Captain of Mercenaries

Part 1. Sudden in the Night

What cuts first? The treachery or the knife? The edge of the blade or the eyes you once trusted?

Or does it even matter? Here in the mountains, on the rocky trail between the mine and the sea, in the badlands that once belonged to a tribe that called themselves the Children of the Wolf, here, you either live, or you die.

Someone lives or someone dies. Tyrell knew it. He'd been a Company ensign for two years out here, he knew it. He breathed the last of the night air that hung like a shroud over the trail, letting the cold run slowly through him. I'm alive. Don't let them come tonight. We're almost through.

He stopped and surveyed the pack animals in their slow file behind him. One foot in front of another. Patient under their burden of ore. A fortune in rock. Some of it is mine, he thought. My cut. He surveyed the guards, his men, to the side of the column. Tired now. They were three days and nights out from the mine. From Jacksontown and the last stage before the mountains. This was the last night. A few more hours - three, four? and they would reach the end of the last valley. Then the descent to the sea. The wide plain. Where we can see them coming.

If they come. We'll cut them up if they come against us on the plain. The river. The port. I can rest.

Rest would be so good now. He was tired. The men, tired. But they held themselves awake. They knew the danger. Eyes open. Silent. Always listening for the - the suddeness. The suddeness of it. One moment silence, careful plodding forward. The next - firing, yelling, slashing. The rush. The crazy screams from the dark. Hatchets, hacking wildly - the little thuds.

When the savages, the wild mountain killers jumped out of hiding to ambush and kill and steal. To steal the Company ore. To steal my cut. Five minutes of slashing and firing and then away with whatever they could. And some will live and some will...

We're almost through. Three hours. Move on. Move on. You're starting to lose focus. He turned and made his way back his position, just behind the forward guard. A dispersed phalanx of his best men, weapons held up, padding forward, eyes searching, always searching...

Three more hours - no less than three. Almost dawn. The valley walls were taking shape now. There! That crag in the distance... is that it? The end? No. A man standing! No... A shadow. No... Yes. That's the twisted crag. The end of the valley! Sooner than he thought, but no matter - we're there. He started to relax.

The men forward could not help but pick up the pace - once past the twisted crag they'd be in open ground, they'd have the advantage.

This time we live. Tyrell felt warm. Two years Company service here. One more year and he'd be promotred lieutenant. He could go home a wealthy man from his officer's share. He started to picture what he might do - a house by the river, fine food. Warmth. He could...

"Left! Movement left! Hold and cover... Fire! Move! Cover!"

His sergeant, shouting. From the centre of their line, fifty yards back. A brittle crackling broke the charm of the night as the guards there loosed a volley. Shouting. And then a moment of calm as the men took cover behind the lip of the path. The mules were braying. Mule-teers holding their heads, pulling them down behind the path. The forward guard deployed at once. weapons trained left and forward. Tyrell hunched behind them, scanning the dark, mouth half open to pick out the noise. Nothing. the sound behind already fading. "Where are you, you bastards" he whispered to the dark.

"Hold here. Fan out. Establish a fire position on that ledge and prepare to receive a charge." The forward guard moved. Tyrell scanned the gloom, and then checked back along the track. A runner sprinted up, half crouched. Message from the sergeant.

"Report".

"Group of perhaps ten unknowns on the left. Scattered when fire on. Rearguard reports all quiet their end."

Nothing. Maybe we scared them off? He turned to his command post.

"All right, I want....".

The dawn was suddenly lit up, bright. Roaring, falling. Someone was screaming, a long blubbering sob.

Tyrell found himself on his back. All he could hear were waterfalls, a rushing silence in his head. Stand up, he told himself, but could not stand up. He turned his head on the ground. Where the forward guard... used to be. Smoke and already the stink of burnt flesh. An explosion. The front of the ore caravan was nothing put wrecked bodies and crawling things that once were men. A trap. And Tyrell knew he had been betrayed.

And now the caravan was wide open, and they came, the mountain men, their horrible cries, axes rising and falling as they ran along the line. Firing everywhere. Bodies spinning, dancing though his eyes. swords out. His men slashing, falling. The mountain men. overrunning them. Overrunning us. Hacking at the muleteers, then racing on. He could hear the sergeant's voice, long, long in the distance. Calling to the remaining gaurds to fall back.

Tyrell could not move. The mountain men ignored him, a broken figure with no legs. He looked up. A dark shape outlined the gloom, looking down at him, sword in hand. Familiar. The face of a friend.

Tyrell tried to speak. He wanted to say, I didn't think you were coming on this trip. But his time for words was past. Tyrell lay there, eyes fixed on the shape, yet looking far away.

What hurts? The treachery or the knife? Tyrell hardly knew - as the pain from his shocked nerves finally came screaming from below, he could see only a garden by the river, and started to cry.

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