Dawn broke like an open wound on the horizon, painting the sky a sickly red. Alistair showed up at the meeting point with his bones grinding from the cold, but what awaited him was enough to freeze his hopes more than winter itself.
The 'mercenary gear' was handed to him with the disdain of someone throwing bones to a dog. First, the padded gambeson: a piece of stiffened linen that reeked of a nauseating stench of damp cellars, ancient sweat, and accumulated disappointment. Then the shield, a piece of cracked oak that looked as though it had served as a chopping board in a third-rate butchery.
Finally, the sword.
Alistair unsheathed it with a sound like the gnashing of a dead man's teeth. The blade was so covered in rust and pitted by time that its silhouette looked like a relief map of a forgotten land. He held it up against the pale morning light, squinting one eye to assess the disaster.
– Perfect! – he exclaimed, with an enthusiasm that cut sharper than the steel itself. – This is a work of genius. It won't wound the enemy, but with any luck, it'll give them tetanus in an instant. You haven't given me a sword; you've given me a biochemical weapon. The enemy will die of infection before I even have time to break a sweat.
The recruiter, who was adjusting the cinches on a packhorse, shot him a stern look, without a shred of humour in his stone-like features.
– Don't lose that blade, lad – the man said, with a gravity that bordered on the mystical. – It's an ancient piece. It has sentimental value.
Alistair looked from the sword to the man and back to the sword again, arching an eyebrow with a sneer of incredulity.
– Sentimental value? – he repeated. – For you, or for the blacksmith who's going to melt it down for being a disgrace to his noble profession? I swear, if I hit a shield with this, the sword will crumble where I stand and my opponent will die simply because he can't stop laughing at my misery.
The man didn't answer, merely pointing to the road that stretched before them, a path of mud and shadow leading to Verdejante. Alistair sighed, sheathed the 'relic', and adjusted his cracked shield. His mercenary career was beginning with the smell of mould and the dull shine of rust.
He joined the small host gathering around the wagon, feeling like a crow among wolves. The group was a tapestry of misery and steel: tough blokes with faces carved by tavern scars, veterans whose weary eyes had seen too many burning walls, and ambitious youths gripping their sword-hilts as if holding onto their own destiny. The air was heavy with the smell of metal, old leather, and the rancid sweat of men who rarely knew soap.
At the centre of it all was Roderick. He was a man made of right angles and dangerous silences, with a close-cropped grey beard and calloused hands that never seemed far from his sword's hilt. When his gaze landed on Alistair – and, specifically, on the rusted relic hanging from his belt and the gambeson that looked like a rat's nest – the scepticism on his face was so absolute that Alistair felt he was being judged by all the gods, old and new.
Alistair, far from being intimidated, straightened his padded vest and offered a smile that was half charm and half suicidal insolence.
– Alistair, at your service – he introduced himself, with a bow that made the cracked shield bang noisily against his thigh. – Specialist in the tactical evaluation of pigsties and the diplomatic resolution of seemingly impossible debts. My motto is simple: 'Why fight when you can argue until the enemy gives up out of pure boredom?'. I assure you, my rhetoric is much sharper than this... – he gestured to the rusty blade – ...work of art from forgotten times.
The silence that followed was cutting, broken only by the clopping of hooves and the snorting of a horse. Roderick didn't smile, nor did he blink. The veteran took a step forward, the shadow of his body covering Alistair like a storm cloud.
– Your motto is going to cost you your teeth, lad – Roderick replied, his voice dry as a dagger rubbing against a whetstone. – And if you keep talking, you might lose them before we round the first bend in the road. There are no diplomats here, only soldiers. We follow orders, keep our eyes on the road, and our tongues inside our mouths.
Roderick turned his gaze away with a gesture of contempt, as if Alistair were a distraction unworthy of another second of his attention.
– Move out! – he roared, the command echoing against the wooden walls of Bjorn's nearby tavern. – To Verdejante! Protect the wagon. If you see anything moving in the bushes, don't argue. Kill it.
The wagon wheels began to groan and creak over the frozen mud, and the group set off. Alistair, whose spirit seemed to be the only thing in the group not covered in rust or mould, tried several times to break the ice. He addressed a man with a face marked by an old burn, and then a youth holding his spear far too tightly, but his attempts at conversation were met like stones thrown into a bottomless pit: only guttural grunts or single-syllable answers that died before they hit the air.
– Ah, the camaraderie of the battlefield! – Alistair commented to the void, raising his voice enough for the nearest mercenaries to hear. – I feel like an integral part of this group already, like a fungus on a tree trunk. Unwanted, admittedly, but extremely resilient. And likely the only one here with a vocabulary superior to that of a pack ox.
No one laughed. One of the mercenaries spat a black paste of tobacco into the mud, inches from Alistair's boots, but the silence remained absolute.
However, the monotony of the march was broken as they rounded a sharp bend. Ahead, the path was obstructed by a tangle of trunks and branches. Three large ash trees lay across the road, blocking the wagon's passage.
Alistair narrowed his eyes. While the others looked at the height of the barrier, he fixed his gaze on the bases of the trunks. The bark wasn't shattered as happens in a natural fall caused by wind or age; the wood displayed the clean, deep marks of well-sharpened axes.
– How convenient – Alistair murmured, his irony giving way to a note of tension. – It seems the forest decided to commit suicide exactly in our path. And with such symmetrical cuts... the gods must have hired lumberjacks.
Roderick raised his hand, closed in a fist, and the group stopped instantly. The leader didn't need to examine the cuts to know what it meant. His gaze swept the treeline above them, where the fog clung to the branches like a spiderweb.
– Weapons out! – Roderick growled, his voice low but laden with icy authority. – This wasn't the wind. It's an ambush, as old as the road itself. Brigands.
The air was suddenly pierced by a sharp hiss, the death-song that precedes impact. Before Roderick could finish the order, an arrow with grey feathers thudded into the wagon's wood with a dry crack, followed by a rain of iron coming from the shadows of the bushes. The brigands were no mere hungry peasants; they moved with cruel coordination, flanking the group like wolves circling wounded prey.
– To your posts! – Roderick roared, raising his metal shield.
Alistair felt his blood turn to ice. Panic, cold and viscous like river silt, rose in his throat. He grabbed the hilt of his rusted sword, trying to unsheathe it with a frantic yank, but the steel and the rust had decided to become one. The blade refused to leave its refuge of rotten leather.
– Come on, you ungrateful bitch! – he hissed, pulling so hard his knuckles turned white.
A bandit with a filthy face and rotten teeth leapt from behind a beech tree, brandishing a battle-axe with a savage cry. With no other option, Alistair used the whole lot – scabbard, sword, and all – as a clumsy club. By pure instinct, or perhaps because the gods decided to play a joke on him, he parried the axe blow at the last second, feeling the vibration of the impact travel through his arm to his shoulder.
In the midst of the chaos of screams, metal clashing against metal, and the acrid stench of fresh blood in the mud, Alistair stumbled. Trying to retreat, he collided head-on with a bandit emerging through the fog. The impact was blunt and clumsy; both lost their balance and tumbled down the slope, ending up in a stagnant pool that reeked of rotten eggs and decay.
Alistair emerged first, panting and soaked in a black water that streamed into his eyes. The bandit, dazed by the fall and the mud that had filled his mouth, tried in vain to stand. Alistair, sitting atop the man's chest with his sword still jammed in its scabbard, pointed the object like a muddy sceptre.
– You see? Pure strategy! – he exclaimed, his voice hitting a high note of hysteria. – Now you're soaked, you smell worse than I did yesterday, and you're defeated. Triple humiliation! You ought to thank me for this free lesson.
In a surge of adrenaline, Alistair scrambled up and tried to run back to the safety of the wagon. As he did, he tripped over an exposed root and, with flailing arms, slammed his entire body weight into an assailant who was preparing to bury a dagger in the back of the veteran with the burn scar. The bandit was sent flying sideways, falling onto his own weapons, while the veteran, without looking back, finished him off with a clean sword stroke.
The skirmish ended with the brutal swiftness of a summer storm. Roderick and his veterans moved with the efficiency of butchers, turning the initial panic into a methodical carnage that sent the remaining brigands fleeing into the grim embrace of the forest, leaving behind a trail of blood and whimpers.
Silence returned to the road, heavy and sharp with the smell of iron and guts. Roderick wiped his blade on a dead man's cloak and approached the wagon. After checking that the cargo seals were intact, he shifted his gaze to Alistair. The 'mercenary' was sitting on a log, his face red with exertion, desperately trying to wrench his sword from its scabbard using his knees as a lever.
– You can stop that, lad – Roderick said. There was no anger in his voice, only the icy dryness of one stating that the sky is grey. – You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most useless thing I have ever seen holding steel. However... – he paused, glancing at the bandit Alistair had accidentally downed – ...you distracted them. And a lucky idiot is always better than a completely dead man. For now, at least.
While the others scavenged the corpses for coins or boots that still served, one of the mercenaries let out a curse.
– These aren't starving vagrants, Roderick – he called out, pulling back the sleeve of a dead man's tunic. On the pale, cold arm was a tattoo done in dark ink and firm lines: a human bone crossed with a sword.
Roderick narrowed his eyes. That mark didn't belong to desperate peasants, but to a brotherhood with a purpose and blood on its hands.
– They're organised – the leader muttered, and the atmosphere, which should have felt like victory, suddenly turned colder. – Move out. I don't want to be on this trail when their brothers come to claim the bodies.
The group pressed on at a brisk pace until, finally, the palisades of Verdejante appeared on the horizon. The village hummed with the chaotic energy of a market eve; the air smelled of fresh bread, peat smoke, and the sweat of hundreds of merchants. But upon arriving at the destination warehouse, the reception was strange.
The merchant, a man with trembling hands and eyes that darted like caged birds, didn't look relieved to see the cargo, but terrified. He hauled the sacks and crates inside with feverish urgency and handed over the payment pouches without wanting to count the coin, as if he wanted them to disappear as quickly as possible.
Alistair received his small share – three silver coins and a handful of copper bits that barely carried any weight in his palm – and watched the man's nervousness with a glint of irony in his eyes.
– It was a true pleasure serving as mobile and duly battered bait for your wares, master – Alistair said, with a bow that sent a cloud of dust from his padded vest. – If you need someone to distract more thieves or to test the resistance of the local mud, you know where to find me... likely in some renowned pigsty.
The merchant didn't reply, slamming the heavy warehouse door and leaving the mercenaries alone in the busy street. Alistair looked at his coins and sighed; the day had been long, the sword was still stuck, and the mystery of that cargo seemed only to have begun.
The sun began to hide behind the hills, tinting the mud puddles a rusty orange that reminded him far too much of the blood spilled on the road. As the group moved away from the warehouse, Marcus – one of the veterans of few words and hawk-like eyes – spat to the side and nodded towards the door.
– The merchant – Marcus said, his voice a gravelly whisper. – When he pulled the last crate, his sleeve went up. He has the mark of the bone and steel, and he was trying to hide it with the cloth, but the arm doesn't lie.
Silence fell over the group like a shroud. Alistair, who until then had been distracted counting his meagre coins, looked up, and the spark of understanding lit up his dirty face.
– Aha! – he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. – The game reveals its cards. So we weren't attacked despite the cargo, my friends. We were attacked because of the cargo. Or rather, so it would look like a routine attack to anyone watching from the outside. A little theatre of blood to keep up appearances.
The other mercenaries began to mutter, their gazes turning back towards the now-closed warehouse. What secrets did those wheat sacks hold? What poison or fortune was hidden in the olive oil barrels that men would mark their own skin for them?
– We should open the goods – suggested an ambitious youth, hand already on his sword hilt. – If it's gold or spices from the Principality of Azuria...
– You'll wash your hands of this business right now – Roderick cut him off, his voice cold and final as the slamming of a coffin lid. – We were hired to escort, not to investigate. We've been paid, and sticking your nose where others' steel is hidden is the fastest way to end up in an unmarked grave.
Alistair nodded, but this time there was more than just mockery in his expression. The sarcasm was still there, but it served as armour for an unexpected lucidity.
– For once, I agree with our austere captain – Alistair said, settling his cracked shield onto his back. – Look, I love a good mystery, especially when it isn't me being kicked or stabbed to solve it, but the truth is this: whatever was in those sacks has turned us into something more than mere escorts. We carried trouble, and trouble has a nasty habit of following you home, or to the tavern, like hungry dogs waiting for a drop of soup.
The group exchanged uneasy glances. The victory on the road now felt heavier, a burden they couldn't leave at the warehouse. Without another word, Roderick turned and began to march towards the local inn, whose wooden sign creaked in the approaching night wind. The rest of the group followed.
Night in Verdejante fell like a mantle of black velvet, but it brought no rest for the weary. The local tavern was a den of peat smoke, drunken laughter, and the metallic odour of men sharing the same unspoken fear.
Following Roderick's silent order, the group settled at a central table. They laughed with a calculated exaggeration and banged their mugs on the worn wood, staging the rowdy celebration of those who only want to spend their pay on wine, ale, and women. It was a necessary theatre; they wanted to appear too stupid or too drunk to have noticed the mark on the merchant's arm.
However, in the shadows the candles couldn't reach, danger remained vigilant. Sat on corner benches, or leaning against blackened oak beams, cold eyes followed every move of the mercenaries. These were men who didn't drink, whose hands remained unnaturally still near their daggers, watching to see if Roderick or his men had realised that the cargo they carried was more than simple supplies. Alistair and his companions didn't see them directly, but instinct – that sharp sense that keeps rats alive in cellars – told them the air was thicker than usual.
Alistair looked into the bottom of his mug. Where the others had dark ale or sour wine, he had only well water, cold and tasteless, for his meagre coppers had already been claimed by the promise of a straw cot and he refused to spend the few silver coins he still possessed.
He raised his mug in a solitary toast, a melancholy smile dancing on his lips under the flickering light.
– To the mercenary career! – he exclaimed, his voice projected for anyone to hear, but his eyes fixed on the reflection in the water. – It is considerably less glamorous than the troubadours promised in their ballads, and it smells much worse than I anticipated... but it has, without a doubt, a better future than my old life. After all, a rusty sword, even if stuck in its scabbard, still commands more respect than a manure shovel.