Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The road was long and the hours were short. Winter was scratching at the door, and soon the deep cold would settle into the bone of the land.

Perhaps I ought to have bought myself a proper blanket, Vilon reflected as a slender breeze kissed the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine that left a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

He could have bought one easily enough. Along the Magna Strata, he had passed a dozen small villages, and in nearly every one of them, a herd of fat, gray sheep choked the lanes. Where there was wool, there was a loom, and Vilon knew for a fact that silver coin was always welcomed by smallfolk when the frost set in. Winter was the time when people starved. He had never starved himself, he had known the hollow, gnawing ache of an empty belly during his youth, certainly, but he had never reached the desperation of eating boiled leather or grass.

Looking out over the sweeping valleys that flanked the stone highway, Vilon found it hard to believe anyone could starve here.

’Tis a gentle and generous land, he thought. The countryside practically dripped with richness, orchards, thick pastures, and heavy timber. He even saw some wineyard and olivery across the road.It would not be a sad thing to live here, he realised.

Yet he knew the people who tilled it were made of harder stuff than the soil. They were a stubborn, insular folk who knew exactly how to wield steel to defend what the land gave them.

’’They even have a generous and wise prince above them’’, he added to his horse ’’they must have been blessed.’’

In response Chestnut just snorted. Vilon discovered he wasn’t that big help in conversation.So they went most of the ride silently.

The afternoon shadows were stretching into long, dark fingers across the grass, and the veil of night would be upon him soon. It was always a fool’s errand to make camp in the dark; a man was bound to pitch his tent on a wasp’s nest or a patch of insect’s nest. With a small tug of the reins, he guided New Chestnut off the smooth cobblestones of the high road. The moment the stallion’s hooves broke the crest of the ditch, the ground gave way with a wet, heavy squelch.

It had rained through the early dawn, and Vilon realized with a dry, self-mocking laugh just how lucky he had been that the road was built of stone.

Is this what I count as a blessing now? he mused bitterly. No mud on my boots? Why in all five hells did I think it a grand idea to bring Owen along on this road? What did I have to give the boy but my own anger and a share of my pain?

It was a mercy the lad had chosen to turn back, probably the only right choice in his whole life. This vagabond’s life was not Owen’s place. This road was not his due.

A half-mile down from the highway, a great willow tree rose from the crest of a small green hill, its sweeping branches hanging low like the grey hair of an old priest. Below the hill, a lively creek cut through the earth, its pale blue waters rushing merrily over gray river-stones.

Vilon decided this would be his hearth for the night. The willow would offer some shelter if the skies turned sour again, and the creek offered a chance at something fresh for his belly.

He had bought a small, ragged hand-net in one of the villages for three bronze pieces. It was a miserable thing, frayed at the edges and sporting a hole large enough for an eel to slip through, but with a bit of luck, it might still catch a dinner.

He sat on a rotting log, yanked off his heavy riding boots, and stepped into the water. The cold bit into his ankles instantly, sharp enough to make him hiss through his teeth, but the stream was beautifully clear.

Through the rippling surface, he could see his own pale toes, and, better yet, the quick, silver darts of trout hiding in the shadows of the rocks.

As he thought, this land was truly bountless.

Still, If he failed here, it would be another supper of hard, salt-cured beef that tasted like old shoe leather and was hard as one.

He would eat it, but he would not do so gladly.

Vilon prepared himself for the cast. He wrapped the rough hemp cord around his wrist, securing the lead, and gathered the weighted hem of the net into his palm exactly as the old villager had shown him. He bent his knees, finding his footing on the slippery stones, and twisted his torso. With a smooth, heavy grunt, he uncoiled his back and let the net fly.

The mesh unfolded in the air like a spider’s web before striking the surface with a soft splash, sinking instantly into the dark pool beneath the willow roots.

Vilon waited, his breath misting in the cooling air, his fingers twitching on the rope. For a long, agonizing minute, there was nothing but the rush of the current.

He tried three more times and was about to leave dejected and shamed at the attempt when at the fourth it happened.

A tug jerked against his wrist. Something had caught in the end.

He lunged forward, spraying cold water up his thighs as he hauled the wet rope back in hand-over-hand. The net broke the surface, thrashing violently. Knotted deep within the frayed twine was a fat, river-trout, its silver scales gleaming with iridescent streaks of green and pink in the dying sunlight. It was a fine catch nearly the length of his wrist and some more, its mouth gaping as it fought the rope.

Vilon waded back to the grassy bank, a genuine smile breaking through his road-weary face for the first time all day. Tonight, the salt beef would stay in the pouch.

He snatched the thrashing trout by its slick tail, swung it and bashed its head against the rotting log. The creature stiffened, shuddered once, and went entirely still.

Reaching instinctively for the heavy dagger at his hip, Vilon stopped his hand. The sky was bruising into a deep, heavy purple. Night was tumbling down upon the valley, and a man without a fire in these hills was a man begging for the winter frost to take his fingers.

Fire first, he told himself. The belly can wait.

Owen’s family had been gracious enough to pack him a small bundle of dry hay for tinder, but he still lacked the meat of a hearth. He cast a glance up at the sweeping, ancient branches of the willow tree, but it felt a foul thing to hack away at the very canopy sheltering him. Instead, he spent the better part of a half-hour stumbling through the gathering gloom, kicking through brambles and dead grass to gather fallen twigs and thick chunks of oak bark.

Nursing a blaze was a familiar, rhythmic dance. He built a nest of the dry hay, took his twin flint stones, and struck them together over the tinder. A shower of bright, yellow sparks rained down, catching the straw. He blew softly, and a pale plume rose in the cold, until a fragile orange tongue lick up into the twigs.

Fire it was in the end.

A quarter-hour later, he had a modest, spitting cackle. He fed it two thick branches, cracking one over his knee to make it fit, before finally pulling the dead trout back into his lap.

He drew his dagger, the steel catching the firelight as he slit the fish from vent to throat. He scooped out the slimy, steaming guts with two fingers, throwing them toward the dark current, and carefully scraped away the dark line of blood clinging to the spine, just as his father had done.

The longer he survived on the road, the more he appreciated the things his father had taught him, or rather, the things Vilon had stolen with his eyes by watching the old man, the lesson he usually actively thought Vilon preferred to forget.

He had learned a great deal that way: how to nurse a fire in a downpour, how to set a snare in the brush, and how to speak to a city guardsman with just enough deference to pass the gates without paying a copper toll. They hadn’t entered the great stone cities often, of course. Usually only when some high lord threw a tourney and there was coin to be made.

Indeed, he knew how to do everything by himself?What need did he have of a squire?What excuse did he have to curse another with a life without a roof and without home?

Once the fish was clean, he trimmed a thick ash-wood stick to a point, impaled the trout through the mouth, and propped it over the embers. As the fat began to sizzle and spit against the coals, filling the air with a rich, savory aroma, Vilon’s stomach gave a fierce, hollow growl. He stared at the meat, suddenly wondering if it would be enough to quiet his hunger. He was a growing man still, and he got empty far too quickly these days.

If Owen were here, we’d be splitting this scrap between us, he reflected, watching the skin blister. Then I’d have to dig into the salt beef anyway to keep our ribs from rattling.

It was a good thing the boy had stayed behind, perjaps. It was a mercy. He would have had to share his meager rations, share the saddle of New Chestnut, and there was already too little of the former to keep his own bones warm. Right now, back in that valley, Owen would be sitting by a hearth, drinking warm, sweet goat’s milk and tearing into a thick loaf of brown bread with porridge.

Let the lad stay with his kin. If Vilon had a family left to claim him, he too would have wrapped his arms around them and never let go, no matter how hard the world pulled.But the gods had not blessed him with one, so he could not.

The night grew bitterly cold, the frost creeping up the hill despite the fire raging beside his boots. It was a heavy, silent sort of cold, the kind that made a man feel entirely small beneath the endless black sky. Owen’s home had been surprisingly warm, even when the hearth went out, packed with the heat of living bodies. Vilon pulled his threadbare woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders, tucking his chin into the collar. It was the only blanket he would have for the night.

He leaned forward, carefully turning the ash stick to check how the first side of the trout was faring. The skin had turned a beautiful, crisp brown, the white meat flaking perfectly away from the bone where the wood pierced it.

A stray spark danced up from the embers, rising into the dark night before winking out.

He had never felt so utterly alone.But perhaps looking at the next moment, he would have preffered to be.

Then, out in the pitch-black woods beyond the willow’s shadow, the lone, sharp crack of a dry branch echoed through the night, and at long lasst he recalled that at night, the biggest enemy was not the cold nor the darkness.

He was immediately on his feet with his sword hissing out.

He was wrong. By the gods if he was.

He was not alone.