Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 33 (Patreon)

The crack of dawn arrived as they finished the fieldwork, the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon. Swift’s voice boomed across the camp, “Listen up, recruits! It’s a rare opportunity for you lot to sleep until noon! Don’t waste it!”

Exhausted, they laid out their tools by the wagon, while a few men who had been picked to sleep early moved to guard the entrances. Inside the new walls, their tents were spaced away from the earthwork that formed a ramp to the top of the outwardly slanted logs.

Tepid water was provided for them to rinse their hands and faces, but no one had the energy to stay up and properly wash, including Lys. Her head hit the pillow and she was out in an instant.

It felt like no time had passed when she was roused for breakfast-lunch at midday. After the all-nighter, apparently they were getting the day off—or at least the recruit version of it. She somehow suspected there would be more work later.

The aroma of fresh-baked bread, butter, and eggs filled the mess tent and washed away those thoughts. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stomach growling in anticipation.

As they ate, the conversation revolved around whether the rest of the cohort would return with loot from a battle.

Peder leaned forward, his eyes wide. “I heard that spoils can be as much as a year’s wages!”

Jonah shook his head. “There aren’t any Irongian settlements nearby. We’re hundreds of miles from the border.”

“But not that far from the Gap, really,” Lys countered. “They could have marched here.”

“The loot from the enemy themselves might be worth something,” Orin chimed in before shoveling food into his mouth.

Garrett glanced around the table, his brow furrowed. “We should worry more about what Swift has in store for us after we finish eating.”

“But they worked us to death last night. They can’t work us more,” Peder complained.

Lys followed his gaze out of the mess tent, her eyes landing on the wagon with the tools still laid out. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach. “If they think it’s needed, we will. I bet it’s more digging.”

As if on cue, they all began to eat faster, bracing themselves for the inevitable.

She was proven correct. There was more digging, and Lys found herself once again digging trenches and fortifying the camp’s defenses.

While the work wasn’t as intense as their initial day and night of labor, the outer layer they had constructed was merely the beginning. Sergeant Swift took the time to explain each task, but it did little to alleviate the physical toll on everyone. Or tell them why they were doing it.

“Alright, listen up!” Swift barked, gesturing towards the newly dug ditch. “We’re going to fill this with spikes. It’ll slow down any enemy trying to breach the defenses.”

“Sir?” Lys said.

He turned toward her. “What is it, recruit?”

“Is something going to happen? Is it normal to build a fort like this at camp?” Lys asked.

There was silence for a moment as everyone waited for an answer. She worried that maybe he’d yell at her.

Remarkably, she got an answer.

“When we could be attacked, in enemy territory, it’s standard for the cohort to build a fort like this, yes. We don’t have one because the cohort moved out earlier than expected. If they need to retreat, we’ll have one ready for them,” Swift explained.

“Now get to work.” He looked around at the recruits, who had paused to listen in, and frowned. “All of you!”

They worked. Hard. Staking out the trenches wasn’t as hard as the digging had been, but it was still effort… and in the sun. Lys wiped the sweat from her brow as she drove another stake into the ground.

Beside her, Peder grunted with effort, his face streaked with dirt. “I never thought I’d miss chopping wood,” he muttered.

As the sun dipped into the late afternoon, the recruits were finally released to wash away the grime of the day. To her, the fort looked pretty impressive for how quickly they had managed to build it.

They were all released to rest and do what they wanted for the rest of the day. Almost everyone, except those pulled for sentry duty—and there was guard duty during the day and night now—going to sleep before the sun went down all the way.

She had other plans and found a moment of privacy to wash and take care of things. The timing took careful patience. It felt like she’d come too far to accidentally give away her secret by being careless.

The attack they had worried about never came. News of the cohort was scarce as well. From the mood of the sergeants, everyone could tell something was off, but there was little they could do about that.

The following days settled into a familiar pattern: weapon training and formation practice consumed their mornings, while evenings were dedicated to expanding the ditches and reinforcing the fieldworks.

They moved more earth from the outside to the inside, packing it against the palisade until they could walk directly to the top of the logs.

“If anyone tries to attack this position, they’ll have to cross two ditches filled with stakes and then scale a log wall backed by solid earth,” Jonah remarked, admiring their handiwork.

Lys nodded along with the others, envisioning the daunting challenge any assailant would face. The thought of falling onto the stakes below sent a shiver down her spine.

As the sun began to set, Lys found herself perched atop the fortifications, a bowl of soup in hand. It was sort of nice—with the additional responsibility and work, came a few perks, like not having to eat in the mess tent or being locked into their groups so rigidly like when they had first started. They just had to return the bowls when done.

Orin and Garrett sat beside her, their eyes scanning the horizon.

“What’s that?” Orin squinted, pointing towards a distant movement.

Lys followed his gaze, her heart skipping a beat as she spotted the unmistakable sight of men marching in the distance.

Lys stared at the distant figures. She stood up, shielding her forehead with a hand as she squinted to get a better look.

“That isn’t the cohort,” she said, her voice tight with tension.

Orin looked at her, confusion etched on his face. “How can you tell?”

“Their flags are solid red with black, not the white and red they’re supposed to be!” Lys handed off her soup bowl to Garrett, who took it with a bewildered expression.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

“Whatever, someone has to tell a sergeant!” Lys hurried down the embankment toward the administrative tents, her heart racing. She found Finn sitting behind a table in the largest one, his brow furrowed as he looked up at her.

“What’s this about, recruit?” he asked, his tone sharp.

“There’s a large group of men marching toward us, and they’re flying red and black flags,” Lys said, her words tumbling out in a rush.

Finn jolted up immediately, his eyes wide. “What? Why weren’t we informed?”

“I am informing you!” Lys said, her frustration evident.

Finn ignored her outburst and hurried out of the tent, grabbing a hanging horn from a hook. Lys followed him outside, watching as he blew the device. The sound punched the air and chaos erupted around them as sergeants began to shout, directing recruits into muster.

Finn turned to Lys, his expression grim. “You’d better hope to Bunzard you weren’t telling a joke, or you’ll lose your hide and pay.” He paused, then asked, “Show me.”

“This way,” Lys said, leading him up to the bank where they had been eating. She pointed in the distance, where the marching men were now closer, a dust trail rising behind them.

Finn grunted, his eyes narrowing. “They’re beating it double time.”

“They sped up,” Lys said, her stomach twisting with dread.

“They’re Irongians,” Finn declared, his voice tight.

Her stomach did another flop as he turned to her and gave her a curt nod. “Good job for informing someone, recruit. Get to your group, now.”

Lys sprinted across the camp, looking for the others. She found them lined up in front of Sergeant Swift, who shot her a sharp look.

“Listen up, recruits!” Swift barked. “You’re getting your weapons. Follow me!”

He marched them over to the weapon wagon, where they were handed swords, shields, and spears. Once everyone was armed, Swift surveyed them all, his eyes narrowing.

“Plainfield!” he yelled. “Put back your spear and go to the front cart. Grab a bow!”

Lys shifted nervously, then stepped forward. “Sir!”

Swift glared at her. “What, recruit?”

“I can use a bow better than a spear, sir,” Lys said, her voice steady.

Swift seemed torn between reprimanding her and granting her request.

“I’ve gotten stronger, sir. I’m sure I can handle it,” Lys quickly added.

With a grunt, Swift nodded. “Go. Hurry.”

Lys put her spear back and rushed to the front of the weapon carts where the bows were stored. Yasir was there, handing out bows to the recruits who approached him. Plainfield frowned as he passed Lys on his way back.

Yasir looked at her and pulled out a bow—one of the smaller ones—and handed it to her, along with three quivers full of arrows. “We didn’t talk, but don’t hold back at all,” he said, his voice low.

Lys blinked, confused. “I’ll do my best, sir,” she replied before hurrying back to her group.

Swift barked orders, directing them to form a square. He marched them to the eastern gate area, where another recruit group had already assembled in a similar formation.

The spears jostled and wavered as the recruits struggled to maintain their positions. Despite the few days of training they had marching in formation with weapons, Lys couldn’t help but think they were still not nearly as sharp as the regular members of the cohort.

“You two!” Swift pointed at her and Plainfield. “Stay out of the formation. You’ll be keeping your distance and firing from the berm, but don’t stick your heads out!”

Plainfield led the way. She followed. He crested the earthwork and looked out at the enemy.

Lys grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, earning a glare from him. “He said not to stick your head out!” she hissed.

“I want to see,” Plainfield protested.

“They could have archers too. Stay down!” Lys insisted.

She went prone and crawled up, showing him how it was done. She peeked out as carefully as she could. The Irongians had cleared half the distance to the camp from when she first saw them. They had stopped, appearing to be dressing their ranks and resting.

“They might not attack right away,” Lys mused.

“Why?” Plainfield asked.

“Maybe they marched a long way to get here,” she said.

“But they could have rested out of sight, then attacked at night,” Plainfield countered.

Lys bit her lip, estimating the Irongian forces to be three or four hundred strong, based on the sizes of their formations.

She mentally counted their own forces: a hundred recruits, fifty or sixty administrative members, and perhaps fifty camp followers who might or might not fight.

“We’re outnumbered,” Lys whispered. “Hopefully, they don’t know that.”