The scent of wet earth and blood hung thick in the air.
Garran Vale crouched by the corpse, tugging free the iron-tipped javelin from the man's chest. He wiped the blade clean against the dead man's tattered cloak, though the rusted weapon would fetch little coin. It was habit more than need.
The field was littered with bodies, most already picked clean by carrion crows or the quicker hands of the camp-followers. A small skirmish between Lord Brennar's levy and the Black Harp Company, hired blades without a country, without a cause. Men like Garran.
"You'd think for a knight's ransom they'd at least put up a fight," muttered Jorik, his second-in-command, a thick-armed Northman whose beard dripped with sweat.
"They fought well enough to kill half our lads," Garran grunted. He took a waterskin from his belt and drank. The water was warm, tasted of leather, but it was wet.
Jorik shrugged. "Half of 'em weren't worth their salt. Tired lads, green lads. Was bound to happen."
It was true. The Black Harp had been bleeding men for months — plague, arrows, desertion. What remained was a ragged band of two hundred, scraping coin wherever it could be found. Garran counted himself lucky still to have his skin, let alone his command.
At the crest of the hill, the banner of Lord Brennar's men still burned, the blue boar of House Brennar curling to ash. Smoke drifted into the overcast sky.
"You'll be wanting to see the quartermaster," Jorik said. "Share of the spoils."
Garran wiped sweat from his brow. He was weary to his bones, a weariness that no sleep could cure. But coin was coin.
They walked together past the bodies, past the pitiful few survivors moaning in the mud. Garran knew better than to show mercy. In this land, prisoners were a burden — and a risk. He made a curt gesture. The men-at-arms nearby went to work with silent, efficient thrusts.
The quartermaster's tent was a rough canvas thing, already half-collapsed from some fool's drunken wrestling the night before. Inside, crates of looted gear, bolts of cloth, and the rare bit of silver plate lay stacked.
"Captain," said Rendor, a lean, sharp-nosed man with ink-stained fingers. He kept the accounts, such as they were.
"What's the count?" Garran asked.
Rendor consulted his ledger. "Sixty men dead, thirty wounded. No prisoners. Took three wagons of grain, two of salt beef. Found a coffer with eighty silver stags."
Garran scowled. "Eighty? Was supposed to be three hundred in Brennar's hold."
Rendor gave a thin smile. "Either the good lord took it with him when he fled, or some enterprising fellow among us has heavy pockets."
Garran spat. He'd seen it before. Loot disappeared like morning mist. "Cut shares for the lads. Ten to Jorik's quarter, five to the wounded. Burn the rest of the dead."
He turned to leave, but Rendor spoke again. "A messenger came, before the fight."
Garran raised a brow. "And?"
"A letter. From Lord Ranmere."
The name sent a ripple through Garran's chest. Ranmere was no border lord. He held one of the Five Keeps of the High Marches. A lord of real power. Not the sort to traffic with mercenaries.
"What did it say?"
Rendor handed him a wax-sealed letter. Garran broke it open, scanning the words by the fading light.
Captain Garran Vale,
The winds of war rise. Men of worth are needed. Come to Goldmere Hall within the week. There is coin, land, and blood to be won.
Signed,
Lord Ranmere of Goldmere.
He read it twice.
Jorik noticed his expression. "Good news?"
Garran folded the letter. "Opportunity."
Jorik grinned. "Best kind of news."
The sun was low now, a sullen red disc on the horizon. Garran looked to it, and in the distance saw the faint outlines of hills beyond which Goldmere lay.
A landless bastard sellsword, called to a lord's table. It stank of danger. It reeked of blood.
But there was no other road for men like him.