Vol had been about to follow, but he froze in place. 'Against five hundred' was that what the man had said. Surely he didn't mean the Syndran mansion, right..? Vol had hardly listened to the numbers but he was sure it was one hundred guards that Blackbeard had said, or maybe two hundred. And then man had been sure to note that these were elite guards, well-trained veteran soldiers who had been promoted to their position with honour.
Five hundred… That was an entirely different story. He surely didn't mean the Syndran raid, did he? The first raid of his newly replenished force. That would be madness, wouldn't it? No… It wasn't possible. Vol chose to cast it from his mind.
"Join," the foreigner man from earlier pulled Vol towards his group. Ten men were sparring with ten men. It was only shields that they used, pressing against each other, practising breaks. That was the more important part. The group part. As individual fighters, the Yarmdon men were unmatched. They just needed to break the enemy group enough to make the true chaos of group combat take hold.
Vol was given a shield and he joined against the others. One side attacked, and the other side defended. It was his side's turn to defend. He rooted his feet with the rest, as the enemy took a run at them, and bashed their shields with shoulders behind at a full sprint.
Gods. It took the breath away from him trying to contain that.
"Good," the foreigner – Borne – said encouragingly, as Vol held fast. Their shields were interlocked, and they shared their strength together. Vol couldn't shoulder the full force alone, not without balancing it, or else his shield would get out of lock with those next to him.
They heaved, as the attacking force tried to shove them back. Vol's side grunted, holding firm… until their rightmost flank crumbled. Someone had made the mistake of putting a smaller man right on the end. He flicked away first, and then the entire wall collapsed. Vol was sent falling backwards before he even knew what had hit him.
Group fighting – it was different. That thought hit him as he dragged himself to his feet. The same skills that he had learned to defend himself weren't as applicable when he was in the shield wall with everyone else. Thank the Gods that Blackbeard had given him the role of the Hammer. It would allow him the freedom he needed to exercise their strength.
Blackbeard kept them going at it for most of the morning, forcing the men to walk through their hangovers. The jovial mood lasted, as the men began to get a proper feel for each other, and what it would be like fighting together. The veterans of the force were interwoven with the rest, correcting things here and there, implementing a group measure of discipline.
There was no talk of steps or commands like there would be in the Stormfront armies. The Yarmdon folk kept things considerably simpler. Hold the shield wall, and break the enemy. Their strategy didn't extend much beyond that.
The difference between the men was night and day, now that they'd had some time to work together. Vol actually heard some of them start to speak of what they would spend the coin on. It was startling to think that many of them were just like him – they'd been swept up in the offer of recruitment, without even really knowing where it might lead to, without daring to give a proper thought to the future, for the present still didn't seem like a solid reality for them yet.
Their lives, for months, had simply been travel and survival, and the odd low-level raid of weaker enemies like Usar when they had the chance, and when Blackbeard deemed it necessary for morale. Now they were being sent on a real raid. A difficult raid – in the heart of bloody winter. Few seemed to have properly processed that fact yet, despite the date quickly approaching.
He saw Blackbeard walk down to the docks, to check up on Toljorn and the loading of his ship. In another few days, they'd be on that boat, rowing it out of port, into the rippling waters beyond. A terrifying thought. Vol had never been on a boat before. Just how much novelty could he handle without properly having time to process things first?
He drank icy water from a barrel as the men broke apart from a break.
A hand clasped his shoulder, and he flinched harder than he'd intended. Since when had he been so on edge..? From the moment his home had burned down, he realized. He hadn't truly relaxed since then. He hadn't truly trusted anyone since then. He still didn't. Not even himself. His hand was closer to his axe than it should have been as he turned around.
He expected another foul-smelling raider, with rancid hangover breath, come to pay his compliments for his earlier display, but instead he saw Nolan, a rather contrasting image to the rest with his Stormfront-level cleanliness. The man looked even more refined in the light of day.
"That drunk died," he said, a little too loudly. Vol felt his heart sink, and his hand tightened over his axe. It was happening again. He'd be hounded again. He'd lose his equilibrium and stability… What worth was there in gathering strength when you couldn't have one moment to rest? He'd have to kill them all—
"Just kidding," Nolan said with a grin. "He's fine. Woke up this morning, doesn't remember a thing. I checked up on him just to see, just in time to see Toljorn chasing him. Funny sight that. Never seen a smaller cock, I don't think."
"He wasn't dressed?" Vol asked. The question came more to buy him time to get his heart under control. Damn it. He'd been rock solid for days now, hadn't he? He needed to relax. The landscape was complicated, but he would deal with it as he always had, by simply doing. There was no need to think too much.
That only made Nolan laugh louder, as he recalled the scene. "As naked as the day he was born. Tiny cock and hairy arse, carrying his bundle of wet clothes. What a way to start the day."