Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A closed fist smashed against a polished white breastplate, the metallic ring punctuating the low-mutter of the three men perched on the green expanse betweent he urban sprawl of the capital and the court. Behind them, the palace gardens were bathed in the soft, deceptive peace of a golden morning.

”I say three shots,” Rodry declared, leaning his elbow on the hilt of his axe as he peered at the small figure in the distance.

”How much?”

”Two silverii and three bronzii on the third arrow.”

A sharp whistle came from the man keeping the tally. ”Fell out of bed on your head this morning, did you?”

”Nah, slept like a baby. Though I did wake with a twinge in my left knee.” Rodry flashed a cheeky, lopsided smile, the kind that had gotten him out of more trouble than his sword ever had. ”The old bone doesn’t lie. Luck is on my side today. What about you, Miro? Feeling brave?”

”I say five shots,” Sir Miro replied, squinting against the sun. ”And given how stingy LongSpear has been with the pot lately, how about a nice, round, shining grey on the fifth?”

”I’ll hold you to that,” Rodry muttered. He pulled off his helmet, the while plumes dusty from the sandy wind, and scratched at the red line the leather strap had carved into his neck. He turned his head toward the third member of their little congregation. ”How about it, Thamy? Feel like betting on the kid?”

”It’s Tham. Just Tham. And you know that,” Tham Badfoot muttered. He instinctively shifted his left foot behind his right, hiding the slight, permanent limp that had earned him his name, as soon as Rodry’s eyes drifted downward.

”Yeah, yeah. Feel lucky for a play?”

”Nah,” Tham said, his voice flat and practical. ”I don’t bet on things I can’t control.”

”You played dice with me and Miro until the moon was high yesterday,” Rodry recalled with a grin.

”Yeah, and I was the one throwing the dice. I cannot think of something I have more control over than my own wrist.”

”Oi, Miro, hear that? He thinks he can talk to the bones.”

Sir Miro gave him no heed. Instead, he made a sharp clicking sound with his tongue, his eyes fixed on a shadow moving through the archway of the garden behind them. Soon, a fourth man appeared where only three had stood. Tham and Miro offered weary, knowing smiles; only Rodry beamed, showing off a set of surprisingly pearly teeth.

”Good morning, sers,” the newcomer drawled. ”What’s with all the ruckus so early? I could hear Rodry’s ego clattering from the barracks.”

”What you clicking your tongue about, Miry? It’s only Laedio!I swear court has never been more flower without you” Rodry nudged Miro with a heavy elbow. ”He’s deeper in the games than I’ll ever be.” He turned back to the newcomer, grinning. ”How is it, friend? Already at the bottle before the sun’s fully up?”

”You shut up on that, already got enough from the prince for that.

Always as pleasing as a lance in the arse you are I swear ,that ought to be your name ArseLance.” Laedio replied, his voice a gravelly rasp. He took a long, indulgent swing from a ceramic bottle, the scent of fermented apples wafting through the air. ”Want a pull, or do you fear soiling that pretty white cloak of yours?”

In response, Rodry shrugged, reaching out an eager hand. ”Already soiled enough. Give me a hit.” He took a deep, greedy mouthful, and as he pulled the bottle from his lips, he closed his eyes with a dreamy, blissful smile. ”Blessed be the man who invented cider. May he sit at the right hand of the gods.”

”Probably already is,this is the last of his blessing,” Laedio muttered, reclaiming his ceramic treasure. ”So, what’s the game?”

”Laying bets on the Prince’s cub,” Miro answered, nodding his head toward the center of the garden.

There, young Basil was standing with a small, recurve bow gripped in his small hands. Beside him, the massive, scarred form of Jarza was moving through a slow, deliberate demonstration, his own bow looking like a toy in his giant’s grip. The boy’s face was a mask of fierce, desperate concentration.

”How much is in the pot?”

”For now, Miro has a silverii on five shots before he clips the target. Rodry here is throwing two and three bronzii on the third attempt. You joining the ruin?”

”Do I ever say no?” Laedio asked with an intimate, predatory smile as he took another swing. ”Put a nice five on me.”

”All right. Which shot?”

”None,” Laedio said, his eyes glinting with a sudden, mischievous light. ”I’m betting I can make the two of them finish their entire exercise without the boy hitting the target even once.” He gave them a slow wink as he tucked the bottle under his arm and began to saunter toward the little star of the prince. ”Watch me.”

The archery targets were a row of burlap puppets stuffed with hay, looking more like ragged ghosts than men. Some wag in the barracks had taken a stick of charcoal to them, drawing crude, weeping expressions and toothless maws on the rounded heads. No one ever confessed to the deed, and no one bothered to scrub it off.

Probably the most unserious court in the South, though arguably the only one where a man could breathe without choking on his own spit.

Laedio watched from the periphery, the ceramic bottle cool against his palm. Gods, Jarza is really laying it into the boy, he thought.

Jarza’s sheathed sword lashed out, a blunt click against Basil’s tricep that made the boy jolt.

”Did you see me wrestling with the cord like a caught fish when the bow was in position?” Jarza’s voice was a low, textured growl. ”You ease into the motion. If you fight the wood, the wood fights back.” He stepped behind the heir apparent, his massive hands adjusting the boy’s grip. ”See this...” Jarza began a tutorial, fluidly drawing his own recurve only as the bow rose to eye level. He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes caught the swaying form of the newcomer.

”Burnt-Egg is right, you know?” Laedio interjected, his voice oily with cider and mischief. ”Keep pulling like that and you’ll dislocate your shoulder before you’re old enough to shave your stones. That’s a shadow that follows a man to his grave.” He took a slow, languid swing of the bottle. ”He knows what he’s talking about, little prince. Even if he does smell like a wet dog.”

Basil lowered the bow, his face brightening to greet the Commander of the City Guard. ”Laedio! I thought you were—”

Thack.

The flat of Jarza’s blade smacked against Basil’s backside. The boy leaped half a foot into the air.

”Never break your concentration,” Jarza rumbled, his face a mask of granite.

”But... it’s just Laedio,” Basil countered, rubbing his hip and shooting a disgruntled look at the laughing guards.

”Today, it is that good-for-nothing lounging on my yard while I admonish you,” Jarza said, his voice dropping an octave into a chillingly serious register. ”Tomorrow, it is a dusty field, the sun in your eyes, and a man screaming as he dies at your feet, begging and weeping for his mother. You turn around to see if he is anyone you know, and a war-hammer takes you blank in the temple. It is a moment’s notice, Basil. From breathing to not. Now, find your center, or I’ll never waste another hour teaching you the string.”

That struck home. The boy’s jaw set. He turned back to the bow, a piece of mountain yew nearly as tall as he was, and wrestled it into position. His face screwed up in a knot of fierce, silent concentration. He nocked, drew, and held the tension until his small arms began to tremble. He let fly.

The shaft hissed through the air and vanished entirely into the thick, ornamental greenery of the gardens.

Laedio let out a braying laugh. ”Property of the grass and flowers now, that one! A gift to the dirt!”

Basil threw a wrinkled, hurt look over his shoulder.

”How are you going to keep your blood cool on a battlefield if a little jest sets you aflame?” Laedio teased, leaning against a stone pillar. ”Not everyone finds the mark on the first take, boy.”

”I’ve been practicing for a week,” Basil muttered, his voice choked with frustration.

”Ignore the vulture,” Jarza ordered sternly, throwing Laedio a look that promised a very long, very painful sparring session later that afternoon.

”It’s heavy,” Basil complained, though he reached down to pluck another arrow from the quiver stand. He repeated the motion, holding the draw for a count of three, then five. He released.

The arrow whistled past the hay-man, missing by a good five feet to the right.

”Aiming for the trees to knock a leaf loose?” Laedio barked. ”Autumn’s already come and gone; no need to aid nature in her work.”

Jarza let out a reluctant, involuntary chuckle at that, which seemed to sting the boy more than the mockery. Basil bit down on a retort, his face flushed with the betrayal of his mentors. He nocked the third arrow. This time, he didn’t wait. He didn’t squint or calculate. He simply raised the bow, felt the weight, and snapped the release in one fluid, angry motion.

Thwip-Tunk.

The arrow struck true, embedding itself deep in the right side of the hay-man’s chest. Had the puppet owned lungs, it would be drowning in its own red. Basil’s face lit up, a beam of pure, triumphant glee, and he turned to Jarza to claim his praise.

The happiness went down the drain.

Jarza wasn’t looking at the target. He wasn’t even looking at Basil. The giant stood perfectly still, his head turned sharply toward the palace

Basil followed his gaze. Standing in the shadows of the garden arches was the Legate of the Third. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t betting. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes hollow and hard.

’’Hey Basil’’ Laedio called as he too rose from the grass ’’Perhaps you should go back on court....’’

It seemed the games in the garden were over.