2

Old Friends

The coin purse landed in his hand; lighter than he expected and much lighter than he preferred. He bounced it experimentally, hoping that more would suddenly materialize.

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all.’ The Guildhead barely looked up from scribbling in his ledger.

‘Come on. There has to be more than that.’

‘There isn’t.’

‘They’re bandits attacking traders. That’s got to affect your bottom line, right?’

‘They’re bandits attacking traders who refuse to use official toll roads. Their goods are a minor concern at best.’ The quill feather danced away along the pages of the heavy book, occasionally hopping over to the vial of ink before hopping back. ‘You get paid what your work is worth.’

‘Shit on it. Even with the furs, this is barely enough to cover the rest of the week!’

‘And how does this concern me?’

‘You’d lose the valuable service of a group of professional mercenaries.’

The vulturous man let out a minor chuckle; probably the most he had laughed all year. He finally peered at Ludgar through thin spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his hooked beak. ‘Valuable? Hardly. At this point, you’re more like pest control. Sellswording has become an obsolete business. No one needs it. I’d suggest a different vocation. I hear glassblowing in Savanti is becoming increasingly popular.’

He had him there. Mercenary work was definitely out of fashion; anyone who was still in the game went west.

Kingdoms once needed him. Back when their territories were still expanding. When he was young; way too young. When his uncle had taught him everything he knew. He fought with their armies, killed their enemies; sometimes the reverse, but they didn’t need to know that.

Times change. Maybe he needed to change too.

He bid the Guildhead a half-arsed farewell and left, kicking over a bucket on his way out.

He stepped out into the murky streets of Orrick. Grey skies, grey buildings, light drizzle. Disappointing weather for a disappointing day. He turned up his collar against the sting of the bitter wind and thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets.

He walked through the cobbled streets, weaving through the crowd of townsfolk filtering past. Was it his imagination, or did they all seem to be in high spirits? Given the untimely death of the King, a possible civil war had been brewing between two noble families seeking the throne; that’s the entire reason he was here. Why did they seem so happy? Even amongst all these people, he felt quite lonesome.

He hoped there would be a conflict. They had less money than they wanted and less work than he needed. Actually, no; what he needed right now was a drink.

He set off toward The King’s Mare, somewhere familiar and cheap. Deeper into the heart of the capital, nestled comfortably in the old alleyway where old oak and stone buildings clashed with the brickwork of new. Where twisted hovels fought for space against the ridged, angular structures of modern construction. Where the roofs rise high and the streets run low.

The sign lazily swung in the breeze. A horse bearing a crown. He wondered where most taverns got their names.

Dim lighting, smoky air, light crackling of logs burning in the fireplace. Perfect.

One quick payment and a mug of ale later, Ludgar settled himself into a distant, cozy corner. He took a swig. Smooth with a bitter aftertaste. Not the best, but fine for what he paid. The good stuff usually comes from Goustenwal, and imports cost more. And the damn nobles usually buy up the good stuff before the rest can trickle down to places like these.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He sat back, rubbing at the base of his snout between the eyes, trying to prevent the onset of a coming headache.

He felt like he was running out of options. They can’t go on picking off bandits, making what amounted to peanuts and sawdust. And as much as he liked the city, he really needed the money. Sure, it would be sad to see it engulfed in war, a city he spent a good bit of time in, the closest thing he could call “home,” but he only really had one skill-set and he needed to eat. His last option was heading west. So yes, he was certainly running out of options if there were only two left.

Then rang the familiar chime of the bell above the door. Two people walked in — a man and a woman — dressed in a fine uniform, brushed, pressed, and polished to a standard even the display items of a well-to-do tailors could only dream of. A double-breasted coat in royal blue, trimmed with gold.

Now he remembered why he liked this tavern so much; an old hotspot for off duty royal soldiers.

He was sure he recognized them, but wasn’t sure if he should stand and greet them, or slink back and hope they didn’t see him.

‘Ludgar?’ Apparently it was decided for him. They walked over with their own mugs, approaching his table. ‘Ludgar, is that you?’

He looked up after feigning his obliviousness. ‘Well if it isn’t Brenn and Marsa! How the hell have you two been?’

He walked up to Brenn, grasping his hand and gripping him on the shoulder with the other. For Marsa he went for a one-armed hug.

They sat down together in the dim tavern corner. Marsa removed her helmet, letting her ears drop and fall with her hair. Strange that they allowed a hare in the military, given their lack of aggression, but they’re fast and make great scouts; so maybe it’s not that strange. Brenn was everything you saw in a dog: kind and loyal; almost to a detriment. He even looked like a wolf, just a little smaller. Less threatening.

‘Can’t say we’ve been doing too bad,’ said Brenn, sipping at his mug. ‘Marsa here looks like she may be going up in the ranks.’

Ludgar turned to her and managed as much of a smile as he could for something he didn’t value much. ‘That’s great! What’ll that put you at?’

‘Captain,’ she said. ‘Probably be sending me south to oversee the garrisons at Wulther.’

He was happy for her, in his own way. He just didn’t put much value in the current system of ascension. Be born of a noble name and don’t fuck up seemed to be the creed. ‘Why don’t you come back to the military?’ she said. ‘You’re a good fighter, but merc work is just pointless right now; no one wants ‘em. You could easily teach these recruits a thing or two.’

‘Sorry Marsa, not happening. I can’t stand the bullshit. I’ve probably fought in more battles than most of those sergeants put together, but damn them if they think being a fighter hinges on how nice your uniform looks or how well you can polish a buckle.’ He finished the dregs that sat at the bottom of his mug. ‘Hell, I’d never make it to the officer ranks to begin with. Need to be born right for that.’ That left an awkward pause. The two soldiers' eyes finding more interest in the contents of their mugs.

‘So,’ Ludgar said, breaking the silence, ‘what side are you gonna be fighting on? You fight under Lord Allistor, right? Who does he believe to be king?’ Brenn and Marsa give each other a look, and Brenn tentatively fiddled with his gloved hand. Ludgar noticed, onsetting an uneasy feeling. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘No?’

‘There’s… there’s not going to be a war.’

He felt something in his stomach drop. ‘What?’

‘The late king has an heir.’

It took a moment to process this new information. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘A bastard child, hidden away. Hidden with some other noble family. Spitting image of the king. Gorst and Varrich can’t dispute it, now when the kid’s old enough, he’ll take the throne from the regent.’

That explains why everyone looked so upbeat. He put his head in his hands, scratching at the back of his head. ‘Why the fuck did this have to happen now?’

‘Shit, I think you’re the only person I know that’s actually been looking forward to a civil war. You’re kinda messed up, aren’t ya?’

He probably was. ‘How’d you hear about this anyway?’

‘The daily briefings. You know, the ones you rarely attended.’

‘And the ones that you did attend, you slept through,’ Marsa added.

‘I would have listened in to something like that. Besides, if they wanted me to pay attention, they should have been less dull.’ He sat back, leaning his chair against the back wall. ‘I take it they couldn’t keep it under wraps.’

‘Not news that big, no.’ Brenn stretched and undid the finely polished buttons of his jacket.

They sat in silence for a moment as Ludgar ruminated. His decision was made for him. He was almost relieved.

‘We got tomorrow off,’ Marsa said, breaking the silence. ‘You should come with us. Have a drink, for old times' sake.’

Ludgar pondered for a moment, staring at the empty remains of his mug. ‘I’m meeting my crew early tomorrow, to decide what we do next… Ah, fuck it. A few can’t hurt, right?’