Wine for the Trollsayer
There were two ways for a noble to win over his inferiors. The first was to bestow largesse with a lordly, open-handed show of generosity. The other was to move people by walking shoulder to shoulder with commoners, despite being their better by birth.
Johan was a knight who could employ both. Not that he ever intended to...
"So what happened in the end?"
"What do you think happened? We dropped everything we'd gathered and bolted. You get caught when the lord's heavy infantry comes riding back, and you're a dead man."
By sharing the rough camp food and trading banter with them around the fire, Johan's steady, unpretentious manner had won the mercenaries over. Above all, it stunned them that a knight who had fought so savagely on the battlefield could be this down-to earth off it.
"How in the world did you get so strong, Sir Knight?"
"Hey. Watch your tongue, you insolent cur. He trained from childhood, obviously. You think that's something a man just says out loud?"
The training of knights was grueling work. Noble sons gathered from every corner of the realm sweated from dawn to dusk in the castles under their stewards' command, and in some disciplines, talents from outside were brought in to assist with the instruction.
There was swordsmanship, of course, but also archery, horsemanship, swimming, hunting, chess, and the recitation of verse — and for those who went further, rhetoric, arithmetic, even astronomy. Young nobles were shaped, outwardly and inwardly, into completed knights.
That, of course, was the story of knights trained under high nobles who held proper fiefs. Johan's circumstances had been rather different.
A crash course in warrior training, so to speak!
"I'm not dreaming of becoming a knight or anything, but I've been thinking of paying a sword guild and learning a thing or two."
"Last time you said it was a waste of money."
"That was then. But I've seen how it is — the ones who've trained properly do fight better."
A guild of swordsmen, licensed by a city and formally established — that was a sword guild. Its stated purpose was the education of decent citizens in swordsmanship and self-defense, but no small number of mercenaries and drifters knocked on their doors as well.
Go a shade more sinister, and it became an assassin guild, where men like Kaegal lurked in the shadows.
"I saw one of those Saint Zeckanson swordsmen a while back. They said he was still just an apprentice, but he fought like a demon. Held his own against two men at once, they said."
"An apprentice? Isn't that the lowest rank there is?"
"That's what I'm saying. If the apprentices fight like that, what the hell do the masters do?"
Johan listened with interest while quietly scattering powder around himself — a blend of herbs he'd learned from the hunter Joseph, one that drove off insects and snakes alike.
"Say, Sir Knight. Have you ever crossed paths with the Eastern Rangers?"
"?"
The Eastern Rangers.
The eastern reaches of the Holy Empire were wild lands where the Empire's power simply did not reach. The Empire's nobles hungered to subdue the tribes there and carve out new lordships for themselves.
War was inevitable, and out of that endless fighting, hardened warriors emerged in the east.
The Eastern Rangers were one such breed. A company of veteran hunters, they ranged freely through the eastern backcountry, culling monsters and sounding the alarm when enemies crossed the borders.
"What do you mean?"
"That powder you just scattered — isn't that what the Eastern Rangers use? I learned the recipe off one of them once, after he saved my life."
"...!"
Johan froze at those words.
Joseph had been one of the Eastern Rangers?
Put that way, it strangely made sense. Joseph had always been far too competent for a backcountry gamekeeper.
"Sir Knight. We have a problem."
A mercenary who had been scouting alongside Karamap came to him wearing a troubled expression.
"What now? Are those other mercenaries coming back?"
"No, my lord. It's merchants. Merchants are coming."
This was no ragtag train of peddlers with a cart or two in tow. A full-scale merchant caravan was moving toward them — a procession easily numbering over two hundred souls.
Merchants and mercenaries, sure, but mingled among them were porters, jesters, nurses, launderers, prostitutes, minstrels, gamblers, travelers — a great rolling carnival of a column!
"Looks like they've come to do business."
"Yes, my lord."
Merchants of the purse — sutlers who trailed behind armies, supplying provisions and lending every manner of convenience. In practice, the business of supply was theirs to run.
And there was only one reason for such people to appear here.
"We're no bandit horde. Waking the mercenaries and breaking camp over this seems a bit much, no?"
"That's true enough."
Rest was a serious matter on the march. Unless the approaching force was an outright threat, there was little reason to shoulder your packs and move again.
"But they'll be just as wary of us, my lord."
"So I need to go out there and talk to them myself, is that it?"
"...Yes."
The mercenary spoke carefully. Telling your employer that he needed to personally go negotiate was nerve-wracking work — doubly so when that employer was a knight who could cleave a troll's head off in a single stroke.
Johan smirked.
"If that's all it is, then no need to tiptoe around it. Speak freely next time. Let's go."
Better to meet the column before it crashed headlong into their camp. Johan threw on his armor and surcoat, gathered a handful of mercenaries, and set out toward the merchant caravan.
Darkness had already fallen, but the column was so vast that its lights glimmered from far away.
"Halt! Declare yourselves!"
"I am Johan of House Eitz. The warriors behind me are mercenaries hired in the name of the Kettana Merchant Guild of Marsele. And who might you be?"
"We are mercenaries in the employ of Lord Doris. Lord Doris bears a seal of authorization, so I'd advise against any... unwise ideas."
The guards were wary because they couldn't know how many men stood behind Johan. At this scale, even the most brazen deserters usually wouldn't dare — but there was always a madman somewhere.
"You fools! Have you no honor? This is a knight before you — what do you think you're doing? Stand down!"
A fat man burst from behind, shouting them into place. One glance was enough to know this was Doris — the man was draped in rare silks, fingers heavy with rings.
"Johan of House Eitz — would that be the Troll Slayer of Marsele himself?"
"The same."
"Praise be to the gods! To meet a knight of such renown in a place like this. You must grant me the honor of hosting you! Ho there! What are you louts doing? Can you not lower your weapons!"
The mercenaries awkwardly lowered what they held. Their employer was embarrassing them. But what could they do? Orders were orders.
Gowan trudged along with Kahn, both of them yawning. Checking the dark woods had worn them out in every possible way.
"Scouting complete. Nothing ahead of us."
"Good work. Go get some rest."
He was nominally the leader of his own band, Gowan's Mercenary Company — but that was only when they traveled alone. When they joined a procession this size, there were always senior mercenary captains above them, handing out the orders.
Not that he held a grudge over it. A man who lived by the sword couldn't be the boss every time. As long as the pay came on time and you weren't shoved to the front as arrow fodder, it was a good posting.
"What's all that ruckus over there? Did we get visitors?"
Gowan cocked his head at the commotion coming from the employer's tent. A mercenary nearby answered in a languid drawl.
"Some knight stopped by, and now they're feting him."
"A knight?"
"The one who slew the troll at Marsele, apparently. Heard of him?"
"!"
Gowan and Kahn exchanged a look. Of course they had. They'd traveled with the man.
Thanks to the generous reward they'd collected, the two of them had skipped the extermination and rested in the city instead — but they had watched the victory procession from afar.
"With him eating and drinking like that, maybe something'll trickle down to us too, eh?"
"Huh? Ah. Aye, I suppose so."
Gowan nodded along. When the men at the top feasted, crumbs were bound to fall to those below — but that wasn't what was on his mind just now.
"Kahn. We don't need to go pay our respects, do we?"
"Let's not do anything rash. Sir Johan was a decent sort, but that's no guarantee sparks won't fly our way. ...Wait. Wait just a moment. Gowan. What in the blazes are those men doing?"
Kahn pointed a finger toward the tent's vicinity. As always, the most senior mercenaries were loitering close to the employer, standing guard.
"What are you getting at?"
"Are your eyes just decoration, boy? What kind of mercenary sleeps in the middle of an open camp fully armed like that?"
"!"
Put that way, it was undeniably strange. Men on watch usually moved light and circled the perimeter — yet every last one of them was wearing armor with weapons at their hip.
"...What are they planning?"
"Stay put. I'll go find out."
Kahn produced a bottle of wine and sauntered ahead without a care. A veteran like Kahn knew exactly how to handle this sort of thing. He traded gossip with the mercenaries near the tent, then strolled back.
"Gods above. Those men..."
"?"
"They mean to jump the knight."
"...?!"
The words came so far out of left field that Gowan nearly jumped.
"Wh-why would they do such a thing?"
"How would I know?"
"Should we tell him?"
"Hmm..."
Ordinarily, the question would have been "why would anyone even do that?" — but this time was different. If they helped, there might be a reward in it later. And besides, the two of them owed Johan a debt of the heart, didn't they?
"Slipping him a quiet warning might not be such a bad idea."
"You think that's safe?"
"What, if I say don't do it, you won't?"
"Do you have to put it that way? Damn it."
Gowan scanned their surroundings. It wasn't hard to pick out the men Johan had brought — strangers he'd never seen before, mingling among the others. They seemed seasoned enough, turning down every offered drink, but if the knight got seized, all that caution would count for nothing.
"What if we just joined their circle and said something?"
"We'd never know when or how to bring it up, and even if we managed, there's no telling if it'd get through. Some mercenary suddenly sidling up to that tent? Doris might get suspicious."
"Then how do we get word to him?"
"Try a bottle of wine and a silver coin."
"What?"
"A bottle of wine and a silver coin. Then I'll show you a bit of magic."
"I mean... fine, the wine, but a silver coin?"
"Don't want to, then don't."
"Ugh, damn it. What if we pay up and get nothing for it?"
"Gowan, if you were capable of thinking like that, you'd have retired from mercenary work years ago."
Kahn chuckled as he gathered up the wine and the coin. Whether he loved him or hated him, this was exactly why he'd stuck with Gowan all these years.
"What a magnificent wolf you have, Sir Knight! And his name is Karamap — it suits him all the better!"
—Grrrr.
"Forgive him. The beast has a foul temper."
Every time Doris drew near, Karamap growled and made his displeasure unmistakably plain. The wolf's mood bled into Johan as well, putting him instinctively on edge.
"A beast's temper is bound to be foul! Sir Knight — now, tell me the tale of how you felled the troll. As I understand it, there were knights of House Vellemen there, and of House Duore as well! Good heavens — what are you doing, girl! The knight's cup is empty!"
Whenever Johan's cup ran dry, Doris hurried the slaves standing at his side. Half-naked slaves pressed close, rubbing their bodies against him as they poured wine. The musky stench stung his nose, but Johan's expression never changed.
After the first swallow, he had taken to quietly tipping the rest onto the ground. The wine wasn't poisoned, but he had no intention of getting drunk in front of this merchant.
Was accepting the invitation a mistake?
Refusing a host's hospitality was as good as insulting him. He'd accepted in the first place because he had no wish to make enemies on a march through hostile territory...
But if this merchant had designs of his own, then Johan had walked straight into the heart of enemy ground.
Then again, striking first was hardly an option. Karamap's dislike of the man could stem from nothing more than a merchant's greedy nature.
All he could do for now was accept the hospitality without letting his guard slip.
"Sir Knight!! Do you recognize me?"
"?"
Just then, a grizzled old mercenary, cheeks flushed with drink, threw back the tent flap and stumbled in. It was Kahn.