What did he hope to achieve? Him?

“To keep my fucking job.” It left him as a mutter, lipped tight between breaths. The unvarnished truth, insufficient as it was to keep the noose from his neck. At least he managed to speak it in the cadence of a groan.

He stilled the chattering of his teeth, sucked in one long breath. Loosed it. His shoulder sagged, relaxing against the pain of his twisted elbow. Some measure of cogency found him, muddied by an urge to goad the company—if he tested the right nerve, they might strike him just enough to harry consciousness from his grasp.

Foolishness. More like than not he’d find himself another corpse bloodying the brook.

He worked the words out cautiously, maintaining a vigil over the captain’s body language:

“The legion is preparing the reaches of the Front for war. Reclamation, they called it, beneath the veneer of inquisition. Some Praetor came by the Fort few months back and swept the garrison up in a frenzy. Looking to grant governorship to a cousin or friend, I assume.”

Hair mucked up a veil around his eyes as he stole another glance. Not enough yet.

The chest, then.

“There’s also a magister’s laboratory hidden in the aquifers of Sadrias. Legate Hyuli, the uh Fort’s commander, was given orders to purge it. You’ll find maps, a set of beruned artifacts that act as keys, and one of the ciphers the magister used in his experiments there.” A nod towards the chest.

Under his breath he added, “Blasphemy, the whole of it.” That bit, perhaps, spoke to his own hubris.
 
Agatha's smile widened at his response. 'Aye, your job.' Couldn't have been very important, whatever it was. But then "unimportant" people did have a nasty habit of getting sent to the Front, where they were expected to die for their Legion. There were soldiers and priests aplenty buried around these parts, Agatha knew. War was a nasty business.

'Reckon your God must have it in for you, then.' A novel idea, that. Gods showing an interest in mortal affairs. Some men believed themselves champions when really they were just children, playing around in the dirt like the rest of them.

'Reclamation and inquisition. My, my, what a twist!'

A hot gust of wind stirred the black banners into a frenzy as the column bumbled along. Arshaka had never required a reason before to seek expansion or to restore old borders. Greed knew no boundaries, after all, and gold was so much better off filling one's own coffers than another's. Didn't take a mercenary to realise that.

Agatha's ears perked up at the mention of a laboratory. 'Figures,' she growled, no more perturbed by Santiago's news than the wyverns winging their way towards Sadrias.

'The Ruling Council sure like to keep us sell-swords in the dark,' she snorted, amused. 'Happy enough sending us to die for them, though. Such is life,' a shrug as she regarded the prisoner, a man not half so sharp as he thought himself to be, from the way he tried to read her like an open book. But then that was life, too. Everyone made mistakes.

'Shy maid, aren't you.' Agatha's grin was infectious. 'Reminds me of my youth. The stolen glances, the brave-facing. What say you, Etain! Reckon he's taken a liking to me?'
 
Etain rode a little behind and to the side, just far enough to be out of the Captain’s shadow, just close enough to keep an eye on the priest in case he got stupid. The Captain questioned the priest. Etain only caught half of it. The column creaked and clattered through the dying light, hogs snorting, horses snuffing, men chattering with the kind of jittered relief that always followed a victory.

She rolled her neck beneath the black plate, the tension of the fight still crackling under her skin with nowhere left to burn. Should’ve been more to it, she thought. A real stand. A real push. Something worthy of the sweat still trickling down her spine. Felt less like a battle and more like knocking over a rotten fence. Left the knightess feeling like a dog denied scraps.

What say you, Etain! Reckon he's taken a liking to me?

Dragged out of her thoughts like someone yanked by the collar. She hadn’t been listening to the lead-up. Just caught the tail end flung her way. She straightened in the saddle. Etain blinked. What in all nine shitholes did I miss? She eyed the priest. He looked not an ounce smitten. But what did Etain really know about such things?

“He looks like a man who’d piss himself if your hog farted too loud.” she finally barked. Etain huffed a laugh. She nudged her mare closer, her eyes bolting between the priest and the Captain. “Yeah, Captain. Sure. He’s taken a liking,” Etain said, “In the same way a rabbit ‘takes a liking’ to the wolf sniffing at its arse.” She grinned as she eased back in her saddle.
 
Some part of him wondered if he engendered too deep a passivity, if in exercising caution he served merely to alight this group's suspicion. Perhaps he had spoke too quickly, offered too freely what aid he professed. But Santiago was ever a prudent man. Reflection might suggest a measure of cowardice, true; what matter, he supposed, if he did not live to dusk.

Pressed for time, blessed not with the luxury of thought, he raced against a clock that beat to the drum of his own heart, amplified by the singing lacing his arm. Arm, head, back, he felt the hollows of pain in the pits of his spine. It arched with him, tightening a belly rendered soft from love of bread. He was dulled by it, slowed in an all too unfamiliar way.

He blinked. A snip of conversation drew his ear.

Dumbly repeating the captain's question, he said, "A liking, to whom?"

The wrong response. He searched for the right one, came up blank, settled for what welled up at the tip of his tongue.

"Well enough, compared to that moon-cursed legate who sent me here. Better conversation too."
 
A peal of laughter, sharp as it was cutting. 'What a way with words you have, Etain! Such vivid imagery,' a grin, like a wolf's, all fang and vicious glee. 'Speaking ill of your superiors is like to earn you a lashing, Saer Malik,' continued the she-ork, glad for a moment's distraction as the shadows lengthened and the sky disappeared behind tall pines.

'Though, I must confess, I don't much like your Legate neither on account of his attempts to wipe us out.'

They hadn't been the first Free Company to answer the call nor the most renowned. But the Shields had been at war with the Empire for a long time now, long enough to know how their enemy operated. The previous Captain had danced the sword's edge against them for nigh on a decade before sickness claimed his life... along with half the company's.

Agatha had been one of the lucky ones, though it didn't always seem that way to her. On occasion, she would think back on the series of events that had led to her ascension to the Captaincy. Bad turn after bad turn that had driven them north. To recoup.

And to count our losses, she thought, grimly.

New recruits, new contracts. Sponsors to fund their return to the South. Life's loops. Everyone got their turn, sooner or later. Victory and defeat, wealth and ruin.

It didn't take them long to break free of the trees. Sadrias loomed in the distance, redbrick bleeding in the dying light. Black smoke drifted from the Pariah Gate, where the Legion's rams and ladders had been put to the torch following a sally. Another planned surprise. Bodies littered the earth.

'More fuel for the pyres,' remarked Agatha, eyes sweeping the outer walls, thick stone scarred and pockmarked by repeat bombardment. Bloody wyverns! 'Double time to the gate!' She ordered. 'Anyone stopping to strip the dead can damned well stay with them for the night.'
 
The Captain’s laughter raked the air clean. “If you want sweet words, Captain, you hired the wrong d'Aramond.” Etain grunted.

“Legate sounds like a prick, you should consider staying with us,” Even if her face was hidden behind the visor, one could hear the smirk in her voice. There were worse fates than ending up under the black banner. “Captain’s a better sort to serve under. She only tries to kill you when you deserve it…" She tilted her head toward Agatha.

Etain caught it on the wind before the Captain said a word.
Wood smoke.
Burnt pitch.
Split guts gone sweet and sour in the mud.

Sadrias burned on the horizon.

The kind of smell that crawled down your throat and lived there. It stank the same as the last man who’d tried to stop her. Ahead, the gate smoked and screamed. The ground before the Pariah Gate looked like a butcher’s yard, bodies strewn in heaps and smears, limbs twisted where they’d fallen. The stink of it rolled toward them on the wind. Tar. Iron. Burnt hair.

The day hadn’t bled out yet. Now that was more like it.
“There it is,” she muttered. “Thought the bastards had run out.”

Her lips parted, eager and hungry. She shifted her hand to the sword, fingers curling around the hilt. Her pulse began to drum harder, warmer, and savage. Etain breathed in slow through her teeth. Her white mare stamped, dancing at the smell of fire and charred meat.

While the captain barked the order, a pair of eyes, green sparks behind narrow slits in black metal, turned to the priest, who bumped along between them like luggage someone had forgotten to care about.

“So,” she said, “What’s the plan for him, Captain? You wanna keep him, or should I put him out of his misery?”
 
To Santiago's eyes the number of bodies might as well have numbered the hundreds, despite logic telling him only dozens took the field in any one spot. It was curiously difficult to parse, harder still to distinguish Legion corpses from Sadrias milita. Beneath the mud, trampled by hoof and by boot, they all looked the same.

A handful of wyverns broke the medley of bodies scattered before the city's walls. Pitiful creatures, in death. Wings mangled, scales washed in muck and blood, bodies strewn haphazard across the field, they inspired none of the terror they had wrought about the skies.

From this vantage, Santiago almost pitied them. The creatures had no say in their riders' follies. Bred in captivity, weaned on the Kharmic Legions's signature discipline, they lived at the mercy of warmongers. That warranted some pity. For the humes and folk littered amongst the dead, however, his heart hardly stirred. Between the pain in his arm, the fog on his brain, and the matter of his capture, his sympathies only extended so far beyond his own personage.

With the arrival of the Siegebreakers it appeared that the bulk of the Legion forces had rallied towards the city's southern gates. Perhaps that trick with the flares worked, lulling them into false hope of reinforcement. Unfortunately, no such reprieve was possible. Santiago had seen these sellswords break the reserve encampment he was stationed at. The ease and speed of it suggested that the others shared like fates.

If pressed to guess, he might say that the city's militia managed to ground perhaps half of the Siegebreakers. Legate Hyuli would be most displeased. How fortunate for him, then, that his current circumstances promised to delay his report. Ko was nothing if not merciful.

Still, his head perked up at the sudden orders and the woman's answering question. He considered begging for his life, weighed it against any injuries to his pride. Then he considered it again. He had no read on this mercenary, the values she displayed suggested begging might make the matter worse. Usefulness she had said...

He stayed his tongue. Useful indeed.
 
Halting at the gate, Agatha cast her gaze upwards, to the walls and outer portcullis. Black iron teeth protruding from blood-red gums, soon to bite down. 'Haven't decided yet,' the she-ork answered her subordinate, 'But when I do, you'll be the first to know.' A promise and a threat rolled into one. A warning, for the dusk-skinned scholar whose silence would cost him, once they reached the dungeons.

If they reached the dungeons.

'I never did understand the fascination with stone corrals.' Turning her head, the Captain smiled as Rathan rode up to join her. 'Mausoleums for the living, eh,' she replied, noticing the Selvari's hesitation. Sadrias wasn't much, but it was home to many. Humans and beastkin, mostly. Once-slaves of a bloodthirsty empire.

'All mausoleums are for the living,' answered Rathan. 'The dead do not care where they rest, so long as they are left to it.'

'Ain't that the truth,' the she-ork agreed, watching as the last of the column passed through the gate. 'I suppose farewells are in order?'

'Yes.' Rathan eyed her closely. 'My people long for the Plains. I'm sure you understand.'

'I do.' Pulling off her gauntlet, Agatha extended her hand. 'Lightning light your path, Rathan.'

'May thunder envy the fall of your hooves, Captain.' With a firm clasp and nod, the Selvari departed, bronze plate glinting in the wan light. Dust masked his withdrawal. Before long, he was but a ghost on the wind, no more real than those dogging her heels. Agatha waited until he was gone before entering Sadrias. The militia welcomed her with blank-eyed stares and shouldered bardiches.

''Bout damned time you showed up!' Appearing from the nearest guardhouse, Captain of Guard Mallus Ethram stormed his way towards Agatha, scattering blackshields and militia alike. A few of the former reached for weapons.

Agatha waved them down.

'His Fury, Lord-General Arcaeus, is most displeased, mercenary. Most displeased!' Planting his feet, ole Ethram puffed up to his fullest height. Even so, the top of his head barely reached her knee. Dwarf-blood, the Captain wagered. That, or the Gods hate him. Certainly hard not to. 'Are you aware of the situation you've put him in with the Council? Are you aware of the consequences of your... let us say "somewhat rash" decision to sally out and face the enemy?'

Very diplomatic, thought Agatha, smiling down at him. Undaunted.

'I am aware we are a few hundred enemies fewer, Mal,' she replied, dismounting, so as to give his neck muscles a break. 'As to the position I've put His Fury in, yes, I am aware, and I couldn't care less.' Meeting the Captain's eyes, the she-ork's smile only grew. 'Action is far preferable to inaction, wouldn't you agree? His Fury might be content to sit on his hands whilst the Legion batter down his city's gates. I, on the other hand, am not.'

Nor were her fellow Free Companies. Without their support, the plan would not have succeeded.

'You disobeyed a direct order!' Ethram growled quietly, drawing her aside. 'We bought Sadrias time,' countered Agatha, just as quietly freeing her arm. 'Arcaeus is all but ready to assume the position, way he's going. You know it, and I know it.'

'He is still the Lord-General.' Ethram shook his head. 'We still owe him our loyalty... and our obedience.'

Do we? Agatha mused, looking over to where her bodyguard awaited her. Etain and the prisoner lingered among them. The cart with the chest waited just up the street, under heavy guard. Both could be used as bargaining chips.

'We bring prisoners and a prize,' she said, walking away. 'Perhaps they'll serve to placate him. If not, well...'

They would just have to take their chances.
 
Etain sat her saddle like a slab of iron, full plate dark with mud and drying blood, visor down, gauntlets resting heavy on the reins. She watched the farewells with the sort of interest one gives to weather. Hands clasped. Words traded about thunder and plains. All very fine and The Selvari rode off.

When the Captain dismounted to trade barbs with the red-faced Ethram, Etain slid down as well. Boots hit stone with a dull thud. The man’s outrage bounced off her helm in dull echoes. Orders. Obedience. The Lord-General. The knightess watched Ethram and Captain Agatha the way one watches dogs yapping at a each other. Etain had seen this play acted a hundred times but in warmer halls. Different colors. Same noise. Here it was again. Politics.

She did not like scheming. Did not like listening to people talk about loyalty like it was coin to be counted rather than something earned in mud and steel. Give her a sword. Give her a fight worth having. That was all she wanted.

Her jaw tightened beneath the helm. She kept her horse angled near the priest without touching him, a silent wall of white fur and blackened steel at his flank. Her gaze drifted back to the priest. Even through the narrow slit of her visor she could see it. Any fool with half an eye could see. He was hurting.

She exhaled slowly inside the helm. With reluctance she began to strip away what made her what she was. First the gauntlets. The buckles were stiff with grime. She worked them loose and lay the gauntlets over the sadle. Flexed her fingers once. Pale knuckles scarred and thick. Then the helm and padded coif. Her hair spilled loose, sweat-dark and tangled, copper catching the light like banked embers. Etain hung the helm off the saddle horn. Brown eyes shifted back to Santiago.

“Let me see it,” she said as she walked up close to him.
 
Agatha said:
'His Fury, Lord-General Arcaeus, is most displeased, mercenary. Most displeased!' Planting his feet, ole Ethram puffed up to his fullest height. Even so, the top of his head barely reached her knee. Dwarf-blood, the Captain wagered. That, or the Gods hate him. Certainly hard not to. 'Are you aware of the situation you've put him in with the Council? Are you aware of the consequences of your... let us say "somewhat rash" decision to sally out and face the enemy?'
Click to expand...
Santiago's ears perked up at that. He forced himself to still the ragged bleating of his breath, to listen past the throbbing in his head. A difficult task, that.

Arcaeus was a name known to him. One of these supposed "Sons of Sadrias," mere backwater militia riding the coattails of prestige to his recollection. A certain irony existed in how they mirrored the rank and formality of the legions of old. They danced with the details, changing name as to muddy the connection, but even the priest's untrained eye could recognize the similarity.

In his estimation, they lacked both the dignity and requisite discipline to live up to the name. The stories from the days of the Sorcerer King's long march to the coast, of the unification of the South Ilican peninsula, brought many such monikers adopted in the modern day. He lost count of the groups clinging to those names, wearing them as open badges of pride to obfuscate the absence of their own accomplishment.

He had heard of them, and in seeing them up close found them lacking.

Or, perhaps, in a rare moment of introspection, his bias was tainted having read the reports out of Castellis Sutr, having listened to Legate Hyuli's tirade of the city-state's forces.

A blessing, then, that he was conferred little time to dwell on it before a new demand was leveled his way:

Etain d'Aramond said:
Etain hung the helm off the saddle horn. Brown eyes shifted back to Santiago.

“Let me see it,” she said as she walked up close to him.
Click to expand...
Had he the strength, he might have responded by way of a grunt or so much as a ragged breath of acknowledgment. Even nodding felt a strain, the muscles cording where neck met shoulder.

Through gritted teeth, he collected himself enough to murmur, "Please do," with as much sincere gratitude he could manage. Admittedly not much, given the quaver in his voice. That gratitude lasted all the time it took the woman to lay hands on his arm, at which point he could only gasp in open-mouthed pain.

What noise leapt from him, he could not say. It was visceral, pitched high, and peppered his vision with so many black and purple dots.
 
The bells of Sadrias tolled as dusk settled over the land. Rejoining her men, Agatha led her hog by the hand through the winding streets, controlling her annoyance as best she could when in the presence of her subordinates. It would not do for them to sense a divide amongst the host. Besides, there was the prisoner to consider.

She was still unsure of what to do with the god-botherer. He would come in handy as a hostage at the very least, but the Captain sensed there was more to the man than he'd so far divulged. Mostly, though, she saw potential. And pain.

'We'll get you patched up soon enough, saer,' the she-ork called back to Santiago from her place at the front. 'There's a physician topside who'll be able to mend that arm of yours.' No doubt he would turn his nose up at helping an enemy. Like most Sadrians, he held no love for the Empire or its peoples, diverse as they were. But he would not refuse her. If anything, he would see it as an opportunity to ingratiate himself with her. Opportunistic bastard.

Maybe I could sway him too, with the right maneouvering. Indeed, the Company could always use more menders. Especially ones who knew what they were doing.

The wagons trundled up the hill ahead of them, their escorts chatting away quietly, guards lowered, visors open.

Black surcoats marked them for companymen. Some wore The Lady over their hearts; escutcheons decorated the aventails of those who didn't. "All good back there, Cap?" Sergeant Cutter shouted down to them from where he perched on the box seat. Another shield was in charge of the reins. Lazy bastard. 'Fancy speeding things along a bit, Sergeant? At this pace, I'm like as not to drop of old age before we reach the fortress.'

Men laughed. Hard-faced women cracked grins.

"Oh, aye, I would, Cap, but them damned slowpokes up front're blockin' the street with their fat arses." Agatha smiled. 'Braggard's boys?' Cutter chuckled. "Who else? Sometimes I feel like he does it on purpose."

Daisy snorted, nudging Agatha's shoulder with her snout, rough bristles brushing the black plate of her station. Despite her size, the boar was remarkably gentle. She could have gored the she-ork with her tusks, if she'd wanted to. The Captain gave the boar's thick neck a pat, fishing inside her saddlebags for a treat or three. For some reason, she was particularly fond of acorns.

'Etain, get up there and tell Braggard to move,' Agatha ordered, directing her attention to the redhead. 'If he gives you any lip, feel free to give his arse a good kicking! Maybe then he'll wait until we're back in the Compound to regale us with tales of his prowess,' she grinned, her bodyguard doing the same as they threw rude gestures at one another.

'Oh, and take the prisoner with you. One of Mender's attendants should be accompanying Braggard's squad.'

Unless they've grown tired of listening to him gab on, she mused, smiling to herself.
 
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