It had been after sunset when Tirak arrived in Eastpoint. He had come most of the way from Saanazar along the Raderan coast, skipping from fishing ship to fishing ship. It had cost him a pretty coin, but not as much as chartering passage on a proper ship out of the port. As such, he had been let off a few miles to the west of Eastpoint’s busy harbour, and had walked the final stretch along a dusty old road. The blue light of the twilight had been interrupted only by his arrival at a ring of torchlight by Eastpoint’s only land gate.
That—and his evening at the cheapest inn he could find—was his only impression of the city until he awoke the next morning to a small square window with a view of Eastpoint’s cliff-side cityscape. No building stood out, but each seemed to have its own flare, its own wealth. Small walls divided neighbourhoods without any clear logic.
Tirak turned away from the small window and began his morning ritual—he buckled his two little crescent axes to his belt, while looping his three throwing knives through the leather strap that ran from his shoulder to his hip. His long dagger clicked into place against a metal loop at the bottom of his back—its hilt never far from his hand. Armed and ready for making proper appearances, Tirak set out from the cramped inn room.
It was a bright day; the sun beat down and started to raise the slightest sweat on Tirak’s brow. Though he looked like a Numa, he had spent his first nine years in the remote reaches of the Yurna Mountains, where cool winds blew, even during the summer. The heat of his last ten years had not converted his preferred temperature.
“Which way toward the Storm Fort?” Tirak asked one of the passing townspeople. The people of Eastpoint were as varied as their strange homes. The person who pointed down the street for Tirak was wearing a long silk robe, stained around the ankles by dirt and coal. The next person who gave Tirak directions was wearing leather and furs—despite the heat—while the person after that was completely shirtless and had painted their torso like a wildcat.
Tirak walked through one of the arched openings in the short district walls. As he had learned from the locals last night, the city was ruled by men and women known as Councillors. The Councillors were little more than faction heads, competing with their peers as often as allying with them.
The Storm Fort, Tirak found, was a three-storey stone castle, roofed with wooden shingles and surrounded by a stone wall as tall as that which ran the perimeter of the district. The gate—a brass grid of metal bars—was already lifted when Tirak arrived. The base of the East Storm Company consisted of a few buildings, such as barracks and stable, surrounding the central keep. Hanging above the double-doored entrance of a great hall was the Company’s emblem of a sword coiled by a lightning bolt.
A small table, like a desk, was set up near the front gate from whence Tirak had come. Behind it was a training yard where skilled warriors sparred.
Tirak approached the men and women lined in front of the table. This looked like the right spot for him—recruitment. As they waited, the potential recruits began to chat. Tirak wasn’t much for meaningless communication, but he did want to know more about this place. He had learned last night of the East Storm’s current contracts. Though they regularly assisted local merchants and paranoid upper-class citizens, their standing arrangements were twofold. The first was paid for by the Councillors of Eastpoint: the Company was to eradicate a rebel presence in the northeastern hills. Second—funded by the Company itself—the leaders of the East Storm had several training camps constructed. It seems the Company was growing.
Still, there was always more to learn. “Why are you joining up?” he asked the woman in front of him.
She turned to glance at him and he noticed the meat knife on her belt. Only about half of the waiting recruits were armed. Most looked like citizens that had wandered in off the street. “I ran a tavern with my husband, but the buffoon got gutted in the street one day. Even after they killed him, the men he owed money to seized his business. Couldn’t off me though, so I figure I’ve got what it takes to make money this way.”
Tirak could respect that. She needed to find some of the mercenaries to handle her husband’s debt collectors, and couldn’t afford to hire them officially.
The man in front of the armed woman responded, too. He was unarmed, clean-shaven, and as green as a newborn goat. “I just want to help with the war effort… my son is seven and terrified. In the very least, I’ll learn how to protect us. What brought you here? Begging your pardon, but you don’t look like you’re from these parts.”
“You’re correct,” Tirak said. He wasn’t sure how the man could tell—it seemed any fashion or appearance was common in the city’s eclectic populace. Tirak wore a plain brown tunic under his layered armaments. “I’m not from here. I’ve been looking to get some money, and the best-paying job is usually the nearest merc group.”
“Have you worked for others then?” the woman asked.
“A few,” Tirak said. “Each one works differently, but you can always expect some injuries during training, unless you really impress the recruiters.”
“Oh really?” the man asked nervously. Tirak already knew that he wouldn’t fare well in this profession. The man was too edgy, anxious, and didn’t look like he had ever even been punched. “Do you have any advice?”
Tirak smirked. “Eat your rations and put this on your bruises.” He passed the man a small jar with some a pale paste in it. Even removing the jar from his pack spread its sharp smell. Tirak wasn’t usually generous, but he hadn’t used the stuff in quite a while. “It will relax the muscle and ease soreness. Won’t do anything for injuries though.”
“Thanks,” the man said, shuffling forward as the line moved yet again. “If there’s ever any way I can repay you, don’t hesitate to ask.” He put Tirak’s ointment into his own pouch.
Tirak shrugged and watched the sparring warriors for a few moments. Of those fighting now, he could probably have taken any of them. Tirak didn’t lose fights—at least, not those he chose. He stepped up as the line moved again. The man that had spoken to him was now at the recruitment table; the woman would be next. “Here,” Tirak said. He pulled off his dagger and passed it to her. It had a good three inches on her meat knife. “Take this when you talk to them. Give it back when you’re done. You’ll thank me.”
“I’ll thank you now,” she said, tipping her head to him and adding the weapon to her belt. She spoke to the administrator for a few moments and Tirak watched them add her name to a list and show her a location on a map—a training camp near the city, just like Tirak had heard. As she passed the knife back, she said, “What’s your name?”
“Tirak,” he replied. “Enjoy training,” he added, with a touch of sarcasm.
At last, Tirak stepped up to the desk. The recruiter was a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and a perpetual frown. He raised one eyebrow as he looked Tirak over. “You’re here to enlist?” he clarified.
Tirak nodded.
“And you have past experience?”
“I do,” Tirak answered. “I’ve been a hired guard before, and was part of a mercenary group far west of here. A few more north of that.” The East Storm Company wasn’t the largest he had heard of, but it was the largest he had tried to join.
“So, you’ve killed before. You been hurt before, too? Be honest,” the man instructed.
“I’ve had my fair share of both.”
The man nodded, pleased. He rifled through the documents on his table and began reading a list from a different scroll than Tirak had seen him open while he waited. “What’s your name—full and preferred?”
“Tirakaquel—Tirak is easier for most in the area,” Tirak replied. He didn’t use his full name often. “Looking for me on the secret mercenary blacklist?”
The man glanced up and chuckled. “Looking for a proper assignment, actually.” He paused. “Can you spell your full name?” As Tirak did, he wrote it out on a list of new recruits and marked it with a dot. Tirak was the only one that day with a dot, it looked like. He added the short-form to the other scroll, too. “Here’s a letter of hire. Report to Adrix with it, at the Red Seal Tavern in the harbour, in the next two days.”
“Done,” Tirak said. “I assume Adrix has some jobs for me?”
“Adrix commands a squad. He’ll assign you to train with a member of his team and deem if you are a suitable fit for the East Storm Company,” the man explained. “Next!”
Tirak stepped away from the desk and glanced toward the training yard again. Another group of combatants were at work now. One of them fought two others using a pair of swords. Tirak had fought multiple opponents before, but never with that fluidity. Maybe he could learn a thing or two here.
But first he had to earn some coin, walk the walk, and do as they asked. To the Red Seal Tavern it was.
It was easy enough to find: a two-storeyed establishment with wealth enough to share, it seemed. Adrix was harder to find. After a warning from the two bouncers at the door, Tirak entered the first-floor common room. The same ocean seal painting from the sign out front ran the length of the bar. A few tables supported groups of armed men and women, but none were Adrix. Eventually, Tirak asked at the bar. The innkeeper told him that Adrix might be in that evening and asked Tirak to buy a drink and wait until then. Tirak saw the prices on a parchment sign and decided he had best wait elsewhere.
Upon his return to the Red Seal Tavern that evening, Tirak was pointed toward a large corner table where seven men and women sat. He walked right up to the table—swiftly killing their conversation. Most of them were armed with a sword and dagger combination; only one had an array of weapons like Tirak. Two had East Storm Company badges, blue and yellow with lightning and sword. One man, with dark brown hair shaved on either side, crossed his scarred forearms and asked, “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Adrix—got a message from the Fort,” Tirak said. He held up the scroll, but didn’t pass it away until he knew.
“Our turn at last,” joked another of the group, and a few others chuckled.
The man who had first spoken held out his hand for the small note, and Tirak passed him the scroll. He skimmed it quickly. “Perfect. What do I call you, recruit?”
“The name’s Tirak. Well met,” Tirak said.
The man put his hands on the table. He was of a burly build but looked fast nonetheless. “I’m Adrix. I’m to assign you one of my own, so we can see if your prior experience has made you East Storm material.”
A rather attractive, albeit rough-around-the-edges, woman at the end of the table piped up. “Make Brellik train him.” A few more laughed, and Brellik looked at Adrix to protest it.
Tirak looked the group over. They looked tough; most would provide a challenge, but Tirak was confident that if he needed to fight any of them, he could. “Give me your best, sir, if Brellik doesn’t want to. I’ll take whoever feels up to the challenge.”
Adrix laughed heartily. “Easy there—you’re not fighting them. Maybe some sparring from time to time, of course, but that sort of fighting doesn’t build a team. We reward merit here, not just aggression.” He paused to think, then looked down the table. “I think you’ll be Ralist’s responsibility for now.”
One of the men down the table raised his hand. He was a lighter weight than some of the fighters at the table, but Tirak wasn’t a big man either. Ralist had a masterwork short sword leaning against the wall behind him, along with his pack. One of the others elbowed Ralist and joked about “raising the kid,” but Ralist himself didn’t seem to mind the assignment. “Have a seat,” he called, waving toward the nearest empty one.
Tirak shrugged. “Different than other companies I’ve seen indeed…” he muttered. He strode away from Adrix to the chair near his new comrade-in-arms. “Looks like you’re the unlucky one this time.”
“Ah well,” Ralist said with a smirk, “we can use some more in our troop, and a mercenary with experience is always preferable to a new recruit. They put the new ones through the drills, of course, but with all the growth to the Company, it’s more important to gauge your character than to doubt your past experiences and skill. The rest will joke, but we’re all happy to have you on board.”
Tirak nodded and admitted, “It’s a little refreshing. Usually I have to hold my own against the biggest one in the unit. What do we have on the training schedule first, rum or spirits?” He smiled to Ralist and waved to the barkeep for a drink. “I’ll arm-wrestle you for the tab at the end of the night.”
“Done,” Ralist agreed, grinning. “In the meantime, tell me where you’ve worked before.”
Tirak folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “It’s a long story…” he began, as the woman who had spoken earlier, and even Brellik, leaned in to listen.