The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  “A good man and solid soldier,” Caolte nodded in agreement.

  The two men slipped into a comfortable silence, Brock busying himself with cleaning and bandaging a minor cut on his thigh, and Caolte, as always, whittling a fresh stick of wood in to some new creation. The gentle sound of the river current lapping at the banks filled the air. Caolte found it hard to believe that only a single day had passed.

  “Can I ask you something, sir?” Brock asked hesitantly.

  “That all depends on what you are asking, Sergeant,” Caolte replied in a coy manner.

  “Well, Ossric and I were discussing something you mentioned earlier today, about Parksya Ridge and Captain Silveron.”

  “And?” the clansman locked eyes with Brock.

  “It seems there’s more to that story. I — we believe, that maybe it’s time we knew the truth about that battle. If you have concerns about the captain then we, as officers, have a right to know what took place on that field of battle.”

  “What happened there is not for me to tell, Brock. It’s Gavin who must put those demons to rest on his own terms. He will speak of it when he is ready,” Caolte answered. “And I don’t doubt the man who leads us either; I willingly follow him. He is already a brilliant commander, but with much potential still untapped. There is something grander about him than the words he uses, the way he carries himself, or the skills he possesses. He is also a friend, and may be our only hope in facing Armsmater. You would do well to remember that he gave you a second chance at life.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Lieutenant,” the officer protested.

  “I know you didn’t, Brock, but look to yourself. It’s far too easy to find fault with our peers, but rare is the man who can find the courage to face his own weaknesses. Gavin has yet to face that darkness, but to doubt him is to ignore the strength of his character. Have you faced your own darkness, Sergeant?”

  “What darkness, sir?”

  “T’aheris ein, t’aheris r’aena, t’aheris e’lie,” Caolte whispered carefully.

  “Strength of mind, strength of body, strength of heart,” Brock translated.

  Caolte nodded approvingly. “The Drayenmark’s warrior creed. Words of wisdom we might all learn from, Sergeant Fearan.”

  The rearguard stumbled into camp two hours later. Ethan, supported by his young squad leader, managed to give a tired greeting as he was tended to by the company healer. As he smoked his long pipe, small tendrils of smoke drifted lazily through the clearing.

  Of the twenty soldiers that had set out with him, only ten had returned alive. The fighting had continued well into the night, and it had taken a concerted effort to break the pursuers’ line. Ethan expressed concern that some of his men might be still alive, lost in the tangled undergrowth of the forest. Scouts were quickly dispatched in the hopes of finding some of the missing men. Ethan had lost three of his five flankers, and he silently cursed himself for attempting such a daring plan.

  Caolte walked among the survivors, complementing their bravery and praising their courage. Many of the stationed soldiers also passed by, offering words of encouragement or sending a wave of greeting to a friend. Each soldier bedding down in relative comfort, safe from attack, knew they owed that moment of peace to the returning Fey’Derin under Sergeant Shade’s command. They also expected to be called upon to perform the same duty in the coming days.

  “How does it feel, Sergeant?” Caolte asked, joining his officers for a brief council before the exhausted Ethan was dismissed to seize what sleep he could with what little remained of the night.

  The officer grimaced as he shifted position, his left arm cradled tightly against his body. “It’s not so bad if I’m not moving.”

  “Not a promising prognosis with a lengthy trek planned for the morning,” Ossric stated. “Ride when able, Ethan, it might keep the pain at bay.”

  Ethan nodded. “Aye, it might be the only way I can get by without help. How many did we lose? I saw a few familiar faces missing around camp.”

  “With your losses, we’re at twenty-one slain. Not exactly the best way to begin a long journey, but acceptable losses considering the unexpectedly tenacious response. I lost too many of my youngest after a stubborn defense held us at bay, but we made it,” Brock winced, still pained by the loss of his newest soldiers.

  “Is anyone else wondering whether Herod’s men have any chance of breaking free? They have less than half of our cavalry —” queried Ossric.

  “In these woods, the horses don’t matter. I am far more concerned about their far less experienced command group,” Ethan added.

  “Even though we fulfilled our part of the bargain by keeping the Protectorate occupied, I can’t imagine how his men will sustain a prolonged march without better preparation,” Caolte replied.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Herod is a good man, but an uncreative soldier,” Caolte said, giving his honest opinion. “He had no forewarning this would ever happen. He can in no way be as prepared as the Fey, and if he runs into serious resistance, he may very well break through, but he’ll lose half a company doing so.”

  “How are we in any better a position?” Brock interjected.

  “Gavin had the area scouted a week before we arrived,” Caolte explained. “He knew what to expect. You remember when Orn left to hunt game? Well, he was working for Gavin, spending some time on these riverbanks and forest trails, preparing a route for the company should events go ill during the Gathering. Without that advantage, I don’t believe Herod, although I wish him luck, will fare as well.”

  “Seems Captain Silveron knew something we didn’t…” Ossric’s deep voice rumbled.

  Caolte shrugged, “You all know Gavin’s been sensitive to such things, strangely so, always trusting his natural instincts. I used to find it eerie and a little disconcerting, but that man has kept us alive with those same instincts for the better part of five years, and so I just grew to accept it.”

  “Was he like that in Black Company?”

  “Yes, but far less confident, Brock. He was tentative about voicing his opinions, but even then Captain Holdam paid attention to Gavin’s inclinations. It was Parksya that changed him. He became more like the man we know now; confident, steadfast, and trustworthy,” Caolte finished, “but darker… sad and melancholy.”

  “Still no chance on shedding some light on that subject, sir?” Brock made the futile request.

  “None,” the old warrior answered.

  “Tell us something else about Gavin, then,” Ethan insisted.

  “I’ll tell you about his first battle,” Caolte began, the officers listening with rapt attention. “You have to remember, Gavin came to Black Company fully trained, or at least very familiar with both a blade and a bow.”

  “It was the Koriani, no?” It was Ethan who spoke.

  Caolte shrugged. “Possibly. He was definitely no green recruit out there in the practice yard. Far from it, although he’d tell you different.”

  “Interesting. I wonder how he was able to be trained by those black garbed warriors,” Brock questioned. “They make me uneasy.”

  “I myself, and not a few other veterans, have always maintained that young Gavin held back in the training yard in hopes his skills wouldn’t be noticed. Well, no matter how hard he tried to throw a contest in the yard, his pride forever gave him away,” Caolte laughed.

  “I can’t imagine the captain ever lying down with a sword in his hand,” added Ossric in disbelief.

  “I can’t even count the number of bruised egos Gavin dealt out to the veterans of our company in that first summer,” Caolte nodded in reply. “It did cause some jealousy, but most of the men took to Gavin’s good nature, and he was well respected for his swordsmanship. And yet, no one could ever get him reveal anything about where he had developed his abilities.”

  “In any
case, Captain Holdam signed an escort contract that summer. Half the company wasn’t needed, and a lot of the men were happy to stay home with their families for an extra year. We had campaigned in the east the previous season, fighting against nobles alongside the Rhone brothers near Donegal’s Stone, and were late in returning that winter. Well, Gavin and the recruits of his squad jumped at the chance to go on escort, and being in my command, I went along; although truthfully, I would have rather been at home with Karli.”

  “While escorting a fat merchant from Copenrun, we ran into a rogue group of brigands. Obviously weak and undernourished, they were many; and numbers often breed courage and boldness. I can still hear Gavin’s voice rising above the panic of that afternoon. ‘Shields up, pull in those ranks, steady on the left.’ He took command with nary a thought.”

  “I agreed with his choice of tactics and let the boy lead,” Caolte chuckled. “The defensive strategy kept us and the rich fool alive, and by the gods, his swordplay was dazzling. For the first time, unrestrained by the practice yard, Gavin cut such a swath through those fools that half the company merely watched the display with mouths agape. He was so fast that I could barely keep my eyes on his blade.”

  “But strangely enough, once the enemy had been routed, he called off those who were giving chase. ‘They are starving,’ he said, ‘and they are desperate. Leave them be.’ And with that, Gavin left a good portion of our foodstuffs on the ground, and one of the merchant’s pack mules to boot,” Caolte laughed.

  “If I know the merchants of Innes Vale, that man could not have been pleased,” whistled Ethan with a smile.

  “He was furious, and I had to answer for Gavin’s behaviour, being the commanding officer. Needless to say, Gavin spent a lot of time cleaning the camp for the remainder of the trip, but was eventually promoted to squad leader. He also spent his earnings that year repaying the debt he owed me for the loss of that mule. Ask him sometime about mushroom and potato soup. It’s all he could afford to eat that winter!” Caolte bellowed.

  “He hates mushrooms!” Ethan roared.

  “Oh, I know,” Caolte winked in return.

  “He’s a good man, our captain” said Brock after the laughter had subsided.

  “The best,” Caolte Burnaise replied.

  A few minutes passed before Ethan finally struggled to his feet.

  “Well then, if there aren’t changes in the plan for tomorrow, I’d best be heading off,” Ethan looked towards the lieutenant. “But thank you for the story.”

  “Everything will proceed as planned. Brock has point, Ossric the rear. I’ll travel with Era for the morning and issue any further orders after our midday meal.”

  “Snack, you mean,” Ossric interjected.

  “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it, Sergeant?” Caolte retorted.

  “If anyone could do without a meal or two, it would have to be you, McConnal!” Brock added, and a second wave of laughter broke out.

  Surveying the men Gavin had entrusted with the safety and training of his soldiers, Caolte believed the young captain had made strong choices; the steady Ethan Shade, the dependable Brock Fearan, and the giant Ossric McConnal, had all performed admirably, just as Gavin had predicted they would.

  The Fey’Derin, the clansman sighed, would survive; and although pained by the losses of the day, Caolte knew that if they could reach the northern edge of the Caeronwood in such spirits, they would be fine. Watching the three men leave and wishing them all a good night, he only wished Gavin could have been there to share in the moment.

  Fighting amidst the chaos of the battlefield takes some nerve, but it is the mastering of oneself within that chaos that takes true courage.

  —Captain Druan Warder, An’Darim

  Chapter XXXV

  Shalo’k Mine, Lok’Dal hie

  Angvald and Leoric were led out of the warehouse and tied securely to the back of a small wooden wagon. With their wrists lashed painfully together, escape was an impossibility. The still unconscious Benoit was tossed into the back of the wagon, and it was soon flanked by two merciless goblin guards. There was still no sign of Cara as a shouted command spurred the horses into motion.

  Awkwardly attempting to crane his neck in order to catch a final glance of Kieri, Leoric was rewarded with the sharp crack of a whip across his neck. Stifling a cry, he sent a baleful glance towards the goblin jailor sitting smugly atop the wagon. Ignoring the sharp pain, Leoric continued his bold stare even as a second series of lashes landed across his arms. I will hold my head high, he vowed silently.

  They travelled north past the city of Lok’Dal hie and into the small mountains that lay beyond. Earlier, they had passed the small hillside where Angvald and Drake had worked each morning. Not a soul could be seen, and the moonlit landscape was devoid of any movement. The silence was unsettling.

  The trail continued through the rugged countryside and eventually brought them to a dark opening near the base of one of the smaller peaks. No sign or activity was in evidence, and no guards patrolled the area. There was absolutely no indication that below the surface of this nondescript opening lay the mine of Shalo’k. It was the perfect location for such a place to exist.

  No way to find you once you went below, Leoric thought to himself.

  Leoric, Angvald, and Benoit, who was now awake and completely bewildered, were led into the gaping maw of blackness. Their captors said little, pushing and prodding the prisoners when needed, but rarely speaking aside from a rare grunt or command. From the nervous behaviour some of the goblins exhibited, Leoric deduced that even those who called Lok’Dal hie home were wary of this place. That, in itself, was enough to turn his blood cold.

  Beneath the earth, all sense of time was soon displaced. Leoric could only guess at how long they had travelled through the winding corridors of the mine. The cold passageways were only dimly lit by sporadically placed torches, and eerie shadows danced across the roughhewn walls. Leoric was still numb and confused by their shocking apprehension.

  Only the fact that the enigmatic Auric was still free kept his spirit somewhat hopeful, but as they wound their way into the depths of their new prison, Leoric was filled with despair. There was little chance anyone would find them in this place. He did, however, fervently hope that Auric might still win his way back to the holdings of the Iron Shield and warn the people of Kal Maran of the goblin hordes ready to march. If the old man failed, things looked grim for the unprepared men of the borderlands.

  They had never expected the savages of the Wilds to show such cunning and military savvy. It now seemed as though the peoples of the north might sadly pay for this ignorance with their lives.

  The tunnel eventually led to a small barred doorway that sealed off the shaft, blocking any further descent. The door was rusted and partially bent at the base, as if someone, or something, had spent time futilely clawing at it to escape. One of the guards fished through a sack and drew out a small, copper key. Fitting it in the lock, the goblin pushed the door open, giving the three prisoners their first glimpse of the mine.

  The enormous cavern was bathed in the ruddy glow of torchlight. Shadows flickered along the rough stone walls and a wave of heat washed over Leoric. The tunnel opened up into a large circular chamber with tall metal spikes jutting from the rock. Leoric could barely contain his revulsion at the sight, and his stomach reacted angrily. On each long and rusted pike, were the pierced and decomposing heads of men, their mouths agape in horror. Each severed head showed the emaciated visage of a man who had died what must have been a horrible death.

  Shuddering at the grisly sight, Leoric could barely suppress his loathing. The goblins, he had come to believe, were far more civilized than his initial impressions, yet the horrible foyer of the Shalo’k Mine proved the contrary. A civilized race would not stoop to such a level of barbarism; a civilized race could not possibly be this cruel.


  In silence, the goblin guards ushered them through the macabre entryway and deeper into the mine itself. The floor of the main room, one with large barrels and wagons placed in neat rows, was empty of life. The deserted space did not help quell the fear in the pit of Leoric’s stomach. From two metal wires hung the flayed bodies of two prisoners, their skin lying in dried tatters beneath their listless forms and darkened red splotches of old blood stained the floor. As they marched by, Leoric could not tear his eyes from the grim spectacle.

  The room itself had five separate openings cut into the rock, each one leading into darkness. All of Leoric’s senses screamed for him to flee, to put up a mad struggle against his captors in the hopes that he could evade the suffocating depression of the place. Regrettably, the ropes that bound him were far too tight, and his hands were already purple and numb from the loss of circulation.

  The goblins shoved the three men down the leftmost corridor, one where the torchlight seemed even dimmer than in the previous chambers. Almost immediately the stench of unwashed bodies, feces, and decay assaulted Leoric’s nostrils. With mounting apprehension, the borderman silently trudged down the tunnel, his nose burning from the heavy scent. People have died down here ... he thought to himself. Will I now join them?

  After a brief walk in which the ground continued to slant sharply downward the further they progressed, the goblin guards brought the small procession to a halt. They had reached a small square chamber that was obviously being used as a guard station for this particular area. Four goblins stood conversing off to the side. Leoric recognized one from his own retinue.

  The Shalo’k guards had a cruel look in their eyes that worried him. He could tell that these were creatures who relished the opportunity to dominate and destroy a human being. In the goblins’ stares he saw nothing but disgust and disdain for him and his comrades; a sure sign of things to come.