Mercenary’s March (The Schooled in Magic Universe)

Prologue I (Fifteen Years Before the End of the Necromantic Wars)

The city was burning.

King Hadrian the Elder, King of Kentigern, stood on the deck of the Royal Hadrian and watched, helplessly, as his kingdom fell to darkness. The orcs were breaking through the walls, crashing though weak spots opened by weeks of bombardment, and tearing their way through the remaining defenders, already disorientated by the rapidly-spreading flames. His lines were already weakening, more and more soldiers and militiamen joining the general exodus to the docks as discipline snapped and it became clear it was every man for himself. Thousands of civilians were already there, townspeople and refugees from the surrounding countryside trying to get out before it was too late. Some were trying to get onto the last ships, their cries and pleas blending together into a awful howl that was audible even at some distance; others were plunging into the water, as if they could swim to the packed ships offshore or somehow make it across the Inner Sea to Tidebank. There was little hope of survival, not for them. The currents between the two kingdoms were dangerous beyond belief, even to ships. It was unlikely they’d last a day in the water, let alone the several days it would take to reach safety.

His heart clenched as something exploded in the distance, an eerie red-green fireball rising into the darkening sky. The kingdom had fought raiders and would-be conquerors in the past two centuries, ever since the Empire had crumbled and his ancestors had secured their independence, and survived them all … but this was different. They were facing a necromancer, a maddened sorcerer bent on slaughter and sacrifice rather than an invader who wanted the land and wealth of the kingdom for himself. There was no hope of reasoning with such an enemy, no way to convince him to accept anything the kingdom could offer him … even surrender. The defences had broken and now … all he could do was get as many of his people out before it was too late, before the coastline was seized and the kingdom became a nightmare contaminated by dark and twisted magic. The end could not be long delayed.

No, he told himself. This is the end.

He clenched his fists in silent frustration. How had it gone so wrong? The mountains should have prevented Kentigern from enemy attack, the fortress city of Strickland blocking the sole major pass through the southern mountains that served as the only plausible line of invasion. His father and grandfather had poured resources into the city, building up vast lines of defence and crafting wards and other protections that should have stood even against a necromancer. The kingdom should have been secure and yet … Strickland had fallen. Incompetence? Treachery? Or simple bad luck? King Hadrian didn’t know and in the end it didn’t matter. The moment the fortress city had fallen, opening the gates to the northern lands, it had become clear he would be the last king of his country. His son might survive, in exile, but it would be a long time before he even saw his own again.

Magic flared, flashes of light darting through the air. King Hadrian put his charmed spyglass to his eye and watched, cursing under his breath, as the last of the royal sorcerers made their final stand. They were strong men, learned in both the magical and martial arts, and yet they couldn’t hope to stand against a necromancer. He could see them roaring and chanting as they struggled to keep their wards in place for a few moments longer, but it was clear they were losing and losing badly. The king didn’t want to force himself to watch, yet … he owed it to himself to witness their end. They were giving their lives in his service …

There was another explosion, brighter this time. The flames spread rapidly, fuelled by alchemical stockpiles as they jumped from house to house. The last traces of discipline broke, infantrymen dropping their weapons and archers tossing their crossbows aside … the king gritted his teeth as he saw a handful of noblemen, aristocrats who had pledged to give their lives to buy the townspeople more time to evacuate, throwing aside their own weapons and joining the crowd in a desperate bid to escape. A couple tried to hold the line, only to be swept aside by their own men. King Hadrian noted their names, although rewarding their families as they deserved was no longer within his power. He would soon be a king-in-exile, the leader of a dispossessed people who might soon dissolve into the surrounding community. His power would only go as far as his hosts allowed, and if he pushed too far he would be told to leave the kingdom or face arrest and expulsion. It was shameful to be so weak and yet … it was a reality he could not deny. His kingdom was gone.

The panic grew worse as the flames neared the docks, shipmasters cutting their chains and trying to get their vessels out of the harbour before it was too late. The king wanted to rage at them for cowardice, even though he could hardly blame them for fleeing. It was no consolation to the rest of the desperate townspeople, trying to get onto the boats … he swallowed, hard, as he saw a young family plunging into the water. They were strangers and yet … he tried to tell himself that they were lucky to die now, rather than be enslaved and eventually sacrificed by the necromancer, their bodies fed to the orcs. It didn’t work. They hadn’t deserved to die. The kingdom hadn’t deserved its fate …

“Father!”

King Hadrian turned, just in time to see his young son running towards him. The king’s heart clenched again. Hadrian the Younger was ten years old, old enough to start learning the sword and the basics of statecraft, yet … he was going to grow up in a world that had denied him his birthright, denied him even the hope of returning to his kingdom to regain his throne. A normal usurper could be challenged and defeated, the rightful king leading an army to rid his kingdom of the false king, but necromancers were simply too powerful to defeat in a straight fight. There were few who could stand against them for long and none would do it for a king and a prince in exile. The kingdom was gone and his son … his son would never come into his own.

“I told you to stay below decks,” King Hadrian said, sharply. His son was as headstrong as his poor dead mother, who had died giving birth to his youngest daughter. “This isn’t for you.”

His son looked mulish. King Hadrian sighed and held the boy as he turned to look back at the dying city. The orcs were charging the docks now, sweeping aside the paltry resistance and grabbing townspeople for the slaughter pots. A handful of archers were firing from the fleeing boats, burning up the last of their arrows in a desperate bid to make the enemy pay, but there were always more orcs to replace the ones who fell. They kept coming, sealing off the last hope of escape. He shuddered to think how many of his people were caught behind the lines, trapped and helpless. Their lives were about to become a living nightmare.

Something prickled on the air, a sense of doom that chilled him to the bone. He looked up, his eyes drawn helplessly to the docks. A lone figure walked – no, floated – into view, a hooded man shrouded in a darkness that was far from natural. It was hard to make out anything under the shadow, save for a pair of bright red eyes. The necromancer stood there … for a moment, their eyes met. He was sure, at a very primal level, that the necromancer knew he was there … knew and didn’t care. It was hard to look away. It took him every piece of willpower he could muster to force himself to lower the spyglass.

He shivered. Even at a distance, the necromancer’s presence was very visible. His tainted magic poisoned the air.

His son cursed, using words he’d probably learnt from the soldiers. “Father, I …”

The necromancer raised a hand. A fireball swept from his fingers and struck the nearest ship, blasting the vessel into pieces of burning debris. The rest of the ships started to turn and flee, painfully slow compared to the necromancer’s magic. Five more vessels were destroyed in quick succession before the necromancer tired of his game, tired of proving the kingdom was now his and his alone. King Hadrian felt old and weak as the royal flagship spread her sails, picking up a wind that would hopefully take them out of range before it was too late. The crown felt heavier than heavy before, a mocking reminder of the burden of kingship … and his failure to keep his people safe. They had crammed thousands upon thousands of people into the ships, along with money and treasures and everything he needed to buy land and property, but it wouldn’t be enough. How could it be? He had failed and now his people were either refugees or dead.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, his people or his son. “I failed you.”

He looked down at his son, feeling a wave of fatherly affection mingled with bitter grief. His son and namesake was a fine youngster, a child who would grow into a great warrior and greater king, but now … none of their dreams would ever be realised. He’d planned to ensure his child shared the throne, learning the lessons he’d need for the day he was hailed as sole monarch … now, there was no point. The young man would grow up in exile, just another royal who had been driven from his kingdom before he ever had a chance to come into his own. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“Father,” his son said. “I shall return.”

King Hadrian winced. The oath – and it was an oath, however understated – was impossible to keep. Prince Hadrian had grown up on tales of mighty warriors and brave sorcerers fighting impossible odds and somehow coming out ahead. He had yet to learn that no one, no matter how brave and strong, could stand against an army, let alone a necromancer. A body of knights who charged into the Blighted Lands would be effortlessly slaughtered, an amphibious landing wouldn’t have time to unload the boats before they were wiped out. If his son went back to his kingdom, he would never return. And as he grew older, it would be harder and harder to keep his son from trying his luck.

“I will,” his son said, with all the earnestness of youth. “I won’t leave the kingdom to that … thing.”

King Hadrian looked up. The coastline was falling into darkness now, only slightly alleviated by the burning city. Kentigern had never had many coastal settlements – the tides made it harder for fishing villages to establish themselves – and the few that had made it had hopefully been evacuated now. The necromancer was well out of sight, but his presence still poisoned the world around him. There was no going back now. His duty was to his remaining people, the ones who had escaped. Guilt gnawed at his soul, a bitter reminder of his failure as a monarch. He couldn’t do anything to help the ones he’d left behind.

He rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, child,” he said, quietly. “But unless something changes we won’t see home again.”

Prologue II (One Year After the End of the Necromantic Wars)

There were times, in all honesty, when King Louis of Tidebank wanted to dig up his father’s grave and demand to know just what he’d been thinking when he’d allowed the refugees from Kentigern to settle in his kingdom.

He ground his teeth in frustration as he sat on his throne and waited, suspecting he already knew the answer. King Philip had been facing challenges from overmighty lords, who’d never dream of letting something like a necromancer on the other side of the Inner Sea keep them from trying to weaken their monarch, and the refugees had been immensely helpful in keeping the lords in their place. The Kentigerns had been mercenaries, to all intents and purposes, and they’d been strong enough to overwhelm the household troops the lords had managed to raise before the hammer came down. They’d been richly rewarded in return, their people granted settlement rights and their monarch-in-exile hailed as a king even though his kingdom was gone, and yet … Louis couldn’t help thinking his father had gone too far. It would have been wiser, surely, to force them to integrate into the kingdom, to spread them out rather than allowing them to form a community of their own. But instead …

It wasn’t as if they were bad – or disloyal. Their settlement was more law-abiding than most city-states. Their young men were soldiers and mercenaries, their women merchants and traders as well as craftswomen and industrialists; they wielded power, directly or indirectly, on a scale far out of proportion to their numbers. They were loyal to the crown now, true, but would they remain loyal? King Hadrian the Elder was smart enough to understand that his people had a pretty sweet deal, but his son was a very different story. Prince Hadrian the Younger wanted to go home to a kingdom he barely remembered, a flight of fancy that had been dismissed as absurd nonsense until the necromancers had been broken. What had once been a dream had become a political crisis, a situation that might explode no matter how he handled it. And that raised the spectre of disaster.

Louis hated being indecisive, but the stakes were too high to make a hasty decision. If he honoured his father’s agreement with the Kentigern refuges, an agreement no one had seriously expected they’d have to keep, the consequences would be severe. If he broke his word, the consequences would be disastrous. Louis knew the aristocrats were uneasy, old memories of his father crushing their revolt merging into a grim awareness of the tidal wave of revolutionary thought spreading across the continent, and if they thought their monarch could no longer rely on the Kentigerns for support they might try to revolt. Or the Kentigerns themselves might try to revolt. They had a sizable body of armed troops and experienced mercenaries and if they launched an uprising it might very well succeed. Or plunge the kingdom into civil war.

He looked up as his chamberlain stepped into the chamber. “Your Majesty, Prince Hadrian has arrived.”

Louis kept his face from showing any trace of his real emotions. “He may enter.”

The chamberlain bowed and retreated, returning a moment later with Prince Hadrian. The prince was a young man, with tanned skin, dark hair, and darker eyes that stuck out amongst the remainder of the kingdom’s nobility. He wore a simple tunic, topped with a purple robe that was – technically – illegal for anyone who wasn’t a member of the royal family. King Philip had granted King and Prince Hadrian the right to wear regal colours, something that made Louis’s blood boil. The sword at Prince Hadrian’s belt was the final indignity. Only royals and their guards could bear arms in the presence of the king and Prince Hadrian was neither. His kingdom was gone. The sooner he realised his dream was dead, the better.

Prince Hadrian went down on one knee. “Your Majesty.”

He hid his resentment well, but it was there. Louis had seen it before, in the eyes of young men who hated the idea of deferring to their social superiors, and they had wealth and power and bloodlines of their own. Prince Hadrian wasn’t poor and his family had influence, thanks to the refugees, but there were strict limits to his power. Louis knew his father had been trying to find a bride for his son, yet it had proven impossible to find someone who was both royal – or at least a high-ranking aristocrat – and willing to marry him. Prince Hadrian was both a Crown Prince, heir to a kingdom, and a pauper. He clung to his pride because it was all he had left.

“Prince Hadrian,” Louis said. He didn’t invite the younger man to rise. “You wished to speak with me?”

Prince Hadrian nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “I have a proposal to put before you.”

Of course you do, Louis thought. He knew most of the details already, though he knew better than to assume he knew everything. The spies in the prince’s camp might have been spotted and fed false information, or they might have simply missed something important. And can you make it any more appealing than the last one?

“You may continue,” he said, calmly.

Prince Hadrian flushed, but controlled himself. “Your Majesty, the time is ripe for a return to Kentigern,” he said. “The necromancers have been broken. Their power lies in ruins. Their armies are scattering, now that gunpowder weapons are entering the field. There is no longer any reason to delay the reconquest of my lands.”

“Your father’s lands,” Louis pointed out. He had no idea what he was going to do when Prince Hadrian’s father died. Recognising his son as king would cause problems, refusing to do so would be equally problematic. “Not yours.”

“Not yet,” Prince Hadrian agreed. “But they are my birthright.”

He went on before Louis could muster a response. “There will never be a better chance to recover our ancestral homelands,” he said. “If we act now, we will likely be able to defeat what little resistance can be offered and reclaim the lost cities without a fight. The longer we delay, however, the greater the chance someone else will slip in and take our place. If that happens …”

Louis acknowledged the point. Legally, King Hadrian was the monarch of Kentigern. Practically speaking, possession was nine-tenths of the law and the kingdom had been in the hands of a necromancer for the last sixteen years. There were already roving bands of adventurers, dissidents, younger aristocratic sons and others trying to stake a claim to the Blighted Lands, now the necromancers were gone. If someone managed to land in Kentigern and take possession, it would be very hard to dislodge them without a major war. And with the Allied Lands in such a state, it was unlikely anyone would try. Louis himself certainly had no intention of committing troops to such a gesture when he had far too many problems back home.

“On paper, your plan is sound,” he said. “In practice, regaining your kingdom will be very difficult.”

“But we can do it,” Prince Hadrian said. “I have a proposal.”

He leaned forward. “I have enough funds to hire mercenaries to bulk out my private forces. We will sail to the kingdom, regain the lost cities, and start resettling our lands. If you help us now, we will be allies for the rest of time, giving you an ally on the far side of the Inner Sea. We will also continue to provide troops and other military support to your kingdom, which will strengthen your own position. As our kingdom is rebuilt, your traders and merchants will have access to our markets, ensuring economic growth on both sides of the sea. And I will serve as your loyal friend in monarchical councils.”

Louis said nothing for a long moment. Prince Hadrian’s plans went further than he’d expected … he wondered, idly, who had drawn up the concept. It wasn’t easy to keep track of men in the prince’s inner circle, if only because he had a habit of discarding anyone who failed to show the proper respect or tried to give him laws. Whoever had helped him was no slouch, Louis conceded ruefully. There were few grounds for saying no, or even for saying yes in public while slow-walking in private. On paper, Prince Hadrian’s proposal was extremely good. And yet it would likely cause problems in the future.

He sighed, inwardly. He had no illusions how long the permanent alliance would last. There was nothing so temporary as a permanent agreement. Tidebank and Kentigern would drift apart as they confronted problems on their respective sides of the Inner Sea, their ability to support each other grossly limited by a dangerously rough body of water. Prince Hadrian was too prideful to accept being Louis’s subordinate for long, once he had a kingdom of his own. They needed something a little more solid to bind them together before it was too late.

And if we say no, there will be riots, he reflected. It had been easy to say no when the necromancers had been invincible. Now … they weren’t. There could be an uprising in the heart of my kingdom.

“There will be conditions,” he said, finally. If nothing else, it would be an excellent chance to get rid of Prince Hadrian. His younger sister was far more amiable to being led. “First, you will not draw troops from my army. Second, you will bankroll the mercenaries yourself – and you will be responsible for their behaviour within my kingdom.”

“They won’t cause trouble,” Prince Hadrian assured him. “Their payment will only be forthcoming if they behave themselves.”

Louis snorted. Mercenaries never behaved themselves. And keeping them under control was impossible even for the strongest of kings.

He leaned forward. “And you will marry my daughter,” he finished. “Her children will be the heirs to your throne.”

Prince Hadrian’s eyes went wide. He had asked for Princess Mary’s hand in marriage years ago, practically begged for a betrothal well before the young woman reached marriageable age, only to be denied. King Philip had thought it would only fuel the young man’s ambitions, and give his in-laws additional obligations to support him, and Louis tended to agree. Mary’s opinion didn’t matter. Like all royal children, her marriage was a bargaining chip in the endless game of thrones. She would marry who she was told to marry and that was the end of it.

Not that she’ll let him treat her as a brood mare and little else, Louis reflected. Mary was smart enough to be an excellent queen, if the prince was clever enough to listen to her. And as long as our bloodlines are linked, it will be hard for us to fall out completely.

“I accept,” Prince Hadrian said. He couldn’t hide his eagerness. “I shall call upon Her Highness this very evening and ..”

“I shall discuss the matter with her first,” Louis said, firmly. “If you are prepared to go ahead under these conditions, I see no reason why you shouldn’t.”

He smiled as Prince Hadrian stood and bowed, then left the chamber. The smile left his face the moment he was alone. It was a gamble, one that could easily cost his daughter her life. She’d have bodyguards and chaperones, of course, but there was a necromancer on the far side of the sea. And if it succeeded …

No matter what happens, I come out ahead, he told himself. If Prince Hadrian won, they would be linked together by blood. If he was driven from his homeland, or killed, he would never be able to try again. And my son will inherit a kingdom without another set of overmighty subjects.

But he knew, as he called for his inner council to hammer out the agreement, that the price would be terrifyingly high.

Chapter One

“Robin,” Eliza managed. “What have you done?”

Robin barely heard her. He was staring at the body, battered almost to a bloody pulp. The lord’s son … the lowest of the aristocracy, from what he’d heard, but so far above a common peasant that the gulf between them could never be crossed. An aristo … he’d murdered an aristo. The bastard had been trying to rape his sister and yet … he was dead, when the wretched boy’s father found out. The penalty for killing an aristocrat was death by slow torture. He’d be lucky if his sister and the rest of his family were spared. No doubt her rape would be her own fault, in the eyes of the aristocracy. A peasant girl who caught the eye of the lord’s son had no right to say no.

He swallowed hard, anger and fear bubbling within his soul. They’d been out picking mushrooms and they were quite some distance from their home, but … given time, someone would come looking for the missing boy and discover his corpse. He’d been lucky he’d seen the asshole drag his sister into the bushes and press her against the tree and … the memories were blurred, obscured behind rage that someone – anyone – would dare put his hands on his little sister. He didn’t regret killing the aristo – some people just needed killing – but there was no way escape the consequences. For all he knew, the lord’s men were already on the way.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. There was no way to go back home, not without bringing doom on their entire family. His father and stepmother, their conjoined family, his aunts and uncles and cousins and in-laws … how many would pay the price for what he’d done? “But where can we go?”

He tried to force himself to think. Their village was on the border between Dragora and Tidebank. The closest city-state was tens of miles away, he thought, and there was no way to be sure of reaching it in time. There was also no guarantee the city authorities wouldn’t hand them back to their former lord, not when they were guilty of far more than just leaving the farm and denying their master their labour. They could go into the forest, he supposed, and live off the land, but there was no guarantee they’d be safe there either. They’d be considered bandits and treated accordingly and …

Eliza took a breath, one hand playing with her blonde hair. “You remember who passed through the village yesterday?”

Robin blinked. “The mercenaries?”

He felt a flicker of disgust. The mercenary band had behaved itself, surprisingly, but the women had still been hidden in the forest while the menfolk prepared for trouble. There hadn’t been any, unless one counted the recruiting officer making his pitch to the young men. The promises of adventure and wealth had sounded attractive, Robin had thought, but anyone who went off to become a mercenary was almost always disowned from his family. They would certainly never be welcome in their village again. And yet …

“Yes.” Eliza met his eyes. “There’s nowhere else even remotely safe now.”

“Yeah,” Robin conceded. They might be safe, if they could get to the camp in time. Was it even still there? “Are you sure …?”

His sister looked back at him. They made an odd pair: he’d inherited his father’s short and stocky build, while his sister was taller, with long blonde hair that fell down her shoulders and covered her tunic. It was easy to believe they weren’t actually related, even though they were full siblings. No doubt the would-be rapist hadn’t realised Eliza wasn’t actually unprotected. He wouldn’t have known Robin was her brother.

“Where else can we go?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. Robin had no answer. They had to run – and fast. They didn’t dare go back to the village for fear of leading the hunters back there too, they didn’t even dare send a message to their parents. Not yet … he swallowed hard, wishing he’d stayed close enough to warn off any predators before it was too late. The blood on his fists was a grim reminder his life had changed forever, that they would soon be hunted animals …

“Nowhere,” he said, finally. He checked the body, removing a handful of coins and pocketing them before dragging the corpse under a bush and leaving it there. There was no time to dig the wretched man a grave. “Let’s go.”

He forced himself to start walking, silently grateful they’d wandered so far from the village. The paths through the forest were rougher here, making life harder for anyone who wanted to give chase. The lord’s men weren’t good woodsmen, he’d been told, and unless they had a magician they’d have some problems following then through the tangled undergrowth. He paused by a river to wash the blood from his hands, just to be sure, and paddled upstream long enough to confuse any dogs that might be trying to catch a whiff of his scent. The peasants had spent years learning how to hide themselves in the forest, poaching deer and other animals reserved for the aristocracy, and they knew all the tricks. It was unlikely they could be tracked down before it was too late.

Unless the mercenaries refuse to take us in, he thought, grimly. Mercenaries had a bad reputation, with reason. They might refuse to accept Robin and Eliza – or, worse, they might refuse him and accept her alone. His imagination provided too many possibilities, each one worse than the last. Perhaps it would be better to make their way to the nearest city instead, changing their names and hoping to hell the lord’s men didn’t have a magician with them. If we make the wrong call …

“We can write a letter, once we reach the camp,” Eliza said. “Or ask someone to take a message for us.”

Robin shook his head. There were few in the village who would openly admit to being able to read, after the local lords banned the New Learning, and even if they took the risk it was hard to imagine what they could write without incriminating themselves. Hell, the mere act of receiving a letter would raise eyebrows. Their family had friends and relatives in the surrounding villages, but none more than a few hour’s walk from home. Who would send a letter to them?

Guilt gnawed at his heart and soul. His father would never know what had happened to them. Would he suspect the truth? Or would he think they’d wandered into the wrong part of the forest and slipped away from human ken? Or even that they’d fled to the city … it wasn’t impossible, he told himself. They’d hardly be the first to ensure their families could maintain plausible deniability, while they left in search of a better life elsewhere. He’d go back one day, he promised himself, and make it right. But he had no idea where he could even begin.

The forest parted suddenly, revealing a camp set up next to the border road. Robin sucked in his breath as he saw the wooden stockade, clearly harvested from the surrounding trees, and the trench surrounding a multitude of brightly-coloured tents. The camp hadn’t been there a few days ago, he knew for a fact, which made its rapid construction all the more impressive. It looked alarmingly permanent, for a camp belonging to a mercenary troop passing through the area, and it made him wonder if they were making a terrible mistake. Their lord might have hired the mercenaries to keep his serfs in line.

He gritted his teeth. “This way.”

The air shifted, slightly, as they walked out of the forest and made their way down to the gate. A pair of guards were standing there, wearing tunics and carrying gunpowder weapons slung over their shoulders. Robin had expected ravening monsters, orcs in human form, but they looked surprisingly normal. They stood like men who had nothing to prove, to themselves or anyone else. They were far more manly than the lord’s dead son, who had dressed up as a fighting man and fooled absolutely no one. He certainly hadn’t put up much of a fight when Robin had been pounding him.

“Yes?”

Robin blinked. He’d never heard an accent like that before. The peddlers spoke in a multitude of different accents, and the aristos liked to speak in a manner he found hard to emulate, but the mercenary’s accent was something else again. He had no idea where the man had come from or if he had anywhere to go, if he ever left the band. It was just another reminder he was about to step into a very different world.

“We heard the recruiting sergeant yesterday,” Robin said, grasping helplessly for words. It didn’t seem wise to tell the guard the full truth. “We’d like to sign up.”

The guard studied them for a long moment. “Very well,” he said, simply. “Come with me.”

He turned and led them into the camp, two other guards appearing out of a tent to take his place and several others watching from a safe distance. Robin looked around with interest, noting the dozens of men – all wearing similar tunics – running laps or performing push-ups or practicing with muskets or bladed weapons. They looked back at him, a handful eying Eliza with frank interest. Robin felt his fists clench in a fit of sudden rage and forced himself to unclench them, reminding himself that they couldn’t afford to get into a fight here. It would get them both killed, or worse. The guard stopped outside a larger tent and motioned for them to wait, before stepping in himself. There was a long pause, just long enough for Robin to start worrying in earnest, before the guard returned. His face was split by an odd little smile.

“The Captain-General will see you now.”

Robin glanced at Eliza, then stepped inside the tent. The interior was brighter than he’d expected – a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the floating ball of light hovering overhead – and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden change. Three people sat in front of a folding table, two men and a woman. They looked at him with cool appraising eyes. Robin forced himself to look back, suddenly very aware that showing weakness could easily prove fatal. The two men were impressive, more in bearing than dress, while the woman … Robin was certain, without knowing quite how, that she was a sorceress.

“Greetings,” the first man said. He was older than Robin by at least a decade, with short dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. “I am Captain-General Sir James Hawkwood of the Bloody Hands, This is Sergeant-Major Winter, my right hand, and Lady Sorceress Tancella …”

“Your wrong one,” Tancella said.

Robin glanced at her. She was surprisingly short, with blonde hair cropped close to her skull and bright blue eyes that were cold and hard, even when she smiled. Her outfit drew the eye to her cleavage in a manner that left Robin unsure where to look, or even if he should look at her at all, and her accent was completely unfamiliar.

“You want to join us,” Sir James said. “Why?”

“Yes … My Lord,” Robin managed. “I …”

“Sir will suffice,” Sir James said. His tone was casual, but there was an edge behind it that made Robin flinch. “Why do you want to join us?”

“I’m Robin and this is my sister Eliza,” Robin said. He didn’t care tell them the truth. “We want to join you because …”

He hesitated. “We’re too young to inherit anything,” he continued. It was true enough. Older sons inherited the farm, younger sons worked for their elder brothers or tried to find farms that would welcome another pair of masculine hands. Daughters were generally married off to other farms unless their parents didn’t have sons, in which case they were expected to find a younger son from another farm and bring him home. “If we stay, we’ll be worked to death. Joining you is a chance to see the rest of the world.”

“Is it?” Sir James smiled, rather thinly. “And the truth?”

“Sir?”

“It’s a very plausible lie,” Sir James said. “But it is a lie.”

Robin flushed. It wasn’t precisely a lie. He’d seen plenty of younger sons fall into depression – or drink – because they would never amount to anything beyond workers on their brother’s farm. He knew it could happen to him too. And Eliza … if she married poorly, she might not live long enough to regret it.

“The truth, please,” Sir James said. He spoke politely, but firmly. “Don’t waste my time.”

“I … I caught an aristo trying to rape my sister,” Robin said. He couldn’t tell if it was a mistake to confess or not. Sir James was an aristocrat, if he was any judge, but he was clearly cut from very different cloth than the local nobility. “I beat him to death. If we go home, we’ll be caught and murdered. If we go to the city” – he shook his head – “this is the only place we can go.”

“I see.” Sir James said nothing for a long moment, but his eyes bored into Robin’s. “Do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”

He continued before Robin could think of a response. “You will be trained – and harshly – until you are ready to take your place in the field. There’ll be nothing genteel about it. If you don’t come up to scratch, or you prove unwilling or unable to handle military discipline, you will be punished or expelled. And you” – his eyes moved to Eliza – “will be one of our washerwomen, doing everything from cooking and cleaning to mending shirts and tending the wounded. Again, there will be nothing genteel about it. If you don’t come up to scratch, you will be expelled.”

Eliza nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I know how to cook and clean. And sew.”

“Yes, sir,” Robin echoed.

“You will belong to us, in all senses of the word,” Sir James said. “Your first loyalty will be to the Bloody Hands. Your families back home, your friends … they all come second to us. We will be resuming our march tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, and you may never see your home again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Robin managed.

“Very good,” Sir James said. “I need to speak to my inner council. Wait outside. If you change your mind”- he gave them a toothy grin – “you can walk back to the gate and the guards will let you leave. Follow the road east and it’ll take you to a city outside your kingdom. If you’re not there when we come out, we’ll let you go. If you are … there will be no further opportunities to change your mind. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Robin said. “And thank you.”

“Thank me after you see your first battle,” Sir James said. He pointed at the flap. “Not before.”

***

James kept the stern expression on his face until Robin and Eliza had left the tent, then allowed himself a moment of amusement. The two peasants had told a convincing story, but James had years of experience dealing with far more practiced liars and the tells were all too visible. Their second story had been true, he was sure, and it added an amusing little wrinkle to the whole affair. He could hardly condemn Robin for killing a would-be rapist. It was a very minor issue compared to his own crimes.

“He reminds you of you, doesn’t he?” Sergeant-Major Winter didn’t mince words. “You do realise this could land us in hot water?”

“I doubt it.” James had met the local lord, a man whose pretensions cloaked deep insecurity and very limited power. He could bully a peasant village, perhaps, but five hundred armed mercenaries could take his castle easily and put everyone inside to the sword. “No one is going to pick a fight with us over two runaways, even if they do realise the poor kids came here.”

“The girl may have talent,” Tancella put in. “I’d like to test her, if you don’t mind.”

James nodded, knowing the sorceress would do it anyway. There was no point in issuing orders you knew wouldn’t be followed. Besides, the band could always do with more magicians. It was rare for a second-rank magician to sign up for more than a year or two and almost unknown for a first-rank to join up at all. Tancella was the only one he’d met who’d stayed for over five years and he had no idea why. He’d never bothered to ask. For all he knew, her story was comparable to his own.

“I’ll see what we can make of them,” Winter said. “Just don’t get too blinded by the kid’s likeness to you.”

“Hah.” James shrugged. One recruit would hardly save or damn the company. He probably had more of a soul than most mercenaries, and the fact he’d defended his sister spoke well of him, but … he was unpolished. Physically strong, like most farmers, yet probably lacking in any real military training. “You take him to the platoon, make sure he gets thrown in at the deep end. Sink or swim.”

“I know the drill,” Winter said. “And I’ll take care of him.”

Tancella grinned. “I’ll take care of the girl,” she said. “If she has the talent and a willingness to learn, I’ll make something of her.”

“Good.” James looked from one to the other. “We’re already pushing it, if we want to get to Tidebank City before the deadline. Make sure everyone is ready to march at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes, sir,” Winter said. “We’ll be there in plenty of time.”

James nodded, returning his attention to the letters in front of him as they left the tent. His thoughts were elsewhere. Winter wasn’t wrong to say that Robin reminded James of himself, a young man who had committed an awful crime by the standards of the aristocracy … not, James acknowledged, that his crime had been as vile as the one James himself had committed. Reason enough to give Robin and his sister a second chance, he supposed, and there was little real risk of the local lord realising what had happened in time to stop them. If the body had been hidden, it might not be found until the band was well on the way to Tidebank.

And if the whole affair works out in our favour, he told himself, it’ll be all the better for us.