Ser Barristan rode through the village with Marek at his side until they came to the center. On a weirwood stump sat Ser Arthur Dawn as resting next to his leg, pale and flawless yet deadly sharp. Before him, a man knelt who named himself the village ealdorman. A small and fleshy man whose face was hidden by a scraggy beard, his clothes were a bad fit and seemed stitched together by several bits of clothing and leather. The pair dismounted and joined in the assembly of knights and men-at-arms.
"You see, Ser, thems' outlaws demanded all we had swordpoint n' paid nary a copper. When we refused, that Smiling Knight laughed then hanged the smithy and gave his daughters to his men." The tears had made swaths through the dirt on his face, making him even more pitiful looking. Marek could not help but feel sorry for him; the smallfolk on his father's lands seemed noble by comparison.
"He was no true knight, ealdorman, just a thief and a brigand. I cannot give life to those slain but I can compensate your material losses." Ser Arthur spoke clearly and without preamble, his Dornish drawl barely noticeable.
"Eh?" the man looked puzzled
"Gold, my good man. Whatever these outlaws have taken from you, we will pay their worth. My men will also require supplies; fodder for the horses and they will need to be shod. For these, I am prepared to pay." Ser Arthur stood and waved over two serving man, a chest of oak and banded iron between them. They set it before the ealdorman and Ser Arthur opened it, revealing a mound of gold dragons.
"There is a thousand dragons in there, ample recompense for your losses." Marek watched the man's eyes go wide as boiled eggs then throw himself at the feet of Ser Arthur. Not a moment had passed when the knight gently pulled the ealdorman to his feet. Marek bit back his surprise, a thousand dragons could rebuild this village and half a dozen others.
"I will need to know more of these outlaws. You say they have come through before so they must have a camp nearby." His light purple eyes bored into the man who wiped away several more tears.
"Ser, everyone knows where the Brotherhood camps. Across the stream not a day's ride, west there be an old weirwood circle. There, those thievin' bastards sing and drink and enjoy our foods." A murmur went through the surrounding knights and men-at-arms, evidently troubled by the close proximity of the outlaws.
"We must attack now!" urged one voice.
"Surround and hang 'em by their guts!" shouted another. Belong long, the assembled parties erupted into a chorus of anger and commands, all of them shouting for blood. He thought of his master-at-arms, old Ser Lyonel Ruttiger. When blood is in the air, blood will carry the day. Men will to seek to spill and shed it at every opportune moment. Having crossed swords with the Brotherhood, Marek could not blame them for wanting to take the fight to them, but Ser Lyonel had always advised caution to temper boldness.
"Send a party of riders.." he found himself saying. When he realized no one heard him, he whistled loudly to cut through the air. Silence fell over them and heads were turned, their eyes blazing in anger at the young squire.
"Who are you boy, to whistle at men like dogs?" demanded one knight with a purple unicorn on his grey surcoat.
"Does the squire have something to say? If so, spit it out boy. Elsewise, shut your gob when real men be talking." A grizzled and boil faced man-at-arms stepped forward, wearing a brown surcoat stained by sourleaf and dirt and a rusty mail shirt.
"A party of scouts can reconnoiter across the stream, no more than a dozen men mounted. A smaller footprint leaves a small chance of discovery." he stared down the boiled face soldier, his pig-like eyes like two muddled pebbles.
"Ha! Boy gets a taste of fightin', and he thinks hisself the Dragonknight. An' who be leadin' this party, boy? You?" he jabbed a meaty finger and Marek took it, bent it upwards then swept the legs from underneath him. He went down in the dirt, grasping his finger in pain and the assembled men laughed.
"A bold squire it seems. Who do you serve?" asked Ser Arthur, the crowd hushing as he rose.
"Ser Jared Santagar, my lord, in service to Starfall." he replied, swallowing hard.
"You crossed swords and slew Osywn Thrice-Hanged. Though a common outlaw, none could deny his swordsmanship. To best him, you must possess some skill yourself." Ser Arthur raised an eyebrow, and next to him Ser Barristan chuckled.
"I practice every day, my Lord. A blade is only as good as the man swinging it." He remembered the first lesson of Ser Lyonel.
"A fine lesson, indeed. Tell me, would you lead this scouting party to find our enemy?" the Kingsguard knight was sincere, offering him his own command. Before he could answer, Ser Jared Santagar stepped up for him.
"You'll have to pardon my squire, Ser Arthur. Though skilled, he is much too young to command more seasoned men in battle. If you would do me the honor, I shall command this scouting party." He bowed his head slightly, and Marek felt his face redden in anger. Ser Jared had always pushed him to achieve greater things, to be ambitious and always honor the chivalric code and to never dishonor either foe or friend.
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bury his dagger in his treacherous stomach. Looking up at the knight he had been his man over the last year, Marek saw that Ser Jared wanted the glory for himself and no other. Perhaps Jason should have squired for him, how alike they are.
Ser Arthur looked Marek one last time, the nodded at Jared Santagar.
"Very well, Ser. Pick a dozen men and ride out within the hour." He gestured to the village ealdorman. "Give this man a fresh horse, as he will act as your guide. Return by nightfall tomorrow and report to me at once." With his cloak swirling, Ser Arthur turned and headed off, Barristan the Bold at his side. Feeling there was no reason to remain, Marek left for their camp, biting back the rage that was burning within him.
He did not remember reaching their camp and erecting both his tent and Ser Jared's, nor scouring his mail and whetting his blade as the day went on and the camp became alive. Somewhere, he had removed his own breastplate and mail, his tunic stained with sweat and blood though he let it be. Sometime later, Ser Jared came upon him and inspected his mail and replaced it, handing off his dirtied and bloodied one.
"Be sure that one is scoured and shines like the day it was forged. We must look our best for the battle tomorrow.
"Right away, Ser." was all the reply Marek could manage. As he turned, Jared put a hand on his shoulder.
"Lad, these men wouldn't follow you, no matter how many of these brigands you had slain today. How many was it, by chance?" he asked sincerely, his tired brown eyes meeting his own.
Marek thought for a moment before answering.
"The Thrice-Hanged makes five, Ser."
Jared nodded thoughtfully.
"A fine first action but it is just that, your first. The men I picked have all faced battles before, hard men all. Though the smell of grass may be gone from you, you are still but a squire." He climbed on his horse and donned his helm the visor still up. "You will remain here till I return, lad. Get yourself fed and see to our arms and armor. They will be plenty of glory to go round yet." Putting the spurs to his mount, he rode off as the dozen picked men joined in.
Marek watched the party ride out in the wood, a mixed force of knights and men-at-arms in boiled leather and soiled tunics. Food went untouched but he was parched and so he gathered the water skins as dusk was falling and headed for the stream. Campfires were lit as soldiers gathered around them, many of them hoisting the carcasses of boars and deer on spits. The aroma of the venerable feasts did little to sway him, as did the sound of songs that flowed across the camps.
"...the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel…"
"…came the rope, to string up Black Robin.." He passed another campfire where a half a dozen men in checkered green and white tunics and leather jerkins, the badge of a sword and a boar's head in yellow on their breasts. They began to sing to the sound of pipes and a fiddle, a lively tune and easy on the years. Rough and uncouth men they clearly were and each of them bore straight, uniformed scars across their cheeks, some had one and others had two and three.
"Our 'ppretice Pate may now refuse
To scour his angry father's shoes
Now he's free to march and play
Over the dales and far away
O'er the dales and O'er the Wall
Through Oldstones, Tarth and Starfall
King Aerys commands n' we obey
Over the dales and far away"
The song ended with the clanking of mugs and raucous laughter, and Marek couldn't help but grin. It made him think of his time as a deckhand aboard the Salty Rain, the hard days and nights below deck. He had learned many bawdy jokes and shanties, but those were made for the sea, not for marching. Still, he liked the tune and made it a point to learn more.
"A fine song, where is that from?" he asked the soldiers who, though older and grizzled, looked on him welcomingly.
"From all over, young squire. See, the words are from places across the Seven Kingdoms where us men and all have fought at one time or t'other. By your accent, you be a Westerner and nobly born at that." replied the fiddler, who had led the tune. Thin as a leek with a salt and pepper beard, thinning brown hair and kind eyes, Marek marked him for at least fifty.
"You can tell all that from how a man speaks?" replied Marek, intrigued.
"How a man speaks will tell you everything you need to know, especially how to trounce him soundly!" laughed a big fellow with arms like a bull and the shoulders to match, the heft of a great axe peeking over his left one.
"I am Marek Severus, of Swordhall. Whose men are you?" he expected some great lord or landed knight, a man who afford fighting men all his own.
"Well met, young Marek. I am Thalen of the Reach and these fellows be the Wild Company, for we march and fight and fuck like wild men!" the singer howled and his men joined in. "And we belong to no man, save ourselves. For gold and glory, 'we go where the fighting is', as is our battle cry." Marek had heard of sellswords and their ill repute, but decided he liked these men all the same.
"You name yourselves a company, but I count only six. Have that many you fallen?" he decided to take a knee beside their fire and mug was thrust in his hands. It was warm and smelled of apples mixed with queer spices and as he sipped it, he welcomed the warmth spreading through his chest.
"Over the years, aye but our company's numbers change like the seasons. One campaign we might be six, other times we might be sixty. You march and go as you please so long as you abide by the code." Thalen replied, turning over the spitted roast.
"Aye, the Code of the Company." the men grumbled and raised their mugs.
"And what are the tenets of the Code?" asked Marek, smiling.
"'Conduct yourself well in battle and never show them your back, never steal from your brothers and only from the enemy, and that only if you are starving. And of course, all plunder is to be shared equally among the company for we are brothers by bond, if not by blood." recited Thalen and downed the remains of his cider.
"Fine words to live by." agreed Marek as he drank deeply. One of the Company, the great bear with the axe refilled his mug as soon it was empty.
"Word is 'round the fires, you took the head of Oswyn the bloody Hanged. Say it was a rare and bloody fight, it was." the big fellow regarded him carefully, sizing him up. The clash of steel rang in Marek's head, the dead eyes and sallow skin of Osywn's head as it rolled away stuck in his mind.
"We's heard from some knights and men in Lord Brax's service, you served him up right and fuckin' proper!' laughed one of the company, a spear-thin man with flaxen hair tied back with a silken ribbon.
"Killed half a dozen 'fore the thing was done! Must be a sight to fuckin see with that sword o' yours!" chimed in another, cider soaking his beard.
"Aye, he is dead." was all he could muster up.
"Killin' a man is nothing to shirk at, lad. You take all a man has, his hopes, his dreams and his fears and all he will ever like to have. When it gets down to the grit, it be either you or him. Well done, squire." They all raised their mugs in salute, waiting for him. He was oddly touched by the sentiment of total strangers, a common bond forged in battle. Straightening himself up, he saluted them and drank deeply.
A hand clapped on his shoulders.
"Yes, well done indeed. But what business does a noble squire have with a lot like this?" asked a rich voice behind, and nobly born at that. Quickly standing as the hand came away, Marek faced a man both odd and truly frightening. He noticed that the men of the Wild Company had fallen silent.
He was tall and broad shouldered, dressed not in the accouterments of a knight but a long flowing robe of midnight blue and decorated with whorls of silver. Around his waist was a sash of cloth-of-gold, a decorative longsword at his hip and high boots of finely tooled red leather came up to his knees. Eyes of deep purple that marked him as the blood of Old Valyria that glittered in the firelight made him mad with some exotic fever, high cheekbones and a high brow only furthered his noble blood, marred by the spiderweb of scars across the left side of his face. From his scalp flowed a thick man of midnight black hair with braids around the crown.
"Only to make merry. Are these your men?" asked Marek, steeling himself as befitting a Severus of Swordfall.
The stranger looked at him amusingly, one callused hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Aye, they are mine and shall be until I die of some foeman's blade or my own madness." he smiled, revealing perfect white teeth yet Marek found something sinister in the act. "I am called Morvan Natarys, of the Free City of Lys. You are Marek, son of Marten, the Warlord of House Severus. Already, your name is known here. Fame achieved young is fame achieve for life."
"Do you know my father?" he asked warily.
"Only by name and reputation. We fought on the Stepstones though I doubt he would know of me." he replied, his hands sweeping the air. I do not like this one, he is too cold by a half. "Did my men welcome you as a noble guest?" he circled him, his eyed never leaving Marek.
"They welcomed me as a soldier, my birth mattered little."
"Ah, but it is our birth that sets us apart from these rabble, though good men they be. Never let fool yourself into thinking you're one of them and they will never be fooled into attempting to be one of us. It seems a lesson is in order." Before Marek reach for his, Natarys hands moved with surprising speed and drew his blade, whirled and opened Thalen's cheek. He howled as he dropped his lute to clutch his face, blood welling through his fingers. Around him, the men of the Company remained still and it made sense to Marek.
They've seen it all before, and its been done to them all, to a man.
Natarys regarded his blade for a moment, holding it to the fire light.
"Mark the ripples all the blade, squire. Do you know what kind of steel this is?" he asked, calm as still water. Turning the blade over, he saw the markings in the dark grey, almost black steel. He knew it all too well and knew how dangerous it was.
"Valyrian steel. A fine weapon but was the demonstration necessary?" he asked, keeping both rage and disgust in check. Natarys laughed, chilling Marek to the bone as he swiftly sheathed his sword.
"A good leader must show a bit of madness now and then, reminds the rank and file to fear him more than the enemy. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Marek. Perhaps we'll bandy a word some other time." he bowed his head slightly, and Marek found himself hurrying to the stream. He wanted nothing more than to fill the skins and return to the safety his tent and fire.
Kneeling to fill the skins, he heard a rustle in the bushes and turned as a man leapt from the dark and slammed into him, flattening him to the ground. His breath was hot and stale, reeking of cheap liquor. Knocking aside Marek's raised hands with a cudgel, he jammed the haft down on his throat.
"Disgrace me, you noble-born shit!" roared the boil faced man-at-arms in the stained brown surcoat. His meaty hands were pressing the cudgel down and Marek began to see red spots around his hands. He pummeled the man's side but hit only mail and when he tried to gouge his hands, they were bitten hard and broke skin. "Think you be the only one who can gutter fight!? You'll be feeding the fuckin flies come morning!" The cudgel jammed down harder and Marek scrambled for anything around him, clawing at the grass and dirt.
When he felt something, he grasped it and with his remaining strength, smashed the rock into his attacker's teeth. He cried out and released the cudgel to spit out a tooth and Marek was on him, sucking in air each time he hit him. The impact jarred up his hand and arm, each blow reducing the angry, boil-ridden face to ruin. Warm blood splashed his face, some of it on his tongue.
After a while, he could not raise his hand anymore and Marek dropped the rock, sticky and slippery with blood and bits of skin. Pulling himself to his feet, he threw his head in stream and scrubbed with his sleeve on the blood from his face as best he could. Then he grabbed the dead man's boots and hauled him into the flowing stream. With a push, the corpse was taken by the current and began to float away.
His heart still pounding, he ran back to the camp, leaving the water skins behind.