Would you laugh if I told you that the greatest soldier I have ever met was a foul mouthed, mercenary of unknown parentage? I swear before Myrmidia that it is the truth. A bald headed, walking slab of suet who waxed his mustaches? The toughest, meanest, bastard to ever walk the land? He had already fought in every major conflict within living memory before I met him. Surely any soldier worth his salt has heard of Iskander.

We had already been in the field for several months when the word came to move east. There had been a string of minor engagements; Flat Rock, Cold Spring, the Oxbow, Deep Bend, and others. The fighting had not been fierce. Mostly bandits and smugglers. One small incursion out of Kislev, nothing more than a horse raid. We had not yet crossed arms with the Eastern Lords. There must have been pressure from the Altdorf merchants upon the Chancellor and the Council, because Hertwig himself, eventually, took to the field with the Bechafen regulars and a borrowed regiment of Reikland halberdiers.

We marched a roundabout route, skirting the Dead Wood, through the Blight, across the Bleak Moors, and up the Eerie Downs, before crossing into the Veldt. The people knew that war was brewing, we didn’t see a single living soul along the way. During the march I heard a trooper remark, “Even the sheep run away from us.”

“The sheep run because they know Iskander is coming,” I said. There was much laughter. Iskander just grinned and cuffed me upside my helmet.

I had been at the Imperial Officers’ School, waiting for my commission when my father pulled me out, set me on a horse, gave me funds and a sealed letter, and said, “Go. Bechafen. Now. Ask for Iskander. Learn what soldiering is really about.” There had been rumblings from the Eastern Lords, harsh words and threats over tariffs and taxes. The League of Ostermark was raising three new regiments in expectation of civil war. My father wanted me to enlist as a raw recruit.

I damn near pissed my breeches the first time that I met Iskander. He was standing nose to nose with me, screaming and blowing spittle across my face, “You worthless pusbag! Steaming pile of pig dung! I don’t care how much training you’ve had with a sword! This is a spear regiment and you will learn to handle a spear!” He then pulled me out of ranks and in front of the drawn up troops proceeded to demonstrate the proper use of the spear. He beat the crap out of me and I was out cold before I knew it.

Someone brought me around with a bucket of cold water. Iskander looked at me for a while before turning back to the recruits. “That is the proper use of the spear!” He roared. “The First Rule of Soldiering is that the spear trumps all other weapons! And a properly trained spearman is the most devastating man on the battlefield!” He paused and muttered thoughtfully to himself, “With the exception maybe of a greatswordsman.”

Unofficially, the Veldt marks the beginnings of the lands under the sway of the Eastern Lords. The farther east that you travel, the more the people and the land changes. They are a proud people with a strong tradition of cavalry. There was much discussion among the troops each night as we camped about how we were going to deal with the cavalry. Chancellor Hertwig was leading a force of 7,000 men who were mostly infantry. There were a few squads of lancers among the army, and a unit of knights from the Order of the Solemn Pine who had joined us one morning as we were breaking camp. But other than that we were infantry and the cavalry scared us.

The men tossed about the best tactics to use against cavalry. Someone made a comment about how we should have pikes. Iskander was not one for theory or discussing pikes. He scoffed, “A pike is good if you have a solid flank. But a spear is a lot more versatile and just as good against horses. First Rule of Soldiering is, always go for the horse.”

Iskander always had a First Rule of Soldiering. It changed on a regular basis. Sometimes more than once during the course of a day. There was never a Second Rule or a Third Rule. Just, the First Rule of Soldiering. “Always know your footing.” “Never fight looking into the sun.” “Don’t worry about killing the enemy, worry about taking him out of the fight.” “The edge is more important than the point. A spearblade has an edge as well as a point. The point might kill but the edge cuts. And any man who is lying on the ground trying to hold his intestines in because he has been cut wide open is out of the fight.” It went on and on.

He was not much for the discussion of theory. Iskander was more interested in experience and history. Once, during our training, he was teaching us how to defend a slope. I don’t remember what I said but he stopped and asked me, “Did you learn that at the Imperial Officers’ School?” I nodded. “From Walder?” I nodded again, dumbfounded, how could he know?

He smiled nastily, “I was with Walder at the Battle of Twin Forks, the east bank at the second cataract. He tried that stupid crap there. Only four of us managed to walk away from that one. An entire regiment wiped out. It’s a nice theory, but experience tells us that it doesn’t work.”

The second morning into the Veldt we encountered the Eastern Lords. They had picked the battleground. Everything was in their favor. We were facing into the rising sun. They were facing a nice gentle downhill slope right towards us, perfect ground for cavalry. And they outnumbered us by three to two. I stared in awe.

Iskander cuffed me upside the helmet. “Don’t be watching them. First Rule of Soldiering, always know the lay of the land. Make sure which way you need to go if you have to retreat, you don’t want to retreat into a swamp or a river. Know which way the enemy is going to go if he retreats.” He pointed, “It’s a thousand yards between us, and it’s not all in their favor. They’ll build enough speed that the horses will be hard to control before they hit our lines. Horses aren’t dumb, they won’t want to charge all of our shiny spears, figure out which way that they’ll break.”

We all listened to Iskander. He once answered in response to a question regarding his bald head, “Even with a good leather liner in a helmet, once you start to sweat the helmet will shift, and a good blow will spin the helmet around and leave you blind. But with a bald head, once the leather gets damp it sticks even better.” The next morning, the entire company reported for drill completely bald.

I did trip him up once. “First Rule of Soldiering,” he said. “Remain as inconspicuous as possible.”

I responded with something intelligent, “Huh?” He explained that if an officer didn’t know your name then he was less likely to remember you when it came time to hand out the really nasty assignments.

“But Iskander,” I replied, “Everyone knows you.”

He rubbed his bald head and frowned, “I know. I really screwed up with that.”

The Eastern Lords advanced their troops at a walk, covering half the distance and coming to a halt. We watched as some commotion occurred among their ranks. Finally a lone, dismounted figure stepped forward with a green shield hung from a staff. He covered half the distance remaining and planted the staff in the ground. He drew a greatsword, and grounded the tip, hands resting on the quillions.

“A challenge,” said Iskander. “That’d be a tough fight for a spearman.”

“How so?” I asked.

“That big sword is almost as long as a spear. Longer edge and more weight behind it. Besides, the bastard is wearing three-quarter plate armor. I wouldn’t want to fight him.”

Hertwig had approached and was in deep conversation with the regimental commander and our company captain. Our captain kept looking our way.

“Uh-oh,” I said, “First Rule of Soldiering.”

“What?” said Iskander.

I nodded towards our officers. “Never let them know your name.”

Our captain yelled Iskander’s name and pointed out towards the eastern champion. Iskander looked around innocently. The captain jabbed his finger at Iskander and then again out towards the champion. “Iskander! You’re it! Now!”

Iskander let out a string of curses, winked and handed me his helmet. “First Rule of Soldiering, always be faster.” He trotted out from our lines, shedding bits of armor and singing a funeral dirge as he went. The men around me took up the dirge and soon the whole army was singing the somber song.

Iskander stopped two dozen feet from the champion. By that time all he was carrying was his shield and spear, protected by nothing more than a leather tunic. It grew quiet across the entire battlefield. Iskander must have said something insulting to the champion, probably regarding the man’s parentage, because the champion roared out and charged him. It was over almost instantly. Iskander threw his shield against the champion’s legs, tripping him to the ground and then was all over him with a astounding speed.

He said later, wine running down his chin, that he hadn’t killed him, just taken him out of the fight. Both knees shattered, a few broken fingers and a fractured arm. I asked him why he had gone out if he had expected to die.

“What?” asked Iskander.

“The funeral dirge you were singing.”

“Oh,” he said and took another pull at the wine. “First Rule of Soldiering, never sing your own dirge.” He grinned, “I was singing his.”