Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 56

Lys hefted the axe, testing its weight in her hands. She surveyed the towering pines around her, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. It was a race between the axe and the shovel for the most used tool. Everyone had become experts with both.

It was far different from she had ever heard or imagined about stories of mercenaries. Maybe for the town guardsmen or the noble’s retinues, it would be different?

Because sometimes she felt like the biggest part of being a mercenary was construction work.

With a nod to her team, she stepped forward and swung the axe, its blade biting deep into the trunk of the nearest tree.

The other recruits followed suit, their axes ringing out in a steady rhythm. Woodchips flew as they worked, the air filled with the scent of fresh sap and sweat.

How many times were they going to be taking down trees on the march?

Probably more than she could imagine.

“Put your backs into it!” Lys called out, her voice carrying over the din. “We need these logs cut and trimmed before nightfall.”

The recruits redoubled their efforts. Lys moved among them, offering encouragement and correcting techniques where needed. She had the most experience with tree-cutting, although that had quickly eroded as they all got more time working at it. She was pretty sure they’d all be experts by the time they reached Dragonblanc.

As the first trees fell, Group Two moved in, stripping the branches and bark. The logs were then hauled to Group Three, who worked on assembling the rafts under the watchful eye of the sergeants.

Lys wiped the sweat from her brow, her gaze drifting to the river. The waters churned and frothed, and the current looked swift and treacherous. She felt a flicker of unease at the thought of crossing it, even on the sturdy rafts they were building.

The only streams of water like it she was used to were when heavy rains reached Thornfield and the waterways between hills became deadly water traps. The idea of jumping into something like that willingly, raft or not, made her feel nervous.

“Oy, Trekhill!” a voice called out, snapping her from her thoughts. She turned to see Woodrow and Stormwell approaching, their faces flushed with exertion.

“We’ve been selected for the swimming team,” Woodrow said, his chest puffing out with pride. “Sergeant Swift wants us to help guide the rafts across.”

Lys nodded, masking her relief at not being chosen. “Better you two than me.”

“Afraid of some water?” Woodrow said.

She shrugged. “I’ll stick to the rafts and leave the swimming to you water rats.”

Stormwell grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. “Don’t worry, Trekhill. We’ll get everyone across safe and sound.”

As the day wore on, the camp began to take shape. Tents were pitched, fires lit, and the ramp for the rafts was constructed. They got so much done that a sense of accomplishment buoyed everyone’s spirits.

By nightfall, the rafts were complete, their rough-hewn logs lashed together with sturdy rope. The swimming team had successfully crossed the river, securing a thick guideline to trees on the opposite bank.

Lys stood at the water’s edge, watching as the last rays of sunlight danced across the surface. Tomorrow, they would begin the crossing, their fates entrusted to the skill of the swimmers and the strength of their rafts.

First watch was uneventful, and she bid the dark watch goodnight and nestled into her bedroll under her personal canvas.

She woke to the bustling sounds of the camp preparing for the river crossing. When she stepped out into the crisp morning air, the others were already awake.

“Rise and shine, Trekhill!” Woodrow called out. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Lys joined her team, helping to ensure the rafts slid smoothly along the guidelines. They prepared the long poles, testing their flexibility and strength.

“Trekhill, your group’s on loading duty,” Sergeant Swift barked. “Make sure everything’s secured properly. We can’t afford to lose any supplies.”

Lys nodded, watching as Group Three transported a handful of recruits across the river. The raft bobbed and swayed, but the guide rope and poles kept it steady.

On the opposite bank, recruits pulled a rope to drag the raft across. Even at a distance, she could see their muscles strained with the effort.

As the day wore on, the loads grew heavier. Horses were led onto the rafts one at a time. Every single one of them was nervous and unhappy. One got its head cover off and his eyes were wide with fear. She did her best to help calm them, murmuring soothing words before they were ferried across.

The wagons proved the greatest challenge, their weight causing the raft to sink low in the water. Lys held her breath as they creaked and groaned, but miraculously nothing pitched into the angry water.

Finally, it was her team’s turn to cross. Lys gripped the rough planks that were there for handholds, her knuckles turning white as the raft lurched into motion. The water churned beneath them, its power both mesmerizing and terrifying.

“Not a fan of the water, eh, Trekhill?” Stormwell teased, noticing her tense posture.

Lys forced a laugh. “I prefer my feet on solid ground.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be across in no time. Just don’t look into the water,” he suggested.

Lys kept her gaze fixed on the opposite bank, trying to ignore the spray against her face. The raft pitched and rolled, but she held fast, refusing to let her fear get the better of her.

As they neared the shore, a cheer went up from the recruits. They had made it, their supplies and comrades intact. Lys let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, relief flooding through her.

“Well done, lads,” Sergeant Swift said, his voice gruff with approval.

A few minutes later, the entire company was back on the march. Everyone was eager to put a bit of distance between them and the flooded ford.

It wasn’t long before the Sergeants called them to a halt, though, maybe a couple of miles. The river crossing had taken its toll on everyone, and the decision to call it an early day was welcome.

The recruits set up their camp as usual and then settled in to rest.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, they gathered around the campfires, the aroma of stew wafting through the air. Lys settled onto a log, her bowl cradled in her hands.

“I heard we’re halfway to Mythshell now,” Woodrow said, plopping down beside her.

“About time,” Stormwell chimed in, his mouth full of stew. “I can’t wait to see a proper town again.”

The chatter around the fire grew louder as the recruits speculated about what awaited them in Mythshell.

“I heard they have a market that stretches for miles,” Plainfield said, his eyes wide with excitement.

“And taverns with ale that’ll knock you on your arse,” another added, grinning.

Lys listened to the banter, a small smile tugging at her lips. The prospect of a few days’ rest and a chance to explore a new place was something to look forward to. Mythshell was supposed to be an actual town, not a village. She’d never been to any place larger than Silverpines before it had burnt, and the town was supposed to be much, much larger.

The next morning, Sergeant Swift called Lys’s group to muster. They stood at attention, their backs straight and eyes forward.

“Listen up, lads,” Swift said, his voice carrying over the assembled recruits. “We’re four days out from Mythshell. We’ll be setting up camp outside the town.”

A few groans rippled through the group, but Swift silenced them with a sharp look.

“I know most of you have never seen a city—or town—worth mentioning,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the recruits. “We’ll be spending five days outside Mythshell. You’ll be given a portion of your pay from the company’s funds and allowed to visit in small groups.”

Excited murmurs broke out among the recruits, but Swift held up a hand for silence.

“You will be expected to return on schedule,” he said, his tone stern. “Any funny business will be met with the harshest of punishments.”

The recruits nodded, their faces solemn.

“But,” Swift added, a smile tugging at his lips, “I figure you’ve earned a chance to visit the town and see the sights. Visit the markets, while the company replenishes the supplies and makes repairs.”

A cheer went up from the recruits, their faces breaking into grins. Lys felt a surge of excitement that mirrored everyone elses.

The company’s enthusiasm was boundless as they marched at a good pace the next few days with no incidents. Lys gave up her Group Leader position for the rotation to another recruit, feeling a bit of relief from the extra responsibility, but also recognizing that she had learned a lot while having it.

As they crossed a hill, a murmur rippled through the ranks ahead of her. Lys nearly tripped to a stop, drawing an annoyed look from another recruit.

There, in an open plain surrounded by hills and trees, lay Mythshell. A large stone wall encircled the town, speckled with square towers.

It was so huge that it could easily swallow Thornfield without noticing. Chimneys and smoke trailed out into the sky.

“Would you look at that!” Stormwell exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s massive,” Woodrow breathed. “How many people do you think live there?”

“Thousands, I reckon,” another recruit chimed in. “More than I’ve ever seen in one place, that’s for sure.”

Lys remained silent, her gaze fixed on the sprawling town before them.

As they approached, Lys noticed an extensive field where a camp had already been prepared for them—a permanent installment. Owned by the White Dragons for visiting cohorts?

Their small company was swallowed up by it as they entered. The banners and livery of the soldiers inside confirmed her suspicions. The camp definitely belonged to the company.

Swift conversed with some of the stationed sergeants, their voices low and serious. Lys’s attention was drawn to the walkway on the walls of the barracks camp. It was a veritable fortress, compared to their nightly camps.

“Can you believe we get to stay here for five whole days?” a recruit whispered excitedly. “Imagine all the things we’ll get to see and do!”

“I can’t wait to try the local ale,” another added, grinning. “I bet it’s better than anything we’ve had on the march.”

Lys rolled her eyes. Of course it would be better—they weren’t allowed to have alcohol while marching.

The eager chatter continued as the recruits settled into their new surroundings, their faces alight with anticipation. Lys couldn’t help but feel the same flicker of excitement ignite herself.

She’d wanted to be a traveling trader, so she could see the world?

Well, here it was!