Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 51

Lys rose at dawn, packing her kit. She joined the other recruits at the muster point, stifling a yawn as Sergeant Swift’s regular boom cut through the morning mist.

“Alright, listen up!” Swift barked. “We’ve got a long march ahead of us today. Trekhill, you’re Group Leader for the week. Move them out. We’re on the march!”

Lys blinked. Group Leader. Her?

Technically, she’d known that it would happen, eventually. She’d even watched the other group leaders closely, studying what they did and what was expected.

But actually getting the position was a surprise.

Taking a deep breath, she ordered the rest of her group out onto the road, leading the company. They all fell into line with practiced efficiency.

“Cadence!” Swift prodded.

She took a deep breath. “Left, left, left-right-left!” Her voice rang out, strong and clear.

The recruits’ voices rose in a discordant chorus of complaints. Stormwell’s voice cut through the din. “That’s what you’re starting with, Trekhill?”

Lys held up a fist, silencing the grumbling. “Okay, okay. How about a marching song instead?”

The recruits nodded, their faces expectant. Lys wracked her brain, searching for a tune. There had been a half dozen of them used so far, and she’d have to pick one of them. None of the songs or things she knew from Thornfield would be useful. Not unless they were going to sunday service.

There was one song she liked, although she could only remember the first few lines. That was okay, because the others would pick up the slack after she got it started.

“March, march, the dragons come,

From Fachue’s shores to Boshil’s run.

With blades so sharp and hearts so cold,

The White Dragons, fierce and bold.”

Her voice carried over the ranks, and slowly, the others joined in. Their voices swelled, filling the morning air with the stirring melody.

“Ho, ho, to war we go,

No fear, no mercy, we’re the Prince’s show.

March, march, the dragons ride,

For coin and glory, till we die.”

The song spread down the column like wildfire, the entire company taking up the refrain. Boots stomped in unison, the rhythm of the march melding with the song’s cadence. Their voices rang out in a chorus.

Sergeant Swift nodded approvingly, his usually stern face softened by a hint of a smile. “Good work, Trekhill. Keep it up.”

Lys grinned, her step lighter despite the weight of her pack. The road ahead was long, but with her comrades by her side and a song on their lips, she felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As they marched, the sun climbed higher in the sky, its rays glinting off the polished tips of their spears and the rims of their shields. Sweat beaded on Lys’s brow, but she didn’t falter, her voice rising above the others as she led them in verse after verse of the “White Dragon’s March.”

The sun climbed higher as the company marched, its rays beating down on Lys’s neck. Sweat trickled beneath her collar. Hot. Hot. It was always so fucking hot. She wasn’t the only one to suck down half her waterskin before noon.

They passed several farmsteads, which hinted they were getting close to a settlement. Tradow?

Sergeant Finn’s voice rang out. “Company, halt!”

Lys stumbled to a stop, and Plainfield nearly collided into her back. A short path ran to a well-maintained house and barn running parrel to the road.

“Take a seat, lads,” Finn called. “Break for lunch.”

Lys gratefully unslung her pack, ready to collapse on the roadside. But before she could sit, Sergeant Swift’s voice cut through the air.

“Trekhill! On your feet. Gather a group of eight and fetch an empty wagon.”

Lys suppressed a groan, hauling herself upright. “Yes, Sergeant!”

She rallied the first seven she found, and they made their way down the path to the farmstead. The farmer stood outside his house, flanked by three sons of varying height. Swift approached, engaging the man in conversation.

Lys strained to hear, catching snippets of haggling. Finally, Swift handed over a small pouch.

“Alright, lads,” he called. “To the back. We’re loading up fresh produce.”

Lys and her group followed the farmer’s sons around the house. Rows of vegetables and fruit sorted into crates, baskets, and burlap were waiting. They had been expecting the company to pass by.

Under the farmer’s direction, they began to fill the wagon.

Lys hefted sacks of potatoes. Stormwell and Woodrow carried baskets of carrots and onions, while Plainfield staggered under a load of milled flour.

As they worked, the farmer’s sons chatted amiably. “Heading to Dragonblanc, are you?” one asked.

Lys nodded, wiping sweat from her brow. “Aye. Long march ahead.”

“Well, you’ll eat well tonight,” another son laughed. “Most of this we picked yesterday for you. It’s always best fresh.”

Lys couldn’t help but agree. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of a hot meal. Since joining the company she had always been hungry, even when Swift doubled her portions.

Finally, the wagon was loaded to the brim. Lys and her group stepped back, surveying their work with satisfaction.

“Good job, lads,” Swift said, clapping Lys on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get this back to the company. We’ve got ground to cover before nightfall.”

Lys fell into step beside the wagon, calling for the others to get it together.

The march went as usual, and they stopped a few hours before dusk to set up the nightly fortified camp. The difference was she was the one organizing teams to dig the latrines and trenches, set up the group tents and campfires, and generally oversee her group of twenty.

All the under Swift’s watchful eye, of course, but he didn’t intervene with her decisions or even speak to her, really. That meant she was getting it right, or he was letting her play a lot of rope before tightening it around her neck.

Thankfully, it turned out to be the former. Everything was good, normal, routine.

Right up until the moment Swift grinned at them. “You’re on mess duty tonight. First time, I think?”

Lys and the others had no idea what they were in for as she herded them into the mess tent.

A burly man with a bushy beard and a stained apron stood at the center, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed them.

“Listen up, you lot!” he nearly shouted. “I’m Sergeant Hawkins, and in this tent, my word is law. You’re on cooking duty tonight, so you’d best follow my orders to the letter, or you’ll be scrubbing pots till your hands bleed. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” the group chorused, snapping to attention.

Hawkins nodded, his gaze lingering on Lys for a moment. “You! You’re in charge of the mashed potatoes. Peel ‘em, boil ‘em, mash ‘em. And don’t you dare leave any lumps, or you’ll answer to me!”

Lys swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, Sergeant.”

She grabbed a sack of potatoes and a knife, settling down on a stool to begin her task. The others scattered to their assigned duties, chopping onions and stoking the fires under the two massive cauldrons that took twelve recruits to get into and out of the wagon every day.

As Lys worked, the tent filled with the sounds of bubbling soup and the rhythmic thunk of knives on cutting boards. Hawkins stalked among them, his keen eyes catching every mistake.

“Recruit!” he snapped. “Those onions better be chopped finer than that, or you’ll be eating them raw.”

Stormwell blanched, his knife flying over the cutting board. “Yes, Sergeant! Sorry, Sergeant!”

Lys kept her head down, focusing on the potatoes. Her hands ached, and the pile of peels grew in a bucket at her feet, but she didn’t dare slow down.

Finally, the last potato was ready. She hauled them bucket by bucket and dumped them into one of the cauldrons, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

“Trekhill!” Hawkins called. “Fry those peels, nothing goes to waste, salt them as you go!”

Lys grabbed a skillet and hunk of lard and set to work. Keeping the temperature just right was hard and, more than once, she got hit by some stray splatter when she was too slow. But slowly, the crunchy treats filled another basket.

Then she and Woodrow fished the boiled potatoes out of the cauldron, and it was time to smash them. The potatoes slowly transformed into a smooth, creamy mash, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Hawkins appeared at her elbow, peering into the pot. He dipped a spoon in, tasting the mash with a critical eye. Lys held her breath, waiting for the verdict.

“Not bad,” Hawkins grunted. “Not bad at all. Maybe you’ve got a future in the mess tent after all.”

She hoped not.

The company ate well. The promise of the farmer’s son was upheld. Fresh produce picked off the farm was always the best.

The next morning, mist clung to Lys’s skin as she led the march, the recruits’ footsteps echoing in the stillness. Suddenly, a deafening roar shattered the calm. A massive bear burst from the forest, and cubs emerged onto the road a second later.

“Shieldwall, now!” Swift bellowed.

Lys’s heart raced as she pulled her shield off her back, falling into formation with the others. The bear reared up on its hind legs, towering over them, its teeth bared in a snarl.

“Steady, lads!” Finn shouted, his sword at the ready. “Don’t break ranks!”

The bear’s eyes glinted with fury as it charged, its massive paws pounding the earth. Lys braced herself, her shield held high, as the creature slammed into the wall of shields.

The impact sent shockwaves through her arm, nearly knocking her off balance. She gritted her teeth, pushing back with all her strength.

Beside her, Plainfield let out a yelp of pain as the bear’s claws raked across his shield, leaving deep gouges in the wood. No one thought to stab at it.

“Hold the wall!” Swift roared. “Do not break ranks!”

The momma bear turned and fled down the road, her cubs scampering away in front.

“What in the hells spooked that beast?” Plainfield muttered, his brow furrowed.

The bushes where the bear had emerged from began to shake as something moved to answer the question.