Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 54 (Patreon)

The next morning, they resumed the march to Tradow.

Lys walked near the front of the company, her eyes scanning the road ahead. The path was rough, winding through hills and dense patches of trees. Despite the challenging terrain, they made good progress.

There was no sign of bears. Or fire lizards. That was welcome.

Their luck changed on the second day when a quick moving rainstorm drenched the area, turning the road into a muddy quagmire. The low sections between the hills were the worst.

Their wagons, laden with supplies and the two wounded, became mired in the thick mud, their wheels gaining no traction as the pack horses tugged against the weight.

“Trekhill!” Sergeant Finn called out. “Organize teams to get these wagons unstuck. And keep an eye out for any particularly muddy spots. We’ll need to lay down boards.”

“Yes, sir!” Lys responded, already moving to gather the necessary recruits. She had no idea how to unstick a wagon, but she knew how to get the others together, and at least one of them would.

They worked tirelessly, pushing and pulling the wagons free from the mud’s grasp. Lys directed the placement of wooden planks over the worst areas. The wood sunk deep, but the wagons were able to continue.

When the terrain shifted to be flatter and there wasn’t as much sucking mud, it was a relief.

That night, as they set up camp in an open field. Somber news spread through the ranks. Jason, the recruit with the most severe burns, had succumbed to his injuries.

She had never spoken to him, but that didn’t matter. He had fought to help protect her and the others. He was one of them. The company gathered to build a pyre, sending their fallen comrade on his way to Bunzard’s embrace.

Lys stood silently, watching the flames consume the wood and Jason’s body. The embers still smoldered when they broke camp the following morning.

As they marched, Lys found herself at the head of the company, calling out the cadence to keep everyone in step. No one was in the mood for a song. The road began to climb, and as they crested a hill, Lys caught sight of Tradow in the distance.

The village promised a brief respite from the road and a chance to restock their supplies, although they’d had plenty of rest already. She doubted they would stay long. Something told her the sergeants would be looking to regain some of the lost time they had spent in the fire lizard forest.

As they approached the outskirts, it was impossible to miss the damaged morale. There was a somber atmosphere that hung over everyone like a heavy fog. Conversation was muted.

As they began setting up camp, she caught a few snippets of conversation.

“I heard they don’t take kindly to outsiders,” one recruit muttered.

“Can’t blame ‘em, with all the trouble that’s been going on,” another replied.

Lys focused on her tasks, pitching her tent and securing the perimeter. Her role as group leader meant that on top of shoveling dirt, she had to make sure everyone else was shoveling, too.

When they were almost done, Swift approached, his weathered face set in a grim expression. “Trekhill, you’re with me. We’re heading into the village to speak with the headman.”

Lys nodded, adjusting her sword belt and falling in step beside the sergeant. A small group of recruits, including Lys, escorted the sergeant through the narrow streets of Tradow. The villagers regarded them with wary stares, suspicion etched on their faces.

The village was something like three or four times as large as Thornfield, and they wound their way up a gentle hill to the headman’s dwelling.

Swift turned to the group as they came to a stop. “Wait out here. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Trekhill, with me.”

Lys followed Swift inside. The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and herbs. The headman, an elderly man, sat cross-legged on a woven mat.

Swift settled onto a cushion across from the headman, his posture straight. “We’re in need of supplies,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Lys swallowed. Straight to business, then.

The headman stroked his wispy beard, his eyes narrowing. “These are troubled times, Sergeant. We’ve had reports of bandits and robberies by unknown men. They strike swiftly and disappear into the wilderness.”

Irongians? If they were the ones responsible, then they had been dealt with, but they were quite far west of Silverpines now and it was possible there were groups living outside the law… Would they be a threat to the company?

Lys cleared her thoughts and listened as Swift spoke again.

“We can’t spare the manpower to hunt them down,” Swift replied, his tone firm. “We need to continue on our way.”

The headman leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. If your recruits could help fortify our village, we would be most grateful. In return, we can provide the supplies you need and a place to rest.”

Swift considered the proposal, his brow furrowed in thought. Lys’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sparse furnishings and the flickering shadows cast by an oil lamp.

“Very well,” Swift agreed. “My recruits can help build a palisade for your village. But we can only spare a few days.”

Lys’s eyes widened, calculating the scope of the work based on what she had seen of the village. It would take at least two or three days to complete the task, even with the entire company working hard with help from the village.

The headman nodded, a glimmer in his eyes. “We are grateful for your assistance, Sergeant. Your recruits will have access to our resources and the hospitality of our homes.”

Swift shook his head. “They’ll remain in our camp.” He rose to his feet, his armor clinking softly. “We’ll begin work at first light.”

Lys nodded, her mind already planning the most efficient way to organize her group and allocate tasks. As they stepped out into the fading afternoon, Lys couldn’t shake the feeling that their brief respite in Tradow would be anything but restful.

The next day, Lys was right.

They got up early and were ordered to gather their tools and set to work. The recruits split into groups, some heading into the nearby forest to fell trees, while others began digging the trench that would form the foundation of the palisade.

Lys used her position to snatch the woodcutting job for Group One.

It didn’t take long before she was wiping the sweat from her brow, her muscles straining as she swung an axe, biting into the trunk of a sturdy oak.

The rhythmic thunk of metal against wood filled the air, mingling with the grunts and labored breaths of the recruits. Her new body strength and endurance would have been a match for her brother, or any of the other Thornfield lumberjacks.

“Put your back into it, Trekhill!” Sergeant Swift called out, his voice carrying over the din of activity.

Lys let out a laugh. “If you can show me how to chop down this one any faster than I am, I’d love to see it, Sergeant!”

There was a bit of shock on the other recruit’s faces. Swift didn’t take her up on her offer. She was chopping the tree as fast as humanly possible, after all.

Woodchips flew with her heavy hacks until the tree shuddered. A moment later, it groaned before finally toppling with a resounding crash. She stepped back, chest heaving, as the other recruits moved in to strip the branches and prepare the trunk for transport.

Once it was ready, she dragged the thing on a sled back to the village by herself. That got her more glances from the dig crew.

In the trench, they were making steady progress, their shovels biting into the earth with determined strikes. She joined them long enough to set and prep the tree into the ground, her hands blistering as she worked alongside her fellow recruits.

“Keep it up!” she encouraged. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can rest.”

There were many more trips between the forest and the village, laden with fresh cut timber. Stormwell informed her that dried wood would last longer, and hardwood even better. As it was, the soft pine would likely rot after a while, stuck in the earth.

That didn’t seem to be a problem for them, though, and the work continued.

The sun climbed higher in the sky to beat at their backs with the relentless summer heat. It was the altitude, Lys mused. Higher up there was always a cool breeze in Thornfield. Everywhere else, except the short, harrowing cliff climb, had them at a lower elevation.

She hated it.

Why couldn’t they have a nice cool rain?

She glanced at the western sky to make sure there weren’t any rain clouds actually coming, though. If it did rain, it was almost sure to turn into an even worse hot, humid mess.

Lys took a swig from her waterskin, the lukewarm liquid providing a little relief.

They continued until late afternoon, making steady progress. When it was a few hours from sunset, Swift ordered her to pack it up. She called a halt to the chopping of new trees, and they all focused on the ones that had been notched already.

They gathered them all up on sleds and hauled them toward the growing palisade together. One of the logs was a bit too large, and it took three of them.

“Steady now,” Lys guided, her voice strained as she helped lift it into the waiting trench. “On three. One, two, three!”

With a collective heave, they raised the trunk, settling it into place. Lys stepped back, surveying their progress. The palisade was taking shape, the sharpened tops of the posts jutting towards the sky like a row of jagged teeth.

“Good work, Trekhill,” Sergeant Swift said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Keep this up, and we’ll be on our way a day early.”

Lys nodded, a sense of pride swelling in her chest despite the exhaustion that seeped into her bones.

They slowly trudged back to camp for dinner, rest, and to take care of the nightly duties. Their hands were raw, their backs aching, but no one complained. The praise of doing a good job was enough of a balm.

The second badly injured recruit passed away the next morning and a second pyre was setup. Lys stood before the crackling flames, the heat washing over her face as she watched the fire consume the fallen recruit’s body.

The somber atmosphere returned to wipe out the sense of progress from the day before.

She couldn’t muster the same depth of grief as she had for Orin and Garret. But she still felt the loss. A few recruits from Group Two came and grieved for him. No one, including her, judged them when that became vocal.

“Trekhill!” Sergeant Swift’s voice cut through her thoughts and pulled her away. “I need you to organize a group to load the wagons with the supplies from the village.”

“Yes, sir,” Lys replied, her voice steady despite the swirling emotion.

She gathered Group One and led them to the village center, where crates and barrels of provisions awaited them.

“Let’s get this done quickly,” Lys said. “The sooner we load the wagons, the sooner we can get back to fortifying the village.”

Plainfield, Woodrow, and Stormwell nodded, as did the others.

They worked quickly in silence, the only sounds the creaking of wood and the rustling of sacks as they loaded the wagons.

Lys hefted a heavy crate, her muscles straining with the effort. She focused on the task at hand, pushing aside the thoughts of loss and uncertainty that had cropped up in the morning.

Other groups were moving back to the perimeter, bringing in logs and digging more trenches for them. A lot of effort, paid for with food.

“Let’s get these wagons back to camp,” she told her group. “We’ve got a lot more work to do.”

They hauled the loaded wagons straight to the mess tent. As they began unloading the supplies, Sergeant Hawkins inspected the produce with a critical eye.

“What’s this?” he growled, lifting a sack of potatoes. The top layer appeared fresh and unblemished, but as he dug deeper, his face contorted in disgust. “Rotten, the lot of them!”

Lys stepped closer, peering into the sack. Sure enough, beneath the pristine exterior, the potatoes were soft and black, their putrid stench wafting up to assault her nostrils.

Hawkins thrust the sack into Lys’s arms. “Take this back to the village, Trekhill. Get what we were promised. No excuses.”

Lys nodded, her jaw clenched. She gathered her team and set off towards the village once more, the rotten produce in tow.

As they entered the village, dark looks followed them. The villagers’ eyes narrowed with suspicion and hostility. Lys ignored the glares. So, they knew what was up. It hadn’t been a mistake.

They reached the village granary, where the headman’s son stood guard, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “What do you want?” he demanded, his voice dripping with disdain.

Lys stepped forward, holding up the sack of rotten potatoes. “The produce you gave us is spoiled. We need fresh supplies, as agreed upon.”

The headman’s son sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “You’ll take what you’re given, mercenary scum.”

Lys’s grip tightened on the sack, her temper flaring. Before she could respond, a group of village men emerged from the shadows, clubs in hand. They formed a semi-circle around her and her team, their postures threatening.

“Leave. Now.” The headman’s son stepped forward, his hand clamping down on Lys’s shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh.

Lys stood her ground, her eyes locked with the headman’s son. The recruits behind her shifting uneasily.

“We’re not leaving without what we were promised,” Lys said, her voice low and steady. She didn’t look away and stared him in the eyes. “We’ve upheld our end of the bargain. It’s time for you to do the same.”

The headman’s son leaned in close, his breath hot against Lys’s face. “You don’t make the rules here, boy. You’re outnumbered and outmatched. Now, I suggest you turn around and leave before things get ugly.”

“They already have,” Lys replied coolly.