[Calaethis Dragonsbane]

Javid the Pitiless frowned thoughtfully, his stare reaching beyond the trees and hills where the tents were pitched. Even beyond the river passing through the land below, beyond the edge of his sight, past towns and villages, forests and fields, roads and sky.
He had been dubbed ‘Javid’ as a jape, after the champion he had slain. He must have been fifteen at the time, and the very ones he had resisted had drafted him into their ranks. Who he was before had not mattered; they had adopted him and he had left his old life behind. He barely remembered who that boy used to be; had it been a village, or town, or farmstead? He had seen so many, so many like him, all recruited, their home becoming the company. None of them really remembered who they were, only who they became – who they are.
Awarded the ‘Pitiless’ after sparing a cellar filled with frightened children, that too had been a jape. Discovering them as he hefted his halberd in one hand, and axe in the other, few who have slain them, but the imposing figure he struck had convinced all nearby that he would not. His fellows never let him forget it. That had been three years ago, and since then, he was even more scarred and potmarked than before. A common jest was he had been run over by a wagon, trampled by a horse, and then sat on by an overly large woman. In turn, he grunted and pointed out some of the lewder escapades of his companions. They all roared with laughter, and turned to pick on another. Such was life in the company.

He rose, his heavy mail more normal to him than the shirt on his back. It needed repairing again; a few links were beginning to rust. Ordinary enough, it served him well. The chausses had taken him longer to get used to, but it saved his thighs as much as the coif saved his neck. Heavily armoured soldiers did better than more lightly armoured ones – or so the company motif claimed: ‘The heavy, the riders, the storm of steel’. Swords, shields, lances, halberds, axes, maces and crossbows; the standard issue of the company. They were successful, more successful than other companies he knew of. It was their reputation that stood out the most; their loyalty remained purchased until the coin ran out, neither breaking nor defecting: they stayed until the job was done. They were dependable.
He glanced around; they were two hundred strong in this camp, and soon would meet with their fellows – who had served another job. Sometimes, they would even find themselves on opposing sides, but they would never fight each other. That was the risk that was run by any employer. The three hundred mix of foot and horse – two hundred, one hundred, respectively – would be a much needed boost. The general would issue their orders soon; this brief rest before they marched out again was welcome. Pulling on his Spangenhelm, he fixed it down mechanically. He preferred not to use a shield but understood the necessity. Looping said kite shield over one shoulder, he pulled the other arm through and secured the straps. Better to wear it on his back. The single edged axe that hung from his belt was the final addition. Any moment, he expected they would march out. All over the camp, others were doing the same.


Overseeing his men from the command tent, the general considered his next step. Three offers for their service, each carrying equal risk, and more or less the same pay. One involved storming the castle; the other defending it. There was more loot and pillage to be gained from storming, but would the invaders succeed? Both sides needed them, and both made outrageous promises. Could he trust either of them? Doubtful. His mercenary legion was only welcomed when it was needed, and even then, they were never really welcomed. Distrusted, despised – he could hardly blame them. Before the company was formed, they too had fought for a land. That had been a long time ago then, and the kingdom had since fallen. Now all they had left was their banner, the standard that had been with the few originals as they prepared to make their last stand. Fate had spared them, and those few survivors retained the banner and set out to make a new life, rather than serve under the rule of their conquerors. Unwilling to put down the sword, they had sought employment elsewhere, and somehow, the honour of their company remained. Their numbers had grown, with recruitment – voluntary and drafting, and with their successes, wealth had poured in. Not enough to make them rich, but enough to provide decent weapons and equipment. Most of their spoils went on training and gear; that was the rule. Excellence. That was what made them different, set them apart. They were a professional force, as good as any standing army. That was why they were alive; that was why they succeeded. Now they served no king; only the company.

He considered the third offer; his heavy lancers would be at a disadvantage, but horse was also pivotal to victory – even if only for morale. Their horse was feared as much as their foot; but did he choose any of them? He had no qualms about laying an ambush in a forest, but the knowledge that it might be a trap to rid a potentially ‘rogue threat’ from the lands left a bitter taste in his mouth. That was how the nearby fiefs saw them as; a threat to their power. And so they were. They could not oppose all of them, but any minor lord that hired them tipped the balance in his favour. The trouble was, they could not secure their services for long. Success and fame had made them dangerous – as much as they were needed, were used, secretly, all the lords wished them gone. He understood that. So. Did he invade, defend, or lay an ambush in a forest? Or neither. The men were spoiling for battle though; weary as they were, the promise of plunder kept them going. Their identity was in the company, and that company was steadfast. There was little point in that unless they exercised their skills though; sooner or later, they would have to stand in battle, or he risked losing them. None of them would desert him yet, but that was always the fear of any commander, any general. Soldiers needed occupying, but how to keep them alive and keep them from revolting or deserting? A tricky one. He might just lay it out before the men and see what they thought. Ultimately, it was his choice though. They followed him because he brought them victory; they trusted him to give them that. No; they trusted him to give them the opportunity: the rest was in their hands. That was the unspoken agreement between them. So far it had worked, even when they – the side they served – had suffered defeat. They trusted him to protect them, but something about this wasn’t right. The climate was optimum for war; they would grow rich, nay, fat from the profits. Their spoils would be legendary. Yet with each encounter, the risk grew. How long would it be before they were betrayed? He had been around long enough to know, survived enough battles to know when something was wrong. No, they would be betrayed soon. He could feel it coming.

The only question was when, where and who.