The weeks stretched by as Sergeant Adrix and the squad continued their motley tasks in and around the district of Councillor Cassiya. Tirak slowly earned their trust as he completed menial tasks of scouting and tracking the patrols of various soldiers in the Councillor’s employ; guarding select locations under Councillor Worlon’s control from counterstrikes of his adversary and peer; and the occasional “rough-‘em-up” beating to send a message or adjust standings.
Tirak had still never been shown a full portrait of their mission, but he knew Adrix was planning something, something bigger than the run-of-the-mill tasks the squad had been completing. Of course, most mercenary work involved many weeks of sentry work for any single day of glorified action such a warrior might see.
After the worst of the rainstorms had passed through the skies over Eastpoint, Tirak had felt like continuing his gradual exploration of the city. He had seen a number of the sights, but usually they were in passing for some other task or need. Recently, he had heard of a shop in Councillor Ghomal’s district—an antiquities and rarities shop that apparently had imported some treasures from the “jungle climes of Numa’nakres.” Finding something from his home was rather unlikely, but Tirak had been intrigued, nonetheless.
At the shop, Tirak had found a dozen such “artifacts” at the shop—ranging from simple spades to bone implements that Tirak doubted anyone had ever used in proper work. However, as he had rifled through cluttered shop tables, he had found an old woven patch with a marking from his own tribe on it. The marking, made by one of the tribe’s thatakar—shamans—meant good fortune for the person who carried it. Even more so for Tirak, a world away. Tirak had asked how much for the shopkeeper to part with it and had paid the small change required. Now, he had sewn it onto the leather hem of his armour.
Just before the end of the month, Adrix called the squad together in the common room of the Red Seal Tavern. They paid the barkeeper for ales—and his privacy—and ushered the few daytime drunks out to the nearest neighbouring tavern. A coin for their next drink was enough to buy their silence, for the most part. Besides, the Red Seal was in Worlon’s territory—friendly turf, so to speak.
“Most of the groundwork is ready now,” Adrix explained, crossing his meaty forearms in front of his broad chest as he leaned against the bar. “And that means it’s time to bring you all up to speed. Tirak.”
Tirak started to rise, assuming he was going to be asked to wait outside.
“You can stay—you’ve done good work with us these last few weeks. After this job, you’ll get your proper accreditation and your East Storm Company badge.” Adrix gave him a nod of approval, while a Ralist smiled to him and Zelra, standing behind him, patted his shoulder.
Settling back in his chair, Tirak did his best not to show his emotions. He gave Adrix a nod in reply.
Adrix glanced at Marako, his right-hand. “As some of you have guessed, our tasks in Councillor Cassiya’s district are building to something. We’ve diverted attention and—with that brawl targeting Notho—we’ve ensured their government buildings are well-protected. However, thanks to our prodding, one location is less protected than it’s ever been: Whalestone Jail.”
Brellik whistled through his teeth.
“We’re hitting Whalestone?” Diggs breathed. He was the most recent newcomer, besides Tirak.
Adrix nodded. “Just waiting on approval from the Three Commanders.” He sipped his ale, switched it to his other hand, and then set it back on the bar top where he lounged. “Our goal will be the release of all those imprisoned there. Nearly all of them call Cassiya’s town their home—it’ll mean chaos in her streets for…months, likely. This is what Councillor Worlon is paying us for.”
“Just us eight?” Garn asked. “Even with low staff, there’s bound to be at least thrice that many on duty protecting the Jail.”
“Sergeant Naram and his squad will provide support, but this is our mission. Our planning and scouting have found their weaknesses, their strengths, and it’s going to work.”
“Tell us where and when, then,” Ralist said.
Adrix went over the plan in more detail with them, but said he would review it before the day—once they had the approval of the East Storm Company’s bosses. Soon, he and Marako retired to their quarters to discuss logistics further. The other mercenaries set out from the tavern and sought out their preferred training yard, a green between a few streets of the busy city. They set to work on their gear: oiling leather and steel, and grinding any points of dull or rust from their metal.
“Saw a jail as big as a castle once,” muttered Garn, the only one among them of darker complexion than Tirak.
Humoured, Brellik asked. “Where’s that?”
“Off the Toringa. Both the Eye of Maga and Varravar send scum there—those that aren’t executed outright,” Garn explained. The beads in his black hair clattered as he looked between them.
Tirak had worked in Varravar briefly, but he didn’t know about that jail.
“What’s the farthest you’ve been, Garn?” asked Zelra—she was the only woman in the squad, but she was quite the sight. Aside from a scar along her chin, she looked more like a highborn beauty than a cutthroat—though she was armed like the latter.
“Hawsi, most of the way to Numa’nakres,” Garn returned. “Yourself?”
“Varravar.”
“I only made it as far as Ith,” Tirak lied.
Brellik shrugged. “Ith for me as well, or Bellasa to the south—long may she stand. What about you, Diggs?”
“Starath,” he said, quietly. “Visited once.”
“You’ve heard what happened?” Zelra asked. “In the end, they were more divided than even our fair city’s Councillors.”
Tirak blinked. He had heard that Starath had fallen to the bandit armies of the Great Isle, but he didn’t know what had happened “in the end.” He glanced at Zelra, lowering the axe he had been polishing. “I’ve not been to Starath in a year or two—what happened in the end?”
Zelra looked at him grimly. “’Heard it from the harbour that, during the siege, a cult of sorts formed inside the city. A cannibal cult. They say the city fell when the survivors decided bandit rule would be preferable to becoming some madman’s next meal.”
“Curses,” Ralist whispered. “What a strange world we live in—where corsairs bring some modicum of peace.”
Brellik shrugged, tapping the butt of a dagger against the wood log he used as a chair. “On the bright side, if the pirates ever come here, most of the power in this city is held by…” he pointed the dagger toward himself, “us.”