A surly man with bandages wound across his chest had won the pothelm in the end, shading his eyes as he pointed out Mount Mangai in the far distance, and then later the southern manor-houses off the coast, dotting the pristine beaches between small fishing villages. Waldor had no idea what his name had been before the battle, but everyone who could still speak had taken to calling him 'Puke.' That had been a whole day ago, and they had only stopped walking once since then to rest by a small stream, gorging on fresh water.
Now Puke trudged at the head of the column of men beside Ranulf and Waldor, as if having won the pothelm, he had also won with it the right of leadership and seniority over the men who were left. And why not? Waldor thought. He'd survived this far, and nobody had challenged him. Bret walked near the back of the men, where most of the injured had gathered - stumbling along, or carried on crude pallets fashioned from the remains of the longboat they'd scuttled yesterday.
They had passed through grassy fields, periodically leaving some of their worst wounded in the small villages they passed, and in time the plains had become wheat fields, and Waldor directed his men to stick to the muddy furrows rather than tramp along the ridges of newly turned earth. Spring wheat, if that was what the farmers had been planting, would have only just begun to sprout and he had no desire to tramp all over it, crushing it beneath his boots. The scenery had become a blur of wheat fields, orchards and vineyards.
"Well?" Ranulf spoke up suddenly, snapping Waldor out of his daze, and he nearly stumbled before Puke reached over and steadied him with a filthy hand. The boy winced at even that lightest touch to his shoulder, straightened, then shot Ranulf a warning look.
"Well?" He echoed warily, unable to gauge the sergeant's expression very well with all the bandages wrapped about it.
"Well," the grizzled man persisted doggedly, "those papers, for one. And that sword. And don't lie to me, Walt, and tell me it's contract papers. We're done out of that contract now, our employer's dead. And that sword, too. You ain't bat a single eye when I threw it your way, stolen property though that'd make it, and now you're wearing it like you're some lordling's own son himself. Are we bandits now? Wouldn't have left old Roteye back there with those villagers, if we were, not unless you've grown balls of steel or a heart of sludge, at least. So what is it?"
Puke stopped cleaning out that disgusting pothelm, tipped it back over his shaved pate, and squinted interestedly between Waldor and Ranulf. Mud splashed up from his boots and had coated his bare legs in plant matter, feces and stagnant water.
"Fine. Don't tell a damned soul, Ranulf," Waldor prefaced, taking in a deep breath, then added hushedly, "but I'd made a business proposition with the nobleman before we landed on the beach. He didn't have any heir, and couldn't with what they'd done to him. So he trusted me. He made me his heir, said everything he had was mine."
"Don't you gotta be a knight for that?" Puke spoke up suddenly, splashing over the bloated corpse of a rat floating in the muck.
"He did that, too," Waldor lied hurriedly, rolling his shoulders despite the stabbing pain there. "Knighted me on that boat, in his own cabin, with this own sword and gave me these papers, so the other lords would know to recognize me. That's where we're headed. Going to the capital and kneel in some lord's court, and not one of us will be a mercenary anymore."
"I like being a mercenary," Puke protested dimly, then sidestepped a hard cuff of Ranulf's ill-aimed hand.
"You, you gods-damned idiot. Do you even realize - that, how - what's to keep them from killing you as soon as you walk up to those gates? You're carrying his sword, but his body's rotting on that beach. You know how that looks, boy? The nobleman signs these papers and winds up dead in the next battle, and here you come set to make the most of it, and you don't think they'll think that looks the least bit suspicious? What you're doing is against nature." Ranulf broke into unintelligible cursing, stomping along savagely enough to raise a few eyebrows among the men behind them.
"My da always said - take what you can keep. This is mine, and I'm of Graves, now. You can expect I won't let it go lightly."
"Your father was hung for filching his neighbor's pig, you oaf!" Ranulf snarled back, waving his hands above his head.
"House Graves," Puke corrected absently. "Sir Waldor of the House Graves."
"Right," Waldor waved the smelly man off with his good hand, then reached down to touch the sword hilt that rested near his hip. "And you're Captain Ranulf, and Sergeant... Puke. My household guard. And if we pull this off, I swear to you both we'll sleep on beds of gold."
The other men fell silent, but Waldor wasn't sure if he had placated them or not. High walls rose up in the distance, and the gorge in his throat rose with them. Adrenaline and apprehension kick-started his heart to a hammering pace. He swallowed hard.
"I need you two to stand with me. We'll billet the men in a tavern somewhere, hire a proper priest and sawbones both to look to them, then strike out for the ducal estates. I'll explain what I need to, and you'll both attest to it as truth. Or we'll all hang."
Sergeant Ranulf stared at the walls in the distance and sighed heavily.
"At least it won't be for filched pork," he offered finally.
"That sounds delicious," Puke added.
