Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1072: Fair bill(2)
"Ser I am glad to announce we shan’t go angry nor thirsty tonight!" Ser Marvy shouted, his head popping up with the sudden, sharp energy of a cock’s crest.
He practically marched into the room, his arms wrapped around a small, iron-banded barrel of wine as if it were a rescued princess.
He brought it down with a heavy thud onto the oak table, the force of the impact sending a wooden plate clattering to the floor.
"How many are there?"
"Enough for us I gather," Ser Marvy replied, his voice brimming with a boyish, infectious glee. "You surely wouldn’t expect to find enough vintage for a whole army in a village of what? A hundred peasants at most? This was the headman’s private hoard, I’d wager."
’’Did not see any graveyeards here or for a league in any direction’’
’’Must have bought it for personal use by a passing merchant,I’d reckon.’’
Without waiting for a cup, Marvy drew his sword an inch, then gripped the hilt with both hands, bringing the heavy pommel down like a hammer.
CRACK.
The wooden cap splintered and gave way, and immediately, the sharp, fermented fragrance of the wine filled the damp room, mingling alongside the scent of wet wool and cold ash.
Marvy reached for a pair of ceramic cups left on the sideboard, dipping them one after the other into the dark liquid. He handed one to Mers, who took it with his lone hand. The veteran gave it a cautious sniff before bringing it to his lips.
"I usually don’t touch any of such stuff on campaign," Mers grumbled, the liquid warming his throat. "But gods be praised... if this isn’t exactly what I needed to wash the taste of this morning out of my mouth."
"No use in denying yourself the simple pleasures of life, Ser,the Weaver spins a tangled knot for us all. Let us take virtue in what is offered us!" Marvy chuckled, mirroring the older knight by taking a massive, unrefined gulp.
He immediately doubled over, spitting a spray of red onto the floorboards. "Fucking goat’s piss!" he hissed, wiping his mouth with his silk sleeve and coughing. He looked at the cup with betrayal, yet, after a second, he took another, smaller sip. "Sourer than a nun’s scowl..."still he kept on sipping.
They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the boot drumming on the wooden floor and the soft swallow of the wine. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the roaster who broke the quiet, but the one-handed veteran.
"This your first war, boy?" Mers asked suddenly, his gaze fixed on the dancing shadows on the wall.
Marvy paused, his cup halfway to his mouth.Was it anyother calling him boy would have had him fuming, but Left Hand fucking Mers?That was an honour.
"That obvious? Was it the cursing at the wine? I suppose a veteran’s palate is made of leather and iron."
"Nah. High lords are used to drinking sweet ambrosia even when the arrows are flying," Mers said, taking a long, slow drink. "Most of them don’t even take part in the true business of it. They sit in silk tents, shaming the Warrior with their posturing and their maps, acting as if war is a game of stones and boards. A proper man of war ought to be at the front, tasting the mud and the blood, not eating honey-cakes in the rear.
Resilience is the only prayer the Warrior hears and gifts.They ought to pursue on that...."
He turned his head, looking at the young knight with a look that wasn’t quite a smile, but lacked its usual sneering edge. "At the very least, I have to praise you for offering yourself for this mission. I may not share your... other tendencies, and your tongue wagging is enough to drive a man to drink, but you weren’t scared of dirtying your soles. Most of your cousins would still be back at the camp, complaining that the opium hasn’t arrived yet.Softs flesh all of them are made."
Marvy’s cheeks flushed, but this time it wasn’t from the wine or from embarrassment. He looked down at his boots, a genuine, quiet sheepishness overcoming him. To be insulted by Mers was expected; to be praised by him was a miracle.
"I... well," Marvy stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "My father always said that a Marlon doesn’t lead from the shadow of a tent. I didn’t want other to think I was just another decorative piece of the Ezvanian court." He made no mention of his cousin, but it was plain for all the connection to be made.
"Good," Mers grunted, leaning back against the rough-hewn timber. "Keep that fire. You’ll need it tomorrow when you go hunting for foxes." A fleeting, ghost-like smile crossed his face, a rare break in the storm of his features, before vanishing just as quickly. "Now, get some rest. Nothing good ever came from a long night fueled by goat’s piss and grand ideas."
"So you admit it! It is piss!" Marvy exclaimed
"I’ve got grey in my hair, boy, not on my tongue. I know a shitty vintage when I taste one," he muttered, pushing himself up from the bench. His joints popped like dry kindling as he stretched his back. "I bid you goodnight. I’m dying for a proper bed, even if it’s just a pile of damp hay in the corner. Sleep while you can."
"Goodnight, Ser,I shall sing you first thing in the morning. Word of Roaster!" his voice was bright with an unearned optimism. He watched the veteran retreat, feeling a strange sense of belonging.
The day that had begun in rain and resentment had ended with the respect of a legend. He went to his own corner of the headman’s house, convinced that tomorrow would bring even greater glory.
But the night was not yet finished with them.
A nice and interesting thing about the hovels of the village, was that they were built for utility, not longevity. They were constructed of seasoned timber, packed mud, and thick, dry thatch, materials easily gathered from the earth and what did all these materials have in common?
They were easily flammable.
Deep into the night, when the darkness was a thick, suffocating velvet, the silence was made only to beshattered.
It began with a sound like a rusted fork scraping against the lid of a stone crypt, a high, metallic screech that set teeth on edge, only later i became clear that they were the pain-filled scream of men. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚
Mers was awake before his mind even processed the noise, his instinct forged in half a dozen of night-attacks. He and Marvy scrambled for the door, the younger knight still fumbling with his belt as they burst out into the street.
The village in their sleep had become a furnace.
The bright, orange-red flames were rising like dancing teeth from the hay-roofed hovels. The wooden frames of the houses, the very structures currently housing the sleeping soldiers, were groaning under the weight of an inferno.
Then came the cries.They were the shrill, agonized shrieks of men waking up to find their world melting.
Men beat against the doors, but the wood wouldn’t budge. As the enemy set fire on the houses they had also barred the doors from the outside with stakes driven deep into the mud against the door.
"Out! Everyone out!" Mers roared, his voice a thunderclap over the chaos. He didn’t wait for his men to gather. He sprinted toward the nearest burning hovel, his sword drawn and gleaming in the hellish light. "Where are the scouts? Where were the fucking sentries?!"
He expected soldiers to sprang around the corners and attack their disorganized men,kill a few and route the rest, but they did not. Why?That would have been a perfect ambush....
Where they too few?Did this mean that such inferno was caused by some dozens of men?
He pushed the heat of shame back.
When it became clear he would not wet his sword red, Mers reached the first door, a heavy slab of pine held shut by a thick timber wedged against the frame. With a snarl,he brought his heavy boot down, smashing the obstruction with the force of a battering ram. The wood splintered, the door swinging open, but he was too late.
As the door gave way, the oxygen-starved fire inside roared into a fresh life. The thatched roof, heavy with embers, chose that exact moment to cave in. A fountain of sparks erupted into the night sky, followed by a manic, high-pitched wail of pure agony that made Mers flinch as he was pushed back by the heat of the fire.
The men inside weren’t fighting anymore; they were a heap of blackened, thrashing shadows beneath a collapsing sky of fire.
And as the heat seared at the knight’s eyebrows and his lone hand white-knuckled around his hilt, what he could smell was the burning and roasting of meat, so eerily similar to the cow-rib that he had but some hours ago.
They had been planning to send riders in the morrow to hunt for signs of the Fox, but as the night showed, it would seem that the Fox instead had been planning to hunt them long before they did.
