Hector stood up, his silhouette cut against the tavern light like a sentry of black stone. The Mad Dog didn't need to ask for silence; he knew he owned it.
– A pack that doesn't hunt together ends up gnawing on its own bones – he growled, resting his calloused hands on a map stained with wine and grease. – Orlan and I shall depart for Ponteverde. Count Valerius is a man who chews pride for breakfast and spits contempt for dinner; he won't listen to messengers with muddy boots. He needs to see the glint of steel and the shadow of Aurelia's army at his doorstep to understand that the storm has already begun.
He turned his single eye, sharp as a mercy dagger, toward the stern-featured knight and the giant accompanying him.
– Roderick, Marcus... you are my fist in the shadows. Return to the outskirts of Verdejante. Lorenzo thinks he owns the land because he has Solterra's gold, but gold doesn't buy the loyalty of a man who's hungry. Hire every mercenary and sellsword who isn't afraid to die, and ensure the Viscount's supply convoys start disappearing in the night. Weaken him, tooth by tooth, until he can't bite a soul.
Roderick nodded with the rigidity of an executioner, while Marcus merely clenched his fists, a sound reminiscent of crushing bone.
– Silvio, Gabriel... – Hector continued, and the Cardo brothers straightened up, though the glint in their eyes wasn't exactly one of military fervour. – You'll head to Ponteverde ahead of us. We need steel, bridles, saddles, and everything an army requires so it doesn't march barefoot.
The brothers exchanged a knowing look. Silvio cleared his throat, trying to hide the smirk creeping onto his lips.
– Ponteverde steel is legendary, brother – Silvio murmured, though his thoughts were clearly in the city's high-ceilinged taverns, where the wine didn't taste like vinegar and the women didn't smell of stables. – We shall be diligent in our... inspection.
– And you – Hector pointed to the pair of foreigners –, Rian and Tito, you'll go to Campofiorito. An army marches on its stomach, and ours is getting empty. You must secure a source of grain, dried meat, and salt. If the merchants try to fleece you on the price, show them that Isolaran iron and Solterran cunning are arguments hard to ignore.
Tito let out a guttural grunt that could have been an agreement or a curse, while Rian merely smiled – the smile of a man who knows gold opens more doors than steel, but steel ensures no one shuts them afterwards.
– You and the lad will go to Fontechiara – the Mad Dog ordered, his voice as raspy as the creak of a gallows. – We need horses with strong legs and wagons that won't fall apart at the first pothole, but above all, bring back the specialised cargo I've ordered.
– Specialised cargo? – Alistair enquired, arching an eyebrow as his stomach tied itself in a knot. – What the bloody hell are you talking about, Hector? Gold? Silks? Or has the great captain finally decided to invest in wine that doesn't taste like horse piss?
Hector let out a short, dry laugh – a sound devoid of any joy.
– You'll see when you get there. It's a surprise.
Alistair stood still, his face transformed into a mask of confusion.
– 'You'll see'? – he stammered. – See what? Or who? Gods protect me, Hector, if it's one of those contraptions that spits fire and smoke, I'd rather face the royal army with a wooden spoon.
Lucius, beside him, rolled his eyes with the patience of a master dealing with a simpleton student. The boy had already seen the glint in Hector's eyes whenever gunpowder was mentioned.
– They're hand-cannons and arquebuses, Alistair – the boy whispered, adjusting the collar of his cloak. – Or barrels of black powder, or perhaps a bombard capable of bringing down a city's walls. The captain doesn't just want to win a war; he wants the world to burn.
Hector ignored the protest and pointed a calloused finger to the north on the map.
– Once you have what I asked for, you'll march to the north of Campofiorito. That is where destiny awaits us. Tito and Rian will meet you in the barley fields. Wait for the rest. If anyone asks who you are, say you're just passing merchants... and pray they believe you.
And with instructions given, Hector distributed pouches to each pair with the clatter of metal – the heavy jingle of silver and the dry thud of bronze. Alistair watched every movement, his eyes following the swing of the leather like a cat watching a wounded bird. Alistair calculated the weight of each pouch by the sound alone, his mercenary spirit weeping silently at the sight of such a fortune being divided. His gaze fixed on the pouch handed to the Cardo brothers, and then on his own, feeling a corrosive envy. For Alistair, the size of the fortune didn't matter; the neighbour's pouch would always be – by divine design or the malice of men – painfully heavier than his.
The departure from the tavern was a chaos of boots thumping on wood and horses snorting in the muddy yard. Tito uttered a series of sounds that were akin to a mountain collapsing. Rian, with his eternal Solterran fox-grin, translated with a bow.
– Our friend Tito says the air in Campofiorito gives him an appetite. He hopes to find women with big tits and generous hearts, while I – Rian licked his lips, eyes gleaming with anticipation – intend to dedicate myself to the famous barley and the local ale, which they say is so thick you can eat it with a knife.
At the word 'ale', the Cardo brothers, already mounted, nearly lost their balance. Silvio and Gabriel straightened in their saddles with a motivation that not even patriotic duty had managed to inspire. Their horses neighed, and they set off at a hurried gallop, as if every second wasted was a mouthful lost.
Alistair watched the procession of lunatics disperse along the dusty road. He looked at Lucius, then at the pouch of coins, and finally at the horizon where the war was preparing to be born.
– Horses, wagons, and surprises that blow up – Alistair grumbled, nudging his horse's flanks. – If we survive this, Lucius, I'm going to ask Hector to pay me in land... preferably far bloody away from anyone who knows what a bombard is.
As they rode, Lucius kept his gaze fixed on the road, his brow furrowed with the seriousness of one carrying the kingdom's fate on his shoulders. The mercenary watched the boy from the corner of his eye, and an idea, as rare as the metal he now wore, occurred to him.
– Tell me, lad – Alistair began, his voice laden with feigned gravity –, in your days of... whatever it was you were doing before you met me, did you ever let the barley go to your head? Have you ever tasted real ale?
Lucius looked at him, his eyes wide with the surprise of the question.
– Sour wine in roadside taverns, sometimes, but ale... they told me it was a drink for men-at-arms and that it would cloud my innocent mind... whatever that meant.
Alistair let out a laugh that startled a crow perched on a nearby ash tree.
– Cloud the mind? Ale doesn't cloud, Lucius; it settles the soul and makes the weight of chainmail feel like it's made of silk – he said, giving the pouch of coins at his belt a gentle tap. – As soon as the gates of Fontechiara appear on the horizon and we find an inn that doesn't smell of despair, I'll buy your first mug. That's a promise from Alistair.
The boy didn't answer immediately, but Alistair saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a suppressed smile and the glint of genuine anticipation light up his face. For a brief moment, between the blood-trail of Vigil and the uncertainties of Ponteverde, Alistair felt his chest swell. It wasn't the swordsman's vanity, but something stranger and older: the satisfaction of a mentor teaching a pupil the few truths worth knowing in a world of lies.
At the crossroads, the pack fragmented. Roderick and Marcus headed south, two figures of iron against the mist; the Cardo brothers left with a haste that reeked of thirst; and the foreigners, the Solterran and the Isolaran, merged with the shadows of the east.
Alistair pulled the reins, turning his horse onto the path winding toward Fontechiara. He adjusted the Ferralian shield on his back, which reflected the sun with a cold, lunar brilliance. It was a magnificent piece, worthy of a hero from a song, but the weight of Hector's 'surprise' still hung over his spirit like a poorly kept secret.
– Horses, wagons, and mysteries – he grumbled to the wind, as the tavern grew smaller in the distance. – May Solarius protect us, Lucius, because if the captain's surprise is as explosive as his temper, your first ale might very well be your last.