“Isaac, Mark, you two will escort me into the city. I will take one of you,” Frederick began, gesturing at the northerners, “with me as well, I’ll leave it up to you to decide who.”

The began talking among themselves in their own tongue. The argument over who would accompany the commander quickly gave way to a hand game tournament, extending fingers and touching each other’s hands as players dropped out for reasons Isaac couldn’t understand. Eventually Svarja was the victor and she struck an exaggerated victory pose while laughing.

“We’ll be in the city for a few days. Guard the wagons and always remember to keep at least two men on watch at all times, and make sure no one causes any trouble for our noisy friends.” Frederick ordered, pointing at the ever-chanting druids. “And don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone. Reputation is the most important thing a company can have, if anyone behaves in a way that reflects poorly on me I will do whatever I must to ensure he is punished enough to unsully my name.”

The four mercenaries left the others behind and made their way along the road leading into the city. Svarja was almost giddy as the group neared the walls, repeating phrases in her own tongue that Isaac couldn’t understand.

“Do you see the size of these walls?” She said, grabbing Isaac’s shoulder and pointing at the stone fortification encircling the city.

“There’s an even taller one inside,” Isaac replied.

“Even taller?” Svarja exclaimed. “Even taller than these?”

“Yes, these walls aren’t defensive in nature. Well, somewhat. They’re better than nothing but they’re only ten feet high, any determined army could be over these without much difficulty. These were built a few decades ago to incorporate new parts of the city that had built up over the years, makes it easier to collect taxes on residents and tariffs on goods entering the city. The walls of the Old City are nearly thirty feet tall.”

Svarja shook her head in disbelief. “Such walls could never be breached if there were warriors to defend them!”

“That might have been true ten years ago,” Isaac said with a hint of sadness in his voice, “Green Hill proved how ineffective walls are against sustained cannon volleys.”

“Even less effective against airships just floating over them and dropping firepowder,” Mark added. Svarja furrowed her brow and said nothing for a few moments until her excitement at the sight of the city took over and she was giddily pointing at things that caught her eye and repeating words in her own tongue.

The group passed by hastily dwellings outside of the city walls. A few were crude shacks, more were simply tents, many were nothing more than a blanket held off the ground by sticks. Masses of dirty people in rags were in these slums, many sitting beside the road with hands outstretched, begging for coins or food from passersby.

“Do not even think of giving these people anything,” Frederick warned his escorts, “give to one, all the rest will expect something and could turn violent if they think you’re holding out.”

“Why why we give them anything? What would we give?” Svarja whispered to Isaac.

“Food, or money.” Isaac replied.

“Why would we trade with them? They have no goods to offer. Or do your people look at the entrance of the city when in need of day laborers?”

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Isaac chuckled. “No no, not like that. They’re begging for alms.”

Svarja raised an eyebrow.

“Alms? Charity?” Isaac added, seeing the confused look on his companion’s face. “Something to help feed them? Surely you have beggars in your lands, people unable to work due to injury or sickness?”

“We have no such thing!” Svarja scoffed. “And many of these do not look like cripples.”

Isaac looked at the crowds on either side of the road. Many did, in fact, look like relatively healthy young men and women in addition to the usual beggars who were unable to perform hard manual labor for whatever reason.

“No one gets sick or injured or old in your country?” Isaac asked.

“Don’t be absurd, of course they do,” Svarja replied with a dismissive laugh and wave. “But my people have honor. If we become a burden to our clan we find a cliff and hurl ourselves from it, or ask our family to throw us if we are unable to make the journey ourselves. We don’t want the end of our story to be page after page of ‘and then Svarja lay in a bed, eating food others gathered and giving nothing back,’ it would be shameful!”

“Your land sounds like a harsh place to live.”

“The world is harsh. When winter comes, you light fires and put on furs. Whining that the snow should feel like a sun-warmed beach in summer while only result in lost toes.”

The group made their way through the outer gate. With no goods to tax the guards waved them through. Past the outer walls the road continued to the inner city. On either side was a tall fence of vertical wooden poles with sharply pointed tips, erected within the last few years, separating the road from the long, narrow fields beyond. No doubt put up to keep would-be thieves from picking the crops clean before they even had a chance to ripen. The crops, still shorter than they should be at this time of year, were still the tallest and greenest of any Isaac had seen in a long time.

A dirt road the width of a single cart ran parallel to the stone-paved one with the fence separating the two. Every dozen or so paces another road the same width would cut through the field. Isaac wondered at the waste of land until he saw it: several wagons with large wooden barrels being pulled by teams of horses down several of the paths. Attached to the barrels were pumps being operated by two men each, spraying a long arc of water across the strip of crops to the left of the wagons.

“Is that how they feed the city?” Svarja asked, pointing at the wagon. “They water the crops with these contraptions?”

“I’m sure it helps keep the noble houses from starving,” Isaac replied, “but there’s not enough farmland between the walls to feed the entire city even before the drought.”

“How many people live in this place?”

“The last census before the war placed the population at just over a quarter of a million people.” Frederick said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in to your conversation.”

“A quarter million? I can’t even imagine that many!” Svarja called out, eyes wide. “King’s Hold is the largest city in all of the north and it has perhaps ten thousand during the trading season.”

The group continued towards the gates of the old city, past the outer farmlands until they reached the taller walls of the sprawling inner city. Again, lacking goods to inspect and tax, the four mercenaries were able to pass by the guards as merchants argued the value of what they were bringing and how much they should pay to enter.

Beyond the inner walls the city was a dense maze of narrow streets, alleyways, and closely-packed buildings. Isaac felt his heart racing as Frederick lead the group through the streets, dodging crowds of people and horse-drawn carriages manned by shouting drivers. Beggars called out to passersby from the alley entrances while filthy, skeletal figures sat or lay on the ground behind them.

“Thralls live better than this,” Svarja muttered to no one, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

After what felt like an eternity Frederick lead them into a nicer area of the city. Homes and shops were larger, the streets mostly clean of human and animal waste, beggars kept away by patrolling watchmen. The group stopped in front of low brick building with barred windows.

“First, we visit an old friend of mine," Frederick said, ascending the steps to the door, “then we secure a place to spend the night. Tomorrow we get our business done and leave here as quickly as we can.”