Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 37 (Patreon)

Lys drove her shovel into the earth, heaving another load of dirt onto the growing pile beside her.

Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes as she worked. Around her, Orin, Garrett, Plainfield, Peder, Davian, Bryn, and Stormwell labored just as hard, their faces grim with determination.

“Keep at it, lads!” Sergeant Swift called out, his voice carrying over the din of shovels and grunts. “We need these trenches deep and wide!”

Lys glanced up, watching as a team of regulars hauled a sled piled high with freshly cut logs towards the front line. The timber would be used to erect more barricades. It felt like there was always going to be a need for ‘more barricades,’ even if she knew it was important.

They would definitely offer some protection from the enemy’s elevated position.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a dull thud as an arrow embedded itself in the ground nearby. Lys flinched, her heart pounding as she realized just how close it had come.

“Damn, that was close,” Orin muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “If the wind picks up, those arrows might find their mark.”

Lys nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. She redoubled her efforts, focusing on the burn in her muscles rather than the ache in her middle.

Anything was a welcome distraction from her other discomfort. It was almost over, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about it for a while.

As the morning wore on, Lys fell into a rhythm, her body moving almost automatically as she dug and hauled. She barely noticed when Sergeant Swift ordered a break for food.

She stumbled over to the water barrel, gratefully accepting a ladle from Garrett. As she drank, Lys looked around, taking in the progress they had made. The trenches stretched out in all directions, a sprawling network of ditches and earthen walls that seemed to go on forever.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Davian said, coming up beside her. “Amazing what a thousand men can accomplish in such a short time.”

Lys nodded, still catching her breath. The scale of the fortifications was far beyond anything they had done before. They had put far more work into them than she thought possible in the timeframe. With any luck, they would be enough to keep the enemy at bay until reinforcements arrived.

Lys savored the sweet, juicy fruit that contrasted with the salty dried meat as she ate her lunch, the soft bread to go along with it a welcome change. Apparently, the regulars carried the better pick of supplies. Around her, the other recruits and mercenaries chattered, their voices washing over the camp.

“I heard the siege might last for weeks,” Orin said, his mouth full of bread.

Garrett shook his head. “Nah, I bet we’ll have them surrendering in a matter of days. They can’t hold out forever.”

“Either way, it’s promising to be a long, hot summer,” Plainfield grumbled.

Lys listened to their banter, her mind already drifting back to the work that lay ahead. Shoveling all her worries away seemed like it might just be possible.

As they finished their meal and prepared to return to the trenches, Sergeant Swift approached, his eyes fixed on Lys.

“Leave the shovel, Trekhill. You’re with me.”

Lys frowned, wondering what she had done to be singled out now.

She set her shovel aside and followed Swift, leaving the activity of the siege lines behind as they walked deeper into the camp, past the rows of tents that housed the regular mercenaries.

Curiosity gnawed at her. “Where are we going, sir?” Lys asked. There was a slight risk of getting scolded, but if she wanted to know…

“You’ve been selected for additional duty,” Swift replied, his tone giving nothing away. “Beyond your recruit group.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Selected, sir?” Lys repeated.

“The regulars aren’t having the same supply issues as the recruit company,” Swift explained as they approached a section of tents arranged in a semi-circle.

A group of experienced mercenaries nodded to the Sergeant as they passed, their eyes appraising Lys with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Another Sergeant emerged from the group’s tent, a large man who towered over Swift by at least a hand.

She swallowed hard as the entire platoon seemed to materialize at once, their gazes boring into her. She straightened, determined not to be intimidated by their scrutiny.

“Sergeant Tilledge,” Swift greeted the man with a nod. “This is the recruit I mentioned, Lys Trekhill.”

Tilledge’s eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down, his skepticism evident. “You sure about this, Swift? The lad looks scrawny. Can he even draw a bow?”

Lys felt herself shrinking under their scrutiny, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to defend herself as Swift looked her over critically.

“Twenty-eight,” Swift said finally, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Twenty-eight kills during the Irongian attack at Swiftmorest. From three quivers.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered mercenaries. Lys swallowed hard, cursing Yasir and herself for drawing such attention. She had only done what was necessary to protect her friends and the encampment, but now her actions had put her squarely in the spotlight.

Was she even going to get paid extra?

“Trekhill,” Swift said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “You’ll be training with your recruit group in the mornings and joining the skirmisher company after lunch. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Lys replied, straightening her spine and meeting the sergeant’s gaze head-on.

Tilledge grunted, his eyes still fixed on Lys. “I’ll take care of him for the rest of the day.”

Swift nodded, turning to Lys. “Do what the sergeant says, Trekhill.”

“Yes, sir,” Lys answered, her voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach.

“Where’s your bow, recruit?” Tilledge asked.

Lys shifted her weight, acutely aware of the eyes on her. “I don’t have one, sir. The recruits ran out of arrows. I just have my sword, shield, and spear.”

Tilledge’s brow furrowed, and he shouted over his shoulder, “Dax!”

A regular stepped forward, his posture relaxed but attentive. Lys glanced at him, sizing him up. He was older than her, with a weathered face.

“Get him outfitted,” Tilledge ordered, jerking his chin towards Lys.

Dax nodded, motioning for Lys to follow him. She fell into step beside him, her mind still reeling from the sudden change in her routine.

“So, you really killed twenty-eight Irongians during the siege?” Dax asked, his tone conversational.

Lys shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I had a good vantage point.”

Dax laughed, the sound startling. “Modest, too. You might not fit in.”

She followed him into the armory tent, her eyes widening at the array of gear in various states of repair. Several men worked, tending to the equipment with practiced efficiency.

A sergeant looked up from his work, eyeing Dax with a questioning gaze. “What is it, Private?”

“Got a recruit that needs light armor fitted,” Dax replied, nodding towards Lys.

The sergeant’s brow furrowed as he appraised Lys. “No one ordered armor for the recruits.”

“This one’s a special case. Sergeant Tilledge’s orders.”

“A skirmisher, eh?” The sergeant looked Lys up and down, his expression skeptical. “Might have something light enough for a scrawny fellow like you.”

Lys shifted, biting back a retort as the sergeant continued, “I’ll need to take measurements.”

Dax turned to Lys, his tone casual. “I’ll go get your bow and quiver kit. Any preference for draw weight?”

“Lighter is probably better,” Lys admitted, her cheeks warming. “The heavier bows are still too hard for me to use, but the one Sergeant Yasir got me was fine.”

Dax frowned, considering her words. “Right, lighter then.” He headed out without further discussion.

The armory sergeant beckoned impatiently. “Get over here, recruit, and hold your arms out straight to the side.”

Lys held her arms out straight, her heart racing as the armory sergeant’s measuring cord wrapped around her chest. She held her breath, praying silently that he wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

The sergeant grunted, jotting down the measurements. “For a field kit, this is the best you’ll get. But once you earn your first few payrolls, invest in a custom set. It’ll serve you well.”

Lys frowned. “We have to pay for our own gear?”

“Everyone gets standard issue, but it’s cookie-cutter stuff. Decent quality, but nothing beats tailored armor. Worth every penny, even if you only serve five years.”

The sergeant strode to the wall, pulling off several leather pieces before returning to hold them up against Lys. He shoved one into her hands. “Try this on.”

As Lys slipped into the armor, the sergeant tightened the straps, cursing under his breath. “Scrawny enough to be my daughter. You need to eat more, lad. Work on your strength training.”

Another armorer glanced over. “Where’re you from, recruit?”

“Thornfield,” Lys replied, shifting uncomfortably.

The sergeant sizing her paused, eyeing her critically. “Poor family?”

Lys bristled, not wanting to disparage her upbringing. “We weren’t the richest, but we had a roof. My father died when I was young, so it was just our mother taking care of us.”

The man nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Not having enough nutrition when you’re growing can stunt you. Seen it plenty. Your sergeant’s probably got you on double rations already. Keep that up, along with the physical training, and you’ll fill out by the time you make private.”

Lys nodded, unsure if she’d ever grow larger. At least the advice was well meaning, though… and even if she wasn’t going to bulk up like the others, eating enough while working hard was common sense.