The troop at Velend’s Grove finally began to pack up their supplies. Over the last month, the beleaguered rebels had begun to file back into their occupied town. The most radical were never seen again, but many wounded, starved, or simply defeated townsfolk had lost the spirit to pose as separatists.
Despite the bad blood that had been nurtured by conflict, Sergeant Cardan ordered the East Storm mercenaries to receive the returning villagers with mercy and encouragement. After all, their mission in Velend’s Grove was to return the authority of Councillor Ghomal to the town.
Mavri had been told by a recruit that Sergeant Cardan wanted to see her before she started packing up her makeshift smithy. Now, she strode through the avenues of Velend’s Grove as the sun rose, her smith’s hammer resting in its loop at her belt. The flooding from the hurricane had finally dried up, though some buildings still showed stains from the water levels. They were generally built to last such storms, but new constructions now showed the same signs of the climate as the older ones.
Sergeant Cardan was busy with the scribe when Mavri reached the house he had converted into his command post. Narim, one of the troop’s swordsmen, waited nearby, along with a warrior Mavri didn’t recognize. When the scribe departed, Mavri and the mercenaries were invited in.
“We have enough funding left over from Ghomal to continue some degree of service for the townspeople,” Cardan explained, leaning against his map table while the trio of subordinates sat before him. Their tall commander crossed his arms. “I know you won’t like to hear it, but I’m going to have you stay behind for a few weeks. The town’s smith is no where to be seen, so they have hired one from Eastpoint. In the interim, we’ll have you continue to offer your services—help the villagers get back on their feet.”
Mavri sighed. “Fixing horseshoes and making nails?” she asked, wearily.
“I’m sorry, Mavri,” Cardan said. “But this is the job—today. Narim and Toris will stay along with you…we’ll make sure no remaining rebels give you trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Mavri said. Narim and Toris nodded reluctantly as well. If I wanted to sit on my hands, Mavri thought, I’d rather do that back home in the city.
Narim held the door for her, then swung it shut once she had exited. He whistled through his teeth and surveyed the street as though it was to be his new home. “We’ll have to see what the locals do for fun around here.”
Mavri chuckled. The “locals” had just lost a fight for independence and now faced the prospect of continuing to labour under conditions they found unfavourable. If there was to be any fun, it would be heavy drinking—drowning one’s sorrows and all that. Mavri supposed that would just have to suffice.