Kellanved's Reach

But his companion reached out and lowered his arm. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared into the driving sheets of rain.

Some time later the guard returned with another figure in a shapeless oiled cloak, his mussed dark hair flattened wet: the mage, Red. He looked them up and down then nodded to himself and motioned them to follow.

Once more Gregar found himself in the wide central tent of the Crimson Guard that, he supposed, passed as their mobile main hall. Within, a long central trench glowed with a blazing fire, while at the head of the main table Courian sat as before – almost as if no time had passed at all.

But it wasn’t entirely the same. Gregar noted how the commander sat slumped in his chair, quiet now, and that he used only his right hand to drink and eat while his left lay immobile on his lap. Red approached Cal-Brinn, on Courian’s left, and they spoke in low tones. Then Cal-Brinn waved them forward.

Rather reluctantly, Gregar approached, Haraj in tow.

Cal-Brinn leaned in to whisper to Courian, who cocked his head, listening. Closer now, Gregar noted how one corner of the man’s mouth hung slack, and how his one good eye now drooped half open.

Courian looked them up and down, blinking, then snorted. ‘You two. So, reconsidering our offer, hey?’

Gregar made an effort to straighten beneath the man’s glower. ‘Yes, m’lord. Yellows was destroyed in the battle.’

Courian nodded. ‘I understand. Well … your timing is impeccable. We, too, endured unacceptable casualties in that fiasco. So we are recruiting. Therefore, remember, I am no lord. I am your commander.’ He waved them off. ‘Now get something to eat.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Haraj gushed.

Gregar nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you indeed.’

Courian waved them away. ‘Yes, yes. Go on with you.’

Later that night Cal-Brinn showed them to a tent. Inside lay a change of dry clothes. ‘As mages,’ he explained, ‘you get private quarters. Now rest. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

Both Gregar and Haraj started babbling about how thankful they were, but the Dal Hon mage raised a hand for silence. ‘Tomorrow. Rest now.’

Gregar nodded and sat on one of the pallet beds. Almost immediately, he fell backwards and closed his eyes.

The next day K’azz welcomed them and introduced them around. They ate in the main tent, along with all the other guardsmen and women who were off duty at the time. Listening to the talk, Gregar gathered it was true that the Guard had suffered a great number of losses in extricating itself from the chaos of the field of Jurda.

Courian, however, that evening at dinner was more jovial, though his arm remained immobile. He spoke of more recruits expected, and winked his one half-lidded remaining eye.

Two days later the recruits arrived. It started with the noise and tumult of a great number of horses arriving at the camp: the stamping of hooves and the jangle of equipage. Everyone within peered up, surprised, save for Courian who straightened eagerly, motioning to the guards at the wide tent-flap. ‘They are here! Let them in!’

The flap was pushed aside and in came a tall, powerful-looking fellow in a long mail coat, belted, with a two-handed sword at his side. His hair was a dirty blond, long and thick, and curled, as was his thick beard. He looked round, and Gregar thought his expression a touch too self-satisfied and smug as he approached the main table.

Courian struggled to his feet to reach out for his hand. ‘Skinner! Welcome! You are most welcome indeed.’

K’azz appeared quite puzzled. ‘Father,’ he asked, ‘what is this?’

‘Recruits!’ Courian announced. ‘Four hundred swords! Skinner here has agreed to join under my command.’

Gregar was surprised; whenever anyone wished to condemn mercenaries out of hand it was always Skinner’s troop they pointed to; the worst of the worst, was the common perception. Nothing more than hired bloody-handed murderers and killers.

K’azz rested a hand on Courian’s arm. ‘Father, a word, please …’

Courian shook him off. ‘No. There’s nothing to talk over. Open war is upon us. We must gather strength to survive. Skinner has the swords, but most importantly the will to use them. That is what we need now.’

The blond mercenary commander inclined his head – a touch sardonically, it seemed to Gregar. ‘Four hundred blades are yours, Courian,’ he said.

The commander nodded, giving a battle-grin, but the grin turned to a grimace as he clutched his side, kneading it. ‘Excellent, Skinner,’ he gasped. ‘You are welcome. Cal-Brinn! See that they settle in!’

The Dal Hon mage bowed, rising. ‘At once.’ He motioned to the entrance. ‘This way.’ He and Skinner went out.

Gregar, however, noted the troubled expression upon K’azz’s face, which he tried to hide by lowering his head, and the now hardened features of Surat, sitting at the far end of the table. Then he recalled: Surat was the Guard’s champion, while Skinner was regarded as a champion himself.

Courian, it seemed, had nearly doubled the Guard’s strength. But at what price?