Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 12-13 (Patreon)

Chapter 12

Lys considered turning back to Thornfield again.

The two bandits were ahead of her now, between her and Silverpines. What if there were more?

She didn’t know the land well enough to leave the road, and she wasn’t even halfway to her destination. Not even a quarter of the way, really.

She weighed continuing against going back.

Returning would likely put her family in danger.

She had no idea how long it would take for the Magistrate to arrive. It was three days to Heartlehelm. Three days back. Six days then. She could be back home in a day or two. That’d leave a few days buffer.

But... what then? The men in the village loyal to Gaius would be looking for her to lock her up.

Then there was Jorg’s death and the bandits on the road.

What could they do but send an entire group of lumberjacks with her? That wasn’t really possible, she didn’t think. It was already luck that Jorg could go with her.

If she went back, she’d just be a burden at best, or more likely, a liability.

Lys turned toward Silverpines and took a deep breath. Even if it took her a lot longer to get to there than planned, it wouldn’t be a disaster.

Not like going back home would be.

She just would have to be absolutely more careful. And she’d have to fend for herself and forage for food along the way.

Thank Bunzard summer was already taking root. She wouldn’t be risking freezing to death, even if she avoided making a fire.

Her gaze slid over to Jorg’s body. The right thing to do would be to bury him.

She frowned, knowing she didn’t have the tools, and any grave would be really shallow.

A cairn of stones?

She looked around. Everything was overgrown; it was a forest, and she didn’t remember seeing any suitable stones for it.

A pyre? No. The bandits had taken Jorg’s axe.

There was nothing she could do that was suitable, and trying to dig a shallow grave would exhaust her and use up her energy. Animals would just dig him up, anyway.

She mouthed a “sorry” then began to move on. Guilt pricked at her, but she forced it down.

Jorg was dead, and she wasn’t.

She needed to do what she had to if she was going to survive. Even if her experiences and life in Thornfield hadn’t prepared her for this.

She watched for the two men as she picked through the trees, her senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig made her heart race.

She gripped her bow tightly, an arrow nocked and ready. The weight of the knife at her belt provided a small measure as a backup weapon, but she knew it would be of little use against two armed men.

Lys moved as quietly as she could, trying to put distance between herself and the gruesome scene behind her. The image of Jorg’s lifeless body was seared into her mind, and she blinked back tears. She had to focus on the present, on staying alive.

As the afternoon shifted into evening, the shade of the forest above the road brought an early darkness.

She decided not to push her luck and found a sheltered spot to set up camp.

She went to unpack her tent, only to find that it had been ripped during the earlier commotion. Sighing, she set the damaged tent aside and was relieved to find her bedroll still intact.

Given the circumstances, starting a fire wasn’t even a consideration.

She didn’t need to cook anything, and her cloak and bedroll provided more than enough warmth.

Despite her weariness, sleep eluded her for hours as she lay there, replaying the day’s events in her mind. The attack—both of them—haunted her thoughts, making it difficult to find peace.

When sleep finally came, it was deep and dreamless.

Lys woke with a start, light filtering through the trees above her. She realized she had slept soundly, which worried her considering the potential dangers lurking in the forest.

She reasoned it was likely due to the total exhaustion from the ordeal, but she knew she’d have to be more vigilant going forward. Her safety depended on it.

Lys packed up her bedroll and eyed the damaged tent. Despite the added weight, she decided to bring it along, knowing it could still be useful or easily repaired later. With her belongings secured, Lys set out once more, continuing her trek through the forest towards Silverpines.

Picking her way through the dense undergrowth, the forest floor was littered with fallen branches and tangled roots that seemed determined to trip her up.

Every step required careful consideration, and despite her best efforts, she nearly lost her footing several times. The dry conditions made the terrain somewhat easier to navigate, but the lack of streams running down the mountain meant her waterskin was running low.

She kept a watchful eye on the road below. What if she encountered the men again? The thought sent a chill down her spine, but she knew she had to be prepared for any eventuality.

She considered the various scenarios that could unfold.

If she stumbled upon their camp, she would need to find a way to circumvent them without being detected. The forest provided ample cover, but it also meant that she could easily be caught off guard if she wasn’t careful.

Survival hinged on her ability to think on her feet. She had to be smart, cautious, and always one step ahead of any potential threats. It was one thing to tell herself that, to know it—and quite another to put it into action.

The day passed with little surprise—no sign of the men or anyone else. Not even wildlife other than the birds.

Lys eventually refilled her water at a mountain stream, flowing down from the mountain. The cold, clean water was a treat, refreshing her parched throat.

She continued until it was too dark to see and then laid out her bedroll, settling in for the night. Despite her exhaustion, sleep still did not come easily.

Nightmares harassed her, images of the dead and the bandits’ leering faces jolting her awake every few hours. She lay there, listening to the owls and the night chorus, the wind rustling the branches above. There was a restlessness in the air, a sense of unease that seemed to permeate the very forest itself.

As soon as the first light of dawn crept through the trees, Lys got up and continued her journey.

She thought her pace wasn’t the worst, considering her choice of picking through the brush. It was slower than following the road, but it provided a measure of safety and concealment that she couldn’t afford to ignore.

The day moved on quickly; the sun climbing higher in the sky as Lys pushed herself forward.

It was near noon, and she was feeling tired. She was considering stopping to eat when she heard shouts ahead. Panic ran through her, her pulse racing in her veins. Were the men back? Was there another fight? Was someone else being attacked?

Lys made pushed through the thick foliage and over an incline. The terrain blocked her view of the road ahead. As she moved through another thicket, an the foliage opened up and allowed her to see out to the path.

The sight made her blink. There was a crimson-skinned man fighting the two men who had attacked her and Jorg.

She crept forward, her heart thumping in her chest. She reached the forest’s edge and stopped, the better view making everything clear.

The man-eater was cornered against a rock outcropping, wearing a loincloth while wielding a spear and shield. His body was totally hairless. That confirmed it. He was definitely not human.

The two bandits attacked from both sides, their swords glinting in the sunlight. All three looked exhausted, blood staining the ground and rocks. Someone was already injured.

Without thinking, Lys grabbed four arrows, holding them vertically along with her bow before pinching a fifth in her drawing hand.

She was certain these were the men who killed Jorg. She positioned herself with a clear line of sight, right at the edge of the trees. The crimson man’s gaze flickered to her, but she didn’t have time to hesitate.

Lys raised her bow, aiming at the closest bandit’s back.

She fired, the bow twanging. It thudded into her target, digging into his back through the leather.

She nocked another arrow and fired again as the man she had hit backed away from the crimson man.

The second arrow grazed his neck, then clattered against stony ground beyond.

The man shouted something to his companion. They both turned toward her and charged.

Panic gripped her as she drew and shot rapidly at the closer man, the one she had already hit.

Three arrows flew in quick succession.

One slammed into his shoulder, making him stagger. The second thudded into his gut. The third pierced his eye before he could react. He went down.

She turned her attention to the other bandit as he closed in on her rapidly.

Lys went to fire frantically, but her hand grasped empty air. She had used all her ready arrows!

She fumbled for her quiver. The man was going to reach her first. She started to throw her bow at him and draw her father’s knife.

A spear erupted from the bandit’s chest, a foot of the sharp end poking through. He froze, the look of horror fixating on Lys before he crumpled to the ground.

The crimson man stood behind him, holding up his shield toward her.

She fumbled, grabbing another set of arrows, her hands shaking.

He didn’t charge, but he continued to inch forward toward his spear. “Pice, girah,” the crimson man uttered. Two off-white tusks jutted out of his mouth, giving him a thick accent.

Lys kept her bow trained on him as he slowly approached his spear, still protruding from the bandit’s back. Her heart raced, unsure of his intentions. He maintained his defensive stance with his shield, his eyes locked on her as he reached for the spear.

With a swift motion, he yanked the spear free, causing the bandit’s body to jerk grotesquely.

Lys flinched at the sight, her grip tightening on her bow. The crimson man took a step back, his spear and shield at the ready, but he made no move to attack.

“Not attack fehmale. Not a girah,” he said. Then he began to rummage through the fallen bandit’s pack, his movements deliberate and purposeful.

Lys watched, her confusion growing as he pulled out a familiar waterskin. Her breath caught in her throat as the man-eater tossed it towards her, the waterskin landing at her feet with a soft thud.

Cautiously, Lys squatted down, never taking her eyes off the crimson man. She picked up the waterskin, turning it over in her hands. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut—it was Jorg’s.

Her gaze snapped back to the man-eater, and she whispered, “You were the one I saw at night.”

The crimson man tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Lys swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she continued, “You saw what the bandits did to Jorg.”

The man-eater’s response was broken and heavily accented. “Yesh, this,” he confirmed, nodding towards the waterskin in her hands.

Lys’s eyes drifted to the bandit she had shot, his lifeless body.

The reality of what she had done crashed over her like a wave, and her stomach churned violently. She doubled over, retching as the nausea overwhelmed her.

*

Chapter 13

Lys watched warily as the crimson man began to rummage through the dead bandits’ belongings, keeping a watchful eye on her. She wasn’t sure what to do as she watched the Man-eater’s actions.

The men were dead, and she could continue toward Silverpines on the road without spending two weeks stomping through the underbrush.

“Ysliv,” the crimson man grunted, pointing to himself.

Lys tried to repeat the name, but it felt foreign on her tongue. She was sure she was butchering it just as much as he butchered the western common tongue.

“Did they attack you too?” she asked.

Ysliv shook his head. “No. I attack them.”

Confusion etched Lys’s features. “Why?”

“I man-kill quest. See them kill your man. They warrior. Kill them and Ysliv be strong.” His explanation was broken and heavily accented, but she understood the words.

“I killed one, too,” Lys said.

His hand froze, as if she’d slapped him. As fast as the reaction had come, he continued to strip the men’s shirts off.

The macabre scene only got worse as he pulled out a bone knife and began to cut at their flesh. Panic rose in her chest as she realized what he was doing.

Man-eater!

“Am I a target for your man-kill quest, too?” she asked.

Ysliv looked up, surprised. “No. You woman. You revenge your man. I no fight woman.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Unless woman attack Ysliv.”

That was a mild relief. Although she didn’t quite trust him fully. She wasn’t sure that was possible considering the circumstances.

Ysliv turned and finished cutting the bandit’s heart out, holding the organ up and then taking a bite out of it. Blood poured down his mouth as he chewed. When he was finished he looked back at her with a red toothed smile. “Want I get your kill’s heart for you?”

Lys shook her head.

“Want your man’s things?”

“Yes, I need the supplies,” she stammered with a nod.

That he had been watching her and Jorg became obvious when he located the woodcutter’s pack easily. He rummaged through the bandits’ belongings and pulled out several pouches of dried meat, some coins, and another waterskin.

As he worked he glanced at Lys, appraisal in his eyes. “You brave, continue alone,” he said. “Rur-Vru woman cry, hide. Beg Ysliv take her as low-wife, back to tribe.”

Lys shook her head, her hand tightening on her bow. “I have to continue my journey, even if I have to fight.”

Ysliv grunted approvingly. “You have warrior spirit. Strong.”

He sorted the belongings into three distinct piles. When he finished, he pointed to two of them. “These yours. One belong your man. Other your kill. Take what want. What you leave, become property of Ysliv.”

“Thank you. That’s fair,” she said. She stood up, her legs stiff and sore. Despite the strangeness of the situation, she didn’t feel any danger and somehow it felt like she could trust Ysliv.

She approached and sorted through the items, collecting food rations and other necessities. She attached Jorg’s axe to her belt and stuffed her pack until it was considerably heavier. To make room, she decided to leave behind her torn tent.

Ysliv held up one of the bandit’s bloody shirts. “Human cloth smooth.”

Lys took a deep breath, centering herself. “I have what I need. I should continue on.”

Ysliv turned to her and nodded. “Rest I keep. Wish good fortune, warrior girash.”

Lys glanced at the bodies, winced, and then waved a farewell as she hurried down the path toward Silverpines.

For the rest of the day, thoughts of Jorg’s murder, the killing of the bandits, and her encounter with Ysliv all swirled in her head, making it difficult to focus on the road.

A sudden elk cry pierced the air, causing her to startle and look around.

She realized with a sinking feeling that she hadn’t been paying much attention to her surroundings, lost in her own thoughts. The road had already proven to be dangerous, and she needed to stay alert.

It would be better to stop early, rest, and do a better job in the morning. A search for a suitable place to camp didn’t take long. She found a stream and decided to follow it up the mountain through the trees for long enough to lose sight of the road. A short trek later, she found a clear spot in a thicket.

After refilling her waterskins, she used the cool stream water to wash her things as best she could to wash away the blood. That brought back visions of Jorg and the bandits. Of Caius’ shattered and bloody limb. Lys swallowed.

She set things spaced out so they’d dry while she pulled out a meager meal. A strip of jerky.

There was a sealed pot of oil, and she tended to Jorg’s axe and her father’s knife. She couldn’t let them rust, they were critical to her survival. Just like her bow. She unstrung it, and set it against a tree beside her pack. Wax came out and she tended to the bowstring before placing it in its secure pouch.

The familiar motions helped to calm her nerves, and a wave of exhaustion rolled over her. She was alone in the wilderness, with only her wits and weapons to protect her The road to Silverpines was much further than the distance she had managed so far.

But she didn’t have a choice. She needed to press on.

In the morning, she continued on. Like Jorg had warned her, the path became more and more unruly. Multiple switchbacks left her legs burning. Several sections had been damaged by rock or mud slides. The winter and spring had been hard on the little dirt road.

Thick swafts of evergreen spread out from the mountains and hills to cover the entire landscape she could see. The air was thinner. When she camped that night, she had to pull her wool cloak tight around her head and arms. A thicker bedroll would have helped, too.

The next day was even harder, and her legs screamed at her for rest. She didn’t think she made good time, but by the time evening arrived, the road was descending again. She camped between a pair of giant evergreens, the ground below them a thick carpet of needles. She collected branches with Jorg’s axe and made a bough bed to get her off the ground for the night.

The next day the path sloped downward, and began to straighten out. That didn’t make her feel entirely better, because as the trees thinned and the hills smoothed out, she was much more exposed.

She kept her bow and quiver ready.

Near noon, a creaking sound from behind sent a jolt of panic through her. She turned to look for a place to bolt to, but she was in an open spot. There was a small thicket of brush, and she made a beeline for it, despite the fact that it wasn’t really enough to conceal her.

She listened intently, her hand gripping the handle of her father’s knife. Minutes passed, and the source of the creaking grew louder.

Finally, a horse rounded the bend in the road and started down the hill toward her. It pulled a trader’s cart, the man holding the reins had a white beard and wore a thick leather jerkin. Sitting beside him on the cart’s bench was a large, long handled axe.

A quick calculation of her options ran through her head. She could try and remain hidden, and let the trader pass. But something told her that this might be an opportunity. She steeled herself then stepped back out onto the side of the road and waited.

The man noticed her immediately and she could see him tense up. The cart slowed slightly as he scanned the open area.

Lys raised her hand and called out. “Hello there!”

He continued forward cautiously then tugged on the reins, slowing the horse to a stop just before the cart reached her. “Well, hello, young miss. Are you out in the wild alone?”

“I’m alone,” she said. “My companion and I were attacked by bandits. He… didn’t make it.”

“Ah.” The man’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. I saw the bodies.”

Lys winced. “I didn’t manage to bury him, and the bandits… there was a man-eater.”

He stared at her for a moment and then grunted. “Are you headed to Silverpines?”

Lys nodded. “Yes. I’m Lysandra, from Thornfield. I’m trying to reach my family in Silverpines so I can stay with them.”

“Name’s Jonas. I’m a trader, making my rounds. I can give you a ride most of the way to Silverpines if you’d like,” he said.

That was exactly the offer she had been hoping for. “That would be wonderful. Uhm. How much would it cost?”

Jonas appraised her for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Normally, I’d charge two half-silver for the journey, but seeing as we’re already halfway there, let’s say one, and we’ll call it even.”

Lys pulled out her money pouch from her shirt and pulled out a silver circle. “One silver it is. Thank you, Jonas.”

He took it and she climbed into the back of the cart, careful not to disturb the rucksacks or tools. It was impossible not to feel a renewed sense of hope.

She was half-way there. With Jonas’ help, she would reach her destination, and hopefully, find the safety and support she desperately needed.