Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 66 (Patreon)

Lys wiped her forehead, the sweat stinging her eyes. Around her, the other recruits were in a state of exhaustion, their faces flushed and their uniforms drenched with sweat. They had been put through the paces every day, in more ways than one.

“This is all your fault, Plainfield,” Stormwell grumbled, shooting a glare at the other recruit. “If you hadn’t gotten yourself robbed, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Plainfield shook his head. “You were there, too! How was I supposed to know?”

“Well, I didn’t pick a wench looking to drug and rob me! We were getting along just fine!” Stormwell shot back.

Woodrow clapped Plainfield on the back. “It’s not your fault, mate. It could’ve happened to any of us.”

Lys nodded in agreement, but she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment. It wouldn’t happen to her because she didn’t go after the tavern wenches like they did!

The incident in town had cost them all, with Sergeant Finn canceling any further leave. For the entire company. There were a lot of people unhappy with her group.

To make matters worse, her moonflow had arrived, leaving her feeling drained and irritable. She was always careful, but now she had to sneak bandages from the supply tent while disposing of them discreetly in the latrines.

It was much more annoying than the routine she’d established on the march and in their daily camps, but the last thing she needed was for anyone to discover her secret.

“Alright, recruits, listen up!” Sergeant Swift’s voice cut through the chatter. “We’ll be leaving Eversheaf tomorrow and heading out. I expect every one of you to be ready to go at first light.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the group. The prospect of finally moving on was a welcome one. Especially since they’d been stuck in the compound since the disaster.

Maybe once they were on the road again, the events of the past few days would be forgotten. She knew they still had a long way to go before reaching Dragonblanc, even if it was the last leg of the journey.

Receiving ‘remedial’ instruction for the entire length of the trek was not something to look forward to. The sergeants had to give them a break, right?

She glanced at Plainfield, who still looked miserable. “Hey,” she said quietly, bumping his shoulder with a fist. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get through this together.”

Plainfield managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Lys. I appreciate it.”

The next morning, the air was crisp and cool from a breeze off the river as the company prepared to depart at first light.

Lys packed her kit carefully, ensuring everything was secure. Her bunk mates did the same, their movements efficient and practiced. Packing was a skill you learned quick. They filed out of the barracks and into the main square, joining everyone else.

“Alright, recruits, form up!” Sergeant Swift called out. “We’ve got a long march ahead of us today.”

Lys fell into line with the others, adjusting the straps of her pack as they began to move out.

The path out of the compound was narrow, but it led to the main road quick enough. They turned left, away from the nearby town. Fresh road stretched south, or well, at least it was fresh to her and the other recruits.

There were signs of life stirring along the route, with farmers leading their livestock to pasture and merchants setting up their stalls.

The landscape slowly changed as they made their way. Fewer hills, more flat.

Compared to the eastern side of the river and home, the wilderness was dotted with farms in every direction. Enormous fields of crops were in the middle of growing, leaving large squares of different colors visible in the distance.

Just one farmer’s field seemed to be larger than all the fields in Thornfield combined. How did they harvest all of it?

It certainly explained how so many people in the towns remained fed, and all the food that had been on display.

Inns appeared at regular intervals, offering respite for weary travelers. None of them were nearly large enough to handle the company, though. The men lingering around them eyed the marching column warily.

“Never seen things clumped like this,” Woodrow said as they passed through a small hamlet. “Guess this is what civilization looks like.”

Stormwell snorted. “Just wait until we get to Dragonblanc. I hear it’s bigger than Mythshell and Eversheaf combined.”

Lys listened to their banter, a small smile tugging at her lips. Despite the tension they’d been under the last week, there was a sense of progress. They were almost to their ultimate destination.

The march itself seemed almost effortless now.

Her body had grown accustomed to the rigors of the road, and the miles flew by with ease. That seemed true for most of them. Fewer hills and inclines probably helped, too. Even the weight of her pack felt lighter.

“Looks like all that training is paying off,” Plainfield said. “I never thought I’d say this, but marching almost feels like a rest day compared to what Sergeant Finn put us through.”

Lys nodded in agreement. She’d take the relative peace of the open road over angry sergeants every time. Who wouldn’t?

As they rounded a bend that avoided a thicket of trees, they came upon a downtrodden caravan.

The wagons were battered and splintered, their canvas covers torn and flapping in the breeze. People huddled around them looked haggard and worn, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear.

Sergeant Finn held up a hand, signaling for the company to halt. He approached the caravan leader, a tall man with a grizzled beard and haunted eyes. They spoke in low tones, their voices too quiet for Lys to make out the words.

After a moment, Sergeant Swift returned to confer with Finn, before finally returning to the recruits. “Trekhill, gather a few others and transfer some medical supplies to the caravan. They’ve had a rough go of it.”

Lys nodded, motioning for Plainfield and Woodrow to join her. They made their way to the supply wagon, gathering bandages, salves, and other essentials. As they approached the caravan, Lys caught sight of the wounded lying in the wagons, their faces pale and drawn with pain.

She handed the supplies to one of the caravan members, a woman with tired eyes and a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “We didn’t think we’d make it this far.”

Lys nodded, unsure of what to say. She had seen suffering before. Silverpines had been the same, but at the time she’d been in the middle of it. This was a much smaller scale, but still… bad.

It was also a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the safety of the company.

The march remained halted for longer than she expected, and everyone took the time to sit down by the road and eat from their travel rations. A meeting of all the sergeants took a while, and then the caravan began to pack their things.

“On your feet!” Swift ordered as he returned. “About face!”

That caused a series of confused looks, but everyone, including her, obeyed without thinking. They were going back the way they had come, with the caravan in tow.

“Sir?” Lys asked as Swift walked by.

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

She nodded toward the civilians. “Are we escorting them back to Eversheaf?”

“Just to the last Inn. They’ll be able to recuperate safely there. Doubt the bastards that did this will raid them there,” Swift answered quickly. “Keep everyone alert, though. The threat is real and we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

Lys nodded and looked to the others who had been listening in. A chill ran down her spine. Bandits, like the Irongians or bandits like… well, she had very little experience to know what ‘regular’ bandits might be like.

Less dangerous? Thinking that way was likely a mistake.

The evidence of their brutality was right in front of her, making the danger all too real. Still, bandits wouldn’t want to tussle with an armed mercenary company, would they?

If they were looking to profit or make coin from whatever they were doing, they would almost certainly lose more than gain from attacking the company. Regardless of whether or not they were recruits.

It took the rest of the day to return the caravan to ‘safety,’ although the tavern keeper and his men didn’t look too happy to have them.

Instead of continuing on, the company settled in to camp in a nearby field just off the road. They were spared digging their regular fortifications on account of the locals not wanting trenches everywhere.

Lys and her group set about pitching tents and gathering firewood instead. She sort of missed the digging. It made things feel less secure not to have the defenses set up.

“Can you believe those bandits attacked so close to the towns?” Plainfield asked, hammering a tent stake into the ground.

Lys shrugged. “If they’re bandits, I doubt they’d want to bother us.”

Plainfield paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “What if they aren’t bandits? What if they’re some lord’s retinue needing extra cash, or raiding a rival?”

Stormwell snorted. “Eversheaf and Dragonblanc are in Whitfallse province, so they’d be picking a fight with the prince.”

“I don’t even know who the lords are,” Lys admitted, feeling a bit out of her depth.

Woodrow jumped in eagerly. “The Prince rules Whitfallse province directly. We marched through Mythshell province, which is lorded by Lord Mythshell.”

Lys raised an eyebrow. “They seem to have a great naming sense.”

Plainfield puffed up his chest. “Mythshell is the largest province in Lastia.”

“It’s also the poorest,” Stormwell added. “Mostly frontier and wilderness.”

“So this Lord Shell could send raiders against the prince?” Lys asked.

Stormwell shook his head. “Nah, I doubt they could afford to do so.”

“Right, poorest,” Lys muttered.

Sergeant Swift’s gaze ratcheted onto them, and they quickly fell silent, focusing on their tasks.

As they worked, Lys couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her gut. It wasn’t the ‘holy-shit-someone-is-going-to-die’ type of premonition, though. More like a lingering, illness-type feeling.

They’d have to be on their guard for the rest of the march.