Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  These men, these misfits, lived their lives in fear. Always searching for belonging, but instead finding little more than suspicion and hate. Each one, Hafgan knew, had a story. Perhaps he didn’t fit in, or wouldn’t accept, his place in the strict Wasmer caste system. Born into the warrior caste and wanting to be a baker? Madness. Or, perhaps he’d been born among humans and learned early of humanity’s derision for the Wasmer people. So, these men all found themselves pushed away from Wasmer culture and drawn to that of the humans. The Wasmer were not sorry to see them go.

  However, such Wasmer rarely found welcome from the humans. No matter their efforts to assimilate, they were, at the least, ignored and ostracized. At the worst, they were incessantly insulted and abused for their hairy faces, their height and long fingers, their difficulty in mastering the traders’ tongue. For being different, alien. So they made changes. Most would file down their second set of dogteeth, changing the shape of their faces and allowing themselves to more easily form the syllables of the traders’ tongue. Some shaved their faces in a truly endless battle to camouflage their heritage, at least at first glance. Others, taller Wasmer, would wear long cloaks and hats, and develop a hunch, to mask their height.

  And yet, even Wasmer who made every effort to integrate into human society were treated poorly, far worse than the servants’ caste. Called “wannabes” and “pretenders,” or, probably more commonly, “scum.” Few humans would employ such people, and usually only at severely cut wages. Human men assumed that the misfits were little more than animals who wanted to fuck their women, so many fights broke out. The women would simply scorn them. Parents gave them dirty looks, afraid that the Wasmer would mate with their children. And the children were afraid that the Wasmer would kidnap and eat them, tearing into their flesh with double-fanged monster mouths. Or so the stories went.

  These wannabees, these scum, these budredda. Each searching for some sense of belonging or community, but instead only greeted with contempt, abuse, and derision from both Wasmer and humans. Now, marching to a war where, no matter the outcome, they would only see loss.

  These men deserved a place in the world. Whatever the purpose for which Hafgan joined the army, he was now here for these men.

  “Soldier, you have murdered a member of the Rostanian Army. The penalty for murder is death. As the officer of this division, I am exercising my right to carry out the sentence immediately. Do you have any last words?” He’d spoken in the traders’ tongue, focusing on each word.

  The crowd was as silent as a catacomb. The fallen killer, his red hair burning in the waning sun, twisted with desperation, looking to Siarl. However, the gray and grizzled warrior did nothing to intervene, merely meeting the soldier’s eyes with a gaze that betrayed no emotion. Perhaps the killer gained some strength from his brief glance at his leader, though. He turned back to Hafgan, little fear in his eyes, pushing himself into a seated position despite the spear at his neck.

  “Fuck you, budredda!” he shouted, the curse ending with a gasp as Hafgan pushed the tip of his spear directly into the killer’s heart, easily avoiding the ribs. A study of human and Wasmer anatomy had been a core part of his Haearn Doethas training.

  Hafgan ripped the spear from the man’s chest in a smooth, easy motion. With an equally easy motion, he pushed the killer’s body backwards, the man falling to the ground with a hollow thud. Hafgan held up the spear and slowly surveyed the crowd, lifeblood dripping onto the grass and the man’s body. He turned in a full circle, meeting the eyes of many of the men, starting and ending with Siarl. The traditionalists could have taken this opportunity to overwhelm him, but nobody moved.

  “This is the price of murder.” Hafgan sank the spear into the ground, next to the unnamed man who had already gargled his last, bloody breath. “There will be no treason in the Rostanian Army. Any hint of treachery, and any move against your fellow soldier, will be punished without mercy. And furthermore—” Hafgan gestured to the huddled group of misfits, “—these men are my personal guard. Any insult to them is an affront to me. And I will not allow any insult to me or my honor.”

  The men—his men—flanked him, hands on weapons where they were available. He noticed that they seemed to stand a bit taller, that some of the fear seemed to have dissipated. Again, the crowd murmured, and Hafgan heard the term “budredda” repeated several times.

  “I hear you, men of the Rostanian Army, calling us names. Budredda. You say it as an insult. It is not. We are fighters and soldiers. We are the best. We are brothers. We are budredda!”

  Paston, worse for wear, took up the cheer. “We are budredda!” Hafgan’s other men followed, first tentatively and then with growing fervor. He saw the men’s jaws set with determination and purpose, eyes glistening with tears. Perhaps for the first time in their lives.

  Despite the two dead men at his feet, despite the cheering voices of men with newly-found hope… Despite the fierce, killing glare from Siarl as he and his traditionalists stormed off, Hafgan could only focus on one thing.

  An entire speech, under pressure, and he hadn’t made a single grammatical error.

  Chapter 30

  By Ultner, these mercenaries could drink!

  A few days out of Hunesa, Ferl’s Company, at nearly two thousand strong, had arrived in a disorderly mass at Overton, a moderately sized market town of a few thousand, on route to Brockmore. Needless to say, they’d swarmed the taverns like beer-guzzling locusts, scaring locals into their homes and mobilizing the outnumbered and outmanned town militia. Apparently, the mercenaries hadn’t had the time to spend their most recent earnings before leaving Hunesa, following the incident with that girl, Merigold.

  She was still sleeping, Merigold was. The girl didn’t appear to be in any pain, nor did she appear to be dreaming. She simply slumbered peacefully on a cot in a covered wagon, not unlike a young girl who looked to be taking a nap. Fenrir was drawn to her, spending most of his days in the wagon at her side. He would put her into a sitting position and force water down her throat, as well as the flavorless oatmeal that the mercenaries passed off as food. Fenrir tried to convince himself that he sat in the wagon for the sake of comfort, so he wouldn’t have to be jolted about on a horse and be exposed to the rain. But, there was more to it. The helpless girl, not much more than a teenager, ignited memories that Fenrir had worked hard to quash. Mistakes of his youth, and mistakes that had continued through his adulthood.

  So, tonight, he drank to suppress those memories.

  “Slow down, Coldbreaker. This is not a race,” said Ferl, his deep blue eyes shining with repressed mirth. If Fenrir hadn’t known any better, he would not have believed that this handsome, charming man could kill in cold blood. If he hadn’t seen the dagger plunge into Sergeant Paran’s throat, of course.

  “If it was a race, he’d be losing,” joked Christoph, the older lieutenant who was quaffing his own ale to prove his point.

  “Certainly, but at least I’m doing better than Mustaches, here.” Fenrir gestured at Tilner Pick, who’d insisted on coming along but refused to take a drink. He rolled his eyes at the ‘mustaches’ comment, refusing to be baited.

  The four sat in the corner of Overton’s largest tavern, watching the raucous mercenaries carouse and drink—a couple of angry, sober sergeants keeping them from growing too rowdy. Even as Fenrir watched, though, a fist fight broke out between two small men, one bashing the other’s face with a pewter mug before a sergeant could intervene. Nearby, other soldiers laughed uproariously.

  “Sir Ferl, we really should finalize the terms before the evening grows any later,” insisted Pick. He had been after Ferl to finalize the contract for days now, and Ferl had continued to put him off. Fenrir suspected it was a negotiating technique. It wasn’t like Escamilla’s army could send the mercenaries away after they’d marched a couple of hundred miles; not when the bolstering forces were desperately needed.

  “Just ‘Ferl’ will do, Tilner. Mercenaries typically forgo formal titles. M
ostly because we don’t earn them,” said Ferl, meeting Pick’s eyes over his glass as he sipped his Sestrian red wine.

  “Regardless, the price you continue to propose is too high. Though your men have experience in battle and…” Pick trailed off, watching the ruckus unfolding nearby; the unconscious body of the man who’d been smacked by the pewter mug was being dragged toward the door. “…an obvious lust for combat,” he finally continued “the typical rate for a force your size would be roughly half the amount.”

  “There is no force like mine.” Ferl gestured grandly to the various cutthroats and roughs filling the tavern. The smell of the road seemed to permeate the building, smothering any delightful smells that might have originated in the kitchen.

  “Sir Fe…” Pick cleared his throat. “Ferl, in my experience, there may truly be no force like yours by design. These men of yours are undisciplined, and you have conducted no training exercises while on the road. Military protocol dictates the importance of practicing formation and command responsiveness in times of war,” said Pick, obviously working to maintain his professionalism. He had managed to obtain funding from Duke Proan for the military force, but confided to Fenrir that it would not cover the mercenaries’ exorbitant fee.

  “They have talents that you have yet to see.” Ferl was pure confidence.

  “Fucking scary talents,” muttered Christoph, glancing at a cloaked and hooded woman who sat with a couple of well-dressed men. This group was not nearly as boisterous as the other mercenaries, and they seemed to have a protective bubble around them. No one approached, aside from a terrified serving girl who generally seemed set out of sorts by the entire situation. Somehow, Fenrir’s eyes were continuously drawn to the hooded woman’s feet. They were completely bare, her pale appendages standing out like the moons on a clear night.

  Tilner followed Christoph’s gaze and took in the strange group at the table. He traced a circle in the air, beseeching divine protection from Yetra. These people had to be the greenies that Ferl was so proud of. Pasnes alna that were not pasnes alna. People of power.

  Tilner tore his eyes from the magicians. The man was a fish out of water, clearly distressed by the ignoble mercenaries and their various dark powers. He took a deep breath and visibly composed himself before resuming his negotiations.

  “Regardless, if you are unable to lower your rate, we will have to make a final decision upon arrival. I will make no guarantees as to Lady Escamilla’s disposition,” said Tilner firmly.

  Ferl just continued to grin his small, self-assured grin, saying nothing.

  “So what’s your story?” Fenrir asked of Christoph, attempting to fill the gap in conversation.

  “My story, eh?” Christoph scratched at his graying beard, glancing up at the ceiling. He folded his arms, revealing that they were criss-crossed with scars. “I don’t suppose it’s anything special. I was born in Algania—not particularly far from the border of Ardia, truth be told. My father was a smuggler, and my mother was… well… unhappy that my father was a smuggler. The usual story. She ran. He found her. He killed her. I killed him.”

  Christoph paused to light a well-polished cherry pipe. The smell of kerena, a herb often used to dull the senses, wafted across the table and tickled at Fenrir’s nose.

  “The Alganian guard found me, but didn’t begrudge me my actions. I worked with them for a while, still young. Turns out they were as corrupt as my father. There was a fight between me and a couple others. I killed them. I ran.”

  “A lot of killing and running,” noted Fenrir.

  “Aye, that’s been my life. Eventually fell in with Ferl, here. It’s been a few years, now. I hope to avoid more running, though killing will probably be necessary,” said Christoph with a puff at his pipe.

  “A reluctant killer makes an excellent officer,” commented Ferl. “The best armies fight the least.”

  “Reassuring, given that we are paying you to fight. A lot of fucking money,” mumbled Tilner, finally pouring himself a glass of wine from the decanter. He gulped it down, and then immediately helped himself to another glass. He glanced darkly at the barefoot women from time to time, betraying his nerves.

  “And Ferl, what’s your story? How do you find yourself leading an infamous company of mercenaries?” asked Fenrir, waving to a serving girl for another beer; he’d never been much for wine. Ferl raised an eyebrow at his inquiry.

  “I was born to it,” Ferl said, leaning onto his elbows and resting his chin on his thumbs. He met Fenrir’s gaze as if daring him to probe more. Christoph was pointedly watching the beginnings of another brawl while Pick was working on his third glass of wine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Apparently, the captain of this venture was not prone to speaking of his past.

  Fenrir leaned forward himself, mimicking the captain’s posture and manner. “We’re all born to something. Might as well be something that would pad your purse.”

  Ferl continued his alpha glare for another moment and then barked a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder if there’s more than bluster in you, Coldbreaker,” said Ferl.

  “I supposed I could be wondering the same about you.” Fenrir had found bravado to be an excellent tool for diffusing taut nerves.

  “I think you will find my record quite impressive. I’m certain Sir Pick, here, can corroborate my company’s various exploits.” Ferl gestured at Tilner, whose well-groomed mustaches were now stained with the Sestrian red.

  “Oh, certainly. We have it that Ferl’s hired company was victorious over the rebels in Nislea two years ago, crushing the fisherman with the might of arms—to better serve their greedy dictator, Manus Enis. Oh, and they also destroyed the small, independent tribal nation of Oshwon, nestled near Farrow’s Hold, capital of Jecusta, at the behest of Lord Unael. Not to mention the Battle of Eneval.” The wine was chipping away at Tilner’s ability to hide his disgust.

  “Battle of Eneval?” asked Fenrir. Eneval was a large city on the oft-disputed border of Algania and Jecusta. The soil was rich there, ideal for high-yield crops like corn and tomatoes. “There was no Battle of Eneval.”

  “Exactly,” said Ferl, smacking his fist on the table. The serving girl who’d been refilling their decanter jumped at the sound. “The best battle is never fought. Lord Unael was intimately aware of our prowess, so when the Alganian Assembly hired us, Unael did not press his claim to that land. Treaties were signed, and blood was not shed.”

  “And so, we find ourselves hiring men who are unwilling to fight,” said Pick, his voice bitter. “Except, of course, fisherman, farmers, and savages.”

  “Watch yourself, Pick. I don’t know you, but I will tell you, we do fight. You think Oshwon was easy?” This from Christoph as he’d surged to his feet, knocking his chair to the ground with a rattle. He stalked around the table, stabbing at Pick with a furious finger.

  “They came at us every night as we slept, slitting the throats of our pickets, murdering men in their tents and on their bedroles. These ‘savages’ knew their valley, every ambush point, killing ten of us for every one we managed to catch and kill. Our soldiers were stolen away, left mutilated along our path. Mutilated but alive. You cannot understand what that was like, seeing men begging for death because the prospect of living without fingers or toes, without eyeballs or cocks, was simply too much. The blood was too much.”

  Pick didn’t rise from his seat, nor did he shrink in the face of Christoph’s face-twisting rage. He simply considered the older soldier, pointedly examining the scars that tattooed Christoph’s arm. He gave a rueful smile.

  “I pray to Yetra, then, that your people can bring that same courage with you, Lieutenant. We face insurmountable odds and, though I do not expect much deceptive stratagem, I expect blood. And, it will be the blood of my own countrymen, regardless of who wins.”

  Tilner drifted off, staring at his wine glass. Somehow, Fenrir liked Pick better for his inebriation.

  Christoph’s shoulders slumped slightly as the anger l
eaked from him, and he moved to slump back into his own seat. His brows were furrowed, and his veteran face appeared quite old at the moment. Probably remembering the various macabre sights from his time in Oshwon, or even the recent blood-painted walls back in Hunesa.

  Moving on, the group ate their meal of cranberry chicken stew and roasted potatoes in a contemplative silence, conversation being limited to the recent rainstorms and the resulting supply logistics. Topics that Fenrir was rather disinterested in, so that he instead focused on his beer. A bit too yeasty for his taste, but the hops lingered nicely in his mouth.

  “So, Coldbreaker, what about you?” asked Christoph, a while and several beers later. The veteran lieutenant was in better spirits, and even Ferl was more talkative. “You’re obviously a soldier of some sort. What’s your story?”

  “Less exciting than yours, Christoph. Not worth going into.” He didn’t care to talk about his time as a guardsman in any context, let alone with a stranger. And, discussing The House was strictly unnecessary.

  “I don’t know. I think his background is faintly interesting,” said Pick, giggling uncharacteristically. He was outright drunk now, and Fenrir no longer found the quality to be endearing. In fact, he wanted to punch the smug mustaches right off of Escamilla’s hanger-on.

  “Come on, Coldbreaker. Tell us your story,” encouraged Christoph, face awash with his own drunk smile.

  “Yes, Coldbreaker. Enlighten us as to how you find yourself a messenger boy for a rebel army,” said Ferl, his expression and mannerisms untouched by the Sestrian red even though he’d consumed at least as much as Tilner.