Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 9-11 (Patreon)

Chapter 9

Lys followed Jorg along the road, which was wide enough for a cart but not much more. The hard-packed earth weaved through the forest, up and down grassy hills, curving to avoid their crests.

It certainly wasn’t the best route for a wagon, especially if it rained.

Around noon, Lys’s back started to ache. Jorg seemed to notice and raised a hand. “Let’s stop for a bit and have lunch.”

They found a clean rock near the road and sat down. Jorg took out his own rations while Lys explored her pack. She found a piece of meat and a honey roll.

“Do you have another one of those?” Jorg asked, eyeing the roll.

Lys nodded and shared the honey roll with him. He took a bite. “This is good. These generally go bad first, so it’s best to eat them early. Your mother’s a good baker.”

Lys nodded, taking in the advice. The sky above them was a clear blue, with a few puffs of white clouds high above. The warming sun hinted at the approaching summer.

“How far have we come?” Lys asked, looking back at the way they had traveled.

Jorg grunted. “Maybe four or five miles.”

Lys bit her lip, realizing they weren’t even a tenth of the way to Silverpines. She knew it was just over seventy miles to their destination.

“The road gets worse towards the middle,” Jorg said, as if reading her thoughts. “Because of the terrain, we can’t expect to make the best time.”

Lys nodded, accepting the reality of their journey. “What should we do if we see a wild animal?” she asked, glancing at the surrounding forest.

Jorg looked at her bow and patted the axe on his belt. “It will depend on what it is. I’ll take care of anything that gets too close, but you might be able to help with that bow.”

“I can aim,” Lys said, a hint of pride in her voice.

Jorg nodded. “Bran said you could.” He stood up, brushing off his pants. “We should keep moving.”

Lys and Jorg continued their journey along the winding road.

As they walked, Lys’s mind drifted to the events that had led to her departure. The confrontation with Caius, the broken knee, and the subsequent fallout played in her mind like a vivid nightmare.

She could still feel Caius’s rough hands on her, his hot breath against her neck as he threatened her. The memory made her skin crawl.

She thought about her family, the worry etched on their faces as they discussed her fate. Bran’s determination to protect her, even if it meant sending her away. Her mother’s tears. There had been so many tears.

What would she do now? She knew little about Silverpines, other than it was sizable and where most of Thornfield’s finished goods came from. She had been there once before with her father, the one time she visited another settlement, but that had been a long time ago, and she had been small.

Would she find safety there, or would she be met with more danger? The uncertainty gnawed at her, making her stomach churn.

Lys’s hand brushed against the money pouch tucked in her shirt pocket.

The coins inside clinked softly, a reminder of the funds she had to start her new life. She still wasn’t sure how Bran had come up with it. She would have to be careful with it, make it last until she could find a way to support herself.

As they walked, Jorg pointed out various plants and animals along the way, sharing his knowledge of the forest. Lys listened attentively, grateful for the distraction from her troubled thoughts.

The sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road. Lys’s feet ached, and her shoulders sagged under the weight of her pack. She wondered how much further they would travel before stopping for the night.

Jorg seemed to sense her fatigue. “We’ll find a place to camp soon. There’s a clearing up ahead that should work.”

Lys nodded, relieved at the prospect of rest. Jorg led her off the road, pushing through the underbrush until they reached a small clearing sheltered by towering trees. He dropped his pack and began setting up his hammock, tying the ropes between two sturdy trunks.

Lys struggled with her tent. She fumbled with the poles, trying to figure out how they fit together. The canvas kept slipping from her grasp, and she couldn’t seem to get the stakes to stay in the ground.

Jorg watched her for a moment, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Do you really need that tent?” he asked, gesturing to his hammock. “It’s a warm night, and the trees provide plenty of cover.”

Lys shook her head stubbornly. “I want to sleep in my tent,” she said, determined to make it work.

She continued to wrestle with the poles, her frustration mounting with each failed attempt. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she worked, her muscles straining with the effort.

Jorg shrugged and turned his attention to starting a small fire. He gathered dry twigs and leaves, arranging them in a neat pile before striking a flint to ignite the kindling.

Lys glanced over at him, envious of his ease in the wilderness. She had always considered herself self-sufficient, but she felt woefully unprepared.

She paused to take a breath and focused on the task at hand. She studied the poles, trying to understand how they were meant to fit together. Slowly, with much trial and error, she began to make progress.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the tent finally stood. It was lopsided, and the canvas sagged in places, but it would do for the night.

Jorg looked up from the fire, chuckling. “Not bad,” he said. “You’ll get better with practice.”

“I hope so. I’m not sure how I’m going to bundle it back up,” Lys mumbled. She slid her bedroll inside and scooted into the shelter.

It wasn’t comfortable, but she tried to sleep, anyway.

For a long time, she tossed and turned. The unfamiliar night sounds of the forest filled the air, a symphony of chirping insects and rustling leaves that kept her mind from settling into sleep.

After what felt like hours of restless shifting, she felt the pressing need to relieve herself. She sighed, knowing she wouldn’t be able to ignore it and drift off. Reluctantly, she extricated herself from the bedroll and stepped out of her tent.

The clearing was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, illuminating the surrounding trees and Jorg’s gently swaying hammock. His snores punctuated the night air, a strangely comforting sound. It felt safe.

She made her way to a nearby tree, careful to stay within sight of their makeshift camp. She took care of her business quickly. As she turned to head back to her tent, a flash of light caught her eye.

She looked up, marveling at the clear view of the night sky. Stars twinkled above her, their light undimmed by the usual haze of smoke from the village hearths. As she watched, a shooting star streaked across the sky, followed closely by another.

Lys closed her eyes, making a silent wish for better luck on her journey. She knew she would need all the help she could get in the days ahead.

As she opened her eyes, a movement across the meadow caught her attention. She squinted, trying to make out the shape in the darkness. Her heart nearly stopped when she realized it was a person standing at the edge of the trees, watching her.

No, not a person. The moonlight was bright enough that she could make out his crimson skin.

Panic slammed into her like a physical force. She stumbled back, a scream rising in her throat. “Jorg!” she shouted, her voice high and tight with fear. “Wake up!”

Jorg was alert in an instant, rolling out of his hammock. He grabbed his axe and scanned the clearing, his eyes sharp and focused.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

Lys pointed a shaking finger towards the figure. “There’s someone there,” she whispered, her heart hammering in her chest. “A man-eater, watching us.”

Jorg followed her gaze, squinting into the darkness. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I don’t see anything,” he said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Lys looked again, her eyes straining to make out the shape she had seen. But the figure was gone, vanished into the shadows as if it had never been there at all.

Jorg placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“It was probably just a trick of the light,” he said, his voice gentle. “Go back to sleep, Lysandra. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

*

Chapter 10

Lys and Jorg trekked along the winding forest road, the path occasionally blocked by branches and debris from a recent mudslide. They navigated the minor damage without much difficulty.

The morning passed quickly as they made good progress. The sun climbed higher, and the shade from the towering trees offered a welcome respite. Near lunchtime, Jorg suddenly halted, his eyes fixed on something ahead.

Lys’s heart skipped a beat as she followed his gaze. A large black bear stood in the middle of the road, its fur glistening in the dappled sunlight, dark eyes boring into her.

Panic surged through her veins. She fumbled with her bow, trying to get it off her back. Her fingers felt clumsy and uncoordinated, and she cursed under her breath as she struggled with the weapon.

Jorg stepped forward, axe held high. He spread his arms and legs wide, making himself appear larger. “Stop,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Stand still and don’t run.”

Lys froze, her eyes wide with fear. The bear lowered its head and raised its ears, a low growl rumbling from its throat. Then, without warning, it charged.

Lys’s heart leaped into her throat as she braced for impact. Just before the bear reached them, Jorg let out a deafening roar and stomped his feet. The bear veered away at the last moment, crashing into the brush.

Her chest heaved as she tried to calm her racing heart. Jorg turned to her, a frown creasing his brow. “What did you think you were going to do with that bow?” His voice was gruff.

She looked down at the weapon in her hands, feeling foolish. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice small.

Jorg shook his head. “Shooting it with that light bow would just make it angry. Black bears are easy to scare away with noise. They like to bluff charge if they’re scared, and their ears will be up. If the ears are down, then you should have your knife ready and aim for the eyes and head.”

She nodded, trying to absorb the information. “Okay,” she said, her voice still shaky.

His expression softened slightly. “That’s for black bears,” he said. “Brown bears are different.”

Lys and Jorg pressed on. Instead of stopping for lunch, they ate while they walked.

Thoughts of the bear encounter gnawed at her. She replayed the moment over and over, frustrated at how slow she was to get her bow off her back. Maybe there was a way to make it more accessible in a crisis. Using it as a walking stick crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to damage it.

Jorg broke the silence, sharing his knowledge of the region’s bears. “If you ever come across a blue bear,” he said, his tone serious, “run and zigzag. They’re too big and slow to catch you unless you’re in the water. Then you’ll have to fight back.”

She listened, nodding as she absorbed the information. Jorg’s expertise offered a minor comfort, making her feel a bit more prepared for future encounters.

A cold, insistent feeling washed over her. She stopped in her tracks. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Jorg turned, his brow furrowed. “What is it?” His eyes scanned the surrounding forest.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Jorg sighed. “Lys, we have to keep moving. We need to get you to Silverpines.”

Hesitation gripped her. Memories of past premonitions flickered through her mind—the runaway cart she avoided, the attack by Caius she didn’t. Regret gnawed at her for not listening to that instinct before.

“Maybe we should take a break, find some cover for a bit,” she offered, her voice small and uncertain.

Jorg nodded. “Alright, we can take a break. Let’s find a decent spot to rest, though.”

They fell back in step, the uneasy feeling gnawing at her. She followed, trying to push the unease aside.

Before they got off the path, two travelers appeared, coming toward them from the opposite direction. Her heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively reached for her bow. She glanced at Jorg.

“Stay alert,” he murmured, his voice low and serious. His hand drifted to his axe, loosening it in its loop on his belt.

She followed his lead, keeping her eyes fixed on the two men approaching.

As they drew closer, she noticed the swords at their hips and the worn leather armor covering their bodies. Just as they were about to pass, the men stepped into their path, blocking the way forward.

Panic surged through her veins, screaming “bandits!” in the back of her mind. But as she looked closer, she realized they didn’t fit the image of desperate, ragged men.

Jorg greeted them politely, his voice calm and even. One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered with a thick beard, spoke up. “How far is it to the next village?” His eyes darted between Jorg and Lys.

“About fourteen miles back,” Jorg replied, gesturing over his shoulder.

The two men exchanged a glance, then turned their attention to her. She drew back instinctively, her hand tightening on her bow.

“Is she your daughter?” the bearded man asked, his gaze lingering on her.

Jorg shook his head. “No, we’re traveling to Silverpines to meet her family.”

The man nodded, a slight smirk appearing. “That’s all we wanted to know,” he said, his voice almost too casual. They moved out of the way.

Jorg moved to lead them on, but as soon as they came even with the two men, the one closest lashed out faster than Lys thought possible. The man’s sword lashed out from its sheath to slice into Jorg’s arm in one fluid motion, drawing a shout of pain from the lumberjack as he stumbled back, drawing his own axe.

“Run, Lys!” Jorg yelled. He blocked another swing of the sword and shoved the other man back.

Lys turned to run, fumbling with her bow as she tried to get it off her back. Before she could get far, the other man grabbed her roughly, yanking the bow from her hand. Panic surged through her, but instinct took over. She unsheathed her father’s knife and stabbed the man in the forearm, feeling the blade sink into his flesh.

The man screamed in agony, releasing his grip. Lys didn’t hesitate, running up the path as fast as her legs could carry her. The crest of the hill wasn’t that far. When she reached it, she turned to look back, her heart pounding.

What she saw made her blood run cold. The other man pulled his sword out of Jorg’s chest and kicked the lumberjack to the ground. Jorg lay there, unmoving, as blood pooled around him.

Her bow was gone, taken by the man who had grabbed her. He looked at it and then tossed it into the grass. The two men began arguing, the injured one looking at the wound she had given him.

“Stop thinking with your dick so much, you bastard,” he growled, beginning to give himself first aid.

The other man looked up at Lys, a cruel smile twisting his features. “If you drop the weapon and come to us, we’ll be gentle,” he called out, his voice dripping with false sincerity.

She turned and ran.

*

Chapter 11

Lysandra ran. Her lungs burned, each breath a desperate gasp. The dirt road stretched endlessly behind her, empty and silent. She couldn’t run anymore.

Stopping, she doubled over, hands on her knees to gulp air while her heart pounded in her ears. A quick glance over her shoulder showed no pursuers. Relief mixed with dread—what now?

She needed rest. Needed to hide. The open road offered no safety. She scanned the tree line, then dove off the path into the dense thicket. Branches clawed at her clothes and hair as she pushed deeper into the brush.

Finally, she collapsed behind a broad tree trunk. Lys hugged her knees to her chest, trying to quiet her ragged breathing. Sweat soaked her tunic, the fabric clinging to her skin.

She shivered despite the heat of her exertion and the lingering rush of adrenaline.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Lys blinked them away angrily. Crying wouldn’t help. She had to think and plan her next move. But exhaustion weighed heavily on her limbs and mind.

Leaning her head back against the rough bark, Lys closed her eyes.

Just for a moment, she told herself. Just long enough to catch her breath and clear her head. The forest sounds seemed muffled, distant. A bird trilled somewhere above, the leaves rustled in the breeze.

Lys tried to focus on those minor details, anything to distract from the enormity of her situation. Alone, hunted. The enormity of it threatened to overwhelm her.

She took a shuddering breath, then another. Panic wouldn’t help either. She pulled her pack to her front and began to take stock of what she had. The knife from her father, a small pouch of coins, the amulet from Elie, the rations in her pack, and her quiver of arrows still untouched.

Her arrows weren’t very useful with her bow snatched, and she wasn’t sure her rations would last if she didn’t make good time to Silverpines…

Lys took a deep breath and considered what to do.

Should she go back to Thornfield? A bad feeling filled her. She recoiled and tossed the idea away. It wouldn’t be smart, she reasoned. The Magistrate would arrive there, maybe. Or Gaius would be looking for her.

Were the men that had attacked related to Gaius? No. That made no sense. They had come from the direction of Silverpines. Bandits or opportunists, maybe. She didn’t know.

Go on to Silverpines alone? What if she met more of them on the road, or they overtook her, chasing? Picking her way through the trees along the road would add weeks to the travel, most likely. She didn’t have that much time, not really.

Her rations would last a week at best. They had been measured for a quick journey with Jorg having supplies of his own, with them maybe snagging some forage along the way, maybe a rabbit. But now...

Lys fingered an arrow. They had taken her bow. Or rather, she’d lost it in the scuffle. She pulled out her father’s knife. Blood stained the blade. Her hands shook.

The weight of the weapon felt foreign in her grip. She’d never used it for more than whittling or cutting rope. Now it was her only defense.

Lys wiped the blade clean on the hem of her tunic, trying not to think about the memory of sinking it into another person’s flesh.

She sheathed the knife, taking a small measure of comfort from its presence at her hip. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Lys leaned back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes for a moment.

Resting didn’t work out. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of Jorg’s lifeless body flashed behind her eyelids.

Her bow. She needed her bow back. It was her best weapon. If she wanted to be able to properly defend herself, or hunt for game, she needed to get it back.

She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of the smooth wood in her hands, the satisfying twang of the bowstring as she released an arrow. Yes. She needed it for sure.

Maybe they hadn’t taken it. The man had tossed it away in the grass as if not interested in the weapon. The casual ease at which they attacked seemed to hint that they had done such things before.

Were they bandits or thieves or… soldiers?

Lys shuddered, pushing away the memory of their leering faces. The way she had been grabbed reminded her of Caius. The thought of what they had wanted from her made her stomach turn.

Was that really enough for them to murder Jorg in cold blood?

She didn’t understand it.

What did she know? They weren’t local, that much she knew.

Their olive skin stood out in stark contrast to the pale complexions of the eastern mountain folk. Irongian, perhaps? But their Wester Tongue had been flawless, without a trace of an accent. Maybe they hailed from southern Lastia.

In the end, it didn’t matter where they were from.

What mattered was getting her bow back and putting as much distance between herself and them as possible.

Lys pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her heated muscles protested. She would be stiff tomorrow, for sure.

Peering cautiously through the trees, she scanned the road for any sign of the two men. Nothing. The path stretched empty in both directions.

She bit her lip, considering her options. She could parallel the road, making her way back to where the attack had happened. But how far had she run? The adrenaline-fueled flight had left her disoriented, unsure of the distance.

Lys took a tentative step forward, then another. She would have to move slowly, carefully, keeping a watchful eye out for any sign of her attackers. The last thing she wanted was to stumble into them again and undo her narrow escape.

Lys picked her way through the hills for a long time.

It was rougher than she imagined, moving through the trees, on the side of a slope, while monitoring the dirt road below. Her legs began to burn with each step, the uneven terrain forcing her to constantly adjust her balance. Branches snagged at her clothes and hair, leaving tiny scratches on her skin.

Despite the physical discomfort, she felt strangely numb.

It was as if her mind had detached itself from her body, leaving her to operate on autopilot. But beneath that numbness, a certain amount of dread grew the further she went.

She hadn’t seen the two men on the road, and that worried her. What if they were waiting for her to come back?

The terrain also looked unfamiliar, which didn’t help.

She had run past it so fast earlier that she wasn’t sure how far she had come. Everything looked the same—an endless sea of trees and underbrush. Lys tried to orient herself using the sun’s position, but the dense canopy made it difficult to gauge.

A sudden laugh caused her heart to jump out of her chest.

Lys froze, crouching low behind a tree. She held her breath, straining her ears to listen. The sound of footsteps and voices grew louder. Then, the two men emerged from behind a curve in the road.

Lys watched as the two men walked by, her body tense and still. One of the men looked in her direction, his gaze scanning the forest. For a moment, Lys was sure he would spot her. But his eyes passed over her hiding spot without pause, and the men continued on their way.

As they disappeared from view, Lys noticed that neither of them carried her bow.

If they had taken it, she should have been able to see it. It was too large to fit in a pack. A small flicker of hope ignited in her chest.

Maybe it was still out there, somewhere along the road.

She waited a few more minutes, ensuring they were truly gone before continuing on her way. She still didn’t trust the road, not after what had happened. For now, the relative safety of the forest was her best option.

Lys crested the incline, her breath catching in her throat as she spotted the stretch of road where she and Jorg had been attacked. The scene before her was a gruesome tableau, a stark reminder of the violence that had shattered her world mere hours ago.

Jorg’s body lay at the side of the road, stripped of his belongings and tossed aside like a discarded rag doll. The dirt was stained red and brown; the blood having soaked into the dirt and turned it into a macabre canvas.

Lys’s stomach clenched, bile rising in her throat.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the urge to retch. Seeing Jorg like this hit home in a way it hadn’t before. She hadn’t known him for long, but he had been her companion.

He hadn’t deserved to die. Not because of her. Guilt racked her sides. She tore her gaze away to scan the road in both directions. It remained empty, no sign of the men who had attacked them.

Lys hesitated for a moment, torn between the need to retrieve her bow and the fear of being caught out in the open.

She couldn’t remain frozen forever, not if she wanted to survive.

Glancing up the path one more time to make sure the coast was clear, she took a deep breath and stepped out of the treeline. Crossing the road, her footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

The coppery scent of blood grew stronger as she neared. It filled her nose, making her head spin. Lys tried to breathe through her mouth, but the taste of it coated her tongue.

She forced herself to focus, her eyes scanning the ground for any sign of her bow.

The dirt was churned up, the signs of the struggle evident in the scuffed earth. Half-hidden in the grass at the edge of the road was a familiar curve of wood where the man had thrown it.

Lys darted forward, her heart leaping. She reached out, her fingers closing around the smooth surface of her bow. It was intact. She pulled out her bowstring and strung it immediately, a small sob of relief escaping her lips.

She turned to Jorg’s body. Blood caked his hair, matting it to his skull. A deep gash split his forehead. Bone gleamed white beneath the torn flesh.

His chest was a mess of stab wounds. Crimson stains bloomed across his tattered shirt. The fabric clung wetly to his skin.

One arm bent at an unnatural angle. Broken. The other ended in a bloody stump where his hand should be.

Flies buzzed around the gaping wounds. They crawled across his pale skin. In and out of his slack mouth.

The stench of death filled Lys’s nostrils. Thick. Cloying. It coated the back of her throat.

Bile rose in her throat. She gagged, turning away. Her stomach heaved, but nothing came up.

A dirty pair of boots lay beside him. They had taken his boots?

Killed him for the footwear?

Anger and disbelief warred inside her chest. They had taken his pack and axe as well.

A sound of wood cracking below the road sent her skittering up the hill and into the treeline and bushes. When she whipped around, drawing an arrow, there was nothing there.

An animal? She waited for a minute, then two. Nothing. When her heart stopped pounding and she could breathe normally, she set her pack down and pulled out her waterskin. She took a long gulp.

Then she checked her bow, testing the draw. It was undamaged, the familiar tension in the string feeling right. Having her bow back made her feel a bit better, more in control.

She checked her arrows next, counting them carefully. Two dozen in total. Half had sharp metal heads designed for larger prey like deer. The other half had lighter field tips, also metal. They would be suitable for small game.

She wasn’t sure why Fletcher had packed the heavier arrows. Normally she only got wooden trainers—without metal heads. Maybe Bran had paid for the better ones.

She organized them so she’d grab the heavier ones first.

If she had to shoot a man, those were the ones she wanted at the ready.