Brunswald teetered toward the table, cups of mead sloshing onto the hay covered
floorboards before the hulking sellsword landed heavily upon his chair.
“Another round,” he chuckled, taking a long pull.
Kaleb and his brother Jericho watched the drunken infantryman drink his fill while
they sipped on their own.
“Probably aught to sto-” Jericho began, but Kaleb nudged him with an elbow.
If you wanted to keep your nose where it was on your face, you didn’t tell
Brunswald not to drink. It didn’t matter that the Captain had given orders to
stay in camp. Brunswald had come into their tent, along with a number of his
cronies, and ‘invited’ them along. It had been this way in the last three
battles they had been in since being elevated from the pike line to join the infantry.
The big warrior wasn’t the worst sergeant, once you figured out what he
disliked, but Kaleb and learned to keep their guard up.
In some regard, he missed serving in the pike line. It had been a breath of fresh
air after two years serving as ‘dagger boys’. Having joined when Kaleb was
fifteen and Jericho fourteen, it was the only position recruits like them were
allowed to do. In the pike line they actually got to be in the action rather
than finishing off the poor sods who fell or dragging off their own wounded.
Infantry was a different beast altogether, and while the pay was better and the
chance to loot gear bolstering their own arms and armament, it was a bloody
affair.
“Aught to what?” Brunswald said, bloodshot eyes fixing Jericho to the spot.
Kaleb had seen that look before and, rather than risk the rage that dwelled beneath
the surface of the massive mercenary, he downed his own cup and forced a
laugh.
“Probably aught to stop by stop grinning at that barmaid.” Kaleb leaned in conspiratorially.
“I think he’s a bit smitten, if you catch my drift.”
The violence in Brunswald’s gaze vanished, replaced by a boisterous laugh as he slapped the table. The big man loved his
women, both the willing and unwilling alike. A vile man, but one who had more than
earned his place on the front.
Men like Brunswald gave mercenaries a bad name, though nobody would tell him as much. Both feared and respected, a number of
officers turned a blind eye to his actions so as not to lose his talents to
another company of sellswords.
“Bah, don’t be swingin’ your dick around a slum like this,” Brunswald said, slapping Jericho on the back. “You want some real
action go…”
Jericho gave his older brother a glower while Brunswald began to regale him with his exploits at one of the local whore
houses. Kaleb took the opportunity to take a piss.
Exiting the tavern, Kaleb noted the steady silence that had overtaken much of the city
and made his way to a back alley to relieve himself. Most reasonable folks
spent their evenings worrying and praying about the pitched battle tomorrow,
and well they should. If their employer amongst House Orthwein and his fellow
nobles couldn’t push Strigland back across their boarders, this would be
Strigland land come tomorrow evening. Placing a hand against the cool stone,
Kaleb took a breath and spotted the aging swordsman, Wrin, sitting on the steps
of the room and board across the street. Shaking off and tying his breaches,
Kaleb decided to pay a visit rather than return to the raucous evening put on
by Brunswald and his ilk.
Of all the hired killers who sought employment under the Bloody Son’s banner, Wrin
was amongst his favorites. He never bothered trying to fit in, nor did he seem
to have the same vices as the rest of their band of cutthroats, yet he never
judged. He saw a man for what he was, nothing more or less..
Wrin held a thin reed which he flicked out every now and then. As he got closer,
Kaleb realized that the man was striking flies from the air as they passed by,
and his aim was never off.
“Not a fan of the local wildlife?” Kaleb asked.
The old man chuckled, the reed in his hand snapping out to strike yet another
hapless fly that came to close.
“Too early to sleep and too late to play cards. Figured I’d sit out here and make
sure you lot don’t get in too much trouble, young Kaleb,” the old swordsman
said with a smile.
“Captain sent you, didn’t he?”
That earned a genuine chuckle. “You’ve a sharp mind when you decide to use it, lad.
My punishment for being on bad terms with the royalty I suppose.”
Wrin looked him up and down a moment, then tapped the reed against the wooden step
beside him. “Take a seat, clear your head.”
Kaleb took the offer and the two of them sat in silence for some time, each lost in
his own thoughts until the silence seemed to grow.
“Worried about tomorrow?” Wrin asked.
The rolling in his gut confirmed the swordsman’s suspicions, but Kaleb shook his
head. “Not my first bout with House Strigland.”
Wrin nodded. “You sound like me when I was your age. All confidence and bravado,
even though I’d be ready to piss myself when lines were drawn.”
Kaleb wanted to force another laugh, but the open honesty of the aging warrior
stilled his tongue. “I’m bloody terrified if I’m being honest.”
“Aye, I know that lad. We all know it. All this,” the swordsman said, pointing his
reed at the tavern Kaleb had left. “It’s a lie to build up the courage to do
what we were never designed to.”
Kaleb eyed the man, noting how little color remained in his white mustache and
goatee. When he and his brother had joined six years back, it had been far more
brown.
“That’s something, coming from you,” Kaleb said.
The old swordsman went quiet.
“Sorry Wrin don’t mind me,” Kaleb said quickly. “Bit too much to drink is all.”
Wrin had been known as one of the premiere swordsmen throughout the Three Kingdoms.
The man had built his life around the use of his blade, up until he had met his
match against the Viper of Strigland. It was said their duel lasted half a turn
of the hour glass. When Wrin slipped on a bit of blood, the Viper lanced his
blade through Wrin’s knee, but refused to kill his opponent. It was an
honorable gesture and rare between feuding Houses. Yet Wrin was hobbled all the
same and though still the deadliest man Kaleb had ever seen, he suspected the
swordsman was but a shadow of his youth.
“Don’t apologize for honesty, lad,” Wrin said. “It is the hypocrisy of my life. I have
killed more men than I can remember, and my memory is a long one. Sons,
husbands, fathers, both good and bad, I have killed them all in my ambition.
Look what it has gotten me.”
“A comfortable life with one of the highest paying mercenary companies in the
Three Kingdoms,” Kaleb chuckled. “Gods man, you don’t even have to fight in the
frontlines and the Captain coats your pockets in more gold than you probably
know what to do with.”
“Pain boy, it has only brought me pain. You know it as well as I, but you mask it
well,” the old man said quietly. “Gold and riches can only give you so much. I
have no family, no partner to spend my days with and no place to call home. I
have only taken from this world and when I am gone, I will have left nothing
good behind.”
The alcohol that warmed Kaleb and loosened his tongue was beginning to fade with
Wrin’s dark mood. Usually he was good company, always willing to teach a trick
of the bloody trade they shared, though never indulging anyone in actually
training, despite the line of young sellswords who begged for it. For a moment
Kaleb thought it might be best to leave, but he could see remorse in the old
man’s eyes.
“You’ve saved my life twice since I’ve known you.” Kaleb said, drawing Wrin’s eyes from
the ground. “Dragged me off the battlefield when I took that arrow my second
year and intervened when I bit off more than I could chew with that hedge
knight last summer. You killed that big bastard in two passes.”
Wrin shrugged and Kaleb could see his words gained no purchase in the swordsman’s
heart.
“You and your brother have been with the company long enough to earn your place,”
Wring began, “but unlike most, you’ve not burned through your coin. That’s a
sign of saving for the future. You’ve both done your five years, and the
contract states that you can leave as you will after that. So what keeps you
here?”
The question caught Kaleb off guard, and for a moment, he couldn’t dredge up the
answer.
“Baron Delemont had a decree that the expanded lands to the east could be bought, and
tithing would be reduced by half for any willing to settle that way. Jericho
and I figured we’d do our five and take our grandparents and sisters to start
over. Main reason we joined up was because the farm was struggling to make the
tithings, let alone leave enough for us to live on. Figured the best way to
help them was to send coin and find a way to feed ourselves until we could
return. Of course, Scarlet Fever had different plans. Took the whole family
save for our sister, but she’s married off to a cobbler now. There’s really not
much for us to go back to.”
“But you could,” Wrin said, a bit more fervently than Kaleb expected. “If you
wanted, you could still start that life. You could be away from this place and
the darkness that follows it.”
Kaleb pondered the swordsman’s words for a moment. Since the loss of their family, he
had eventually accepted that the world was a cruel place. He was but one of
millions struggling to survive in it. Jericho had continued to save and Kaleb
had done the same, for that was how they had always done things but neither
discussed what they would do with it.
“Aye, suppose I could,” Kaleb said.
At that point Wrin got to his feet, a small grunt accompanied the movement as the
swordsman worked the muscle around his ravaged leg. “We’ve a battle to face
tomorrow. Perhaps, once it’s over, you consider it more seriously. You’ve too
much life to live, lad, don’t waste it chasing death. Sooner or later, you’ll
catch it.”
With that, the old swordsman made his way down the street.
The alcohol that had relaxed Kaleb was almost forgotten as he remembered his days back home. Perhaps he would speak with
Jericho and see what his brother thought of it all. Of course, he would wait
until after the battle. There was no point in making plans for the future if he
didn’t survive tomorrow.
Kaleb staggered and fell to his knees, exhausted. His strength depleted after the two
hour battle, and he let his falchion slip from his grasp while he focused on
breathing.
You’re alive, he told himself. You made it.
The words repeated in his mind as his pounding heart began to slow and the world
came into focus. The stink of shit, piss, and the moans of the dying rushed
forward all at once and he spilled the contents of his breakfast onto the body
beneath him. A weak curse whispered up at him, but he ignored it and pushed
himself away from the dying man beneath.
Kaleb got to his haunches and scanned the battlefield. Off to the east, the last
remnant of Strigland’s honor guard held while their lord withdrew from the
field. It wasn’t much of a last stand as pikemen, flanked by soldiers with
crossbows, began to make quick work of them.
Poor bastards, Kaleb thought, once more taking up his falchion and finally finding
the strength to stand.
While the Houses focused on killing one another,
the warriors of the Bloody Sons were already making their way through the enemy
camp, looting what they could before the nobles took notice.
It had been a brutal fight, one that had resulted in more casualties than the Captain
would approve of. Nobles had placed the Bloody Sons on the left flank where
they sustained four full volleys of arrowfire before being allowed to engage.
The Nobles of House Orthwein had needed a distraction, and while House
Strigland focused on putting the Bloody Sons down, they pulled too many
soldiers from their center.
It was always a risk, working with nobility, and the Bloody Sons had learned that
lesson today. A quarter of their number were dead, half again that number
wounded. Death from disease and sickness would do a number on that lot. The
surgeon would charge top dollar for the butcher bill, likely taking a large sum
from their contracted payment. They were a thousand strong when the day began,
and likely half their number would never fight again.
Most of the lads could give a shit less that they weren’t supposed to loot. Not when
Brunswald carried the day. The madman had removed the head of a Strigland noble
when they met on the field, a man of no small renown, and he broke the enemy’s
will. So, high on his victory and furious at his loses, Brusnwald had led his
men down into the royal’s former camp.
Normally, Kaleb would go his own way and return to their own camp. Unfortunately, Jericho
was down there. They had gotten separated in the charge, but he spotted his
brother down below as Brunswald likely ordered him along under threat of death
for desertion should he refuse.
Screams were coming from the Royal camp, likely the servant class who were abandoned in
the retreat. Perhaps even a few noble ladies who hadn’t escaped in time…
Brunswald and his lackeys were enjoying themselves and Jericho had been dragged
along with them.
Kaleb could leave his brother to that dark path. It was one they had avoided until
now. Most of the Bloody Sons tried to keep their demons at bay, but sometimes
survival in the world of violence meant doing something vile in order to avoid
winding up with steel in your gut.
By going down there Kaleb would only be signing his death warrant. He knew where
he stood in the world, which meant he had fuckall chance to kill Brunswald on
his own. Yet leaving Jericho alone wasn’t something that would sit well with
his conscious.
That, and Jericho didn’t have as tight a handle on his temper as Kaleb did. Once he
saw something that crossed the line, Jericho simply wouldn’t go along. He’d
likely draw steel and that wouldn’t end well either.
Taking a deep breath, Kaleb fought back the
nausea that threatened to take him again, and made his way down to the royal
camp.
It was as bad as he thought, probably worse.
Servants, who expected an honorable surrender, had waited while their lords, and those
who learned from survivors of similar horrors, ran away. The men were dead, a
few of Brunswald’s own had gone with them, but not many. It was a nightmare,
one that could only be found in the Void; that dark place where the damned went
on to suffer in the afterlife.
Kaleb kept his eyes forward, knowing what the cries and sobs around him meant. He
heard the harsh slaps and snarled threats and didn’t trust himself to stay his
blade should he see it. He couldn’t save them all, but he could at least try to
save Jericho. That was all that mattered, because it was all he had. The wealth
they had saved, the forgotten dreams, none of it mattered. Not if the only
person he gave a shit about was dead.
It wasn’t difficult to find them. Kaleb had simply marched where the sound of
suffering was loudest.
Brunswald had his brother pinned against a broken table. Knives were buried in his palms
and his face was a broken wreak. Jericho’s chest rose and fell, blood spraying
with every exhaled breath. One of Brunswald’s companions was impaled on the
ground nearby, Jericho’s sword left in his belly. It was his worst fear made
manifest. His brother had refused to join in their cruelties, and he had
fought. There was a small sense of pride there, for, were the roles reversed,
Kaleb wasn’t sure he would have had the strength to do the same.
Now, all the attention was drawn to Brunswald as he ripped the gown off a servant
girl no more than fifteen years old. The four others who hung around, brutal
bastards who spent years fighting on the front, were drawn to the pale skin of
exposed flesh. He tried not to see her face, but the stark terror on her
features became ingrained in his mind. Kaleb turned his eyes and tried to
ignored it, and every ounce of him felt less for not standing up.
He had to get his brother, he told himself.
Rushing over, he leaned into his brother’s ear and whispered. “I’m going to rip these knives
out and get you out of here. It’s going to hurt, but you can’t scream. Got it?”
Jericho’s face came up. The tiny slit where his left eye was still visible fixed onto
Kaleb. His brother’s body was broken, but not his spirit. For that one eye
burned with shame and rage.
The girl’s screams rose higher, followed by a harsh slap.
Kaleb looked at his brother and felt the anger reflected in his soul.
“Okay…” Kaleb said quietly. “You can scream.”
Jericho managed a frail attempt to nod.
Kaleb ripped the daggers out, one after the other, as his brother’s broken voice gave loose to his rage. Brunswald’s
assault on the girl stopped and his eyes darkened, painting his bloodstained
features into a demonic visage. He dropped the girl and pulled up his breeches
before grabbing his sword. A longer blade, like those wielded by the knights
who could afford full plate. Kaleb shifted into a fighting stance, and he could
see fresh excitement in the man’s eyes.
“Fuckin’ do-gooders,” Brunswald spat.
Kaleb wanted to say something, but his mouth felt too dry as the giant killer strode
toward him. At least he wasn’t in full gear, Kaleb told himself. While Kaleb
still wore his mail and greaves, Brunswald had abandoned the restrictive bits
of his armor, which meant Kaleb had a chance. He had held himself on the front
for two years now and knew his way around a blade.
As their swords came together, Kaleb realized his hopes were but a brief respite from the reality of the world. A
man like Brunswald didn’t become a monster without mastering the world of
violence. By the time the man pulled away, Kaleb staggered and fell to a knee.
His arm was fucked. The mail had held, yet he was confident the bone was
broken. His eye was swollen from the pommel strike he received and he hadn’t so
much as marked his opponent. Brunswald scoffed and began moving in for the kill
when a voice stopped him cold.
“What are you doing, Brunny Boy?”
Brunswald was no longer focused on Kaleb, but on
the man behind.
He was focused on Wrin.
“This isn’t for you old man. Go on and be about your business,” Brunswald warned.
Nobody called Brunswald anything other than Brunswald, yet Wrin came to stand in front of Kaleb and his brother without an
ounce of fear in his bearing. The slight limp in his stride no longer seemed
like a weakness, but a menacing lurch of a predator long standing in the domain
of death. The four bystanders slowly pulled back, eager to be away from an
upper rank of the Bloody Sons.
“This is about the only sort of business I find interesting these days,” Wrin said,
the humor in his voice gone.
Wrin casually drew the duelist blade from his hip and held it in a single-handed grip as he pointed the tip at the ground
between them.
If Brunswald had any reservations about the coming conflict, they vanished at the
gesture. His expression hardened, not out of cruelty as it had for Kaleb. This
was the look of a man prepared for a serious task.
They came together without announcement, Brunswald using size and reach to his
advantage while Wrin redirected and shifted about, his limp vanishing with
action. Steel clashed in rapid succession before the two pulled apart. Theirs
was a battle of opportunities, for neither man was superior to the other.
Brunswald had but to land a single blow to end it while Wrin sought to cut an
artery where the infantryman’s grieves no longer protected him.
Back and forth they danced across the muck and mire of the broken camp, even as a
few of Wrin’s crossbowman arrived. Distantly, Kaleb caught the twang of bolts
fired, likely into the unprotected backs of those who had followed Brunswald in
his rape and plunder of the royal camp. The handful who arrived on the scene
didn’t seem inclined to intervene as they watched the two killers display their
prowess.
Then, like an asp’s bite, Wrin’s blade darted forward and severed the artery in
Brunswald’s thigh. The big man cursed as he staggered back, blood pumping from
the wound.
“Bastard,” Brunswald snarled, eyes wild and desperate.
Wrin seemed more focused on breathing than a retort and Kaleb noticed the trembling in the old man’s leg, the duel likely
having irritated the old injury.
In a final act of vengeance, Brunswald took his sword by hilt and blade charged toward Wrin. To his credit, the wiry swordsman
attempted to dance back, but his leg finally gave out. Even though Brunswald
was going to die, he wouldn’t go alone. With only moments separating life from
death for the old swordsman, Kaleb rushed forward with a single-handed thrust.
The big man didn’t see him until it was too late, and Kaleb’s sword drove
through Brunswald’s pelvis, down to the hilt. The infantryman’s legs gave out
but his momentum ripped the sword from Kaleb’s already weakened grip as he
toppled to the ground.
For a long moment nobody moved, and all Kaleb could hear was the heavy breathing of Wrin, and the weakening groans of the
dying Brunswald. Wrin’s eyes met Kaleb’s and the man gave him a nod as he
slowly got to his feet, heavily favoring his good leg.
“How’s Jerricho?” Wrin asked, once he was able to gather his wind.
Kaleb glanced back, his mind in disbelief that he was still in the world of the living, only to find Jericho had gone terribly
still.
Some men found themselves overcome with loss, others flew into a rage, but Kaleb simply stared at his brother with a numb
realization that he was now alone. The nightmare that he had entered to save Jericho had been for nothing.
A hand gripped his shoulder then and Kaleb could feel the swordsman’s presence beside him. “I saw what happened lad. Tried to
make it down in time but-”
Kaleb shrugged the man’s hand away, sending a fresh wave of agony through his broken arm, but even that pain was dull
compared to the emptiness in his heart.
“Teach me,” Kaleb said, turning away from the ravaged form of Jericho.
“Oh lad, that’s not-” Wring began, but Kaleb cut him off.
“I don’t care, Wrin. I’ve got nothing left. No home, no family to speak of, and no patience to hear anything else. Teach me to
be like you, so I can stop bastards like him.”
The swordsman's eyes softened for a moment. He knew it was probably the last thing Wrin wanted to do, but the aging warrior
gave a slow nod. “I’ll do it on one condition.”
“Name it,” Kaleb snapped, the pain from his injuries working through the shock of
Jericho’s death.
“If you find something to live for, you leave the Bloody Sons and never look back,
regardless of where we are or what conflict we have thrown ourselves into. You
take that opportunity and run, am I understood?” Wrin held out his hand, the
steel in his voice letting him know there would be no further negotiations.
“Agreed,” Kaleb said, taking the swordsman’s hand without a moment of hesitation.
Kaleb knew whatever prospects he had were gone. He would devote himself to learning the blade and nothing else, for there was nothing in this world that could replace what he had lost.