The ambush
The gravel road cut through the valley floor. Wide, uneven, it was hemmed in on both sides by sloping hills that rose steeply and thickened with brush. Tall trees provided a shade, covering much of the path in shifting patches of shadow. Sunlight filtered down in thin bands, but never quite touched the center of the road.
Half a dozen mercenaries lay scattered among the trees and bushes above, stretched low against the earth. Camouflage cloaks dulled their outlines. A few nestled beneath ferns, others crouched behind dry boulders, watching the path below.
On the western slope, Matlo knelt behind a moss-covered stump, fingers resting on the hilt of his short sword. He could see most of the valley from where he was, including the bend in the road to the south, the stretch of dirt where wagons would slow.
The commander had chosen him to lead this group of men, rag-tag mercenaries coming from all corners of the Western Lands. The road below was empty. It was still time before the wagons would reach them, but he’d ordered the men into place early. There wouldn’t be a second chance to get it right.
The plan was simple. Tylo, the lookout, would give the call when he spotted the prey heading towards him.
Bram, posted further down on the opposite ridge, would then signal once the wagons passed between the two boulders by the split pine. That meant the whole column was in the kill zone.
That’s when the show would begin.
Matlo shifted his weight, trying to ease the ache in his knee from too much stillness. His gaze remained fixed on the road below, but he could hear the young mercenary behind him. The kid’s breath was uneven, too quick, betraying his nerves. Matlo knew the signs.
“Relax,” Matlo murmured, not looking back. “You’re breathing like a rabbit on the run.”
There was a slight pause, then the young mercenary cleared his throat, as if trying to steady himself. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice was a little too tight.
Matlo said nothing more, but the edges of his lips twitched upward. The kid would get used to it, or he wouldn’t.
For now, they all had to wait.
On all sides, the mercenaries stayed in their positions.
“Horny, stop masturbating,” whispered Jol.
“I am not,” replied Orny.
“Well, stop thinking about it,” said Jol.
“That’s a different matter,” chuckled Orny.
Matlo raised his head. “Guys, keep quiet. You can discuss your boners after the work is done.”
The two men shut up, at least for a bit.
“Chief,” another man whispered to Matlo. “What’s the number of wagons we are expecting?”
“Orny said two, plus some armed men walking alongside,” replied Matlo.
“Wait, Orny?”
Matlo nodded.
“You sent Orny out on a reconnaissance mission?” Jol shook his head, smiling. “The man has the grace of a pig in porcelain. It’s a wonder he wasn’t discovered.”
“I happen to be a good scout,” Orny muttered back.
“Guys, calm down and concentrate,” Matlo snapped, tapping two fingers to his lips, trying to remind them of the mission.
Down the hill, the wind stirred dry leaves. A bird flitted across the path and vanished into the canopy. The stillness settled again, the type of quiet that permeates through the air, heightening the tension.
Further down, other men were whispering.
A few paces behind, Karl lay on his stomach, resting his chin on folded arms.
“I will definitely need to go to the barber-surgeon after this,” he murmured. “My hair is a mess.”
“Be careful you don’t go there for a haircut, and come back with half your brain cut out,” laughed Jol, turning his head.
“No danger of that,” said Jan matter-of-factly, “his entire brain has already been cut out.”
A few of the men stifled chuckles.
Matlo turned sharply, palm slapping the mossy stone beside him.
“Men, concentrate,” said Matlo, trying to quiet everyone down. “The commander assigned me this mission, and we are not going to screw it up.”
It didn’t really help.
More chatter.
Nearby, Jol leaned closer to the younger man beside him, noting the accent. “You from Pekoral?”
“Yup,” said the blonde-haired mercenary with the boyish face lying in the bush next to him.
“So am I,” said Jol. “The name’s Jol.” He gave a fist bump.
“Lanek,” the young-looking mercenary fist bumped him back. “Lanek Horal.”
“Horal? You mean like lord Horal?”
The man chuckled. “Yes, like lord Horal.”
Jol gave off a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t you be off in some castle prancing around?”
“I am the 7th son of lord Horal. Not enough money for all of us to be prancing,” laughed Lanek.
“Well, you are not the first lord’s son I have met in the company,” said Jol. “You see that guy with the scruffy looking hair squatting next to the tree over there?”
“Sure.”
“That’s the son of the duke of Ekinal,” said Jol while pointing at a man crouching in the distance. “The problem is… son.” Jol laughed.
“That’s the catch,” laughed Lanek.
“Yeah, apparently his daddy knocked up the chambermaid,” grinned Jol.
“Keep quiet,” Matlo growled, trying to hush everyone down. “They will be here any minute. We don’t want to give away our position.”
Matlo’s words cut through the whispers like a blade. The noise stopped. Everything went dead quiet.
The mercenaries stayed frozen in place, limbs cramped, eyes fixed on the road. Fingers twitched against weapon hilts. No one dared speak.
A long silence followed. No one moved. Each man listened, waiting. Only the wind shifted, brushing over leaves, sending them flying in all directions. Somewhere down the valley, the distant call of a bird rang out.
Matlo remained crouched behind the stump, unmoving, his eyes locked on the bend in the road below. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his short sword, fingers still. He didn’t speak. None of them did. Around him, the mercenaries were low to the earth, underbrush clinging to cloaks, blades ready, breaths held.
Even the usual fidgeting had stopped. They had gone still, seemingly statues frozen in place.
The men held their positions. No chatter now. No jokes. Just a long silence.
You could cut the tension with a knife.
Every man’s breath slowed. The moment stretched.
Each man knew what he had to do.
“Shit, I gotta piss,” Karl said suddenly.
“Hold it,” said Jan, who was lying in wait next to him.
“Hold it?”
“Yeah, hold it,” Jan said.
“I am going to piss my pants,” Karl said.
In that instant, they heard what sounded like an owl.
“Shhhh….,” Matlo tried to quiet everyone down. “That’s the signal.”
Everyone immediately quieted down. Not a peep could be heard.
“They are coming,” he whispered, his hand gripping the sword. “Get ready to party.”
All the men crouching sank a little deeper, while all the men lying on the ground tried to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Their eyes zeroed in on the road. On the other side of the road, in the bushes and below the trees on the hill overlooking the road, more of their comrades were doing the same thing.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The second signal came. That meant the wagons had entered the kill zone.
There were two wagons, pulled by horses, a man each steering them, and another sitting next to him. Around ten armed men were on foot surrounding the wagons.
“Go,” shouted Matlo, pulling out his sword.
A pair of mercenaries quickly rose up and pushed a rock, which rolled down the slope to block the road. In tandem, four archers got up, and shot at the armed men on the road.
With a scream, the other mercenaries ran down the slopes, their weapons pointed at their targets.
They made quick work of it.
It didn’t take long for the ambush to be over, with the mercenaries in control of the wagons, and their cargo.
As the fighting stopped, Matlo looked around. Five smugglers lay dead, two gravely injured, the rest had scattered. On the mercenary side, two were dead, others got off with light injuries and scratches.
In front of him, in a pool of blood, lay a body.
The man had been sitting with them around the fire, just recently. He had introduced himself, and joked about his father.
Now, he was dead.
Aikx.
“So much for the new guy. Didn’t last too long,” said Jol, looking at the corpse of the newcomer.
“They never do,” chipped in Jan.
“I thought the same thing about you,” smirked Jol. “And you seem to be outliving your expiration date.”
“Well, looks like I will be the only noble in this bunch,” said Lanek Horal, staring at the unmoving body of the bastard son of the duke of Ekinal, the other mercenary who didn’t survive the skirmish.
The mercenaries bowed down their heads. It never felt good when one of their own was killed.
This solemn reflection did not last long.
“Look, ale,” exclaimed one of the sell-swords, while peering into one of the wagons.
“And some fancy spirits from down south,” exclaimed another.
“We're gonna get drunk tonight,” yelled Jol.
“Men, remember this is contraband,” said Matlo. “We have to turn it in.”
“In that case, let me confiscate some of it,” said Jol, putting a few bottles of exotic spirits into his sack.
“You ain’t seen nothin’,” winked another mercenary, while doing the same.
Matlo looked on watchfully. He didn’t mind his comrades keeping some of the booty, but there needed to be enough of it left for them to turn in.
“Okay, enough,” he waved off the rest. Then he moved in to check the cargo of the wagons.
Crate upon crate were stacked in the back, sealed, iron-braced, and marked with painted sigils. Sacks too, heavy with grain or something finer. A few were already half-opened, the contents spilling out.
They would soon be taken to the king’s wardens of justice, to be inventoried, inspected, and sold off, minus the usual deductions for transport, discretion, and mercenary initiative.
“Congratulations. Job well done.”
The mercenaries were rowdy and unkempt, but when it came to getting jobs done, they got them done.
“Pleasure working with such a serious, professional bunch,” said Matlo.
The mercenaries beat their chests, in a sign of respect and pride.
“Today, you were lawmen,” continued Matlo.
“Tomorrow, we will be in jail,” chipped in Jol, grinning.
A laugh rang out among the men.
The wind picked up again, rustling the branches above. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed once and took flight. The valley was still again. The job was done.
—
The payroll
The camp spread beneath the pale light of late afternoon, busy with men scattering about, full of loud chatter coming from all directions. It sprawled haphazardly, with rows of tents lined up where the ground would allow. Flies buzzed around, their bloodsucking ways a constant nuisance.
From one corner came the rhythmic clang of iron on iron, blacksmiths at work, mending blades and forging fresh steel. Near the furnaces, a leather-clad man stood whistling a strange, tuneless melody, known only to him.
Another cleaned his blade, polishing it with a cloth, paying close attention not to miss any spot. The sun caught the edge of the steel, reflecting into the eyes of passersby. Around them, the camp moved with slow purpose, grimy hands at familiar tasks, the hum of men waiting for war to call again.
Dust drifted in the wind, somehow getting into even the most closed off spaces.
The barber-surgeon’s corner of the camp was marked by a sagging canvas awning strung between two spears jammed into the earth. Beneath it, a battered wooden stool sat beside a folding table cluttered with tools, scalpels, hooks, bone saws, a jar of leeches, and several stained cloths laid out in grim order. Different types of scissors were laid out across a crooked, wooden table set up on the side. A rusty basin, half-filled with brownish water lay next to one of the spears.
Nearby, a firepit simmered with a small iron pot used to boil blades or perhaps heat wine for the more fortunate. Strips of leather and a heavy belt hung from a post, used to strap down the writhing. The scent of blood, alcohol, and unwashed bodies lingered thick in the air.
Men came here reluctantly. Some for stitches. Some for crude surgery. Others came just to have their beards trimmed or a tooth yanked free before rot set in. The barber-surgeon worked with calm indifference, equal parts healer and butcher, depending on the day.
A chipped mirror hung crooked on a tent post, reflecting the grim faces of men awaiting their turn.
The barber-surgeon was a wiry man in his fifties, with a permanent squint and hands stained a dull, reddish-brown no amount of washing could remove. His hair was thin and patched, scraped back into a greasy knot that showed off a scalp marked by old nicks, some likely self-inflicted during hasty shaves. A leather apron hung from his neck, streaked with wax, blood, and powder, the tools of his trade tucked into loops and pockets.
His face was worn and craggy, the kind that had seen too many bad wounds and too few clean ones. He chewed on the same sliver of root most days, claiming it steadied his hands. His eyes were sharp, always watching, quick to notice infection, lies, or coin. He spoke in short, clipped phrases, rarely wasting words unless it was to curse the state of a man’s teeth or the idiocy of battlefield heroics.
They called him “Cuts” or sometimes just “Stitch.” No one was quite sure of his real name, and no one cared to ask.
Three mercenaries, fresh off an ambush, stood next to the mirror, ready for their turn.
“What may I do for you today, gentlemen,” said the man nicknamed Cuts, scissors in one hand, a saw in the other. “Haircut or brain surgery?”
“Karl here wants a haircut, but he could use brain surgery,” Jol came in.
Jan, who was the third man in the group, chipped in: “I second the brain surgery.”
“Don’t listen to them,” said Karl. “All I want is a nice trim of the hair, the latest in style. The type the fancy lads wear in the capital.”
“I will give you the same cut I give everyone,” replied Cuts, the barber-surgeon.
“Deal,” said Karl, flashing a smile.
Cuts walked over to the crooked, wooden table, and started eyeing the scissors.
As he was reaching for a pair, Makelius, the commander, stepped in from the right, his shadow falling long across the floor of the barber’s establishment. The banter thinned as the men noticed him. His presence had a way of quieting a space without a single word spoken.
He gave Cuts a small nod, his eyes stern. “I need you to take a look at two men down by the mess tent. One’s limping, the other’s got something festering on his arm.”
Cuts sighed, putting down the scissors. “Festering, is it? Lovely. Right after this peacock’s done.”
“I resent that,” Karl muttered.
“No doubt,” Cuts said, already reaching for his shears. “Sit still, and I’ll try not to lobotomize you.”
Makelius stood there, his eyes staring into space, his mind no doubt drifting into some deep thoughts.
For a moment, he was apart from it all, still, distant. Then the sound of hurried footsteps snapped the spell.
A young lad came rushing, and yelling: “Commander, commander.”
“What is it this time,” Makelius muttered under his breath.
“There are some ladies here to see you,” the youngster spat out, breathing heavily.
“Ladies?” Makelius was puzzled.
“Commander got lady company?” Some of the mercenaries waiting for their turn at the barber-surgeon’s started whistling, others pointed to their crotches.
“Three ladies. Commander is a beast.”
“Shut up, men,” Makelius cut them off, his look stern.
They shut up immediately.
“Take me to them,” he commanded the messenger.
“Right this way, commander,” the lad turned around and started walking back to where he came from.
Makelius followed the boy through the makeshift paths of the camp, past fire pits and drying racks strung with salted meat, past tents pitched in lopsided rows and half-dressed mercenaries lounging in the midday heat. He had to keep his footing steady, as they descended a short slope to the eastern edge.
As they rounded a pair of tents, he saw them. Three women in long, flowing blue robes. The first of them smiled, a wide smile, when she saw him.
“Commander Makelius,” she said. “What a pleasure.”
“Sister Kalnee,” said Makelius, his face strict. “And Sister Nafari,” he continued, recognizing one of the other women.
“Ah, yes, you know Sister Nafari,” said Sister Kalnee, still flashing a wide grin. “I believe you still haven’t met Sister Caroline. She has just joined us recently at the Water Temple.”
“Pleasure to meet you, commander,” said Sister Caroline. “I have heard a lot about you.”
Commander Makelius did a slight bow of the head, his face still unsmiling.
He moved straight to the point.
“What may I help you with, Sisters?”
“Commander Makelius has something which belongs to us,” said Sister Kalnee, this time her face looking serious.
“And what might that be?”
“Your men have recently jumped a convoy of wagons,” continued the Sister. “We just came to recover what is ours.”
“You mean the convoy that was carrying contraband?” Makelius’ face twitched. “The cargo has been confiscated on behalf of the king.”
Sister Kalnee smiled.
“You know that’s not how it works, commander,” she said. “We pay you good money to let these things slide.”
Makelius stood there, not saying anything. Then he cleared his throat.
“This was beyond my control. Direct orders of the king.”
“The king?” The Sisters exclaimed in unison.
“Direct orders from the king,” Makelius repeated. “You are flooding the market.”
“And?”
“Too much cargo is being smuggled in,” said Makelius. “We had to step in.”
“The money we are paying says not to step in,” said Sister Kalnee, her face turned menacing.
“We have a deal,” stepped in Sister Nafari.
“Let me explain it to you again,” said Makelius. “I will close my eyes to some of your cargo passing through. Not all. We are tasked by the king to fight smuggling, and if I don’t at least appear like I am doing my job, then the king will find someone else to do it.”
He spit on the floor.
“And that someone else might not be as accommodating to your secret business as I am, Water Sister,” said Makelius, his voice calm.
The Water Sisters looked at him in silence.
“Boy,” said the commander, turning to the young lad who brought him in. “Tell Hadek, the accountant, to get his ass in here. Now.”
The lad scurried away as fast as he could. The commander and the priestesses continued to watch each other in silence.
Not long after, the boy returned, a tall, lanky man in tow.
“This is Hadek Kurny, the accountant. Don’t worry, he’s on the payroll,” said Makelius, pointing to the man. He walked up to him, and whispered something in his ear.
He then turned his head and looked at Sister Kalnee.
“Hadek, tell our dear lady here, what the problem is.”
The accountant cleared his throat.
“The stalls are full of goods, but the tax revenues don’t correspond to it,” explained Hadek.
“There’s more to it,” said Makelius.
“The sellers who peddle the trafficked goods can sell for less, undercutting the price.”
“The merchants who are paying the taxes can’t compete with their prices, and they go out of business. That means even less taxes,” continued Hadek.
“So you see, the king is pissed,” said Makelius, his face calm as ever. “You lot are getting rich, and his coffers are empty.”
Sister Kalnee continued looking on in silence. She offered no response, but the narrowing of her eyes said enough. Makelius could see the calculations behind her silence, measuring costs, weighing outcomes.
“This is what I will do,” said Makelius. “I will give you back one wagon. One. The other we keep to show to the king’s men.”
He paused.
“From now on, we will periodically seize one of your cargoes. To keep up appearances,” said the commander. “You can pick which, and when. That way, we minimize loss of life on both sides, and also don’t cut into your business too much.”
Sister Kalnee nodded, thinking it over in her head.
“Okay, we will do as you say, commander,” she said, finally.
“Try to keep things out of eye and ear,” cautioned Makelius. “If you put too much of your goods loose at once, then we will have to step in again.”
“You drive a hard bargain, commander,” said Sister Kalnee. “But I understand where you are coming from. We want to keep things profitable for both sides.”
“Agreed, then,” said the commander.
“Yes, commander,” said the priestess. “Agreed.”
“You will have your wagon back in front of the Water Temple, tomorrow morning,” said the commander.
“Thank you,” the Sisters said in unison.
The commander then turned to the boy, and gave him instructions. The lad listened carefully, and disappeared behind the tents. Makelius then saluted out the priestesses, who gave him their goodbyes.
As the Sisters turned to go, the air seemed to lighten. The formal exchange was over, but something unspoken lingered in the silence between them and the commander. A few steps on, Sister Kalnee glanced back over her shoulder, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
“I wasn’t always a priestess…,” she said, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial.
—
