The rest of the journey passed uneventfully. Whoever sent the raiders had obviously learnt their lesson, and by the time the Tide arrived at port, Calris was thoroughly bored again. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare as he climbed out of the hold and turned to haul Ban on deck beside him. Bored though he was, at least they were finally here.

Salazaar.

Calris paused atop the gangway to survey the port laid out before him. Despite its appearance, Salazaar wasn’t part of the Emrinthian Empire. The Six Cities, looming on the hill behind the port, would never tolerate their connection to the outside world falling into anyone else’s hands, but the proximity to the empire was still clear everywhere he looked. The style of the buildings, the goods on sale in the open-air markets…

And the sand.

“I fucking hate sand,” Calris muttered as he walked the worn plank to the dock, grimacing at the bright red dust carpeting everything in sight.

“On the bright side, at least it won’t rain while we’re here!” Ban offered with a bright smile. Calris turned a withering glare on his friend.

“Don’t you dare be positive about this.”

“Well, I think it’s quite a welcome change and if you’re determined to be a sad sack about it, then, by all means, go on. You know I get a kick out of it. But, consider this…”

Ban nudged Calris in the ribs and inclined his head towards a building on the far side of the road. People streamed in and out of the entrance arches, those heading in obviously eager, and those coming out a little unsteady on their feet.

“Port visits are always what you make of them,” Ban said.

“Well, this dust is making me mighty thirsty.”

“Yeah, and I think I saw a stable with some donkeys down the way, too. You know, if you get lonely later.”

Calris laughed and shook his head, preparing a comeback when someone started shouting behind him. They turned to find a pair of porters carrying a heavy-looking chest down the plank from The Jolly Rambler. An old man with fiery red hair and a long, wispy beard berated them the whole way. Apparently, he was pissed they had managed to drop the box before even disembarking the ship.

“What do you suppose is in there?” Calris asked, eyes fixed on the scene before them.

“Beats me, but it must be worth a fair bit, given the fight the raiders put up. At any rate, it’s not our problem now. We’ve done our job, and I’d rather not get mixed up in mage business.”

“Mage business?”

“Yeah mate, look at the old man’s skin. Looks like cured leather. He’s Emrinthian, and Emrinthians don’t have red hair. That codger is a fire mage. I’d bet five silvers on it.”

“I’ll take that bet if you’re up for it.”

“Done.”

“So we gonna go ask him then or what?”

“Fuck no. We’re gonna go drink. We’ll ask Sarge about it later.”

“Fair,” Calris replied, and resumed his march to the tavern.

*

“And then I hear this squealing behind me, so I dive out of the way, and look up to see Cal barrelling past on a saddled pig with a dozen city guards and an angry noble chasing after him. The best bit was the half-naked woman hanging off the noble insisting that it ‘wasn’t what it looked like!’”

Ban roared with laughter and slammed his tankard onto the table, spilling warm ale everywhere. He was telling his favourite pub story about Calris’ romantic misadventure in the capital two years ago. Calris was certain the story was completely fabricated, but couldn’t prove it as he honestly didn’t remember much of the night. If the story wasn’t so excessive, he may even have believed it.

As things stood, though, there was nothing he could do but endure the mortifying story every time Ban told it. With a weary sigh, Calris raised his face from where he had buried it in his hands and looked at the laughing faces around him. The Sixth Squad had heard this story at least a dozen times before, but they still found it hilarious every time. Besides, they all knew who the target audience really was.

A cute local was currently perched on Ban’s lap, covering her mouth in mock horror, trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh. They all played along. Calris pretended to be suitably embarrassed while the rest of the Sixth acted like they were hearing it all for the first time.

The system worked. Ban would no doubt retire to an upstairs room with the Emrinthian lass within the hour.

“I think I need another drink,” Calris grumbled as he stood. “Who’s keen?”

The rest of the squad slurred a drunken chorus of ‘aye!’ and ‘the fuck you think?’ as he swayed over to the bar, staring back at his mates as he waited in line.

Gods, he loved his squad.

The rest of the company called them The Mongrels behind their backs, if they were smart, or to their faces if they weren’t. Running with it, though, the Sixth had given each other nicknames to reflect their distinct character.

Mouse was the smallest member of the squad, standing just a smidge taller than Ban but with an almost impossibly light build. Coupled with her youth, a mess of blonde hair and baby blue eyes, many people either mistook her for a child, underestimated her as an opponent, or both. In battle, she carried a short sword strapped to her back, which freed up her belt to carry a multitude of throwing knives with which she was unerringly accurate. Sitting next to Mouse was Badger, about the same height but whereas one resembled an underfed mop handle, the other was almost perfectly round, his habit of stealing from the ship’s larder as infamous as his temper but overlooked by most of the other marines.

At least, they did since the time the cook called him out on it. Poor bugger ended up in the ship’s infirmary for three days with a concussion from Badger’s hammer.

He differed from Mouse in the rest of his appearance as well: whereas Mouse’s colouring was standard Calandorian, Badger had a permanent tan with thick, curly black hair that suggested Tok Risim heritage somewhere down the line.

Across from those two were Viper and Sparrow, both almost as tall as Calris. They were rumoured to be underworld enforcers, quietly removing the competition for some mob boss or another until the law caught up with them. The story continued they were offered service over the noose since they had a useful skill set, and scum killing scum was considered a victimless crime.

Looking at the pale, gaunt men, Calris could believe the stories; Viper opted to carry two long knives in place of a sword, while Sparrow favoured a unique repeating crossbow that could be fired in one hand, wielding a standard shortsword in his other. They individually had a talent for killing, but when they worked together, they could dismantle an enemy squad in moments. He wasn’t sure exactly where they hailed from originally, but the black hair and pale eyes suggested somewhere near the border between Calandor and Aderath.

Ban and Calris were referred to as Bull and Hawk, respectively. Ban due to his formidable strength, and Calris because, to quote Mouse, he had a predator’s gaze when he fought. Whilst that could have earned him any number of far more badass monikers, because ‘Mouse’ was the one to say it, he got a medium-sized bird.

As for the sergeant? Everyone called him ‘Sergeant’ since Badger found himself in the infirmary beside the cook after calling him ‘Grizzly’ to his face. All in all, the Sixth were rough and antisocial, but they were the premier fighting force under Captain Erwell’s command.

Calris let his eyes wander from the squad, drifting about the establishment as the line slowly dwindled. It was exactly what a port tavern should be; dirty, loud, and with suspicious stains covering most of the tables, walls, and even part of the roof, which struck him as actually pretty odd. How does a beer stain get all the way up there?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Or the blood, for that matter?

Shaking his head, he stepped up to the counter and ordered another round as he heard a familiar and very un-bloody welcome voice behind him.

“Well fucking well, look who it is! The man of the hour! Corporal Calris Telruson!”

Shit.

Calris turned to find Gaelon and his gang of cronies, the Ninth Squad, as they entered. The bruising from their fight still hadn’t faded completely, and it made him look like an ugly raccoon.

“Gaelon. Plenty of other taverns and whore houses around here, mate. Why don’t you go find one of them?” Calris asked as he leant back against the bar.

I should just ignore him.

He spat on the ground at Gaelon’s feet.

But where’s the fun in that?

Gaelon stared at the gob of saliva on the floor, his lips curling in distaste. Slowly, his eyes tracked up to meet Calris’.

“True that, friend, but our illustrious hero is here. I wanted to congratulate you for saving us all with your keen eyes. I guess that stint in the crow’s nest paid off?”

Despite the congenial words coming out of the man’s mouth, the venom in his tone was clear.

“Well, someone had to save the day,” Calris replied. “I would have let you do it, but you were still in the infirmary after our misunderstanding.”

Gaelon scowled. It was common knowledge that they had never liked each other. There had even been a pot within the company as to who would win when things came to a head. Turns out, few people had backed Gaelon and to say his pride was wounded was an understatement. He was probably looking for a rematch. Except this time, he brought friends.

“Well, it was an unfortunate misunderstanding. I feel it was mostly your fault, though. You did throw the first punch, after all. Unprovoked, I might add,” Gaelon said, wagging a finger at Calris. “I can’t help but wonder if things might have turned out differently otherwise.”

Gaelon glared at Calris like shit on the bottom of his shoe and Calris glared right back. Gaelon was northern Calendorian like most of the company, powerfully built with a square jaw that could take a hit, but his weak spot, unique amongst the company, was an aquiline nose that hinted at noble blood. It was a tad crooked since the fight. He was a solid fighter, but nothing to write home about. If he was looking for a rematch, it would turn out the same, regardless of who threw first.

“I’m sorry, but I felt the things you said about my parentage were a pretty clear indicator you wanted your face caved in. If that wasn’t your intention, then I do sincerely apologise for my transgression, good sir. I mean, Private,” Calris retorted, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

Gaelon took a step closer, his nose almost touching the taller marine’s chin.

“Certainly not, Corporal. Nothing of the sort, in fact. I merely wanted to make it known that, whatever skill you may have, trash like you is a stain on our proud military’s honour. You don’t deserve to wear our uniform, and you certainly don’t deserve command ahead of someone of noble birth!”

So that’s what this is about.

Calris had been appointed squad second in command of the Sixth while Gaelon was still just a lowly private. It was unusual for someone with noble blood to be relegated to the rank and file at all, and to see Calris promote ahead of him must have been too much for Gaelon.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Gaelon, but half the company is made up of criminals, foreigners, and other such trash. After all, we can’t afford to let the nobles get their hands dirty with actual fighting.”

“At least the rest of the trash know who their fathers are, bastard!”

Silence descended on the crowd that had gathered around them. Back in the booth, Ban winced and started rolling out his shoulders as he gently lifted the girl off his lap.

He knew what was coming.

If the crew were wondering whether Gaelon throwing first would lead to a different result, they were left to continue wondering as Calris smashed his forehead into Gaelon’s still mending nose, adding another blood stain to the tavern’s collection as chaos erupted around them.

*

After a few well-placed shots delivered and received by all involved, the duty sergeant had arrived and broken up the brawl, dragging both the Sixth and the Ninth back to the ship. He had been pretty pissed off, but as Calris rubbed his aching jaw, he decided the duty sergeant had been positively rosy compared to Olic.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Olic roared in Calris’ face, the junior marine blinking as spittle splashed in his eye. “You just finished your punishment for the last brawl, and what do you do? You start another! With the same. Fucking. Bastard! Were you dropped on your head as a baby, marine?”

Calris feared no man, but in his eyes, the sergeant was no mere mortal. The veteran was a heavily weathered forty something year old with chronic addictions to tobacco, alcohol, and war. The deep lines on his face spoke to a hard life of sailing and fighting, his once jet-black hair now peppered with prominent bands of grey. Calris wasn’t ashamed to admit that he, like the rest of the squad, was fucking terrified of him.

He was the best squad leader a marine could ask for.

“Sarge, for what it’s worth,” Ban piped up. “Cal didn’t technically throw the first punch this time… He headbutted him!”

He crumpled to the floor as Olic folded him in two with a blow to the gut.

“Enough of that gobby shit. You’ve all earned yourselves work parties for the duration of our stay on shore. Viper, Sparrow, report to the kitchen after reveille. You’re peeling potatoes till your hands bleed.”

“Sure, Sarge,” Sparrow replied, no trace of emotion on his face or in his words. Viper said nothing, and in fact didn’t so much as twitch before they about turned and marched out of the cabin.

“Sarge, I volunteer me’n Mouse to assist in the kitchen,” Badger offered before he, too, was dropped squirming, to the floor.

“Fuck up, Badger. No way am I trusting you in the kitchen. You two are washing out the heads.”

“Nice going lardarse,” Mouse muttered as she helped Badger up and out the door.

Now it was just Calris, Ban and Olic. Calris stood perfectly still and tried not to audibly gulp as the sergeant glowered at them in turns. He felt the tension in his shoulders build and build as he waited for the hammer to fall until he felt on the verge of dropping to his knees and begging Olic to put him out of his misery.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Calris.”

“Yes sarge!”

“Do you know why you’re a fucking idiot?”

“Because I got in another brawl with the same fucking bastard, Sarge! Also, I have reason to believe I was dropped on my head as a baby, Sergeant!”

Calris’ eyes widened. That last bit wasn’t meant to come out. He tensed his stomach, waiting for the blow. Instead, Olic sighed and turned away, running his hands through his hair. Ban was clearly surprised as well, wheezing curses at Calris as he slowly regained the ability to breathe.

“Calris,” Olic said, his back still to his marines and his hands clasped behind him. “Tell me why I made you my second in command.”

Ah, shit.

This was worse than a beating. This was a lecture.

“Because my easy charisma and martial prowess make me a natural leader and inspiration to my fellow soldiers on and off the battlefield?” he said. Maybe if he was just the right amount of gobby, he could piss Olic off enough to avoid a lecture or a beating.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Olic replied. “You have potential. Shit loads of potential. But do you know what your biggest weakness is?”

“Red heads.”

This time, he did get a punch to the gut.

Overshot the mark, Calris thought as he hit the deck, wanting to breathe but worried he would projectile vomit if he opened his mouth.

“Your temper, Corporal,” Olic said, unsympathetic to his subordinate’s agony. “Your absolutely shithouse impulse control.”

He started pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “A soldier needs rage to fight. It feeds the killing intent that keeps him alive on the battlefield. But! A leader needs focus, too. He needs to control his rage, to feed off the energy it provides and give it direction. A leader needs to think. To take everything in and make the right decisions to keep their people alive and their enemies dead. As long as your anger controls you, and as long as you’re willing to endanger everyone else with juvenile stunts like the one you pulled at sea, you’ll never be the man you could be. You will be nothing more than a dumb as shit brawler.”

“With respect, Sarge,” Calris wheezed, forcing himself back to his feet, “I was more than happy with that.”

“I’m not Calris. This company has brawlers aplenty. What we need are leaders. I won’t be around forever. When I finally buy it, the Sixth is going to need you to step up.”

Calris bit back a retort. There was a time and place for being a smartass, but when the sergeant started talking like this, he took it seriously. Sarge got like this sometimes, not obsessed with his own mortality per se, but resigned to a death somewhere on the horizon and determined that his squad would survive him. It concerned Calris to hear him talk this way, but the mood it accompanied usually only lasted a few days before the sergeant was back to his usual, invincible self. It was best just to go along with it.

“Roger that, Sergeant. I’ll let him throw the first punch next time, even if he calls me a bastard.”

Olic shook his head at Calris and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and puffing hard a few times.

“Get over it, Hawk,” he said through a cloud of purple smoke. “Just let it go. He’ll never change, but you can. And I have just the opportunity for you to start.”

Calris frowned but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t think he was physically capable of swallowing his pride the next time Gaelon said something, but Sarge didn’t need to hear that right now. Taking Calris’ silence for agreement, Olic continued.

“I have a special task for you two. You’re to escort a dignitary and the Rambler’s cargo to The Six Cities. Apparently, the mage in charge wants an armed escort to dissuade anyone from stealing his shit, and the good captain thinks you two are best suited for the job. As if you two dickheads are going to get the job done if a mage can’t,” he muttered, crushing his smoke out on his boot and pocketing the stub. “But I’m looking forward to being pleasantly surprised.”

“Aye, Sarge,” Calris replied, all the smarmy attitude temporarily knocked out of him by the lecture and the ache in his stomach. Beside him, Ban climbed to his feet, finally able to breathe freely again.

“Hey, Sarge,” he asked, still doubled over slightly. “This mage? He an old Emrinthian with red hair and a beard?”

“Yeah, he is. Why?”

“No reason,” Ban replied, shooting a knowing grin at Calris.

Gods damnit. There go five silvers.

“You’ll meet the mage and his entourage at the warehouse across from the port tomorrow at sunrise. Escort them to his tower in The Six Cities, then return here. Do not swing past any taverns, or whore houses, or anything on the way back!” Olic continued, jabbing an accusing finger at each of them. The lack of trust would have been insulting if the two’s reputation hadn’t been well earned. “Questions?”

“Yeah, Sarge, just one,” Calris replied.

“Better be a good one.”

“Did Gaelon and the Ninth cop anything for the fight?”

Sergeant Olic regarded Calris with a wary eye for a moment before cracking a slight smile.

“Aye, most’ll spend the day scrubbing out the ship. Gaelon is on watch in the crow’s nest.”

“Excellent.”