Chapter 5: Chapter 5

I sat down heavily, looking at the collection of random coins, pieces of small silver and gold jewellry, and gold plated teeth pulled from the jaws of the dead. Several godsteel buttons, an ivory handled dagger and some sort of patch embroidered with thread of gold were the largest items in the small satchel. In all, the jumbled mess was probably worth three gold sovereigns. It was a rich haul for an archer.

“The boys on the line liked us, is all,” Shilling said, grinning over my shoulder at the little sack of loot. “When you came screamin’ through and tol’ us we had t’ drop everything, well everyone got real curious, and soon the word got ‘round that we were getting bent over unfortunate like by the Baron.”

Farthing picked up where his brother left off. “So when I heard, I dropped the satchel I’d been collecting things in. Then this old feller from the archery lines named Brenner comes over and scoops it up. I’m thinkin’ he’s jus’ gonna walk with all my hard work right in front of me, but instead he pushes me towards the camp and walks me to the edge of the battlefield, hands me the satchel back an says, ‘Happy Birthday, fucker,’ and then just walked off.”

“They was just doin’ what’s right by men they fought with,” Gresham said from across the fire.

I shook my head. “I can’t take this,” I said.

“What do you mean, hoss?” Shilling asked.

I handed the satchel back to the lad. “This is your right. You and Farthing. This is pay you earned, not me. Not Gresham.”

“Hoss, it’s for all of us,” Farthing said. “You take care of us, we take care of you. That’s the deal. You’re getting fucked over for helping Cutter, so we’re helping all of us make sure there’s food for the stewpot, and arrows in our quivers, and all the other shite you usual pay for.”

I lowered my head and shook it again, breathing out slowly. My coffers were low already. I had what, four sovereigns left? Gresham likely wasn’t carrying any more than that. We needed to buy him a new warhorse. My own mount Castor had finally shown up in the pickets, appearing as if he’d just sauntered in from a grand time out in the fields, but Gresham’s Warthog was dead on the battlefield, speared in the same charge that had laid the man-at-arms low. A warhorse, properly trained and outfitted, sold for a hundred sovereigns easily in most markets. Even post-battle if the Baron’s outriders had collected unclaimed mounts the price for them would be well over our current funds. I hadn’t even managed to find Warthog to recover any of Gresham’s tack or armaments, which meant they’d been stripped clean by a sellsword or a camp follower by now.

“Pride isn’t becoming of you, Sir Jon,” said Marshal Reiner as he stepped through the camp, approaching our fire. Several of the men and women from other troupe campfires were turning, or watching around their tents, as he came on, wanting to see what would happen.

I stood, hand on the pommel of my sword, eyeing the veteran as anger flashed through me. He was supposed to be my better in every way - a successful Free Lancer, retired and landed with a minor title in service to a Baron of the Free Kingdoms. He was wearing the length of the day on his face, the firelight casting deep shadows along his craggy face.

The man turned and nodded to Gresham, who looked up at him with a conflicted expression. They’d been friends for a long time. “Cutter, good to see you’re alive.”

“And kicking,” Gresham said. “Here, step a little closer and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Oh, I’d expect nothing less,” the Marshal said, then turned back to me. “I know you may not have earnest feelings towards me after today, Sir Jon. But I felt compelled to see some small justice be done.”

The man hefted a purse and tossed it to me. It was heavy as I caught it, and clinked with coins.

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The Marshal nodded to the purse. “That’s a collection from among the Lancer’s still standing. It’s not much, but should at least cover your dues for the contract.”

I slowly nodded, and handed the purse down to Giddy without looking. She was officially my valet, or footwoman, though she rarely actually performed those duties - the girl was much more useful with her skill with the horses, and occasionally with wounds like today with Gresham.

“I’d thank you for this,” I said slowly. “And it certainly helps with a future sting of debt, but it doesn’t change how I feel about your master.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” the Marshal nodded. “Nor would I expect it to. But hear me, Sir Jon - hold a grudge all you like, but if you come at Baron Vicelli I will be bound by duty and oath to stand in your way. And Gresham Cutter can attest that you aren’t ready for that fight.”

“You’d be surprised what my man is ready for, Reiner,” Gresham said from his seat.

“Either way,” Marshal Reiner shrugged. “You’ve been warned.” He turned and walked several steps away, but as he entered the dark he spoke once more over his shoulder. “By the way. There’s a big black mare in the eastward pickets. Ugly bitch, I think it answers to the name of Warthog.”

He left.

“Warthog wasn’t a mare,” Shilling said, the lad looking confused as the rest of us watched the night camp quietly.

“No, no he wasn’t,” Gresham sighed.

“Giddy, please go fetch the horse,” I said quietly. “And take the lads with you, I think we’ve had enough surprises for one day.”

She stood and looked at me, then motioned and Farthing and Shilling both got up to go with her. We were in the Lancer part of the encampment, but the sellswords were camped closer to the eastern horse pickets than we were, with the wounded tents a barrier in between. The trio wouldn’t need to worry about being bothered, but Giddy alone may have attracted too much attention from men who were still fresh off of the fight. This was only my second proper pitched battle in two years as a Lancer, but from what I understood the defeated army’s camp could become somewhat horrific when the sellswords arrived, and those same men were now back living two dozen yards away in their squalid tents.

I sat back down where the three had vacated, looking across the fire at Gresham and his friends. “What am I supposed to do here?”

Gresham shrugged. The old man had served with my father for decades. He rarely was uncertain in his opinions. “Bury it deep, move on, and dig it up when it makes sense,” he said. “Reiner ‘finding my horse’ was a favour to me, not to you. He probably couldn’t disobey some order from the Baron, so the collection was his way of covering your dues. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s sworn to a right cunt.”

I snorted, and then laughed. I looked up to the stars above and wondered aloud, “We need a new contract. The faster the better.”

“Actually,” said the man who I hadn’t gotten the name of, “I might have an answer to that.”

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