Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 64 (Patreon)

The sweet aroma of fried dough and tangy fruit drew Lys deeper into the market. Weaving through the crowd, she approached a stall where a plump, rosy-cheeked woman was selling bread filled with vibrant, glistening fruit.

“Fresh fruit bread!” the woman called out, her voice carrying over the chatter of the festival-goers. “Crisp on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside! Only ten libra a piece!”

Lys’s mouth watered as she watched the woman deftly scoop a golden-brown pastry from a sizzling pan and place it on a square of parchment. The scent of caramelized sugar and ripe berries was irresistible.

“I’ll take one,” Lys said, fishing a handful of copper coins from her pouch.

The woman beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You won’t regret it, young man! Best fruit bread in all of Eversheaf, I guarantee it!”

Lys handed over the coins and accepted the warm pastry, the heat seeping through the wrapper and into her fingers.

She took a tentative bite, and her eyes widened as the flavors exploded on her tongue.

The bread was indeed crisp, giving way to a soft, gooey interior studded with chunks of sweetness. It was unlike anything she had grown up in Thornfield with.

She savored each bite while continuing to take in the sights and sounds of the festival.

Colorful banners fluttered overhead, and the air filled with the lively melodies of street musicians. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mingling with the shouts of the merchants.

A roar of cheers erupted from a nearby crowd, drawing Lys’s attention. As she drew closer, she found two shirtless men grappling in a makeshift ring, their muscles straining as they struggled to gain the upper hand.

“Step right up, lads!” a burly man with a third man with a thick beard bellowed. “Test your strength and skill in the wrestling competition! Winner takes home five silver denarii!”

The wrestlers circled each other, their bodies slick with sweat. With a sudden lunge, one of the men tackled his opponent, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers, urging the fighters on.

One of the burly men, his bare chest glistening with sweat, spotted Lys and pointed a meaty finger in her direction. “You there, soldier! Surely a brave warrior like yourself isn’t afraid to face us in the ring?”

Lys chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m a mercenary. What’s in it for me, anyway?”

The crowd erupted in laughter at her response, and the strongman grinned, his teeth flashing white against his dark beard. “Five silver denarius to anyone who can wrestle us down! All it takes is a half-silver entry fee to prove your worth!”

Lys eyed them, their muscles rippling beneath their sun-bronzed skin. She knew she was quick and agile, but they had brute strength on their side. It hardly seemed like a fair wager.

“A terrible deal, considering the size of you lot,” she called out, eliciting another round of laughter from the onlookers. “I think I’ll pass.”

With that, Lys disappeared into the crowd, the strongmen’s taunts and the spectators’ mirth fading behind her. She took another bite of her sweet bread, savoring the burst of fruity flavor on her tongue as she made her way down a narrower street lined with vendors.

Colorful awnings shaded the stalls, and the air was heavy with the mingled scents of spices, perfumes, and sizzling meat. Sensory overload was becoming a danger. Merchants called out to passersbys, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of enticements.

“Finest silks from the East, softer than a maiden’s skin!”

“Exotic spices from the far reaches of the world, guaranteed to tantalize your taste buds!”

“Handcrafted jewelry, fit for a queen!”

Lys let the sights and sounds wash over her, content to simply wander and observe. There was no harm in looking.

She wandered back toward the river gate, then out into the sprawl of people and buildings that had escaped the walled section of the town.

The archery contest was still ongoing. The same crowd lingered, watching, drawn to the spectacle of skilled marksmanship. She wove through the throng, finding a spot with a clear view of the targets.

The Black Tortoise mercenaries dominated the ranks of the contest now, their dark uniforms a stark contrast to the colorful festival atmosphere. Was that because they had filled the contest with their members, or because they were excellent archers?

The way they moved, nocking arrows and drawing their bows in one smooth motion before releasing, hinted to her they weren’t half bad. The crowd gasped as a volley of arrows streaked through the air, each one finding its mark.

“Did you see that?” a man nearby exclaimed. “They hit the bullseye from a hundred paces!”

Lys hummed. The shot didn’t look quite that impressive. It was good, for sure. But she could have done better. She froze. Was she getting a chip on her shoulder?

“I heard they train for years to achieve that level of skill,” another onlooker chimed in.

Well, that wasn’t wrong. It almost certainly took years of practice, most likely. A frown creased her lips. She hadn’t been practicing with a bow nearly as much since joining the White Dragons, and that worried her. How long until the skill rust became bad enough that she couldn’t easily claim the tournament shots were trivial?

The next event proved that the ‘tournament’ was more of a festival game. Armored men held up large heavy shields and began to criss-cross the range, creating moving targets. The archers adjusted their aim, flinging arrows into the bullseyes on the moving shields as fast as possible.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” a woman whispered, her voice tinged with both fear and excitement.

“They know what they’re doing,” her companion reassured her. “The Black Tortoise are the best!”

As the arrows thudded against the shields, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Lys smiled. Maybe she had been a bit too critical, although a part of her wondered at the risks they were willing to take for the sake of entertainment.

Suddenly, she felt eyes on her.

Glancing to the side, she saw two Black Tortoise mercenaries pointing in her direction. Their gazes lingered. She looked down—she was wearing her standard uniform.

A pointed warning about not getting along with the other company was easily recalled. Surely it wasn’t like…

The men started to pick their way through the crowd toward her.

It took her a second to realize she was genuinely their target. She didn’t know what they wanted or would say, but she wasn’t going to find out. She turned and pushed through the edge of the crowd back toward the river gate.

She looked over her shoulder as she re-entered the town. The two Black Tortoises that had started after her were nowhere in sight. That was a relief. Back to the market it was.

Before she could get anywhere, a sudden premonition of doom hit Lys in the stomach, causing her to stumble mid-step.

She clutched her abdomen, her breath catching in her throat as a wave of inexplicable dread washed over her. The sensation was all-consuming. The street seemed to twist in a spiral around her, and she had no idea which way she had been going.

Around her, the festival continued in full swing, oblivious to her distress.

Laughter and chatter filled the air, mingling with the lively melodies of street musicians. But she barely registered any of it, her mind consumed by an overwhelming sense of urgency.

She turned on her heel and turned down a narrow street.

Her boots pounded against the cobblestones as she wove through the crowd. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she knew she had to find the others.

“Watch where you’re going, lad!” a man grumbled as Lys brushed past him, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, not slowing her pace.

Had it been the Black Tortoise mercenaries that triggered the feeling? Lys shook her head, dismissing the thought as soon as it crossed her mind.

No, something told her this wasn’t related.

Part of the feeling itself? The danger seemed in front of her, not behind. She wasn’t running from it—she needed to rush toward it and stop it. Not the same as before Silverpines, then.

She had no reason to believe it was wrong, though. If she didn’t act, something bad was going to happen.

Lys quickened her pace, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she navigated the winding streets back to where the group had first split up near the theatre troupe.

The tavern. She just had to find it before... before what?

“Excuse me,” she muttered, shouldering past a group of chattering festival-goers. “Coming through!”

Lys scanned the street.

There!

She recognized the tavern’s weathered sign. Darting inside, her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. She spotted Woodrow at a table, nursing a tankard of ale. Weaving through the tables and chairs only took a second.

“Where are the others?” she demanded, her voice tight with urgency.

Woodrow looked up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Upstairs, I think. Why? What’s going on?”

Lys didn’t answer. She turned away and bolted for the staircase, then took the steps two at a time. Woodrow’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood to follow.

At the top of the stairs, Lys paused, her heart hammering. Premonition burned in her gut. She had completely forgotten about it. It had hit her first in Thornfield with the wagon. Then with Caius and Silverpines. Never with the company, until now.

She rushed to the nearest door and kicked it. The door jolted and an array of shouts erupted, most directed toward her. Discarding Yasir’s warning, she took a deep breath and kicked again. The wood splintered beneath her boot.

Inside, Plainfield lay naked on the floor, his clothes strewn about the room. Two women knelt beside him. One was rifling through his belongings on the floor. The other had a wicked-looking knife in hand.

Both looked at her in a panic and screamed.

“Drop it!” Lys snarled, drawing her sword from its scabbard. “Now!”

Plainfield’s bag clattered to the floor, spilling its contents. The other woman’s knife seemed to move closer to his throat.

Lys flashed forward before she could take him hostage or hurt him. The woman’s eyes widened as the distance evaporated.

Sword flashed, the flat of the blade smashing into her temple, and sending her sprawling.

The other woman screamed at her in terror.

“Shit! Fuck! Shit!” Woodrow’s voice rang out as he caught up, his own sword drawn.

Lys stood over Plainfield, her chest heaving as she glared at the two women. “Stay down,” she growled.

The first woman scrambled to the far corner of the room. “We didn’t mean no harm!” she cried, her hands raised in surrender. “We was just lookin’ for a bit of coin, is all!”

“By robbing and murdering a passed-out man?” Lys spat, her grip tightening on her sword.

The knife-wielding woman groaned, clutching her stomach as she struggled to sit up. “He was askin’ for it,” she hissed, her eyes flashing with defiance. “Prancin’ around with his coin purse, buyin’ drinks for every pretty face in the tavern.”

Woodrow stepped forward, his sword leveled at the women. “You’re lucky we got here when we did,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “Or you’d be facing a lot worse than a couple of bruises.”

Lys glanced down at Plainfield, who lay unmoving on the floor. A trickle of blood seeped from a cut on his forehead. They’d knocked him out? A head blow, then?

 “We need to get him out of here,” she said, sheathing her sword. “Woodrow, help me carry him.”

Together, they lifted Plainfield’s limp form, draping his arms over their shoulders. As they made their way towards the door, Lys paused, fixing the two women with a hard stare.

“Better hope he recovers,” she said, her voice low and deadly, “Or you’ll get worse than this.”

With that, they left the room, Plainfield’s dead weight hanging between them.

Her mind raced as they descended the stairs, her heart still pounding from the adrenaline. It was starting to ebb; they were in the clear. She had no idea what had prompted her sudden premonition. It had been useful. Again.

If she had arrived a bit later...

As they reached the bottom, two burly men stepped forward, their arms crossed and faces stern.

“Hold it right there,” one of them growled. “What’s all this commotion about?”

Lys met his gaze, her jaw set. “This man was nearly robbed and murdered in his room. We’re taking him home.”

The bouncer’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Looks to me like you’re the ones causing trouble.”

Chairs scraped throughout the tavern, and Lys blinked. There had been a lot of other recruits from the company that she hadn’t even noticed in her rush. But they had been clearly paying attention.

A door on the open level above burst open and Stormwell stumbled out, his pants half-on and his sword clutched in his hand. “What the hells is going on?” he bellowed, his eyes wide and wild.

The tavern erupted into chaos, with shouts and curses filling the air. Lys tightened her grip on Plainfield, her heart pounding as the situation escalated.

Just as it seemed a full-blown brawl was about to break out, the front door slammed open, and the sheriff strode in, flanked by a dozen town watchmen. He roared, his voice cutting through the din. “You’re all under arrest for disturbing the peace!”

The watchmen surged forward, grabbing recruits and hauling them towards the door. Lys found herself being roughly pulled away from Plainfield, her arm wrenched behind her back.

“Wait!” she shouted. “We didn’t do anything wrong! We were trying to help our friend!”

Her protests fell on deaf ears as they were all hauled away.