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Rollon Martel
The Commandant
Sheep, Dogs & Tyeusfort
Part II
-The Dogs of Eikenport-
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[https://i.postimg.cc/4N0q2Lxs/Tyeusfort.jpg]
Flavius Super, first Sergeant of the Gallant Dogs veteran wing that is fighters with at least a year of service under their belts, scrunched the left side of his face, edge of his horseshoe mustache angling along with it.
Crafton, the Nord member of the ‘original committee’ that is the ‘gold badge’ original founders of the unit, stared at his stack of papers as if to find the answer. Liko who had a ‘gold badge’ as well, but Rollon Martel had no idea why, just grinned which was funny when he was younger, but now it was just plain creepy.
Martel pushed back on his chair, front legs lifting a bit from the floor of his headquarters’ office and stared at his subordinate knowingly.
“What do you say?”
“Captain... Commandant,” Sergeant Super started afore correcting himself, with Martel goading him along.
“That’s right.”
“The boys have a legitimate query,” Super continued, with Martel interrupting him again to break his rhythm. One picks up a technique early in the service, something that fucking works and expounds on it. Honing, preparation, logistics mean nothing without good leadership.
“What’s that?” Rollon asked.
“We need to have a vote on returning to the three-month pay routine, so they can plan on improvements in their living situation, or placate their wives,” the sergeant had just repeated his previous points.
Most armies will work fine once ye get the aforementioned stuff figured out.
“Out of the question,” Rollon Martel said gruffly and Sergeant Super stood back repeating the same cycle of grimaces as before.
Unless you run a mercenary company, then while the former are still important, what trumps it all is coin. A king can order men forward and into harm’s way, a priest can cite the Allgods wishes to do the same, but a mercenary will give you the middle finger unless you have the coin ready and in time.
“Now Captain and I speak candidly here,” Super said shifting on his feet. “This tone is really something that won’t sit well with the men.”
“One month,” Crafton offered looking at his scrolls. “Silver per day, almost four gold Eagles per month.”
“Two,” Super said.
“Silver?” Crafton asked ogling his eyes in horror at the prospect. “Why, stick a dagger in my sphincter and spin me around!”
“Hahaha!” Martel guffawed at the ridiculous demand and Crafton’s retort, almost toppling himself backwards along with the chair.
Fuck’s sake!
“Two months,” Super explained a nervous tick in his left eye.
Martel breathed once deeply to calm his heart down. He had almost broken his neck right then and there.
“Out of the question,” he finally said, when everything slowed down sufficiently.
“I’d like the reason,” Super argued.
Martell used his index finger’s knuckle to rub the underside of his nose hard.
“Garth has slowed down payments, due to winter. Why, the roads are practically meter-high in mud and water snakes.”
“It’s almost summer and we’ve a sea route open.”
Eh.
“I was speaking about the previous months,” Martel replied undaunted and then glanced behind him at the wonderful sunny day. “I find your skepticism disconcerting first sergeant.”
“I was tasked to put forth legitimate demands—”
“Let me stop you right there,” Martel told him with a gesture. “Do you know who said that?” He pointed at the first of the three large bronze framed colored portraits behind him with a thumb.
Sergeant Super, a former guard from Rida that had risen in the ranks frowned and stared at the painting. Martel didn’t have to turn around.
“That’s Captain Dante Blackwood,” he told his sergeant. “The Gallant Dogs founding member and its first officer.”
“I’m aware,” Super grunted not liking Martel steering the conversation away. “Blackwood is dead Captain.”
“Killed near Teid River at Hellfort. That’s in Altarin,” Martel told him. “He was under contract then by the same man who pays our bills today. Only our employer didn’t have the gravitas he has now. Still Blackwood never questioned him.”
The latter probably his biggest lie yet.
“Right,” Super grunted not convinced.
“The third portrait you know well. It’s Captain Ottis,” Martel continued. “What’s the word I’m looking for here sergeant?”
“Ahm, bravery?” Super chanced having lost the Captain’s train of thought. “Naivety?”
“Close enough. It’s trust,” Martel corrected the sergeant with a scowl. “The Dogs are working with Garth for too long to doubt him now.”
What a bunch of bullshit.
“What’s that got to do—?” Super rightly protested and Martel sighed afore cutting him off.
“One month pay. Trust the system, put everyone in line,” he told the frowning sergeant. “Protect the Company’s coffers Flavius.”
“Are the coffers empty?”
“Of course not. It’s emptying them what we’re trying to avoid here good man.”
“Eh,” the sergeant grunted and marched out of his office.
“Can we afford that?” He asked Crafton the moment Super was out of the door.
“Not for long,” Crafton replied and waved for Liko to get them a bottle of rum.
“You drink that?” Martel asked him and Crafton furrowed his brows.
“I use it to clean the ink out of my hands.”
“Aha. Pour me a cup lad,” Martel said and turned to the man handling the Company’s finances. “We need to pressure Glen to resume payments.”
“He looks to campaign deeper in Wetull,” Crafton replied wiping his hands with the strong liquid. “Between us, with the way he’s spending coin we might not get any pay our way soon.”
Good grief!
“That sounds irresponsible. You think he’ll bring us in?”
“Not unless he wants to lose the summer and the city,” Crafton said. “That’s a long march and he needs the ships to make a bit of coin back.”
“Absolutely. Ye think the city is in danger?” Martel queried eyeing him worried.
“We have a rebel princess staying here. Pirates, Issirs and an aggrieved Cofol Prince. I ain’t optimistic.”
“Speaking of the aggrieved,” Martel said. “Liko you have Wyncall in this card? I can barely make the name out lad.”
“It’s an appointment,” Liko replied sipping at a cup of rum. “Wrote it on me knee.”
“For when? There’s no time written on it,” Martel protested.
“Didn’t know the time,” Liko said with a shrug. “I can go call him now.”
“Might as well,” Martel murmured and glanced at Crafton.
“Why is he still here?”
“He pleaded to the princess and she released them to us as workforce,” Crafton replied what Martel of course knew.
“I mean, didn’t we ask them to get the fuck out of our camp?”
“Mercenary code dictates you provide for fellow mercenaries,” Crafton said.
“We aren’t in the Guild right?”
Crafton pointed his finger at the picture of a dashing Dante Blackwood. “He was. Registered in Castalor and everything.”
Eh, Martel grimaced and then burped his stomach burning.
It was the rum.
Damnit.
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“How’s the arm?” Martel asked the former ‘Gold Contract’ company officer.
“It’s fine Captain Martel,” Nathaniel Wyncall replied, tapping his right arm once. “Much better that is.”
“It’s Commandant Martel,” Rollon corrected him.
“Apologies.”
“You have a proposition Captain?” he asked moving on.
“I do. More than that really.”
“Before you start,” Martel said, glancing at Crafton taking notes. “Why are you still here?”
Wyncall stood back on his chair, his thin blond mustache dancing on his upper lip.
“The Bank doesn’t like setbacks.”
“It was a bit more than a setback,” Martel pointed with a forced smile.
“It was,” Wyncall admitted. “Which is why, I’m in a delicate position. You fail the bank, you better disappear. I’m a known officer.”
“The men sleeping and eating in my camp aren’t,” Martel grunted. “I have more workers than work available and hosting two hundred men is costly. Why, it’s ruinous. I don’t deal in slaves and I don’t run a prison. They are free to go. So I’d like to know why they are still here.”
“I may have expounded on the Bank’s wrath for our failure,” Wyncall replied.
“To include them. You want them here,” Martel said.
“It increases my personal value,” the officer replied callously.
“It also drains the Dogs coffers,” Martel grunted.
“Hence why I have a proposal nigh beneficial for you Captain.”
“Commandant,” Martel corrected him. “It’s above captain.”
“It is,” Wyncall agreed all friendly. “You need men. I have them. Well-trained, honest mercenary folk, Guild certified.”
“I have men aplenty,” Martel retorted gruffly. “Yer men have killed a lot of people in Eikenport. Some out of combat. Plenty of them non-combatants as in womenfolk. So yer honest part is full of holes.”
“It was D’Orsi’s fault. We’ll blame him.”
“We… are not a thing. You claim innocence? I ain’t as soft-hearted as the Princess.”
“You are a clever man,” Wyncall replied readily. “First, I wasn’t here.”
“Would you have vetoed D’Orsi?” Martel stopped him.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Wyncall shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter? You have an opportunity here.”
“What I have is difficulty paying the men I employ,” Martel replied. “Adding more…” he glanced at Crafton who was listening in.
“Would be a malarkey,” Crafton said.
“What he said,” Martel added with a frown.
“There’s a rumor,” Wyncall started, moving forward on his chair. “The princess might move on Dia.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Not really. It cleans up the coast and road to Wetull. It will help you communicate with the man running the show.”
“We communicate fine and Garth ain’t in bed with the princess,” Martel grunted.
“Eh, whatever the case may be. Your problem lies with the Khan. He will come for Eikenport,” Wyncall said. “Unless it’s… what was the word?” He asked Crafton with a smile. “Foolhardy to attempt it.”
“Hmm.”
“The Khan comes here, you can forget your little district,” Wyncall continued. “Which I find excellent by the way. A mercenary run city.”
“That’s not what this is,” Martel corrected him.
“Your company is the lifeline of the district. The district is the normal part of Eikenport. Yes the Cofols have their corner, but they are mostly merchants. This is the real heart of the city. I leave the pirates out of course.”
“They are the biggest part,” Martel said. “So you can’t leave them out.”
“You’ll accept the Dogs pay, if we agree on a contract?” Crafton asked and Martel snapped his head to glare at him.
More a half-angry half-surprised expression.
“Of course. Is it standard rate?” Wyncall replied.
“How much was the Bank paying?”
“Two gold per week. Three for the officers,” Martel almost drown in his spit. He blinked once in shock, but Crafton remained unfazed hearing the gold contract was a real thing.
“Less than half than that,” Crafton told him and Wyncall recoiled as if he’d taken a hammer to his knee.
“Surely, you’re jesting,” he croaked.
“Ye know Captain,” Martel said playing along with Crafton’s plan, despite not knowing what the plan was. “For a man looking to hide amidst the dogs, you appear rather penny-pinching.”
“How is it…?” Wyncall sighed deeply and stared at the portraits thoughtfully. He blinked a moment later looking amused. “Is that a Gish?”
“Aye,” Martel said with a smile. “She’s the chief of the committee. Gold badge member, Mister Crafton as well. He deals wit logistics. So we have our own gold shit too. This is the time where you either take the deal, or pack up and ride into the fucking desert captain.”
Wyncall gulped down and nodded with a weary sigh.
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An hour later Martel was inspecting the repaired catapult the ‘Three Hundred’ had left them as present with sergeant of engineers Richard White, another Raoz ex-army soldier and engineer.
“I’m not comfortable firing it from inside the walls,” he told him.
“No danger,” White assured him. A heavy set man, with absolutely no hairs on his head. He make up for it by having a sheep-like blanket on his chest. White kept his shirt open to showcase it to the ladies.
“What if it doesn’t work? Or it strikes the wall and brings it down? Even worse lands amidst the houses?” Martel fired one query after the other, afore spotting Poole running towards them.
“Chief,” Poole said. A local fresh recruit that had just turned eighteen. “The angry knight just rode through the gates.”
“Ahm,” Martel murmured, an eye on White fiddling with the levers dangerously, the other on the young Dog soldier.
“The one with the big raven?” the young soldier said.
Shit.
“I’ll be right there,” Martel grunted. “Sergeant do not fire that thing!” He barked and White gestured with both hands to calm him down.
“We’ll use a watermelon,” he assured him and signed for his assistant to proceed. “A test shot.”
“I need to talk wit—”
“It’ll be a minute,” Sergeant White cut him off. “Pull it Rick!”
Clang went the catapult afore Martel could stop them. The long arm swinging upwards, the large bucket and the spring rattling when it released its payload. Martel watched along with the Dogs present and several bystanders the dark-green watermelon flying true for forty meters towards the outer walls reaching the top of its arc and then dropping for another forty. It clipped the blacksmith’s wife head, the woman was returning with a case of tools in her hands and exploded on the wall of Heller’s workshop with a shocking splash.
Missing the outer wall by more than ten meters.
“Shit,” White said impressed, or thinking what would have happened if he’d used the standard sixty kilo boulder, just as the apron-wearing Heller came out of his workshop alarmed and yelped seeing his wife sprawled senseless on the road.
“Go and deal wit it,” Martel grunted at the troubled sergeant and marched after Poole to talk with Lord Ruud’s firstborn.
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Some families were well-known. No way around it. Be it on Jelin, or even Eplas. While all known families were trouble to deal with, some were even more dangerous than others. Whether they were Issirs or Lorians it mattered little.
The De Weers were one those houses you wanted to be on good terms both for professional and personal reasons.
Sir Gust was a brawny knight. All knights appear beefy, heavily armoured, usually tall and well-trained and more often than not lethal in the field, but Gust was ever more impressive. The knight was clad in his dark-grey plate cuirass, arms and legs covered as well, a longsword strapped on his waist. He didn’t have his dark priestly robes on and wore no helm. His angular face, a dark-brown color, his long white hair gathered back with a leather strap.
The knight accompanying him not as tall and having a moon engraved on his chest, where Gust had a black raven. He looked just as dangerous, but for the hint of a smirk on his mouth, where Sir Gust had a scowl hearing his greeting.
“Martel,” Gust rustled as if he was ready to challenge the Commandant in a duel to the death.
“Sir Gust, Sir Jan,” Martel said civilly. “What can the Dogs do for you? Unless it is a personal visit?” He queried just to be sure.
“It isn’t,” Gust grunted. “We need to talk.”
“No better place,” Martel retorted with a nervous smile showing his office. “It’s modest, but—”
“Who’s he?” Gust asked.
“That’s Mister Crafton,” Martel explained. “He’s—”
“Hmm.”
“What Sir Gust wants to talk about is sensitive,” Sir Jan intervened.
“Crafton is trustworthy,” Martel defended the Company’s scribe and purse holder.
“I wouldn’t have used that word,” Gust grunted and shifted on his chair. Martel tensed up expecting the furniture to come apart but it didn’t. “Still if you vouch for him, he can stay.”
“Right,” Martel said unsure and Crafton cleared his throat nervously. “What is it that Scaldingport wants?”
“This isn’t about Scaldingport,” Gust retorted hoarsely.
“I’m all ears was my meaning.”
“We want the Gallant Dogs to assist us in taking Tyeusfort and cutting off Prince Radin’s supply,” Gust said straightforwardly.
Haha.
“Ah,” Martel said seeing the knight was serious. “Assault a castle you say.”
“A Cofol build,” Gust corrected him, downplaying it.
“Be that as it may, I assume there’re walls involved and people manning them,” Martel continued with a grimace. “A Prince as well roaming about.”
“Yes,” Gust agreed. “That’s it.”
“Ehem, can I have an estimate on the numbers?”
“We don’t have them,” Sir Jan told him. “Upwards of a thousand defenders for sure. A couple of thousand riders with the Prince.”
“So, an army basically.”
“Their forces are split,” Gust said and looked about the office. “You have a map?”
“Sure,” Martel said, being the opposite. “Liko!”
The young man popped his head from the door. He was standing outside listening in.
“Find Sergeant Super and bring him with his maps here,” Martel ordered.
“Ayup,” Liko said and sprinted for the barracks.
“Let me just say to get it out of the way,” Martel started stooping to clasp his hands in front of him on the desk. “That we don’t have the numbers required for the task my lord.”
“You have a city to recruit from,” Sir Jan Reuten noted. “The best paid job in Eikenport.”
Crafton frowned at his words and stared at his papers.
“It’s not as you make it sound,” Martel replied unclasping his fingers. “A recruit needs training and not everyone trained will make it. After the battle we had around six hundred new recruits eager to join. Very few stayed for the full month of trials.”
“How many do you have now?” Gust asked.
Martel licked the front of his teeth thoughtfully. What the knights wanted was not only difficult, but also required a serious commitment in men and equipment away from the city, which wasn’t in their contract details.
It’s one thing to guard a city, another to storm a Cofol castle miles away. Whatever the hells that meant.
“Crafton?” He said and the Company’s record keeper –Crafton handled a very big number of jobs along with Liko- cleared his throat afore replying.
“Three hundred and fifty on the payroll.”
“There,” Martel said. “We simply don’t have the numbers.”
“Plus two hundred from the ‘Gold Contract’ under Wyncall,” Crafton continued and Martel turned to look at him rattled.
What are you doing? His eyes asked him.
“Around four hundred trained spears,” Crafton said looking at Sir Gust.
“Will they stay in front of a charging horse?” Gust asked.
“Very few people I know would,” Crafton replied truthfully. “Our late Captain Blackwood did, if it’s any indication to the unit’s commitment.”
What?
“Hmm,” Gust had resorted to his usual retort.
“We can’t take raw recruits on campaign,” Martel protested. “They’ll cut them down for crying out loud!”
“Five hundred men,” Sir Jan murmured thinking out loud and Martel glared at him. “Could storm a wall if a breach is made.”
“Use the spears to guard a flank, if the river is the other,” Gust said expounding on his thought. “Have the cavalry block Radin for a while.”
“How much cavalry are we talking about?” Martel hissed besides himself for losing control of the conversation.
“Around two hundred,” Sir Jan replied.
“To stop a couple of thousand Cofols?”
“Robert must move out of Tirifort for this to work,” Gust said not paying him any attention.
Martel sighed deeply and watched Liko returning with an armful of maps. The young man entered his office, bringing dirt inside and deposited his load on Crafton separate desk.
“Are the pirates going to help?” He asked the two knights. “Because the other solution is to talk to Clint about using Sid Cross’ Marauders and we don’t want them unleashed on a foreign city. They barely behave in Eikenport.”
“You’re talking criminals,” Gust grunted sounding troubled.
“When in a pirate infested city…” Martel started, then paused. “I assume we have the Princess’ blessing?”
“Well, let us worry about that,” Sir Jan replied.
“Right. Then there’s the matter of compensation,” Martel continued not fully reassured by his reply. The guards at the gates of the Dogs permanent camp raising a ruckus for some reason. “I have to charge you for men and material. Animals, supply train and war machines.”
“You have war machines?” Gust asked very interested.
Martel thought of Heller’s wife dropping like a rock earlier and coughed agitated.
“Let me worry about that, but yes we do,” he replied a merchant’s smile on his face. “They are very expensive, but nothing for rich folk like yerselves.”
Now Sir Gust looked really troubled, his face darkened even more, coal black eyes stilled on a map Liko had unfurled and kept open. The sound of horses galloping inside the camp unmistakable. What in gods green realm? Martel thought and got up from his desk.
Sergeant Super beating him to the punch bursting inside his office bringing even more material in. Dirt, mud and small pebbles, even hay.
Fuck’s sake!
“Chief,” the sergeant reported under the sound of many hooves approaching. “Anne Burton just rode through the gates.”
“Who?” Martel croaked his mind not working.
“The Princess,” Super elucidated. “She’s coming right here.”
Gods darn it!
Martel looked about his dirty office frustrated. “Liko put the maps down and grab the broom!” he barked getting around his desk, Sir Gust jumping on his feet as well the chair clattering down behind him afore coming apart. “Pick up the broken chair as well while at it! Toss the pieces in the fireplace. Clean it up fast!” He bellowed half-panicked.
“She’s outside Chief,” Sergeant Super reported peeking out the door.
“Eh,” Sir Jan chuckled and pushed himself up as well.
“What is she doing?” Martel asked eyeing Liko sweeping the floor as fast as he could, raising a ton of dust in the process inside the office. One could barely breathe in the cloud of dust he’d created.
“Waiting on her horse chief,” Super replied. “It’s a big horse. I don’t believe she can come down off of it.”
Turd in the veggie soup!
Damnit!
“Liko,” he barked and started walking towards the door flaying his arms to clear some of the dust cloud out of the way. “Put the broom down and run to help her get down lad!”
Liko dropped the broom and sprinted to the door, Sir Gust beating him there, shoving Martel away and putting an arm out to block the moving fast and fully committed to reach the princess young man. Liko pushed against Gust’s arm, eyes ogling to overcome him, but then he was heaved backwards so hard and with so much force Martel’s desk just couldn’t stop him.
So it came apart as well.
Naossis beautiful fucking tits!
“Well,” Sergeant Super said moving out of Sir Gust’s way leaving it at that.
“Eh, put it on the tab,” Sir Jan commented in a friendly reassuring manner, while Crafton helped pick a delirious Liko from the floor, Martel’s office looking bombarded all of sudden.
The commandant blinked and proceeded to the entrance, the dust slowly settling down and paused there. Not five meters away, the flushed Princess of Kaltha stood atop her great warhorse unsure, until Sir Gust marched there to offer his assistance.
A big crowd of Dogs gathering around the headquarters.
“I’m heavy,” the Princess warned the tall knight, when he reached with an arm to help her climb down her horse.
So Sir Gust just lifted her off the saddle with both hands rather effortlessly and put her down before the small-bodied royal brood could get her gasp of surprise fully out.
“There’s word,” Sir Jan told Martel coming to stand right beside him at the open door, the latter’s mouth puckered at the bizarre day’s happenings. “He dragged a boar the size of that horse down a mountain some years back. On one leg.”
“Aha,” Martel grunted genuinely impressed, but also not forgetting a chief’s main job was to take care of the unit’s needs. “Has the Princess agreed to your campaign Sir Jan?” he asked the handsome knight looking at the weirdly sheepish around each other couple. Two of the most powerful families on Jelin being all weird and awkward.
Mmm.
“I pride myself on being a Knight of the three kingdoms Martel, so I rather not lie to gain advantage,” Sir Jan told him. “She hasn’t fully agreed.”
Yeah, that’s skirting the plaguing border my lad, far as truth is concerned.
“Has she fully disagreed? It would be nigh awkward to storm the Prince's army only to realize his wife decided to patch things up wit him. That’s gallows-worthy shite right there, if you pardon my Lesian sir Knight.”
“I cross my fingers,” Sir Jan replied truthfully looking at the approaching famed scions. “They work it out. It’s a very long story this.”
And it was unclear to the commandant of the Gallant Dogs what Sir Jan meant, or to whom he was referring to.
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