Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 35 (Patreon)

Lys winced as the medic cleaned the gash on her arm, the sting of the antiseptic causing her to grit her teeth. The man wrapped a clean bandage around the wound, securing it tightly.

“Any other injuries?” he asked, his eyes scanning her for signs of further harm.

“I’m fine,” Lys replied, shaking her head. She glanced around the tent, taking in the sight of the wounded lying on cots, some moaning in pain while others lay eerily still.

Rising to her feet, Lys made to leave, but the medic stopped her. “You’re not cleared yet.”

She waved him off. “Save the cot for someone who needs it more.”

“Wait,” he said.

Lys paused and looked back. He thrust a fresh set of bandages into her hands. “You’ll need to replace that, preferably once a day. Come back when you run out.”

“Thanks.” Lys nodded and headed out of the medical tent.

Her gaze fell upon a growing row of bodies laid just outside, each one covered by a tarp. A lump formed in her throat as the realization hit her—she had almost certainly known some of them, at least in passing.

Pushing the thought aside, Lys hurried to find her group. As she made her way through the camp, she noticed the entrances had been cleared, and a group from the main cohort entered the walls, their faces grim and determined.

Lys climbed up to the wall, her eyes scanning the horizon. She watched as the main body of the cohort marched off toward the forest in pursuit of the retreating Irongians, their banners fluttering in the wind.

She found her group after a quick search, huddled together near the remnants of a smoldering campfire.

They sat on the ground, their shields and weapons scattered around them. Most bore the marks of battle—bruises, scrapes, and cuts—but they were alive.

Orin looked up as she approached, a weary smile on his face. “Lys! You made it.”

She settled down beside him and Garrett, wincing slightly as her injured arm brushed against her side. “Are you guys okay?”

Garrett nodded, his expression somber. He held up a dented coin. “Got hit, but the strike got blocked by this.”

Lys blinked. “By… a coin?”

“Bunzard loves him,” Orin added. “Or that coin, maybe.”

Lys shook her head. “Lucky coin, I guess?” She tried to smile.

Orin sighed and looked at the others. “Jorn and Jonah... they didn’t make it.”

Lys blinked, a sudden tightness in her chest.

She barely remembered the two names... Jonah was the overweight recruit. She couldn’t recall ever talking to Jorn. Jonah only a few times. The knowledge of their deaths still hit her like a physical blow.

They were gone, just like that. It could have been her.

She swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in her throat. “There were a lot more injured than I realized.”

Orin’s gaze fell on her bandaged arm. “Did you get hit?”

“Just a graze,” Lys assured him. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s hope they didn’t poison their arrows,” Garrett muttered.

Lys frowned, and Orin shot him a look. “Don’t say things like that.”

Garrett grunted, then turned to Lys. “Our archers killed more of the enemy than we lost. Thanks for the support.”

She laughed, the sound hollow even to her own ears. “I was just doing my best to help since I wasn’t in the shield wall.”

“We were lucky the main cohort came back,” Orin said.

Lys nodded. “I hope we learn about what happened.”

She sat down with her fellow recruits. The gash on her arm throbbed despite having it tended to. She felt tired and glanced around at the faces of her comrades, seeing the same weariness etched on their faces.

An hour passed before Sergeant Swift appeared, his voice cutting through the somber atmosphere. “On your feet, recruits!”

Lys stood but fought vertigo and what felt like a loss of her wind. That was strange. She had been shooting, not running. Maybe… it had something to do with her breath exercises? That was worrying.

Swift surveyed the group, his expression unreadable. “You did a good job today,” he said, his words catching them off guard. “There won’t be any more fighting for now. Follow me to the mess hall.”

The recruits followed, the promise of a hot meal lifting their spirits slightly. As they entered the mess hall, the scent of stew hit her, making Lys’s stomach growl. They were served generous portions, and the warmth of the bowl seeped into her hands.

The atmosphere was still muted. She noticed the regulars helping to clean up the camp, while other recruit groups looked just as exhausted as her own.

“The fighting only lasted an hour, but it felt like an eternity,” Orin whispered.

Lys nodded. “No wonder they train us so hard every day.”

Swift was still watching them as they ate, and his voice suddenly cut through the chatter. “The company we fought today was the Rusty Lathes, an Irongian mercenary group.”

“What kind of name is Rusty Lathe for a mercenary company?” Orin blurted out, his face reddening as he realized his mistake.

Swift’s gaze settled on Orin, and Lys held her breath, waiting for the reprimand. To her surprise, none came.

“You won’t have any training for the rest of the day,” Swift announced. “Rest and clean yourselves up. Get your weapons and gear checked out and replaced if needed, then keep them with you. You’ll be responsible for them earlier than usual, no more piling them up on the carts.”

As the recruits began to disperse, Swift’s hand clamped down on Lys’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

“Not you, archer,” he said, his tone firm.

Lys blinked, confusion washing over her. “Sir?”

“Follow me.” Swift led her over to the entrance of the camp, then outside.

Four rows of bodies lay before them; the stench of death and excrement assaulting Lys’s nostrils. She winced as several men moved between the corpses, stripping them of armor and gear.

Noticing her reaction, Swift spoke. “The company won’t waste anything their enemies left behind. Most of it will be sold off—it’s not quality enough for us to use unless we were desperate.”

Lys nodded quietly, her stomach churning at the sight. Swift guided her to the front of the rows and stopped. He gestured to the dead man, a fletching protruding from his neck. “What killed him?”

Lys studied the body, unsure if she recognized the man. The one that Finn had fought personally? “I shot him, sir?”

Swift pointed to the next corpse, another arrow embedded in its flesh. “And him?”

“From an arrow?” Lys replied, her voice wavering.

The sergeant’s gaze swept across the rows, and Lys realized that most of the bodies in the first two rows had arrows sticking out of them. No, not most. All of them.

Swift turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “All the fletching have two white and red marks—from the same quivers. I know you were the one shooting them.”

Lys swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. “Sergeant Yasir told me to tell you to ask him about it, sir.”

Swift’s mouth formed a flat line, clearly unhappy with her response. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He dismissed her with a curt nod. “Get back to the rest of your group.”

Lys hurried to do just that. Before she got too far, Swift called after her. “Good job, recruit. You saved some of your brothers today.”

As she rejoined her fellows, she couldn’t shake the image of the dead men, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.

She hadn’t thought about what she was doing at the time. Killing men. They were enemies and had intended to kill them—yes—but she had still killed them. A lot of them.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. One thing she knew was that she didn’t regret saving her friends or Sergeant Finn, though.

Her stomach started to churn with worry and nausea by the time she reached her tent. The others were sitting around, some engaged in quiet conversation, while others napped.

Orin caught sight of her and waved, a tired smile on his face. Lys managed a weak wave in return, but her mind was elsewhere.

She scanned the area, her eyes settling on an unoccupied latrine tent. With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, she slipped inside.

Once alone, Lys’s stomach cramped painfully, and a horrifying realization dawned on her.

Her moonflow had arrived, the worst possible timing.

She cursed under her breath. If anyone discovered her secret, it would mean the end of her time with the White Dragons. Maybe. Probably. She didn’t know what it meant. Just that it wouldn’t be good.

Her hands shook as she unwound the bandage from her arm. She hesitated for a moment before using it as a makeshift rag, positioning it in her pants to absorb the flow.

It was a temporary solution at best, but it would have to do for now.

Emerging from the tent, she made her way to her own tent. She crawled inside, collapsing onto her bedroll with a sigh.

The events of the day—the battle, the confrontation with Swift, and now her moonflow—had drained her completely.