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    The rain hammered hard on their cloaks and the horses’ hooves sloshed tiredly as they plodded north. The trees of the Arrion made little to hold back the downpour. Veryanor’s eyes felt swollen and hard to keep open, and her thighs were to burst in blisters any minute now. She held the reins tight as Alynor’s stride rocked her. If she was this tired she could not but think how the white mare must feel. It was in moments like these Veryanor wished the war to end the most. 

The rainy season had arrived sooner than anticipated and hampered even more their already slow trod. It had been a day and a half since their last stop and close to three weeks since their departure from Greatkeep. The Eastmark Road was the longest road in Lorvanar, and the company was tired and hungry. Far behind the string of dray-horses, wagons and footed soldiers extended. All armored and sodden with mud up to their ankles. Some marched and suffered to gain a coin, others marched and suffered into a certain death. 

    For two years Veryanor had traveled with this company. For two years she had seen this company grow from a group of nameless mercenaries to a small army. She had eaten with them, drank with them, laughed and fought alongside them. In the end it never got any easier. 

    “How are you faring, child?” Someone said to her side suddenly. She turned. It was Mordan astride his stallion. The one-eyed mercenary had been riding his horse along and around the company like a herding dog. It was hard to hear him under the pattering rain and the roaring Truvyan somewhere in the west.

    “I’m fine.” Her back ached, her shoulders were tense, her eyes hurt, her damp cloak pressed her mail into her skin, and she’d had the need to water for the past hour. “Just a little tired, and hungry. But I’m faring.” 

Mordan threw her a small, compassionate smile. 

    “We all are, aye. This pissy weather can’t get any worse, eh? We are not far from the clearing. ‘Bout an hour or two. We’ll take a sleep and a bite as soon we get there, eh?” He cleared his throat, spat to a side and cursed beneath his teeth. “You think you can keep it up a little longer?”

    Veryanor smiled, sardonic.

    “I have been keeping up for two years just for that moment, Mordan.” 

    Mordan chuckled revealing a line of crooked teeth. “Aye, you have, eh?” They remained quiet for some time as their mounts waded. The light waned fast and the colors faded. Somewhere in the trees above birds ruffled in the leaves.  He began more serious now. “Listen, child. I know this is hard for you but you need to keep your head clear. Grudges in the field will only cloud what’s in front of you. And King Manthyr trusts us to—”

    “He’s not—” Veryanor began, but lowered her voice to a whisper as she realized what she was to say. “He’s not my king, Mordan. We’ve been through this many times. I will do just fine.”

    The mercenary captain had his only eye intent on the path ahead and nodded silently.

    Veryanor sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you are worried. But I understand. The Company needs the money and we all have to do what’s best for it.” She took a deep breath and looked upward with her eyes closed, the raindrops running cold down her pale cheeks, down the line of her scar. “But sometimes I feel we are fighting for the wrong side.” 

    The old mercenary let out a heavy sigh.

    “We take the side of the one who pays, Verya. And whoever does we are to call king, or whatever bloody thing they want to be called. We like it or not.” He cleared his throat and spat again. “I am taking the rear, see how Rethe is doing.”

    She nodded silently and Mordan took off. 

    Veryanor recalled well when she met the old mercenary, when she traveled from Port Dolmar to Greatkeep. She traveled with a merchant caravan, and the small group of mercenaries had been hired to protect them from bandits or any other crook that decided the caravan was fair game. With his one eye and arms almost broader than Veryanor’s thighs, he resembled a wild boar sculpted in stone. He scared Veryanor, and for the first two weeks into their trip she avoided all contact with him and never crossed his path. Later on, a few days after she had joined the band, she discovered that he was a stone boar with a soft core. He loved his men, and his men loved him as well, and after all this time he had almost become a second father to Veryanor, but sometimes he seemed to forget that he was not her father. She smiled to herself, but it was a sad, kindhearted smile. 

    They arrived at the clearing, but it took the company more than three hours to do so. On the way one of the wagons got stuck in the mud, blocking the way for the rest of the company to go through. It took four men and two dray horses for them to move the cart, and afterward the rest had to proceed slowly and carefully so as not to repeat the incident. 

    The clearing was smaller than what she remembered. It was walled by a short cliff in the eastern side which gave a small share of shelter from the wind. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, but the woods and underbrush where too wet to light a quick fire. When they had all finally settled there was no light but for some bonfires that had been managed to kindle here and there and the smell of broth began to rise and hover between the trees.

    Veryanor settled her small tent in the southern part of the camp, sheltered by a rocky wall. The tent was long as a cart, but not as tall, and was an arm-span wide. It was more than enough for her bedroll. Alynor watched her as she moved here and about, gathering the driest sticks she could find to light a small bonfire. The mare pawed the ground impatiently and snorted with wide nostrils. 

    “I know, I know,” said Veryanor, squatted, as she worked a piece of flint and steel. She cursed as the sparks flashed. She cursed, defeated, and dropped her shoulders. Sighing, she got on her feet. She took Alynor’s reins and patted the mare’s neck. “Come.”

    The trail was barely visible, but it was there, and the river’s roar became louder with each step. Alynor shambled behind. The terrain was muddy and slippery, and twice Veryanor almost twisted an ankle with an unseen stone. The terrain sloped downwards and they arrived to the river banks. The dark waters were fast and violent, fed by the recent rains. 

    Veryanor carefully guided the mare to drink, her feet sinking in the mud. “Easy, girl,” she whispered.

    Alynor drank with long gulps as Veryanor waited. The mare lifted her tail to let her droppings out. 

Veryanor half smile, shook her head and patted the mare’s neck with affection.

    “Another worry less, huh?” 

    A ruffle in the tree’s leaves startled her, and a desperate crowing came along. Looking up Veryanor saw a crow, glaring at her for a moment before bobbing its head up and down and crowing incessantly. It stopped and sharpened its beak on the the bough it was perched. Another crow swooped down to join the first. This one was bigger. The smaller, noisier crow halted its cawing and fixed its glance on Veryanor. The two crows had their little pebbled eyes on her. There was something about those birds that was… different, Veryanor pondered as she brushed Alynor’s mane with her fingers. It felt as if they were studying her. She shook her head and returned her attention to Alynor, who was finishing with her drinking. They’re just bloody crows, nothing more.

    Steps splashed behind Veryanor, and the crows cawed and flapped their wings. They disappeared in the night, leaving a trail of feathers behind falling along the rain. 

Veryanor turned fast.

    “Oh, Rethe,” she said as the young mercenary came into view. “You scared me.”

    “Good thing you didn’t fall into the river.” Rethe said, smiling. “Curses, Verya. It is dangerous to come by yourself. What if you actually fell?” 

    “Alynor was thirsty,” she said looking up to the trees where the crows had been. “She hadn’t anything to drink since the morrow. Besides, what are you coming here for all by yourself, if it is so bloody dangerous?”

    Rethe regarded Veryanor with scolding eyes. He was a year younger than her, and almost as curious. He was a head and a neck taller, and his hair, brown like dry tree bark, was tied in a short tail. His eyes were charcoal black, almost as dark as Veryanor’s hair. He shook his head. “Mordan wants us. We must meet him in his tent.”

    Veryanor grunted with a sneer. 

    “Aren’t we going to eat first? We have barely settled.” 

    “Keep such attitude and I will not share the rabbit I just hunted.”

    Veryanor smirked and gave Rethe an askance glance. 

    “I can hunt my own rabbits, Rethe. So I’ll keep my attitude.” 

    Rethe shrugged.

    “But then you won’t get my stew. And you know how good my stews can be. Come.” He signaled with his head towards whence he had come. “We’ll eat afterwards.” 

    Veryanor scoffed, smiling, and pulled from Alynor’s reins. 

    They made their way back to the camp, and after tying Alynor to a tree by the tent, Veryanor followed Rethe. As they walked she noticed his shoulders had broadened and had more presence in his stride. He sure has grown a lot. She smiled. When she met him, he was nothing but an insecure fellow, always hunching and always looking down when speaking. He had been a smith’s apprentice and never really knew his parents, he told Veryanor when she had joined the company. They had died of famine one harsh winter when he was only ten-and-one and a monastery took him in and raised him. It was in his thirteenth winter’s day when he met his master, who according to him, was the greatest blacksmith to ever set foot in Lorvanar. He never spoke of how he ended up being part of the company, or about his time in the monastery. He would never tell more of what was necessary. And Veryanor never really cared to inquire any further. He was Rethe, her friend. What she knew about him was enough.

    Mordan’s tent was placed in the westernmost rim of the glade. It was a large tent of white canvas, raw and sturdy, and voices came from within. Mordan’s stallion watched Veryanor and Rethe approach with tired eyes as Timm, a young groom, tended to the horse’s needs. 

     After a quick adjustment of her eyes to the dim light, Veryanor could see those present. Morra, Mordan, and K’aldrick… He’s back. 

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    K’aldrick Vann, Mordan’s second in command, was the first to take notice of Rethe's and Veryanor’s arrival. He smiled, halfway showing his canines, and locked eyes with Veryanor. She looked away. Those gray eyes were always a distraction for her, and she found them intimidating yet intriguing all the same. They were sharp and cold, like daggers of ice. But they were also calming as a winter’s day.

    “Ah, young Rethe friend. And Verya, my dear. Greetings.” His foreign accent made him finish his words with a subtle hissing note. He was tall and lithe, with tawny skin, reddish hair and newly grown beard now covered his well defined jaw.

    “Oh, K’aldrick,” Veryanor smirked, placing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know you had returned”

   “Aye,” he said, moved to a table in a corner and took two cups and a wineskin. He served two and offered them to Rethe and Veryanor. His movements were all well studied, as if he new precisely what to do next. His mannerisms and presence were something Veryanor always found intriguing. She barely knew a thing about the man, only that he was from Azbanthyll and that he served in the army many years past “It is a cold, rainy night. Nothing better to warm yourselves than a cup of spiced wine.” 

    Rethe and Veryanor accepted the offer. Veryanor held the cup with both hands as K’aldrick filled it to the brim. 

    “Are you not drinking?” Veryanor took a drought and felt the strands of wine running down to her belly. 

    “Me?” He shook his head, and smiled slyly. “Oh, no, sweet Veryanor, I already found a… much warming welcoming.” 

    Veryanor smiled and scoffed. 

   “By Bloody Ellth, Vann,” said Morra, who sat on a stool by the wooden slab that served as a table. She meticulously ran a whetstone along the curve of her hand ax. She was broad of shoulders, almost as a man’s. Her golden hair was short to the ear and were it not for a smashed nose, hers would have been a beautiful face. “Stop it with your wooing already and get to the bloody point, will you?” 

    Mordan’s throat clearing was loud enough to be heard even under the rain’s pattering. He had his hands resting sullenly on the wooden table where a leather map of Lorvanar was extended on and would not take his gaze from it. 

    “Are we all here now?” He asked harshly, putting an end to the small merriment that had been growing. 

    Morra scoffed and returned to her whetting. 

   “Ormo’s missing,” she said. 

    Mordan grunted. “Then we are not missing much. Rethe, Verya. Come.” He beckoned them closer with a gesture. The map showed colored pins representing the houses’ banners all over. “K’aldrick.”

    “Aye.” K’aldrick nodded. “Count Aldermont waits for us at the Arrion’s borders. He expects us to join him two days from now.”

    Veryanor’s stomach turned just as the name was mentioned, but made her best effort not to show any emotion in front of Mordan.

    Mordan nodded. “What else?”

    K’aldrick remained silent a few moments, then he spoke. 

    “We are outnumbered, Mordan. Galdwein did not show. Or has not yet, at least. Langarde’s and Arnor’s forces almost blanket the whole Olmant plains. Ecklehart and Olmant have spared men to Arnor’s cause. Even with us, Aldermont is short. Ashtenford and Orsten are with him, but their men won’t suffice. If Galdwein doesn’t show, the battle is lost.”

    “This is madness!” Rethe burst suddenly. “Why are we fighting a war that is not even of our concern? Are we going to die just because of some nobles’ dispute? If we are going to fight we should at least join the winning side—”

    “Silence, kid,” Mordan snarled. “We are being paid. You rather turn the company into a bunch of traitors and cravens? What would we have to differentiate us from a gathering of bandits?”

    “At least there would be some company left,” Morra said, not lifting her eyes from her ax or stopping her whetting. 

    Mordan’s lip trembled, and Veryanor could see his only eye crystalline with tears. “Tomorrow we keep marching north. There is nothing else to be discussed here. Go.” The tent slowly emptied. Veryanor was almost out the flaps when Mordan called. “Not you, Veryanor. A word.” He waited silently as candlelight and shadows played on his face. When a few minutes have passed he said, “What do you think of all this?”

    “I think that I am ready for another drink.” Mordan sadly smiled and signaled the table with the skin and cups. She poured herself a cup and drank. “I don’t know, Mordan. What can I think of all this other than that you are acting like a stubborn child? You are sending us to be killed.”

    Mordan did not speak. Veryanor noticed how old he had grown in these two years. Bags had formed beneath his eye, his skin hung in wrinkles and his hair had more white spots than blacks. When she met him he was the captain of four, now the company consisted of more than five hundred, and he carried them all. 

    “However the battle turns, you survive,” he said in a voice that rivaled the sound of the rattling rain. “If it goes wrong, you run. You run and don’t look back.” He went silent. Even though his glare was back on his map and pins, Veryanor knew his mind still thought about what he had just said. 

     “And do what?” she asked tonelessly.

    “Get a better life than this. Please send Morra if you see her.” Veryanor did not move. Mordan would not lift his view. It was pointless trying to argue with him now. She nodded in silence and turned to leave. She crossed the flaps. Outside the rain had stopped but the chill and keen wind still blew through the trees. She pulled her cloak tight and walked across the camp.

    After finding and sending Morra to Mordan’s tent, she came across Rethe, alone in the heat of a small bonfire with a kettle boiling on top of it, distractedly poking the embers with a stick. Rethe was downcast and with a blank face. When he saw Veryanor approach he moved to a side and she sat on a small mossy boulder beside him. He tossed the stick, went to his tent and soon returned with a skin of wine and two horns. He served one for each and sat down. Veryanor and Rethe stared in silence to the crackling flames. She cupped the horn with both of her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. 

    “Do you remember when I joined the Company?” she asked Rethe after some time with a slight slur, as the wine began to make effect. The young mercenary nodded. “The company was made out of only four back then, when guarding that caravan from Port Dolmar to Greatkeep.”

    Rethe smiled as the memory drifted by. “You were a lot thinner back then.” Veryanor frowned and gave him a side glance. Rethe chortled. “No, I mean. It looked like you could break under the weight of a wheat sack. You have put some muscle now, with all that training and all.” 

    Veryanor smirked. 

    “K’aldrick is a good teacher.” 

    “With you, you mean. He can be cruel at times.”

    Both went silent as they drank from their wine. The rain was only a drizzle and the wind crackled the fire, sending fiery ashes adrift. 

    “Did I ever tell you why I stayed?” 

    Rethe shook his head, distracted with the bonfire’s flames. 

    “I… I thought this company would help me achieve something I have been carrying for the past two years. Only a means to such an end. But now it has become my home. What could I do without it?” Rethe did not answer. Whether he was listening or not, Veryanor could not tell. It was clear he was worried about the events that were to come. She tightened the grip on her drinking horn, feeling the texture of the bone hard on her calluses. her lips formed a sad smile as she remembered. Years of practicing the sword had replaced the many scars of cutting wood and crafting instruments with hardened skin. Things do change… they change a lot when you least expect them to. She felt her eyes water as memories surged inside her along with swirls of feelings. Get a better life… She took a another drought. But how could she, when the one who tossed her into this life still lived? Lord Vorick Aldermont. The thought of him forced the growing melancholy turn into anger. I’ll get a better life once he is dead.  She was about to say something. A simple remark about anything without even thinking for the only reason to keep the image of the lord that burnedher village away from her mind. But as she was about to do so, she saw Rethe intent in the flames, barely noticing her presence, absorbed by a thought or revisiting an old memory. We all have burdens of our own. She reflected. Veryanor poured what was left of her wine and raised to leave, snapping Rethe out of his reverie.     

    “Don’t you want to eat? It’s almost ready.” Rethe asked, rushing to unlid the kettle whose seething began to overflow. 

    Veryanor shook her head. 

    “Save me some for the morrow.”

    Returning to her tent she laid on her bedroll and pulled her ring out of her jerkin. She carried it tied with a silver chain about her neck. She examined it in the dark, probed its details with her thumb. The stone was almost black when no light played over it, but in the day the emerald was as green as her eyes, with deep golden curls. She could barely see the engraving on the inner silver. Not that she could read them anyway, for they were written in a foreign language unknown to her. When she was little, she would invent stories concerning the strange letters. Sometimes it would be a song she muttered to herself for days, other times it was a story of maidens and dragons and brave knights and furious battles. Just like the one of Alynor the White Maiden and Nithaërelle, the dragon that bore the stars. Sometimes she just let it be a mystery, and that would be enough. 

Sweet little robin, where do you fly?

O sweet little robin, look how tired you are.

    She began to sing in a low voice a song Rodd would sing to her when she was little. 

Come little robin, your journey can wait.

Cats, little robin, are gathered ahead.

Now fly, little robin, your journey awaits.

    She let out a soft giggle and her eyes became crystalline with tears. She put the ring away, back under her shirt, and closed her eyes. The ring is just a reminder of a life I no longer have. She thought before drifting into sleep