Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 41 (Patreon)

Lys stood in formation with the others, her gaze fixed straight ahead as she tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. The recruits from other groups arrived. They looked little better than her own group. Although there were a lot more of them.

That stung slightly. Her training group had bore the very heavy brunt of the enemy attack.

Swift stepped forward. “Listen up! We’re reorganizing the groups back into sections of twenty.”

Lys frowned as she ran over the numbers of their losses in her head. Thirty-five dead, plus Orin and four others wounded. The recruit company had lost over one third, and her group had lost three-fourths.

Around her, the other recruits shifted uneasily.

“You’ll all be receiving battle pay,” Swift continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “And your pay ranks will be increased to the same as regular privates from now on—even after you head back to Dragonblanc for your final training.”

A recruit from another group stepped forward, his face twisted with rage. “Is Dragonblanc going to be worse than everyone dying?”

Swift grunted, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. “Attention!”

The recruits snapped to attention, their backs straight and their eyes fixed on their sergeant.

“Normally, you would have received more training, better gear, and a better chance before being caught in a battle,” Swift said, his voice low and intense. “But the needs of the cohort outweigh your own needs—that was agreed to by you when you signed your contracts.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. “We do not know how they figured out where exactly you would be stationed on the wall.”

Lys winced. Swift, or the sergeants, had come to the same conclusion that she had. The Irongian attack’s central drive had been centered on her unit, right in the center of the five groups of recruits.

Swift continued. “The dead will have their back pay and death benefits sent to their designated recipients by the company. The life of a mercenary includes fighting battles, and it’s not fun and games. This is a dangerous profession, and men die. We try to make sure it’s other men dying, and not us, but that doesn’t always happen.”

Lys felt a chill run down her spine. It felt like the reality of their situation was rearing its head for the first time for her to see.

“If any of you think you want to quit, report to the administrative tent and ask to resign. You’ll be discharged—but this offer is only good for the rest of the day.” Swift swept them with his stare, as if seeking anyone who had been broken.

Maybe that was exactly what he was looking for.

The recruits stood in stunned silence, the weight of Swift’s words hanging heavy.

Throughout the day, several recruits, including Peder, chose to quit and leave the mercenary company. She couldn’t blame them for their decision.

It was hard to get used to a new routine with faces that she had only seen in passing before. Even the familiar faces from her group weren’t ones that she interacted with too much.

She did her best to visit Orin, but Sergeant Swift and Sergeant Finn kept them focused on various tasks, leaving little time for dwelling on their losses.

There were more ditches, the burning and seemingly endless pile of bodies, and training relentlessly with their weapons. The monotony of the work provided a strange sense of comfort, allowing her to push everything else to the back of her mind.

Of Sergeant Yasir, there was no sign.

Nor was there comment on her miraculous archery showing. Thankfully, the burnt feeling in her lungs resolved with no further issue after a few days, and she began to practice those exercises again.

Woodrow, Stormwell, and Plainfield ended up staying close. The fact that they were the only survivors left from the original first recruit group was enough to keep them together.

It hurt, slightly. Like they were trying to replace Garrett and Orin. She knew that was a stupid thought. They weren’t trying to replace anyone and were struggling, just like she was.

When she finally got a chance to visit the medical tents for longer than just in passing, she seized the opportunity immediately.

As she approached the entrance, the pungent smell of medicinal herbs filled her senses. She steeled herself for a second before stepping inside.

Rows of cots lined the tent, each occupied by a wounded soldier. Most of the ones who had light injuries were already back on their feet. Quiet groans of pain and the hushed whispers of the medics tending to their patients filled the air.

She made her way down the row of cots, her heart sinking with each step. The stench of infection and rot grew stronger as she walked down the aisle. Seemingly minor wounds that turned red and angry would kill even a healthy person, despite the best efforts of the medics.

At the end of the tent, she found Orin, his face pale and glistening with sweat. She grabbed a wet rag in a water bowl without thinking.

“Hey, Lys,” Orin croaked. “Not looking good, eh?”

Lys bit her lip, fighting back the tears before wiping his forehead. “You just need some more rest,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ll get better.”

Orin coughed, his chest heaving with the effort. “I don’t think so,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “Lys, I lost my entire family at Silverpines. My parents, my siblings... there’s no one left.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bracelet and a folded piece of paper. “I want you to have this,” he said, pressing the bracelet into her hand. “It was my mother’s, the only thing left of my family. Now it’s yours to give to a girl or whatever you want.”

Lys stared at the bracelet, her vision blurring with tears. She shook her head, unable to accept what Orin was saying.

“The paper,” Orin continued, his voice growing weaker, “it’s instructions for my death benefit. It’s all to go to you. I already talked to a sergeant and had it confirmed. That’s the receipt.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’ll get better, Orin. You have to.”

Orin leaned back into the pillow. “They already did everything they could to clean the wound,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s dirty and full of bad ichor. It’s too deep.”

He turned his gaze to Lys, his eyes filled with a mixture of resignation and determination. “It’s up to you to remember me and Garrett. You were the one we could trust the most.”

Her chest tightened with emotion. “I lied to you,” she blurted out, her voice trembling.

Orin nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Go ahead. Dead men tell no tales.” He laughed at his own joke, then gurgled as a coughing fit hit.

Lys reached out and supported him until his body calmed down. He looked at her expectantly.

She took a deep breath, her hands shaking. “I’m not a boy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m a girl.”

Silence hung heavy in the air. She had just unleashed the most terrible secret imaginable.

He stared at her. “Are you trying to make me laugh to death?”

Lys frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Orin shook his head. “That’s the lie? I thought it was something bad, like you were an Irongian spy.”

Lys blinked, confusion washing over her.

Orin met her gaze, his expression serious. “Who cares?” He sighed and leaned back, a smile creeping onto his face. “I managed to give it to a girl, after all. Short betrothal…though.”

Lys glanced down at the bracelet in her hands. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He glanced at her. “Not sure you qualify as pretty.”

She looked up in shock. How could he joke like this? Her chest tightened and she couldn’t manage a retort.

They sat together for a while longer; the silence broken only by Orin’s labored breathing.

Eventually, his eyes drifted shut, and he fell into a fitful sleep. She watched as his chest rose and fell. Reality hit her like a hammer. He wasn’t going to last more than a few days.

She rose from her seat and made her way back to her group’s tents, the weight of Orin’s words and the bracelet in her pocket pulling her down.

As she approached her group’s cluster of tents, a familiar voice called out to her. “Trekhill!” Sergeant Swift barked, his tone sharp and commanding as ever.

Lys turned to face him. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“You’re being moved to Tilledge’s group for the rest of the siege,” he said, his voice low and serious. “You’ll be working with the regulars from now on.”

Lys’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and apprehension washing over her. She glanced back at her tent. “But, Sergeant—”

“No buts, Trekhill,” Swift interrupted. “This is an order, not a request.”

Lys swallowed hard. What did the transfer mean? She wasn’t going to argue, but knowing what was going on would have been nice. “Yes, sir.”

The eyes of the other recruits bore into her back. She kept her head down, focusing on the task at hand as she began to pack up her belongings.

“Hey, Trekhill!” Plainfield called out, his voice tinged with concern. “What’s going on?”

She looked up, her gaze meeting Plainfield’s worried expression. “I’m being transferred. To Tilledge’s group.”

Whatever the others had been thinking, that seemed to relieve their worries.

Stormwell stepped forward. “Stay safe out there, Trekhill. We’ll be rooting for you.”

Lys nodded, a lump forming in her throat as they left her to collect her things.

Before the siege, it felt like they had been soaring, growing, and doing good. Now their wings had been burnt off. The crash was tearing at her.

She stood up and hefted her pack onto her back, hand curling into a tight fist on the strap on her chest.

The compensation was stupid, bloody coins she didn’t even get to see.

She wasn’t sure she was cut out to be a soldier. Maybe she should have followed Peder and the others who had left.