Chapter 44

  Day Zero – Evening

  An ocean of bonfires and torches lit up a late winter field in the earldom of Belge. Clouds denied even the smallest speck of natural light. The landscape had been painted white to the depth of a foot, in the shadow of a water castle. If one was looking far enough, a couple of villages were peppered around the bivouac. A long line of hardened men and camp followers was coming to an end. Just a few were left in front of an open blue and red tent that housed empty chests, a sturdy table, and two men behind it. One sat, while the other stood.

  “Name, unit, length of service,” said an old, frail man with one motionless eye and gold teeth. A cane rested against the table, next to a pile of books and papers he held a quill in his scraggy hand. He wore a good coat of padded armor, with a shawl and a nice hat with a wide brim.

  “Hardbek, first regiment’s rear guard,” said a man, armed with a falchion in two layers of wool. “Your unit, sarge.” He fiddled with his coif to rub his ears warm, after which he held out a hand, nodding at the other man behind the chair.

  The old man looked up from his papers, and stopped searching for that name. “Do I look like I remember y’all’s name? How long’ve you been around?”

  Hardbek blew hot breath into his hands. “Five years or so,” he said, huffed. “Zaber, how long have I been hanging around?”

  “Bit more,” replied the younger man from the back. He wore an old arming cap, with an even older, worn out gambeson and a blanket as a cloak. “You’re a spring recruit.”

  “Huh?” Hardbek sneezed. “Could’ve sworn it was summer – right after the Da?ken campaign.”

  “Da?ken was later than you think it was,” said Zaber, already opening a chest filled with coins. “Trust me.”

  “If you say so.” The soldier shrugged and winked thankful when the old man averted his eyes to skim through the books again. “Who am I to doubt you.”

  “Well,” murmurs the sergeant through his gold teeth. “Let’s make it five and a half years. Nothing special, but trained for the lines. That’s your average pay, sixty-six gulden per constellation.”

  “Real nice of the old man to send us off like this,” said Hardbek. He rubbed his hands in anticipation of what Zaber sorted out of the remaining chests.

  “Our general’s reputation is his legacy,” said the old sergeant, crossing out another name of many crossed out names. “Better us than his kin, is what he said.”

  “Here.” Zaber placed a bunch of griffin-stamped coins on the table, neatly sorted by the three types: thaler, gulden and groschen.

  “Damned right,” said the soldier, swiping his last payment into his coif. “How long before we have to split?”

  “Can’t say,” the old man retracted his bony fingers into his armpits. “Y’all will be informed when our Honourable General ascends to the Stars. We’ll have one last ceremonial line-up to march him around his holdings. What happens next is up to his heir.”

  “Lovely.” The mercenary emptied the coif into a leather bag on his belt, only half-listening. “Later!” he said, waving himself out. “You around, Zaber? We should have a last drink together. Like… all of us.”

  The greasy and unkempt man looked past his fellow soldier. He saw the last man standing behind him, and whose heads peeked around the corner. “I ain’t sure. Likely? There’s still a lot to get done,” he said dryly. “Asher? Y’all got everything prepped like I asked you?”

  “All set up, and this here’s the last. We’re only waiting for you,” replied a voice around the tent. “Airich wants to see you when you’re done,” he said, as if it was a given.

  “Officers still dicking around his tent?” Zaber scratched the scar along his jawline. He looked exhausted, and even more tense than usual. “How’s the boy?”

  “Son, that’s not how to speak about our fine officer corps.” The sergeant knocked on the table before Asher could answer. He watched Hardbek leaving, and stared at the last soldier in line. “These noble souls are keeping the dying Dragon company, and his estate from the vultures.”

  “Get your head out of your arse, Brenz.” The younger mercenary slapped the old man on the shoulder, hurting him just enough to get a laugh out of him. “They’re all the same, hoping to inherit the regiments and our contracts before he kicks the bucket.”

  “They took good care of us. It’s like losing a father to all of us,” said Brenz in a soothing voice, causing Zaber’s pupils to shrink. “Last one, step in! Name, unit, length of service.”

  “Joyen, also rear guard,” said a young man, barely scratching twenty. He entered in a thin gambeson and gugel, with an axe at his belt. “Ten? About ten?”

  “That’s Snappy, old man. Your other eye’s fucked too, ain’t it?” The greasy and unkempt mercenary was already gathering coins. “It’s damned time you settle somewhere; find someone to take care of you.”

  “Easy,” cackled Brenz. “Just have to find one of my hundred bastards.” He turned page after page, until he drew the last line. “Nothing special, no line training. Just marauding and supply shit,” he said, shaking his head, which made Snappy uncomfortable. “Thirty-eight groschen per constellation.”

  “I taught him to ride as a raider, give him two more for that,” said Zaber, putting his hand on Brenz’ shoulder again. “I was about to recommend him for light cavalry training.”

  “’aight,” groaned Brenz. “Make it an even number. Your call.” His gaze was filled with spite, forcing Snappy to avert his own. “Barely made it to private, don’t think I forgot.”

  “Cut him some slack, he made it.” Zaber put the coins on the table and walked around it. He got in line, right behind Snappy and padded him on the arm to send him off with a smile. “That’s it. We’re done,” said Zaber and stepped in front of the table after Brenz waved him in. It was like a ritual the two performed. “Just you and me left. Corporal Zaber, eighteen years. Double-merc, supply runs, arson, raids, and murder. Every bad in the book; short of yours.”

  “I bet the General will give you some extra later – for being his orderly.” Brenz closed the book and got up in his chair. He had to brace himself on the table to count the coins for Zaber. “You joined in the summer. Four thaler and thirty gulden each; enough to live a luxurious life ‘til next summer,” said the sergeant, looking at each piece of precious metal before putting it on the table. “You and the fellas joining a banner in the region?”

  “Hrmph.” Zaber waited patiently with arms crossed. “Don’t know,” he rasped. “I just wanna do nothing for a while. See where that boy belongs. You finally retiring?”

  “Yes,” nodded Brenz and picked up his cane. “Thought about it for three years. But then the General got sick. Didn’t feel right for me to leave him like this. I’ve been here since he founded his first free banner.”

  “’aight,” murmured Zaber with a darkened face, staring at the back of this piece of shit. The mercenary understood damned well that Brenz could count faster. This whole charade of getting the coins close to his working eye, fiddling around and even letting some of them slip his hand. Zaber had known this motherfucker ever since he arrived with the others, like Yann. Everything this man did was to make others feel small. Pretend to show them the ropes. Force them to… the longer the soon-to-be former mercenary waited, the closer his nails wandered to the scar on his jaw.

  “Here we go.” Brenz pushed the whole pile of coins over the table with a smirk. “Please count it. I don’t want to do you dirty, son.” At this point, Asher, Buron and Breg stood at the entrance of the tent – right behind their friend. Looking at his twitching shoulders. Slowly, the sergeant walked around the table. “You would have been my successor, you know,” he said, while Zaber took his place and left his payout where it was. “But you were just too good at this game. Too young still; too healthy. Imagine how many would have gone unmurde–”

  Zaber sat down where Brenz used to sit and opened the book again. “Name, unit, length of service,” he said, emotionless.

  “First sergeant Brenz,” said the old man, straightening up. “Forty-eight years. Rear guard of the original regiment. Joined in the fall after getting kicked out of the city guard of our glorious King’s capital. Double-pay, supply–”

  “Everything,” interrupted Zaber. He grabbed a small, unopened chest that sat right under the table; prepared. He didn’t look at the book at all, when he crossed out this one last name. “Take all of this and run with it. Spend it on good folk or give it to a temple. You have a lot of wrongs to right.”

  “Zab–”

  “I never want to see you again.”

  “Zaber, I–” The old man’s lips trembled. “I’m sorry,” he uttered, and clenched his cane. For the first time, he sounded exactly as old and frail as he looked. “Nothing I did w–”

  “I don’t believe a single word you’re about to say.” The corporal’s hands became fists, pressing down on the table. “With the chain-of-command gone, I want you to know that I’ll not hesitate to bleed you out, dump you into the closest river and sell your teeth if we ever meet again.”

  An excruciating gasp squeezed out of Brenz’ throat when he lifted the small chest. He needed two hands for it. Nobody took his cane for him, or even came closer. “Understood,” he said. “I just wish we–” He looked behind himself, with Asher, Breg and Buron looking down on him. “I just wish we could have one last salute for each other. For old time’s sake?”

  Before the sergeant could finish, Zaber was already on his feet. His stance was sloppy, and his hand barely came close to his head before he pointed Brenz outside. He gave him this meaningless, half-assed last salute to show him that none of this mattered anymore. But the old-timer stiffened up properly for one last time. After that he limped outside. None of them even hinted at giving him a raised hand or even a nod. Asher jerked his head forwards, as if he would headbutt him if he came too close.

  “Fuck off,” said Asher, and spat on the former sergeant’s feet with a smirk.

  More than a moment went by before Brenz was out of hearing range. Zaber took his payout over to his friends and stared around the corner until he was sure that man was gone.

  “We can still lay an ambush on him,” said Breg, with everyone giggling in response.

  “Let’s forget that he ever existed,” replied Buron, patting Zaber on the back. “Gonna head over to Airich’s?”

  Asher put a finger inside the leather bag in which his tensed up friend had put his coins. “What’s left in the chests?”

  “Scraps,” replied Zaber and let his sly companion have the bag to count for him. His eyes wandered through the camp. “I tried to make sure nothing’s left. Everyone got some more. Lion share’s still with the officers.” He stretched his arms and cracked his neck, inhaling the cold winter air in relief. “Let’s scram soon. Are the horses and the boy ready?”

  The four veterans went on their way, watching carefully who was close to them – who could see them. Many of the eyes around them were thankful or ashamed, but most were minding their own business.

  “Boy’s back in the tent, reading or some horseshit,” said Asher as they passed rows of tents. “He reported that he did as you told him.”

  “Good,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “Why ain’t he with y’all?”

  “Is your boy, nor ours,” smirked Asher again. “You taking him with? South?”

  “He doesn’t wanna see his gramps. Your plan’s as good as any.” Zaber looked past Asher, at the unreasonably tall man and his bald companion. “We sticking together, ain’t we? What’s y’alls plan with your payout?”

  Before Buron was about to say something, Asher took over. “Oh, I got huge plans,” he said. “We hitting that border town big time. You, me, those two numbnuts. If we invest wisely, we–”

  “Nah.” Breg shook his head, while straightening his beard and hair. “We good.”

  “We’ll be close, but do our own thing. Take a couple jobs here and there, be nothing but… us for a while,” said Buron, walking along with his thumbs in his belt. “Maybe some escorts or bodyguarding. The wilds are enough for us to start a new life that only revolves around what we love.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Glad you coming with,” said Zaber with a smile. “I got your back, whatever you do. I’ll find some place to hit up with the boy and figure out what I actually wanna do. As long as y’all are around, nothing can go wrong.”

  “Even you have to take a job at some point,” continued Asher, as if nobody had interrupted him. “That’s a lot of coins you got there; even more with your spending habits. When it runs out, I can keep us afloat for sure. I’ll dig myself into the local scene as soon as we get there.” He snapped his finger and pointed southwards. “That city will be ours in no time.”

  Zaber picked up pace as they reached their shared tent. The embers of a fire in front of it were still glowing hot. “Boy!” yelled the greasy and unkempt man, much to Asher’s dismay. “Torm, get your arse out here! We’re back.”

  Each rank of a formation shared a tent, located close to the other ones of their unit. Since word about Airich’s sickness got around, recruitment went down and many didn’t extend their contracts even before this day. Nine to fifteen men, fighting with each other, should be in one tent. But now, four men and a boy had all this space for themselves. The ground was frozen and dry on the inside, with bedrolls, arms and other belongings neatly lined up. A small stove sat in the back, with a pot that melted snow for waterskins and canteens on it.

  “Here!” the boy jumped up from his blanket. A book laid open at his feet. “I’m here. I kept the fires going, as you told me.” Torm peeked through the opening, before holding the tent’s canvases open to let the veterans in.

  “Fire in the front is out,” said Zaber, and slapped the boy casually on the chest. “I told you, don’t kiss up on us. You ain’t my servant, you’re–” He halted and looked at his friends. “What’s the word? There’s no contract, nor does he run my business for me. He’s–”

  “Apprentice,” replied Asher. “You’re the master, and he’s learning your craft.” The sly veteran slapped the boy on the hand that held the tent open. “What did he tell you? Don’t be a little bitch.”

  “My craft sucks though.” Zaber smiled and waited outside, as Buron and Breg entered, ignoring the child. “Y’all pack your shit up. Mine as well,” he said. His three friends turned around and saw their companion’s smile fade away. “I’ve got this one last thing to do. Gather the horses at the spot I’ve told you about.”

  “No lessons this evening?” asked Torm glum, with the biggest puppy eyes.

  “I want to be gone before sunrise. Get to one of the fief’s villages for the night.” He grabbed Torm at the shoulders and directed him back in the tent, towards his mentor’s belongings. “All of this gets on the cart. Asher knows where it is. If it takes too long for me to return, do the dry-drills I showed you and ask Breg for corrections. Don’t touch any of the longer blades, I don’t want to stir trouble with the nobs.”

  Breg looked up when he heard his name, but didn’t look particularly interested in the matter. He and Zaber nodded at each other though. Buron poured the hot water into their containers, glimpsing at the unreasonably tall man.

  “I collected all of your contracts, certificates and papers into my books and put them in a chest,” said Torm and looked at the four men. “They were all crinkled, and some of the seals were crumbling off.”

  “Good thinking.” The tensed up veteran’s eyes wandered around the tents outside. The now former soldiers, the animals that drove off the camp followers. Unemployed and ready to bail. Many familiar faces. Folk he loved, hated, and barely knew. This was everything Zaber knew. His whole life. “I gotta go. The longer I wait, the worse it gets. This’ my last chance.”

  “Don’t worry, you–” Torm’s face was infected by the gloom, but he couldn’t finish.

  “Tell him! Murder his arse,” laughed Buron and toasted him with hot water. “Don’t let him do you dirty. You deserve the final say. Earned it!”

  Zaber took one last awkward breath before departing his friends. The thirteen year old boy, who he had saved, only saw him that distressed when he had to go talk with the dying general. Gone was the commanding presence of a man in charge of other men. Gone was the outrageously stupid confidence. It was hard to believe that this man, Zaber, was the same man that comforted Torm when he rose from the nightmares. He didn’t seem to sleep himself. Even stranger was the fear in his eyes when he was called by the man at the top, Airich of Belge. Stories of him were well known by the boy, and not once had he met him. All three regiments under his command were kept together by a veteran corps of officers and soldiers, and an unfathomable war chest.

  “Don’t slack off, the General is waiting,” said a man in front of a big colorful tent. He wore a blue cloak with ermine fur, as was his cap. A gilded pin, set with a gemstone and fowl feather, pointed skywards. Sitting at a table, with a young man serving him wine, he ate a small meal of eggs and buttered bread. “If you dawdle like this, he might already be dead!”

  Knowing who the man was, Zaber’s gait gained speed. The rows of tents he had to pass were lavish and plenty coats of arms, horses and armor stands were presented to each other and the footmen. The common soldiers and baggage train shunned this area if they could. But Zaber had to cross it all the time. Hopefully, this would be the last.

  “Corporal?” yelled the man and sent his squire, clad in a tabard with his master’s crest on it, after the soldier. “Corporal?! Did you hear me?!” The nobleman’s attire and face told two very different stories. His gruff mustache, biting eyes, and two scars on his right cheek and eyebrow made him just as much a hardened warrior as Zaber was.

  From the corner of his eye, the greasy and unkempt man saw the squire move. Zaber came to an abrupt halt, sighed, and straightened his posture. “No Sir,” he said, and turned on his heel. “Sarge Brenz and I paid off the banners. With all due respect, Major Theobalt, I would prefer to not waste any more time.”

  “When we’re done with this, you and I shall have a talk,” said the officer and waved his squire back. The boy ran over and pulled Theobalt’s chair back from the table so that the man could stand up. He was rather short, but of an imposing width. His young aide had to pick up his one handed sword, in its ornamented scabbard. He had to carry it in hand’s reach of his master. It bore the regiment’s coats of arms, the King’s and that of his own: a white cross on black ground, with a small golden star in the center. Between these coat of arms was the depiction of a beheaded demonic creature. “A talk without Airich’s hand above your head, Corporal. You may not serve us as a soldier anymore, but you do still serve us. Got this? The other officers also–”

  “Airich told me about your cousin,” interrupted Zaber dryly. “I know where the letters are.”

  “You–” The two men stared at each other, not even a foot apart from each other. “We were read his Will. When our General has breathed his last breath, his nephew will ride down from that castle, and you’ll be a dead man.”

  “Good evening,” replied Zaber and turned on his heel. “Major.” The officer was only one stroke of his blade away from the former corporal. Nothing on this earth stood between them, and Zaber knew that. But he wasn’t the only one still afraid of a dying man.

  Snow fell from the sky again, and the tense veteran arrived at the old man’s pavilion. A canopy with a ball of hay was right next to it. Patina was having a good chew on it. Zaber stared at the entrance, but his boots were frozen to the ground. His entire body shook, before he turned towards the beautiful white animal, worn out by old age. He laid his hands on the horse’s neck and pressed his forehead against its nose, closing his eyes. “Just a bit longer,” he whispered to Patina. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  The horse groaned and leaned into Zaber. They shared warmth for a bit longer, before the former soldier scratched its chin and stepped back. Without further delay, he stepped inside and swept the canvases of the entrance aside. “I’m here,” said Zaber, gazing through the inside. Other noblemen had entire beds for their servants to put together in their tents. Not the rural knights, except if they’d served for long enough in the regiments. Airich though, not from the nobility of the sword, was a proper earl by the merit of his older brother’s death. Yet he slept on a cot. No stuffings, no fancy blankets, just wool. Everything served a dual function, no tables or chairs, only chests and stools. A small oven to cook and heat, his arms and armor on display around it, with some clothes to dry. Nothing was cheap, but there was a lack of extravagance that added to his infamy. Zaber knew each piece around here, because he had put them together countless times. Nothing ever changed in this tent, and he wouldn’t dare to misplace anything.

  A cacophony of coughs and gags was the prelude to a profound bass. The bastard couldn’t even die tuneless. Airich tried to raise his arm to slip out from under his blanket, but didn’t have the strength. His head turned around, a strand of blood dripping from his imposing mustache. He had kept the dark blonde of his hair for a long time, but these last years had stripped it of all color. “Tookrgh–” He coughed again. “Took your damned time, boy.”

  “’aight, missed you too,” replied Zaber and stepped closer. He picked up a stool and sat next to the bed. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t a man not wish to die without regret?” His bloody teeth flashed through his lips. Even in this state, his broad shoulders hinted at his former physique. “Damned be I if the last face I see is one of them.”

  “You can’t fool me,” said the boy and fixed the old man’s blanket. “You’re filled with regrets. What’s it you wanna curse me with?”

  “Help me up,” ordered the General, and the soldier did as he was told. Zaber’s thoughts told him something different, but he was unable to follow through. Kneeling on the ground before the bed, he put Airich’s arms around him, lifted him up, and sat him on the edge. He wrapped the blanket around Airich’s shoulders to keep him from freezing. “Very well,” said the old man. “Want to face you as a man.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Zaber and sat back on the stool. He mustered Airich’s body, sunken in an impossible posture. Like a sack of grain, yet…

  “Listen to me, son–” Drool ran down his chin and onto his chest.

  “I ain’t your son,” interrupted Zaber, clenching his fist. “You ruined me. Showed me that nobody cares about me. I’ve got nothing because of you.”

  “A coward’s bravery,” cackled the General. “Now that I can’t put you into the ground. And yet–” He choked on the mix of spit and blood. “Yet you love me as much as I love you. You know I love you, don’t you? I only loved one man more than you…”

  “Stop it,” said Zaber, grabbing his fist to keep it in place.

  “I wish the King had granted my request to adopt you. I wish he allowed me to make you fully my own and make you live up to what you could’ve been.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?!” The boy leaned forward, screaming into Airich’s face. Spit accompanied his words, but the old man couldn’t notice it anymore. “You love me?! How?! I learned nothing but cruelty from you. Everything I know is worthless.”

  “I ruined you?” Airich stared Zaber back into his seat. “You are the third-best thing I produced. You would be unstoppable if you weren’t born a common–”

  “Common what? Stop me from what?” Zaber grabbed the cloth on his knees to keep his fists from bursting. “Do you even remember all the things you made me do? Aume, or her mother? You killed my–”

  “And did you not enjoy it?! Don’t raise your voice against me, boy! Why should I remember every whore I paid? Without my pay, all of you would have starved or frozen to death. I made you a man and gave you purpose.” Repressing the coughs, Airich’s bass rose gloriously. “This is what war is about. You love it, I love it. The likes of you, Brenz or your big friend are the only folk who understand. There is no glory, there is only soldiering. These glory-seeking snobs? They come and go. You could have run away a long time ago, but you stayed. Because you love me, and we love war.”

  Wheezing interrupted Airich’s rantings, and he leaned so much into it that he fell forward into Zaber’s lap. His orderly caught him though, letting go of his fists to lift him up once more.

  “I wanted you to have it all,” yammered Airich in the boy’s arms. “But now that wimp of a nephew will get it. They called me ‘Rival to the King’, boy. But he was terrified of me… because he knew that I had no rival.”

  “You are a pathetic creature. You leave nothing behind but a name that’s admired by strangers, and hated by everyone who knows you,” whispered Zaber into his master’s ear, holding him at his broad shoulders. “I ain’t like you.”

  “You’ll,” uttered Airich. “More so than me. More so than Mur-ad-Din, who I lov–”

  “Who you killed. Because that’s the only thing we know how to do,” rasped Zaber and stared back. “Only so the King couldn’t get to it before you.”

  “I couldn’t allow Theogreif to get his hands on him. I still can’t,” said the General, clenching his fist in front of his lungs. “I have one last order for you in my Will. You will take my body and studies when my soul joins the Dragon.” Blood ran through his teeth, and Zaber looked around to find something to wipe it off. “I beg you Zaber, my son, take Mur ad-Din’s magic. Don’t allow these incompetent fools to get their hands on it… I want you to–”

  “Lay down, you need rest,” said Zaber, listening to a gurgle. “I ain’t falling for your lies no more. Why should I care–” He found an old kerchief, but when he turned around, there was only a limp body, still sitting upright. His eyes were only half-closed, with a puddle of blood in his own lap. He didn’t look at peace. Because he never was. Zaber took a deep breath and closed Airich’s eyes for good. “You’ll face a bunch of folk up there in the Kraken,” he said and wiped the old man’s face clean. The cloth was overtaken by red when the boy put Airich to sleep, tugging him under the blanket. “We’ll meet again.” Zaber tried his hardest to sound dry, but all he could do was turn silent by the end. He felt an unfamiliar pain surging through his cheeks and eyes, but before it could possess him, his fists acted on their own. The boy punched the corpse in the face, and chest – everywhere. Over and over he groaned, as he spread the bloody mess around the bed and over his own clothes. This damned motherfucker was right, and Zaber knew it. He deserved it. He deserved more. More than these noblearses like his good-for-nothing nephew, who never had to suffer.

  Zaber knew where everything was. Which chest to open, what was of worth, and what he needed to keep himself safe from men like that Major waiting for him. He took whatever book, letters, scrolls, gold and silver he could get his hands on. Feeling watched by a lifeless body, he kept looking back at Airich. Having said everything he wanted to say, Zaber felt worse. Only taking these rings, belt buckles, spurs, gauntlets and finally even the longsword with him made him feel better.

  Dragging a full chest behind him, with a blade under his arm, the former mercenary looked across the camp first. Nobody was lurking around, nor waiting for him. Still, there were many voices close-by. Zaber looked at the white horse around the canvas, neighing as if it wanted to be heard, and walked up to it.

  “You’re right,” he said and patted Patina’s mane. Sprinting inside, he grabbed the next-best rope and blanket. Zaber ignored Airich’s saddle, as beautiful as the horse itself, and hastily fastened the chest onto the steed. He clicked twice with his tongue and led the horse at its snout. “We’re free now.”