Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 62 (Patreon)

Lys moved through the village with the rest of the company, the sound of their boots against the dirt path a steady rhythm. It was still early, and the sound echoed across the empty streets.

As they approached the piers, the ferry ship came into view. It was easily taller than a house, and that was only the part sticking out of the water.

“Look at the size of that thing!” Plainfield exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

Woodrow let out a low whistle. “Makes our rafts look like toys.”

Lys nodded. “Guess we won’t have to worry about getting wet this time.”

As they waited to board, the recruits chattered amongst themselves, their voices rising and falling with excitement.

“I heard Eversheaf has the best taverns in the region yesterday,” Stormwell said, a grin spreading across his face.

She punched him lightly on the arm. “Seriously? That all you are going to think about now?” Lys teased.

Finn and Swift appeared, their faces stern as they surveyed the recruits. “Alright, you lot,” Finn barked, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Time to board. Move it!”

The recruits scrambled to obey, filing onto the vessel with their packs slung over their shoulders. They were herded to the back of the ship, alongside other cargo and civilians. Lys noticed the sailors eyeing them with disdain, but the barge crew focused on their work.

None of them were allowed to load the wagons or animals. That was the purview of the crew, only. Something about the stupid soldiers damaging things. Lys shrugged off the worry. Less work for her was nice.

It took far longer than she imagined it would for them to slowly pull away from the pier. A gentle breeze filled the single sail, propelling them forward. It was still slower than she could have walked—if walking on water was possible.

Lys leaned against the railing, watching the water churn below. “What do they do if there’s no wind?” she asked, turning to Plainfield.

He pointed to the sides of the boat. There were small squares cut into the hull, and little sticks stuck out of them at an upward angle. “See those? Oars. They row if they have to.”

Woodrow’s face paled slightly. “You don’t think they’d make us row, do you?”

Stormwell shook his head. “Doubt it. We’re not exactly sailors.”

Lys laughed weakly. “If the sergeants think it would build our muscle, they probably would.”

As if on cue, Swift appeared, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the four of them. “What was that, recruits?”

They all stood up straight, their faces blank. “Nothing, Sergeant!” Lys answered.

The reason for the slow speed was the current, she realized. The ferry was fighting it while moving across to the other bank. They ate lunch and then found shade as they watched the town grow larger with each passing hour.

Even with the excuse of the current, the journey was slow; the vessel inching its way towards their destination. Excitement wore away quickly and turned to boredom. Maybe they weren’t digging, or setting up tents for once, but Lys couldn’t help but think this was starting to be worse.

Not to mention…

Some of them were getting sick.

“How much longer, do you think?” Woodrow asked, his face pale.

Stormwell shrugged. “Half the day, at least. This current’s no joke.”

Lys nodded, her eyes fixed on the approaching walls. The town was massive, easily surpassing Mythshell in size, as promised. She could see throngs of people moving about outside the fortifications, their distant figures like ants scurrying to and fro.

Was there some type of celebration going on?

As the ferry finally reached the pier, Sergeant Swift gathered them all up. “Listen up! There’s a festival going on in town. We’ll be moving through the streets as a unit to make camp outside. I expect perfect behavior from all of you. No getting lost. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the recruits chorused, their voices echoing across the deck.

They were given priority to disembark, and they marched off the vessel in formation down the ramps. The sailors double timed it to get the wagons and cart horses down next, but it was taking longer.

“Trekhill, sound off the group.” Swift ordered.

Lys nodded and stepped forward. “Alright, you heard the sergeant,” she called out, her voice carrying over the noise of the city. “When I call your name, respond!”

Plainfield snickered, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Look at you, group leader again.”

Lys shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it. She wondered the same thing herself. Swift had been having her fill the roll, but hadn’t named an official change of the roll. There was no time to dwell on it now.

It took nearly an hour, with the company working in tandem with the sailors, at least once the gear and equipment were off the ferry. The horses came last, hooves clopping against the wooden planks. None of them were happy with any of the humans, but they seemed to calm once they were back on solid ground.

Once everything was sorted, Finn’s voice rang out, directing the groups to form up around the wagons. Lys found herself at the front, Plainfield and the others falling in beside her.

Groups two and three took the flanks, while four and five brought up the rear. It was a solid, protective formation designed to guard their cargo and goods.

Considering what she had seen pass between Swift and the Bishop, she knew well that it might be worth far more than she could guess at, too.

“Trekhill!” Swift barked, his eyes locking onto hers. “Call out the cadence.”

Lys nodded, taking a deep breath. She began the march, her voice rising above the noise of the festival noise.

The streets were thick with people, but they parted like water before the mass of soldiers. That didn’t dampen the mood, though. Laughter and music filled the air. It made it hard, but Lys kept her focus on the task, guiding the company through the winding streets.

Nothing pulled her attention away from Swift’s orders until the archery competition just outside the river gate caught her eye. The entire company nearly skidded to a stop at her mistake, but a hand from Plainfield and Stormwell aborted her fall and they kept going.

Until they rounded the bend and the crowd in the field was so large that it threatened to block the main road out of the town.

“What’s going on over there?” Stormwell asked, craning his neck to get a better view.

“Archery competition,” Lys said quickly. She craned her head and could make out the targets. There were archers already taking their shots.

Plainfield squinted, trying to make out the details. “Who’s hosting it?”

As they drew closer, things came into clearer view. The hosts were soldiers clad in black armor. Other soldiers. Mercenaries like them?

“Those are Black Tortoises,” Stormwell offered.

Plainfield’s brows furrowed. “Not White Dragons?”

Swift glanced at them, his expression stern. “No, they’re not. The Black Tortoise are no friends of ours. Best keep that in mind and avoid them.”

Lys nodded, taking Swift’s words to heart. The civilians in the road parted, moving to both sides of the road as the recruits and their wagons cut through.

Things were going fine until a cluster of men in black leather pointed at them from the side of the road, sitting on a stage. Their faces were flushed and empty jars of alcohol were littered around their feet.

“Oi, look at the fresh meat!” one called out, his words slurring together.

“Bet they won’t last a week,” another chimed in, his laughter harsh and grating.

Lys gritted her teeth, focusing on the path ahead.

When they finally passed the event, the countryside opened up into an open sprawl of green. More than enough room for a camp. Further down the road, little paths cut off toward farmsteads in the distance. Lys led the group through, the wagons rumbling behind them.

To her surprise, they didn’t stop right away. Instead, they kept marching to the first cutoff and then turned down it. Behind a small hill, another permanent stone-walled camp came into view, a large barracks twice the size of the one at Mythshell.

No setting up camp then—that was nice. But the building looked like it was full of people already.

As they entered the compound, there were other recruits milling about, their uniforms marking them as part of the White Dragons. Swift broke off to speak with a sergeant at the entrance.

The recruits were deeper inside while the wagons split off to a storehouse building.

Swift returned, his face stern as he addressed the group. “Listen up! We’ll be in Eversheaf for at least a week. To make sure you don’t get soft, we’ll be having heavy weapons drills every morning.”

A few groans rose from the ranks, but most were too focused on the prospect of getting to go into the town.

Barracks’ assignments were rattled off. Lys found herself assigned to a room with Plainfield, Woodrow, and Stormwell, like usual. A small smile tugged at her lips. That suited her just fine.

Having familiar faces beside her all the time was probably the one thing that made things feel more stable.

A painful prick ran through her at the thought; Garret’s coin was still on the amulet tucked under her shirt, and she hadn’t even mustered the will to bring up Orin’s death benefit to quartermaster Ashton. The paper he had given her was tucked into the bottom of her kit in her journal so it wouldn’t get smashed.

Stable…

Until it wasn’t. Mercenary life—it was stable, sometimes even routine or boring. Until it wasn’t. Those brief panicked moments before and during battle… those were chaos and probably why they were paid so much.

She didn’t want to know what the opposite of the delirious victory celebrations would be.

The barracks room was the same as the one at Mythshell. The rooms must have been standardized, considering how similar they were. Although the barracks were full of men already—and the recruits were split up to take the unoccupied ones. Plus, there were a lot more rooms altogether.

The sergeants must have thought they had enough excitement for the day, because they were left alone with no afternoon drill. So they mostly relaxed and got to know the layout of the compound, talk with some of their seniors in the halls, and just eat and sleep when it was time for it.

The next morning, Sergeant Swift seemed determined to make up for that laxness.

Sweat poured down Lys’s face, her muscles burning with each swing of the weighted wooden sword. Plainfield grunted as he parried her strike, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Keep your guard up, Trekhill,” Sergeant Swift shouted, his voice cutting through the din of clashing wood.

Lys adjusted her stance, her grip tightening on the hilt. She lunged forward, feinting left before striking right. Plainfield stumbled back, barely blocking the blow.

Before she could capitalize on the blunder, Stormwell slid into place with his shield, blocking her. That left him open to Woodrow, but the next recruit in the line covered Stormwell in turn.

The entire exchange rippled down the line as recruits shifted to adjust and cover their comrade, all the way to the end, where the last man adjusted his position to cover both at the same time.

They had certainly gotten used to fighting in formation.

A commotion at the edge of the training grounds drew everyone’s attention and brought a temporary halt to the training.

Another company of recruits marched in, their formation sloppy and uneven. Lys lowered her sword, watching as they stumbled to a halt.

“Look at that,” Woodrow muttered, shaking his head. “They’re a mess.”

“Wouldn’t last a minute against the Irongians,” Stormwell agreed, his lip curling in disdain.

Lys nodded, her eyes critical as she assessed the new arrivals. Had they looked like that when they had first signed up? It didn’t seem possible.

Their uniforms were ill-fitting, their weapons held awkwardly, or even upside down. It was impossible to not compare them to her own company, the difference stark and undeniable.

It felt like Silverpines was years ago.

“Oi, recruits!” Swift’s voice cracked like a whip. “Did I say you could take a break?”

“No, Sergeant!” they chorused, snapping back to attention.

He didn’t seem convinced. “Then get back to it! Split off for personal sparring!”

The recruits spread out, dividing into twos, but her opponent didn’t change. She turned to face Plainfield, a grin spreading across her face. He scowled.

“Finally ready to let me stab you?” she asked, raising her sword.

“You got lucky last time,” he growled, raising his shield.

“We’ll see about that,” Lys laughed.

They clashed once more, shields clanging and locking together as their swords met in a flurry of strikes and parries.

Her sword arm moved with fluid grace, her body responding to each of his attacks. He was stronger, but she was faster, turning stabs into swings and feints and keeping him off balance constantly.

Around them, the other recruits continued their drills, the sound of wood against wood filling the air. Sergeant Swift stalked between the pairs, his eyes sharp and critical.

“Put your back into it, Stormwell!” he snapped. “Woodrow, watch your footwork!”

Lys tuned out the noise, her focus entirely on the match at hand. She feinted right, then swung left, her sword slipping past Plainfield’s shield to tap against his ribs.

“Point—Trekhill,” Swift called, a hint of approval in his voice.

Plainfield cursed under his breath, his face flushed with exertion and frustration. Lys grinned, settling back into her stance.

“Too bad,” she teased, her eyes glinting with challenge.

Before he could demand a rematch, Finn strode onto the training grounds, his voice booming over the clash of wooden swords. “Listen up, recruits! You’ll be facing off against another recruit company! The winning side will be getting a day off in Eversheaf!”

Excitement rippled through the ranks as the recruits broke apart and reformed into the standard line formation, three deep and split into five sections. They stretched nearly from one end of the training ground to the other.

Almost predictably, Lys found herself in command of group one, with Woodrow, Plainfield, Stormwell, and the others falling in beside her.

“Alright, you lot,” she called out, her voice carrying over the chatter. “We’ve got a day off to win.”

The other group turned out to be the mess of recruits that had barged in earlier. A murmur of excitement filtered down the line. Anticipation. Lys blinked and knew why—the fear radiating off the other group, their poorly organized movement…

She didn’t dare let herself think it was going to be easy, but it felt like the day off was already theirs.

“Shield wall!” she barked, and the recruits moved as one, locking their shields together in a tight formation. The other group sections copied the movement a second later.

That shrunk their line, and each section had to adjust. Opposite of them, their opponents milled about in a loose gaggle. Someone was screaming at them to get into formation, but it looked like they did not know what a formation was.

By the time they were halfway across the field, that had corrected itself somewhat, they were in a loose formation four or five deep all the way across.

That was the first time she realized they had more recruits than she did. That didn’t really change the calculations running in her head, though.

When they finally clashed, the other group fell back almost immediately, the front row stepping back into the second, causing a tangle. For whatever reason, the third row pushed forward, turning it into a jumble.

Lys blinked as the three men in front of her fell down on their own. What was the purpose of the exercise? They were obviously not ready at all.

She tapped the first two with her sword, then waited for her line to catch up. That didn’t take long. They bulldozed over the disorganized ‘enemy’ with almost no resistance.

Lys glanced over her shoulder at the sergeants—hers and the other groups—who all seemed content to let events play out. What were they getting at?

The other group’s morale was demolished and half of them didn’t bother getting up as the two formations split apart. They didn’t even bother to give them dirty looks.

Finn appeared in front of her, his gaze passing over the entire company. “Well done, recruits, you’ve taken the day. We’ll split you all off one group at a time over the next week for the day passes into Eversheaf.”

Lys blinked as he disappeared, but the chance to voice her burning question died as the rest of the company burst into cheers. Stormwell punched her in the arm, his face a splitting grin.

She couldn’t feel it. Actually, it annoyed the shit out of her. They’d just demolished a company of White Dragons! As much as it was disguised as ‘training,’ it had been nothing of the sort. She doubted the other group had learned a damned thing from the one-sided massacre.

Swift was still nearby. She broke formation and approached him. “Sir? Can I have a word?”

He frowned at her, then nodded. “What is it, recruit?”

“What was that?” Her voice was more sharp than she intended.

Swift raised an eyebrow. “What was what?”

“That wasn’t training. Look at them, they’re broken.” Lys pointed across the field. The sergeants were yelling at the disorganized blob that still hadn’t put itself back together.

Swift grunted. “They’ve been here four months. Twice as long as you’ve been with the company. They needed a sharp kick in the behind.”

Lys frowned. Before she could argue, he held up a hand.

“They’re the leftovers, from all the different cohorts, not cleared to move on to Dragonblanc. The ones that couldn’t adjust or are having trouble. Not everyone is cut out for this life. Some of them will make it through eventually, others will be released without pay. They’ve never seen an actual battle, you lot have. The difference is night and day. We made this brutal for them, the best we could do. Maybe it’ll jolt some of them, maybe not.”

She frowned. Nothing about that seemed right. She wanted to argue. They were supposed to build each other up. Even if it had been orders, her company had been used to tear the other group down.

“Get back in line, Trekhill.” Swift ordered.

She went.

“What was that?” Stormwell asked as she returned to her spot.

“Looks like you’ll get your tavern visit after all,” she teased. It was hard to keep her tone light.

He laughed and Woodrow slapped him on the back and they started to theorize on how pretty the tavern girls would be.

She rolled her eyes. Stupid boys.