Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 45 (Patreon)

Lys clung to the rope, her knuckles white as she forced herself to look down. Vertigo hit her like a physical blow, the world spinning beneath her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the rough texture of the rope against her palms.

“Easy there, Lys,” Dax called from below. “Just take it slow. One step at a time.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The climb down was worse than the one up for sure.

It had taken nearly an hour for her to be able to breathe normally again after whatever it was that happened to her after using her power. Was still happening.

She just couldn’t stop now to rest, not until she was off the fucking mountain.

“You alright, Lys?” Lark asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“I’m fine,” she managed, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. “Just need to get down from here.”

She needed to talk to Sergeant Yasir. He would know what had happened.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Cole said from his spot in the climbing line. “It was like Bunzard himself possessed you, turned you into an angel of war.”

Lys grimaced. The other skirmishers wouldn’t quit looking at her with a mix of awe and confusion, their gazes burning into her back as she made her way down the cliff face.

From what they had seen before beginning the descent, the enemy was totally defeated, Irongians surrendering en masse or dying in the slaughter. But even that knowledge couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in her gut.

The worst of it was her lungs. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of glass, the air scraping against her raw throat.

She didn’t know how to compare the sensation to anything she had felt before. Worse than the worst cold. Worse than a lungful of smoke.

Each breath was spiky, icy, and just raw and bad. The constant feeling of light-headedness wasn’t helping either.

It was like she wasn’t getting enough air. There was no denying what the intense focus of the breathing exercises from the ‘path’ had done for her aim, but now she didn’t know if she’d crippled herself or if it was temporary.

“We’re almost down,” Tilledge called from below, his voice echoing up the cliff face. “Just a little further.”

Lys nodded, gritting her teeth as she forced herself to make her way down. Just a little further, and then she could rest. Just a little further, and then she could find out what had happened to her.

When her feet hit the ground, her knees nearly buckled. Dax and Cole were at her side in an instant, their hands steadying her.

“Easy there, Lys,” Dax said, his voice low. “We’ve got you.”

They half-carried, half-dragged her towards the cohort’s camp. The sounds of chaotic celebration grew louder with each step. Men were returning from the enemy camp, their arms laden with plunder.

Lys’s eyes widened at the sight. Dax caught her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry about getting your share,” he said. “We’ll all get extra pay since we didn’t get to take part in the looting.”

“Looting,” Lys repeated weakly, the word feeling foreign to her tongue.

Cole and Lark tightened their grip on her as she stumbled. Tilledge appeared at their side, his brow furrowed.

“Get him to the medical tents,” he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

Dax turned to Lys, his eyes searching her face. “Can you keep going?”

Lys nodded, but the world spun around her, the vertigo hitting her like a physical blow. They grabbed an empty stretcher from two other soldiers, insisting she get on.

She didn’t have the strength to argue, her body collapsing onto the rough canvas. The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was the worried faces of her comrades, their voices fading into a distant hum as unconsciousness dragged her under.

Lys’s eyelids fluttered open, the world slowly coming into focus as she regained consciousness. Her throat felt parched, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

Glancing around, she spotted her pack resting by the bed.

With a groan, she reached for it, fumbling with the straps until she managed to extract her canteen. The lukewarm water soothed her throat as she gulped it down greedily.

The tent had a dozen other occupants. Every so often, a moan or whimper would fill the air. She took a deep breath, wincing as her lungs protested.

It felt like they were filled with something, but when she coughed, it was a dry, hacking sound. The memory of an outbreak flashed, one that had claimed a dozen lives in Thornfield one summer when she was younger.

The dry cough had been the sign. She had got sick with it, but like most of the other children, had been mostly fine.

But this felt different.

It was as if she had scorched her lungs from the inside out. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. The focused breathing, the intense concentration while shooting—it had taken a toll on her body.

The ‘magic’ power that had got her through the worst of it as a recruit—it wasn’t free.

She had never pushed herself so hard before, not even during the defense of Swiftmorest.

Lys swung her legs over the side of her cot, grabbing her pack as she stood. She needed to get out, to find Sergeant Yasir and ask him about what had happened to her. As she took a step towards the tent flap, a medic materialized in front of her.

“Where do you think you’re going, recruit?” he demanded.

Lys opened her mouth to respond, but all that came out was a raspy wheeze. She cleared her throat, trying again, but the words wouldn’t come.

The medic’s expression softened slightly. “Back to bed with you,” he said, guiding her back towards the cot. “You’re in no condition to be up and about.”

Lys wanted to argue, to insist that she was fine, but her body betrayed her. Her legs felt like jelly, and her head was spinning. She sank back onto the cot, feeling utterly miserable.

In the distance, she could hear the sounds of celebration—cheers and laughter, and a swell of drunken singing.

At least someone was having a good time.

She fell back into a fitful sleep. At some point, she stumbled to the latrine and back. Somehow, she avoided notice.

When she woke up again, dusk was falling. She blinked, startled to find Orin sitting beside her, his presence unexpected.

“Orin?” she croaked, her voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

Orin smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just checking on you, Lys. How are you feeling?”

“Need a drink,” she replied with a wheeze. She winced at the sound, but at least she was able to talk now. He handed her a canteen, and she took a gulp while considering his question.

The exhaustion still clung to her like a second skin. “Better,” she said finally. “Still tired, but better.”

A comfortable silence descended; the revelry outside had calmed compared to before. Eventually, Orin broke the quiet. “Why did you join the White Dragons, Lys?”

Her thoughts drifted to the events that had led her here, to the choices she had made.

“I joined because it was a convenient solution. My uncle was gone, and I was out of supplies… I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “I wish I was back in Thornfield with my family.”

Orin reached out, his hand resting on her shoulder. “You’re special, Lys,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “Few could do what you’ve done.”

Lys coughed, the sudden spasm wracking her body. She lost focus, her vision blurring for a moment before clearing again.

“I’m not special,” she said.

“I don’t think many girls could do what you’ve done,” he replied.

Lys frowned. “Plenty could.”

Orin laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “You’re right,” he conceded. “But I still think you’ll do great things, Lys. You were a good friend.”

Lys felt a flicker of annoyance at his words. Why did he have to put it like that? “You still are,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Orin smiled at her. “You should rest,” he said, his voice gentle. “You need to heal.”

Lys nodded, her eyelids growing heavy. She closed her eyes, just for a second.

When she opened them again to say goodbye, there was no one there. The space beside her cot was empty.

Lys frowned, sitting up and looking around. There was no sign of Orin.

She reached for her canteen, taking another long drink of water.

Why had he run off like that? She couldn’t leave it be.

She pushed herself up from the cot, her legs shaky beneath her. But not as bad as before. She kept repeating that thought to herself, as if it would keep making things better as she stumbled through the medical tents.

Eventually, she found Orin’s cot. It was empty.

A medic approached her, his brow furrowed with concern. “What are you doing out of bed, recruit?”

“Where’s Orin?” Lys asked.

The medic glanced at the empty cot, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. “I’m sorry, but the recruit who was here succumbed to his wounds. We hauled him out a few hours ago for the fires.”

Lys grabbed the medic’s shirt, her fingers twisting in the fabric. “Don’t lie to me! I was just talking to him!”

Her shout triggered a violent coughing fit, her lungs seizing in her chest. The world spun around her, black spots dancing at the edges of her vision. She felt herself falling.

Strong arms caught her, and she was lifted off the ground. She was carried back to her cot. She didn’t have the energy to look at him, but she could tell he was angry.

“Listen, recruit,” he said. “If you get any more delirious, we might have to restrain you until you get better. You need to rest and heal.”

Lys wanted to argue, to insist that she wasn’t delirious, that Orin had been there, sitting beside her. She had just talked to him. But the words wouldn’t come.

The medic lowered her onto the cot, his hands surprisingly gentle. “Sleep,” he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

Lys closed her eyes, tears leaking from beneath her lashes.