Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 76

Lys woke again. Light filtered in from a small window, casting a soft glow across the infirmary. She winced as she shifted, sitting up slowly, her side protesting.

The medic noticed her stirring. “Wait here,” he said, disappearing for a moment before returning with a thin bone broth. He handed her the cup. “Drink this.”

She sipped it, the warm liquid soothing her throat. It took her a while to finish, each swallow a reminder of her weakened state.

The door creaked open, and Sergeant Swift entered the room. Lys winced and looked away, focusing on the now-empty cup in her hands.

Swift came to stand at the foot of her bed. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed you kept it a secret for so long or angry at you for lying to us.”

Lys kept her gaze down. “I didn’t lie about that,” she mumbled. “No one ever asked my gender, not even during recruitment.”

Swift’s voice was edged with frustration. “That’s because the company expected every damned recruiter to be able to tell the difference between a man and a woman.”

She didn’t look at him. “Finn’s dead now.”

Swift sighed heavily. “Yes, he is.”

Lys finally glanced up, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again. “Who made it?”

“Plainfield and Stormwell were injured but have recovered,” Swift said. “They’ve been asking to see you.”

“And Woodrow?” she asked.

“Made it to Dragonblanc,” Swift replied. “Thanks to him, a cavalry company arrived just in time. Barely.”

Lys nodded slowly, absorbing the information. The weight of their losses hung heavy in the air between them.

Lys took a deep breath, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. “What happens to me now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Does everyone... know?”

Swift’s expression hardened. “They do. The bloody idiot who gave you first aid couldn’t help but make a fuss.”

She shook her head, frustration mingling with the dull ache in her chest. “Am I going to be sent home?”

“That won’t happen,” Swift said firmly. “Do you remember the battle?”

Lys nodded slowly. “I think so. Things were bad.”

“You saved the company—what was left of it,” he said. “You’re a damned hero, and the Pathwardens are already after you.”

“Pathwardens?” Lys blinked, confusion clouding her eyes.

Swift grunted. “That’s for later. You need to rest.” He glanced over his shoulder and muttered, “Looks like they couldn’t wait.”

Lys followed his gaze to see Stormwell, Plainfield, and Woodrow peering through the doorframe, their faces a mix of relief and curiosity.

He started to step away, but paused and looked back at her. “No one asked, and no one brought it up. Stick with that, and it should rub through, understand?”

Lys nodded. He left and her friends filed into the room, each one taking a moment to look her over.

“You’re alive!” Stormwell exclaimed, his voice breaking the silence.

“And you’re a woman,” Plainfield added, sounding stunned.

Lys managed a weak smile. “Was the only reason you came to see me was to see my tits?”

Stormwell’s eyes widened. “Uh... can we?”

Plainfield thumped him on the back of the head. “Idiot.”

“Good to see you’re still you, Lys.” Woodrow chuckled, shaking his head.

Lys leaned back against the pillows, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and contentment. Despite everything, she had survived. And so had they.

Not everyone had been so lucky.

Conversation was light after they detailed the frantic trip to Dragonblanc after she went down.

Lys tired quickly. They promised to come back to check on her.

The days passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Despite the remarkable fact that she hadn’t died after having metal pressed into her chest, recovery was slow.

Every day was spent cooped up in the confines of the infirmary. When her strength started to return, that chafed.

A week passed. No one came to question her, which had been a worry after what Swift had said. Maybe they were leaving that for until after she was healed?

The brief visits by the others were the only bright points, but it wasn’t quite enough. Confined, she had nothing to do but stew in her thoughts. They turned darker. A week passed.

She was sitting staring up at the window when Stormwell and Plainfield appeared, pushing a chair. One with big wooden wheels and handles.

“Look what we brought? Sergeant Rehseir finally said you could go out,” Stormwell said with a grin.

Lys stared at the device for a minute before looking over to the medic station, that was unoccupied. The old man was suspiciously absent.

She would have yelled at him that she was able to walk on her own now.

“I can walk,” Lys finally said.

Plainfield shook his head. “We were told you could only come if you sat in the chair. Otherwise, it would be our hides.”

Lys bit back a curse. “Fine. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Standing up made her feel lightheaded, but she transferred herself from bed to chair on her own despite the panicked look on the other two’s faces.

“Supposed to help you do that, too,” Stormwell muttered.

“Where is Woodrow?” Lys asked.

“We will go find him,” Plainfield replied.

“I want to see the city. All I’ve got so far is that stupid window,” Lys said.

Stormwell grinned. “You’re in for a treat.”

“Nothing like Eversheaf or Mythshell,” Plainfield added.

Lys humphed. “We’ll see about that. Can’t be that big a deal. Now, let us go, my noble chair bearers.”

“Yes’m, your highness,” Plainfield said with a laugh.

Lys smiled, and the two pushed her out of the room. The hallways were more narrow than she had imagined and she had no idea how they were navigating the crisscross of passageways.

“Bunzard, this place is a rat's nest,” Lys muttered. Her fantasy about sneaking out at night just to see the sky was shattered.

Stormwell nodded. “Takes some getting used to. It is a fortress. A real one.”

Just when she was about to ask how much further, they reached a heavy metal banded door that opened to a stone balcony. Sunlight poured in, dispelling the darkness.

She had to cover her face as they emerged.

Panic hit her. They were higher than when she had been on the cliff.

It wasn’t a grassy plain below, with a throng of Irongians to shoot, though.

Instead, there were thousands, thousands of buildings.

Towers reached skyward, their ancient stone facades adorned with weathered gargoyles and white and red banners fluttering in the warm summer breeze.

Forges belched black smoke, mingling with the steam rising from countless chimneys. Sunlight glinted off the rooftops, casting a warm glow across the city’s vast expanse.

The people below were nothing more than ants, barely visible amidst the labyrinth of narrow, winding streets. Scattered parks provided patches of green amid the sea of stone and brick, their lush canopies standing out against the gray.

Lys felt a surge of unexpected awe. “I…I…” Lys stammered.

Plainfield leaned against the rampart, a smirk playing on his lips. “Still think it’s not a big deal?”

“Relic city, bigger than anything we can build now… heard it’s only half the size of Whitfallse,” Stormwell said.

Lys couldn’t find the words to respond. The sheer size and scope of Dragonblanc left her speechless. It was like the ancient ruined bridge—except this was still intact.

She stood up, causing a panic. A laugh escaped as she leaned on the stone railing, looking down at the sight. The view was enough to cure the fear of heights the cliff had forced on her.

“This is amazing!” Lys shouted. Maybe a little too loudly.

Two pairs of hands guided her back into the chair as a fit of coughs took her. No matter how much she protested she was fine, they rolled her back to the infirmary.

The next day, Lys refused to let Rehseir keep her locked up. She didn’t make it far before she was too winded to go further, but she slowly navigated and learned the corridors of the floor she was on.

It was very high up, and she didn’t even try any of the circular stairwells she found. She had no idea how or why they had carried her so far into the fortress while she was wounded until she found the lift.

It was magic made of metal, rope, and wood. Somehow, the wheels turned, and the box went up and down. A pair of guards laughed at her when she asked about it.

Her walks turned into longer outings. The pain disappeared, and it didn’t hurt to breathe. There was no one around to order her to do pushups, but she did them anyway. That alarmed Rehseir enough that Swift showed up the next day.

The sergeant just grunted at him, told her vacation was over, and disappeared. The next day, she had her uniform back. Woodrow showed up, grinning. “Come on, you’re needed.”

Lys followed, but as they rode the lift down, even the novelty of the machine couldn’t dispel how out of the loop she felt. There were enough questions boiling that she was going to shake them out of Swift the next time he showed his face.

“What’s going on? Where are we going?” Lys asked.

Woodrow’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You’ll see.”

As they descended deeper into the fortress, the air grew cooler, insulated by the thick stone. Like the inside of a mountain? Not that she had much experience checking out caves, but they were supposed to be cool inside…

Actually, she had no proof the fortress wasn’t built out of a mountain? She’d only had the one view for reference. Was the thing punched into the side of a massive cliff, or a lonely spire?

They reached a wide tunnel, the ground made of some type of fine stone. Guards stationed nearby waved them on and they headed toward light, what she assumed was outside. A wave of heat washed over them as she was proven right.

A massive courtyard greeted them, surrounded by a small curtain of walls. ‘Small,’ being at least ten meters tall…

The stupid place broke how she scaled things in her head.

Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she realized everyone was staring at her.

Everyone being a sea of armored soldiers adorned in white and silver in neat ranks. A large raised wooden platform held a group in ornate looking gear. Sergeants… officers?

At the front of the ranks was a single line of familiar faces—the remnants of her recruit group. Swift and Ashton stood at the end of the line and nodded to her.

Woodrow led her to join them. She punched him in the arm when they were in line. “Warn me about things like this,” she hissed.

Stormwell and Plainfield shot her curious glances. Lys shrugged. She didn’t have a damned clue at what was going on.

A soldier at the podium on the raised platform called out for attention, and there was a thunderous thud of boots smacking the ground. There was silence, and then the man gestured to Swift.

Swift saluted the raised stand, then moved to join them.

Lys’s gaze drifted to the top of the dais, where a man sat on a large wooden throne. His posture was regal, his eyes sharp and assessing. The captain, she realized with a start. He was staring at her.

She grasped for a name, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever been told who the leader of the company was. Heck, she didn’t even know the name of her cohort’s lieutenant.

Another of the sergeants stepped forward, a rolled parchment in his hands. He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

“By order of the Captain, the White Dragon Mercenary Company recognizes the bravery and dedication of the 1st Cohort’s recruit unit. In the face of overwhelming odds, these men—” he paused, a momentary stutter that she almost missed, “—and woman stood their ground, fighting with honor and courage in a situation far beyond their training.”

She expected a murmur, or something, but the courtyard remained silent except for the hint of a breeze pushing over the walls.

The sergeant unrolled the parchment, the paper crinkling in the breeze. “We honor their sacrifice and their service. Viktor Plainfield, Sylas Emberley, Peder Grayson, Orin Stonebridge, Jaren Hammett, Jonah Hawkeye, Garrett Blackwood, Edric Stormwell, Davian Armstrong...”

Lys swallowed hard, her throat tight as the names from her unit, fallen and still living, continued to echo across the courtyard. Her fingers found Garrett’s lucky coin in her pocket, the metal warm against her skin. She rubbed her thumb over the worn surface.

Images of Orin’s face, pale and drawn from infection, flashed through her mind. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

Finally, the list of names ended, the silence heavy. Another sergeant stepped forward, his voice ringing out over the assembled ranks.

“One recruit, in particular, went above and beyond the call of duty,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

The sergeant gestured towards the line of recruits. “Bryn Woodrow, step forward.”

Woodrow moved to the front of the courtyard, his steps measured and steady. The sergeant turned to face the assembled soldiers once more.

“Recruit Woodrow displayed incredible courage and determination during battle,” he announced. “Pursued by enemy scouts, he ran an astonishing forty-two miles to raise the alarm for his beleaguered unit. Four of his six companions fell during the perilous journey, yet he persevered, driven by a sense of duty and loyalty to his fellow soldiers.”

The sergeant paused, letting his words sink in. “His actions made a difference, the delivery of the message he carried arriving just in time to save the lives of his unit. For this, he has been awarded the medallion of the White Dragon.”

A lieutenant stepped forward, a gleaming medal in his hands. He handed it to Swift, then saluted the gleaming medal. Swift turned and then placed it around Woodrow’s neck, the metal catching the sunlight.

Swift saluted him. The captain stood. Everyone turned toward Woodrow and saluted together.

Lys felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, pride swelling in her chest as she copied the movement. Woodrow deserved the recognition, even if he had cut the timing dangerously close.

Another sergeant stepped forward, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “We have another recruit who, on multiple occasions, went above and beyond their training to protect their companions, even in the face of grave danger.”

She felt a swell of pride in her chest. Whoever that recruit was, they had done an incredible job.

“Lys Trekhill, step forward,” the sergeant called out.

Lys blinked, confusion washing over her. She must have misheard. She hadn’t—

Plainfield placed a hand on her back, giving her a gentle push. “Get up there,” he said, a hint of a warmth in his voice.

Lys walked forward, her steps hesitant. She could feel the eyes of the entire courtyard on her.

The sergeant handed Swift something, just like for Woodrow.

Then her sergeant placed a medal around her neck, the metal cool against her skin. He then added a gold pin to her uniform, the small emblem glinting in the sunlight. “You deserve it,” Swift murmured. He saluted.

Everyone saluted.

Lys moved to stand beside Woodrow, her mind reeling.

The sergeant looked out at the assembled recruits, his expression solemn. “Every one of you fought tooth and nail to survive. You have all earned this honor.”

He gestured to another sergeant, who opened a box filled with gleaming gold. They began to call out the names of the surviving recruits, each one stepping forward to receive their own pin.