Weapons, Armor, and Testing

Roche's gaze shifted as he stared at the training ground for several breaths, as though using that time to consider something.

"Ves will have to stay here for a while longer." He withdrew his gaze. "The wounded get along well with your people. That herbalist of yours—what's her background?"

"A former priestess of the Temple of Melitele. The Nilfgaardians drove her out."

Roche said nothing. His fingers rubbed at his chin, then fell away, and he let the subject drop.

"She won't be idle."

"I know."

Roche did not press further. He pulled a stack of parchment from his coat and spread it across the table. It bore a simple map of central and northern Velen, with several main roads circled in charcoal.

"The Nilfgaardian central camp has been moving troops lately." He tapped a mark on the map with his finger.

"A brigade from the Alba Division is reinforcing patrols in Velen. Their numbers aren't large, but patrol frequency has doubled. The timing matches the deaths of that Nilfgaardian squad."

Ron lowered his head to study the map. Roche's finger moved, circling a forested area near the edge of it.

"There's an abandoned outpost here. It's well concealed and can serve as a backup camp. If the central camp's people press too hard, you can relocate here temporarily."

Ron committed the locations to memory. "Any movement from the Merchants' Guild?"

Roche looked up, a flicker of surprise passing through his eyes. He did not ask how Ron knew about the Merchants' Guild.

"Their reach in Novigrad has recently been extending into Velen. My people intercepted a shipment—not equipment, but documents. They're looking for a new Velen agent. The last group they worked with has recently disappeared."

Ron said nothing. Roche folded up the map, but did not put it back into his coat.

"You can keep this map." He pushed the parchment toward Ron.

"If you need help, send someone to the abandoned mill at the northern crossroads. Knock on the doorframe three times."

"Mm."

"Ves can be blunt at times, and she can be a little reckless in what she does, but she's a good kid. Please look after her."

"All right."

Roche turned and walked several steps away. As he passed the sword-training area, he paused. Ves was pulling a recruit up from the ground. The recruit had been struck by a wooden sword and had toppled sideways, his shield rolling far away.

Ves grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him upright, then patted the dust from his breastplate. "Get up. No one pulls the dead to their feet."

Roche watched for a few seconds before continuing toward the exit. His men stood in formation at the courtyard gate, hands resting on their sword hilts, their stances relaxed but not lax.

Ron picked up the map from the low table and folded it. He did not immediately return to work, instead standing beside the table for a moment.

The abandoned mill at the northern crossroads. Three knocks on the doorframe. This map was the favor Roche owed him, a means of gaining intelligence support through another channel.

Commands rang out from the training ground. Karl was shifting the formation from a line into a wedge, while Miko led a squad of recruits around the flank.

Wooden swords clashed in rapid, continuous bursts from the sword-training area, occasionally accompanied by the Blue Stripes instructors' brief corrections and Ves's trademark shout: "You rookie brats still have a long way to go!"

Brom's hammer rang from the smithy, its rhythm steady and powerful. Stones were being stacked up along the river bend, while in a corner of the courtyard, the newly settled villagers crouched beside a low wall, hammering stakes into the ground for the foundations of new sheds.

Ron picked up the list and was about to head toward the smithy when Todd jogged across the courtyard and stopped before him, bracing his hands against his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

"My lord, Master Brom is looking for you."

At the smithy forge, Brom stood beside the workbench with his thick arms crossed over his chest, looking at the armor and weapons laid out before him.

A full suit of plate armor. Its rivets were tight, its surface the cold color of steel. It had not been painted, and fine hammer marks remained across its surface.

A greatsword. The blade was thick and heavy, the crossguard straight, and the grip wrapped in leather. A simple pommel served as a counterweight. It had no ornamentation, no useless parts, and gave off a coarse, untamed, primal air.

Brom pointed at the plate armor.

"I added reinforced ridges along the breastplate welds, thickened the leather padding around the joints, and embedded Dimeritium in the inner layers. Total weight is close to a hundred pounds."

He turned the armor over. Several dark metal inlays could be seen beneath the inner leather lining. "Try it on. We'll fix anything that doesn't fit now."

Then he pointed at the greatsword. "I adjusted the balance on this thing. For one-handed use, the center of gravity sits three fingers ahead of the guard. For two hands, it shifts half a palm forward. It won't interfere with movement."

His thick, stubby finger tapped the crossguard.

"The edge was quenched twice. With this much weight behind it, it can split heavy plate armor. I'm not even sure whether this counts as a sword or a blunt weapon anymore."

Then he turned and lifted another set of armor from the other side. It was far lighter than the plate armor. The gray-brown leather over the breastplate had been tanned and pressed into shape. Its leather lining was combined with chainmail, while the outer layer was covered in overlapping lamellar plates.

"This was made from the hide of that petrified Chicken Snake." Brom lifted the armor for Ron to inspect.

"With the chainmail and lamellar plates, ordinary bows and crossbows won't pierce it. It'll hold up well enough against swords and knives, though not heavy crossbows. At close range, those can still punch through. I changed the way the plates overlap.

"A Bear School witcher came to me once. I improved this set based on his design, so it's both light and sturdy. Good for everyday use."

He set the armor beside the plate.

"Use this set for routine patrols. You can't wear full plate and carry that door bar every time you go out patrolling. Your horse won't get far before it's done for."

Ron picked up the lighter armor first. The lamellar plates shifted softly with his movements. He jumped twice in place and swung his arms. The plates moved smoothly, and the sound of leather rubbing was quiet and dull.

He nodded, removed the lighter armor, and began putting on the plate.

The guards stepped forward to help fasten the side clasps of the breastplate and tighten the straps on the pauldrons. Once the plate was on, his shoulders looked much broader. The tassets hung to mid-thigh, and each step of his iron boots landed with a heavy thud.

He lowered the helmet's visor, reducing his view to a narrow slit.

He picked up the greatsword with one hand, closed his palm around the grip, and lifted the blade from the ground as steadily as if he were holding a wooden sword.

By the time Ron walked out of the smithy, a circle of people had gathered around the training ground. Everyone had turned to look in his direction. Someone in the militia ranks forgot to keep hold of his spear, and the shaft slipped from his hand—only for old Gott to glare it back into place.

Ron walked to the weapon-testing area, where a test post had been prepared. It was fitted with captured Nilfgaardian chainmail and a breastplate.

The breastplate still bore old puncture marks from sword thrusts. The wooden post was as thick as an adult man's waist and buried deep in packed earth.

Ron held the sword in one hand. The blade rose from its downward angle to level with the ground, then he swung. The edge cut into the chainmail. Iron rings burst apart with sharp cracks and sprayed outward, clattering against the ground. Then came the shriek of the iron breastplate tearing apart, followed by the dull crunch of the wooden post being crushed.

The upper half of the post, along with the shattered breastplate, crashed to the ground. The blade continued into the earth, smashing out a shallow pit as dust rose.

Ron withdrew the sword and tilted the blade. Its edge had not rolled or chipped. Two temper lines lay quietly across the steel above the crossguard.