Chapter 11 Faron
FARON
F aron and Bart arrived in Luelle by midday, having crossed the border from Argylle and into Doremy at some point among the faerie hills. Neither carried many supplies, but Calluna’s coin quickly solved that.
“I cannot accept this,” Bart had argued as the pair outfitted themselves with proper traveling packs, water canteens, and dried rations. Faron laughed off his concerns.
“You’re with me now,” he said. “Which means I’m responsible for you, through thick and thin.”
The copious amount of coin had also been Faron’s way of loosening the lips of the woman running the general store. She’d been wary when first meeting them, but after he’d plunked down a few heavy coins on her countertop, her dark eyes had sparkled.
“A bit extra, for you,” he’d said. “If you could tell me where one goes if they are no friend of the Casthes.”
Her directions took them down the busy main road, past rows upon rows of squat buildings carved from a nearby juniper forest. The iron-beech trade had done the town well, and it seemed Luelle was a common resting place for merchants come to buy wagons full of the bark.
Rooms were plentiful, and Faron had a variety to choose from when outfitting for travel, a welcome fact given Bart’s lack of… well, everything.
“Do you think they’ll accept us?” Bart asked, tugging at the collar of his new coat.
It was fine deer leather colored a deep brown and held shut with two bronze buckles.
The young man was clearly unaccustomed to such finery.
His boots were new as well, his old sheep-leather pair destined to break apart on him after only a few days of marching.
“They will,” Faron said, unconcerned. No recruiter for an army would look at Faron’s size and turn him down, and that was without any influence from radiance to sway his opinion.
Their destination was one of the town’s two taverns, smaller and located near the northern end of the road, where the green grass and rolling hills resumed. The sign nailed above the door bore no name, just a crude drawing of a snarling dog.
“I think that means you’ll be welcome,” Faron said, grinning at Iris.
Her ears lowered, and she glared in a way only canines could.
With the day still young, the inside was quiet and empty.
A barefoot girl hurried about, straightening chairs and sweeping with an ease that suggested a lifetime of practice.
A middle-aged man sat by the dormant hearth, two pillows beneath him.
His eyes were closed, but they opened at the sound of the door.
“Rooms are a half-copper per night,” he said.
“The bed’s big, if you two are willing to share a room.
There’s enough space on the floor, too, if you’d rather it that way.
” His eyes narrowed as he noticed Iris keeping to Faron’s side.
“That’s one big dog, stranger. Mayhap I should charge you for her, too. ”
“Coyote,” Faron said, and flashed his most disarming grin. “And I was told those who prefer Doremy rule over Argylle would be welcome here. Is that true?”
The man rose from his pillows, sized Faron up and down, and then nodded. His eyes lingered on Faron’s sheathed sword.
“Aye,” he said. “Follow me. I suspect Tristan will want words with any man big as you who carries their own blade.”
A small juniper forest grew along Luelle’s southern edge, and within it was a camp of one hundred or so men and women.
Sir Tristan was the one in charge, a grizzled-looking man with a split beard and eyes like icicles.
Unlike most, he wore a fine chainmail shirt, and the sword he carried was worth more than what most in Luelle would earn in a year.
“Well, well, some new recruits,” Tristan said, pacing before them. They stood inside his large tent, which was open on one side and surprisingly spacious. “But I fear your timing could not be worse.”
Faron suspected something was amiss, though he knew not what. The entire camp buzzed with excitement. That so many were already dressed in padded armor, or the rare suit of chain, was another curiosity. Were they planning to march? If so, where?
“If you’re in need of able bodies, I am here to help,” Faron said.
Tristan pointed at Faron’s sword. “You know how to use that thing?”
“I’m no stranger to battle, if that is your question.”
Tristan crossed his arms and grunted.
“A mercenary, then. We do pay, but likely nothing close to what you’re wanting. Princess Isabelle is not so wealthy as the eastern rulers.” He frowned at Bart. “And what of you? Any training?”
Faron was quick to answer for him.
“He is my pupil,” he said. He allowed a bit of radiance to leak into his words. “Consider him a squire, if the people of Doremy are familiar with the concept. He will be no bother to anyone at my side, and a valuable asset to a marching line.”
Tristan’s hard gaze softened.
“All right, if you’re willing to obey orders, then I can use you, because right now I can’t be picky. Ludwig will take care of you, get your names down, terms agreed, and some basic gear. Do it quickly. We have guests coming.”
With that, they were shuffled out to a clearing of packed earth in the middle of a triangle of trees.
Ludwig was an older man, his muttonchops grayer than the dark hair atop his head.
Crates were packed up behind him, and Faron caught sight of short swords, round wooden shields, and rudimentary armor within.
“Tristan must be mad to take on newcomers today,” Ludwig said, removing a cloth covering from a small chest and opening it up. He withdrew a few pieces of parchment, each cut no bigger than Faron’s hand, as well as a capped inkwell and a feather quill.
“What’s so special about today?” Bart asked.
Ludwig grinned yellow teeth. “Far be it from me to spoil the surprise. Give me your names.”
Faron and Bart answered, and then nodded and agreed to every question that followed.
This was far from Faron’s first time joining an army or mercenary band.
Pay rates were established, along with what would and would not be covered during their time serving in Doremy’s army.
Past an initial stipend, coin would be paid at the end of the year, provided they lived that long.
When asked where to give that payment if they died, Bart told them of his family in Clovelly, whereas Faron just shrugged.
“If I’m dead, give it to Iris,” he said.
Ludwig glanced at the coyote.
“I must admit, she’s well behaved,” he said. “Not the weirdest request I’ve heard, either. I’ll add it.”
When that was done, Ludwig opened the crates after sizing them up. He gave both some padded leather armor, having to scrounge a bit to find some he thought might fit Faron.
“Have you any experience with a sword?” he asked Bart.
“No,” he admitted, his cheeks blushing a bit from embarrassment.
“Eh, you’ll learn.” Ludwig handed him a sword belt and sheathed short sword. “Have your friend teach you how to buckle it. Speaking of…” He turned to Faron. “That blade of yours looks nicer than anything I could offer.”
“Perhaps,” Faron said. “But I could use a sturdy shield.”
“That I can do.”
The shield was circular, strips of birch connected with linen and bone glue. Far smaller than Faron preferred, but it would do for now. Once outfitted, they were given prepared kits containing a bedroll, a tent, and some basic provisions, and then told where in the camp they’d be sleeping.
“Don’t bother unpacking it,” Ludwig said. “At least, not until you’re told. Now get back to Tristan.”
The pair crossed the camp, Faron’s certainty growing that something was afoot.
Two newcomers to a small camp should have earned curious glances, yet everyone was concerned with preparing their gear, tearing down their tents, and sharpening their swords.
Another familiar sight in Faron’s long, long life.
They were preparing to march. The question was, to where?
When they found him, Tristan was locked in conversation with a towering man bigger than even Faron. He was bare-chested but for a simple sleeveless shirt, and his body bore numerous battle scars. His smile was wide, and his green eyes lively.
“… ain’t enough time to train up whelps,” he was saying as they approached. “They best be familiar with following orders… and worth the hassle.”
“I pray you are not discussing my usefulness,” Faron said, grabbing their attention.
The two turned, the big man crossing his arms and squinting.
“What’s with the mutt?” he asked.
“A rude way to describe my friend Bart,” Faron replied. “He’s loyal and stays at my side better than Iris, but you shouldn’t call him that to his face.”
The stranger with Tristan froze a moment and then flashed a grin, ear to ear.
“You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?” he said. “Don’t deny it. I’ve just met you, yet you jest as if we are the best of friends.”
“If we are not the best of friends yet, I expect training and war to make it happen,” Faron insisted.
The other man laughed.
“Yeah, cocky, and fearless. Good. That’ll get you killed early, or make you one of our best fighters. Can’t wait to find out which. At least you got the muscle to back yourself up.” He gestured at Bart. “What about you, mutt?”
“Bart,” the young man nervously corrected.
“Nope, mutt. And by your stammering, I’d say that’s a ‘no.’ At least only one of you is greener than river moss.”
Sir Tristan cleared his throat. “Faron, Bart, this is Alex Beaumont. He will be in charge of your training.”
“I look forward to it,” Faron said.
“Not as much as I do,” Alex said, with an excited look that would have frightened lesser men.
A panicked soldier sprinted to the tent, interrupting them with his shouting.
“They’re here,” he cried. “The army, it’s here!”
Tristan grew visibly nervous, while Alex just shrugged.
“Get ’em in line,” the big man said. “Time to meet the bastard.”