A Lesson Only Learned Through Experience
"A training dunny is no substitute for a living body."
That is all I can think as I watch the candidates for knighthood go walking by. They are the sons of nobility, the privileged few who had their path to knighthood paved with wealth rather than blood and sweat. All have had countless hours of personal training from retired soldiers or their family's personal guard, armor custom made for them since boyhood, and a few, I have no doubt, have probably owned horses since before they were even capable of riding on their own. Not one of them, however, has been tested in battle.
"None have experience where it truly matters."
How could they? They have never ridden onto any field deadlier than a tourney field. They have never joined a cavalry charge, riding unflinching into a volley or arrows, they have never heard the sound of bones snapping below hooves, never seen a man try desperately to hold his guts in from spilling out a wound, never breathed in the earthy scent of battle, a mixture of blood, and mud, and smoke, and horse, and never felt someone else's life expire on their weapon.
"Why should I be expected to trust my life to them?"
Without these experiences, how are we to know if they are capable of fighting when the rages and horrors of battle descend on them. How are we to know that they won't drop their weapons and flee or become frozen in terror? How are we to know that these untested recruits won't weaken us all?
"We are only as strong as our weakest rider."
A cavalry's strength comes from its discipline and unity. A lone knight charging down an enemy is a daunting opponent, but one that can still be overcome with skill. A team of a dozen, fighting in unison, becomes a force, a hammer breaking into the ranks of the enemy. And the charge of a full company, with horns blaring, hooves thundering, and men howling like savage beasts, becomes a wall of muscle and metal, a tide of encroaching carnage, so unshakable it can steal the courage away from defenders before steel even begins to ring on steel.
I sigh as the memory of one such charge fills my mind.
"Yes, that is what it is to be a member of the Iron Order."
A reputation of blood and glory so well known in these lands that many would rather flee than meet us in combat. Lethality so renowned that our names are praised and cursed in equal measure. The willingness to do what must be done that makes us the true unbreakable shield and unfaltering spear of Camavor.
A sense of pride for my order replaces the contempt I felt for the potential recruits as I watch them once more. Some, I must admit, show potential for greatness and could prove to be an asset as a knight. One in particular, a young man named Eloy stands out. He hails from the countryside, some second son of a middling noble family. He has shown himself to be equally skilled with a spear as he is with a bow and rides with expert skill, moving with his horse as though they were one, but what is most important, is the look in his eyes. Eloy is desperate for recognition.
He craves glory, to be seen as someone more than another man's younger brother. He wants to fight, to ride out and perform great feats for king and country. But mostly, he wants to perform them for himself. Some would call this selfish. I consider it honest. The boy knows what he wants. Why should he be forced to hide it? Because some consider it rude to think of yourself first?
I shake my head at the notion.
"Let the boy pursue glory, and if it benefits his homeland at the same time, all the better. I will not condemn him for it."
No, I will do the opposite. I will encourage him. If glory is what appeals to him, I shall use it to motivate him to train harder. He already looks up to me, a decorated knight who has survived many battles.
"As he should."
And he seeks my approval. Approval I am willing to give him along with additional training, training that will allow me to mold him into the kind of knight the Order needs. Training that will give him the experience that the other recruits lack.
It will begin tonight. Eloy will meet me in the fields outside the capital and I shall instruct him on some of the finer points of a charge. But first, I have one last stop to make before I can ready the fields for a proper test.
In the silvery light of the full moon, we have more than ample light to train. Eloy arrived early, eager to learn what I had to teach him, anything to give himself an edge over the other potential recruits. For over an hour we worked, perfecting his rider's posture, making sure he could properly grip a lance, spear, or glaive so that he would not be disarmed but could drop the weapon easily if needed. His form is exceptional, but still, I wonder if he has the stomach for war.
"I will know soon enough."
"Eloy," I say to him, "a final lesson for the night."
Despite his weariness, in an instant he rights himself in his saddle and looks at me.
"Yes sir," he responds.
"Follow me."
I lead us to the neighboring field. At the far side of it, two targets have been set up like scarecrows.
"Do you see them, Eloy," I ask, "down there?"
"Yes sir, two training dummies."
"These are different from the others you have been training on before. Unlike the others, I believe you will find this one more akin to what you will face on the battlefield."
"How so?"
"A human body is not a target with solid consistency. There are bones, muscles, organs; each feels different when you run your weapon through them."
"And this one will mimic those feelings?"
"It will."
I direct my destrier to stand across from my target. Beneath me, I can feel his muscles shift just as he likely feels my shift in posture. His hooves paw the ground, eager for the charge to come.
"What you are to do," I explain, "is charge full force at your target, spear him, and continue without losing grip on your weapon. Demonstrate that you will be a capable knight."
"I will not disappoint you."
"I don't believe you will," I give him an encouraging smile, an action mentors are expected to do, as I speak, "but I shall reserve my judgement until after I see your skill. Now, here is what will happen. I shall demonstrate the charge and then I will turn and raise my spear as a signal for you to do the same. Do not hesitate. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
I nod.
"Watch closely."
It takes little encouragement for my destrier to break into a gallop. He charges at the target, angling himself so that my weapon arm will be on the correct side to strike. He knows what must be done.
Even with knowing that this is a charge at a lifeless foe, I feel adrenaline's strike against me; that rush that makes some men flee and others surge headlong without a thought. For me, it gives clarity.
I crouch down in my saddle. The air stings my face as we charge, but I keep my eyes open. The pain of dry eyes pales in comparison to the pain of an arrow in your flesh. My body, automatically knowing how to brace the weapon against myself, prepares for impact as I aim my glaive at where scarecrow's heart would be if it had one.
With the sound of tearing cloth and a spray of straw, my blade pierces the target with ease. Too easily. There is no dummy of straw that can match the feel of flesh and bone.
"There is only one thing that can."
I turn my mount and ride back to witness the moment of impact for Eloy's charge. His target flinches at the sound of hooves, having been rendered blind by a sack over his head. There are muffled noises coming from beneath the cloth, but I care not for the mewling of a dead man. I raise my glaive.
It takes second for the young man and his knight to clear the distance between themselves and their target. I see his grip as he passes by. It is decent, not perfect, but he should not be disarmed. And then I watch the strike.
The spear sinks into his target's chest with such a force that I can hear something crack, the familiar sound of a breaking bone, before a wheezing scream rips through the night.
"Likely struck a rib."
Eloy then rips the weapon from the dying flesh, blood spattering across the ground as his horse continues on with their momentum. Then, Eloy suddenly pulls back hard on the reigns, forcing them to comes to a swift but ungraceful stop, before turning towards me. He approaches slowly.
"Did- did that dummy just scream?"
His voice is shaky. I nod. He is silent until he is beside me.
"That was no dummy, was it?"
Now his voice is little more than a whisper. It sounds like the voice of a shamed child.
"It was not," I answer.
With a swift motion, I cut open the sack over the target's head to unveil Eloy's work to himself. The dead man's head is lolled to the side, his eyes, still wide with terror, are dull, blood has soaked through the gag in his mouth and was beginning to roll down his chin. I look to Eloy for his reaction.
He is paler than the corpse. He lurches over and I can see him void his stomach's contents onto the field. A cold sweat has broken out on his brow and I see that his hands are trembling.
"Disappointing."
Before he can drop his spear though, I am at his side and I reach out to grab his hand and force it to remain closed around his weapon.
"I ordered you not to lose grip of your weapon."
"I – I- I killed a man."
"You wish to be a knight, do you not? That means that you will someday be expected to kill."
"Kill on the field of battle, kill enemies of the kingdom, not a bound man."
"You will kill the king's enemies, however and wherever they appear. This man was taken from the dungeons. Be proud, you have killed an enemy of the kingdom. Now be grateful that I allowed you to bloody your hands here first and not in the heat of battle. Had you froze on the battlefield as you did just now, you would be dead, killed by a soldier not gripped with horror, and thrown down to become mud with the other dead. Do you understand?"
He does not respond. I yank his arm, pulling him down so that his face is less than a hand's width from mine.
"Do you understand?"
Under my glare, his mind returns from its stupor and he finally answers me.
"Yes – yes, sir."
"Good."
I release his hand.
After a few moments of silence, he continues to speak.
"Sir, we still killed a man, executed him without sanction."
"I aided, but you were the one who killed him."
At this comment, Eloy looks as though he is going to vomit again. Thankfully, he does not,
"What of it?" I ask
"We could be severely punished for such an action."
"Only if it is discovered."
"You suggest hiding the body?"
"I do."
"This is deceitful, unknightly."
"Would you rather turn yourself in to the Knight Captain? Do you wish to be expelled and live life as the unknown second son of some middling noble family? Or would you rather bury this body and be a knight of the Iron Order?"
He is silent, so I answer the question myself.
"I would rather bury two bodies than surrender my position. Do you understand?"
This time, he responds in an instant.
"Yes sir."
I nod.
"A wise answer. Now, Eloy, I have a final lesson for you tonight."
Nervously, he responds.
"What is it?"
"How to be able to look someone in the eyes and tell a lie."