Book 6: Chapter 19 - The Mercenaries

“In the far future, if the bards yet sing of this age, they shall not sing of heroes and radiant virtue. They shall sing of men broken by fate, of crowns reforged from chains, and of justice drowned in blood. They shall not sing of a saviour come, they shall sing of the Wandering Scourge, a warning etched in darkness and the Lord of Ash and Ruin.”

- Unknown.

Once the formalities were observed and the host and guest obligations fulfilled, I pulled Larynda aside before we retired for the evening. “Explain,” I said, my voice flat.

Larynda’s eyes, serious and searching, met mine. “Why this obsession with living forever? You’re young, Gil.”

I returned her gaze, my expression just as grave. “That’s like a rich man scolding a poor man for wanting more. You can’t understand—you have time I don’t.”

“I don’t get it,” she said, biting her bottom lip.

“Think, Larynda. You’re smart. Why does Cordelia speak of eternity so easily?”

She looked away, a distant expression crossing her exotic features, a unique blend of her heritage. Slowly, slower than I thought it would have, understanding crept into her eyes, like dawn breaking over a battlefield.

“You’re scared,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if she’d pried open a rusted lock on my soul.

I bristled, her words striking too close to a truth I buried deep. Like all mortals, I hid my fear of death beneath layers of resolve.

But I had truths to wield too. “You should be afraid. Your long life is a gift, but when I’m dust and everyone you know is gone, you will be alone. Your mother’s people reject you—they wish you only harm.”

Her hand rose to touch her altered ear, reshaped by a dead surgeon’s blade, a mark of her outcast status.

“I must live to honor my promise to Hamsa,” I said firmly.

“Your promise was only to take me to Al-Lazar,” she countered, grabbing my armored hand. “You’ve done that and more, Gil. You don’t owe me anything else.”

I shook my head, running a hand through my hair. “Words alone are not what makes a binding promise. Not all contracts are just to the letter. When someone entrusts a child to you, there is weight to that. There is an implied duty. Hamsa did not ask me ‘just’ to take you to Al-Lazar, girl. I was charged with protecting you. You know this as well as I do. I fought an army for you, and I will continue to protect you for as long as I draw breath. Now do you understand?”

She looked down, ashamed, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “A Mountain’s Tear…” she muttered, barely audible.

“Speak clearly,” I barked, sharper than I meant.

“A Mountain’s Tear, a Dur-tepayotl,” she repeated slowly.

I snorted, masking my unease. “Sounds like a damned riddle, or some foreign dish.”

“It’s what you need for your… elixir,” she said in a hushed voice. “The walls are thin here. Well, there are no walls, I guess. I won’t name it. You know what I mean.”

“I thought you needed more answers from Quas.”

“Al-Lazar’s libraries were vast,” she replied. “I used some resources for research. Our pale, dead friend said the elixir needs a powerful catalyst, like the Mountain’s Tear.”

I raised a hand to stop her. Her arcane jargon was beyond me, but her certainty was enough. “That’s sufficient.”

“That’s it?” she asked, surprise flickering in her eyes. “I could be wrong. Don’t you want more details?”

Like all experts in a given field, she did enjoy expounding upon the details.

“I trust you. We’ll leave with Damien’s company tomorrow, or whenever they march.”

“Alright,” she said softly.

“There may be fighting on the road.”

“I’m not a little girl,” she snapped. “I can defend myself. There has always been fighting around you.”

“I know you can. Just stay back from the front lines.”

She seemed ready to argue but held back. “Fine.”

“Goodnight, Larynda.”

“Goodnight, Gil.”

I stepped into my assigned “chamber” within Cordelia’s palatial tent, the weight of my Adamantium armor suddenly pressing against my shoulders. Regret pricked at me; I should have asked Larynda to help me out of my armor, as I had always done. Peering through the cloth partition, I called for a servant. By some turn of luck, Elissa, the servant girl who had served us refreshments earlier, approached, her dark curls catching the crystal lamplight as she offered a deep, reverent bow.

“How may I serve you, samasa?” she asked, her voice soft as a flower wind, her eyes briefly meeting mine before lowering in respect.

“I require assistance with my armor,” I replied, keeping my tone formal yet warm. “Your help would be most appreciated.”

A flicker of nervousness crossed her face as she twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “Of course, samasa,” she said, her voice steadying. “It would be my honor to assist the Lord Herald.”

Under my guidance, she set to work, her slender hands struggling slightly as they unfastened the heavy clasps of the Adamantium plates. Each piece fell away with a dull clank, and her eyes widened at their great weight. 

“I cannot fathom how you move beneath such a weight, samasa,” she murmured, her tone laced with awe. “You must have the power of ten men, no more. Your strength must be unmatched. Later, I shall ensure these are cleaned and honored as befits your station.”

Her gaze then settled on my chest. “And this… what is this marvel? I have never seen its like before,” she asked, her voice tinged with wonder.

Embarrassment warmed my cheeks; I hadn’t realized how battle’s grime still marked me. It was then that I also noticed that I still wore the impact-resistant exo-fabric tunic. An artifact from a different place, a different time.

“A gift from the Goddess,” I said, caught off guard by her admiration. “Bestowed for enduring her Trial.”

“Praise be to the Goddess,” she whispered, a blush coloring her cheeks as she moved a touch closer. “Only the greatest heroes and champions receive such blessings.”

Her scent enveloped me—desert herbs, warm spice, and the sun’s lingering kiss—stirring a primal awareness. 

“Permit me to aid you further, sama,” she said, her voice softening to a husky cadence. “It would be a privilege, an honor, to touch so sacred a garment.”

With measured care, she helped me peel away the exotic tunic, her fingers grazing my skin, each touch lingering just beyond necessity. A shiver ran through me, her sudden closeness igniting a quiet fire. She paused, her eyes searching mine, as if seeking permission to cross an unspoken threshold.

“Allow me a moment,” she said, gliding to a corner table to retrieve a terracotta jar of water and a soft cloth. “If you would permit me, samasa,” she added, a gentle smile curving her lips as she dampened the cloth.

Words failed me; I nodded, captivated by her boldness cloaked in reverence. She began to cleanse my skin, wiping away the sweat and blood of battle with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass felt like a ritual, her touch tender yet purposeful, as if she were honoring not just my body but the ideals I represented. I could have summoned my Entropic Aura to cleanse myself, but her care was a pleasure. Some moments, I was learning, were meant to be savored for their intimacy, not their end.

When she finished, she rested her hand on my chest, her fingers warm against my heartbeat. “In the Whispering Wastes, storms come without warning,” she whispered, her eyes locking with mine, bold yet reverent. “We must not let the sands breach our sanctuary.”

Her words, cryptic yet clear, carried the weight of desire. Life’s transient nature demanded we seize such fleeting connections.

“It would be an honor to lie with you, Lord Herald,” she said, her voice steady despite the flush on her cheeks. “To share this night.”

Her formal offer, laced with yearning, disarmed me. The sincerity in her gaze, the weight of her words, stirred something deep within. Without a word, I drew her into my arms, the decision sealed in the quiet between us.

***

Before even dawn’s first rays pierced the skies, I stirred from a deep, restful sleep, a satisfied smile curling my lips. Elissa had slipped away, leaving only the faint trace of her scent and the lingering warmth of her body pressed against mine. The memory of her soft curves, her reverent whispers, and the slow, deliberate dance of our night together flooded my senses, igniting a rare spark of contentment. I stretched, my muscles loose and invigorated, the weight of battles and betrayals momentarily lifted. My opinion of the Nas Al-Rimal greatly improved.

With a newfound lightness in my step, I donned my cleaned armor, its familiar heft feeling less burdensome today. I wove through the camp, the vibrant tents of the desert tribes—each a distinct hue of crimson, indigo, or saffron—blurring past me. Soon their squabbles with the people of the city and the people of the sea would no longer be my concern; I was leaving the City of Dust, Al-Lazar, to chart its own course alongside these people. 

My path lay elsewhere, toward Bronzegate Hold and the promise of the Mountain’s Tear.

I found Damien at his camp, a modest enclave within the sprawling, temporary Nas Al-Rimal settlement. He sat cross-legged, savoring a simple breakfast of dried dates and watery gruel, a simple but filling fare. His eyes lit up as he spotted me, a winning smile spreading across his face. “Gilgamesh! You look damn well this morning—did dreams of gold work their magic upon you? Or have you been enamoured of the hospitality of the desert people?”

I chuckled, the echo of Elissa’s touch still warm in my mind. “They have their charms,” I replied, my tone lighter than usual.

“So, you’re joining us?” Damien said, rising to his feet with a grin, clapping my shoulder lightly. “I told my men we could count on the mightiest warrior of Al-Lazar.”

I feigned hesitation, savoring the moment. “I haven’t decided yet,” I said, watching his face fall, just as I’d anticipated. Then, with a sly grin, I added, “But your enthusiasm’s just too hard to resist. Very well, I will join my spear to yours.”

Damien laughed, relief flashing in his eyes. “You bastard, you nearly gave my heart a stop! Still, your humor’s a damn sight better than Calder’s grim mug. Now, then, let me introduce you to my officers.”

He gestured to two men standing nearby, their presence commanding despite the camp’s bustle. Raedric stepped forward first, a wiry figure, lean as a desert fox, his frame taut with coiled energy. A jagged scar sliced from his forehead across his left eye, the lid puckered, but the eye itself sharp and glinting, giving him a roguish, battle-worn charm. His armor was a patchwork of scavenged glory: a coat of plates, dented and burnished, paired with mismatched chainmail sleeves and boiled leather greaves, all lashed together with worn straps. 

A dagger hung at his belt, its pommel encrusted with rubies that caught the sun’s rays, and gold rings pierced his ears, jingling faintly as he moved. A warpick hung at his side, its serrated head forged from blackened steel, a ruby embedded in the pommel to match his dagger, the handle wrapped in crimson leather dyed to reflect his tribal colors. Strapped to his thigh, a set of throwing knives gleamed, their handles bound in the same crimson leather. His belt bristled with additional weaponry, including a spiked cestus, its iron-studded knuckles promising brutal close combat. His angular face, framed by cropped dark hair flecked with silver, bore a confident grin, his eyes alight with mischief and bravado. In his late thirties, he carried the swagger of a man who’d diced with death and won.

“Gilgamesh,” Raedric said, his voice bold and ringing, “it’s a bloody honor to meet the man who defeated the Djinn and castigated the Adventurers’ Guild.”

Beside him, Nassain stood with quiet authority, his stocky frame broad and solid as a fortress wall. His dark, fluffy beard, streaked with gray, spilled over his chest, framing a round face weathered by years of sun and strife. Deep-set eyes, shadowed by bushy brows, studied me with a calm, assessing gaze, hinting at a mind that weighed every word. His armor, like his colleague’s, was eclectic but sturdy: a darkened steel breastplate, reinforced leather greaves. Most striking of all was a gleaming Mithril vambrace on his left arm, looted no doubt in the recent fighting. 

At his hip, a broadsword rested in a scabbard adorned with silver filigree. A round shield, made of layered wood and leather reinforced with Mithril bands, leaned against his leg, its surface emblazoned with an emblem of crossed scimitars. 

He carried a heavy cudgel at his back, its head wrapped in leather and studded with iron spikes, a tool for both defense and discipline. Gold hoops adorned his baldric, clinking softly against his chest. His long, graying hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, marking him as a man perhaps in his fifties, seasoned and unyielding. Earrings, simpler than Raedric’s but no less costly, glinted at his lobes.

“Nassain, at your service,” he said, his voice deep and measured, like stones settling in a riverbed. “Your strength will be invaluable on the road to Bronzegate Hold. We’re grateful to have you.”

I nodded, taking in the contrast: Raedric’s brash fire and Nassain’s steady resolve. Both looked solid enough to me.

Damien smiled, and not for the first time, I thought such a smile was wasted on a man. “Now then, we must see how best to place you within the train and our command structure. I can always use excellent men like you, Gilgamesh—someone who serves as both the hammer and the anvil.”