The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  “That it is, Lord Shade. I’ve never seen so many scoundrels fawning over my attentions as when I walk about the fairgrounds in this damned place. Like vultures looking for scraps of meat,” the duke replied with disgust. “My presence here is necessary, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the spectacle.”

  Ethan’s face briefly clouded over at the mention of his family title, but a nonchalant gesture from Gavin served as a reminder to keep his sentiments regarding the comment in check. Being called by a noble title in front of certain lower ranking mercenaries could, in the very least, be detrimental to company morale. Duke Berry saw it as a matter of etiquette by referring to Ethan’s family line. He had never been made aware of the estranged relationship between the Fey’Derin sergeant and his father although the nobleman would have been aware of the rumours of a rift.

  “I trust the winter months weren’t too harsh for your citizens?” Gavin inquired.

  “They suffered some, but we put much effort into the rebuilding process for those families who lost their homes. I believe were we able to provide adequate relief.”

  “And your defenses?” Caolte added with some concern.

  The duke frowned at the question. “To be truthful, we have had to overcome a number of obstacles concerning the damaged walls. The first two companies I had working on them up and left mysteriously one night. Needless to say, we have fallen far behind in completing the repairs.”

  “Interference from a particular source, I would imagine?” Ethan guessed.

  Duke Berry nodded. “My agents traced some rather large bribes back to some men connected with our ‘friends’ in Imlaris; but as usual, no tangible proof has allowed me to finger Yarr and Dalemen directly.”

  “Will the battlements be completed for the upcoming season of warfare? There can be little doubt that Garchester will be a prime target,” Gavin added.

  “I’m afraid I’m just not sure at this point, Captain. With some luck, and as long as this milder weather holds, we may have a chance. It is more than likely the walls will be incomplete come summer,” the Duke replied, sounding quite defeated.

  The four men were silent as they reflected on what this might mean for Garchester and the greater potential impact on the entirety of Caledun, should the city fall.

  “By the way, have you heard anything from your informants to the south?” Caolte asked. “Captain Blackwain mentioned during his visit that nothing of value is filtering through. Not knowing why men are disappearing in the southern region makes me more than a little nervous.”

  Duke Berry shook his head in frustration and sighed heavily. “Whoever is in charge of their security is more than competent, I can tell you that. Three times we have received the heads of some of our best men and women, returned to us in leather sacks with their eyes, ears and tongues removed,” he answered grimly. “Something is brewing, and in my estimation it involves the assembling of an army. For this to happen, it would indeed mean the breaking of the Code, something we never even dreamed could occur. The immediate problem remains that Gadian Yarr and some highly trained group or individuals are working in secret.”

  “An ex-soldier perhaps?” Ethan speculated.

  “Or a member of the Thieves’ Guild?” Gavin proposed. “That would explain their involvement in my assassination attempt this past winter.”

  “You may be correct, Captain,” the nobleman said with pursed lips.

  As the discussion drifted to possible nefarious plots, each one a little wilder than the next, Gavin found it difficult to dismiss the fearful tone in Furnael Berry’s voice at the mention of Gadian Yarr’s likely plans. Something dark loomed on the horizon, and the powerful councilor from Imlaris had dominated their conversations for far too long. The coincidence struck Gavin as too unlikely to ignore.

  It was growing dark as the three Fey’Derin soldiers took their leave. Exiting the large pavilion with a promise to discuss contract terms on the morrow, Gavin sought desperately to find some relief from his brooding thoughts.

  For the first time since his return from the Aeldenwood, Gavin’s dreams were beset by scenes of horror. His nightmares jumped radically from one terrifying vision to the next, each one involving either the vicious Gath or the mysterious Fallen.

  As the creatures of the dark made their appearance, so too did the welcoming presence of the strange C’Aelis. A repeat of the Watchtower rescue was disturbingly absent. As Gavin fought through the dreams, C’Aelis only watched, the man’s bright green eyes staring intently at the Fey’Derin captain… judging him, or so it seemed. With the insights gleaned from the annals of the Silveryn histories, Gavin’s feelings of unease continued to mount.

  Three times that night he woke with blankets drenched in sweat. Frustrated, Gavin felt no better rested once the faint light of the coming dawn crept through the cracks in his tent. Knowing that sleep would continue to elude him, the weary captain struggled out of his bedroll, cursing to himself as the crisp spring air stung his body.

  At such an early an hour, the camp was devoid of activity. A few unlucky sentries on duty sat clustered around a small fire, and a cold morning frost covered the ground and supply crates stacked nearby. Enjoying the silence, Gavin reflected on the previous evening’s interactions with the other mercenary companies friendly to the Fey…

  He spent only a short time speaking with the other captains they had fought with in Garchester and had instead spent the better part of the evening partaking in drinks with Captain Dyana Fairwind of the Sisters.

  The women of the northern company had fought together with the Fey’Derin during several campaigns in the north, and Gavin was glad that their bonds of fellowship had not suffered over the years. Dyana was also the abiding object of affection of the giant Ossric McConnal. Many of his Axemen reveled in reminding their sergeant of this, for it seemed that Dyana would have none of the man’s attentions.

  Curious news had also reached his ears shortly before retiring for the night. Herod Blackwain had arrived late in the day and sent his greetings along with an urgent invitation to confer at Gavin’s earliest convenience. That the Delan Fere captain was so adamant about a meeting worried Gavin even more than the lack of information gleaned by Duke Berry’s informants. Herod was not a man who acted rashly.

  Caolte had made the rounds of the Gathering with some of his men, but had discovered no new information about the current state of affairs in the south. Lieutenant Burnaise could therefore shed no more light on the delicate political affairs of Caledun’s fractures city-states and they were no nearer to confirming any suspicions or rumours than when Gavin had sent Bider and Orn off on their mission. Remembering with trepidation the past struggles of his best scout, Gavin rubbed his temples, trying in vain to stem the sudden throbbing pain in his head.

  Brock and Caolte, both notorious early risers, waved as Gavin approached the campfire, this one on the far side of the camp near the food stores. Gratefully accepting a steaming mug of tea from the hardened lieutenant, Gavin sat down heavily.

  “Bad night, lad?” Caolte suspected.

  “Same old, same old…” Gavin muttered in reply while scanning the area for any sign of his wayward scouts.

  Seeing the sharp look on his captain’s features, Brock offered to check the sleeping quarters. Watching the warrior stride off purposefully, Gavin returned a gaze to his closest confidant in the company and spoke softly, “Coren’s not around either, Caolte. Is there something I should know?”

  “I guess that means my reputation has gone to j’helak,” grinned the old veteran. “You hide the truth from your commanding officer one time and it seems to follow you around for a lifetime.”

  “Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

  “All right, all right, Gavin,” Caolte implored, throwing both hands up in the air. “I have no idea as to the whereabouts of your two rogues. I haven’t seen them since they left by your order
s yesterday. Now stop looking at me like I’m hiding something from you and finish your tea. Gods know how you’re always suffering from a chill when the spring months come upon us.”

  Grunting in reply, Gavin slowly sipped his beverage and savoured its warmth. All around him men began sliding out of their tents, faces still showing the bleary eyed signs of the previous night’s revelry.

  “If the contracts work out today, I think the men need some extra time off to enjoy the Gathering. What say you?” Gavin asked.

  Caolte nodded as he continued to whittle away at a piece of wood that was taking shape as a small wolf, fangs bared in a snarl. “Aye, they need somewhere to spend their hard earned coin. With our winter camp being so far from any real settlements, more than a few might want the company of a woman, as well,” he agreed.

  “I’ll wager you won’t even go near one of those places now would you, old friend?” Gavin tested him.

  “Hah! Karli would string me up by my toenails and that’d only be the start? It would be something far harsher than I’ve ever faced on the battlefield, to be sure.”

  More than half of the men had families that lived in regions beyond the closest town of Briar. Located far to the north, Briar had been home to the Fey’Derin winter camp for the past three seasons of campaigning. With their most recent battle near Garchester and with the safety of the forest trade routes in jeopardy, Gavin had opted to remain in the south this winter. As for Caolte’s wife, a Drayenmark herself, Gavin knew that she would tolerate no excuse should she ever hear about her husband spending even a moment of his time with another woman.

  “They haven’t returned, Captain,” interrupted Brock, a worried expression creasing his bearded face.

  “Both of them? This could be a new tactic, staying away from the campsite until Orn is sober. What do you make of this, Caolte?” growled Gavin.

  “Knowing those two ruffians, they may be hip deep in sheep’s dung, but it could be important to let them work things out on their own. Let’s give them some time to report in. I trust Bider has kept Orn safe and sober,” Caolte replied as Gavin stared at him with a dark frown.

  With his face pressed against the cold, damp ground, Bider tried to muster up enough strength to move. Each breath sent sharp jabs of pain through his chest. He could feel his broken ribs grinding painfully against one another as he tried desperately to shift positions in order to alleviate some of the pressure. His clothing was torn and his body bruised from the night’s ordeal. As far as he could tell by his numbed extremities, he was also bound hand and foot.

  In the dim light, Bider could see that Orn was bound only a few feet away. The other Fey scout was lying on his back, his top a bloody rag clinging tightly to his bruised body. A large gash was visible on the man’s forehead and a slow trickle of blood traced a path down from his temple. So far every attempt to wake his friend had been futile, and Orn remained unconscious.

  As best he could discern, they had been placed in a holding tent. What concerned Bider was the fact that they were alone. In a valley teeming with thousands of soldiers, it was safe to assume that more than a few should have earned a place in the drunken holding tent alongside them. Bider had made a career trusting his instincts, and at the moment, the situation did not sit well with the experienced campaigner.

  He had already replayed the evening’s debacle in his head countless times. He was embarrassed by their failure to adequately defend themselves, against the suspected the third enemy. They had been careless and were now paying the price.

  “The Captain’s not going to be happy,” Orn spoke for the first time, his voice dry and parched.

  “An understatement if I ever heard one,” Bider replied, relieved that Orn was awake.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m not hungover for once.” The scout’s attempted laugh turned into a coughing fit.

  “I am not impressed.”

  Smiling with a painful wince, Orn chuckled. “For the first time in my life, I’d gladly take the pounding of spirits in my head over this unholy pain. How long have I been out?”

  “Not long enough.” Bider said sharply.

  By mid-afternoon Gavin’s patience had worn thin. With two of his best men still missing, a dour mood had descended over the entire Fey’Derin camp. Every member of the company knew that if Orn had succumbed to spirits, the outcome would be terrible to witness and he would be expelled.

  The combination of a restless night and the missing scouts did little to lighten Gavin’s disposition. Even a vigorous contest in the training yard was unable to shake the captain’s malaise. With their commander on edge, so too were the Fey’Derin; soldiers and officers alike stepped lightly.

  Sergeant Fearan finally brought word. Approaching Captain Silveron, the thickset man cleared his throat and gave a sharp salute. He motioned towards three soldiers in dark purple tabards standing a few paces behind him.

  “Captain, it seems we might have a problem. These three gentlemen would like a moment of your time to explain.”

  Brock Fearan was clearly displeased with the request. His jaw was rigid with tension and his stance was both stiff and unyielding. Judging by the formal introduction, Gavin gathered that his officer was upset and thought it best to engage in the strictest of Ca’lenbam decorum. His grey eyes registered the rank of the men standing before him.

  “Lieutenant, how may I help you?” Gavin addressed the senior officer.

  “There are two matters we need to —”

  “A soldier respects his superiors, especially a commanding officer. While in our camp you will show the Captain the respect due his station,” Brock interrupted, his face red with anger. Caolte nodded in agreement while gripping his spear tightly, his knuckles bone white.

  The soldier paused and finally gestured to his two companions, both of lower rank. All three saluted before the guard continued, “I apologize, Captain. I’m afraid it has been a long morning,” he tried a second time.

  “You have my attention, Lieutenant,” Gavin spoke evenly.

  The man nodded crisply. “As I was saying, I have two matters that I need to discuss with you. If we could retire to a more suitable location in which to do business, I would be happy to deal with these pressing issues as quickly as possible.”

  It took some time for the Fey’Derin officers to assemble for the meeting. Ossric looked somewhat haggard as he had only just been awakened by Gavin’s summons. Only the visiting lieutenant was permitted entry into the command tent. Both guardsmen remained under surveillance at the entrance.

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant, we’re listening,” Gavin said without a trace of warmth.

  Shuffling through a stack of papers pulled from the leather pouch he carried, the officer passed over a single sheet of parchment.

  “And this is?” Gavin asked patiently.

  “Your contract offer for this summer, Captain,” the soldier replied.

  Gavin glowered at the man. “You must be new, Lieutenant. The Fey’Derin have never dealt with contract matters through an intermediary. If your employer is interested in our services, they are free to schedule a time with any of my officers.”

  “I respectfully beg your pardon, Sir, but this will be the only offer you receive at this Gathering. I’m afraid the rules have changed. My Lord Gadian Yarr will be making the same offer across the board. If you do decline, it will be reported to the nobility pavilions where a scribe will record your reason for displeasing Lord Yarr.”

  “Are you daft, man?! Gadian Yarr does not dictate the happenings of an entire Gathering! You can tell that sniveling, pomp —” yelled Caolte. Ethan Shade quickly placed his body in between the clansman and the soldier.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my Lieutenant,” said Gavin as he crumpled the parchment in his hands. “It really has been a long morning.”

  Sneering, the foreign officer rummaged through
his papers once again, this time pulling free two thick documents covered with the official Ca’lenbam insignia.

  With a gloating countenance, the man handed over the papers, “I’ll leave these with you, Captain. The magistrate won’t take kindly to any tardiness.”

  “And these are?”

  “The arrest and detention reports of Orn Surefoot and Coren D’Elmark,” he replied.

  Bider was frustrated. In the dim light of the tent it was hard to tell how much time had passed since he had come to, and he had no idea how long he may have been incapacitated. He could hear enough muffled sounds of activity from outside to warrant the belief that it was morning. Morning of which day was an altogether different matter.

  With his pride still stinging from the initial shock of being outwitted, he had managed to fight off numerous waves of nausea and pain as he valiantly tried to free his hands from the coarse rope that bound them. All of his efforts to that point had been futile, granting him not the freedom he so desperately craved, but only chaffed wrists and bloodied hands.

  He had managed to shift his bruised body enough to allow some weight to be taken off his injured ribs. The relief was minimal but a step in the right direction. Glancing at his companion, Bider wondered how extensive Orn’s injuries truly were. The scout had been drifting in and out of consciousness, all the while vehemently denying anything more serious than a throbbing headache.

  Orn had spent the better part of his life fighting for companies in Caledun. He had once captained his own company; eventually losing the position when his intoxication on the field of battle resulted in tactical errors and an unexpected defeat. Lately, the old soldier had been complaining of terrible aches in both of his knees. Stripped of his rank and wounded on many occasions, Bider worried if Orn’s current injuries might not push him back over the edge.

  Silently vowing to remain steadfast at his friend’s side, Bider tried again to get himself into a sitting position in hopes that by further elevating his body, the pain would lessen and he could seriously entertain the possibility of escape. He was less concerned about being bound than by his injuries. If completely healthy, the bonds that held him would be no match for his ability to contort himself and defy the physical limitations of his body. Unfortunately, the agony was simply too intense to try anything drastic.