Chapter 13: Chapter 12.0 – Finding a Way to Join the War

Three weeks later I arrived at the trade village. When I approached the gate, two old rickety guards approached me.

“What are you doing here? All fighting men should have left to the capital.”

The old man had a pegged leg and struggled to breathe. Even if he were a grade 5 warriors, his weak constitution wouldn’t let him beat a child.

“I know,” I said as I took a step forward. “I’m searching for the way to the capital. I’m from a new village further in the desert. It seems the messengers weren’t informed of our existence, so it took us a long time to learn of the news.”

The second guard stepped in to relieve the pressure. “I’ve never heard of a village further in the desert—”

“I said it was new.” I pressed in a resolute tone.

The first worker who didn’t seem to enjoy confrontations turned to his co-worker. “It doesn’t matter.” He tapped his co-worker’s shoulder. “He wants to get to the capital so it’s all good.”

The first guard said exactly what I wanted to hear. The meek were always the best people. “Yes, I’m going to the capital; I just need the itinerary, if you would be so kind as to provide it to me it would be greatly appreciated.” Of course, this question was directed towards the first guard. However, the second guard stepped in and placed himself in between the two of us.

“Humph, you really take yourself for a big shot. Wait here and I’ll see what I can do but it might be better for you to get lost in the desert.”

A little while later the guard came back. “If you wait here till tomorrow, you can escort a supply caravan to the second-largest city. From there you can find your way to the capital. Of course, you won’t get paid.”

I didn’t need to get paid a few silvers, but neither did I want to pay for an inn. I would need all available funds for my later endeavours. “Where do I sleep?”

“You can go to that inn.” He pointed to a building whose earth walls were collapsing. “Or sleep in a blanket of sand and scorpions.”

The next day I came out of the shitty shack whose bed was made of wood, and whose walls were made of dirt. A caravan consisting of twenty camels waited outside. I approached an old warrior who was directing the flow of manpower. He told me to take the front since the other guards were both young kids who had recently reached the second grade. Or old warriors reduced to convoy guards due to injuries.

We travelled from village to village, each time adding a few camels to the caravan. They carried things such as meat, armour, or weapons. I also bought a new blade from one of them at twice the price. Plus, tried to get chainmail; however, I soon found out that one had to be a warrior for a chief to gain that privilege. It seems they didn’t have enough blacksmiths to provide the equipment for a large-scale war.

Finally, two weeks later we arrived at the second-largest city Gorune, population 65 000 souls. The war atmosphere had fully taken hold. People shuffled from one store to another, the sounds of hammers resounded in the air, and smoke billowed up into the sky. It was evident that this was this country’s last chance to prove itself worthy of independence. If they were to suffer a major defeat to the Vikings, the neighbouring chiefdom which believed in the fertility goddess would surely seize the opportunity to invade.

When the merchants stopped, I asked him whether he knew of a caravan which would head to the capital.

“Not in the next week,” he said. “I’m heading back to the trade city to get more supplies. We’re short on camels and all. But looking at you, I guess you’re trying to join a mercenary group. They have a branch in town.”

The merchant gave me the direction to the mercenary’s local branch. I entered a two-story building which had the emblem of a sword engraved in its earthen walls. Inside there was no reception desk but just tables and a bar. Rough men and woman shared glasses, salted dried snacks, and stories. As I made my way to the counter, no one turned my way. Everyone minded their own business, either too drunk or engrossed in a conversation to care.

When I stood in front of the bar the bartender came over, “What do you want to drink?” He took out a large wooden mug and placed it on the counter.

“I want to sign up.”

“What do you want to drink?” he asked once again more forcefully, bringing the mug closer to me. This mercenary group probably paid its mercenaries with the cash the mercenaries spent on booze. A great business model if you asked me.

“Anything.” I said and threw four bronze coins on the table. “Now can I join?”

The bartender left to fill up my mug and came back with my beer. “We don’t have nuts anymore. Go ask the sea people if you want any.”

I looked back to the people’s snacks and realized they were eating fried insects. Well, it didn’t look half bad, and I was hungry. “Give me some too,” I told the bar tender.

“Two bronzes.”

I threw the two bronze coins on the table. They clinked together as they spun around the unpolished wood counter. The bartender stole the coins and left for a backroom behind his counter, of course, this was after he gave me my snack.

A few minutes later a rare sight appeared. It was the first man in this world who was taller than me. He was about six-four and probably weighed three hundred pounds. It wasn’t all muscle, but the fat didn’t do him any disservice, only accentuating his hardiness. All in all, he wasn’t someone you sent to do reconnaissance work.

When he saw me, his brow rose a bit, “Where you kicked out of the military or something?”

“No, I’m from the desert. I came as soon as I heard of the news. Do you have coins for one more?”

“If it’s, you then I got enough for one hundred more. What’s your grade?”

“Four,” I said.

“I was hoping you might be a fifth grade, but you’re still young so it makes sense.”

“I don’t know about young,” I said. This wasn’t ironic in any way. Well, in all fairness it might be possible to reach the fifth grade in your early thirties, the problem was more one of opportunity. Plus, for a medieval world with wars, pestilence, and famines, being thirty shouldn’t be considered being young, unless you were wealthy. “If I’m too young then I’ll come back in a decade,” I said jokingly.

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“Ah, it’s fine.” The mercenary, probably in his late forties took a wooden cup, poured himself beer and came to sit down next to me. He took a couple of my critters and shoved them down his throat with a swig of beer.  

“Since you’re a fourth rank I can offer you four golds a month.”

“Just four?” I pressed for more even though I had no clue about the going rate.

“Yes four. It’s one gold per grade and I can’t do more. The chiefdom's coffers are dry, so we aren’t getting much. Although, I’ve heard that the sea people have a lot of loot, so take what you’re missing from them. After all this isn’t a war to make money but to protect our families.” The mercenary chugged down his drink and stood up. “Now, we’re leaving in two weeks alongside the city’s forces. I’ll give you a letter of introduction. We’re camping outside the southern gates.” The mercenary back behind the counter pulled out a parchment, feather, and ink from a cabinet door. After a few seconds, he handed me the paper. I quickly read over it, it simply said that I was a fourth-ranked warrior, to check my skills, and to assign me to whatever squad needed someone with my skill.

When I looked back up, the mercenary had a questioning look. “You can read?”

“I can.” I answered. Although I had been trained in to adopt the local’s culture by noticing their gestures, inflections, and habits, sometimes I forgot the larger details such as literacy rates.

The mercenary didn’t speak for a few seconds. “Do you have military experience?”

Well, getting a higher position off the bat wouldn’t hurt me so I decided to go along with it. “Yes.”

“Leading men?”

“Yes.”

The man shook his head. “Give me back the paper. I don’t know your circumstance but if you can lead men, then you’ll lead men.” He wrote down something else and passed me the note. “Your salary is now six golds a month. Now go and get to know your squad. We’re fighting for our lives, so keep whatever history you have to yourself.”

“I planned to do that from the start, but could you find me some armour? I have the coins, but not the rank.”

The man nodded. “Sure, just head down to Rozzi Street and tell the blacksmith that you’re Klizza’s new officer and he’ll give you a good deal. Although, I don’t think he’ll have anything special for your size.”

“That’s fine. And thanks for the job.”

I left the bar and headed to the blacksmith. The streets weren’t filled with children doing errands, or civilians buying bread and meat, but by men and women armed with blades, bows, leather, and iron armour.

I followed his directions and found another building with a sign etched into the earth wall. This time the engraving was of a hammer and anvil.

Inside there were at least five people. One was checking swords, another was looking over helmets, and another had his eye on some chainmail armour. They all wore badges over their heart, probably identified them as soldiers of the local lord. I went up to the counter and spoke the clerk. He was a young and frail man who wasn’t even good enough to serve as cannon fodder.

After a few seconds, the man looked at my chest and spoke. “I’m sorry, we only serve warriors of the chief.”

“Although I’m not a warrior of the chief. I am Klizza’s new officer, and I was told to come here if I wanted to get new armour.”

The young man thought about it for a few seconds but didn’t speak. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about that I’ll go see the master?”

Those last words caught my attention. Although I hadn’t seen any, I guess some form of slavery existed. Well, unless that’s how they addressed their teachers in this culture. However, if slaves did exist, they would come in handy, especially so if enslavement magic existed.

Anyhow a few seconds later a tall and rather robust man came out the back off the store with a sweat and dirt covered face. He asked to see my letter. “Give him what he wants.” He told the clerk after giving me one last passing glance.

“Oh, OK.”

The blacksmith turned to me, “Say Hi to Klizza for and make sure she comes back alive, you look strong enough for that.”

“If your armour is any good then I promise.”

“Cheeky shit. That’s ten percent more for you.”

He left after those brief words, and I went through the available armour. I took a chainmail shirt for four gold coins, a bascinet helmet, shin guards, and forearm guards.

All in all, it cost me eleven gold coins. Unfortunately for the cashier, I only had silvers which made for a rather long transaction. Although they used a large scale instead of counting and already had a chest filled with silver coins, so it probably wasn’t too uncommon.

Next, I had to find someone who worked with leathers and cloth. I asked the clerk and he directed me to another armour store which was just as full, however, this store which sold leather armour was accessible to the general population. Men and women, who looked much rougher and weaker than those in the previous stores were haggling over a few silvers with the clerks. I found the most expensive leather glove, boots, pants, and gambeson, paid for them in full and left. Although it was a cheaper store, I still bought the armour of highest quality, so it cost me another three gold coins and thirty silvers.

With this I looked like a mid-ranking soldier in the regular army and could probably survive a couple of battles with this armour.

Finally, after having my fill at a tavern, I headed towards the mercenaries’ camp.

 

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