Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 59 (Patreon)

Lys meandered through the bustling streets of Mythshell, her coin pouch significantly lighter after her purchases.

That might have been psychological.

She’d never spent more than a few copper libra before. Now she’d spent more than she’d ever owned on a pair of boots, a journal, and a cloak. With a contented sigh, she decided to head back to camp earlier than planned, taking a winding path to savor the sights and sounds of the town.

As she entered the camp, a few recruits glanced her way. “Look who’s back early,” one of them called out. “Couldn’t handle the tavern, eh?”

Lys shrugged off their comments, making her way towards Sergeant Ashton’s building. She found him hunched over a table, sorting through a stack of papers. He looked up as she entered. “Trekhill? I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“I decided to do some shopping, finished abit early,” Lys explained, setting her purchases on the table. “The others were more interested in the tavern and female company.”

Ashton nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes as he examined her new journal, whetstone, boots, and cloak. “These are good choices, Trekhill. They’ll serve you well in the company.”

He collected her remaining coin, carefully counting it before adding the amount to her ledger. “I’ll make sure this is kept safe for you.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Lys said, gathering her new belongings.

“Oh, and Trekhill?” Ashton called after her as she turned to leave. “You won’t be needing your company-issued cloak and boots anymore. Make sure to return them to the armory.”

Lys nodded. “Will do, Sergeant.”

The armory wasn’t far. She didn’t recognize the sergeant in charge of it, but things went smoothly enough. The weight of her new cloak settled comfortably on her shoulders, and the boots molded perfectly to her feet.

With a yawn, Lys realized just how tired she was from the day’s excitement. She headed back to her shared quarters, grateful to find it empty. With the others still out, it left her with a rare moment of peace and quiet.

Lys kicked off her new boots and settled onto her bunk. She drifted off.

***

The next morning, the recruits were put through intense weapon drills, fighting in shield wall squads.

Lys commanded a group of ten against another group of ten, led by Plainfield. She barked orders, directing her squad’s movements as they clashed shields and thrust spears in a simulated battle.

Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes, but she refused to yield an inch to Plainfield’s team. The challenge was that they weren’t allowed to intervene directly.

Otherwise, she was sure she would have bulled her way through without a problem. She glanced at Sergeant Swift, who was watching with Finn from the side. Maybe that had been their plan in the first place?

“Hold the line!” Lys shouted. Victory was secured when Woodrow made it around the flank and jabbed Plainfield in the side.

Then they went again. This time it was Stormwell who came for her—she hit him in the head with the shaft of her spear, though. That got them a penalty and a loss, anyway.

The rounds went on and on until everyone was exhausted. When Swift finally called a halt to the exercise, they all collapsed. Lys leaned on her spear, brain too fogged to take in Swift’s critique of their performance. Something about lazy dogs.

At lunch, while some recruits were given the day off and headed to the quartermaster, Lys was pulled aside by Swift. “Trekhill, I need you to organize an armed escort party.”

Lys nodded, straightening her posture. She managed not to show her surprise. She wasn’t a group leader anymore. “Yes, Sergeant. How many men?”

“Eight to ten. Gear up in armor from the barracks armory and arm yourselves with swords and shields. Meet me back here once you’re ready.”

No time for rest, then. She found Stormwell and Plainfield arguing over the weather, while Woodrow sat nearby draining a waterskin.

“Stormwell, Plainfield, Woodrow! You’re with me. We’ve got an escort mission,” Lys ordered.

The three recruits looked up, surprised by Lys’s authoritative tone. They quickly fell in line as she selected a few more to join them.

In the armory, Lys helped her team don their armor. They hadn’t done a lot of practice in the gear, and she had the most experience with it thanks to her stint with the regulars. She double checked everyone to make sure they wouldn’t fall apart the moment they reached Swift.

Once that was done, they swapped their training weapons for steel.

As they marched out to meet Swift, Lys saw that he had two men with him, carrying a chest suspended on poles. Swift motioned for Lys’s team to form two lines flanking the chest bearers.

Lys took her position at the front. She glanced over her shoulder at the chest more than once, though. What was in the chest that required such heavy security? As they made their way into Mythshell, she remained alert, scanning the crowds for any signs of trouble.

“Keep the path clear, Trekhill,” Swift ordered, his voice cutting through the din of the crowded streets.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Lys replied, nodding to Plainfield and two other recruits.

They moved forward and began to shout at anyone who didn’t get out of the way. “Make way!”

Despite the crowd, the throng of people parted easily, no one wanting to risk a confrontation with the party.

Lys led the way through the winding streets, past the market district where she had shopped just the day before. The taverns were a blur of noise and activity as they marched by, drowning out the sound of the recruits’ boots striking the cobblestones in unison.

As they climbed a hill, the buildings grew more opulent, the streets lined with richly appointed houses. The crowd thinned to nearly nothing. Servants scurried about, carrying baskets of laundry and trays of food, while well-dressed civilians strolled along the sidewalks, flanked by bodyguards.

It was such a drastic change. Was it really the same town?

At the crest of the hill, a white marble temple came into view with spires that reached towards the sky. Lys recognized the symbol of Bunzard carved above the entrance, realizing that this must be their destination.

“Up the steps, lads,” Swift commanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Lys led the way, her heart pounding with anticipation as they ascended the temple steps. The chest bearers followed close behind.

As they reached the top, Lys caught a glimpse of the temple’s interior through the open doors. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows and cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished floor. Priests in flowing robes moved about or stood in contemplation.

As they entered the temple, the intricate architecture and a sense of reverence that permeated the air. A priest approached them, his brows furrowed.

“You should know better than to bring arms into the temple,” the priest chastised.

Swift bowed his head. “My apologies, Bishop. We assumed the temple would prefer their tithe from the 1st cohort to arrive intact and not plundered.”

The bishop’s eyes gleamed as he eyed the chest. “And what great news has the White Dragon Mercenary company come to share with the church today?”

“The Irongian Mercenary company, the Rusty Lathes, was dismantled. The official mandatory tithe to the church is contained within this chest,” Swift explained.

With a subtle gesture from the bishop, several temple guards emerged from behind pillars. Lys tensed up. She hadn’t noticed their presence. A glance at the others revealed they were equally caught unawares.

Swift raised his hand, signaling for the chest bearers to step forward. They set the chest on the ground before the bishop, who opened it on the spot.

Her breath caught as the lid was lifted. It was filled with silver and gold coins. They had been transporting it all the way from Swiftmorest? From the battlefield itself? There was a hundred, no, a thousand times her pay there.

What if they’d been robbed? She stifled the thought—they were a mercenary company, even if they were recruits. Who was going to rob them?

The bishop waved his hand dismissively, his eyes never leaving the chest of silver and gold. “You may go now. The church thanks you for your service and dedication.”

Oh. Right. The church was robbing them. What had they done to earn such an enormous chunk of the spoils?

Swift bowed his head, a tight smile on his lips. “Of course, Bishop. We’ll take our leave.” He turned to Lys and the other recruits, jerking his head towards the temple entrance. “Move out.”

Lys followed Swift down the temple steps, her mind reeling from the encounter. As they made their way back through the crowded streets of Mythshell, she quickened her pace to walk alongside the sergeant.

“What was that all about, Sergeant?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Swift glanced at her, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That, Trekhill, was the mandatory tithe to the church. Ten percent of any loot we acquire goes straight to them.”

Lys’s eyes widened. “Ten percent? That’s a lot.”

He nodded. “Aye, and that’s not all. The Prince gets his cut too, another fifteen percent. But that will be handled by the main cohort body. We brought the church tithe since we were already planning to visit Mythshell, and they’ve got one of the major temple bishops here.”

They wound their way through the market district. The tension had evaporated compared to their way to the temple.

Lys glanced at Swift, hesitating for a moment before speaking up again. “Sergeant, what about taxes? I didn’t think about that… will I get in trouble?”

“Pay your taxes?” Swift threw his head back and laughed, the sound startling a nearby merchant. “Trekhill, your pay is safe. The taxes on it are remitted for you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Lys felt a weight lift from her shoulders, relief washing over her. She had never had to think about taxes before.