It was done.
With tear-streaked faces, twenty men stepped forward from the huddled group of refugees. Their silence spoke louder than any war cry. They stood before Solomon, a new unit born of grief and hate.
Solomon felt a surge of excitement.
These were his men. Not Datings levies. Not mercenaries. They belonged to him, bound by a debt of blood.
The other forty refugees—mostly women, children, and men too broken to fight—huddled behind them. They looked at the volunteers not with fear, but with understanding.
Solomon wouldn't force them. They would go to Mirekeep. They would populate his lands. They were the seeds of his future.
Everything was falling into place.
Solomon drew his sword and pointed it skyward.
"Brothers! March time!"
"Find a town! We welcome our new brothers!"
"To their new life! To the blood of the savages!"
"All expenses... on me!"
The mood in the column shifted instantly.
The soldiers' faces lit up with wild joy. For days, they had been fighting, marching, fighting again. Their pockets were heavy with silver, but they had nowhere to spend it. It was torture!
Especially with women in the camp now, the men were bursting with pent-up energy. But Solomon's discipline was iron—no touching the refugees. They could only dream.
Now, the leash was off.
"Hoo-ah!"
Six scouts galloped ahead on captured mountain ponies.
These "warhorses" of the clans were shaggy, stunted beasts, barely bigger than large dogs. The soldiers called them "Goat Riders" and mocked anyone who rode them.
"Might as well ride a pig!" they joked.
But Solomon forbade eating them. Four legs are better than two, he reasoned.
The column surged forward, energized by the promise of ale, beds, and perhaps... company.
They marched until dusk.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples. But the road ahead remained empty.
They passed two villages, both burned shells. The work of the clans.
"Dammit! Where is everyone?" a soldier grumbled, kicking a stone. "I have silver rotting in my pocket!"
The men were getting restless. It felt like walking through a desert with a canteen full of gold dust but no water. Even Lushen let them grumble; he felt it too.
Solomon frowned at his map. There should be a town ahead. Unless the clans got there first.
Just then, frantic hoofbeats echoed from the road ahead.
A "Goat Rider" came careening into view. The rider was swaying dangerously in the saddle.
Solomon's heart sank. More fighting? We're exhausted.
The scout practically fell off his pony at Solomon's feet.
He was a mess. Bloody nose, swollen eye, armor dented. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear.
"My Lord! Lord Solomon!"
The scout spat blood, his words slurring through swollen lips.
"Ahead... town... ahead!"
"We... we found... a savage inside!"
"But... strange... not like other savages!"
The scout pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.
"There were six of us! We tried to take him! But... his sword! Fast! Too fast!"
"He dropped five of us! The villagers helped him! I barely got away!"
Solomon raised an eyebrow. "One man?"
Mountain Clans always moved in packs. One man holding off a squad of soldiers?
"Yes, my Lord! Just one! Skinny! But... dangerous!"
The soldiers behind Solomon growled. Another village ruined by savages? Their night of fun was being ruined!
They looked at Solomon with pleading eyes. Let us kill him. Let us drink.
Solomon waved his hand forward.
"Move out!"
The column broke into a run.
They stormed into the town square like a tidal wave.
And there he was.
Five of Solomon's soldiers lay groaning on the ground.
Standing over them was a man. Lean. Dark hair. Stubble. Dressed in rough furs that looked like they belonged to a clansman.
He was currently rifling through the pockets of a fallen soldier, holding up a heavy coin purse with a look of genuine surprise.
Not a savage, Solomon realized immediately. Savages don't check for loot with that kind of professional curiosity.
The man looked up. He saw Solomon. He saw the three hundred bloodthirsty soldiers behind him.
He didn't panic. He didn't run.
Clang.
He dropped his longsword point-down into the dirt.
He tossed the coin purse aside casually, as if he'd just found it there.
He raised both hands high, palms open.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, quickly replaced by a charming, roguish grin.
"I am not a savage! My Lord!" he shouted.
"This is a misunderstanding!"
Solomon rode forward, his men bristling with weapons. Lushen and Lauchlan flanked him.
Solomon pointed at his battered soldiers on the ground.
"That doesn't look like a misunderstanding."
The man shrugged, a gesture of pure sellsword pragmatism.
"My Lord, I am a mercenary! Hired by Runestone!"
"The furs? A disguise! To slip through the clan lines and call for aid!"
"I shouted my identity! But your men..."
He looked at the soldiers with a mix of pity and amusement.
"They charged me like I was a roasted pig at a feast! I thought they were bandits!"
Solomon looked at the scout.
"My Lord... it was loud... I didn't hear..." the scout mumbled, rubbing his swollen jaw.
Solomon turned back to the man.
"You took down five of my men alone?"
"They were... enthusiastic. But sloppy," the man said smoothly. "And I had help from the locals. They don't like soldiers much."
Solomon rode closer, staring down at him.
"What is your name, sellsword?"
The man looked up, his dark eyes flashing with intelligence.
"Bronn, my Lord."
"Just Bronn."