The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  “What is it?” Leoric asked. Auric turned to stare into the fire as Cara slumped wearily onto the worn wooden bench.

  “Stephen has died,” she said through tears.

  “Oh no…” Leoric whispered. “How?”

  “You all know his visions were worse this week. He was more delusional today than I had ever seen him. Before falling asleep, he asked me to remember him,” Cara recounted. “I thought nothing of it until I arrived home tonight and went to check on him. He died this afternoon in his sleep. I think he decided it was time to let go and never wake…”

  “Does Merias know?” Leoric said after a momentary silence.

  “Yes,” Cara replied. “He’s with him now. I believe he wanted to be alone.”

  Merias, one of the other men who had survived the journey east with Leoric and Angvald, had spent the better part of his free time caring for the troubled Stephen. The two men had known each other before the goblins had raided their small village for labourers. For Merias, Stephen represented that tangible link to his past, a past the sick man had so desperately attempted to cling to. The death would difficult for him.

  “He has gone to join his forefathers,” Angvald spoke passionately, his deep voice filling the uncomfortable silence that had settled between the four. “In that we must be glad, for he is now protected by those who have gone before him.”

  “To have lived through the journey only to succumb now seems so sad… so wasteful.” Leoric said, his own eyes briefly tearing up. Putting an arm around Cara, he held her close. Losing anyone reminded the small band of captives of how few they truly were, and how their lives now consisted solely of this makeshift family.

  “Stephen asked of us one thing; to remember him,” Auric said, his body facing the blazing hearth. “I believe to honour his memory, we must honour his dying wish.” Moving with a unique grace, the greybeard wiped a thin hand across his eyes and turned to join his friends. Clasping the man lightly on the shoulder as he made room along the bench, Angvald smiled sadly in the firelight.

  The four companions, strangers only weeks before, spent that night lamenting their loss. They did so quietly at first, and then knowing that the spirit of the dead man would approve, they joked and told stories of what they knew of him. Leoric laughed that night and wondered privately what stories would be told at his passing, and more importantly, who might be left to tell them.

  Awaken sentinels, you keepers of the earth,

  Arise o’ breaker of oaths, bringer of death.

  Sleep frigid north, slumber and die,

  Fear the silent dark, the night, the eyes.

  —Ir’Kaleris ‘Kaleris Prophecy’, 12:2

  Chapter XIX

  Sanctuary of the Silveryn Order, Dragon Mount

  Despite Bider’s best efforts and the help of the rest of the Eagle Runners, Orn Surefoot was drunk by sundown. The lanky hunter was found passed out in a stable only a few roads from the inn where the Fey’Derin were lodged. Bider had made an error in judgment when he sent some men out into the streets to scour the area for the man. The head scout had opted to hide closer to the inn than expected.

  The small town near the Silveryn citadel boasted a few favourite spots that Orn was known to frequent. Sure enough, a tavern on the far side of the town confirmed Orn’s consumption of an excessive amount of spirits.

  Looking pitifully at the comatose man lying at his feet, Bider was worried that the company officers patience was rapidly wearing thin in regards to Orn’s disruptive habit. The drunkard stank of something unholy. Bider was quite sure that Orn had passed out in a pile of manure, some of which now adorned the better part of his clothing. Covering his nose in an effort to quell a gagging reflex, Bider prodded the man with his foot. Orn failed to respond immediately, and so Bider called in the two recruits waiting outside the stable. He had them load Orn onto the rear of one of their horses and return him to the barracks at Dragon Mount.

  Captain Silveron would not be pleased. There had been severe repercussions after the debacle in Garchester, and Gavin would surely be angered by this latest blunder. Well aware of the Fey’Derin commander’s serious nature and emphasis on discipline, Bider suspected Orn would be feeling the results of this latest ill-fated binge long after the drink left his clouded mind.

  Bider had also claimed the silver flask, Orn’s constant companion, hiding it in a pocket sewn into his cloak. The captain would want to know its whereabouts. Bider had no choice but to make his report to Sergeant Shade in the morning, and he feared that only the gods could help the slumbering man now.

  “Where is he?!” Gavin snarled as he stalked into the barracks.

  As one, a group of newer recruits rose and fled the room. The dark look on the captain’s face spelled doom for the man who lay slumped in a corner of the chamber, his clothes still soaked with vomit and stained from his previous evening’s adventure. Accompanied by both of his officers and a terrified Bider, the Fey’Derin captain confronted Orn directly.

  “Get up, you drunken bastard! Get up NOW!” Gavin ordered, approaching the recovering hunter. No trace of the young captain’s usual patience remained. Even Ethan Shade took a step backward, watching the proceedings with some degree of fear.

  Orn, to his credit, attempted to lurch to his feet. Unfortunately, he staggered about ungracefully. Painfully the others witnessed the struggle.

  “What can I do you for, sir?” Orn stammered as he clutched a bedpost for support. His free hand pressed lightly against his temple as he attempted to straighten his clothing and brush some of the dirt from his trousers.

  “I have tried to look past your failings, Orn, but this time you’ve gone too far. Not only have you disgraced the company name, but you obtained drink against a promise you knew I would be honour-bound to keep,” Gavin seethed, his temper barely held in check. It was common for the scout, once in a drunken stupor, to completely forget his actions. Today, it seemed, was no different.

  “Not sure what you mean, Capt —” Orn replied sheepishly.

  Gavin’s roundhouse right hit the man before he could finish his reply. In shock, Bider watched as the soldier flew backwards, landing heavily on the stone floor. To his knowledge, Gavin had never struck another man of the company in anger.

  With a look of utter disbelief, Orn rubbed his jaw and wiped a thin trail of blood that was now dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Captain?” he whimpered.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Orn! I don’t want excuses. I don’t want reasons. I don’t want to hear anything! And I swear if you talk out of turn once more, I’ll spit you on my sword without thinking,” Gavin warned.

  “Gavin, let’s talk about this,” Sergeant Rockfar attempted to interject, the Dwarven warrior gently laying a hand on the captain’s arm.

  Spinning, the Fey’Derin commander addressed the much smaller, but stronger dwarf. Through pursed lips, he asked Eör, “Sergeant, are you familiar with the Koriani custom of a Blood Challenge?”

  “No, sir, can’t say that I am,” Eör replied uncomfortably.

  “By Arne, no…” whispered Sergeant Shade from where he crouched, offering the fallen Eagle Runner a hand at regaining his feet. Ethan Shade had gone completely pale. Bider looked on nervously and awaited the explanation.

  “A Blood Challenge is what the Koriani use to lay claim to a rank of leadership within their order. The battle involves a duel that can only be decided by the drawing of blood on three separate strikes. This is no duel fought in the training yards across Old Caledun. This is not about wooden swords and good-natured fun.” Gavin continued. “People die fighting these challenges. The Koriani show no mercy. If you leave yourself unprotected; you will die. If you make a mistake; you will die. If you miss a parry; you will die. They are masters of many styles of combat, true students of the art of war. They could cut our company apart as if we were nothing
but a passing breeze,” the Fey’Derin captain finished. A stunned silence settled over the men. No one attempted to meet the burning gaze of their captain.

  “Who did he pledge, Gavin, and why would they accept a drunken man’s oath?” Sergeant Shade asked.

  “I have friends here, Ethan, but I also have enemies. They know I am honour-bound to accept a pledge initiated by one of my men. Whether by trickery or not, Orn has played right into their hands,” Gavin replied.

  “But simply speak with the Koriani!” Ethan begged. “They will understand that a terrible mistake has been made.”

  Gavin shook his head stubbornly before answering. “The laws of Dragon Mount protect the challenge. I cannot, in good conscience, break the law while I remain a guest in the Silveryn house.”

  “Then who was pledged?” the officer asked a second time.

  “All four of us. We must all face the Koriani in separate Blood Challenges. Orn, Ethan, Eör and I.” A shocked silence followed the captain’s words.

  “By the gods, I was drunk!” exclaimed Orn. “They can’t do this!”

  “Exactly, you were drunk,” Gavin said coldly. “For your insubordination, Orn Surefoot, I leave you with two choices if you survive your duel. One, you can return to Galen’hide, renew your oath to me, and forfeit your place in the Fey’Derin as a veteran until I find you worthy to walk among them once more. Or two, you leave the company never to return. This charade has gone on long enough.”

  “Captain, please…” the veteran pleaded.

  Bider could see the pain in the man’s eyes. Never before had the company witnessed their captain give up on a member. Some left after a year of service, returning to their families after realizing that theirs was not a mercenary life. Others had faced severe punishments for their disobedience and since been reformed as solid company soldiers while many never left. And yet here was Orn, a veteran who long ago should have achieved the rank of officer, desperately pleading for another chance.

  Gavin Silveron ignored the plea and calmly turned to face Sergeant Shade. “Orn Surefoot is an Eagle Runner no more. I will need you to commandeer his uniform and steed. Pay him what he is owed for his service. He is to leave the barracks immediately and must find his own lodgings for the evening.”

  “Gavin…” Sergeant Rockfar tried to intercede.

  “It is the only way, Eör,” Gavin responded confidently. “If the Fey’Derin are truly where his path leads then he may return when I see fit, but I will brook no further argument in the matter.”

  With that, Bider watched as Captain Silveron walked away from Orn, who was left quietly sobbing on his knees.

  The branding remained the primary reason for the Fey’Derin’s yearly visit to Dragon Mount. Once again, the casting was a success, and the enchantment was now rooted within the labyrinthine tracings of the tattoos worn proudly on the chests of the new recruits.

  The procedure was relatively simple, but as Bider knew from his own experience, excruciatingly painful for the full minute the imbuement took place. Over the years, the subject of the tattoo had become a closely guarded secret among the men of the company. The charm was not overly powerful, but served as an important first line of defense when facing practitioners of the arcane. As with the successful nighttime raid of Pier’s Brigade, Bider had received forewarning of the mage at work in the enemy camp.

  It was Captain Silveron that had first starting tracking the steady rise of renegade mages in battles across the land. As a means of protecting his men against the growing trend, he had reacted accordingly. Although the cost was rumoured to be significant, Gavin requested no coin from any recruit undergoing the procedure at the Silveryn Order’s mountain home. Around the campfire, and especially among the company veterans, the marking added to the mystique of their captain.

  By day’s end, Bider had made sure that all who had passed out from the pain — a common reaction to the magic’s blistering sting — were resting comfortably in their quarters. Drained by the day’s activity, he joined the morose sergeants for a late night tankard of ale before settling in for the evening.

  The early hours of dawn found Gavin brooding in a spacious gallery overlooking a beautiful garden. Although winter had arrived, many flowers still bloomed in Dragon Mount as though it were spring. The emotions that raged within him were best dealt with alone. Here in this peaceful place, he could even begin to forgive the actions of the man he so desperately wanted to save.

  For years, he had selected members of the Fey’Derin on the basis of his own internal compass. He was gifted with the ability to discern in each person some measure of integrity and potential. Orn Surefoot had all the makings of a brilliant officer, and yet still did he struggle with old demons; demons he could not so easily deny once he had consumed enough drink.

  Gavin wondered if Orn would survive the morning. The scout had never been an expert swordsman, and the Koriani were ruthless towards fools who believed themselves to be their equal. Gavin knew first-hand the arrogance that existed within the ranks of the Order’s soldiers.

  Engrossed in thought, Gavin nearly missed the hush of movement that signaled the arrival of a second presence in the gallery. A delightful scent wafted over him, carried by the light breeze. The fresh smell of lilacs brought back a rush of memories and he turned to greet the newcomer.

  “I knew I would find you here,” said the woman. “You never did sleep easily, Gavin.”

  She strode from the shadows, her dark eyes bravely matching his silent gaze. She was lithe and graceful, with a long green gown that flowed freely around her shapely figure. Golden brown hair fell across her shoulders, and a thick strand curled playfully along the contour of her face.

  “I could never sleep, Brynne, because you often found an excuse to keep my eyes open,” he smiled playfully. “You look beautiful,” Gavin added, rising to his feet.

  “And you look older,” Brynne replied, tracing her hand lightly along his chin. “You are wiser, Gavin, but I sense a deep sorrow. You have seen things…” They stared at one another with only the sound of the wind breaking the nighttime calm. After a long moment, they embraced and held each other.

  Brynne Wolien, daughter of the most powerful man in Dragon Mount, the very same man Gavin had fought with that afternoon. The two had spent much time together, their pasts inexplicably linked. As he held the woman in his arms, Gavin fought back a tide of memories he had once thought bested by the passage of time. He realized now that Brynne’s presence was the pivotal reason he had refused to return to this place he had once called home. Gavin’s thoughts also turned to another…

  “Why has it been so long?” Brynne finally whispered, pulling back and staring at him with a pair of accusing eyes. Suddenly, her hand darted forward and connected soundly with his cheek. “So much has changed, and yet here you are like a vision from my dreams, acting as if there is no distance between us.”

  “I’m sorry, Brynne, truly I am. I needed to break away from the suffocating walls of this place,” he explained.

  “You didn’t even say goodbye, Gavin!” she responded angrily. “You left on the eve of my petition to become Second; a petition you refused, and you thought I wouldn’t be affected?”

  “Brynne, please, that’s all in the past now. I can’t explain what I did. Know that I had but one moment to decide my path, and so I chose to leave.”

  “I will never understand you, Gavin Silvares. Just as I will never understand your soldier’s behaviour yesterday evening,” she replied.

  “It’s more complicated than it seems,” Gavin suggested.

  “Word reached us here in the mountains of your exploits over the past few years,” Brynne replied, a hint of pride in her voice. “I have always been watchful of the soldiers you send for the branding, and yet I could never understand what you were trying to build with these men you employ. They are a haphazard lot who appear better suit
ed to dirty backwater towns than your company.”

  “I sense things about the men I choose. It’s the only the answer I can give,” Gavin muttered.

  “But this man is a drunkard!” Brynne exclaimed. “And yet you chose him. Your judgment may not be as refined as I once thought.”

  “Orn Surefoot is a drunk, but he is also Fey’Derin,” Gavin retorted, his voice now dripping with venom. Her rebuke had touched on his own frustrations. “Don’t presume to tell me how to run my company, or how to handle punishment. Orn will serve his sentence, and I need no interference from the Koriani, or the Order!”

  “You, of all people, Gavin, must witness the rabble that fights in the fields across Caledun. You, who could have led us, must surely realize the superior doctrine and discipline of the Koriani.”

  “I willingly gave up that path, Brynne, and you would be surprised at the character and courage of this ‘rabble’ I choose to lead. They are brave and loyal and I warn you to ware your tongue where the Fey are concerned,” he hissed.

  Taken aback, Brynne studied his face before responding. “My apologies,” she said dismissively. “You are aware that your men will most assuredly die tomorrow.”

  “As might I,” Gavin replied. “But I offer you a choice to help spare the two men who had no say in their pledges. For Orn and myself, I ask for no mercy. For Eör Rockfar and Ethan Shade, I would ask that you allow another to fight in their stead.”

  “And why do you believe that I have the power to speak on your behalf?” Brynne asked.

  “Because you are the Koriani First, and the decision is yours alone,” Gavin replied.

  Brynne Wolien had been a superb warrior when Gavin left Dragon Mount for the northern reaches of Old Caledun. In the intervening years, he had remained interested in the inner machinations of the Koriani. His officers had relayed a fountain of knowledge each and every time he returned from the mountain fortress. Gavin knew that the beautiful young woman facing him had challenged the last First over a year ago. That unfortunate man’s corpse now lay buried with honour deep within the mountain.