Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 65 (Patreon)

The watchmen shoved Lys into the cramped cell, her shoulder slamming against the stone wall. She grunted, regaining her balance as the iron-barred door clanged shut behind her.

The other recruits were already inside, their faces a mix of anger and confusion. Her eyes slid to Plainfield. Or unconsciousness. She grabbed Woodrow and started tugging off his jacket.

He sputtered and protested. “What, why mine?”

Lys shook her head and covered up the still bare-assed Plainfield. “I saved his life. It’s your turn.”

“What the hells happened?” Stormwell demanded. At least he had got his pants on, but his uniform was missing a few buttons.

Woodrow crossed his arms. “We found him passed out in his room, with two women trying to rob him.”

“Aye,” Lys added, her voice tight with anger. “One had a knife to his throat.”

Plainfield groaned, his head lolling against the wall. “I don’t remember any of that. Last thing I recall is buying drinks for those pretty lasses...”

Relief flooded through her. If he was awake and could remember that, he was probably going to be okay.

“Well, those ‘pretty lasses’ nearly got you killed,” Lys snapped. “If we hadn’t shown up when we did...”

“But why are we all locked up?” one of the other recruits asked, his brow furrowed. “We didn’t do anything wrong!”

Lys sighed, leaning against the wall. “The watchmen didn’t seem to care about that. They just saw a bunch of rowdy soldiers causing trouble and decided to throw us all in here.”

“Brilliant,” Stormwell muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Sergeant Swift is going to have our hides for this.”

Lys nodded. They were supposed to be back at camp by the end of the day. If they didn’t show up...

“Hey!” she called out, gripping the iron bars. “We demand to speak to the sheriff! There’s been a mistake!”

No one answered her shouts. The only sound was the distant clamor of the festival still raging outside, and the frustrated grumbles of her fellow recruits.

The hours dragged on, each minute stretching within the confines of the cramped cell.

Lys leaned against the cold stone wall, her eyes closed as she tried to block out the frustrated grumbles and whispered conversations of her fellow recruits. The initial anger and confusion faded into a sense of dread.

Plainfield sat in the corner, his head cradled in his hands, while Stormwell paced back and forth, his boots scuffing against the dirty floor. Woodrow remained silent, his gaze fixed on the iron bars.

A clink and clang jolted Lys from her thoughts. She looked up, her heart leaping into her throat as the sheriff appeared, a ring of keys in his hand. It was the figure behind him that was a punch to the gut.

Sergeant Swift stepped forward, his face a mask of barely contained fury. A collective groan echoed through the cell, the recruits shrinking back against the walls as if trying to disappear.

“Let them out,” Swift ordered, his voice sharp as a whip crack.

The sheriff hesitated for a moment before nodding. “I’m warning you, Sergeant. If there’s any more trouble from your boys, I won’t hesitate to charge them.”

Swift’s jaw clenched. “They won’t be back. Let them out.”

The sheriff remained silent as he unlocked the cell door.

They filed out, their heads bowed and shoulders slumped before being directed to a storeroom inside the building where they collected their gear. No one spoke, each of them acutely aware of Swift’s piercing gaze boring into their backs.

Lys rummaged through her purse, a wave of relief washing over her as she found all her coins still there. She glanced up at Swift, expecting a verbal lashing.

“I’m not going to ask where Plainfield’s pants went, but get him something so he isn’t hanging out the entire way out of town,” he said, his voice tight. “Then get everyone outside in formation.”

“Ye—yes, sergeant,” her voice caught as she turned to make it happen. Him not yelling made it feel worse. Like a sword was hanging over them. Would they get a chance to explain? Would that even matter?

She herded the group out of the jail and onto the street. Somehow they formed a semblance of order, their boots scuffing against the cobblestones as they fell into line.

Swift emerged a moment later, and he marched them out of the town. He remained silent, his anger simmering just beneath the surface as he led them back to camp. They avoided the river gate.

She had expected him to burst and yell at them as soon as they were outside and in line.

The silence was actually more scary.

The treatment stretched on, broken only by the crunch of boots on gravel. She kept her head down. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?

Swift stopped abruptly as they turned down the path off the main road. His eyes swept over them, his expression unreadable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Everyone exchanged nervous glances, their eyes darting to Lys. Oh of course, she had been elected spokesperson and leader. She felt their gazes boring into her, the weight of their expectations heavy on her shoulders.

They wanted her to get them out of the mess? From now on, she was going to bring this up every time they bothered her about not wanting to pickup girls at the tavern.

Swift stared expectantly, the wait becoming awkward.

Lys fidgeted, her fingers twisting the hem of her tunic. “Plainfield was being robbed by the tavern wenches,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I burst in and stopped them from slitting his throat.”

Swift’s eyebrows shot up. “And then?”

“The bouncers came after us,” Lys continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Then the rest of the recruits drinking downstairs intervened. The town watch showed up and arrested us all.”

Swift listened intently, his eyes never leaving Lys’s face. “How did you know he was being robbed?” he asked, his tone sharp.

Lys’s stomach twisted. She had no idea. But she couldn’t tell Swift that.

“I was, uh, sitting on a roof watching the festival,” she said, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. “I saw what happened through the window.”

Swift stared at her, his gaze piercing. Lys squirmed under the intensity of his scrutiny, her heart pounding in her chest. The seconds stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity.

Finally, Swift spoke. “It’s a good thing you were watching out for your brother in arms,” he said.

Lys let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She nodded, relief flooding through her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t quite believe her story, though.

Swift’s gaze shifted to Plainfield, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll be having words later about not getting your throat slit by whores,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

Plainfield swallowed hard, his face paling under the sergeant’s intense scrutiny. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Swift turned to the other recruits, his expression softening slightly. “You did well to defend your comrades,” he said, giving them a curt nod of approval.

“There will be consequences tomorrow,” Swift announced, his voice carrying across the gathered recruits. “For all of you.”

A collective shudder ran through the group, their shoulders slumping. Lys swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

They made the rest of the way back to camp in a less tense silence. First stop was the quartermaster’s tent.

Lys trudged into the quartermaster’s tent and Sergeant Ashton looked up from his ledger. His eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of the recruits filing in.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked, staring at Plainfield.

“There was a bit of an issue in town, sir. We’re here to deposit our personal gear, though,” Lys said, stepping forward. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her coin purse.

Ashton’s eyes narrowed as he took the purse, his fingers deftly counting the coins inside. “Didn’t spend much,” he announced, making a note in his ledger.

Lys nodded. Well, at least she’d have the funds for later.

The other recruits deposited their own belongings in their private chests. Ashton took each purse of coin, his pen scratching against the parchment as he recorded the transactions.

When they were finished, Lys led the way back to the barracks, her feet dragging with every step. The outer room was dark and musty, the air thick with the scent of weapon oil and leather.

“Everyone should turn in,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

The others nodded, their faces drawn. “We’ll be at the campfire for a bit,” Stormwell said, his voice low.

Lys shook her head, her eyes already heavy with sleep. She stumbled to her bunk, collapsing onto the thin mattress with a groan.

Shouting jolted Lys awake, her eyes snapping open as Sergeant Finn’s booming voice filled the bunk room. “On your feet, recruits! Now!”

She scrambled out of bed, her heart pounding as she fumbled for her boots. Around her, the others were doing the same.

“Move it!” Finn bellowed, his face red with anger. “I want you all on the muster ground five minutes ago!”

Lys moved, lacing as fast as she could. She glanced at Stormwell, who was already dressed and heading for the door. Plainfield and Woodrow were right behind him, their expressions grim.

As they emerged into the early morning light, Lys saw that the other sergeants were doing the same in the other barracks, their shouts echoing across the camp. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting a pale glow over the muster ground.

Sergeant Finn strode out in front of them, his face a mask of barely contained fury. This was what she had expected the day before, from Swift. It was almost a relief.

“You think you can just go off and cause trouble in town?” he demanded, his voice sharp as a whip.

Lys swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She could feel the weight of Finn’s gaze on her, the accusation in his eyes.

“You’re supposed to be soldiers,” Finn continued, his voice rising with each word. “You’re supposed to represent the White Dragons with honor and discipline.”

The recruits shifted uncomfortably, their eyes remaining fixed straight ahead.

“Plainfield!” Finn barked, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re on latrine duty. Grab a shovel and get to it.”

Plainfield’s face paled. “How… how many, sir?”

Oh no.

Finn turned to him. It was like watching the runaway cart careen toward a wall again. “All of them.”

Plainfield winced, his jaw clenching tight. “Yes, sir.” He disappeared to retrieve a shovel from the supply tent.

Lys watched him go, a twinge of sympathy tugging at her.

Finn turned back to the rest of them, his eyes narrowing. “As for the rest of you,” he growled, “we’ll be starting with a good long run. Physical exercise all day long, so you won’t have any energy to get in trouble anymore!”

A collective groan rippled through the ranks, but it was quickly silenced by Finn’s icy glare.

“You brought this on yourselves,” he snapped. “Now, fall in and follow me.”

Lys fell into line with the other recruits, her heart sinking as they set off at a brisk pace. The heat was already oppressive despite the early hour.

They ran for what felt like hours, their boots pounding against the hard-packed earth. Sweat clung to all of them, and her canteen reached a worrying level much too quickly.

“Keep up, recruits!” Finn shouted, his voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion. “You’re falling behind!”

Lys gritted her teeth, forcing herself to pick up the pace. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back, soaking through her tunic.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, Lys caught sight of Plainfield in the distance, his shovel flashing in the sunlight as he dug a new latrine trench beside the old one.

There was no time for regret as they came to a halt, having completed the marathon.

Finn was already barking out new orders, directing them to drop and give him fifty push-ups. Lys hit the ground, her arms trembling as she forced herself through the motions.

It was going to be a long day.