Chapter 7: The Wagon

About forty-five minutes later, we were standing in the middle of Slowbend, the late summer sun blazing overhead. I’d deduced that seasons in this world lasted a little longer than on Earth, so the summer would seem to drag on longer than normal.

Needless to say, I’d taken off my gambeson and was wearing just my light tunic. Everything else—the basic chainmail, my spear, rations, a water canteen, and my book, stayed in my kit bag. Everyone would know I was a soldier—I was travelling with other Dupes who seemed used to the heat, and what else would a young Dupe like me be doing, anyway?

As we walked over, Shave said, “You’d best put your gambeson back on when we find the Ealdorman’s daughter. Otherwise, she’ll report you for a lack of decorum.”

The uniform rules seemed pretty lax out here, but that was just Galliard. Supposedly, if we travelled north, they would be much more strict about how we looked.

But for the time being, I was more interested in what the village blacksmith had for us. Sure, there was a smith in the camp, but in a small battalion like ours, he was busy with maintaining our gear, not making new gear.

We approached a mostly cobblestone building with a wooden offshoot on the side. It was the only building in the town with a shingled roof, and an open-air workshop stood beside the road, where a tall man worked—not a Dupe. Sweat glistened on his back even in the shade, and soot covered his face. He hammered away at a horseshoe, but the moment he saw Shave, he tossed his hammer down on the anvil and strode over.

“Shave! I have not seen you around here much lately.” He reached out and clasped Shave’s arm in a friendly gesture. If I had to guess, it sounded like he had a very faint French accent.

“I’ve been busy with a new recruit,” Shave said.

The blacksmith glanced at me. I shrugged and said, “Guilty as charged.”

“He sounds different.”

Ticks lowered his voice and whispered, “He’s the Atoning you’ve been hearing about, Maurifus.”

“Ah.” The blacksmith—Maurifus—looked at me with an expression that resembled pity. It was hard to tell, given that his lips barely moved when he talked and his eyes seemed stuck in a permanent squint. “Well, it’s no matter. What are you looking for?”

“You should have a new name on the scrap roster,” Shave said. “Levi. Does he have much scrap to his name?”

“Ah! So Levi is the Atoning’s name, hm?” Maurifus marched over and patted my head. “I suspected that ‘Levi’ belonged to a transfer. But I didn’t think an Atoning would get nearly that much scrap to his name in his first battle.”

“The orc he killed had heavy armour,” Romance said.

In all honesty, I couldn’t remember too well. It hadn’t seemed like that heavy of armour, but then again, who was I to say when it came to orcs?

“Let us see, shall we…?” Maurifus walked over to a shelf at the edge of his workshop, shifted through a stack of tools, then pulled out a grimy book. He flipped through the pages, then stuck his thumb in a folded-over, dog-eared sheet of parchment. “Levi. Three pounds of scrap to your name. What sort of armour would you like, hm?”

“Light armour,” I said. I didn’t need to be burdened with anything too heavy yet. “Uh…how much can three pounds of scrap get me?”

“A pair of bracers or a pauldron.”

“Let’s go with the bracers,” I said.

“Standard-issue design?” Maurifus asked Shave.

“Standard-issue,” Shave said with a nod.

“They’re here!” Elf shouted from farther down the street. In the distance, I heard a trio of horses’ hooves clomping on the mud and gravel roads.

“We’ll pick up your bracers when you get back, lad,” Shave said to me. “For now, we have our charge.” He hoisted up his shield and slung it over his back, then strode toward Elf and Trench, who were looking out for our target.

“They’re early,” I muttered.

“Or you’re bad at keeping track of time,” Romance replied.

“Levi, gambeson on,” Shave instructed.

“Yes, sarge.” I dropped my kit bag and pulled the orange gambeson on, then tightened it. Already, I felt too warm, but I’d make do. I jogged after Romance, Ticks, and Shave, and we ran with Elf and Trench to the town square.

It was there that we found our escortee. Two horses pulled a covered wagon, and one trotted beside it. The coachman wore green livery and a broad hat that kept him safe from the sunlight, and I wished I had something like that. On the ground, two men in green jupons marched beside the wagon, holding spears, and another in similar garb rode the third horse. Unlike the others, the rider wore a light cuirass with feather etchings on it.

The author’s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Mercenaries.

“Dupes,” the mounted mercenary said. “You’re the squad Sir Aldhelm sent?”

“Yes indeed,” Shave said. He gave a quick bow then added, “This is Lady Sage’s wagon, correct?”

“Correct,” said the man. He gazed at Shave with a cold expression. “Wasting the Ealdorman’s funds on useless escorts, I see. You may call me Luiger, and I am a captain in the Feathermen Mercenary guild—a freeman, unlike you Dupes. You will listen to everything I tell you and obey every order. Am I understood?”

“Yes, captain,” Shave said with a grimace.

“I want to hear it from your whole squad.”

“Yes, captain,” I said. My eyes drifted to Luiger’s knuckles. From just a month of training, I was pretty sure I had more scars and callouses than this supposed professional mercenary.

Reluctantly, the other Dupes echoed the sentiment. Ticks tapped my ankle with his boot and grumbled, “Why did you have to stare, hm?”