251 AC, Lys.
Irat Rexarion.
— About the Golden Company, I knew a great deal and absolutely nothing all at once.
Scattered fragments of memory, combined with information gathered over the past few days, allowed me to draw certain conclusions.
Pushing through the thicket of rumors, exaggerations, and glowing reviews of these renowned warriors, I managed to form a picture of the situation for myself.
The Golden Company was an ancient mercenary outfit with its own fifty-year history.
Only the Company of the Cat was older, with more than a century behind it.
But unlike those same “Sons,” the Golden Company had never once deserted or broken a contract with an employer.
They had a good reputation as the most reliable of the companies, and their motto was always on everyone’s lips: “Our word is gold.” But the Golden Company was famous for more than just that.
Being one of the largest companies and possessing excellent training and standard equipment, they were more of an army than simple sellswords.
Seeing this fearsome force gathered in one place was difficult enough, as the “Swords” often carried out several contracts simultaneously.
Having the ability to divide their forces without losing effectiveness would be the height of foolishness not to use.
Rumors had it that the Golden Company had even participated in major battles, which required them to assemble their entire composition.
No one knew their exact numbers except the company’s commanders.
“Not much to go on,” I muttered, leaning against a wall in a narrow alley between buildings.
All the information I’d gathered boiled down to rumors or assumptions.
Digging through my memories also yielded little.
Neither the identities of the captains and commanders, nor how they replenished their ranks.
The likelihood that the “Swords” would organize fistfights for their own amusement and to scout recruits, as smaller companies did, was extremely low.
“What will be, will be,” I sighed and continued on my way.
As I approached the district of the city famous for its expensive brothels, inns, good liquor, and the fact that particularly successful mercenary companies liked to stay there, I settled on a plan.
In the absence of other ways into the company, I decided to create a conflict situation and try to fight my way into a position.
The plan was risky, and I couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
Otherwise, I might get myself killed, which I’d like to avoid.
If they just threw me out, I could always go back to my original plan of leaving the city.
As I moved through the city, I periodically asked passersby if they knew where the Golden Company was staying.
Many twirled their fingers at their temples, thinking me insane.
This continued until one passerby pointed out an inn where he’d seen warriors with the company’s insignia.
The walk to the establishment didn’t take long.
Standing at the entrance, I gathered my thoughts, but in the end, casting aside hesitation, I went inside.
Before me lay a common hall where numerous tables were crowded with men in identical clothing.
Some hadn’t even removed their armor.
Several tables had shields propped against them bearing the company’s insignia: a bundle of gilded skulls suspended from a red spear.
I moved slowly through the hall, thinking of the best way to start a conflict.
“Hey, kid, what are you doing here?” one of the soldiers bellowed loudly, finally noticing me.
“Get lost.” The man was clearly drunk, but at least there was no open threat in his voice.
“You’d better listen to him, boy,” another, more sober mercenary said condescendingly.
“We’re full up anyway.” “I don’t need a room,” I replied with a defiant grin.
“Then what do you want?” another mercenary asked, amusement in his voice.
“You,” I answered simply, sizing up my new interlocutor.
“Us?” he asked in surprise.
“You got enough coin to hire us?” “I don’t want to hire you,” I explained.
“I want to join your ranks.” For a few moments, silence fell over the hall, and then the crowd burst into loud laughter.
“Jokester,” still chuckling and wiping away tears, came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a funny one, kid,” he said, catching his breath.
“Good joke.” “It wasn’t a joke,” I said seriously, looking him in the eyes.
“Then I’m sorry,” he shrugged.
“There’s no place for snot-nosed brats here.
Better go back to your mommy’s skirts.” There was the reason for the conflict.
The mention of my mother stirred a wave of anger that I had no intention of suppressing.
Knocking his hand off my shoulder, I drove my fist into his jaw.
The blow was strong enough to lift him slightly off the ground and send him stumbling backward.
It might not have knocked him out cold, but in the moment of his fall, he “fortunately” cracked his head against a bench.
I could only hope he survived.
I didn’t want to start my acquaintance with murder.
“Anyone else think I’m a snot-nosed brat?” I said with a defiant smirk on my face.
— Interlude.
Araino Laar.
— My native Lys, how long it had been since I was last here.
How much time had passed since my last visit?
Six months?
A year?
Or more?
I couldn’t even remember anymore.
Everything in my head had blurred and merged into one continuous routine.
Life from contract to contract.
Recruiting new men and training them.
Raising funds that I couldn’t even spend.
Individually, none of this stood out, but together, it felt like we were preparing for something.
All the captains had questions about it, but no one could get an answer from the commander.
No one had seen the monster himself for six months, and if it weren’t for the periodic orders telling us where to move, one might think he’d perished.
Pity that wasn’t the case.
Respect and fear for those holding the post of Commander-General didn’t stop me from wishing Myles dead.
Especially after he personally killed his brother Daemon a year and a half ago to take sole command of the Golden Company.
But even so, no one contested his right to command.
Memories were still fresh of how he killed his kinsman’s horse with a single blow, then twisted Daemon’s head with his bare hands until it tore from his neck.
A horrifying death.
“You’re all tense,” a dark-haired beauty said, pouring more wine into my cup.
“Relax, now’s not the time to think about business.” With those words, she began running her hands gently over my bare torso, slowly moving lower.
This whore didn’t seem to care in the slightest that we were in the common room of a brothel where any patron could see us.
Not that it’s ever bothered me, I thought with a smile, grabbing the girl by her juicy ass.
Especially since tonight it’s just my men here.
Moving her tender hands away from me, I made her stand up in front of me, and then tore her tunic with a single sharp motion, revealing a small but firm pair of breasts.
This drew approval and catcalls from those present in the common room.
I was just about to lay this whore down on the bed of pillows and get down to business when a subordinate burst into the brothel, distracting me.
“Captain,” he called out to me, making me turn my attention to him.
He looked quite concerned.
And, apparently, somewhat battered.
Did he get into a fight?
I thought, noticing his split lip.
“What do you want?” I said, annoyed at being pulled away from such a pleasant activity.
“Some madman attacked our men,” he explained, wiping the blood from his lip with his fist.
His words stirred excitement among those present.
It had been a long time since anyone had been crazy enough to provoke us.
Usually, if they didn’t get into too much trouble, such idiots were beaten and tossed into the nearest alley.
“Can’t you handle it yourselves?” I asked, still annoyed.
“You know what to do with them.” About to return to the business I’d been pulled away from, I heard something that piqued my interest.
“We can’t, Captain,” the soldier said, guilt evident in his voice.
“He’s already put five men down.” “Well, let’s go see this madman,” I chuckled, heading for the exit, grabbing my scabbard on the way.
A couple of sergeants, John and Astaar, who were also curious about what was happening, followed me.
Leaving the brothel and walking a bit along the main street, we turned into a passage between buildings to cut the distance.
After a short walk, we emerged into a small clearing behind one of the inns.
That’s where the unusual spectacle was unfolding.
Most of the company’s rank and file had formed a circle, in the center of which a fight was taking place.
Seeing us, the soldiers parted, letting me and the sergeants through to the front row so we could watch what was happening.
And we arrived just in time.
A rather large company soldier, stripped to the waist, stepped forward against the troublemaker.
He was a young man, quite tall, with pronounced Valyrian features.
Silver hair, violet eyes, and pale skin that had never seen a tan made the youth quite attractive.
“Captain, he’s prettier than you,” Astaar joked, drawing laughter from everyone nearby.
Indeed, the boy was handsome enough to almost inspire envy.
The picture was only marred by a few bruises on his face and a split lip.
Someone had apparently managed to land a hit on him, but they hadn’t knocked him out.
Which meant at the very least, he could take a punch.
At that moment, our soldier, with his arm drawn back for a blow, closed the distance and tried to drive his fist into the guy’s face.
“Mistake,” commented the usually silent John.
Exactly, an unforgivable mistake that his opponent didn’t hesitate to exploit.
The boy had no trouble ducking under his opponent’s arm and, in the same motion, stepping forward to drive his own fist into our soldier’s face.
The blow was strong, evident from the slightly dazed soldier who was forced to step back a couple of paces and clutch his broken nose.
The “Valyrian” wasn’t about to waste his advantage.
He quickly closed in on his enemy and, clearly using his height advantage, clasped his hands together just below the back of our soldier’s head, then forcefully pulled him down.
Caught off guard, the soldier met the boy’s knee with his face, collapsing unconscious a moment later.
“Next,” I heard the troublemaker’s voice.
He was clearly winded, but judging by his eager smile, he was ready to continue.
And the longer his soldiers deliberated on who would step up next, the more time they gave him to catch his breath.
“Did you find out who he is?” I asked the nearest soldier.
“No, Captain,” came the reply.
“We didn’t have time.” “Then find out now,” I ordered, making the closest subordinates disappear.
I shifted my gaze back to the “Valyrian,” who was using every moment of peace to recover his strength.
“Hey, boy,” I said, drawing his attention to me.
“What do you want?
Why all this?” He stared at me intently with his mesmerizing violet eyes.
In the shadows falling across his face, they seemed to glow with an otherworldly light.
“And who are you to ask?” he asked boldly, meeting my gaze.
“I’m the captain of these fine warriors,” I said, before continuing with a threat in my voice.
“The warriors you decided to beat up.” My threatening tone didn’t faze the boy at all; he looked at me without a trace of fear.
“I didn’t start this,” he said calmly.
“Your ‘fine warriors’ decided to mock me when I asked how to join the ranks of the famous Golden Company.” He paused for a moment before speaking louder, with clear mockery in his voice.
“But your fame is somewhat exaggerated,” he grinned defiantly.
“A bunch of lumbering oafs who can’t even take down a fifteen-year-old.” His words caused a wave of indignation and angry shouts from the soldiers, promising to cut him to pieces.
I was beginning to find this whole situation amusing.
The boy, who turned out to be a fifteen-year-old brat just stepping into adulthood, was clearly provoking us.
“You’re right,” I said with a smile.
“Looks like I’ll have to spend more time on training.” My words immediately silenced all the disgruntled soldiers.
I heard someone behind me swallow nervously.
None of them liked hard training.
“Let’s make a bet,” I offered the “Valyrian.” “What kind?” he asked with interest.
“If you can land a hit on the one I put against you, I’ll take you into the company,” I explained.
“And if I can’t?” “Then you die,” I said with a friendly smile.
The boy considered this, sizing me up and my sergeants, seeing us as the main threat.
Good instincts.
“Agreed,” he said seriously, immediately dropping into a stance.
I turned my head toward John.
“Take care of him,” I ordered, then added to his back.
“Just don’t kill him too soon.” My best hand-to-hand fighter gave a silent nod in return.
The fighters stood opposite each other, neither making the first move.
John stood relaxed, arms spread wide, as if deliberately inviting his opponent to strike first.
Meanwhile, the “Valyrian” stood slightly crouched, raising his hands to protect his face.
The youth, not waiting for his opponent to act, decided to attack first.
In two long strides, he closed the distance between them and delivered a series of quick punches, probing the enemy’s defense.
John calmly absorbed the blows on his raised block, then grabbed the boy’s arm when he tried to strike again.
A large hand clamped around the “Valyrian’s” wrist, eliciting a surprised look from him.
John pulled him forward, turning on the spot, preparing to execute his signature throw.
The sergeant pulled harder on the arm, forcing the boy off the ground, and hurled him over his shoulder.
But, to everyone’s surprise, the boy twisted in midair in some intricate way, landing softly on his feet at the last moment.
Such a maneuver surprised even the usually unflappable John, and the youth decided to capitalize on it.
Twisting the captured arm, he grabbed John himself and pulled him forward.
At first, it seemed he was trying to replicate the throw, and given the obvious weight difference, it seemed like a strange decision.
But instead of a throw, the boy, taking advantage of John’s confusion, thrust his arm forward.
It turned out that my soldier was practically throwing himself onto his opponent’s fist.
The force of the blow was such that John’s head snapped back, but, unfortunately for the boy, it only angered him.
Everything happened so fast after that that only I, Astaar, and possibly the “Valyrian,” judging by his surprised look before John, recovering, began to rain blows on his head, could understand what happened.
Credit to the boy, he tried to defend himself to the last, but his arm, still caught in the hold, prevented him from breaking the distance and recovering.
It all ended with the boy losing consciousness after another blow, but a furious John wasn’t about to stop.
“Enough, John,” I ordered, my tone making him freeze, fist raised for another strike.
“But Captain…” he began.
“Enough,” I repeated more firmly.
“The boy passed.
He did land a hit on you.” John stared from me to the unconscious youth in confusion until he felt something.
Bringing his hand to his face, he wiped the blood slowly trickling from his nose.
Looking at his bloody fingers, he started to laugh.
“He really did,” he calmed down, releasing the new recruit’s hand.
I looked at the soldiers.
“Take the boy to the healer,” I ordered them.
“Have him treat his wounds.
When he wakes up, bring him to me.
I’ll decide which sergeant’s squad he’ll join.” “Give him to me,” Astaar perked up.
“The boy’s interesting.
He definitely won’t be boring.” “I’ll think about it,” I chuckled, then waved my hand.
“Come on, the whores are waiting for us.”