The dice fell on the upturned shield rattling, tumbling, colliding and separating. As they came to rest, six pairs of eyes stared at the wooden squares. A couple of coins were placed on to the shield by one of players, who scooped up the dice and tossed them down on to the shield. Once again they danced and rolled across the uneven surface, eventually coming to a halt.

Standing over the shield Giacomo, Mercenary Captain, watched the money change hands and the game continue. His attention was only half on the dice rolls, his eyes constantly flicking up to stare at the dust that rose over the ridge. His scouts had ridden back to the Company twenty minutes beforehand, give or take, and after the initial rush of activity to pull on armour and check weapons, his men had settled down to wait it out until the Tullians reached them.

Running his hand through his beard, Giacomo turned away from the dice players and looked over their position. Where he stood was at the centre of what would be his defensive position, where his fourty crossbowmen would face down the might of the enemy’s charge with barrages of steel tipped bolts. To his left, where the ground dropped severely to flatten out behind their ridge, his men-at-arms were still being armed and armoured by their squires, whilst several of the crossbowmen walked the heavy warhorses up and down the grassland to warm the animals muscles. Lances lay in the grass, along with shields, each one bearing the Company’s colours, dark red chevrons, their points rising, upon a fawn field.

Folding his arms, he shivered against the cold breeze that drifted along the ridge. Nearly summer and still the wind was cold, easily finding its way through both linen tunics he wore. The woollen grey trousers he was clad in held out far better against elements, but that was fine for his legs, as the fighting would be hot enough as it was without the heat of wearing a woollen tunic making it even more uncomfortable. At least with the lighter weight linen it would help to keep him cool, even if he felt cold.

Above him in the blue sky, a cloud drifted over the sun, plunging the ridge into shadow, the sudden chill making Giacomo shiver once more. Once the cloud had passed over he felt the intense heat of the sun smother itself over his skin. Arms still crossed, he slowly moved over the ridge to where the Company’s sole wagon, laden with food, equipment and the pay chest stood with horses ready in case the worst happened. The Sergeant guarding the wagon picked something up from the wagons bed as Giacomo approached and unceremoniously tossed a bundle at his Captain, who lost in his own thoughts staggered as the heavy padded coat hit him, the sweat-stained material filling his nostrils with its stench.

He grabbed at the padded jacket, pulled it away from his face and swallowed nervously. Fear always upset his stomach when he began to equip himself for battle. Positioning his men, choosing where to fight and how, preparing traps and surprises for the enemy all seemed like a game, given a grim face when he remembered that shortly steel would cross steel, blood would be spilt, bodies mangled by blades and bolts, lives broken or taken away in moments. He could feel the tension inside him, his stomach tying itself in knots, his muscles shivering. He looked up at the bright, clear sun, with eyes half closed. Let me live, whatever or whoever is up there, let me live.

His bowels churned inside himself as he looked up at the Sergeant, a Maris man who was clad in a coat of mail, long sword buckled to his belt, who seemed completely at ease, stacking the crates and barrels as far forward in the wagon as possible to make space for where the inevitable casualties would be placed. Glancing to his left he could see the Company’s doctor, a small Tullian with a bald head, clad in an apron spattered with black patches. Blood, all Giacomo could think, men’s blood, women’s blood, Hells, probably even children’s blood. How much more would coat that apron after today? He looked away as the doctor laid out his tools, a series of knives and saws, tongs and probes. The sawbones looked up and caught the Captains gaze and gave him a nod. Giacomo looked hurriedly away, pulling on his padded jacket as he moved up to the wagons tail. Sat neatly on the wagons rear was his sword, pick, dagger, short sword and shield, with his arming cap on top. A leather belt, three inches thick with two buckles, lay coiled like a snake next to the weapons. The Sergeant, who must have placed the equipment so neatly for his Captain, ignored him completely as Giacomo tried to thank him.

Having buckled the jacket, he swung his arms to make sure he would not be hindered by the garment, or that the clothing beneath had gathered at one spot which might annoy and distract him. Satisfied he unfolded the thick arming cap and pulled it over his long hair, which lay tied in a tail, falling down his back like a glossy wave of golden brown silk. Knotting the straps of the arming cap firmly beneath his chin, he picked up the leather belt and the short sword, threading the scabbards leather loop on to the belt. The weapon was known amongst the Company as ‘Butcher’ because of its similarity with carving knives. Its single edge was sharper than a razor, whilst its tip would pierce leather and cloth as though they were butter. It hung just over his right thigh, the scabbard trailing past his leg. When he ran it would bang against the limb, but he could live with the annoyance and bruising for the speed that the weapons placement gave when he drew it.

Hauling the sword off of the wagons bedding, he lifted the hilt to his lips, kissing the elongated, faceted pommel for luck. The sword was his favourite weapon, forged by a master, a beautiful blade he’d taken from the body of a noble who had found he needed it no longer when the Butcher had cut his throat. It’s blade was just over three feet long, narrow and flexible but strong enough to take a hit from a heavier weapon. The quillons on the hilt angled gently towards the blade, whilst the grip was covered in lambs leather, dyed black. What Giacomo loved about the weapon was how functional and unadorned it was. It’s beauty was in the brilliance of its forging, not through exterior adornments.