The roads of the High Marches were little more than muddy trails, flanked by dense copses of alder and oak. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rot. Every bend of the path was a place where a blade could wait in the dark.
Garran Vale rode at the head of his company, what was left of it. Two hundred men, weary, armed with mismatched spears, rusted mail, and more hunger than sense. The Black Harp standard — a tattered black banner with a crude silver lyre painted on — hung limp in the still air.
The road to Goldmere was long, but it wasn't distance Garran worried for. It was what waited behind the next hill. In these lands, death came cheap and often.
"Tracks," Jorik grunted from beside him, pointing down to a churned patch of earth. Hoofprints. Fresh. "More than a few."
"Raiders?" Garran asked.
Jorik shook his head. "Too organized. Tight lines. Could be a patrol. Could be worse."
Garran said nothing, but his hand drifted to the pommel of his sword — an old, well-worn blade with a plain iron crossguard. No silver filigree. No family crest. The weapon of a man who killed for coin.
"Form ranks," he called behind him. The men fell in — raggedly, but they knew his tone. They'd seen what happened to those who didn't.
As the company moved into a defensive spread, Garran caught a glint of steel through the trees. A moment later, horsemen broke from the treeline, armored in boiled leather and half-mail, long spears upright in disciplined formation. The banner they bore was crimson, with a black stag rampant.
Garran cursed. House Halden.
"Hold!" he barked. His men froze.
A lone rider broke from the formation. An officer by the look — his armor was newer, his helm crested with a thin plume of black horsehair.
He rode close, stopping a spear's length from Garran.
"Captain Vale, is it?" the man called, voice sharp and polished. A knight's son, most likely.
"I am," Garran replied.
"I am Sir Marren of Halden's Guard. By order of Lord Kestren Halden, no armed company is to pass through the eastern roads of the High Marches without charter. Lay down your arms or be turned back."
Behind him, Garran heard the restless shift of his men. Hunger, fear, the crackle of blades being loosened in sheaths. They were mercenaries, not trained soldiers. And mercenaries on empty stomachs were one insult away from bloodshed.
"Your lord forgets himself," Garran said evenly. "I ride by summons of Lord Ranmere of Goldmere, under seal."
Sir Marren's lip curled. "Ranmere's word is ash. The Marches belong to Halden blood."
That was enough for Garran. He drew the letter from his belt and tossed it toward Marren's feet. The knight made no move to take it.
"I've no quarrel with Halden men," Garran said. "But you'll not bar my path."
Marren smirked. "I could cut you down, sellsword, and no man would sing your name."
Garran's hand tightened around his sword's hilt. He felt it then — that old, cold clarity that came before a fight. When words meant nothing, and only iron held weight.
He took a step forward. "Do it, then," he said softly. "And see how many of your men leave this field upright."
Jorik let out a low chuckle behind him. The men of the Black Harp raised shields. Spears lowered.
Marren hesitated. His gaze swept the mercenaries — dirty, bloodstained, ragged men. But killers. Killers desperate enough to die on command.
"Remember this," Garran went on, voice flat as a whetstone. "We're not knights. We don't fight for honor. We fight because we're paid to. And if we die, we die taking you with us."
The knight held Garran's gaze a long moment. Then, with a curt gesture, he turned his horse. "The road's yours, sellsword. I pray Ranmere pays you what your life's worth."
His men wheeled away, disappearing into the trees.
The mercenaries relaxed. Jorik spat into the mud. "Shit's getting thicker, captain."
"It always does," Garran murmured.
He watched the treeline until the last rider was gone. Then turned his horse toward the distant silhouette of Goldmere, its spires faint on the horizon.
"Move out," he called.
The company marched on, toward blood, betrayal, and what scraps of fortune waited in a lord's cold hall.