Morning arrived with the subtlety of a hangman, bringing a grey, cold light that seemed designed to punish sinners. Alistair felt his eyelids heavy, as if they'd been sealed with molten lead, and Lucius looked no better; the lad had shadows under his eyes that made him look ten years older. In contrast, Silvio leapt from the straw mattress with the irritating vitality of a spring calf. His face was washed and his eyes clear, as if the previous night's wine had been nothing but a distant dream.
– By Solarius – Alistair grumbled, trying to straighten his back and hearing every vertebra crack like dry kindling. – That snoring of yours isn't a sound, Cardo, it's a siege engine and it ought to be banned by the laws of war. If we sent you to the walls of any fortress, we wouldn't need ladders; your throat would make the stone disintegrate out of pure sympathy.
In the tavern hall, between bowls of oat porridge that looked like glue and flat ale, Silvio drew his map in the muck on the table.
– The abandoned fortress of Vigil – he said, his voice now steady and filled with hope. – It sits on the outskirts of Boschetto, devoured by briars and oblivion. My brother is a prisoner of a gang of ruffians, five or six at most, vermin who think they're wolves just because they found a carcass to gnaw on.
Silvio leaned forward, eyeing the greatsword resting beside Alistair.
– There are three of us – the noble continued. – More than enough to slaughter them. Hector Duvall isn't the sort of man to send boys to do a man's job. If he chose you, Alistair, it's because you're a master of war, a reaper of men who makes the iron sing.
Alistair felt the warmth of vanity rise in his chest, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the lack of sleep. He straightened his filthy doublet, puffed out his chest, and threw a look fit for a man commanding legions.
– Your instinct doesn't deceive you, Cardo – he declared, with a solemnity that would make a king blush. – You're looking at the finest swordsman this world has ever seen, or ever will. My blade is a lightning bolt and my step is death itself. Where I walk, other men's steel looks like rotten wood.
Lucius, who was busy trying to find something edible in his bowl, didn't look up, but his voice cut through the air with the precision of a mercy dagger.
– Aye, you'd be the best – the boy murmured, with a dryness that would make Orlan envious –, if every other warrior in the kingdom tripped over their own swords and died of fright before you even reached the battlefield. Until then, you're just the best at bragging while you're running away.
Alistair reached out and gave the lad's ear a sharp tug. Lucius let out an indignant 'ow' and pulled a face that twisted his features comically. Silvio watched the scene, and for a brief moment, the hardness of his face broke, releasing a nostalgic smile – a glimpse of the man he'd been before the bottle and the fall of his house consumed him. However, the smile didn't last long, and the fallen noble looked at the mercenary with shame battling necessity on his face.
– A Cardo does not enter battle like a peasant with a piece of wood – he whispered, his voice low. – But my iron... my steel and my plates are in the hands of that vulture at the bar. He's keeping them as collateral for the sea of wine I drank during the moons when my soul was at its darkest.
Alistair felt a chill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the flat ale. He glanced at his leather pouch, feeling the increasingly light weight of the coins that were his only security in a world of treachery, and dragged his feet to the bar, each step heavy as if he had lead in his boots.
The negotiation that followed was a battle of words uglier than the siege he'd just survived. The innkeeper, a man with a pockmarked face and eyes that gleamed with the greed of a moneylender, crossed his arms over his greasy chest.
– That armour takes up the space of two barrels of ale, mercenary – the man growled. – The price is what it is. If you want the nobleman to get his pride back, pay what he owes in drink and the storage fee.
– Those plates are so covered in rust they look like scabs of dried blood – Alistair hissed, leaning over the counter. – And the metal stinks so much of sour wine that any knight with the slightest sense of smell would be toppled before he even drew his sword. You're charging me for rubbish, my friend, smelly rubbish at that!
The innkeeper didn't even blink. Alistair argued, cursed, and appealed to the charity of gods both knew didn't frequent that tavern, but in the end, the innkeeper's stubbornness proved tougher than granite. Defeated and muttering profanities about the man's mother's lineage, Alistair pulled out two silver coins and handed them over with an expression of pure agony, as if he were ripping out his own kidney and serving it on a platter.
However, when Silvio geared up, the air in the hall changed. The noble donned the full plate armour, the steel creaking with ancient authority. Lucius helped tighten the straps of parched leather, and when Silvio drew his sword, the metal revealed ornate engravings that spoke of times of opulence and glory.
Alistair, however, fixed his gaze on Silvio's shield, which was covered by a crude layer of white paint – a failed attempt to hide the past – but time and battle had been pitiless. The worn paint let show through, like a scar that refused to close, the old house crest: shades of deep green, like a forest under rain, and a silver fist raised in defiance.
It became clear, under the dusty tavern light, that the Cardo line wasn't just made of administrators or poets. Before the fall, before the misery and the wine, they were men of arms – a breed of warriors who knew exactly how iron feels when it meets flesh.
They left the tavern and felt the fresh morning air, which should have brought clarity, but for Alistair, brought only the bitterness of a silent betrayal. As they walked to the stables, where the smell of manure and damp hay hung like a mist, Silvio approached the stable hand with the recovered dignity of a lord.
Without a word, the noble reached into a hidden pocket beneath his armour plates and pulled out a small leather pouch that gave a metallic and promising clink. He took out a coin, handed it to the lad, and received the reins of a solid, well-fed brown horse.
Alistair froze. His hand, which was still fumbling in the vacuum left by the silver coins in his pouch – now lamentably light – clenched into a trembling fist.
– Wait a bloody minute! – Alistair's shout tore through the yard, sending the chickens fleeing in a panic. – You had money? You had gold and silver tucked away this whole time while I was nearly weeping blood to pay that innkeeper?! Why did I have to pawn my soul for your armour, you son of a mangy bitch?
Silvio mounted the beast with a fluidity that the wine hadn't managed to erase. He adjusted the shield on his arm and looked down at the mercenary with a calm that Alistair found nothing short of criminal.
– You didn't actually ask if I had money, Alistair – Silvio replied, his voice as clear as a winter morning. – You were so busy arguing with the innkeeper and bragging about your prowess that I thought it would be rude to interrupt. I thought, in all honesty, that the payment was a welcoming gift from the Brigade. A gesture of goodwill toward a new ally.
He gave a light tap with his heels to the horse's flanks, and it began to walk toward the exit while Alistair stood frozen in the middle of the mud and manure, feeling the weight of his own stupidity. He looked up at the grey, indifferent sky of Aurelia, where the clouds moved like slow armies.
– Solarius – he whispered, his voice heavy with a fatigue that came from the soul –, I promised to be devout to you if I survived that tower... but tell me, Great Lord of Light... why? Why is it my fate to be constantly surrounded by lunatics, liars, and leeches who rob me of my gold and my sanity as easily as they breathe?