Two days of steady marching through the western foothills put thirty miles between the Golden Boar and the smoking ruins of Veron Crossing.
The company halted at midday near Oakhaven, a fortified sheep-herding settlement tucked into a limestone hollow along the river road. Master Osric and Nathaniel immediately went to work at the village storehouse, using company silver to buy eight sacks of milled barley, three crates of dried mutton, and fresh bundles of ash spear shafts to replace the equipment shattered during the retreat.
Nathaniel had fully recovered from his collapse on the ridge, though he moved with an anxious quickness, his quill scratching into his parchment ledger as he checked every sack against Osric's tally.
Following Captain Mira's orders to rebuild their depleted line, Jade visited the village elder's stockade alongside Jorik. With silver in hand and the promise of three square meals a day under the Golden Boar charter, Jade recruited four sturdy village youths named Ewan, Beran, Tomas, and Luc, all of whom had basic experience with hunting spears.
Along with Jorik, Corin, and Hobb, Jade's personal command now numbered twelve men, giving the Calamity Squad a respectable skirmisher line that trotted behind the five mounted leaders.
As the recruits were being fitted with spare leather jerkins from the baggage cart, Squad Leader Bram walked over to the horse lines, his face lined with heavy fatigue.
"The captain woke up an hour ago," Bram said, tapping the ash from his wooden pipe against his boot heel. "He is in the third cart. You should see him, kid."
Jade nodded, handing his short spear to Mataranas, and followed Bram through the rows of picketed mounts toward the covered medical wagon.
Inside the canvas bed, the smell of damp straw, vinegar, and boiled herbs hung heavy in the air.
Captain Rodrik was sitting upright against two sacks of oats, his right shoulder wrapped tightly in clean linen bandages. The violent fever that had threatened to kill him over the past forty-eight hours had finally broken, leaving his skin pale and clammy under the daylight filtering through the canvas flap.
Jade stepped into the cart, waiting for the captain to look up. "Captain Rodrik. We are two days south of the crossing. The supplies are replenished."
Rodrik did not look at him.
His eyes remained wide, glassy, and completely vacant, staring through the wooden floorboards at an empty corner of the cart. His rough fingers plucked compulsively at the fraying wool threads of his blanket, moving in slow, aimless circles.
"Ten sacks of spelt," Rodrik whispered, his voice high and hollow, carrying none of the harsh authority that had commanded three hundred sellswords across Vlandia. "Tell the carter the bridge toll is two coppers. Where did Vane put the salt kegs? The horses... the water is cold, Vane. Very cold."
Jade stopped, a chill running down his spine. "Captain?"
Rodrik blinked slowly, his head tilting toward the canvas ceiling as if listening to rain that was not there. A string of senseless syllables tumbled from his cracked lips, muttering about old supply manifests, forgotten grain debts, and dead men from battles fought ten years prior.
The company healer stepped out from the shadows at the back of the cart, rinsing a cloth in a wooden bowl of water. She caught Jade's eye and gave a grim, tired shake of her head.
"The fever burned through his skull for two days straight," the healer said in a hushed, flat voice. "The ditch rust poisoned his blood before we could draw the rot out. His body will heal, but his mind is gone. He cannot recognize his own officers, and he will never hold a broadsword again. He is permanently disabled."
Jade stood quietly for a long moment, watching the old soldier pluck at his blanket threads, before stepping out of the cart into the cold mountain air.
Bram was waiting beside the rear wagon wheel, striking flint to light his pipe. The seasoned infantry officer watched the smoke drift into the birch leaves, letting out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of twenty campaigns.
"Look at that, kid," Bram muttered, staring at the canvas flap with bitter, tired eyes. "This is the life of being a mercenary. I have been working with Rodrik longer than almost anyone left breathing in this company. Over the years, I watched men defect for better silver, I watched men get hacked to pieces in ditches, and I watched men get strung up from oak trees by noble bailiffs for breaking contract."
Bram took a slow pull from his pipe, his scarred jaw tight.
"I just never thought Rodrik would end up like this," Bram continued, his voice dropping into a rough rasp. "A commander who held castles and bargained with high barons, reduced to babbling like an infant in the straw. But seeing him now, sitting there plucking at wool, it is better to send him home to his family in this condition than leave his bones bleaching in Achios's stake ditch. At least his wife and children will have a man to bury when his time comes."
Bram spat into the weeds, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Master Osric is arranging for a private wagon and an escort of two retired guards to take him back toward Pravend once we link up with the main army. His war is done."
Ten minutes later, Captain Mira gathered the surviving officers, squad leaders, and veterans around an overturned hay cart near the village well.
Her broad shoulders were squared beneath her bloodied mail, her notched two-handed broadsword sheathed across her back. Beside her stood Scout Officer Mara, nursing her bruised shoulder, while the remaining thirteen cavalry scouts and forty line infantry formed a somber semi-circle around the timber.
Mira laid the heavy iron seal of the Golden Boar and the company ledger onto the weathered wood, looking across the assembled fighters.
"Captain Rodrik is unfit for the field," Mira announced, her voice flat and carrying across the quiet settlement. "His mind is broken by the fever, and he is returning home to his family under escort. Under the mercenary charter of the Golden Boar, command falls to the highest-ranking surviving officer."
Mira picked up the iron seal, sliding the heavy ring onto her thumb, formally absorbing Rodrik's remaining infantry, scouts, and baggage train directly under her personal banner.
"From this hour, Rodrik's detachment is merged into my command," Mira stated, her grey eyes scanning every man in the circle. "We are no longer split companies. We march as one company under my sword. We have seventy-nine battle-ready effectives, nine new village spears, and twenty-six non-combatants and wounded. If anyone objects to my banner, speak now and take your severance coin."
Not a single man moved. Bram gave a single, firm nod of approval, while Mara crossed her arms in silent agreement.
Mira tapped the ledger against the cart bed, her expression hardening back into business.
"We are ten miles north of Garontor Castle," Mira continued. "Lord Ingalther's siege lines sit in the valley ahead. King Derthert's royal army is already battering the outer walls, and Lord Thomund is in the camp with his knights. He will be waiting for our report on Veron, and he will not be pleased to hear that his two hundred denars bought him an empty ditch and an imperial cavalry charge. Keep your heads down and let me do the talking when we reach the pavilions."
The company broke camp within the hour, moving south along the river highway in a tight, disciplined column.
Late in the afternoon, the dirt road climbed over a high granite saddle, and the vast southern river basin opened up below them like an ocean of canvas and iron.
The valley surrounding Garontor Castle was choked with the terrifying machinery of feudal war. Four thousand Vlandian soldiers were encamped across the plains, their white canvas pavilions and silk heraldic banners stretching for miles.
Massive timber siege towers stood fifty feet high near the outer palisade, their raw pine timbers fresh from the forest, while three heavy trebuchets hurled massive limestone boulders against the grey granite curtain walls of the imperial fortress with thunderous, earth-shaking booms that echoed across the mountains.
Hundreds of armored knights from Clan dey Cortain and Clan dey Arromanc patrolled the perimeter roads on barded chargers, their red lion pennons snapping in the wind.
Jade reined his gelding to a halt along the ridge, looking down at the immense siege lines while Mataranas, Numerius, Yuzon, and Nathaniel pulled up alongside him. Behind them, their seven new recruits held their spears with wide, awestruck eyes, completely overwhelmed by the sight of an imperial siege.
They had escaped the meat grinder at Veron Crossing, but as they guided their horses down the slope toward the royal picket lines, Jade knew they were stepping straight into the dangerous web of Vlandian high nobility.