Cornelius Wilde

The Recruit

Part II

-A matter of solidarity-

-

Gallant Dogs

Eplas based Mercenary Company.

(Banner -an 'aroused' black Molossus war dog)

Dictums

'Call the dogs', 'Do it for me Pretty', 'Pull it Rick', 'Bite their ankles off' and 'Send for Liko' amongst others.

*Command structure

(Both historical but also current, as in the winter of 196 NC, after the battles at Uxrid River and before operation 'Main Market'.)

Gold Badge

(Company's Staff members – by seniority)

Captain Dante Blackwood (KIA 189 at Hellfort, Duchy of Raoz, Eplas.)

Captain Ottis (KIA 190 at Eikenport, Eplas.)

Captain Whisper 'Pretty' Jinx (not with unit after 190?)

'Mighty' Soren (not with unit after 190)

Victor 'Pale' Hook (KIA 189 at Teid River, Duchy of Raoz, Eplas.)

Zola (KIA 190 aboard the Marquette, Shallow Sea.)

Kirk and Cassara (The twins- KIA 188 in Oakenfalls, Eplas.)

(Commandant) Captain Rollon Martel

'Purse Officer' Crafton (KIA at Even Fork, Kaltha Kingdom, Jelin.)

'The Kid' Liko (later sergeant of First Office. Captured at Uxrid River.)

Monarch Arguen Garth Aniculo (Rumored)

-

Three Companies

Old Dogs –

300 + 50 recruits (mixed, veteran armoured fighters)

First Sergeant, Flavius Super (Ex-Legionnaire, injured at Uxrid River)

Second Sergeant, Lu Douc-Re

-

*Gold Contract– mixed heavy infantry

10 soldiers + 200 recruits (ex-300 company members)

Captain Nathaniel Wyncall (2nd in command, KIA at Uxrid River)

Chief Sergeant, Bardo Masin

Sergeant Adam Di Cresta

(Young officer, distant kin of the late philosopher and architect)

Cornelius Wilde, (New recruit from Colle. His father was a Blacksmith, not a member of the Crafters Guild and veteran of 'Warband Rebellion'.)

Tony Hoyer, (A Jaw Castle survivor. Lost his family and some of his teeth due to starvation during the brutal siege of the previous years.)

Brody Hoovers, (Another Colle resident. Cornelius childhood friend.)

Huibert Bok, (Eagleport native. Huibert would join Hoovers, Wilde and Hoyer to create a tightknit group representing this younger iteration of the company.)

-

*The Grunts (Spear infantry)

Around 40 + 260 recruits + 100 prisoners (all recruits served here first)*

Captain Elmer Sax (3rd in command, KIA at Uxrid River)

Sergeant Tule Nzo

Sergeant Bert Ottis (away to Wetull. Officially to petition King Garth for assistance)

-

Engineers

(With the supply train)

Around 70 + 50 recruits (+ Ten Scorpios, 3 Heavy Catapults)

Sergeant (of Engineers) Ricard White (KIA at Oxrid River)

Sergeant (of Engineers) Ricard 'Rick' Willian

Dottore Dalai-Tue

Company's Staff personnel

'Purse Officer' Crafton, (KIA at Even Fork 195 NC)

'The Kid' Liko (Sergeant of First Office)

Johnny 'Hardwood' aka Ola-Saab in Cofol (Recruiter, staff officer)

Nita 'Ola' (Female scribe –Johnny's slave)

Sati 'Ola' (Female, medic –Johnny's slave)

'Purse Officer' Demetrius Martell (the commandant's younger brother)

Scouts

Rad 'Carrion' Severs, named Northern warrior (a fighter that has won a duel to the death inside the circle of shields) turned mercenary scout

'Grass' Bordon, Northman, and part of Severs 'crew alongside 'Nod' Weather

Jed 'Nod' Weather

(A named warrior. Supposedly had killed a Nordic 'pale bear' with a rock, or a bear cub -according to others, then made a fire and ate it.)

Blacksmiths/Weapon-smiths/Armorers

Plutarch Garboni (Lesia, former '300' member)

Harry Gasper (Rida. A Lorian from Raoz.)

*The company was stationed permanently in the Garth District of Eikenport in the 'Home', but had business interests in other districts and ports. Later it expanded in several cities and had recruiting agents in most Guild headquarters. According to the 'ledger' the Mercenary Guild's records in Castalor, the Dogs reached the status of being 'the richest' company in the realm around 193 (toppling the Iron Fists of Parmaport) and never lost it. Usually numbered around a thousand soldiers, but the numbers fluctuated wildly due to heavy casualties.

2) Rida-born and educated, Rollon Martel, was the last member to receive the original golden badge as it was replaced with the now common silver 'dog pendant' after 193 NC. He received criticism for the handling of the outfit's affairs, but hanged on to his position due to his connections and good relations with Queen Elsanne and Lady Lussiel of Morn Taras aka Captain Whisper Jinx. Rollon's famed memoirs 'The Wandering Blades', cemented the old mercenary in the eyes of his peers during the first decade of the two hundreds for rebuilding the outfit multiple times, perhaps to an undeserving degree.

3) All original members were portrayed in commissioned paintings inside the commander's office in the headquarters' building and copies followed the outfit on campaign. Martel later turned the main building in Eikenport into the company's museum hall to generate revenue, moving the headquarters' inside the 'Watchtower' after the Dogs 'camp' expanded outside its walls.

4) After the catastrophic losses in the Uxrid River offensive, the Grunts Company turned inactive for months trying to replenish its ranks, where it had also suffered a great number of prisoners. The Gold Contract Company was all but wiped out as well, but it was rebuild fast during the late summer months and fall using 'aggressive' recruiting methods, but also the personal wealth of its late Captain, Nathaniel Wyncall, who had donated all of his life earnings to the outfit's purse. The former Lesia, well-known company thus received the majority of the better recruits and was to be ready to serve again, during the late winter months of next year, 196 NC. A practical decision but also revenge-driven, or even perhaps just unavoidable for 'political reasons'.

-

A day later

"Riverdor's expensive brothels!" Brody exclaimed passionately, his teeth rattling so hard he couldn't keep his eyes open and faltered inside their tent. "Cursed water barrel had ice formed inside mate! I think I've gone blind!"

Cornelius wiped his chest with the towel and then tossed it on his friend's face, scoring a satisfying hit. Brody groaned, almost went down, but found his footing and started wiping his genitals with the towel.

"You should have done yer face first," Cornelius told him. "It was the last towel."

"Well… fuck," Brody exclaimed with a frown and blinked, still shivering all over. "The cold killed plenty of brain cells it seems."

"You got to have fuel to burn," Cornelius murmured and went to look outside their tent at the expansive camp.

"Ha! How's Huibert?" Brody asked with another shiver and smelled the wet towel before using it on his face.

"Can't speak still, but he'll live. Left him at the Dottore's."

"The Cofol?"

"Yep."

"How do you tell them apart?" Brody asked and put a pair of pants on behind him. "From the Horselords that is."

"Less makeup, not as angry? Also darker in skin color I suppose," Cornelius murmured.

"Like Nita."

"Forget about the darn girl. They are gathering the recruits outside," he told him and grimaced. "You got us in trouble Brody."

"What trouble?" Brody argued and pushed him outside the tent. "We are getting paid mate. It was either that or ambushing Sondergaard's mules and turn bandits!"

Brody wasn't wrong in that one, Cornelius decided and grimaced at the gush of cold air that met them when they stepped outside.

"A new pair of boots. Use cord to bind them," the scarred Lorian sergeant, named Super for whatever reason, barked and showed them the leather boots. "A pair of pants. Thick garb. A tunic. One shield, reinforced wood. A conned helm, mostly new with fillings for those having a small head. In the event you cunts have too big a head to install a helm on, you get by without one, until said cranium is conformed to regulations!"

"Sergeant. How does a cranium get smaller?" one large-headed recruit asked, but Masin whipped his own head around and cast a glare on him in order to shut him up.

Flavius Super grimaced, his square jaw turning even squarer in the attempt, then he continued after this small interruption.

"A sword. We are still in shortage, so you'll wait on that front. A crossbow, to those that can spot a mare's nipples from a hundred yards. A dagger. See to sharpen it in your own blasted time and finally axes. Those we do have in bulk and shall be issued immediately. Either a pickaxe or a shovel, also in great abundance. Very useful. A small water barrel for every tent of four or three persons. Remember to char the barrels' insides for the water to keep eh? It's on you not to get sick! Right then, now everyone hearing his name will stand forward so Harry Gasper can take their measurements for the armor. I want this done in an hour. Before anyone asks, it is leather cuirass with plates at the front and back. I bought mine, so you won't get the same! Next thing… ahm, yes. I almost forgot. Not every Dick, Tom and Harry will get the plates immediately, so see to preserve the leather bindings because them plates are a right bitch to outfit properly without! The first numskull that makes shoelaces of them, I'll punch in the fucking throat!"

"Good shit," Brody whispered to the scowled Cornelius with a beam. "Free stuff."

"Now, you may think these stuff are free," Sergeant Super continued with a rustle as if he'd heard him. "But it ain't. You'll return them at the end of your contract in five years. If you can't because shit break down all the blasted time, then you'll be charged a reasonable amount for the lost materiel."

Cornelius let out a grunt and Brody added with a shrug.

"Eh, fine. Almost free."

Sergeant Masin waited for the recruits to pick their training swords and gather around him in the open area of the large camp. Built right next to the hospital and the bridge, it was less than a kilometer away from the royal camp and directly across the merchant settlement.

"Right," Masin grunted and slapped the flat of the sword on his leg. "One after the other you get to prove yer skills on the blade. Those with no skill shall form a separate group after morrow. The idiot with the small ears. Yes," he told the shocked recruit. "You, come forth."

"Any last moment pointers?" Brody asked after the gasps of horror subsided, when the recruit went down with a bleeding head.

"Dottore! Take him away," Masin barked and turned to the next in line. "Hoovers!"

"Go down fast," Cornelius retorted and Brody stepped forward, charged the sergeant instead. Masin's training blade connected with Brody's fingers after the latter's wild swing and sent his sword flying over the watching in horror recruits heads.

"Shit! Riverdor's harlots!" Brody cursed and Masin frowned a little amused.

"You've an expensive palate recruit," the sergeant commented wryly and raised the training sword to whack him.

"Not the head!" Brody shouted and Masin stabbed him in the gut instead. Brody twirled away with a groan and narrowly escaped a hack on the shoulder blades.

"He's slippery this one. So he gets to join the advanced group," Masin barked, when his follow up kick missed as well and Brody rolled away. "You," he grunted pointing at the man next to Cornelius and the recruit fainted out of fear abruptly, his nearby colleagues grabbing him before he could hit the gravel. "The noobs group with him," Masin commented with a sigh and stared at Cornelius in a quizzing manner. "The protesting bastard. Come forth," the sergeant told him with a smirk.

Cornelius lifted the weighty, dull iron blade and advanced to confront the sergeant.

"You have a solid stance," Masin remarked, observing him intently like a hawk.

"I grew up around blades," Cornelius shot back.

"Aha!" the sergeant grunted, launching an attack aimed high. Cornelius swiftly raised his own sword to parry the strike, then downed it slicing at the sergeant's cuirass and leaving a scratch on the plate. Masin let out a curse of surprise and twisted to evade the blow but was unsuccessful; however, he retaliated right after and struck Cornelius on the outer side of his retreating knee. "You're injured, but I'm half-dead," Masin commented with a satisfied grunt, his words directed to the grimacing in pain Cornelius. "Why?"

"I could have aimed for your ugly face," Cornelius replied through clenched teeth.

"That's correct! This smartarse was considerate," the sergeant barked with a fierce grin, turned into a grimace of pain as he waved Cornelius away with his sword. "Advanced group. Now, next one! You, the one without teeth!"

"I'm only missing the front pair sarge!" The chastened recruit protested.

"Use more of yer mouth to smile then!" Masin fired back afore adding. "Don't do it now. Raise that sword, you imbecile!"

"That's my friend," the grinning Brody explained to the waiting their turn recruits, "He's darn good with a sword!"

"Shut up Brody!" the moving with a gait Cornelius grunted and returned to their group.

The training was followed by a meal in the camp's kitchen, but for those in need of medical assistance and then they gathered at the parade area to listen to the Commandant.

Rollon Martell was a stout man, a little heavy for his height, but stood impressive in his heavy armour before the recruits and some of the watching from the sidelines veteran mercenaries, to address the newcomers. He carried even more scars and stitches on his face and body than the sergeant which lent his words even more gravitas.

"A soldier of fortune goes where few men go willingly. There's no nobility in his actions, even if those actions might be perceived as such. There's no evil in them also, but sometimes lines are crossed and evil occurs on our watch. We stand as professionals in our tasks and not a mob, for we are here for profit and not all other things," the Commandant paused to perceive the recruits carefully. "Even if other things fall into our lap. Same as we won't lose sight of our purpose for glory though, we won't lose it for future profit also, for the number one duty a mercenary has, is not to die for nothing!"

Brody made a face and Cornelius rolled his eyes as the stout officer continued after another emphatic pause. "There are times that death is unavoidable," Martell added in a graver manner. "You won't hear this shite in the army. We have a code, we speak our minds and don't hide the truth from one another. It's a brotherhood, the noblest of guilds, for we offer exactly what it writes on the contract and not an iota more. Mishaps are included in the fucking price! It's not an easy profession my lads, so take pride in it. As I said, if death is to come knocking on our doorstep and there's no other way around it, then a soldier of fortune shall go down fighting like hell and take as many of his enemies he can with him. We fight for coin and our employer, but we fight for one another more than anything else. Remember this always! Yesterday it was here, on Jelin and Kaltha's capital and on the morrow, some misbegotten faraway place, less grand and with a more difficult to pronounce name! We serve no flag, because coin has no father, but more than anything, it has no country also!"

"Ha!" Brody guffawed. "See? The Chief doesn't know it too!" He told the grimacing Cornelius.

"It's called expound and embellish, Brody. He's trying to sell us a point," Cornelius retorted, shaking his head at the cheers erupting from the gullible recruits listening to the smirking Commandant's rousing words.

The first day inside the mercenary camp had come and gone in a blink of the eye for the recruits. Around two hundred of them had 'joined' the Gold Contract's ranks, as the Dogs were split into different companies. The two primary groups were the Old Dogs under the Cofol Sergeant Luc Duc-Re and the Issir Killian Vandam, the Gold Contract under Sergeant Bardo Masin and Adam Di Cresta, both out of Lesia originally as was the truth for the whole company and the Grunts, where the majority of recruits trained initially. The latter had less than forty soldiers which had been absorbed by the Old Dogs. It was inactive at the time, with her officers dead or captured and the Cofol sergeant Tule Nzo critically injured. There were also scouts present, engineers and medics into smaller separate groups and had their tents bunched up together but for the Nords who had theirs by the camp's forest gate and Ricard's engineers who had his machines positioned beyond river Uxrid.

The most permanent building was a workshop hastily erected out of river-stones and wood, protected by an awning fashioned out of thick, wax-lathered sail cloth. It belonged to the camp's smith Plutarch Garboni –another former legionnaire and its armourer Harry Casper. This rather open structure Cornelius entered early that morning, tired from sleeping next to a snoring Huibert Bok, the murmuring Tony Hoyer and the farting Brody Hoovers. He carried the charred blade with him.

Stolen story; please report.

The mid-aged blacksmith stopped hammering a bright red piece of metal and watched the young man make his way towards the hearth.

"What are you looking for lad?" Plutarch asked.

"I'm Cornelius," he introduced himself and looked about him at the available tools. "We haven't gotten our swords yet."

"I'm working on them. Not anymore, I reckon," Plutarch had stopped flattening the hot iron piece with a thin smile. "If you learn anything in this life, let it be patience lad."

Cornelius grimaced. "The thing is, Mister Plutarch, I could repair this blade. If you allow me to use your tools."

Plutarch raised his thick blond and grey brows, as if the proposition sounded flippant. Then he queried with a hint of razz in his voice. "You could?" Cornelius nodded. "I mean, you can use the forge in my lunch break…" the blacksmith paused to work the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He spat down and dropped the blade he had been working on back into the coals. "Show me that sword," Plutarch told Cornelius and the latter offered him the blackened blade.

The weapon-smith caught it with a tong and dropped it on the bench. He gave it a whack with a hammer and blew at the blackened blade's surface twice to examine it up close. Plutarch smacked his lips and glanced at the silent Cornelius. "It's burned alright, but not in a forge. This was an open fire. Still, a portion of the blade has degraded."

"A building," Cornelius replied. "It destroyed the grip."

"It did," Plutarch agreed pursing his mouth. "You'll need to melt it down anew, hammer out the imperfections."

"I can do it," Cornelius told him.

The weapon-smith nodded and turned the blade this way and that using the tong. "This is a Lorian type arming sword. Legion Cavalry would be my guess, as it has the Lorian numerals near the ricasso where the blade is unsharpened and everything. Nobles don't do that. Not much of a tilt for it to be a saber, so this is a Lesia officer's sword cause they are stricter with tradition, or a copy of one. The likes issued back then for the 2nd Cohort. I didn't have to guess about this one. It is what the numerals mean. Where did you get it?"

"My father made it," Cornelius retorted, a little defensively. "It was supposed to be a family blade."

"The building burned," Plutarch said with a frown. "What was it?"

"A workshop, like this. Well, it had walls," he added and Plutarch nodded.

"He wouldn't know how to write the specific-style down though without working on one afore. A vanity project, to remind yer father the dreams of his youth," the weapon-smith murmured, as if thinking aloud. "Your father served with the Legion, Cornelius? You have a Lorian name."

"Never talked about it, but he'd traveled in his youth," Cornelius replied. "I don't know the answer to your query."

"What about his name? Surely you know that."

"Patrick Wilde," he told him crooking his mouth and Plutarch stood back as if surprised or reminiscing of older events.

"I remember a young Issir helping around the workshops. Very insistent and hard working," Plutarch finally said. "Wanted to be a blacksmith, learn how to turn steel into proper blades. Aye. A good lad though. The best he could manage in the end, was working near Master Alessio Sardi. Not a small feat, and it was mostly because the old man thought him talented. Of course it didn't sit well with the other assistants trying for the same position, aye. Did he get into the Guild upon returning to Kaltha?"

"He didn't, but worked with Joseph Sommer who had inherited the license and a promise from his father," Plutarch explained. "They built a business together. My father did most of the work. Anyways, they are both dead now unfortunately. Buried right where their workshop stood."

"Uhm," Plutarch said and stared at the charred blade intently for a while. "Wilde had tried to learn a difficult trade in order to carve a place to raise a family in his hometown. A familiar story for most of us. Your father travelled far beyond his means and station during his youth, but upon his eventual return to the homeland, his own peers frowned upon yer father's association with the Lorians of the East. It is how life is, I reckon. I'm sorry for your loss, Cornelius."

"I appreciate the kind words," Cornelius replied hoarsely.

"I liked yer father. Remembered the name immediately," Plutarch admitted. "A good lad, aye. Gone too soon."

The truth of it was his father couldn't live without his mother and it wasn't something Cornelius had gotten over yet. He felt guilty for being away pursuing his own dreams outside the workshop, and offering no support to the old man.

He also didn't want to talk about it.

"Be that as it may, I'd like to work on the blade still," Cornelius insisted crooking his mouth.

"Even if I agree, you won't get permission from Masin," Plutarch said. "You need to train with the others lad. Learn how to survive out there."

"I'll work on it, in my spare time," Cornelius argued, as he'd spend the time to read the rulebook Johnny had given him last night. He had to threaten the Northman and pester him for a while after dinner, until Johnny gave in.

"I'll talk with Gasper, half the stuff in here are his," Plutarch said and smiled with another glance at the ruined blade. "Then speak with Masin. He's lost a lot of friends. We all have," he added turning to look in Cornelius' face. "Some we knew for decades, lad. Some bonds you'll form in here, are not far from those of a family."

"I understand," Cornelius replied.

"Not yet, you don't," Plutarch reasoned with another tired smile. "But I have a feeling, you shall."

"Huibert can speak!" Brody yelled the moment he spotted Cornelius return to their small tent. "Like a frog with a cold, but it is something! Ha-ha! Speak, you fool! Ye make me look bad!" He urged the discomforted young Huibert, who raised his hand to greet Cornelius.

"Hello," Huibert said shyly in a hoarse, broken voice.

"There," Brody said pleased and Tony Hoyer smiled, his teeth having a big gap where a couple of them were missing.

"Training starts in half an hour," Cornelius told them getting Brody's boots away from his cot. "You need to work on your skills."

"How about you help us out?" Brody asked. "You are pretty good with a sword darn it!"

Cornelius sighed and then turned to glare in his friend's face. "Brody, I swear to Uher, if you keep spreading this bullshit around, you'll get me in trouble."

Again.

"Nah, I know what I'm doing," Brody insisted and gave him an idiotic wink.

"Out," Cornelius grunted. "I'll show you clodpoles one move. Grab your sticks."

"I don't…" Huibert started in a croak and everyone paused, in order to patiently listen to his argument. "Really… like weapons," he added with difficulty and Cornelius puffed out with a grimace of annoyance.

"Grab yer stick Huibert and for the love of god, save your voice," he ordered with a grunt. "Speaking will get you in even more trouble, mate."

"Toothless Tony," Masin barked an hour later, grabbing at his head in despair. "It's not a paddle for crying out loud! Just work with Brody on your defense. We'll revisit attacking moves at a later date!" The sergeant grimaced, walked near another pair of recruits wildly swinging at each other with the training blades and sidestepped to get out of their way. He then paused yet again to scratch at his balding head, after removing his conned helm. With a weary sigh he raised the coif and slotted the helm on his skull again, with a glare at the dark sky.

His eyes found Cornelius showing Huibert how to hold the sword properly and stayed on the pair after narrowing in a thoughtful manner. During the next break, the sergeant called Cornelius near him, leaving the recruits to train with the almost as young in age, Adam Di Cresta. The young sergeant had a famous surname, but Masin treated him like dirt at times also.

"You really know yer stuff," Masin grunted, the moment the sweaty despite the chill Cornelius approached.

"Learned the basics from my father," Cornelius replied and rubbed at his bicep to relieve some of the strain.

"They need to learn one move well," Masin rustled, wrinkles gathering around his mouth. "Two really. One in order to defend, another to attack. Work up from there, but without this minimum, they'll never survive their first scrap unless Luthos grabs them by the ears and pulls them out of whatever shithole they end up in. These numbskulls are my responsibility. It's too big a job for one man, which is why there are three involved usually. I only have Adam since Super can barely walk on that leg and that's it. Adam is better with words than the blade, but not good enough to make coin as a writer. You need to be way better at bullshit than that, although he's pretty decent. Like you with the blade."

Masin had a way to explicitly describe what he wanted to say, leaving little room for misinterpretations.

"I'm not that good, sergeant. Almost got myself killed in Riverdor," Cornelius argued.

"I must have gotten myself 'almost killed' about twenty times afore I lost count," Masin grunted, a severe spasm distorting his face. "Who was yer opponent?"

"It was a duel, with a knight."

"That sounds hard."

"Well…" Cornelius hesitated, reminiscing the incident.

"You thought you had him?" Masin probed.

"He picked a heavier blade," Cornelius murmured. "But he won fairly."

"Let me take a guess," Masin grunted. "You didn't bring a blade of yer own."

Cornelius nodded a little embarrassed. He'd left after a big argument with the old man and didn't have the courage to ask for his father's sword.

"Was is it because of a lass?" Masin asked after watching him struggle with the guilt for a while.

"Not exactly. Brody started it."

This is my friend, Brody had told her. He'll be a squire.

"Got myself in trouble plenty of times out of solidarity," Masin said with a nod. "Nathaniel was a rich man, so he had plenty of friends," he continued pursing his lips tightly. "He also had a way of making you follow him, sometimes even against logic. You did it though, because he was a darn good friend when it mattered and took care of the outfit."

"This Nathaniel," Cornelius noted, measuring his words. "Is late Captain Wyncall?"

"Aye, the same," Masin murmured with a frown. "Instead of taking the loss and returning to Lesia, ole Nate opted to chance another adventure with the Dogs. Far nobler, he told us, to work for exotic kings and ambitious young queens, than the Bank. Better to help a desperate princess than set out to have her ruined. Aye, them were his words. So here we are, years later."

Not exactly what Martell had preached at them the other day, Cornelius thought. Some of it is born of pride then, and another out of the decency in a mercenary's soul.

"Was he right?" Cornelius asked and the Lesia-born, veteran sergeant grimaced, and stared for a while at the recruits' weapon training in contemplating silence.

"You want to work at Garboni's after yer daily duties are over," Masin said matter-of-factly instead of answering his query. "Not what a new recruit would have asked. Um. Is this a ploy to get out of yer contract?"

"Actually it's not," Cornelius argued.

"Walk with me," a sober Masin ordered and turned to head towards the workshop. Cornelius caught up with him a moment later and the sergeant continued with the same conviction. "I need someone to help me with the training. If you do that, then you can work in the smithy."

"Sergeant, I'm not really properly instructed, or even that good," Cornelius protested.

"I know," Masin retorted brusquely. "But you are better than they are by a lot. We are not about to produce knights here, Cornelius, just help folk survive a couple of scraps with old Mavors' help. So it'll have to do."

Cornelius nodded. "Who is this Mavors? Another name for Luthos?" He asked not familiar with the deity. Lorian pantheon and mythology had its own ancient gods before adopting the Five from the Issirs.

"Luck can only do so much. I'm talking of Tyeus. Nathaniel was a learned man, so I took from him. Read us the stories of the late Bronze Age," Sergeant Masin replied touching his chest with a fist. "You should read about Mavors, Cornelius. He's the god of war after all, and war… alas, is our business."

Plutarch stood up from his stool when they entered the workshop to greet Bardo Masin. Sergeant Flavius Super was also there examining a stack of finished arming swords.

"Bardo. You are late. I was about to wrap it up," Plutarch said and the sergeant nodded.

"Plutarch. Flavius," Masin returned the greeting and walked to the workbench to check on the swords himself. "How many?"

"Twenty in this batch," Super grunted, a Lorian from Regia and the city of Demames. "A couple of them, I don't like."

"It's the iron," Plutarch told them. "Low quality. The army smiths have sucked the market dry and this must be the worst supplied campaign, I've ever took part to and we have fought up in the blasted North, Flavius. Freezing snow up to our necks, eh?"

"Um," Super grunted and showed Masin the worst of the swords. "Might take another month."

"Aye," Masin murmured and puffed out. "We need the time anyways." He turned to face the weapon-smith. "Wilde will work some of his afternoons here. Finish that blade of his."

"It's a good sword," Plutarch replied with a glance at the silent Cornelius. "If he can repair it."

"Is that it?" Masin asked and took the cleaned up blade by the smith. It was still visibly damaged and cracked at spots. "What will you do for grip?" He asked the recruit.

"Something out of wood," Cornelius replied and the sergeant hoisted the grip-less sword to test its weight. "It's a longer blade, eh?"

"Yep," Plutarch agreed. "He needs to fashion a bigger handle to balance it out. Ours won't work."

"I can do it," Cornelius said, although he'd never worked on a sword handle from the beginning. His father usually left the simpler, though more tedious, tasks for him.

"Nate had a similar sword," Masin murmured. "Left the darn thing here the other day."

"You did," Plutarch agreed and went to get the fancy handle out of a box pushed under a tools table. "It might need fitting, but it's perfect."

"You'll give Wyncall's sword-handle away?" Super rustled a query and Masin cast him a knowing stare afore walking near Cornelius. He offered him the broken sword's carved ivory handle, a third of foot of blade still attached on it. "Nathaniel had told me to give his sword to someone, who would know what to do with it. I found no proper sword amidst the dead, only this, but I've the feeling you'll make something out of it."

"Ahm," Cornelius mumbled in surprise at the gesture and then took it. "Thank you."

"See that you help the company. Get started here, but tomorrow I want you up early to discuss training. You too, Flavius. Staff work is not for you," Masin had rejoined with the hint of a smile on his scarred face. "Gentlemen. This is my brothel day. So I shall leave you," the sergeant added and walked away.

-

Six weeks later.

Every time the awkward flatter-tool —a type of hammer basically, connected with the red hot metal, fat sparks erupted and rained down both sides of the anvil. Cornelius kept at it, veins bulging on his arms, trying to make the blade as thin as possible, without conceding its sturdiness or compromise its durability. Given it was a long dagger he was creating, Cornelius stopped after the third working to cool off the blade and dip it in oils. This was their day off, after an excellent week of training with weapons and group exercises with the other recruits. Despite the cold weather and the first good snow of winter, progress had been made for the most part.

Cornelius, who had finished re-forging his father's sword and then managed to fit the expensive handle with some help from Garboni the previous week, had decided to try his hand in creating a dagger out of a discarded sword that had failed when they tested it. What he had in mind of course, an exotic curved weapon he'd seen a drawing of in the camp's library, turned out to be more difficult to make, than what he'd originally anticipated.

"Your friends shall visit the settlement," Vita Ola said. She had entered the workshop without Cornelius noticing her. 'Settlement' was the name of the bunched up camps beyond Uxrid River and across the walls of the Capital. "Gasper issued masks and head scarfs. There might be disease spreading out there."

"That's a rumor," the sweaty Cornelius rustled and turned on the stool to perceive the coyly smiling scribe. "If there is disease, then the whores are spreading it."

"The girls know how to clean themselves," Nita replied and stood up. Even under her heavy woolen cloak, she appeared enticing. "Another sword? Masin won't allow you to be a blacksmith."

"It's a dagger."

"We still haven't seen the big one," Nita teased and Cornelius grimaced, trying to hide his embarrassment. "What do you want Nita?"

"Ah," the Cofol scribe puffed out. "Martell went to see the Queen. You need to be present when he returns."

"Who asked for it?"

"What does it matter?" Nita countered with a taunting smile. "You should have visited the whores, Corn-ne-lius," she added toying with the syllables of his name. "It appears your day off is cancelled."

"At least I have one," Cornelius retorted, more annoyed for feeling flustered around her than insulted.

Nita stood back. "Everyone is a slave," she finally told him raising a thin penciled brow.

"Nah. I take orders sure, but there's pay at the end of it and a pension, though a pittance of that."

It was true. You needed at least three to four terms for the offered pension to reach a livable number cumulatively, but it was much more than what most poor folk received out there.

Not everything Martell had shared with them was untrue, but he had left a lot of the finer details out.

"I possess food and plenty of security," Nita contended. "I'm well-nourished and looked after, without having to face any danger. What would I do if, let's say by some chance, I was liberated tomorrow? What would Nita turn into if Johnny set her free into the settlement?"

Resort to stealing?

No one would hire a female Cofol, even to wash the army's clothes.

Prostitution?

"There are alternative paths," a blushing Cornelius whispered.

"For someone like me, there aren't. Not here, nor in Eplas. Unless a significant amount of money comes my way."

"Have you got a plan for that?" Cornelius inquired, and she grinned.

"When lowly humans like myself reveal their schemes the vile gods above chuckle and make them suffer," the slave scribe responded in her typical playful tone and then executed a theatrical spin in order to leap out of the workshop. The chilly draft from the parted sheets at the opening sent a shiver run through the sweat-drenched Cornelius.

-

An hour later,

The Commandat's field quarters,

Outside the Memoirs Room & Camp Library

"There he is," Johnny Ola-Saab told him, working a toothpick between his teeth. The Northman was the least affected person inside the camp, but for his elusive compatriots, who also hailed from the North. Severs' gang wasn't around for weeks now though, as they had been tasked with probing the river banks as far south as Stag's Bridge. "How did you like the fancy room?"

"It's a nice touch," Cornelius replied, trying to clean his dirty hands with a cloth he carried inside his satchel.

"The paintings are copies," Johnny explained.

"Captain Jinx has no nose. I thought the Gish had tails," Cornelius pointed out. "And more pink hair than body?"

"Ayup," Johnny replied, moving the toothpick about. "She's drawn to scale. No tail though, you're thinking of red foxes, she's a real person."

"Right. The horse is too big?" Cornelius chanced as there were a lot of weird things about the painting, from Jinx's disproportioned, but shapely body, to the disturbing smirk plastered on her lips.

"It's a small pony," Johnny retorted brusquely. "But we keep it vague for a reason. She's rather sensitive about her height."

Cornelius furrowed his brows confused. "Who is Mister Garth? The man with no face?"

"Ha-ha!" Johnny chuckled nervously and cast a side-glance to the skilled recruit, just as a grimacing Rollon Martell entered the large wooden structure. The Commandant stared at the pair waiting outside the adjoined room and then walked to his office desk to collapse on the chair. Sergeant Masin had entered after him and stood silent with both arms crossed on his chest.

"Everything alright?" Johnny asked their commander and Martell puffed out audibly, reached for a silver carafe with whiskey, filled a water goblet with it and then glugged it all down under their tongue-tied scrutiny.

Martell grimaced, managing a silent burp and placed the goblet on the desk to look at his subordinates with sad eyes. Well, things weren't as cut and dry in mercenary camps, as Cornelius had come to find out.

"Never drink while on duty," Martell cautioned them with a blink of his eyes, face turning red slowly from the neck up. "But do so, if nothing else is available in order to get yer courage up. Aye."

"The Queen refused to pay what was owed?" Masin probed measuring his words.

"We got three months in advance," Martell said in a forceful manner.

"That's good news," Johnny commented and the commandant attempted to clear his throat, but it turned into an awful ruckus cough that lasted almost a full minute.

"Everything got warmed up inside. Ai…ahm, this stuff might be good for fuel," the sweaty Martell finally managed to say hoarsely, tears in his eyes. "Ah, damn it. The queen is amiable to our plight comrades!" He suddenly said raising his voice. "She wants us to reinforce and replenish our companies. That's right. Another good thing!"

The Commandant paused to look at them knowingly. Cornelius nodded, he was relieved at the news until he noticed both older officers looking less enthusiastic.

"What's the other good thing?" Sergeant Masin perceptively asked.

Martell pursed his mouth and then tied his hands together on the table in front of him. "Ottis reached Wetull."

Cornelius narrowed his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.

"The letter?" Johnny probed.

"Arrived afore him," Martell replied. "So, there is that."

Cornelius grimaced trying to figure out what they were talking about.

"Jinx asked what happened to the kid," Martell continued with a grimace of visible pain. "I foresaw that, so I have written up a sanitized version of our predicament."

"What did the Queen say?" Masin grunted.

"She makes efforts to resolve the matter," Martell replied although he visibly didn't want to.

"The Duke is set on assaulting the docks," Masin insisted and Martell's face was ravaged by a severe spasm, the deep wrinkles and nasty scars piled up on his weathered skin making him appear much older than he really was.

"We can't control the Duke's actions," the Commandant told them. "And the Queen is torn between helping him and staying the course with one big assault during the summer."

"There is no way, a direct assault would have any success, unless the walls are reduced," Masin barked and Johnny broke the toothpick in his mouth from the rising tension inside the mercenary general's camp quarters.

"Castalor sides with waiting for the winter to be over," Martell blurted out.

"People are killed every day, Rollon!" Sergeant Masin boomed. "Disease is about to spread out from folk sleeping where they shit and washing their filth in the river, where they get their plaguing water!"

"God damn it, Bardo! Fuck you. Stating the bloody obvious!" Martell shot back angered. "I know that! She does also! We can't do anything to strong-arm Pourem. He has us by the balls!"

"Maybe we should help the Duke then," Masin offered. "We need to get our people back, Rollon."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm well aware!" Martell growled, twofold more red in the face now. "I brought it up."

"What did she say?" Johnny asked.

"She can't authorize an attempt to save a bunch of mercenaries, not with people watching the wagons carry corpses away every fucking day! I mean the diggers are doing a discreet job about it, but common folk ain't that stupid! She advised us to proceed on our own accord."

Cornelius cleared his throat. "What does this mean?" He asked breaking the silence that have followed the general's words.

"An independent action. We are obligated to save our own," Masin replied brusquely. "Even if it is politically sensitive and she can't show favoritism."

"So we help the Duke?" Cornelius probed. "Save this kid?"

"Liko," Martell said and rubbed his face hard with a hand. "I watched him grow up with the outfit. The moniker is an endearment, lad. Ask some old heads about him first and you'll know how much he means to the Dogs."

"The Duke's plan is suicidal. Pourem will figure out what he's doing and wait us at the beaches," Johnny pointed out.

"He might succeed," Masin murmured. "Reach the breech or create one, if he acts swiftly and under the cover of darkness."

"A night assault provides little benefit to an attacker," Johnny argued. "What is a small breech if upon entering a big city, you face the bulk of its defenders?"

"A fucking trap," Masin grunted and shook his head in despair. "The Dogs must show their mettle, Rollon."

"The Dogs will do their duty," Martell retorted hoarsely and stared at the nervous Cornelius. "But I won't throw away lives for nothing."

"An attempt could be made," Masin said mulling it over aloud.

"An attempt must be made," Martell added with a deep sigh, letting all his internal turmoil reveal itself.

"Must?" Masin asked unsure and the Commandant tossed a crumpled scroll on the table. The sergeant stepped forward to pick it up.

"What did you answer?" He asked with a grimace, upon reading whatever it was written on the small piece of vellum.

"I told the truth available to me," Martell replied.

"He lied," Johnny translated seeing Cornelius confused expression.

"We have to make the attempt," Masin added and puffed out equally despondent.

"Alright, what is going on?" Cornelius asked and Martell stared at him surprised.

"It's the recruit I have helping me," Masin explained.

"I remember him. I'm stressed out, not senile!" Martell said, rolling his eyes. "Was just pondering whether I should elaborate on our predicament to the young man, or not."

"News has reached Garth," Masin clarified.

"The cleaned-up version?" Cornelius inquired.

"Aye. Brought by Jinx and Ottis. We have captives, blah-blah, including Liko, but this is a civilized, cultured siege, and we anticipate a prisoner exchange soon," Martell elaborated in his usual expressive manner.

"Are we?" Cornelius asked, sounding uncertain.

"Clearly not." The commander replied, sounding very-certain himself.

"So Garth bought into it?" Cornelius questioned the nervous mercenaries. "What difference does it make, if he didn't?"

"Garth is the King beyond the Pale Mountains," Masin further explained, and Cornelius stepped back, recalling the shadowy figure he had seen staring back at him under the watchtower in Eikenport, as illustrated by the artist.

"The ruler of Wetull," Johnny added knowingly. "...is a childhood friend of our Liko. He's very sensitive about people he likes."

"He's also as sharp as a tack and quite unpredictable," Martell noted. "Jinx responded with a single word to my letter assuring her of Liko's prospects. She wrote... good."

"Good?" Cornelius asked, crooking his mouth.

"Not something the Gish would say," Masin concurred, clearly concerned.

"Garth has heard about the situation. He took an interest," Martell continued, licking his lips. "He thought it over and issued us a warning. Don't mess this up."

"It can also signify one thing," Johnny said after a tense silence enveloped them.

"What?" Cornelius pressed, eager to extract more information from them.

"Someone is on their way," Martell replied wearily. "To provide a fresh perspective to that distrustful bastard. Likely with orders to intervene," he added with a shiver.

"You mean, he might send a Zilan envoy here?" Cornelius asked.

"At first," Martell responded.

"If we're fortunate," Masin added. "Though, it could be anything, this Zilan."

"How soon can the recruits assist us?" Johnny asked the astonished Cornelius.

"Ahm."

"Two months," Masin answered for him. "But this isn't the type of action to throw them into, Rollon," he warned the commandant, who nodded as if to reassure him.

Cornelius knew right then and there, the recruits were in big trouble. Masin glanced his way, as if to remind him of their earlier talks and that he was needed now more than ever.

It's a matter of solidarity, the sergeant's silent look told the strained recruit. The kind that gets you in trouble more often than not. Also injured, or outright killed.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.