It was a few more days on the road before they reached Arcadia.
On the way they passed several Caedian keeps of varying quality. Some reminded Aleksandr of Torva—ancient and imposing citadels of the old Cassaline Empire, maintained by Caedian engineering and masonry. Others were more like Yerevan, or perhaps like Lord Cavanaugh’s Woolsby—keeps made mostly of wood, with a bit of simple Caedian stonework and perhaps an old Cassaline watchtower looming over them.
It seems you can tell the standing of a Caedian lord by how much of their seat is a relic of the old Empire, rather than a creation of modern Caedia, Aleksandr realized. The relics are much more impressive.
They were in the Caedian heartland now, on one of the main Cassaline roads. They passed more than one lance of Caedian men-at-arms out hunting for Svards. Between the regular scouting patrols and the added strength of Cavanaugh’s men, Aleksandr was unsurprised that they met no further opposition the rest of the way.
When they finally grew close to Caedia’s capital city, it was visible from a great distance away.
Aleksandr crested a hill, still several miles out, and it lay before him in its full splendor. High stone walls rose around the core of the city, with many towers rising higher still. Arcadia’s stonework was a marvel of Imperial engineering, built centuries ago by the Cassalines. Before that the area had been settled by the native peoples of the Midlands, and there was no question to Aleksandr as to why. It was fertile ground at the mouth of a vast bay—King’s Bay, Aleksandr had heard his men call it. Three small rivers fed the bay, supplying the city and its outskirts.
Aleksandr had only seen Rusk’s capital of Voska once, in his youth, and it loomed large and imposing in his memory. Even so he had little doubt that Arcadia was the grander city, a true jewel of the Midlands.
Made all the more impressive by the army assembled in front of it.
There must be ten thousand men, Aleksandr thought. He saw so many banners he could not keep count, and only a tiny handful looked at all familiar. The army was sprawled outside the walls in enormous, barely organized camps. He saw rows of tents of varying size, several pens filled with hundreds of horses, and thousands of men moving about, training, drilling, and going about their day.
Aleksandr’s plan had been to approach the camp and seek out its general, then negotiate a contract for Steelshod. He had spoken a little with Dylan, with Perrin, and with Giancarlo. Each had different experiences with the pay rates that might be typical of mercenary bands, and Aleksandr had a half-formed synthesis of their ideas in his mind.
I had intended on asking for a high price, Aleksandr reminded himself. He felt numb. A high price for skilled, reliable men. Am I dreaming? What difference could a mercenary band of a dozen, or even a hundred, possibly make?
He had no answer.
It took a while before the sounds of the army reached them, and longer still before they finally reached the edge of the camp. A lance of riders approached them, waving Cavanaugh on to find his lord’s section of the camp. He took his leave with little more than one final grateful nod in Aleksandr’s direction. Then the Caedian patrol turned their attention to Steelshod.
“Mercenaries?” asked the lead Caedian knight.
“Da,” Aleksandr said.
“They are mine,” Giancarlo called from where he sat at the lead wagon. “I am a merchant, and they have kept my wares safe on the long road from the east.”
“Oh, a merchant? Go on then,” the knight said. “Road’s clear, you can head on into the city.”
“Ah, many thanks, signore,” Giancarlo said. “However, my wares, they are not for the city folk. Most of our wagons are filled with the finest quality arms and armors, my friend. The very best that the eastern Midlands has to offer!”
Yerevan is not exactly in the Midlands, Aleksandr thought. And “eastern Midlands” sounds like he means Torathia. He held his tongue and did not correct Giancarlo’s assertion.
“Oh. For the army, is it?” asked the knight.
“Si, signore. Yes! Just so. For the army.”
“Right,” he gave Giancarlo an appraising look. “You can set yourselves up in the mercenary camp then. It’s that way there, see? Then you’ll be wanting to meet with the Lord Marshal’s quartermaster. The tents of the general staff are all that way, beneath the black and silver banner. Can’t miss them.”
“Si, a thousand thanks, signore,” Giancarlo said warmly. The knight shrugged, and circled back with his men.
They followed the directions, taking a muddy track between rows of tents. As they rode, Giancarlo waved Aleksandr over to his wagon, and Aleksandr beckoned Yorrin with a glance and a nod.
“Signori!” Giancarlo said. He grinned. “You have brought me safely to my destination, as promised.”
“Da,” Aleksandr agreed. Yorrin was silent, eyes darting around the camp.
“I never had a doubt in my mind, signore, I assure you,” Giancarlo said with a wink. “Once we are settled here, you and I will settle our debt as well.”
“You will not need any further protection?”
Giancarlo shook his head. “No, signore Aleksandr. After I sell these wares, I will charter a ship south, to Spatalia or perhaps all the way home to Cassala.”
“Shipping lanes are dangerous just now, aren’t they?” Yorrin said. “Svardic longships about.”
“Si, of course,” Giancarlo answered with a shrug. “As are the roads. Such is the nature of doing business amidst war, no? Everything is dangerous, signore Yorrin. So I will charter passage on a large ship, with many guards, I think.”
“Suppose that makes sense,” Yorrin said.
“Si. Signori, I was wondering… you seek to sell your swords to Caedia, do you not? Would you like for me to introduce you to the Caedian general?”
“Do you know him?” Aleksandr asked. “Lord Marshal, da?”
“Si, Lord Winston Marshal. You have heard of him, then?”
“A little,” Aleksandr said. “Perrin thought he was most likely Caedian lord to have been appointed general, when we spoke of this matter a few nights ago. Perrin said this man ruled Caedia for many years, before the king came of age. Very popular. Honorable, it is said.”
“He is, si. His reputation, it is earned, I think,” Giancarlo said. “I do not know him well, but we have done business a few times in the past. I could introduce you.”
Yorrin shifted in the saddle, leaning towards Giancarlo. “And do you figure that’ll help us, or hinder us?”
Giancarlo laughed. “Hah! Si, si, that is a good question. I am a successful merchant, I am everyone’s friend, Yorrin.”
“That so?” Yorrin wore his skepticism plainly, arching an eyebrow and curling his lip in a look of disdain.
Giancarlo only laughed again. “Si, you know me too well, I think. If I had to wager upon it, I would say Marshal has no love of me, but respects my acumen. Thus, if I speak to him of your virtue—and I sincerely believe you to be virtuous, Aleksandr—he will no doubt roll his eyes.”
Aleksandr frowned. “Perhaps—”
“However,” Giancarlo interrupted. “If I speak to him of your prowess, and tell him it is only due to your skilled fighters that I am here at all, it will be something else entirely. If I tell him you are worth every copper uncia and gold solidus you demand, it may help plant the seeds for your own negotiation.”
Aleksandr fell silent, considering the merchant’s words. “Ah,” he finally said. “Perhaps that would be good.”
“Si,” Giancarlo smirked. “It will be my pleasure, signore.”
It did not take long to get settled in the mercenary camp. The mercenaries were loosely separated from the Caedian forces, but the perimeter seemed as porous as a sieve. Aleksandr saw an assortment of mercenary troops, each with their own camps of wildly disparate discipline.
He saw scores of men in their own isolated little camps, alone or in small groups. Many of them were rough men with no banner or livery at all, looking as much like bandits as they did mercenaries. Several of the larger mercenary camps had their own horse corrals—Aleksandr saw a large pen of at least a hundred small steeds that looked like Spatalian coursers to him, beneath a cluster of foreign banners that all looked very similar to each other. Shades of red and maroon and puce.
They say the Spatalian city-states have a hundred or more banners between them all, and only the Spatalians themselves can identify every one of them, Aleksandr recalled. Though I bet the local nobility would be able to recognize a few. He knew very little about distant Spatalia, outside of bits and pieces he’d heard from Olivenco on the road.
Another camp looked to have rich accommodations. They, too, had their own pen with at least two score mounts. These were heavier beasts, Middish warhorses for certain. They were tended by squires beneath a dark gray banner marked by a silver moon and a golden sun.
The largest mercenary camp had some forty tents arranged in neat rows. The men worked and joked with an easy familiarity beneath a golden yellow banner bearing clasped black fists. They had no horses, but based on the size of their camp Aleksandr judged there had to be at least a few hundred men beneath that banner.
They have so many mercenaries already, Aleksandr thought. Am I a fool, to expect them to pay a handsome price for us? For Steelshod? The name suddenly felt foolish. An aspirational name. A boastful name. We are scarcely more than a dozen fighters, and none of us well-known in these lands.
He assigned a few men to watch Giancarlo’s wagons, and sent Cameron to accompany the Cassaline merchant as he headed off to meet with the quartermaster. Cam would know when to keep his mouth shut, but if pushed to speak for Steelshod Aleksandr could trust the man to be courteous and keep his comments to a minimum. The rest of them were tasked with setting Steelshod’s camp. While the men pitched tents and tended the horses, Aleksandr conferred with Yorrin, Perrin, and Dylan.
Perrin repeated advice he’d given Aleksandr a few days earlier.
“Sounds good to me,” Yorrin said.
Dylan scratched the stubble on his chin. “You sure? Seems like we’ll be pushing our luck.”
“I’m not saying you should, sirs,” Perrin clarified. “But if you want to present us as elite troops, and ask for an elite wage… well, I stand by what I said.”
“Ten dengas—ah, shillings—for each man, for every day on the campaign,” Aleksandr repeated the sum. “And…thirty—”
“Thirty, sir, yes,” Perrin said. “For every day we see combat.”
“A considerable sum,” Aleksandr said.
“We’re worth it,” Yorrin said.
“This is more than the men of Taraam sell their services for, da?” Aleksandr asked. Perrin had answered the question before, a few days ago, but it bore repeating.
“We—they don’t usually sell their blades direct, sir,” Perrin said. “But when they do, it’s about half that. A little less, actually. But Taraam’s a bigger company. Steelshod is small, and every man of us has our own horse. We’re specialists. That’s how I came to the figure. Specialists can draw this much, or even more.”
“Are we all specialists?” Dylan asked, frowning. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a naysayer, Aleksandr.”
“Is fine, Dylan,” Aleksandr said, raising a hand to dismiss Dylan’s concern. “Your caution tempers Yorrin’s enthusiasm.”
Dylan smiled at that. “Well, good. I can see the argument that some of us are specialists, I suppose. Yorrin and Prudence are about the best scouts I’ve ever worked with. You’re heavy cav, obviously. As heavy as any Caedian knight. But—”
“We’re Steelshod, Whip,” Yorrin said. “We chart the Underpass when no one else will, spit fire in demon’s faces, and slay Svardic champions in their own holmgang. We’re worth every penny and more.”
“I don’t disagree, Yorrin, but… that doesn’t mean much to anyone here yet.”
“Sir?” A voice broke into their conversation. Aleksandr glanced behind him, and saw that Orson was waiting with a pensive expression. “Sorry to interrupt, but—”
“Orson. It is no problem. What do you need?”
“It’s not me, sir, it’s—”
“Anatoly.”
Orson nodded.
“Is he alright?”
“Well enough,” Orson said. “Mending, slowly, as he has been. But I was thinking, since we’re so close to the city… he’d probably do better outside a tent or the wagon. A proper bed and proper supplies might—”
“Da,” Aleksandr said immediately. “Of course. I should have thought of this.” He reached into his purse and passed Orson a handful of silver coins. “Buy lodging at a good inn. The men will help you move him. Stay with him, da? We will come get you as needed.”
Orson smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
“Aleksandr,” Aleksandr corrected. Orson nodded, smiled again, then hurried off to where Anatoly lay resting in the back of a wagon.
Aleksandr turned back to the others. “We will negotiate the best pay we can. I believe in you all, as Yorrin does, but if we must prove ourselves first then we shall. Though… seeing so many here has me thinking. We could use more fighters. Dylan, Perrin, spread word through the mercenary camps. Steelshod is recruiting.”
Perrin grinned. “Gladly, sir. Public tryouts? When should I tell them to come by?”
Aleksandr exchanged a quick look with Yorrin. “The day after tomorrow,” he said. “And perhaps the day after that. We will speak with Lord Marshal tomorrow, after Giancarlo has his business well underway.”
Dylan and Perrin nodded and left immediately to see it done.
“Sir,” Yorrin said. “Aleksandr.”
“Yorrin?”
“I wanted to—what is it, Prudence? Can’t you see we’re talking?”
The young woman had slipped up alongside them quietly, but when Aleksandr looked her in the eyes he saw the urgency there.
“Prudence? What is wrong?”
“It’s the farmboy,” she said. “Miles.”
“What about him?” Yorrin asked, sneering. His disdain for the deserter was no secret.
“I think he’s about to get himself killed.”
“What?” Aleksandr straightened his back and stared at Prudence with his full attention.
“He went to turn himself in, like you said to. I shadowed him, like Yorrin said to.”
He did? Aleksandr was no longer surprised to hear of Yorrin handling such things. Not normally. But he cares nothing for Miles. Why would he ask Prudence to keep an eye on him?
“A good thing, too. As soon as he announced that he was a deserter, a man-at-arms bashed him in the face and took him into custody. As I hear it, they plan to hang him on the edge of camp by nightfall.”
Aleksandr closed his eyes and took a single deep breath. “I see,” he said. He opened his eyes. “Yorrin, it appears we may be meeting Lord Marshal sooner than intended.”
Yorrin’s lips quirked in a slim smile. “Right behind you,” he said.
The Caedian camp’s border was as porous as it looked. There were no guards keeping the mercenaries out. Aleksandr and Yorrin were not so much as given a second glance until they reached Lord Marshal’s pavilion.
There was little mistaking it. The Marshal banner—a silver horse on a field of black—flapped overhead along with that of the royal house of Caedia. The pavilion was a grand thing, a huge sturdy tent with a wooden frame. It was made of thick enough cloth that the voices within were muffled to inarticulate murmurs.
Two knights stood outside, clad in mail and black-and-silver tabards. They carried poleaxes, with swords sheathed at the hip.
“Stop!” One of them declared. “Identify yourself.”
In the corner of his eye Aleksandr noticed at least a dozen more of Marshal’s men nearby. They weren’t standing guard per se, but they were armed and armored and they had clearly noticed the two strangers approaching their lord’s tent.
“My name is Aleksandr Kerensky, commander of Steelshod company,” Aleksandr said.
“Never heard of you. What’s your business at the general’s pavilion?” the guard asked.
“I have an urgent matter to discuss.”
“He’s meeting with the lords,” said the guard. “So it had better be very urgent, mercenary.”
“I believe that it is,” Aleksandr said. This will not help our cause, he thought to himself. But Miles’s life is worth more than an advantageous negotiating position.
The guard seemed to consider Aleksandr’s request for a moment. He glanced at the man next to him, who shrugged. “They’ve been at it for hours. His lordship’ll probably appreciate the change of topic.”
The first guard chuckled, and nodded. “Very well, we’ll escort you in. Keep it short and to the point, Sir Kerensky. And who’s that one, so I can introduce you both?”
“This is my comrade and fellow commander, Yorrin.”
“Just Yorrin? No family name?” The guard looked Yorrin up and down skeptically.
“They called me Quickhands back in Nasarat, and they took to calling me Pissdock in Yerevan,” Yorrin offered.
“Uh.” The guard blinked. “Yorrin. Right then. This way.”
One of the guards motioned to some of the other men-at-arms nearby, and two more men stepped up to take their place as they led Aleksandr and Yorrin within.
The pavilion was well-lit by lanterns, and warmed by the coals in a hearth. A large oaken table occupied the center of the room, and Aleksandr saw a dozen men sitting at the table. They were deep in discussion, but they stopped when one of the guards thumped the haft of his poleaxe on the ground.
“Pardon, my lord,” he said. “Presenting Aleksandr Kerensky and Yorrin, commanders of Steel—of… what was it?” he glanced back at Aleksandr.
“Steelshod,” Aleksandr said. He gave the assembled nobility a shallow bow. “Steelshod Company.”
“Ruskan mercenaries?” Asked a lord. He was young, too young to be Marshal.
Aleksandr scanned the faces. There, that is him. Few of the nobles wore their livery—those that did, Aleksandr suspected, were actually assistants taking notes rather than high lords. The one man in the black and silver tabard of house Marshal was far too young to be Lord Winston. But even so Aleksandr was sure he’d spotted the man.
He was old, skin weathered and creased. His hair was gray and cropped very short. His beard was paler, almost white, and trimmed tight along his jaw. Rather than the colorful clothes of some of the other nobles he wore dark, weathered gambeson with a small silver pin on his breast. A sword leaned against his chair.
“I am Ruskan,” Aleksandr said to the noble that had addressed him. “But Steelshod is not. Our number come from all across the Midlands. We have come to join the war against the Svards.”
“You’ve got stones, but now isn’t the best time to beg for a contract, lad,” spoke another lord. He was heavyset, mostly bald but with a thick dark beard.
“Indeed,” said Aleksandr. “That is not why I am here. Lord Marshal.” He looked the old man he had picked out in the eyes.
The man met his gaze with a calm expression that betrayed little. “Yes?” he said.
“On our journey here, we found a man. A Caedian, named Miles. He had been conscripted into your armies.”
Marshal’s expression did not change.
“He fled his first battle,” Aleksandr said. “Near Torthing, he said.”
“A deserter!” growled the bald, bearded lord. “And if he turned coward near Torthing he’s likely one of mine!”
“Miles deserted the battle, da,” Aleksandr said. “But he has regretted that act ever since. When we found him, it was near the lands of Lord Cavanaugh. He had found a group of Svardic reavers as they slaughtered a farmstead, and he killed them.”
“What, all of them?” asked the gruff, heavyset lord that seemed to have claimed Miles.
“It was a small raiding party,” Aleksandr said. “Three scouts, only. But… da. He killed all three by himself.”
“If you believed that, you’ve got a lot to learn, lad,” said the lord.
“Lyall,” Marshal’s voice cracked sharp as a whip, though he did not raise it very loud. The lord clapped his mouth shut. Marshal nodded at Aleksandr. “Go on.”
“What he did was not in question. We saw the evidence plainly. I spoke with Miles and convinced him that he ought to atone for his mistake. I told him that his valor and strength was apparent, and that his lord would have to be a fool not to welcome him back into the armies of Caedia,” Aleksandr said. “He did as I asked. He attempted to return to your fold. And now it seems he has been seized, and will be hanged by nightfall.”
“Deserters hang,” said the gruff lord, Lyall. “We can’t go making exceptions.”
“Lord Marshal, I gave this man my word that I would see him here and help him atone,” Aleksandr said. “I ask you to reconsider this decision.”
Marshal tapped the fingers of his right hand on the table in an apparent gesture of contemplation. “I think that the decision is Lord Drumcock’s, as the commander of the army the boy deserted from.”
Lyall Drumcock, the bald and bearded lord, chuckled. “Bully,” he said, nodding at Marshal. “Thank you, my lord.”
Marshal did not return the gesture. He was staring intently at Aleksandr.
Aleksandr turned to face Miles’ former commander. “Lord Drumcock,” he said. “I ask you to extend mercy to Miles. Allow him back into your army, and he will prove his worth.”
“He’s a levied peasant, man,” Drumcock scoffed. “On a good day his ‘worth’ is standing with the pointy end of a spear towards the enemy and not shitting his breeches until the battle’s mostly over with.”
Aleksandr clenched his jaw, then unclenched it. “You are mistaken,” he said.
“It’d be bad for the morale of the men, anyway,” Drumcock said. “Can’t give the impression a deserter will be let off lightly or they’ll all start doing it.”
Aleksandr bit back an annoyed response. “Is there no way you will reconsider taking him back into your army?” he asked.
Drumcock shrugged. “Don’t think so. All this fuss for one peasant? Seems a waste of time. I don’t want the coward in my army. I’m sure his lordship doesn’t either.”
Marshal said nothing to confirm or deny the assertion. He seemed to be studying Aleksandr.
“I see,” Aleksandr said. “If you do not want him, perhaps we can solve this another way. Release him from your army and from his service to Caedia. Strip from him his citizenship and rights within your lands. I will take him into my service, into Steelshod.”
Drumcock laughed loudly. “You really have got stones of granite, don’t you lad? Why would I possibly go along with this?”
Aleksandr frowned. “If you agree, I will pay a gold mina into the Caedian war chest.”
Drumcock widened his eyes. “What?”
“Enough,” Marshal spoke, and Drumcock fell silent. “Kerensky, yes?”
“Da. Yes,” Aleksandr said, meeting Marshal’s level gaze.
“A gold mina to relinquish a single serf. Quite a high offer,” Marshal said.
“I believe that he is worth it,” Aleksandr said.
“Hm. Maybe. I’m not so sure you do,” Marshal replied. “Not as a soldier anyway. I think you just believe he ought to be worth that. To all of us, even. And this is the only way you can get us to agree.”
Yorrin snorted with laughter. “Well said,” he muttered.
Aleksandr shrugged. “Perhaps. It makes no difference. Will you accept?”
Marshal sniffed, pursing his lips in contemplation. He tapped the table again. “Make it two,” he said. “Two gold nobles. One to release the serf, one to pardon the deserter.”
Aleksandr winced. Giancarlo will pay us for the journey soon, he reminded himself. “Da,” he said. “Very well. Two.”
Marshal nodded. “Nestor, escort them and see this done?” The young man in Marshal colors nodded, and stood up from where he had sat. “And… I assume your Steelshod Company is looking to hire on, yes?”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “I had planned to speak with you on that matter tomorrow.”
“You’re here now,” Marshal observed.
With an unfriendly audience, Aleksandr thought, glancing across the various lords’ faces. They might have been curious at first, but the negotiation over Miles seemed to have soured every one of them.
“Steelshod is a company of irregulars—” Aleksandr began.
“Yes, most irregular!” Drumcock said, laughing.
“Lyall,” Marshal cautioned. He nodded to Aleksandr. “Go on.”
“We number fifteen—with Miles it will be sixteen, but one of ours is badly wounded. Fifteen fighting men as of today,” Aleksandr said. “Specialists. Our scouts are unmatched. We all keep well-trained mounts and know how to ride. Heavy cavalry, skirmishers, mobile heavy infantry.”
“Irregulars,” Marshal said. “I understand.”
“Da. We have already begun fighting this war. We first fought the Svards in Yerevan, when we faced the champions of the Svardic high priest in single combat and defeated them.”
“All fifteen of you?”
“No,” Aleksandr said. “Yorrin and I challenged the high priest. When we won, he agreed to cease his sermons in Yerevan and leave. We set upon a Svardic longship on the Zelez—the Ironblood—and killed the raiders. We faced more Svards in the Wncari Hills, working with the barbarians, and defeated them all.”
“You’ve done a lot of killing in places that can’t be proved, it seems,” Marshal said. There was no accusation or acrimony in his tone. Somehow, that made it sting worse. It was a simple statement of fact.
“We stopped in Torva. Lord Fortinbrass and his steward can vouch for the longship,” Aleksandr said. “But you are correct about the rest. Once we left the hills, we also aided Lord Cavanaugh on the road to Arcadia. His men were fighting a large raiding party, and we came to his aid.”
“He’s around here somewhere,” Yorrin said. “You could check that much out.”
“Bradley is a good lad,” Marshal said. “He already reported in, mentioned the fight on the road. His liege is one of my vassals.” Marshal nodded at one of the lords at the table. “I’ll grant this as truth.”
“Thank you,” Aleksandr said.
“So. You’ve listed all of your accomplishments to date.”
“Hardly,” Yorrin muttered under his breath.
If Marshal heard him, he did not acknowledge it. “What is your wage?”
“Our rate is ten shillings per man, each day,” Aleksandr said. “Or thirty on a day we see active battle.”
Most of the lords scoffed or laughed, Drumcock loudest of all. Marshal wasn’t one of them. He remained impassive, as if contemplating Aleksandr’s words carefully. Aleksandr clasped his hands tightly behind his back.
“I think you’d need to do a lot more before I deem you worth that much,” Marshal said. “No, Caedia has no need for Steelshod’s services, thank you.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Very well. This war is important to us. Perhaps you will consider an alternate proposal, general: To prove our mettle, we will accept a single contract at any rate you deem us worth,” he said to Marshal. “If you still consider us unworthy of our fee, we will part ways. Is this acceptable?”
Marshal smiled thinly. “Any rate, hm?”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. He let some of his annoyance at the Caedian lords mockery seep into his voice, giving the single syllable a hard edge. Any rate, yes. But if you insult us, we will remember it.
“Irregulars, and competent. I’ll take your word for it,” Marshal said, as if musing to himself. “Three shillings per man for every day you’re on assignment, and a single bonus of ten for each man at the end if you saw combat during the mission. That’s more than fair.”
It is not unreasonable, Aleksandr reminded himself. Based on his discussions with Dylan and Perrin, Marshal’s numbers were typical for many mercenaries. It is not kind, but neither is it intended to insult us. He simply does not know us, and does not trust that we will impress him.
“Agreed,” Aleksandr said. “Thank you. Have you an assignment for us?”
Marshal drummed his fingers on the table again. “Not yet,” he said. “Go with Nestor. See to your new man, then wait in the mercenary camps. I’ll call for you soon. Dismissed.”
Aleksandr nodded, and gave another bow. In the corner of his eye he saw Yorrin give a shallow bow as well. Marshal’s men-at-arms escorted them out of the pavilion, with Nestor following behind.
Nestor was a young man, perhaps a little younger than Aleksandr. He was clean shaven, with pale skin and dark hair. Marshal’s colors suited him.
“This way. Sir Kerensky, was it?” he asked.
“Aleksandr is fine.”
“Right. I’m Sir Nestor Rainwood, but as his lordship said, just Nestor suits me alright. This way, deserters are usually held in a pen at the north side of camp.”
“Close to the city,” Yorrin observed.
Nestor nodded. “The hangings are meant to be public. Deserters aren’t tolerated, here. Suppose it’s different in Rusk?”
“No,” Aleksandr said. “Not really.”
“Oh. I just assumed.”
“Is different in Steelshod,” Aleksandr clarified.
The young knight shrugged. “Ah,” was all he said.
They soon reached the crude pens where troublemakers and deserters were held under guard. Mostly empty, but Aleksandr noted two drunken soldiers sleeping off whatever disorderly conduct had led them there.
Miles was kneeling in the dirt by himself, eyes closed. His lip was swollen, one eye blackened, and a cut on his cheekbone dripped blood.
“Miles,” Aleksandr said.
The young man’s eyes opened in surprise. “Aleksandr?”
Nestor gestured to one of the guards to open the pen, then he motioned to Miles. “Come on out. Quickly now.”
Miles lurched to his feet and walked out. Aleksandr noted a slight limp in his gait. “What—what is this?” he asked.
“You’ve been pardoned by the general himself, Lord Marshal,” Nestor said. “Released from your duties to Caedia and your lord as well.”
Miles blinked, openmouthed. After a moment, he swallowed. Aleksandr saw his eyes turn glassy. “I—I don’t understand,” the farmboy whispered.
“You’re a free man,” Nestor said. “For good and ill. Mostly good, I suppose, since it’s saving you a hanging. But you’d best not show your face in your lord’s lands ever again, nor be seen trying to scrape supplies from Caedian quartermasters. You’ve no business with Caedia any longer, understand?”
“I suppose I do,” Miles said. He still sounded completely stunned. “But—not really.”
Nestor shrugged. He turned to Aleksandr. “You have the coin on you, or do we need to go to your camp?”
“I have it,” Aleksandr said. He fished deep in his purse and withdrew a gold mina he’d been holding since Yerevan. He passed it over, then scooped out a handful of mixed silver currency. He started counting it out to Nestor, but his handful began to dwindle before he’d counted enough coins.
“Here,” Yorrin interjected. He dropped a dozen coins into Nestor’s open palms. “That should do it.”
The young man nodded. “Looks good. I’ll take my leave then. Best of luck to all of you.”
Nestor didn’t wait for drawn out goodbyes. He turned quickly and began walking back towards Marshal’s camp. Miles still stood where he’d emerged from the pen, dumbfounded.
Yorrin looked him up and down. “They really worked you over, didn’t they? I guess they don’t like cowards here.”
“Miles,” Aleksandr said before the boy answered Yorrin’s insult. “I wonder if you would be interested in joining Steelshod. We will be trying out new recruits tomorrow.”
“What? Oh! Uh…” Miles brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Was that—gold? So many coins… why did you pay that knight?”
“For you,” Yorrin cut in. “Aleksandr dropped a hefty sum to buy your life, boy. Don’t spit on his gift. He thinks you’ve got the makings of a warrior. I’m not so sure. But if I were you, I’d do as he suggests. You owe him.”
“Yorrin,” Aleksandr waved a cautioning hand, and Yorrin fell silent. “Miles, you do not owe me. You did good on that farm, showed true courage. You did not deserve to die for a single mistake. That is why I intervened. If you wish to go, you may go.”
Miles looked at the ground. “Where would I go?” he asked nobody in particular.
“I do not know,” Aleksandr said.
“You’re hiring on with Caedia?” Miles asked. “Fighting the Svards under the Caedian banner?”
“Da. We have taken a short contract with Lord Marshal. I hope to extend it after our first assignment.”
Miles nodded. He looked up, and for once Aleksandr saw a glimpse of the fire he’d seen that first time they met. Numb, uncertain, but beneath it there was strength. “I’m in, then. Yes. Thank you Aleksandr. Sir.”
“Aleksandr is fine,” Aleksandr said. “Come. We will see to your injuries, and you may sleep in our camp tonight. Tomorrow, we will test you.”
Miles gulped. “Right,” he said.
“A formality,” Aleksandr said. “Every new recruit is tested, to get a feel for his capability. I have already seen what I must see, however, and made my offer.”
Miles nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I—thank you, Aleksandr. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Not really. But—Yorrin’s right. I do owe you. And I’ll do what I can to be worth what you’ve spent.”
Yorrin gave the lad a grudging nod of approval. Aleksandr just smiled. “I am sure that you will,” he said. “Come, we should return to camp. There is much to do.”