A Mercenary's Price

A shadow passed by on the outside of the tent. A chilling breeze passed with it, dispelling all tiredness from Esrek’s frail body. He flinched and curled up under his blanket. Cold.

“What is it, Troeg?” his voice was muffled, chilled, and broken. He shivered in the breeze.

Troeg was strapping on his uniform in the moonlight. That uniform has seen many many battles. It has brought his family much pride and honor.

“It’s over, Esrek. We’re leaving.” his voice was calm but hushed. Hiding something. Yet he was serious. Neither a frown nor a smile on his face.

Esrek sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on?”

Troeg frowned and silently slipped out of the tent. He stood motinoless in the yellow moonlight. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword.

Esrek scrambled out into the night and slipped his mud-stained brown tunic over his head. Esrek held a dark-blue sash in his hand, ready to clip it on over his left shoulder. It was the military colors of Kanta, that distinguished friend from foe. Allegiance.

Shadows of men in the moonlight glided through the white tents, weaving their way to the east, towards the eminent battlefield. Like ghosts. Soldiers. Peasants. They were leaving. Some had their small packs on their shoulders. Others still clung to their spears.

“I never thought I’d do this.” Troeg unclipped the sash from his uniform. He held it for a moment, hesitating. Not sure of what he was doing. Then without warning he threw the sash to the ground. A small cloud of dust rose and fell, lightly covering the dark-blue color of Kanta.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t lecture me, Esrek.” He was still looking at the defiled sash, now tattered with splotches of brown dirt. He took a deep breath.

“You can’t leave me.” Esrek knelt to the ground and picked up Troeg’s sash. He patted the dirt off. “I’ve never even killed a man!”

“I know what I’m doing.” He turned away from the sash.

“But I don’t.”

“Stay, if you wish to die.” His voice was harsh and bare.

“But ...” The procession of retreating shadows continued to grow. Half of the army must have joined the departure. Another breeze swept through the tents sending what felt like shards of ice into Esrek’s spine. Shivering did nothing to relieve the icy heartache now in his stomach. The yellow moonlight darkened, covered by black clouds.

“But, what?” he picked up his pack.

“But... you’re the most brave swordsman I know.” Troeg stood silent for a moment. His breathing quickened. “Why leave?”

“How dare you call me a coward!” He snapped around, eyes narrow and focused.

Esrek took a step backwards and bowed his head. “Sorry sire.”

“I want to live. There’s no hope for this army.” His voice was silent but strong. A minute passed.

“Then, where are we going?” Esrek hefted his spear and leaned it against his shoulder.

“To them.” It was a whisper.

Desertion. These men aren’t only cowards, but they lack all sense of honor and national pride. They had greed. Greed for survival, or worse yet; a higher pay. Esrek couldn’t believe it. All these honorable men who had beautiful wives and families were now disgracing them. Deserting them! And for what? A few extra gold coins? Their own selfish life?

Esrek choked, coughed, and spit sour bile onto the ground. Disgusted. How can he do this? He disgraces even my family. For money and for fear he has become my enemy tomorrow. Today. My nation’s enemy. My family’s enemy.

The dark cloud silently shifted, allowing the moonlight to pour onto the camp. Esrek could feel his heart beating faster. A single drop of warmth coursed through his torso, his legs, his head, his arms. Troeg turned and began walking towards the east.

Esrek lifted the spear off his shoulder and gazed at it for a moment, hesitating. Then with a single movement he impaled Troeg just beneath his shoulder blade. He toppled over, yanking the spear out of Esrek’s shaking hands. His face was twisted. In ruin strewn with hate, surprise, anger, fear, and loss. A silent moment passed between them. Staring. Their eyes locked.

“I’m sorry big brother.” The tears began to silently glide down Esrek’s face. Silent as the procession of the deserters making their way to the east. Kneeling he cradled Troeg’s head in his quavering arms. “But my family comes first.”

Another sob.

“So sorry.”