Chapter 18: Mercenary enrollment
~Lance Aurora~
The rain fell finely on the slate roofs, drawing shiny threads on the windows and on the skin. A light mist snaked between the brick and iron buildings, like a dirty scarf smothering the city. Its grayish hue mingled with the dust of the streets and the smoke of the factories, forming an unbreathable cloudy mass.
The city stretched out before me like an immense creature, too big, too alive, whose alleyways seemed to breathe soot and metal.
I pulled up the collar of the jacket the merchant had given me and looked around me. There were dark-eyed workers, mechanical parts deliverymen and ragged children running between the wheels of rickety automobiles.
The city was noisy. The sound of horns, the shouts of merchants and the whistle of boilers formed a breathless urban symphony, alien and almost threatening.
I hadn't slept a wink in three days. And with good reason, Combenil was the kind of place where sleep had to be earned.
A shiver ran through me as I thought back to the freezing nights I'd spent in the streets.
"What kind of man gives only a coat to his benefactor? Even if it was better than nothing," I sighed, moving on, despite my own slander.
Malcolm, the merchant, had given me money after all. A total of 220 erdz. It was enough to book a room at an inn for a few days, but given my situation, I thought it best to make a few sacrifices until I could find a stable source of income.
To this end, Malcolm had advised me to sign up as a mercenary. According to him, it would be the best way to get information about the medallion. But the registration office was closed when I arrived.
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I continued on my way, following the landmarks I'd already noted in the city.
I passed a clinic whose white sign was dirty with dust and smoke. Two streets further on, past some graffiti and a factory, I finally came to a large black-brick building with a military architecture that blended strangely well with its industrial surroundings.
Above its large dark oak doors, it read: "Nashjis Mercenary Alliance".
This was one of the most powerful organizations in the region. For good reason: the Union of Nashjis, in which I found myself, was a group of city-states governed by an assembly of rulers.
Clashes were frequent, between cities for control of territories, but also against neighboring states seeking to extend their influence. As most of these cities had no real armies, mercenarism remained the only viable option for defending their borders, against both man and beast.
I walked through the doors into a vast two-storey hall.
The room smelled of worn leather, oil and dust. The smell of weapons, sweat and metal wafted through the air like a heavy perfume. The floor, made of large gray stone slabs, bore the marks of hundreds of boots. Tarnished portraits of former captains and top brass adorned the walls, hung between faded banners. Two large spiral staircases of blackened steel led to the upper floors.
The place was swarming with people. Men and women of robust build and weathered faces wore armor, reinforced leather jackets and sometimes strange, sometimes homemade weapons. Some chatted around a massive wooden counter, others sparred at the archery table by the bay window or drank directly from a gourd, seated on benches arranged around a large central fireplace.
A guard, his face hidden beneath a helmet engraved with the symbol of the Alliance, watched me briefly from the entrance. He hadn't moved, but I could feel his gaze on me.
I moved slowly towards the counter, where a woman sat behind a stack of files, typing on an old mechanical typewriter. She wore square glasses, had her hair tied up in a severe bun and wore an irritated expression. She didn't even look up when I spoke.
"I'm looking to enlist."
She sighed without ceasing to type.
"First contract, I presume?"
"Yes."
"Age, name, region of origin?"
I froze for a moment. A reflex. I'd learned never to say too much. And even if I wanted to, revealing too much would present risks, especially with this organization. I chose the path of the half-lie.
"Lance, no last name. I'm 17 years old. I'm from Varn."
"Quiet liar," she muttered, as if to herself. "They all are."
The city of Varn was known as one of the best in training soldiers, and it was common for mercenaries to use the name to gain credibility.
She plucked a yellowed form from a creaky drawer, scribbled something on it in pen, then handed it to me without emotion.
"You fill this out. Then you go to the back, room 3, for the physical evaluation. If you pass, you come back here for the interview."
"Is that all?"
"No, you owe me 10 Erdz for processing the case. And if you fail, you get nothing back."
I reluctantly pulled out the money and she waved it away with a precise, almost satisfied gesture.
As I walked away, form in hand, I saw a group of five people around my age heading my way.
They advanced calmly, pretending not to see me. "Some kind of test?" I asked myself, when I felt a hand brush my arm. A deep voice whispered behind me.
"You're new. I can tell. Be careful who you talk to here. Not everyone is here for the money."
I turned around. The man was tall, his skin tanned by the wind and his eyes a piercing gray. A gash ran across his jaw. He held a spear folded behind his back.
"What about you? - What are you here for?"
"You don't want to know."
He didn't elaborate. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd without another word.
I froze for a moment, my fingers clenching on the paper. Then I made my way to the back of the hall, where a metal door with a rusty plaque read: "Evaluation room n°3".
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The room opened behind a heavy sliding iron door whose creaking echoed long into the corridors. Inside, the air was drier and saturated with the smells of oil, sweat and burnt metal. The room was vast, a sort of reinforced hangar carved out of rock or cast in concrete blackened by time.
The floor was made of welded metal plates, patched in places with rough stone slabs. Each step echoed slightly, giving an impression of emptiness underfoot. Industrial lamps streaked with parasites diffused a pale yellow light on the walls. The high, vaulted ceiling was pierced by rusty pipes from which a blackish liquid escaped.
To the left, a grilled corridor led to a stockpile of training weapons: dull steel swords, hardwood spears, shooting bows and hard rubber projectiles. To the right, an entire section of wall served as a shooting range and was riddled with impact marks. Further on, a circular ring delimited by iron pillars linked by taut cables served as a field for hand-to-hand combat.
Opposite, a raised dais hosted two men in black coats, arms folded, who watched the candidates without saying a word. Next to them, a strange device - a mechanical altar connected to cables and surrounded by metal plates on which patterns of different materials were implanted - was set up.
Some candidates were already waiting, leaning against the wall or preparing for the test by stretching their limbs or examining their equipment. Others were giving me looks heavy with suspicion or indifference as I crossed the room to join them.
There were a dozen people on the other side. Men and women, young or weather-beaten, dressed in worn, reinforced or hastily patched-up outfits.
On the other hand, a dozen others, all youngsters around my age, were dressed in armor and outfits of much better quality.
"No doubt the children of wealthy families", I said to myself disdainfully as I passed them to sit down away from them all.
I felt my heart quicken with apprehension, an old habit that had followed me for as long as I could remember.
I approached a corner of the wall that was still free and leaned against it. The metal was cold against my shoulder blades.
There was only an hour left before the exam began.