and shouted toward the inner courtyard. The estate gates swung open.

Several craftsmen working by the wall stopped what they were doing and watched the mixed group enter.

Aina hurried over from the herb garden, the hem of her gray robe still stained with fresh mud. She glanced at the wounded man on the stretcher, rolled up her sleeves, and reached out to peel back the blood-soaked cloth on his forehead.

"Bring clean bandages," she told a girl who looked like an apprentice. Her fingers were already probing the depth of the wound. "Bring me the potion on the table too. The green one, not the brown one."

Her hands were steady, her movements swift. The wounded man twitched, and her other hand immediately pressed against his forehead. She did not use much force, only enough to keep him fixed against the wooden board.

Ves stood at the doorway. Her gaze swept over the medicine shelves, then moved to the neatly stacked clean linen in the corner. She said nothing, but her taut shoulders relaxed slightly.

Old Gott returned from the estate kitchen carrying two bowls of wheat porridge. He handed one to the man with the pitchfork.

The man took the bowl, his hands still shaking. Old Gott patted his shoulder, rose to his feet, and beckoned to the villagers standing nearby.

"This way. You'll stay in the sheds tonight. Tomorrow morning, someone will arrange work and accommodations for you."

The villagers looked at one another before slowly following. The woman carrying the child came last. She glanced up at the sentries on the wall and pulled her child closer to her chest.

Several days later, before the morning mist had fully cleared, commands were already ringing across the training ground.

Ves leaned against the fence at the edge of the field, both arms crossed over the wooden rail. Her Blue Stripes uniform hung open at the collar, its sleeves rolled to her elbows. She had been standing there the entire morning.

On the drill field, the recruits were practicing assault formations. Sword-and-shield soldiers, spearmen, and crossbowmen worked together smoothly. Their steps were orderly as the formation advanced, the sound of shields striking the ground merging into one.

Karl stood on the wooden platform. He did not shout, only occasionally raised a hand to point in a direction. The formation shifted its orientation as his finger moved, like a precisely controlled machine.

But Ves was not watching the formation. She was watching what happened after it broke apart.

Karl gave a command. The front-row sword-and-shield soldiers spread to either side, and the recruits began engaging one on one and one against two.

Some were too slow to raise their shields and were jabbed in the ribs by wooden swords. Some tripped over their own feet while retreating and toppled backward. Others were beset by two opponents at once; their shields blocked the left side, while a wooden sword had already struck their right shoulders.

"Stop." Karl's voice carried down from the platform.

The recruits straightened, panting heavily. The one struck on the shoulder was rubbing his shoulder blade. He was not slow in his movements, and his position had been accurate while the formation advanced, but once he left the ranks, it was as if he no longer knew where to put his sword.

Ves left the fence and headed toward the smithy.

Ron was crouching beside Brom's forge, studying a progress sketch for a water-powered forging hammer.

Brom crouched beside him, poking the drawing with a thick, stubby finger. His voice was rough. "This casting still has to wait for the furnace. Until the furnace is ready, we can't begin."

"Ron."

Ron looked up. Ves stood before him with her hands on her hips, her thumb pointing toward the training ground. "I watched your soldiers train. Their formations are good, but their close-quarters fighting is still lacking."

Ron returned the plans to Brom and stood. "What are you getting at?"

"My boys might not be good at much else, but they're more than qualified to teach swordsmanship." Ves spoke bluntly and confidently.

"Your instructors teach formation warfare, not swordsmanship. My people can help with that." She paused. "We need time to recover, but we can't just eat and drink at your expense. You understand what I mean, right?"

"Fine. But on the training ground, Karl has the final say."

"Mm, no problem."