by Emmet Moss
“Coren?” Gavin asked dejectedly, his eyes lingering on his officer’s burden.
“Bider should be fine, Captain,” Ethan stifled a weak chuckle. “He set off that pretty explosion I’m sure you witnessed. He must have hit a supply depot of lantern oil or something of that nature. He flew no less than thirty feet through the air once the fires started.”
“And he’s not dead?” Caolte asked incredulously.
“He landed on some sacks of grain. They must have cushioned his fall. Luckiest bastard I’ve ever met,” Ethan winced as he allowed a guardsman to take the small scout from his arms. “He’s unconscious and possibly damaged his arm, but he’ll survive.”
Caolte and Gavin slung the exhausted sergeant’s arms around their shoulders. As the three men celebrated their good fortune, Gavin paused a moment to mourn Alec and Bron, who would never return. Even in victory, the Fey’Derin captain cursed to himself, there is heartache.
A bright light shone in his eyes as he came to, and although Bider desperately tried to move away, his body screamed out in agony, forcing him to remain immobile.
“Relax you fool, no need to get all fidgety on account of the sunshine,” a familiar voice came from his bedside.
Bider sighed as he watched Ethan Shade step to the large bay window and pull a thick burgundy drapery across it. With the sun thankfully dimmed, he struggled to get into a sitting position. Believing that the change would relieve the pain that pulsed in his back proved to be a mistake.
“It feels like I’ve spent a month getting worked over by a gang of Sergeant McConnal’s men.”
“Well you did learn to fly for a moment or two,” Ethan Shade joked. “That cache you set afire did an army’s worth of damage to the center of that camp. You ought to be proud of yourself.”
“Aye, well it seems my misplaced visions of grandeur will be keeping me out of the fight for a day or two,” Bider complained.
Passing the scout a cup filled to the brim with cool, clear water, Ethan shook his head and laughed. “A few days, Bider?! You’ve been recovering for the better part of six. It’s a wonder that you’re even alive. I’ll be damned if I can explain it.”
“Six days?!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “But how goes the battle? Do we still hold the outer wall?”
“The Captain was down on the field this morning discussing terms with a few of the enemy leaders. We’re following the procedures for a transfer of prisoners just as the Code dictates.”
“What happened?” Bider asked.
“The battle was hard fought, and twice we were pressed to hold breaches through which the enemy swarmed, but hold we did. Mind you, with most of their catapults gone, they could do little besides storm the very walls we defended. It was a slaughter. Lord Yarr wanted this city, no matter the cost. His contracted men took severe casualties, some southern companies have less than half of their men left, others are no longer,” the man replied.
“And I missed it all.” Bider said with regret.
“You did your duty and can take heart in that. We lost Alec and Bron that night, but struck what may very well have been a fatal blow to the enemy. You did well, Bider,” the officer gently gripped his foreman. “The healers say you’ll need another day in bed before you’re up and about. We have some time remaining before we head north to camp, so rest up.”
Still frustratingly weak from the ordeal, Bider merely nodded. As Sergeant Shade reached the chamber door, a thought suddenly leapt to the forefront of his tired mind. “The company, sir, how did we fare?” he blurted out.
The Fey’Derin officer leaned briefly against the open door before turning and answering. “We lost thirty-three. Most fell as Captain Silveron himself led the charge that retook the southern gate after the second breach. The men fought bravely.”
“And the Captain?” Bider whispered, almost fearful of the response.
“Captain Silveron is fine,” Sergeant Shade replied. “He tore through the enemy like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”
“He’s a good man our Captain, and a skilled one at that,” Bider commented. “And he leads as though we are more than mere paid men.”
“The Captain, as much as he’d like us to believe otherwise, is no mercenary,” Ethan replied with a thoughtful expression crossing his lean and refined features. “Every contract we’ve signed, and every deal he’s brokered, has always been for the common good. Even when we fought four years ago alongside Lord Darion of Hallenford, the north having risen in revolt against the belief he had murdered his wife, still did Gavin never hesitate in siding with the besieged nobleman. When the truth came to light and the man’s son was condemned as the culprit, there were few who were proud of their actions,” he said, his voice filled with sadness. “Yet, the Fey’Derin could hold their heads high. In all that he does; from finding us washed up and alone, to choosing to give us a second chance, the Captain has proven he is by no means a simple man. And above all,” Ethan Shade winked, “he is no mere mercenary.”
With a few words advising the injured scout to sleep well and get some rest, the officer slipped quietly from the room. Alone with his thoughts, Bider nestled himself deeply into the cushions. One day, he hoped, all of his questions surrounding Captain Silveron would be answered.
A day later found Bider walking gingerly among the remains of the enemy encampment. Tents, bedrolls, clothing, and myriad of other items lay scattered about. Searching the clutter carefully, most soldiers tried to find something of value from which they could profit.
The Mercenary Code of Conduct forbade any looting, be it of a city or camp, until all the terms of surrender and prisoner exchange formalities were concluded. Once completed, the victors were granted the ability to pillage the remains of the enemy area. This often involved a great deal of underhandedness and a fair amount of corruption, especially among mercenaries of different companies. As with all things, the Fey’Derin were expected to represent the company to the highest standard.
Knowing that he was in no condition to participate in the rummaging, Bider was pleased to be simply walking outside and breathing in the fresh air, albeit a light smoky smell still remained. Staying cooped up in bed for another day, especially for a young man of his nature, had proven to be nearly impossible to endure. And so, although his ribs still pained him, the scout had gingerly made his way out of the confines of the keep.
The scars of his nighttime attack were still present on the battlefield. Bider looked wondrously at the small crater that now stood in place of the supply tent he had inadvertently used to destroy the surrounding area.
He now realized his sheer good fortune in surviving an explosion of such magnitude. Yet the surrounding fields and roads had remained relatively unscathed. The siege had been relatively short, and the people of Garchester were already beginning to return to their outlying homesteads in the hopes of regaining some semblance of normalcy before the winter arrived.
The city itself had taken a severe beating. Many buildings lay crumbled or damaged, pieces of their wooden or stone exterior strewn haphazardly around the damaged roads and homes. The walls, Bider realized with chagrin, were barely standing in some places. The incessant pounding of the siege engines had weakened the southern and eastern walls. From his present vantage point, he could see large cracks running the length of some surface areas. Broken crenels and two destroyed towers lay near the base of the battlements, a stark reminder of the long repairs that would be needed in order to prepare the city for future defense.
As Bider eased his battered body onto a wooden bench, he marveled at the resilience of the townsfolk. Heads were held high, regardless of the devastation that surrounded them. Having never before experienced the sheer destruction that could result from a siege, Bider was grateful he had lived to see another day.
“Sergeant Shade mentioned you might be up and about this morning, Bider,” called out a soldier care
fully threading his way through the mess, arms overflowing with weapons and small pieces of armour.
“Good morning, Garett,” Bider smiled and waved at the young, blond haired recruit. “It’s good to see you.”
The Eagle Runner breathlessly dumped his booty on the ground and joined Bider by the stones of an old fire pit. “I wouldn’t miss this loot for anything,” he added.
“That’s right. This is your first, isn’t it?” Bider remarked. “It always feels good to realize you’ve been on the side of the victors, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does! Oh, the Sergeant asked me to inform you that the squad has collected a separate set of items for you and the other wounded. He has your coin in the officers’ quarters in town when you have a chance to stop by.”
“Much appreciated,” Bider replied.
Company policy always supported soldiers wounded during an engagement. For the first time in his brief mercenary career, Bider finally knew what is was like to be one of the injured, and he was genuinely pleased by the generosity of his fellow companions. Having your service recognized by the rest of the company did much to strengthen the bonds that already existed among the Fey’Derin.
“How do you feel today?” Garrett asked.
“Sore,” Bider responded with a wince. “But I’ll live. How about your arm?”
Garett had taken a deep cut to his forearm while attempting to evade capture during the raid. The healers had administered what help they could, but the recruit would need time, as Bider had, to fully recover from his wounds.
Rubbing the wounded limb, Garett shrugged before answering. “The healers saved the arm, but I’ll have a scar for the rest of my days. It’s still weak, but I feel stronger every day.”
“Good to hear,” Bider said encouragingly, clapping the young man on his good shoulder.
The two men talked quietly about the battle as the sun continued to roam across the sky. Around midday, Bider helped Garett collect his items and headed to the city. With luck, Sergeant Shade would be in town. Receiving coin called for a bit of a celebration.
The large chest thudded loudly on the beautiful marble floor of the audience hall. The jingle of coins echoed like tinkling bells over the dull boom. The elderly Chancellor Gerant reached into his thick ceremonial robes and pulled out a small silver key. With a solemn bow, the dignitary presented it to a waiting Gavin Silveron.
The audience hall was almost empty. Despite the importance of their arrival and prowess in battle, few nobles of Garchester cared to show respect to the mercenaries who had shed blood so that their homes would be spared. Such is how it always was in the aftermath of battle, especially a siege of this nature.
Duke Furnael Berry was present, having recently met with the other captains hired for the defense of his city. Both the Helmsmen and the Red Falconers had performed admirably, being well paid for their troubles. Gavin spoke briefly with both officers before entering the hall himself, wishing them both a safe winter. They had been solid mercenary commanders, but neither had shown much ingenuity or flexibility when under duress at key moments during the battle. Watching the two men leave, Gavin was struck suddenly by the realization that he wouldn’t consider either of them for any post of authority over his own men.
Returning to the task at hand, Gavin smiled at Gerant, a man he had grown fond of during his years working for the duke. Flanked as always by his officers, Caolte looking more and more uncomfortable in his ceremonial garb, and Ethan practically noble in his own; Gavin was suddenly filled with pride. Once again, his men had done themselves proud, and his officers had led with confidence, skill, and courage. Also, dressed in his formal company cloak and attire, an outfit he rarely wore, Gavin nodded respectfully towards the Chancellor and accepted the offering with a soft word of thanks.
“Everything has been counted by my hand, Captain Silveron, including an added percentage befitting the risk that your men chanced by executing your bold nighttime strike,” Gerant said.
“I’ll send the extra to the families of the fallen. I am humbled by your generosity, Lord Berry,” Gavin replied.
“Nonsense, Captain Silveron. You need not be humbled in any way for the service you have provided. Once again, your men fought valiantly and with honour, a trait I believe that is fast becoming a rarity among the mercenaries of this age. You have a rare talent, young Silveron, and one I will continue to covet,” Duke Berry answered.
Entertained by the reference to the debate regarding his perceived loyalties, Gavin replied in a blithe tone. “I have rejected your offer of service how many times now, my lord?”
“Three,” the duke answered heartily. “And I’m sure it will be a dozen more before I finally crack that stubborn head of yours, Captain!”
“At least that many, my lord. But your continued efforts do wonders for my confidence!” Gavin added.
Stepping down off the raised dais near the seat of his office, Furnael Berry clasped Gavin’s outstretched arm in a soldier’s handshake. Forearm gripping forearm, his beaming face suddenly took on a serious tone. “Watch your back, friend. You have made many enemies this year, Gavin, and I’ll not have you grow lax during the winter months.”
“You too have made a bitter enemy in Lord Dalemen among others, and I’ll remind you to be cautious in your dealings this winter. Although Lady Farraine has now been safely returned, she is one who will not soon forget her imprisonment. Gadian Yarr has also been halted twice now in subsequent years of warfare from attaining his most sought after goal. He’ll not sit idly by while you strengthen your position,” Gavin replied.
“Gadian Yarr has only been delayed, Gavin, we both know that,” the duke replied earnestly. “This year we’ve lost more friendly companies than ever before, and my list of allies grows thin. I may find myself seeking refuge in the north before I know it.”
“All we can do, sir, is continue to fight against that tyrant. Yarr is filled with a lust for power and does not intend to leave any alive who refuse to follow his lead in the Protectorate. We must use this time to alert the north of his intentions.”
“Bah! The Northern Council fights only amongst itself,” Duke Berry scowled. “You left that region because you knew, as well as I, that a united
North might prove to be an obstacle that Gadian can’t overcome. But that group of squabbling nobles may only bring ruin down upon our heads. If they react too late to the threat, it will matter little.”
“All we can do is try, Duke Berry,” Gavin replied resolutely.
“I will look to your arrival at the Ca’lenbam with anticipation, Captain Silveron. Stay safe and watch your back. If you ever need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to make contact. I need you alive.”
Gripping the duke’s forearm one last time, Gavin nodded and intoned the phrase that had become so familiar to his own men. “Safe journey to you always.”
By morning, the Fey’Derin were ready to leave Garchester. The men of the company wore fatigued looks as they rode silently through the slumbering city streets. More than a few of the men had spent some of their rich findings in the taverns and brothels that had reopened following the retreat of the enemy. Strict rules forbade certain company members from partaking in some forms of merriment, namely the consumption of spirits and ale. With the checkered history of many of the members still fresh in his mind, Captain Silveron expected nothing less than the best behaviour. Although some soldiers slipped through the cracks, on the whole the company respected their commander’s wishes.
Orn Surefoot, of course, was still drunk and in a stupor by the time Sergeant Fearan and Lieutenant Burnaise tracked him down at one of the seedier establishments. Orn’s longstanding battle with drink was the single biggest hindrance to a promotion of his rank. The dark glare that Gavin sent the scout’s way would have burned through the heart of any other man.
In Orn’s case, he screamed explet
ives that made even some of the hardest veterans cringe in dismay. Orn would pay dearly for his rebellion once the men arrived at Galen’hide, their encampment and intended home for the next few months. Captain Silveron was notorious for his punishments, and the old huntsman would rue the words he spat towards Gavin once the cloud over his mind had dispersed.
And so the Fey’Derin left Garchester, the vanguard leader Sergeant McConnal setting a steady pace that soon left the battered walls of the city far behind. The company had completed their fifth year of warfare and were anxious to spend some well-earned days resting and preparing for the next campaign.
They passed along the western edge of the Caeronwood, Bider marveling once more at the beauty of the trees. He had grown up in the foothills and mountains of Innes Vale, and had always shown great interest in the woods. Of course the Caeronwood was nothing compared to the mysterious Aeldenwood, but until they arrived north along that great forest’s edge, his strange curiosity for the shadows that lurked under the eaves of those large trees was sated.
Fifteen days after leaving Garchester, Bider and a few of the Eagle Runners were sent out ahead of the main party to scout the land. In keeping with a five-year ritual Caolte Burnaise had initiated with the founding of the company, it was time to test the new recruits.
A new mercenary needed a full year of training before they were considered ready to embark on their first contract. The Fey’Derin chose their forty to fifty men in the spring, spending the entire year working them into fighting shape. One officer, usually on rotation, was charged with the weighty task of forging a competent force from the amateurs. This year, the task had fallen to Sergeant Eör Rockfar.
