The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  Even the tale of the Guild’s creation struck a chord in the hearts of the villagers. Nearly ten generations had passed since the people of Briar discovered that the Aeldenwood had started to encroach upon their land. Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, the sparse treeline that dotted the southern horizon began its impending march. The loosely packed trees grew thicker and soon a wall of immense wood stood to the south.

  The town legends told of a vanished race of tree people. Small in stature, the Gorimm were humanlike waifs who were said to have tended to the enormous trees in a bygone era, before mysteriously vanishing from the Great Wood. With their disappearance had come the terrible Gath; twisted creatures of nightmares that made a simple pack of wolves seem like a mere nuisance. None could compare to their malevolence and cruelty. And without Gorimm, the trees of the Aeldenwood had begun their slow advance across the land of Kal Maran.

  The Kingdom of Farraine fell first to the inexorable march of the wooden soldiers. With the land overwhelmed by the forest, towns crumbled and were lost forever. The capital was abandoned last. The people of that fair kingdom were now refugees in the north, a family with no true roots and a terrible desire to reclaim their homeland. But every excursion into that ever blooming canopy of darkness, brought only death and destruction. For each tree that was felled, it seemed as though three would stand in its place only a day or two later. And so Farraine was lost, its people without a home.

  To the south, the Dwarves of Alerond were expected to be the next victims of the strange and magical forest. The nation had lost the northern expanse of its land over the last hundred years as they tried desperately to hold back the fast-growing trunks of the Aeldenwood. For the time being, although besieged, the dwarves continue to resist.

  And so, the Lumbers’ Guild had been created, and the axes that hewed the majestic wood of the forest grew to become revered in the community.

  Alessan let his gaze linger across the weapon as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of hard bread. Memories of his father were often triggered by the axe. Sitting quietly he reflected on the happier times of his youth.

  Mother had laughed back then and she had always danced during the festivals with father. He tore his eyes from the axe and contented himself with staring at the scraps of food still on his plate.

  “Time to go, lad,” wheezed an older man from the kitchen entrance, “the stalls need looking after.”

  Nodding, Alessan stuffed a last piece of buttered bread into his mouth and snatched his plate from the table. “Good day, Varis, always a pleasure to see your beaming face in the morning.”

  “I can’t say the same, lad. Watch your mouth or I’ll have you eating the dirt from the stable grounds,” Varis snorted.

  “In a good mood today, are we?” Alessan chuckled as he followed the older man through the kitchen.

  Varis had worked at the Black Boar since the days of Darren Oakleaf’s youth. His father had often told stories of the older man, to the chagrin, of course, of Varis himself. Born in the town of Bress, far north of the lands that bordered the Northern Council, his family came from a line of bordermen. From the keeps of the Iron Shield the tough bordermen heroically held back marauding bands of goblins and men of the Wilds.

  How the man had wound up a house servant for the Oakleafs had remained a mystery. It seemed to most that the old man had always been there, quietly becoming a presence in the life of so many of the town’s residents. Varis was crass and prickly on his best days, but remained a permanent fixture that Alessan would find hard to live without.

  Toiling in the silence he had come to expect while working alongside the taciturn Varis, Alessan leaned his shovel against the nearest stall and headed outside for a brief moment of respite. The early morning bite of the wind had dissipated and the young man wiped the sweat from his brow.

  He heard the approach of the Sylvani long before they reached the edge of town. The unmistakable jingle of harnesses and the metallic clang of heavy armor rang out along with the thunderous rumbling of hooves. While not a rare occurrence, the arrival of a mercenary company at the Black Boar often occurred in autumn. It was the time of year when the captains had finished their summer contracts and were now headed back to their winter camps.

  “The Sylvani, no?” Varis asked as he leaned in beside Alessan.

  “Aye. It’s a new company. Crandle says they were formed after the battle at Baron Elburg’s castle. Remnants of the defenders, he suspects.”

  “Bloody business, that battle. Many mothers lost sons and husbands that day,” the older man frowned.

  The Battle for Elburg Castle had signaled the end of last year’s warfare, in the north at least. The Baron had made enemies among the nobility of Glenvale; rumours whispered of a forbidden lovers’ tryst, and nothing short of his death would appease those in the capital city who had been wronged.

  Led by Lord Darion of Hallenford, the armies of the council had marched on the castle, their intent obvious. The majority of the northern companies had been involved, as well as a small token force from the border fort of Eralon. The four week siege was bloody, the loss of life substantial, and in the end, the old Baron’s head had swung from the gallows in Glenvale.

  Captain Aachen Pragg had been contracted out by the Baron. By all accounts, his men had fought well; but the defenders had paid a high price in blood for taking the Baron’s coin. The remnants of his men, as well as other decimated companies, had formed the small group now known as the Sylvani.

  As the mounted soldiers came into view, the leader was easy to discern. Sitting high in his saddle, ornate cloak depicting the sword and shield tabard of the troop, the officer saluted the townsfolk who had come to welcome the warriors. The soldiers were a hard lot, scarred veterans who had seen many fights. Most sported wiry beards, braided in the mercenary way, as well as a large assortment of arms and armour. Weather-beaten faces, stretched taut by the exposure to the elements, did little to hide the steely-eyed gazes of men who had seen the horrors of war.

  Alessan could tell they were older than most, what with the lack of smooth cheeks and fresh eyes. It was not surprising, considering the high mortality rate of raw recruits during their first full season of campaigning. It was the hardest year, so he had been told.

  “He’s no Captain Silveron,” spat Varis, his stare locked on the gaudy officer who rode at the forefront of the column.

  “No he isn’t,” Alessan returned to work as he spoke. “The Captain would never wear his ceremonial cloak in town. And besides, Gavin Silveron wouldn’t have signed on with the Baron.”

  “That’s right,” Varis nodded. “He would have ignored the whole affair.”

  “Did you ever want to become a soldier, Varis?” Alessan inquired as he struggled to lift another heavy load of mud and manure.

  “Never much cared for killing, lad.”

  “Really? I mean, wouldn’t it be exciting to charge into battle swinging your sword? One day you could even have your name written in the annals of the Code.”

  “Exciting?!” Varis scoffed. “Are you daft, boy? War’s no game. Most of those young bucks that run out on the field fail to realize that until their guts are hanging out or they’re puking up supper after severing a man’s leg. I never understood the glory of losing your friends and your own life for the love of money, nor could I ever entertain the notion of fighting to quell the petty squabbling of the nobility.”

  “It isn’t always like that —” Alessan interrupted.

  “Bah! Back in the days of the High King you fought for honour and the kingdom of Caledun. Now, they fight for money. It’s why they’re called mercenaries, lad!” Varis gestured in the direction of the Sylvani. “No loyalty, no honour, no purpose. Just slaughter.”

  Alessan deigned not to reply to the elder man’s tirade and they slipped into a subdued silence. Swiftly, he cleared away the last area in the stables that n
eeded dire attention. He knew it would be mere moments before the Sylvani handlers arrived to billet their mounts. His mother was sure to have seen to their comforts immediately upon their arrival at the inn.

  Varis cleared his throat loudly. Turning to look the old man’s way Alessan noticed that he had already replaced his pitchfork and taken off his heavy work gloves. “Work’s done, lad. We have time to wash up before your mother finds something else for us to do,” he began. “And stop worrying about being a fighter, Alessan. You’re not cut from the same cloth as those fools.”

  “Because I’m a ba’caech?” Alessan questioned.

  Varis shook his head. “No, boy. You’re too bloody smart for that kind of work.” Seeing the stricken look on the young man’s face, Varis softened his tone. “Listen, I know you don’t want to stay here in Briar. By Arne, I don’t blame you one bit for feeling that way, but you are no warrior. Leave here if you must, but find someone who will respect your gift with letters and numbers, and forget these dreams of wielding a sword.”

  “Sometimes I think those dreams are all I have left,” Alessan answered wistfully.

  “I won’t hear any of that,” Varis replied. “There’s more to a man than a strong body. Your father knew that.” Shaking his head, the old man shuffled across the yard, his gruff voice already calling out for Wert and Mallory.

  The Black Boar had long been famous within the region for its fine cuisine, namely its honeyed ham and thick spicy stew. For years, family recipes handed down in secrecy had kept the bellies of the patrons full and well satisfied. Apart from the food, a steady following had developed around a certain performer who resided within the inn’s very walls.

  Kayla Oakleaf was younger than Alessan by two summers. She was somewhat plain looking and would usually fail to attract a second glance when passed by in the market. Her face was pleasing and her figure slightly rounded at the hips but she was naturally shy. Despite her demure nature, every night that she performed at the inn was purely magical.

  When taking the stage, the quiet young Kayla became an unforgettable vocalist. She would smile freely and blush at the applause. Many men would whisper to her promises of undying love upon hearing her sing.

  Alessan had experienced the enchantment of her songs on many an occasion. He witnessed hardened battle veterans cry mournfully after a slow ballad. Later they would cheer themselves hoarse when a rousing jig would have the common room dancing with glee. Kayla Oakleaf sang like no other in Briar, and like no one else in all of Kal Maran, if some of the passing merchants were to be believed.

  True to form, the inn was packed to capacity once it was announced that the young songstress would be appearing on stage that evening. The tables were overflowing and the windows of the Boar were full of faces pressed up against the cold glass in hopes of catching a glimpse of their favourite minstrel.

  Alessan tried in vain to push his way through the throng in the main room. He had two large bowls of steaming stew and several mugs of ale balanced precariously on his good arm. Hopelessly, he tried a second time to force his way past a packed table of thick-armed Lumbers. The giant men with tunics straining to contain their hefty physiques barely noticed the small figure struggling at their side.

  Alessan’s father was still considered a legend in Briar. Both a fearless worker and the strongest Lumber in town, he had been revered in the Guild. Darren Oakleaf’s son was looked upon quite differently by the guildsmen. Deemed a failure immediately at birth, he was fated to remain so because of his appearance; no matter his intelligence, no matter his own self-worth. He was a ba’caech, and a ba’caech did not wield an axe in the Aeldenwood. And so, to these men of the Guild, it was as if he did not even exist.

  Looking about for recourse, he spied a small opening behind two tables near the east windows. Slipping nimbly through the gap, he hurriedly delivered the order that had grown colder upon his tray. Never once did the company of Lumbers even glance his way. He slammed the mugs down on the table, sloshing the contents dangerously close to the rim. Muttering a quick apology, he scuttled off to gather his next round of orders. The evening was already proving to be a long one.

  Thankfully, the crowd began to settle down. Friends, mothers and fathers quickly whispered for quiet as a white clad figure took to the small wooden stage near the fire. As always, Kayla was accompanied by Varis, the older man practically glowing due to the attention of the audience.

  During the course of the performance, he would play a variety of instruments, from a beautiful mahogany lute, to a silver flute, and even a tiny piccolo.

  “Thank you all kindly for coming this evening,” she shouted above the din, “I would like to begin a little slower than usual tonight —”

  “A jig! A jig!” roared a voice from the back.

  “Shut your mouth, you drunken bastard!” came a brash reply.

  Amidst a roar of laughter, Kayla waited patiently before signaling her companion to begin. As the first notes carried through the air, silence descended over her audience.

  “‘Bael and the Eldest’,” Kayla announced, and then her voice soared.

  T’was the Eldest who stood, full of malice and greed, cruelty and devilry, evil’s true spawn.

  Aloft in its branches, death hung like a shroud, black was the wood that beat in its breast,

  Devourer of lands, keeper of souls,to the Aeldenwood went the Lumbers no more.

  But hither rose a champion, hero of yore, bound to no blade, no spear, no sword.

  Duty in love, and tied to his axe, came Bael the Mighty, the wielder of truth,

  and the roots of that forest did tremble.

  Kayla’s lilting voice soothed the boisterous crowd. The epic was a town favourite, sung to children on cold nights as they lay huddled near the fireplace for warmth. It told the story of Bael of the Great Axe, the mythical Lumber who had done battle with an Elder tree of the wood, losing his life as he hewed the enormous monstrosity. There had been a time when even Alessan’s mother had whispered the tale to him, but those days now seemed as far off to him as his dreams.

  Using the relative calm of the customers as an unlooked-for boon, Alessan leaned happily near the back of the room. Closing his eyes, he settled comfortably against a wooden beam, listening, as was everyone else, to the haunting melody being sung upon the stage.

  With a groan and a shriek, the Eldest did shudder, the wind did howl and carried its scream.

  Evil resisted and cried out in pain,its hold was lost on this world.

  In vain the wood cracked, dark heart cleft asunder,sagging from strain, the Eldest could bear no more.

  Descending to earth, its shadowy spirit took flight to the netherworld.

  Yet Bael of Briar, Lumber of old,was terribly thrown by the fall,

  His body broken, he clung to his love,the shaft of his weapon, the axe that was mighty.

  And so did he pass, with heart in his hand,Bael of the Axe, great Lumber of yore.

  The crowd roared its approval as Kayla held the final note. A few customers shed a silent tear in memory of that Lumber, so powerful was the spell woven by her voice. In that moment, Bael of the Axe was more real than ever to all who had crammed into every nook and cranny of the Black Boar. Kayla nodded towards her many admirers, smiling in the firelight. Her eyes shone brightly and a warm flush coloured her pale cheeks. True to her word, her moving ballads soon gave way to romping jigs that had the floor of the old inn shaking.

  After a lengthy performance, she apologized to the patrons and begged forgiveness when she declared that her night was over. The announcement was met with good-natured retorts, and the talented songstress returned for one last song before finally exiting the stage.

  Alessan had a tremendous respect for his younger sister. She was one of the few people who accepted his twisted body for what it was; a burden, but by no means a reflection of who h
e truly was on the inside. They had spent much time together over the years, and he had cherished every moment. Alessan met her in the kitchen and wished her well, praising her performance and kissing her lightly on the cheek. Grinning, she hugged him tightly and headed upstairs to her bedchamber, her face still flushed from the excitement of the evening.

  The Sylvani were as well-behaved as any men who came to the Black Boar, singing along to any tunes they recognized, and loudly cheering those they did not. Captain Pragg sat quietly beside an obese man dressed in a garish red and gold silk robe, his ample girth straining the fabric as he lounged across two wooden chairs. His meaty fingers were covered in rings of gold, each finding its match in a bracelet upon his wrists.

  The pair remained in a spot by the fire for the balance of the evening, the soldier sipping slowly from a carafe of chilled wine, the merchant preferring the hearty house ale brewed locally in Briar. From his vantage point as a server, Alessan had long ago guessed that the Sylvani’s partner could be none other than a merchant employer from Innes Vale.

  If the Lumbers of Briar were looked upon in a strange and somewhat fanatical light by the people of Kal Maran, then the merchants of Innes Vale weren’t far off from being vilified. Over the years, the merchant families of Innes Vale had profited from what many believed to be the misery of others. They profited on the trade generated by war. Each summer of warfare was looked upon by these cunning businessmen as just another lucrative venture, ripe for the taking. It was these men who had effectively cornered the market on everything concerning the supply and demand of a mercenary company. Their chokehold had allowed the Merchant’s Guild to profit on a scale unimagined by earlier generations. Offer the right price and any of the Innes merchants could easily be bought; no loyalty but to themselves had ever been exhibited.