Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 63 (Patreon)

Lys approached the counter of the barracks storage rooms, where Sergeant Ashton stood guard. He looked up as she drew near.

“Need your chest, Trekhill?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Lys shook her head. “Just spending coin for a day out on the town, Sergeant.”

Ashton nodded, pulling out a ledger. “How much?”

“The same amount as before,” Lys replied, her fingers tapping against her thigh.

Ashton flipped through the pages, his finger running down the rows of names and numbers. “Says here you’ve got 8,077 Libra on the books. You’re taking out 1,100—that’s eight half-silvers and a hundred Libra.”

Lys nodded, confirming the amount. “That’s right.”

“Leaves you with 6,977 Libra,” Ashton said, making a note in the ledger. “Two weeks ‘til your next pay: a denarius worth 250 Libra.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Lys said, taking the pouch of coins he handed her.

She turned to go, but Ashton’s voice stopped her. “Trekhill, a word of advice.”

Lys looked back at him, her eyebrows raised.

“Battle pay isn’t common,” he said, his eyes serious. “You can easily spend more than your means. Once you’re promoted, what you just took is just over a month’s pay. Four months for you as a recruit.”

Lys nodded, understanding the warning. “I’ll spend it wisely, Sergeant.”

Ashton laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll be the first, but I still warn all of you just the same.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Try to avoid the pretty girls, eh?”

Lys grinned, giving him a mock salute. “Yes, Sergeant.”

She stepped out into the sunlight, the pouch of coins tightening down on her belt. The others were probably still getting ready, but she could wait for them here. Or she could head off into town alone and explore the town at her own pace.

Lys hesitated, weighing her options. It would be more fun with the others, but she also liked the idea of some time to herself. She glanced back at the barracks.

She would wait.

Lys leaned against the barracks wall, the sun warming her face as she waited. Her coinpouch tugged at her. She wasn’t sure why she had pulled so much, or any idea on what she would spend it on. But despite Ashton’s warning, she had a lot. And there were a few things she could think of that would make her life easier. Boot had just been the start. What if she got her own set of armor? Or a nicer tent? Her sleeping pad was pretty thin, too…

From what she had seen during her time with the regulars, as long as whatever thing she brought back wasn’t too ostentatious, it would be perfectly acceptable. Plus, it would be hers.

“Hey, Trekhill!” Stormwell called out as he, Plainfield, and Woodrow approached. “Ready to make up for skipping the girls last time, eh?”

Lys shook her head, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Nah, just wanted some company to enjoy whatever this festival thing is.”

“I heard it’s a fertility festival,” Stormwell said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Plainfield let out a low whistle. “Bunzard, we better be careful, or we’ll end up with a hundred little Stormwells running around.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense for it to be a fertility festival,” Lys countered, her brow furrowing. “It’s summer. So it’s maybe a harvest festival.”

Woodrow chimed in, “You’re wrong too, Trekhill. A harvest festival would be in autumn, so it’s too early for that.”

The group continued to argue about the nature of the festival as they made their way out of the camp. The sun did its best to bake everything, the air thick with the scent of summer. It hadn’t rained in a while and some of the grass had turned yellow along the road.

As they approached the gate, Lys spotted a guard standing watch.

“Hey, guard!” she called out. “What’s this festival all about?”

The guard looked at them, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “It’s the festival of the dead.”

Lys grunted, her shoulders slumping. “Well, shit.”

Stormwell let out a laugh, clapping Lys on the back. “Looks like we were all wrong.”

Lys walked down the street with her companions, taking in the sights and sounds of the festival preparations. Colorful banners hung from windows and doorways, fluttering in the warm breeze. The scent of roasting meat and spices filled the air, making her stomach growl.

“Look at all these weird decorations,” Plainfield said, pointing at a group of children hanging up strings of bones and skulls.

“Festival of the dead,” Lys mumbled, eyeing a particularly gruesome effigy of a skeletal figure.

As they approached the market square, the sound of drumbeats and chanting grew louder.

A troupe of actors, dressed in elaborate bone costumes, danced and twirled in the center of the square, their movements fluid and hypnotic. A large crowd had gathered to watch and were clapping and cheering along.

“Hey, let’s go check out the tavern,” Stormwell suggested, nudging Woodrow with his elbow. “I bet they’ve got some special festival ale on tap.”

Plainfield shook his head. “Nah, I want to watch this performance. It looks interesting.”

Lys hesitated, torn between the two options. The tavern sounded appealing. A chance to relax and enjoy a drink with her friends.

On the other hand, the performance was unlike anything she had ever seen before, and she was curious to see more.

“I think I’ll stay and watch with Plainfield,” she said finally. Besides, the tavern would probably end up with everyone else running off with tavern girls again and leaving her alone, anyway.

Stormwell shrugged, a grin on his face. “Suit yourself. Come on, Woodrow, let’s go get a drink.”

“And a girl?” Woodrow asked.

Stormwell laughed. “You got it in one.”

Lys shook her head and then turned toward the stage.

The actors took their places as they started another scene, their bone-adorned costumes glinting in the sunlight. A hush fell over the crowd as the drumbeats faded, replaced by the soft strumming of a lute.

A young man stepped forward, his face painted to resemble a skull. He began to sing, his voice rich and mournful, telling the tale of two lovers torn apart by death. Behind the actors, other troupe members raised up a black curtain behind them with two long poles.

As the play progressed, the lovers met in a ghostly realm, their hands passing through each other as they tried to embrace. Tears streamed down the woman’s face. Her anguish seemed palpable as she announced they could never truly be together again.

Lys felt a lump form in her throat. She glanced at Plainfield, who seemed equally enthralled, his eyes fixed on the stage.

The lovers danced, their movements graceful and ethereal, their bodies never quite touching. The music swelled, the lute joined by a hauntingly beautiful flute melody. Lys found herself swaying to the rhythm, lost in the tragic beauty of the moment.

As the play reached its climax, the lovers bid each other a final farewell, their voices filled with longing and despair. They faded away, their forms dissolving into mist that somehow appeared on the stage, leaving only the echo of their love behind.

The crowd erupted into applause, startling Lys from her reverie. She clapped along with the others.

“That was incredible,” Plainfield said, his voice hushed with awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She had seen festivals in Thornfield before, but nothing quite like the troupe’s play. The raw emotion and the beauty of the dance left an impression.

“So, what do you want to do now?” she asked, turning to Plainfield.

He shrugged, glancing around the bustling square. “We could go look for Stormwell and Woodrow at the tavern.”

Lys considered the idea for a moment, then shook her head. “Maybe we could go shop for some trinkets instead?”

Plainfield laughed, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you a woman now? Always wanting to go shopping instead of wenching?”

She rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, come on. How many times have we been let loose?”

“Fair point,” he conceded, still grinning.

“Besides,” Lys continued, “the tavern might be fun for a bit, but the things we buy, we keep for a lot longer.”

Plainfield nodded, then gestured towards the journal tucked under her arm. “I’ve seen you writing in that journal thing. You know, I can’t read or write myself.”

“I could teach you,” Lys offered, her voice sincere.

He hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. “I don’t know. Maybe another time.”

Lys sensed his discomfort and decided not to push the matter further. “So, tavern then?”

Plainfield’s eyes lit up, and he clapped her on the shoulder. “Now you’re talking! Let’s go find the others.”

She hesitated, glancing at the colorful stalls lining the square. The allure of exploring the market pulled at her. Stronger than the desire to join her companions at the tavern. They weren’t even going to take her advice to look for a pair of boots?

“You know what? I think I’m going to check out the market stalls instead,” Lys said, making up her mind.

Plainfield shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll catch up with you later, then.”

With a wave, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the tavern.

The crowd churned around her as she watched him go. So, she had ended up alone after all. Oh well.

She wandered through the market, her eyes wide with wonder at the array of vibrant stalls and exotic wares. The scents of spices and food mingled with the chatter of merchants and customers, creating a lively atmosphere that reminded her of Mythshell.

“Fresh fish! Caught just this morning!” a fishmonger called out, holding up a glistening trout.

“Finest silks from the east!” another merchant proclaimed, gesturing to a display of shimmering fabrics in rich hues.

The fish was new, but the silk was not. Mythshell had the same stuff, so was it really as rare as the merchants were claiming?

Lys paused at a stall selling intricate wooden carvings, admiring the craftsmanship of a small figurine depicting a dragon in flight. As she turned to move on, a series of squawks and chirps caught her attention.

A large stall housed a menagerie of exotic pets. Vibrant birds with plumage in every shade of the rainbow fluttered in brass cages. Beside them, small dragon lizard creatures basked on heated rocks, their scales glinting in the sunlight.

“Ah, young man!” the merchant called out, his eyes twinkling. “Looking for a companion to brighten your days? These beauties are the finest in all the land!”

Lys approached the cages, her gaze drawn to a striking bird with feathers of deep blue and shimmering gold. It cocked its head, regarding her with intelligent eyes.

“How much for this one?” she asked, gesturing to the bird.

The merchant grinned, sensing her interest. “For you, my friend, a special price. Only fifty silver denarii!”

Lys let out a low whistle, shaking her head. Fifty silver? Over twelve thousand libra? Something like two gold aureus? She couldn’t do the full math in her head, but the cost was silly.

“Maybe another time,” she said, offering the merchant a polite smile.

As she turned to leave, a small dragon lizard scampered to the edge of its cage, its scales a dazzling emerald green. It let out a tiny puff of smoke.

Lys chuckled, reaching out to stroke its head with a gentle finger. “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t you?”

The lizard nuzzled her hand, its scales warm and smooth to the touch. For a moment, Lys allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to have such a companion, to come back to her tent after a long day of training and find a friendly face waiting for her.

But she knew it was just a fantasy. With a sigh, she withdrew her hand and stepped back from the cages. Plus, it would probably get too big to keep, if it was related to the one they had fought on the road.

“Take care, little one,” she murmured, giving the lizard a last glance before turning to continue her exploration of the market.