Lure of Rhine
04-01-14, 04:48 PM
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Eli Lore stood at attention, a young and grimy face in a long line of grimy faces.
Around the lined troops, the morning was an apotheosis of all dreamy mornings, gray, humid, with a veil of mist that levitated a couple of feet above the ground, as if unsure whether it should sink into the earth or evaporate towards the cloudy skies. For the past three days it had stuck around for the better part of the day, dogging the march of the mercenary outfit through the marshlands, but Eli thought that might finally change today. The sun beyond the fog was no longer a mere notion of a presence somewhere beyond the curtain, but rather a silvery outline that showed its face in the clouds occasionally, the face of an overseer checking the situation and not finding it quite to his liking yet. But even in such vapid state, it was something to be hopeful about.
Another thing to be hopeful about was the fact that they’ve just about reached their target. It hadn’t been a particularly long march, but it hadn’t been a particularly easy one either. The imperative was to reach the estate of Baron Wynand unnoticed, and that meant goat trails and shortcuts, which translated to mud and bogs in the marshes. There hadn’t been a day since they disembarked at the shores of Graisitha Island when Eli felt even remotely dry. The leather boots soaked through on the very first day despite being relatively new. The cloak let the clammy moisture through despite having relatively few holes and dragged behind like a wet, dead cat. Clothes embraced Eli’s body like rags after a quick dip in cold dishwater. But there was never a look of discontent or discomfort on Eli’s face. The target was near.
Others were visibly miserable. The Phoenix Company had never been the most disciplined bunch – there was only so much one could do with a ragtag collection of dishonorably discharged soldiers, ex-watchmen who sought a more adventurous line of work and overzealous greenhorns who thought they were taking the first step towards being the next big thing in the world of swords and sorcery. They stood now in what could barely be called a straight line, coughing, sniffling, scratching, spitting, a wall of commotion and restless hands itching to do their bloody work. A few managed to stand still and mimic military mannerism at least to a degree. Eli was amongst them, holding the spear firm at the flank as opposed to leaning on it as if it was a walking stick, other hand tucked at the back. It was an image that would’ve looked as the very definition of a soldier, if not for the rather scrawny figure and the face that was too pretty somehow despite being positively dirty, too damn young, lines too smooth and soft and sensual for the line of work that dealt with blood and sweat and grime. Get a few scars, lad, the wretched mountains of soft flesh and hair from the company advised. Wenches dig the scars.
Eli had no intention to acquire any scars if it could be helped. There was no intention to join this menagerie either, but that was something that couldn’t be helped. The Wynand Estate had been in Eli’s crosshairs for a while now, but there was no way to penetrate its defenses without a considerable force. Lucas Wynand was a suspicious man, which was bad enough of a trait in someone you want to rid of some of their considerable earthly possessions, but he was also a disgustingly rich man to boot, and that was even worse. The combination resulted in an estate dislocated to the foot of a mountain on an island off the west shore of Corona, and a small private army patrolling the area with the obedient caution of a well-paid worker. There were no cracks in the perimeter, no obvious weaknesses to exploit. A master thief or a powerful wizard totting an invisibility enchantment might’ve made it through, but Eli was neither. Only the brute force approach was left, and even that was difficult to organize.
No respectable (or disrespectable for that matter) mercenary company worth their salt would work for a snotty youngster with, what they called, delusions of infamy. Many turned Eli down, despite the hefty amount of coin offered. In the end, the Phoenix Company was hired because Phoenix Company was bad enough that it took just about any job. And even that had to be done by an intermediary. But because this lot wasn’t good for anything save making a big mess, Eli was forced to get personally involved. If one wanted something done, one didn’t leave it in the hands of idiots who never outgrew the childish fantasy of wargames.
Compared to hiring the troops, joining them had been relatively simple. After showing some skill with the sword, the spear and the bow, Eli was admitted into the ranks of the Company with indifference, thrown into the squad that lost the most men in the most recent endeavor, all primed up as cannon fodder as far as everyone was concerned. Nobody raised an eyebrow, nobody questioned the presence of a new youngster, nobody even took a role of a bully hazing a rookie. Nobody cared. Some people kept in groups, others kept to themselves, aware of the fact that all here were merely temporary acquaintances until either money or luck ran out. They were disorganized, disheveled, undisciplined. They would most certainly make a mess out of the raid on the estate. And Eli thought that they might just be perfect for the job.
They stood now on the mild slope of a fern-covered ridge, fifty-odd people who thought that a sword in their hand and armor on their back made them soldiers. In front of the wavy line of his troops, Doran “Blackeye” Ferris paced this way and that, trying to instill some semblance of order into his men with a dissatisfied growl here, a corrective slap there. His thick frown made people think him formidable, but Eli wasn’t impressed and never cowered before the gaze of those deep inset eyes. For even on the best of days, this hard face was a mere bland copy of the one the youngster once had to endure daily.
“Sorriest fucking bunch I ever had,” the Commander muttered into his bushy beard, and none of the soldiers seemed the least bit offended by it. Once he was done with his inspection, he stood to face them and raised his voice. It was a good voice, strong and determined, and wasted on this lot.
“Listen up! The estate is about a mile over that ridge. You all know the layout...” Eli raised an eyebrow and allowed a smirk; he sincerely doubted in the truthfulness of that statement. Everybody had a chance to study the crudely drawn layout of the estate, but it was debatable how many actually remembered anything about it. “...and you know the plan. The fog will provide us sufficient cover to approach the surrounding wall. We approach from three sides, take out the sentries on the watch posts, then scale the walls with ropes. There will be nobody walking on top of the wall – it’s some twelve feet high and narrow at the top – but there might be quite a few of them once we’re in, especially if the alarm is raised. So pick your targets, cover each other’s back and get to the vault in the basement. Our prize is there.”
The “prize” were chests filled to the brim with gold and jewels and every other bit of treasure that mercs liked to fantasize about, and for all Eli knew, it was actually real and not just imaginary bait that had made the Phoenix Company eager to fulfill their task. There might be treasure in the vault. But there also might be old bottles of vine gone to vinegar and dusty shelves filled to the brim with junk and cobwebs. Eli didn’t care one way or the other.
“Aidan!” Doran shouted at the stout man with greasy black hair that stood a couple of steps in front of the line of soldiers. “You take the west approach. Tobias, the east.” Tobias Drummond was a gaunt man with skin as tough as leather, his long fingers never too far from the hilt of his saber. His long hair already had more salt than pepper in it, but he was still a force to be reckoned with, honed by years and years of strife and near death experiences. He was in charge of Eli’s squad, and Eli thought that might not be such a bad thing. Incompetent or reckless men rarely reached Tobias’s age.
“I’ll take the south. Now, let’s get it done.”
And with that the men divided in three groups and marched off into the fog. Up ahead, somewhere in the damp whiteness of the morning, the estate of Baron Wynand slept, unsuspecting.
Eli Lore stood at attention, a young and grimy face in a long line of grimy faces.
Around the lined troops, the morning was an apotheosis of all dreamy mornings, gray, humid, with a veil of mist that levitated a couple of feet above the ground, as if unsure whether it should sink into the earth or evaporate towards the cloudy skies. For the past three days it had stuck around for the better part of the day, dogging the march of the mercenary outfit through the marshlands, but Eli thought that might finally change today. The sun beyond the fog was no longer a mere notion of a presence somewhere beyond the curtain, but rather a silvery outline that showed its face in the clouds occasionally, the face of an overseer checking the situation and not finding it quite to his liking yet. But even in such vapid state, it was something to be hopeful about.
Another thing to be hopeful about was the fact that they’ve just about reached their target. It hadn’t been a particularly long march, but it hadn’t been a particularly easy one either. The imperative was to reach the estate of Baron Wynand unnoticed, and that meant goat trails and shortcuts, which translated to mud and bogs in the marshes. There hadn’t been a day since they disembarked at the shores of Graisitha Island when Eli felt even remotely dry. The leather boots soaked through on the very first day despite being relatively new. The cloak let the clammy moisture through despite having relatively few holes and dragged behind like a wet, dead cat. Clothes embraced Eli’s body like rags after a quick dip in cold dishwater. But there was never a look of discontent or discomfort on Eli’s face. The target was near.
Others were visibly miserable. The Phoenix Company had never been the most disciplined bunch – there was only so much one could do with a ragtag collection of dishonorably discharged soldiers, ex-watchmen who sought a more adventurous line of work and overzealous greenhorns who thought they were taking the first step towards being the next big thing in the world of swords and sorcery. They stood now in what could barely be called a straight line, coughing, sniffling, scratching, spitting, a wall of commotion and restless hands itching to do their bloody work. A few managed to stand still and mimic military mannerism at least to a degree. Eli was amongst them, holding the spear firm at the flank as opposed to leaning on it as if it was a walking stick, other hand tucked at the back. It was an image that would’ve looked as the very definition of a soldier, if not for the rather scrawny figure and the face that was too pretty somehow despite being positively dirty, too damn young, lines too smooth and soft and sensual for the line of work that dealt with blood and sweat and grime. Get a few scars, lad, the wretched mountains of soft flesh and hair from the company advised. Wenches dig the scars.
Eli had no intention to acquire any scars if it could be helped. There was no intention to join this menagerie either, but that was something that couldn’t be helped. The Wynand Estate had been in Eli’s crosshairs for a while now, but there was no way to penetrate its defenses without a considerable force. Lucas Wynand was a suspicious man, which was bad enough of a trait in someone you want to rid of some of their considerable earthly possessions, but he was also a disgustingly rich man to boot, and that was even worse. The combination resulted in an estate dislocated to the foot of a mountain on an island off the west shore of Corona, and a small private army patrolling the area with the obedient caution of a well-paid worker. There were no cracks in the perimeter, no obvious weaknesses to exploit. A master thief or a powerful wizard totting an invisibility enchantment might’ve made it through, but Eli was neither. Only the brute force approach was left, and even that was difficult to organize.
No respectable (or disrespectable for that matter) mercenary company worth their salt would work for a snotty youngster with, what they called, delusions of infamy. Many turned Eli down, despite the hefty amount of coin offered. In the end, the Phoenix Company was hired because Phoenix Company was bad enough that it took just about any job. And even that had to be done by an intermediary. But because this lot wasn’t good for anything save making a big mess, Eli was forced to get personally involved. If one wanted something done, one didn’t leave it in the hands of idiots who never outgrew the childish fantasy of wargames.
Compared to hiring the troops, joining them had been relatively simple. After showing some skill with the sword, the spear and the bow, Eli was admitted into the ranks of the Company with indifference, thrown into the squad that lost the most men in the most recent endeavor, all primed up as cannon fodder as far as everyone was concerned. Nobody raised an eyebrow, nobody questioned the presence of a new youngster, nobody even took a role of a bully hazing a rookie. Nobody cared. Some people kept in groups, others kept to themselves, aware of the fact that all here were merely temporary acquaintances until either money or luck ran out. They were disorganized, disheveled, undisciplined. They would most certainly make a mess out of the raid on the estate. And Eli thought that they might just be perfect for the job.
They stood now on the mild slope of a fern-covered ridge, fifty-odd people who thought that a sword in their hand and armor on their back made them soldiers. In front of the wavy line of his troops, Doran “Blackeye” Ferris paced this way and that, trying to instill some semblance of order into his men with a dissatisfied growl here, a corrective slap there. His thick frown made people think him formidable, but Eli wasn’t impressed and never cowered before the gaze of those deep inset eyes. For even on the best of days, this hard face was a mere bland copy of the one the youngster once had to endure daily.
“Sorriest fucking bunch I ever had,” the Commander muttered into his bushy beard, and none of the soldiers seemed the least bit offended by it. Once he was done with his inspection, he stood to face them and raised his voice. It was a good voice, strong and determined, and wasted on this lot.
“Listen up! The estate is about a mile over that ridge. You all know the layout...” Eli raised an eyebrow and allowed a smirk; he sincerely doubted in the truthfulness of that statement. Everybody had a chance to study the crudely drawn layout of the estate, but it was debatable how many actually remembered anything about it. “...and you know the plan. The fog will provide us sufficient cover to approach the surrounding wall. We approach from three sides, take out the sentries on the watch posts, then scale the walls with ropes. There will be nobody walking on top of the wall – it’s some twelve feet high and narrow at the top – but there might be quite a few of them once we’re in, especially if the alarm is raised. So pick your targets, cover each other’s back and get to the vault in the basement. Our prize is there.”
The “prize” were chests filled to the brim with gold and jewels and every other bit of treasure that mercs liked to fantasize about, and for all Eli knew, it was actually real and not just imaginary bait that had made the Phoenix Company eager to fulfill their task. There might be treasure in the vault. But there also might be old bottles of vine gone to vinegar and dusty shelves filled to the brim with junk and cobwebs. Eli didn’t care one way or the other.
“Aidan!” Doran shouted at the stout man with greasy black hair that stood a couple of steps in front of the line of soldiers. “You take the west approach. Tobias, the east.” Tobias Drummond was a gaunt man with skin as tough as leather, his long fingers never too far from the hilt of his saber. His long hair already had more salt than pepper in it, but he was still a force to be reckoned with, honed by years and years of strife and near death experiences. He was in charge of Eli’s squad, and Eli thought that might not be such a bad thing. Incompetent or reckless men rarely reached Tobias’s age.
“I’ll take the south. Now, let’s get it done.”
And with that the men divided in three groups and marched off into the fog. Up ahead, somewhere in the damp whiteness of the morning, the estate of Baron Wynand slept, unsuspecting.