CHAPTER 31
Last week, while recovering from their training sessions, the Magnars had remodeled the basement. They’d trashed the child-sized bunk beds and hung a door for the latrine. Gort had whitewashed the walls, and we’d used some of the lye I’d bought to banish the bloodstains.
The basement looked completely different now, with two plain wooden tables and benches on both sides and hooks and pegs on the walls that supported weapons.
When Everard was Reynald, he’d planned to turn it into an armory/ last-stand room.
It still made me slightly queasy, but I would get used to it.
Gort sat at the left table on a bench. Lute was next to him. He was looking two shades paler than usual and as he turned to glance at us, he winced a little. Will leaned against the other table. The prisoner sat in a chair in the middle of the room.
His hood was down, revealing short brown hair salted with silver and the face of a man in his early forties who’d lived a rough life.
A small scar marked the flesh under his right eye.
Another crossed his nose and three more cut his left cheek, all old and healed but still clearly visible.
A short beard hugged his jaw, dark and touched with gray.
His brown eyes were worried, but his expression said this was a man who knew he was screwed, and he wasn’t surprised because that was the way his life rolled. He’d accepted it but he was bitter.
Everard helped me to a bench. I sat down. He leaned against the table next to me, arms crossed on his chest.
Tillmar looked at him and swallowed.
“How do you and Gort know each other?” I asked.
“Gort was my kir years ago, my lady,” Tillmar said. “Then we fought for the same mercenary company for a while.”
“The Strikers,” Gort said. “It was a decent outfit, up until the Galador campaign.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Lost half the people and all of the officers in one battle,” Tillmar said. “Everyone went their separate ways after that.”
“Why didn’t you fight tonight?” I asked.
Tillmar sighed. “I’ve known the kids since Will was twelve. I’ve got two daughters and a son. I wasn’t going to fight Gort’s boys. A man has to have a boundary he won’t cross.”
“And yet, here you are,” Everard said. “Breaking into a house of someone you don’t know in the middle of the night to kill everyone inside.”
The mercenary didn’t quite cringe, but he came close to it.
“Who sent you?”
“Otrade.”
Gort grimaced. “How in the void did you end up with that piece of shit?”
Tillmar sighed. “I was a kir with Saubra.”
“Damn,” Gort said.
“Yeah.”
I looked at Gort.
“The Saubra Company got hired to settle a family dispute between two brothers,” Gort explained. “They did their job, took the castle, and then found out that their broker had been bought off. The lord who hired them didn’t get the king’s blessing.”
In Rellas, two nobles couldn’t fight a private war without a dispensation from the Throne. There was an entire process, involving filing the proper papers and then waiting to see if Sauven approved them.
“You never know what King Sauven will do, my lady,” Tillmar said.
“When shit like that happens, sometimes it’s a fine and sometimes it’s scorched earth.
The Saubra mercenaries went to sleep in the gutted castle and woke up with the King’s Army on their doorstep.
Everyone kir and above was put to the sword, including the lord.
They held the trial right before the castle gates. ”
“How did you get out?” Gort asked.
“I’d taken off the night before. Just had that feeling.
” Tillmar shook his head. “Cursed brokers. Did you hear about Filderon? He got paid off to throw away a company. Eighty bodies. Somebody found out before they set out and pinned the evidence to his chest with a knife. Drugh was going to make an issue of it, but that shit stank so much that he backed right off.”
“What’s the world coming to?” Gort said with a straight face.
“Exactly,” Tillmar said.
“How does it work?” I asked Gort. “Is the Throne looking for Tillmar?”
“He left before the trial, so he was never officially convicted,” Gort said.
“They were mostly after the lord, the broker, and the officers. The kirs got thrown in there to make a louder noise, but they aren’t important enough on their own.
It happened a year ago, and he isn’t hard to find.
If they haven’t picked him up by now, they won’t bother.
He’s probably safe but nobody will want him on their roster. ”
“I can’t get hired,” Tillmar said. “I’ve been trying for a year. I’ve got three kids, and this is all I know how to do. My daughter needs redblossom powder every day.”
I knew that one from the books. Redblossom root treated diabetes.
The mercenary shook his head. “I haven’t earned a den in the last four months, so I was desperate. I ran into Otrade in a tavern. The man is foul, but I was at the end of my rope, and he put fifty dens on the table in front of me. Said he was running a crew for a Great Family.”
“Which one?” Everard asked.
“The Hrebans. He just had two spots open up.”
And here was our answer. Hreban had finally found us. Now we had to find out why. Would he send more when he found out the first group failed?
“When was this?” Everard asked.
“The ninth of Planter. This was my first job for him,” Tillmar said. “Had I known it was this kind of work, I would’ve never taken the contract. I would’ve left that money on the table and got out of there.”
There was a contract. Very in character for Hreban. He didn’t trust people because he could see into their hearts. He trusted signatures, and he was compulsive about it. He’d probably made the Butcher sign a contract . . .
Wait.
“Do you remember what the contract said?” I asked.
“I have it here.” Tillmar reached into his jerkin and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I haven’t signed it yet. I was supposed to give it back to Otrade today.”
“Where is Otrade now?” Everard asked.
“In the courtyard. He was the one with the southern spear. I sat there and stared at this thing, and something told me not to sign it. So I waited.”
I scanned the contract.
In the Year of 3044, in the Month of Planter, on the 9th Day . . . Blah, blah . . . Let it be known to all who read or hear these words that on this day, a solemn bond of loyalty and obedience is forged between the undersigned:
Lord Ulmar Hreban, Baron of the Realm, Lord of Lower Berem, Vaterna, . . . title-title-title . . . (hereinafter referred to as The Liege)
and
Dorr Tillmar, a mercenary of sound mind and unwavering resolve (hereinafter referred to as The Sworn).
What . . . I read out loud. “The Sworn pledges unwavering loyalty to the Liege, agreeing to carry out all commands given, without question or hesitation. This oath includes, but is not limited to:
Engaging in acts of violence or subterfuge as directed.
Carrying out deeds that may contravene the laws of the kingdom, provided such acts serve the Liege’s interests.
Protecting the Liege’s life, holdings, and secrets at all costs, even to the peril of the Sworn . . .”
I glanced at Tillmar.
He sighed.
I skipped ahead. “Article II: Secrecy and Discretion. The Sworn shall safeguard the existence and terms of this pledge with absolute secrecy. Any revelation of the contract’s nature to any third party shall be deemed an act of betrayal.
Should such betrayal occur, the Sworn forfeits all rights to life and property . . .”
Gort swore under his breath.
“It gets better.” I kept reading. “The Sworn acknowledges that their service absolves the Liege of all culpability for the actions carried out under this agreement. No word, act, or failure of the Sworn may be attributed to the Liege in any formal or informal proceedings, nor used to implicate him in wrongdoing.”
“That’s not a pledge of loyalty,” Will growled. “It’s a slave contract.”
“It is. This oath is to remain in effect for the entirety of the Sworn’s natural life or until the Liege sees fit to release the Sworn from service. The only way out is to die in service of Ulmar Hreban.”
“And what does he get for signing his life away?” Everard asked.
“In return for this fealty, the Liege shall grant:
A monthly stipend of 128 dens, to be disbursed on the first day of each month.
Lodging, arms, and provisions necessary for the Sworn to complete the Liege’s tasks.”
Tillmar looked down at his feet.
“That’s four dens a day,” Lute said. “I get five.”
“You’re not me,” Tillmar said. “You still have your good name.”
“This is . . . There had to be something else out there,” Gort said.
“There wasn’t,” Tillmar said, his voice tired and bitter.
It wasn’t that Hreban was asking for something unexpected. When a person pledged their loyalty to their liege, it was understood that they would do all the liege required even if it cost them their life. It was the way he had gone about it.
Most people wanted something to believe in, and when they found it, they gave it their trust. It was as true in this world as in ours.
Back home, people went above and beyond for the company that employed them, hoping they would be treated well and fairly compensated.
They gave to charity, directing their money to help someone who needed it most. They voted, expecting those they elected to look after their interests.
All of these human transactions hinged on trust.
Pledging your loyalty took that trust and pushed it a step further.
When you swore an oath to your liege, that oath was a double-edged sword.
The sworn promised to lay down their life should the liege require it, but the liege swore to defend and value the sworn.
The oath served as a mutual promise of protection, a matter of honor and integrity.
Choosing to pledge yourself was a decision of grave importance, and it required respect and dignity from everyone involved.