The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  Finishing their first tour in the south, Bider suspected a milder winter was in store for the company this year. The southern climate was beautiful compared to the harsh, cold weather of the north. Snow was not a rarity, but the winter rains clogged up roadways worse than even the thickest snowfall. Reminded of the slogging spring journey south earlier that year, Bider wished for a short moment that he could drown his worries in a bottle of spirits.

  More than two winters ago, Captain Silveron had found him belly down and bleeding like a stuck pig in the port city of Shand. Why Gavin had decided to show him mercy after he had tried to slice the money pouch from another Fey soldier was still a mystery. What Gavin had seen in the scrawny ill-fed runt and thief, he had yet to say.

  It had taken more effort to break his thieving habit than it had to become a soldier. The unflinching restrictions of the company had earned Bider more than a few harsh reprimands for his behaviour.

  To the end of his days, Bider would be grateful. One of the Captain’s odd quirks, was his refusal to accept the name the small thief had earned during his years as a sewer rat in the port city. One of those first nights, beset by shakes and convulsions attributed to his bad habits, Gavin had given him a new name - Coren D’Elmark. To this day, Gavin would only address him as Coren, never Bider. The Fey merely laughed when he had first inquired about the man who led them and his curious ways. “Figuring out the Captain,” he had been told, “was about as easy as marrying a noblewoman if you were a commoner.”

  “Daydreaming, Coren?” called a familiar voice from below.

  His eyes locked with the very man he had been musing about. Bider answered with a grin. “I was just trying to watch the birds, Captain. Too bad you brought the company this way and scared ‘em all off. Just plain rude, you know?”

  Gavin’s glared at the scout.

  Amidst laughter echoing from the soldiers within earshot, Bider bounced to his feet and saluted sharply. “I’ll be sure to warn you about them next time, Sir. You can count on me.”

  With that, he disappeared over the cliff edge and headed east, easily outdistancing the slower moving column. With any luck, they would be in Garchester within the week. Until then, it seemed that watching birds may be the only pastime available.

  Comprised of a chain of well-built fortresses, the Iron Shield proudly defends the northern borders of Caledun from the scourge of the goblin tribes present in the Wilds. Without the resilient sword arms of the border guards, the northern expanse of the kingdom would lay ripe for the conquering.

  — Ilias Bertram, The Histories, Vol XI

  Chapter V

  Darkenedge, Iron Shield

  The wind blew fiercely across the cold stone ramparts of the keep while the Wilds lay hidden in the distance by an ever-deepening gloom of

  falling snow. Winter seemed destined to arrive early this year, much to the chagrin of those who called the northeastern reaches of Kal Maran home. The strong weatherworn walls of the structure held firm against the coming tide, as they had for each and every bitter winter that had come before.

  From his lofty perch high atop a sentry tower, Leoric D’Athgaran clutched his cloak tightly around his sturdy frame. Leather gloves lined with fur were unable to keep his fingers warm. Only a few hours into his watch, he could feel the chill penetrating deep within his bones. It was not without reason that the people of this region feared the turning of the seasons.

  Releasing the hold upon his cloak, Leoric grimaced and tried to rub some warmth into his frozen, numb fingers. Scratching idly at his beard, a common facial feature that men of the region sported with pride, the soldier watched a clearing to the left of the keep.

  An open field lay just at the edge of his range of vision. This was due mainly to the reduced visibility in such a storm. As he had expected, bulky dark shadows were gathering in the spot where his eyes were trained. Fighting back a rush of anger, he kept his focus even with snow swirling all around him, and counted the figures as accurately as possible.

  Only fifteen tonight, he mused as the small gathering stood stoically against the weather. Time slowed to a glacial pace, and his tired eyes strained to keep watch.

  As a slight brightening in the east pierced the overcast sky, Leoric watched the figures slide back into the shadows, heading deep into the treacherous Wilds. Sighing heavily, he shrugged his shoulders in order to dislodge a fresh patch of snow from his ice-covered hood, and welcomed the scraping tread of footsteps from the stairwell below.

  On time, and carrying a steaming mug of sweet-smelling cider, a cloth-swaddled man appeared around a corner. His face was a mass of dark whiskers, growing nearly to his eyes and his shaggy mop of hair seemed better suited as a stallion’s mane. Stuall was anything but pretty, but he would be the first to tell you how much warmer he was in comparison.

  Beaming, the man greeted Leoric with a hearty slap to the back. “Bloody cold out last night, eh?” the man laughed cheerfully.

  “I can barely feel my feet this morning,” Leoric answered grimly. “They would be foolish to attack on a night like this, goblin or no.”

  “Were they back again? Buggers must be truly dim-witted to stand about in weather like this. Even my old sire knew better than to go outdoors in a late autumn storm, and we all know how crazy my old man was,” Stuall exclaimed. “In any case, you’ll need to report it to the watch Captain, same as always.”

  “I’ll go before I break my fast and head to bed for the morning. No sense leaving it unattended to,” Leoric nodded, preparing himself for the long trek from the tower to the barracks.

  “That’s why I like you, Leoric. You always know when things need to get done. It saves me time knowing that you’ll take care of things that the others find bothersome,” Stuall grunted as he leaned out over the tower’s edge and downed a healthy swig from his wooden goblet.

  Leoric smiled weakly and wished the man a good morning.

  Only two days remained before the watch changed and he received a much needed repose from sentry duty. Engaged for the last fortnight, he was looking forward to spending time with the other men in the evenings, a privilege the sentries unhappily evaded while on duty.

  By the time he arrived at the watch captain’s office, a semblance of warmth had begun to seep back into his ice-cold bones. His cloak, a welcome companion during the previous evening, was now a hindrance. The frozen snow had begun to melt and it had started to weigh down the heavy wool covering. Dislodging some clinging chunks as best he could before entering the officer’s quarters, Leoric saluted the young man sitting behind a large oak desk.

  “D’Athgaran - Crow’s Tower sentry, reporting in.”

  “Good morning, Leoric. Can’t believe the weather we’re having. It’s a wonder you still have all your digits this morning.”

  “Coldest it’s been this season,” he answered. The young officer of the watch was good-natured when compared to the drill masters of Darkenedge. As with most of the desired posts in the frontier keeps of the Iron Shield, they were usually bestowed to the youngest sons of minor nobles in the hope that they would earn some valuable experience commanding men. A second or third son from a minor House wasn’t destined for much beyond a middle officer’s ranking or mercantile placement, but exemplary duty in the Shield could lead to a future commanding along the expanse of the border.

  “I take it you must have something to report if you came here before breakfast and a well-earned rest?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, it seems as though our friends aren’t quite as bothered as they should be in this weather. At least a good dozen, maybe even fifteen, watched from the east last night. That makes eight days now, foul weather or not,” Leoric reported.

  “Strange and very unsettling. I’ll note it down in the log and have Marshal Aram review this afternoon. You aren’t the only sentry to report sightings last night. It could mean tha
t our visitors are up to no good.”

  “The men have been talking about a raid. Any truth to that rumour?” Leoric asked, signing his name at the bottom of the evening logbook with a fine quill.

  “You know I can’t comment, D’Athgaran,” the young soldier replied. “But I do know the commanders are meeting later today,” he added with a knowing glance.

  “Understood. I’m off to thaw out these old bones of mine. Have yourself a good day, Sir,” Leoric saluted.

  “Only two evenings left before you are relieved, soldier. Don’t go enjoying that morning nap too much now.”

  Chuckling to himself as he headed towards his chambers, Leoric stopped only momentarily to grab a small plate of sausages and a cup of hot tea. Devouring the food in only a few bites, he peeled off his wet garments, pulled on a clean pair of trousers, and contently snuggled into his warm blankets.

  That eighteen other men were busy rousing and preparing themselves for the coming day mattered little to him. As far as he was concerned, within the hour, the room would be his. If there was one bonus to nighttime sentry duty, it was the silence of his sleeping chamber during the day. Pulling the jumble of blankets tightly around his body, Leoric soon fell asleep.

  The afternoon came far too quickly.

  “I’d kiss a girl with eyes of green,

  I’d kiss a girl with eyes of gold,

  I’d kiss a girl with any coloured eyes,

  but it’s you I’d rather hold”

  “I’d love a girl with —”

  “I swear by all the gods Angvald, if you don’t shut your cursed trap and Christian doesn’t stop that screeching, I’ll rip out both your tongues and feed them to the wolves!” roared Leoric from his warm bed. Staring balefully at the heavy-set culprit strumming a small lute and a swiftly retreating smaller man, he leapt out of his once-inviting cocoon.

  “Leoric, my apologies,” Angvald replied sheepishly. “We didn’t see you there.”

  Listening to the thickly accented reply, Leoric growled and shot the man a second glare.

  “Now, now, we didn’t mean to disturb you,” Angvald continued, his thick fingers plucking a few strings on the instrument. “Now look, you’ve gone and scared my singer.”

  “Christian will get over it. You, on the other hand, had better remember this moment when you’re on sentry duty next month,” Leoric said as he pulled a tunic over his shoulders.

  “Ah! You’re not one to back down from a fight are you?!” the big man bellowed. “I like that in a man.”

  Angvald hailed from distant Kaleen, a land of large men, larger appetites, and an abundance of both sun and sand. The nation of Kaleen had long remained detached from the affairs of greater Kal Maran, although the occasional visitor, curious as to what the greater world offered, would spend time within the Kingdom of Caledun.

  The Kaleenians were known as the barbarians of the east, tribal by nature, and much akin to the goblin tribes that bordered the mountain range to the north. Hemmed off from the rest of the land by the mighty Volkstall Mountains, the people of Kaleen remained a mystery to most, and few travelers from Caledun had ever been granted permission to enter their closed borders.

  Angvald insisted that he was a musician at heart, even though he had arrived in Darkenedge two summers earlier hoping to train with the men of the Iron Shield. An accomplished warrior and an avid drinker, the foreigner had found himself accepted by the strange crew that lived and guarded one of the gateways to the west.

  Including Darkenedge, five keeps protected the passes through the mountains into the prosperous Vale of the Innes merchants, and the territories of the Northern Council. The rugged northern expanse was sparsely populated and only Hilltop boasted a companion city of a size that rivalled some of those found in the more forgiving regions of the kingdom.

  Gritting his teeth as the biting wind sent chills through his body, Leoric wasn’t surprised. Born in a small village near the border of the Drayenmark holdings to the southeast, it had taken him several winters to adapt to the harsh climate. Even so, rare were the days in which he didn’t long for the temperate south.

  “Any more news about a raid?” Angvald rumbled, strumming a few final notes before reaching for the lute’s case.

  “The Marshal is meeting with some of the garrison captains late this afternoon, but I’ve no real idea what’s going on,” he replied. “I do know our neighbours had another squad out on my watch again last night. Can’t see how the Marshal can ignore that.”

  “Those goblins need to be taught a lesson, if you ask me,” the Kaleenian spat.

  “I might agree but I’m sure of one thing…” Leoric said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Marshal surely won’t be asking you,” he answered with a laugh. As Angvald’s deep bellowing voice erupted in mock anger, Leoric finished lacing his boots and headed out into the hallway.

  With most of the day gone, his stomach reminded him that it was time for his first meal. Glancing out one of the keep’s numerous tall windows, he judged it less than two hours until sunset. Soon after darkness fell, he would be making his arduous trek up into the Crow’s Tower for another miserable stint on duty. No officer could rightly complain about a sentry’s performance; that is until they spent a fortnight staring out into the cold Wilds with nary a sensation in their extremities.

  Dispelling the depressing thoughts from his mind, Leoric made his way swiftly through the corridors of the lower keep. A heavy, tasty aroma drifted through the passage closest to the great hall; stew if his nose did not deceive him. Thick homemade bread, perfect for dipping, would go a long way in helping him forget his upcoming shift in the tower. With luck, Frengold and his assistants had been busy cooking up a feast while he slept.

  At this time of day the hall was nearly empty, another small perk belonging to those on nighttime duty. Without the usual jostling for position and space while trying to devour a meal, he would be able to eat comfortably.

  Only a handful of other men were present, most from other companies in the keep. They sat at the long wooden tables that were spread about the large chamber in an orderly manner. He assumed they had drawn night duty for the month and although they were all stationed at Darkenedge, Leoric didn’t recognize any of them. The keep itself housed over a thousand men with a few outlying garrisons totaling additional fighters in the hundreds. The commanders of the Iron Shield fortresses had long ago learned that any unprotected settlement quickly became a target for the marauding goblins.

  Silently nodding at those few men who acknowledged his arrival, Leoric used a large wooden ladle to fill a bowl with steaming stew from a blackened pot near the hearth. The tantalizing aroma wafted into his nostrils as he spooned the thick broth into his waiting mouth. If guard duty did anything for a man, in the very least it increased his appetite.

  Suddenly a loud horn broke the relative silence of the chamber, and curses erupted from nearly every man hunched over their meals. Angrily shaking his head, Leoric pushed his bench away from the table. All men of the Shield knew how much the commanding officer of the keep frowned upon tardiness. The horn call summoned all able-bodied soldiers to a general muster, and the officers would expect the presence of all within minutes. No excuse was ever deemed worthy, nor warranted.

  Leaving his half eaten meal, he walked briskly through the central passageway of the keep and passed into a large open courtyard. Briefly scanning the crowd for his own company, he made his way over to the gates. It was the usual gathering point for his comrades, and sure enough, familiar faces greeted his arrival with words of welcome. Slipping smartly into position, he nodded curtly towards his sergeant.

  “Nice of you to join us, D’Athgaran,” Sergeant Alleran mused. “I was beginning to wonder whether sentry duty had finally addled that small brain of yours.”

  “Good afternoon to you as well, Sergeant,�
�� Leoric sketched a small bow. “The brain’s fine, but thank you all the same for asking.”

  “Stop acting the fool,” the veteran growled although he smiled. “Just be thankful you weren’t the last to arrive. I swear by Arne, if it’s Darius again, I’ll have him scrubbing pots for the rest of his life.”

  Within minutes every man not injured, sick, or on duty, stood at attention near the gates. As was the custom for a general muster, military dress was not required. Most of the soldiers wore a simple tunic and trousers with the odd few who had been drilling in the training yard still bearing their padded armour. Although the rule held true for a common soldier, the same could not be said for the officers of the keep. Watching the commanding officers on the raised platform at the front of the crowd, Leoric wondered if they slept in their uniforms. The always crisp outfits sported the black and gold trappings of the borderlands.

  Marshal Aram was an aged warrior who possessed the unmistakable air of an expert commander. His manner was strangely out of place in the harsh surroundings of the rugged border keep. At first glance, one would expect someone more suited to a noble’s court, than the solid stone walls of Darkenedge. He had held command of the keep for over thirty years; making it more than half his lifetime. Slowly smoothing his long white moustache that drooped well below his chin, the old soldier surveyed the assembly in silence.

  Flanking the Marshal were the other senior officers; the aristocratic Quartermaster Siff, and Captain Stone, the senior man of rank. Both men were well-respected and honored almost as much as the Marshal. The soldiers of Darkenedge had little to complain about despite their difficult task. They were well fed, well paid, and apart from the brutal northern winters, they were well situated. Leoric supposed most of them despised their drill sergeants, but for the officer corps, only respect was given.

  As a hush settled over the assembly, Marshal Aram’s strong baritone voice boomed loudly for all to hear. Leoric came quickly to attention and added his own voice, as he always did, when the Creed of the Iron Shield was spoken: