The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  He lost track of time as he sat upon the bank, brooding and tired. The shadows had lengthened by the time he started to pay attention to his surroundings again. The grand adventure he had once sought so desperately had not turned out as anticipated. Corian Praxxus, he thought, would have found a way to enjoy the journey all the same. He smiled sadly when thinking about the big merchant.

  I thought you might be hungry, so I took the liberty of preparing some food and tea. I hope not to have been mistaken in my assumption?

  How does he do that? Alessan wondered. He had been completely unaware of C’Aelis’ approach.

  I really don’t try to startle you.

  Ignoring the answered question, Alessan looked over his shoulder at the Gorimm. “I take it this is a peace offering of sorts?”

  Of sorts, C’Aelis nodded. I know I haven’t been overly forthcoming with information, Alessan, but I assure you that hurting you was not my intent. I too, find our circumstances quite difficult to manage. It is not every day that you arrive alone in a place you once called home, and yet feel as though you are now a stranger.

  Alessan sighed and motioned for C’Aelis to sit at his side. “You know, that may very well be the first thing you’ve said that I actually understand. I guess we are both lost and lonely.”

  C’Aelis remained silent as he passed the warm bowl to Alessan and pulled off his own boots. Dipping a toe tentatively into the water, he watched with satisfaction as Alessan took a large mouthful of cooked mushrooms.

  His anger finally dissipating, Alessan glanced sideways at his friend and asked, “How does one pass the time when you live forever?”

  C’Aelis smiled. We don’t live forever, Alessan, although yes, we are long- lived.

  “How long?”

  “For some, it can be up to a thousand years. Many of our current Elders have seen at least six hundred summers.

  “Are you an Elder?”

  My family’s longstanding heritage and prestige will undoubtedly bring about at least an offer to sit on the Council, but whether or not I choose to accept is undecided for now.

  “Why is that?”

  My personal feelings regarding a number of important issues have caused numerous rifts within the Council. Unless my views are treated fairly and with respect, I will regretfully choose to decline.

  “So the Gorimm don’t differ as much from humankind as I first believed,” Alessan commented with a note of humour in his voice. “Squabbling nobles have resulted in the deaths of countless mercenary soldiers since the founding of the Code. Even when the High King reigned, I’m sure the nobles fought over who sat closest.”

  I’m afraid my absence has left me somewhat deficient when it comes to terms associated with both your history and humour. Although I have done some research since my return to the Aeldenwood, I wonder how easily some of the less free thinking of my kind will adapt to such radical changes.

  “Could you really expect anything different with the passing of two centuries?” Alessan asked in disbelief. “Things change, even for you and the Gorimm, C’Aelis. You must have foreseen the great changes to come in Kal Maran.”

  That may be true in the case of humans, but with the Gorimm that is where you are wrong, C’Aelis nodded, his silver hair bouncing lightly. My people, because of their long lifespans, are extremely hesitant to any type of change. The smallest decision made by our Council might involve years of debate, a luxury the people of Kal Maran do not have. You would be surprised, Alessan, at how little my culture has changed over the last millennia.

  “That’s incredible,” Alessan answered. “It’s like you’re stuck in time.”

  C’Aelis smiled. That is one way to look at it.

  You must learn to anticipate the thoughts of your enemy, Alessan. A momentary advantage in a fight could easily turn the tide of any battle.

  Gasping for air, Alessan leaned heavily on his short sword. “That’s easy enough for someone who reads minds.”

  I cannot read minds, C’Aelis replied with his usual patience. There is no time in a sword fight to focus on another’s thoughts. It is a matter of practice and intuition.

  “If you haven’t already noticed, I don’t exactly have the proper physique for this type of work,” Alessan replied sarcastically.

  Your physicality is no excuse. In fact, many opponents will surely underestimate your abilities, granting you an immediate advantage you must look to exploit, the Gorimm replied.

  Nodding slightly, Alessan hefted his blade and moved forward. “I can respect that approach. But at the moment, simply surviving a fight would be a miracle.”

  C’Aelis lifted his own weapon. You are always interesting, Alessan Oakleaf. I can honestly say, I never know how you might react.

  They spent the remainder of the day sparring in the small grove surrounding the high tower. Alessan had reluctantly agreed to attempt to learn the basics of sword fighting. Thinking about the sheathed sword at his side, it made no sense to Alessan to avoid learning how to wield it skillfully.

  The sky peeking out from in between the thick leaves of the overhanging branches soon warned of an impending storm. The wind had picked up since the training session and even now the smaller trees swayed dangerously. As the two men moved about the small clearing, the rumble of thunder sounded ominously in the distance.

  Seemingly oblivious to the coming deluge, C’Aelis spared no upward glance to the surrounding trees. Instead, the agile Gorimm continued to instruct Alessan on the use of his weapon and also the proper manner to care for the sword. For someone who professed to be the descendant of a relatively peaceful race, C’Aelis was an obvious master at wielding twin blades. Alessan watched with rapt attention as he remembered daydreaming about experiencing this type of training while completing his chores at the Black Boar.

  Alessan continued to sport the Sylvani leather armour he had obtained in his flight through the wood. It fit far more snugly than it once had. C’Aelis had been busy while he had been recovering, mending the tears in the armour as well as altering the fit to properly protect someone of Alessan’s size. His weapon had also been sharpened, and he could find no trace of the thick black blood of the Gath that had once stained the steel.

  Breathing heavily after running through a variety of exercises, it soon became obvious that he would never amount to much of a fighter, a fact even C’Aelis could not deny. His body had neither the stamina, nor the strength, to sustain a prolonged series of combat moves. Even with the growing strength in his weakest limb, he simply did not have the endurance of a true warrior. Oddly, the discovery pained him far less than expected. Accustomed to the bitter life lessons of his past, in this instance Alessan merely shrugged off the setback. He chose instead to focus on the magic that only he possessed.

  Well aware of the lurking danger in the great forest in which he now took refuge, it only seemed prudent to learn something of defense in the event of another ambush by the Gath.

  “Why exactly do I have to practice so much?” he asked in between deep breaths. “With what I’ve learned I think I can defend myself long enough to stay alive until help arrives. I can’t possibly learn everything right now.”

  You have been long in your recovery and we must prepare for a journey. Many dangers will present themselves throughout our travels. We will continue with these lessons daily, even while we travel, C’Aelis replied assuredly.

  “And when exactly was I going to be informed of our destination, or the actual journey for that matter?” Alessan asked, somewhat annoyed.

  You asked me to provide you with answers after saying that your trust in me had waned. My reluctance to speak of my past is to blame. This journey, I hope, will explain much.

  Alright, you have my attention. When can we expect to be travelling?”

  If the weather continues to hold, we will be leaving at first light and heading northeast. We h
ave far to travel if we are to arrive in Scholaris before spring’s end, C’Aelis replied.

  “Scholaris…” Alessan mouthed in wonder. “But the historians of that strange temple are said to frown upon visitors.”

  I believe in our case they will make an exception, C’Aelis replied with some amusement.

  “Why there?” Alessan inquired.

  It has long been known as the greatest store of knowledge in all of Kal Maran. I believe it is the only place where I might find what I am searching for.

  “And what are you searching for?”

  A way to free my people.

  Private armies are strictly forbidden. Any deviation from this law will result in the immediate dismantling of said army, as well as prison time for any offending officers. The captain will appear before a military tribunal as selected by administrators of the Ca’lenbam. The tribunal’s judgment is final.

  —Mercenary Code of Conduct

  Chapter XXXII

  Ca’lenbam, Protectorate

  The members of the nobility and their representatives were always assigned space near the center of the encampment. Personal retinues were comprised of the only common soldiers allowed anywhere close to the gaudy pavilions. A Gathering was really an excuse for rich and powerful men to showcase their wares. Although a forum for war, the Ca’lenbam was no different than any other facet of life for the nobility, and Furnael Berry’s disdain for the proceedings was a rarity among his peers.

  On occasion, the respective captains of the attending mercenary companies were allowed entry to the centermost part of the camp. New rates or minor ratifications to the Mercenary Code of Conduct usually constituted reason enough for these meetings. Most nobles objected to the lowly born captains being given access to their exalted compounds. Once again, as evidenced by the previous evening’s conversation, Duke Berry was an exception to the rule.

  On this morning, warm for so early in spring, Gavin could sense something was afoot. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut, no matter how hard he tried. If Coren had been there, the scout would most assuredly have agreed with Gavin’s instincts.

  Thinking about the diminutive Fey’Derin brought a second wave of uncertainty. Gavin had replayed the conversation in his mind again and again. It made no sense to him that both Orn and Coren were under arrest and in confinement. Had they been intoxicated, they would have simply been tossed into a holding tent for the evening and released the next morning. If they had been a part of something more serious, they would have been sober; of that he was certain. He assumed that the two Fey’Derin had uncovered something sinister and were now paying the price for their discovery. At the moment, he preferred not to fret. Worrying was a waste of energy. Once any available options were presented, he first needed to face a magistrate.

  Gavin adjusted his uniform and entered a large pavilion adorned with purple and black banners. He had been told that it was here that any who held grievances against the season’s sole contract offer could state their cases. As expected, Gavin found more than two dozen company captains inside, all in formal regalia. They stood in small groups, whispering in hushed tones so as not to be heard.

  The mercenaries across Caledun often fought alongside likeminded companies, usually those that agreed with their choice of contract, although some did fight only for coin. Gavin had long ago lost patience with the politics of warfare, but had no choice but to remain involved for fear of the consequences. Nodding to a few men he recognized, he made his way towards Herod Blackwain and Dyana Fairwind.

  “An interesting gathering of captains,” he commented, accepting a glass of wine from Herod and nodding to Dyana. Her hazel eyes flashed at the mention of the assembled leaders, and her short hair bobbed up and down as she shook her head angrily.

  “It’s an atrocity! Just give me one moment alone with Gadian Yarr…” she hissed.

  “Dyana’s right, but this seems far less crowded than I would have expected. There are well over three hundred companies camped outside, and yet a mere twenty present themselves for a formal grievance?” Herod replied.

  “Have you found out the employer’s name yet? I was given little information when the messenger arrived this morning; only that the offer was being funded by Gadian Yarr and his associates.” Gavin said, clearly frustrated.

  “Then I know little more than you. I don’t like surprises, Gavin, and I fear we are about to receive another,” Herod looked towards the back entrance with concern.

  Flanked by an honour guard, a fully armoured warrior entered the room. He wore the customary short, close-cropped hair and scarred face of a seasoned veteran. Although older than most, he was tall and physically imposing, with an intimidating gaze that commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  “By the gods, it’s Gerald Armsmater,” whispered Herod.

  “The mercenary leader? I thought he retired years ago.” Dyana said, a confused look crossing her face.

  “So we were led to believe,” Gavin replied darkly. “If he is the hidden hand behind the occurrences in the south, we may have underestimated our adversaries…”

  Gerald Armsmater was one of the few commanders who had achieved legendary status since the fall of the old kingdom of Caledun. He was considered to be the embodiment of everything that was good in the profession: honourable, cunning, intelligent, and skilled. The aged captain of the Golden Griffins had dominated battlefields for the better part of three decades. His story gave hope to all soldiers who aspired to greatness and to those commoners of low birth; for Gerald himself was the son of a simple farmer.

  He had garnered such renown that most of the nobility could no longer afford to pay him. With his supremacy over the battlefield, victory was almost always assured. The man’s career was marked by countless triumphs, as well as the heartbreak of losing many men to violent deaths. He was mentioned in the same breath as some of the great leaders of the past: Tomas Greydawn, Ellis Bek, and the depraved Duke Roland Caldwell. By all accounts, Armsmater had retired four years prior, choosing to leave the life of ceaseless combat and disappearing into obscurity.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen,” called out an accompanying herald. “The General is prepared to address your concerns and answer any questions you may have concerning your contract offer.”

  Slowly, the mercenary captains found room at a large oak table carried in directly behind General Armsmater’s guardsmen. As with every administrative meeting at the Gathering, where each captain sat denoted a hierarchy of sorts among those assembled. Gavin remained standing, Herod and Dyana at his side. The blood soaked fields of Caledun had not seen such a title used since the time of the Shattering.

  “Captains, I greet you all warmly. I have had the honour of fighting with some of you in the past, and I must admit that I find it troublesome that you are seated here before me. Others I knew once as enemies, combatants who fought bravely and handled themselves splendidly when faced with adversity,” Armsmater began. “But in truth, I am not here before you to listen to your numerous queries and objections. I am also not here to give you one last chance to change your minds or to put an end to your ill-counselled actions.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” the room fell silent as Gavin interrupted. “Few here would ever dream of disputing your reputation, but there has been no general in Caledun since the Shattering. The Code prohibits such a declaration, or the requisite formation of any army larger than two hundred and fifty men under one commander. Only the Chatter Folk of Delfwane have ever received leniency on that matter.”

  Gerald Armsmater’s steely-eyed gaze narrowed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but the gesture was not lost on the Fey’Derin captain.

  “Silveron, isn’t it?” the general pronounced for all to hear. “You run a good company: disciplined, skilled, obedient, and yet with men of questionable reputations. But you are a man to be respected on the field of
battle, or so I have been told.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, sir,” Gavin replied.

  “You’ve made some interesting decisions regarding your allegiances… I am disappointed, but can’t say that I’m surprised to see you in such company as this,” he swept his arm over the men seated before him.

  “Again, with all due respect, sir, Captain Silveron asked you a question,” a black-garbed soldier positioned at the doorway called out. Gavin noticed something familiar about the man, but could not place him.

  “Young Silveron speaks the truth; the Code does forbid such an assignment,” Gerald nodded, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “Fortunately for me, the Code no longer holds sway in the Protectorate. My army, and those I have hired at this rabble of a Gathering, now dictate all terms of the Code.”

  Glancing sideways at his companions, Gavin tried to remain calm during the uproar the man’s bold statement had elicited from those gathered.

  “I have nothing but respect for you, Gerald. Cursed Arne, we fought at each other’s sides many a time, but you go too far!” announced Tarben Eld, one of the more veteran captains near the front of the table.

  “I remember fondly those times, Tarben. I do.” Gerald smiled and for a moment his features softened.

  “Spare me the pleasantries, Gerald. I want an answer.”

  Holding up a heavy gauntlet, the general calmly waited for silence. He then continued in a very businesslike tone. “I will repeat this only once, so you would all do well to remain attentive. My army, the Protectorate Army, is camped less than a league to the south. I have the freedom to do what I will with those who have deemed themselves not worthy to follow our march north. Garchester has already fallen, and Matanis is already on the brink.”