The shadows stretched out like black fingers when Orlan Campius returned with Roderick and the remaining mercenaries. Without a word, the castellan signalled with his head and led the group through the innards of the castle. They walked through corridors of carved stone, where torches crackled in wrought-iron brackets and the portraits of Verdegrande ancestors seemed to observe the mercenaries' misery with cold, painted eyes.
– Look at this, Lucius – Alistair whispered, feeling the weight of the silence that enveloped them, his voice barely audible beneath the sound of his own boots. – The walls are so high that even the echo seems afraid to speak. If I let slip one of my usual comments here, the stones would probably crumble from the shock of such a lack of etiquette.
They were ushered into the private hall, a chamber that reeked of pine smoke, spiced wine, and the metallic odour of authority. Sitting before a monumental hearth was Viscount Lorenzo Verdegrande. The man wasn't wearing his ceremonial armour, but the weight of responsibility seemed to bend his shoulders more than any plate of steel. His face was furrowed with worries, with a trimmed beard where the grey was beginning to reclaim territory from the brown.
Lorenzo didn't rise, but his eyes – green as the forests that gave him his name – fixed on Roderick with an intensity that made the air feel thicker.
– Your news brought me no surprises, mercenary – the Viscount said, his voice hoarse and weary. – They only confirmed the wounds I already felt throbbing.
He gestured to a map spread across an oak table, where small pieces of iron marked the points of conflict.
– The Mad Dog Brigade has been a thorn in my side for months – he continued, his tone tinged with an aristocratic bitterness. – It started with stolen cattle and missing peasants, but it evolved into something far more sinister. They've been attacking my patrols with an efficiency that doesn't befit mere bandits. They don't flee at the first sign of steel; they counter-attack, flank, and kill with the coldness of men who have dined at sergeants' tables.
Lorenzo looked up, and Alistair realised that behind the exhaustion, there was a dangerous fire.
– What you saw in the woods is what I feared: a cancer that has stopped hiding and started claiming my territory.
Viscount Lorenzo was not a man to ask for favours when he could buy loyalties. With a curt gesture, he proposed the formal hiring of Roderick's company. The Verdegrande gold was good, but the mercenary captain knew that gold didn't deflect arrows or stop steel.
– The contract is fair, my lord – Roderick replied, his voice as firm as the strike of a hammer – but my men cannot fight in rags and rusted iron. We need equipment, protection that can withstand a blow, and steel that won't fall apart at the first clash.
– You shall have what is spare – the Viscount agreed, though his smile was thin and devoid of warmth. – My forge works day and night, but the priority is my garrison. Orlan will take you to the workshops, and there you can rummage through the stores for what my men have discarded. To a mercenary, a lord's scrap is often a treasure.
Orlan guided them to the workshops, where the air became thick and suffocating. The heat of the forges hit their faces like a slap, and the rhythmic sound of metal being beaten filled the room, making any conversation other than shouting impossible. Sparks leapt from the anvils like shooting stars dying in the ash.
Alistair wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, watching the blacksmiths with their bare, soot-blackened torsos.
– Finally – he said to Lucius, raising his voice to be heard above the clamour. – I'm trading my pig-scent for one of coal and manly sweat. It's a questionable improvement, I'll admit, but at least the coal doesn't try to bite my shins.
While Marcus and the others threw themselves at piles of chainmail and infantry shields, Alistair ignored the short swords and belt daggers. His gaze crossed the room and fixed on a two-handed longsword, propped in a corner like a forgotten widow. The hilt was simple, made of tanned leather, but the blade had the dull sheen of steel that still held its dignity. He lifted it with both hands, feeling the weight demand respect from his shoulders.
– If I'm to carry something heavy and sweat like a bloody pack ox – Alistair commented, testing the weapon's balance with a grimace of effort –, then let it be something that keeps my problems at an arm and a half's length. Courtesy is fundamental, and nothing says 'keep your distance' like five feet of well-sharpened steel.
To protect the skin he prized so much, he chose a reinforced leather doublet, hardened in oil and studded with functional metal nails. It wasn't a knight's armour, nor did it shine under the sun, but it was the kind of protection that separated a living man from a corpse with a hole in its chest.
Lucius also decided he needed some kind of steel protection. The scene, however, lacked the dignity of epic songs. The lad buried his head in a dented infantry helm that, being three sizes too big, slid down his skull until it covered his eyes, leaving him groping at the air like a drunkard. To complete the ensemble, he grabbed an oak-reinforced shield that was almost as tall as him, staggering under the weight of the wood and iron.
Alistair, who was adjusting the straps of his new doublet, let out a dry laugh and didn't miss the chance to use his sharp tongue.
– By the gods above, Lucius, you look like a metal turtle having a mid-life crisis – he commented, watching the lad fight the helmet. – If you fall on your back during the march, we'll need three men, a lever, and possibly a bishop's blessing to get you upright again. The idea is to face the Brigade, not serve as a bloody roadblock in their path.
Lucius, realising that brute force was not his ally, abandoned the heavy metal with a grimace of frustration. He rummaged through the scrap baskets until he found a long dagger – almost a short sword in his small hands – but with a balance that allowed him to strike and retreat in one breath. He also chose a boiled leather bodice, light and flexible, which protected the essentials without robbing him of the agility that was, after all, his only true defence against death.
Once equipped, they were led by a silent sergeant through courtyards of grey stone to a dormitory wedged into the guts of the wall. The room was austere, with a smell of limestone and cold hearth, but the beds had fresh straw and thick woollen blankets.
Alistair dropped his two-handed sword by his cot and sat down, feeling his muscles protest. He looked at the vaulted ceiling, where the shadows of the torches danced like spectres. For the first time in weeks, the sky wasn't his roof, the mud wasn't his bed, and the smell of pig had been replaced by the impersonal cleanliness of a noble fortress.
– A stone ceiling and a bed that doesn't try to run away from under us – Alistair murmured to the gloom, closing his eyes. – It's a dangerous luxury, lad. It makes a man forget that, out there, the world still has teeth and an immense desire to chew us up.
The shadows danced on the bare stone walls while the torch oil began to run low, releasing a black smoke that smelled of resin and destiny. Lucius was sitting on the edge of his bed, his small, dirty face looking even paler under the flickering light.
– Are we really going to defeat them, Alistair? – The boy's question was a whisper, but in the silence of the dormitory, it sounded like the snapping of a bone. – The Mad Dog Brigade?
– Lad – he began, and the usual sarcasm bubbled up like cheap tavern wine –, look around you. We have steel that wasn't forged in a nightmare, a roof that doesn't let the rain wash away our souls, and a Viscount who decided to open his purse instead of having us kicked out by the guards. If this isn't the start of a heroic epic worthy of being sung by a drunk bard, then it is, at the very least, the best funeral we could ever hope to afford. You should be grateful, seeing as most men die in mass graves without ever having felt the touch of a woollen blanket.
Alistair opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the ceiling beams, where the darkness was becoming absolute. For a moment, the mockery abandoned his face, leaving only the weary lines of a man who had seen too much of the world.
– But, if you want the truth… – his voice lowered, losing its sharp edge of mockery and acquiring a gravity Lucius had never heard before. – For the first time in more years than I can count, I feel we aren't just running away from a trail of mud and old mistakes. For the first time, it feels like we're actually walking somewhere. It might be to glory or a shallow grave in the woods, but it's a path.
He turned to his side, pulling the scratchy blanket up to his chin.
– Sleep, little Turtle-Man. Tomorrow the sun will rise, the captain will shout, and the steel will feel a lot heavier than it does today. Enjoy the silence while it doesn't yet smell of blood.