The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  With such wealth and prosperity, came a reputation built around corruption, greed and needless waste. The merchants of the five Vale cities lived in such extravagance that it was hard to find respect from the hard-working and often deprived farmers and tradesmen in the rest of the land.

  By Alessan’s account, the evening had been a great success. Damage had been minimal and the customers free with their coin. Mother will be pleased with tonight’s profits, he thought.

  Shani Oakleaf had retired early at his insistence, and he suddenly realized how exhausted his own body had become. The hour was late and only a few patrons remained. The overweight merchant and two bookish men, likely belonging to his personal retinue, sat in one of the corner of the common room. A few soldiers lingered near the kitchen entrance looking somewhat unsteady after an evening of revelry. As he quietly went about clearing the recently vacated tables, Alessan could hear the conversation underway at the rear of the inn.

  “This cannot be,” the merchant exclaimed. “Valorius, I need you to check your figures once more. We cannot possibly need this much grain for the duration of the journey. This number seems obscene!”

  “Master, I beg your forgiveness but both Vellix and I have accurately calculated the costs based on the price of feed in this backwater town,” answered the thin aristocrat.

  The three men were pouring over a scattered pile of documents while the portly merchant gnawed on a large drumstick. Passing close to the table, Alessan dared a peek towards the untidily scrawled list of supplies. In a brief glance, he could see that the merchant was correct; the numbers were far too high.

  “Boy? Do you often stare at a man’s private papers when you do your rounds? I have a mind to speak to your employer, regardless of the time.” One of the men threatened.

  Looking up into the beady eyes of the servant who smelled heavily of perfume, Alessan calmly replied, “My mother would be displeased with me if I let you wake her at this late an hour.” Turning towards the large man he continued, “I beg your forgiveness, master merchant. I did in no way mean to offend you with my curiosity.”

  “You would do well to mind your tongue, as I’m sure you can ill afford to fight your own battles,” sneered the one called, Valorius. He did not hide his disdain as he assessed Alessan’s stature.

  “Enough!” growled the big man.

  Bowing slightly as he backed away, Alessan stared balefully towards the two retainers. Smiling at the two men, he turned his eyes to the merchant and spoke. “I fear I would be remiss in my duties as a good host, master merchant, if I did not inform you of a small discrepancy in your information. Those numbers are wrong and I fear you are being misled.”

  Raising his furry eyebrows, the big man shifted his weight and called him over. “A kitchen boy who knows his numbers? Explain yourself, young man. Be wary, if I find your answer lacking, your slight to my two servants will not go unpunished,” he warned.

  “I have worked in the stables for the better part of my life, sir. I know what type of feed is best for any horse, be they rugged draft horses, elegant stallions, or powerful war steeds,” Alessan answered. “My father also deemed it important that my sister and I learn both our letters and numbers. I believe he thought that a man in my obvious predicament would need skills that could better complement my strengths.”

  “Go on, I’m listening,” the merchant replied. Tossing his head in the direction of his accountants, he added, “Don’t worry about these two, you can speak freely.”

  Alessan did notice the glance the large man directed towards his shrunken left arm. He chose to ignore it. “The Sylvani stabled one hundred mounts this morning. I know Varis mentioned your own personal escort consisted of eight draft horses and two geldings. The number on that list,” Alessan said, stepping forward and pointing towards a sheaf of paper, “is enough to buy grain for an extra two dozen horses. I could have Marius, our storekeep, come by tomorrow and explain it all to you, Sir.”

  “Could this be?” the merchant questioned the closer of the two men.

  “Master, I believe the numbers are correct. You possibly fail to take into account the discrepancy in prices between the Vale and here in the north,” he stuttered in reply.

  “Unless the coins in the Vale are all made of gold, there is no discrepancy.” Alessan retorted quietly.

  “Hah! You are a treasure and a clever lad at that!” The merchant roared. “No fear in your challenging tone, regardless of our well known reputations.”

  “It is true the merchants of the Vale are often frowned upon for their often extravagant behaviour when guests in our establishment, but I was taught better than that by my father,” Alessan replied.

  The merchant nodded slowly. “And a good man he must be.”

  “Was,” Alessan corrected.

  “Ah, I am sorry for your loss. No boy should grow up without his father to guide him, but you seem to have done well for yourself.”

  “Thank you, Sir – you are too kind.”

  “Nonsense, I am happy to have met you, young…”

  “Alessan, sir,” he replied.

  “Well, Alessan, I look forward to our next encounter, but for now it is time for you to leave us. I obviously have sensitive matters that need immediate attention, but remember that Corian Praxxus owes you a debt of gratitude,” the merchant finished with a wink and a grin. Turning to his two retainers, his smile faded quickly. “As for the two of you cutthroats, gather our things. I’ll be dealing with you sooner than you would both like.”

  Alessan watched as the two men snatched the parchments from the table and hastened out the front entrance while Corian Praxxus berated them all the while.

  It took the better part of an hour before the common room was as deserted as it had been earlier in the morning, long. The day had been long. Smiling to himself, but concerned about the scathing looks the two fops had hurled his way as they had left, Alessan knew he had best tread carefully until Master Praxxus departed the Lumber town.

  Truthfully, it had felt glorious to challenge the two retainers regardless of the possible repercussions. The rush of adrenaline that had coursed through his body had seemingly banished the bone-weary exhaustion of the day. Unconsciously, he began whistling a song to the tune of “Bael and the Eldest”, as he finished mopping the floor. Alessan yawned loudly as he worked and yet for that moment, he was happy.

  “Many would have you believe that the problem with mercenaries is their loyalty, but I beg to differ. The only problem that I see, is finding a nobleman foolish enough to trust them.”

  —Captain Gerald Armsmater

  Chapter II

  Seracen Pass, Protectorate

  Sheltered within the high walls of the Karipaal mountain range lay the Seracen Pass, a narrow passage cut into the verdant lands of southeastern Kal Maran.

  Billowing smoke drifted skyward from a small circle of wagons stopped by the side of the well-traveled trade route. A modest campfire crackled and distant mutterings from those gathered echoed quietly off the steep canyon walls.

  “Bloody cold out this evening if you ask me,” grunted an armoured man as he walked up to join the small group gathered near the warm blaze.

  “Aye, sergeant,” nodded one of the soldiers in return. “But this late into the season in my village we’d be mighty happy it wasn’t colder, sir.”

  “Bah! It is all on you. You are the fools who choose to live so far north,” chuckled Sergeant Elswen. He blew hard on his hands to keep them warm. “I’ll also bet you northern lads spend more time alone with horse blankets in the winter than you do with actual women!”

  As with any remark the gruff sergeant found amusing, the men on duty laughed enthusiastically along with him. Garnet, the target of the evening’s good-natured ribbing, chuckled as much as the next man. No soldier in the company wanted to offend the veteran officer. Elswen had
been around longer than some of the new recruits had been alive. Why he had remained only a minor officer was a mystery to those who fought at his side. Strong-willed and tough as iron, the old soldier rarely discussed the life he had led with the other companies he had served. “That’s all in the past,” he would say when asked.

  The southern mercenary company was named Pier’s Brigade and Garnet gathered that it was no different than any other he could have joined. Taking a bite of hard trail bread from his pack, he attempted to change the subject.

  “Any news from the westernmost front, Sir?” he asked. “Seems we haven’t heard from Lord Yarr’s messengers since prior to our rendezvous with the Lady Farraine’s entourage.”

  Lord Gadian Yarr, a high-standing diplomat with the southern Protectorate, had assembled the largest contingent of mercenary companies during the recent summer. Reports indicated that he was heading towards Matanis on the coast, or otherwise hoping to exact retribution on the soft-hearted Duke Berry. It was rumored that the duke had already fled the mercantile port city of Garchester. As well as being the nobleman’s residence, it had been hotly contested for the past three summer campaigns. The mineral-rich mines supported by the city were key resources that all nobles coveted.

  “News may have arrived,” the sergeant replied with a shrug.

  “And what about the muster we saw near Garchester when we marched by? Lots of northern company standards were camped on the outskirts of the city.” Another man questioned.

  “Did it ever occur to you that the captain doesn’t care what regular soldiers have to say about such things?”

  “No, sir,” Garnet replied cautiously. “I just thought I would ask since we’re headed that way.”

  “Garnet’s got a point, Sergeant,” another soldier interjected. “We’ve all been kept in the dark on this one, and the Captain’s not usually one to hold his cards so closely.” The speaker held his boots in his hands, the soles roasting gently over the open flames.

  Sergeant Elswen paused before answering the query and took a long pull from the flask off his belt. He grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of strong cider. “Look, lads, I know nothing more than the lot of you. Captain Pier has seen fit to keep the details of this contract to himself. I’m not sure why, but I’ll tell you one thing, for the pay we’ll be receiving when this bothersome noble arrives at her destination, I’ll not mind one bit if I know nothing but her name.”

  The men answered the officer with a chorus of ayes. Garnet stretched his legs, keeping them close to the heat of the fire. As exhaustion threatened to pull him to sleep before his watch was up, he was suddenly startled as an owl hooted noisily over his shoulder. Stooping to gather a handful of rocks, he launched them into the darkness.

  “Cursed birds. Sometimes they can be as loud as the lot of us,” he muttered to himself.

  The canyon walls that defined the Seracen Pass were not entirely natural formations. Immense jagged cuts clearly defined where labourers had once bloodied their hands as they painstakingly dug their way through the solid rock. In some instances, the terrain had worked in their favour. The current resting place where the mercenary company was bedded down for the evening was one such location. Only the northern elevation rose sharply into the night sky. The southern flank consisted of a soft green rise where a small herd of mountain goats slept soundly. Trees dotted the landscape, and more than a few groves generously provided firewood within easy reach.

  It was on the edge of one of the smaller cliff edges that a slight movement gave a hint that someone other than the slumbering soldiers was in the vicinity.

  “Orn and Bider are in position, sir,” whispered a voice from the blackness. The signal had been received a moment earlier, the clear sound of an owl echoing off the canyon walls directly below where the mercenary sat perched.

  From his left came a hushed reply. “Aye, I heard it as well. Let’s head back to camp and inform the Captain.” Standing grimly in the moonlight the soldier added, “Looks like we’ll be finally whetting our blades this evening.”

  Silently, the two figures slid back from the canyon’s rocky edge, mindful of the loose rocks that littered the ground. Any noise would carry far along the pass and a lapse of concentration could spell disaster for the company’s well-laid plans.

  “Wren’s Militia, the Black Watch and the Grey Rangers were the only northern companies in attendance,” reported Brock. “There’s a new command camped on the eastern side of the valley going by the name of the Red Band. They appear to be survivors of the disastrous siege of Crystalmere. A combination of at least three or four companies,” he finished.

  “Who’s leading them? Not many were left after they lost the city in early winter. My squad was there when the prisoners were released,” queried Ossric.

  “Koren Blackern is the rumored leader. I believe he was a junior captain with the Kindred,” Brock replied, his frosted breath clearly visible. The evenings were bitterly cold once the sun passed behind the valley wall to the west.

  “Strange those companies merging into one. By Arne, those men hated each other! The city fell quickly, what with half the captains screaming curses at one another and the other half fawning over the damn nobles,” continued Ossric. Taking a small stick from a nearby pile, the company sergeant poked absently at the coals of the cooking fire.

  “They were quite desperate,” Captain Gavin Silveron agreed. “We all know that the city was lost long before Lord Yarr’s muster arrived,” he added as he crossed the cramped quarters and donned his cloak. He shivered in the brisk evening air. “It was a hopeless battle.”

  “We were there, Captain?” asked Sergeant Fearan.

  “Yes, we were” Gavin turned to his thickset officer who had recently returned from the west. “Continue with your report, Sergeant.”

  “Nothing much left to say, Sir.” Fearan shrugged. “Duke Berry passed word that our company should head to Garchester after we complete this assignment. Seems he expects some sort of retaliation and wants a strong complement of men under his pay within the city.”

  “Thank you, Brock,” Gavin nodded.

  Looking around the modest officer’s tent, the captain surveyed his men. With a full complement of two hundred soldiers, one hundred fifty of whom were veterans of at least two campaigns, Gavin had left only one of his officers back in Dragomere to prepare the company’s winter base camp near the southern edge of the Aeldenwood.

  The Fey’Derin, as they were known, did not follow the usual protocols of the other mercenary companies in the region. Most were bogged down with an overabundance of officers which proved ineffective when decisions needed to be made quickly in the heat of battle. The Fey’Derin had adopted a command structure akin to those of the dwarven soldiers that fought, albeit rarely, on the battlefields throughout Caledun.

  Captain Silveron carried only four officers, three sergeants and one lieutenant. Gavin chose to fight on the front lines with his soldiers, a decision that had earned him the respect of his men and one that offered him a better view of the tactical situation on the battlefield. Although thought by many to be a risky maneuver for a man of such rank, the Fey’Derin ignored the criticisms of others.

  Gavin’s gaze finally settled on his senior officer. Lieutenant Caolte Burnaise was a grizzled survivor in a career that often claimed its victims young and inexperienced. The seasoned veteran, with his scarred face looking more and more like beaten leather with the passing of every summer, had been with the Fey’Derin since their inception. Sitting cross legged, waterskin at his side, he scratched his long reddish-grey whiskers.

  “I’ll tell you lads what’s going on. That bastard down in Imlaris is making his move.” Looking directly at Gavin, the older man continued, “Gavin, we’ve had this discussion before. That priss Gadian Yarr has spent the better part of three years consolidating his power down in the south. With enough support he can, and will,
declare himself bloody emperor.”

  “Cursed Arne! He’d have the rest of the land up in arms the moment it got out, Lieutenant,” retorted Sergeant Fearan. “Pardon my words, Sir, but Yarr would be foolish to even try it.”

  “If a high king can be dethroned, what’s to stop anyone from assassinating an emperor?” added Ethan Shade quietly. Leaning against one of the support poles, long wooden pipe dangling from his mouth, the youngest officer of the company pulled up a small stool and joined the group. “It doesn’t make any sense, if you ask me, Sir. If Gadian Yarr hasn’t solidified his power base, then anything else would mean a quick death.”

  “And if he has? He did take control of Crystalmere and the shipping industry last summer and has fought stubbornly for Matanis this year,” Gavin declared.

  “Then he has masterfully hidden the most incredible coup since the Shattering,” added Ossric. “And Ethan, the old kingdom was overthrown nearly two hundred years ago. With the Code being enforced, Gadian couldn’t field a command of his own. What man would dare anoint himself the next coming with a bunch of money-hungry mercenaries guarding his back?”

  “Not exactly, Ossric. If he was optimistic that Imlaris and a few of the other southern cities… let’s say Tavishan and Salman, would support his claim, then it would make sense as to why he nearly destroyed Crystalmere last year. Maybe he didn’t get the right response from their nobility?” surmised the younger man.

  “With the nobility in your pocket, maybe you don’t need to worry how much your army would cost, Ossric?” added Caolte.

  “It doesn’t make sense. He’d need an army larger than is allowed under the Mercenary Code to hold anything once the north got wind of his ascension,” added Gavin. “And let’s not forget about Serian Rhone’s reaction to such a declaration. The Drayen would have his clansmen up in arms seconds after he received any claim, rumored or not, that Gadian Yarr was now emperor of Caledun.”