Mercenaries
"Nobody travels through Highdamp country," said Makelius, looking straight at Faikel. They had known each other for ages. A long time ago, they had even fought in the same mercenary company. They were young pups then. Now they were both veterans.
"Nobody, and me," said Faikel, his look serious.
"Only outlaws, dissenters, and a few of those Doomsday Cross-Crescenters who are hiding out there, preparing for Judgment Day, their day of reckoning," continued his friend, shaking his head. "Strange creatures live there."
"Yes, lots of strange creatures," said Faikel matter-of-factly. "Not so friendly for the most part."
In the twilight hours, Faikel had reached the mercenary camp, just a day's journey out from Hill Town. He wasn't drawn by duty or coin, but by something quieter: a bond with a man he had once trusted with his life.
Makelius commanded here now, a hardened captain among a hardened company, mercenaries hired by the kingdom of Mistelon. This wasn't his company, nor the country that paid him. His contract lay elsewhere, in a different court, under a different banner. But bonds forged in fire had a way of outlasting flags.
"We had fought in many battles together," reminisced Makelius, his eyes having that far away look when men dream of better times, long past.
Faikel was about to say something, but stopped himself as the sound of hurried footsteps broke the rough hush that came with memory.
"Commander! Commander! There is a ruckus in the low camp," a young lad of no more than fourteen came running, seemingly out of breath.
"Shit! Must be some drunk mercenaries getting at it against each other again," said Makelius as he got up from the fire. "Sorry, my friend. I have to go check it out and separate the bastards. Commander duties unfortunately."
"I understand. No worries. Do what you have to do."
Makelius jogged off after the young man, barking for his second-in-command as he picked up a large wooden stick on the way.
"Fucking drunk bastards," Faikel could hear from a distance, as his friend disappeared between the rows of tents.
Faikel looked around at his surroundings. Everywhere, he could see fires and groups of mercenaries around them. Rough looking fellows. Spitting. Drinking. And talking.
At the fire next to his, a group of sell swords was making merry. Apparently, a new fellow was joining their group and they were having a round of introductions.
Faikel watched the men with a hint of amusement, his gaze drifting over their rowdy behavior. A loud laugh rang out from the group, followed by the sound of mugs clinking together. The new man was a lanky fellow with a wild, unkempt beard, and seemed to be trying his best to fit in. His voice was eager, his gestures overdone, as if performing for an audience that wasn't really paying attention.
"What kind of an idiot names their kid Aikx?" One of the older mercenaries was pointing towards the newcomer. "Hi, I am Aikx," he said mockingly, while making a face imitating the novice. "You must have been teased a lot as a kid."
"My father Musker, he's the culprit," said the young man. "Crazy old man. He used to call everyone a retard..."
Faikel raised an eyebrow at the conversation, his attention still fixed on the group. The teasing had a sharp edge, but there was a certain rough camaraderie in it, one that he knew all too well. He shifted his weight, taking in the sight of the new recruit, Aikx, clearly trying to shrug off the taunts.
"Always dreamed of going over the sea, the old man, to the Island of Plenty. One day, he made himself a small boat and went on rowing. That's the last time we saw or heard of him. The old bastard must have drowned out at sea," said Aikx, as the others listened in.
Aikx's face tightened slightly, his eyes flickering with a mixture of grief and pride, but he said nothing more. The others laughed, some louder than others, but there was a strange undercurrent to their laughter, a recognition of shared loss, as if they'd all known a bit of what Aikx had gone through.
The laughter ebbed into a comfortable silence, each man sipping his drink, as if the moment of mockery had already faded into the background, like dust being swept under the rug. Faikel couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for the way the young man carried himself, despite the mockery. It wasn't easy, and yet, Aikx seemed to endure it with a quiet resolve.
"Let me introduce you to the rest of the crew," one of the mercenaries got up and motioned for the newcomer to look around. "I am Karl, the handsomest sellsword this side of Mistelon."
Everyone laughed, as Karl continued.
"This is Jol. He's a good fellow. I like him," said the man, while pointing at a brown-haired fellow sitting next to him. "And that there is Palik Jahansun. He's a bastard. I hate that guy," he said, smirking.
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"I hate you too," yelled the man named Palik Jahansun, as the others continued on laughing.
"And not to forget," said Karl, as he pointed at a chubby looking fellow sitting close to the fire. "Introduce yourself."
"Hi, I am Orny," said he jovially, "but you can call me Horny."
"Horny?" The new man was a bit puzzled.
"Horny Orny," said Orny.
The others laughed, thinking whether to let the new guy in on the joke.
"Yeah! He has never met a brothel he didn't stop at," shouted one of the guys around the fire.
"The man is a legend."
Horny Orny had a huge smile on his face: "I just have to empty my balls, you know."
"Sure you do. Sure you do," laughed the others.
Faikel observed the scene silently. The camaraderie among these rough men, their crude humor and shared jokes, made the night seem almost familiar, in an odd way. It was a soundscape he'd known before, the noise of carefree laughter and jests that smoothed over past scars, buried memories, and wounds that only time could heal.
He had never seen these men before, but somehow they seemed familiar. He didn't know whether he would ever meet them again, but he knew that, for this moment, they were all bound by the same thread, the shared experience of life's hardships, of surviving one battle after another, of laughing to stave off the sting of past losses. Faikel couldn't help but feel a flicker of connection, a bond forged in the fire of shared existence, even if only temporary.
The fire crackled in front of him, the flickering flames casting shadows that danced and twisted like memories trying to escape. He could hear the men's laughter, now more like a background hum, as they bantered back and forth, losing themselves in the simple pleasures of the evening.
But Faikel wasn't one for lingering in such moments. He felt the tug of his journey again, the distant horizon calling him, a reminder of the path he had chosen. There was always another step to take, another day to fight through, another destination ahead.
Still, as he sat there, he allowed himself a rare moment of peace. In a world full of uncertainty, this fleeting camaraderie, this brief pause, even at a distance, was enough. For now, it would be enough.
—
The world from above
The world looked different from the saddle of a horse. It seemed to change when he rode, slipped by quicker, as if distance no longer obeyed the same rules it did on foot. From high up on the beast, he could see more, getting a different vantage point on the terrain, each bend in the road revealing itself sooner, each threat or shelter framed from above, multiplying his force and power.
"On the road again," mumbled Faikel, as he rode in a file, together with his companions. There had been no rest after his long journey back to his mercenary company.
He'd barely stepped foot in camp when the news came. The orders were to march again. No time for rest. Akelon, the country he had signed a contract to serve, had been invaded from the south. A full-scale conflict had erupted in his absence, and they were needed now, not later.
"You are to march off at once," his commander had screamed. Faikel could only dust off his boots and sharpen his blade, before saddling his horse. At least now, the journey would be on horseback, rather than on foot. It was both a blessing and a curse in disguise.
The rhythmic clop of hooves on the hard earth was the only sound as they rode. It was a comfort of sorts, a steady beat that seemed to drown out the weariness that clung to his body. He could hardly hear any chatter from his fellow mercenaries, which was an unusual change from their frequent banter. It's as if they all wanted to get on with it.
Riding a horse didn't dull the pain, it just shifted it. Sure, his legs stopped screaming, but that just meant the ache settled in his back instead.
Glancing at the soldiers in front and behind him, he thought back to the last gathering at camp. A man named Kal had made a speech before they started off the march. It was meant to fire them up, to give them perspective.
A small passage kept repeating in his head.
"The world is full of heroes. Some will rise to greatness. Others will be forgotten."
Faikel didn't see himself as a hero. He never wanted to be a hero. All he wanted was to just do his job and get paid. That's it. If he could do it quietly, all the better. He didn't need any medals, nor accolades. Just coins to allow him to get through the days.
He didn't choose this type of life. Rather, it chose him.
The warrior had grown up in Braskenmar, a wild land nestled in the midst of black pine forests and between large lakes, and ruled by high lords. Surrounded by other such small lands, ruled by other high lords, his entire life he had known only war.
Raping and pillaging was a way of life. His home village was under constant threat of attack by rival lords. He had to pick up a sword early, in order to defend it. It was a constant reminder that death was a defining part of life. If he didn't learn to fight, then death would come sooner than later.
He didn't really shed a tear, as he thought about everything. He had stood in the ruins of a place that had once been his world. He had returned to the village of his birth only to find it broken and scorched, the shapes of remembered homes reduced to char and dust. They were rebuilding, the few who remained, a bunch of stubborn lives clinging like ivy to old stone.
He wandered the lanes where once he'd run barefoot as a boy, past broken fences and scorched timbers. The people he knew were scarce now, their faces older, wearier, fewer. A cousin tending goats. An uncle with a limp. An aunt who no longer smiled. That was it. The rest were all looking at flowers from down under.
It was enough for him.
After a few weeks, he said his goodbyes, and set off back. He would probably never see his homeland again. This had been his last visit. This was his life now. The past was past. He had to concentrate on the now.
Faikel traveled from home to his company through vodnik-infested lands, through mountains, swamps, and dark forests. He had crossed areas where the air itself seemed to whisper warnings. He walked hard through mountain passes slick with mist and loose stone, where one bad step could send a man tumbling into oblivion.
In the swamps, the silence was deceptive. At night, he'd sleep with one eye open, dagger always within reach, the croak of toads and distant splashes keeping his nerves tight as wire. More than once, he saw shapes moving under the water.
In a moment of hesitation, one of those shapes attacked him, turning into a giant waterman. He had barely escaped with his life. It had taught him a lesson. Never underestimate any situation, especially the ones that feel quietest.
Danger didn't always roar. Sometimes it crept, slowly and silently.
Faikel looked back up, his mind snapping back to reality. He saw them. His mercenary formation, on horses, riding towards what they knew best. Battle.
