Cerce frowned down at the long length of metal in her hands. The black leather grips of her halberd were stained with blood. Dried to a dull brown, the crusty smears were deep in the tightly wrapped grips, coming off like powder under Cerce’s thumb as she worried at it.
She’d have to unwrap the whole thing again to get it clean.
She placed the heavy weapon down on the camp floor. Heavier than usual today. Her arms were tired from swinging it.
There were bloodstains in her clothes too. Blood where it had splashed onto her skirt and the bare green flesh of her legs beneath. Blood trodden into the soles of her high boots. Cerce wanted to take it all off, toss it to the ground and run and dive deep into the lake like after her old days working the forge. Long time ago now. The lake was a long way off. Cerce had a gut wrenching thought, that her father’s forge might be cold now, but quickly told herself that someone must have taken over it. Belerion needed regular metal work like any other town.
Looking around at the human debris that filled the camp, she didn’t think bathing was a commonplace event anyway. Everyone here was fully dressed in multiple layers to brace against the night cold, or the occasional spatter of chill coastal rain. Sleepy travelers and merchants were slumbering on the bare ground, laying in hammocks strung between creaky trees, occasionally in small cots or snoring in chairs. A fiddle was playing from across the camp somewhere, a jaunty but off key din that reminded her of the low streets in the Foul Mouth.
Most of the real soldiers had gone. Moved on the to next battle before they’d even had time to mourn anyone lost today. A circle of armoured mercenaries played scruffs around a fire not too far away, a touch too far to make sense of their chatter. One had come over earlier and cheerily asked if she’d care to join their game. Cerce was shit at cards though, and knew better than to accept. She had politely declined the offer.
One old timer was seated on the bare ground, a poor makeshift wooden right leg in place of his real one stuck out before him. He was staring miserably at the food being consumed by the mercs. She felt bad for the old bloke. This was no place for old soldiers. She had known a place for old soldiers once. Long time ago now.
Cerce was lying to herself though. She didn’t want to be social. It was too much effort after today. She didn’t feel like fielding the questions. The usual ones Cerce got anytime she passed through these places alone. There was always someone who’d heard a story or two about the Stormbringer and needed his questions answered. Someone who swore that his uncle or cousin or ex-boyfriend had been at the battle of Belerion field and desperately needed validation. Sometimes just someone who wanted a crack at getting into the knickers of a Nadyr girl.
She’d noticed the questions were more scarce when she was travelling with friends. Her travelling partners were otherwise occupied, and Cerce missed Adam and Carnaby somewhat worse than she’d admit to them. Carnaby knew how to scare off unwelcome attention with a practiced snarl better than anyone, and Adam was always good for some spry entertainment.
A figure ambled over past Cerce’s corner of the camp, his stride a little bent, a bottle in his hand. Cerce watched him out of the corner of her eyes. He wore a faded military coat and boots. Her aching body was unwilling to admit it, but her mind was still there, still twitchy, antsy, expecting something else. It wasn’t until the man pulled out his cock and proceeded to let loose a stream into a nearby tree that Cerce reminded herself to relax, to unwind, that the fight was over.
She flexed her hands out, her claws were uneven where she’d broken a couple. She started making mental plans of what to do with the money.
Go back to the Mouth. Get all her clothes cleaned and fluffed and restitched. Big bath with soap in the hotel by the shore, with a pretty Elven girl to brush the knots from Cerce’s long hair. Eat the biggest fish baked with lemon on the seafront, wash it down with sweet wine that looked like crystals.
Cerce found her water-skin and took a pull of cheap sour wine from it. They’d never let her back in that hotel again after last time, but she could dream. As for the hair, she’d probably end up sitting on the rickety stool in Jiera’s pub, the proprietor grumpily shearing the congealed blood and dirt from Cerce’s hair with scissors while Cerce ate a greasy pasty with her hands.
What to do with the money then? Give it all to a legless soldier, she supposed?
Cerce smiled in spite of herself.
The drunk finished up and was liberally shaking his whole body, and turned to face Cerce as he tried to button himself up one handed, the other tipping his bottle back.
“Saw you lookin’,” he slurred, giving Cerce a toothy smile.
Cerce shook her head once in warning.
“Not tonight, jog on,” she said evenly, giving her head a tilt back towards the camp.
The man raised his hands in mock surrender, then wiped his hands on his filthy coat.
“Oop, fine, fine, don’t mind me none. You sit here all by yerself then,” he muttered, heading off.
Cerce finished off her wine and smirked to herself, remembering the fine exit strategy for dealing with overzealous suitors Adam had come up with. She was surprised how many men were open to the suggestion that a Nadyr’s cunt was deadly poisonous to humans.
The drunk crossed paths with the portly figure of the recruitment officer as he went, and the well dressed man gave the wastrel a look up and down as he headed over to Cerce’s spot.
“Giving you any trouble, Stormbringer?” he asked. Cerce cringed. She still felt like a child playing pretend when people called her that.
“He’s fine. Nice to see someone enjoying himself after today honestly,” Cerce said, looking up at the man, her fingers toying with the hem of her skirt.
He fought for something to say, before he raised a finger in acknowledgment of an unspoken question, and reached into his waistcoat for a pouch.
“Here you are, sorry to keep you waiting. I hope the weather hasn’t been too unpleasant. Awful out here on the moors though isn’t it? Always raining. Can’t wait to get home.”
He blathered on as Cerce reached for the pouch. It was small, but satisfyingly heavy, and the coins clinked as she hefted it in her hand.
“Bloody business eh?” he said, clapping his hands together. When Cerce looked up at him she looked into a familiar expression. Excitement, hopefulness. She saw it most often in young untested soldiers or in children. The ones who thought battle was something to get excited and geared up for. Cerce had been in many battles now. More than she cared to count, and though the situations changed, and the people she had to fight changed, two things stubbornly refused to change. These were that she’d spend the hours before shitting herself with terror, and the hours after with a vague and formless feeling of depression and nihilism.
“Bloody indeed,” Cerce said, “Takes ages to get out of everything, and by the time you got it clean it’s usually time to do it all over again.”
“No rest for the wicked eh?” the officer said. Cerce didn’t return his smile at all, and he lost his steam.
“Well, we know where to send word if… when we need you again, Stormbringer. The right honorable High Chairman thanks you for your invaluable service.”
The recruitment officer turned and strode away, and Cerce watched him go. She coughed and spat up a wad of phlegm, which was a fairly general reaction to hearing the High Chairman mentioned in conversation.
Cerce stood, and stretched out. Her legs were stiff. Her arms ached. She half bent to pick up her halberd, and stopped. She found herself looking across the camp instead. To the old soldier, to the mercs, to the lowly wastrels, to those who mourned.
Her high black boots hurt her feet. She pulled them off and left them on the ground by her halberd. Bloodstains and all.
Barefoot, the cool dirt beneath her toes, Cerce walked across the camp. One of the mercs gave a smile at her, and faces turned in her direction.
“Ho, Stormbringer. Come for a hand?” one asked. Cerce tussled her hair, scratching her scalp.
“Just to watch, boys. Who’s winning?” she asked, smiling.
There was a clamor of comments in return, with a few fingers being pointed and a few laughs and insults exchanged, a flung apple core bounced off the side of someone’s head, prompting more laughing.
Cerce looked over to the man with his little food cart, his closely guarded meats housed in a salt crate, a flame burning, ready for a hot plate to be put to. Cerce pulled a few coins from the purse.
“Two of them, with the breads. Garlic. Throw it all on,” she said, gesturing to his hot plate.
The cook nodded, tossing long strips of salted meat onto the hot plate. Smells began to drift. He was facing down at the cooking food, but his wary eyes were taking a good long look at Cerce from under bushy eyebrows.
Cerce smiled and thanked him as he passed her the sizzling meat wrapped in hard bread. Her coin was quickly spirited into a metal box nearby.
Cerce took one apart in a few mouthfuls, juice on her chin, her fangs tearing.
The other she walked over and offered to the old timer, who was still sat against his tree in silence.
He looked up at her with curious, rheumy eyes.
“Go on, eat. Skinny old bastard,” Cerce said, waving the meal at him. The hands that reached for it were gnarled, shaky, with big blue veins coiling around the joints. His fingertips brushed Cerce’s as he took the food, they were calloused, tough like seashells.
He ate at the food quietly, still looking up at the towering woman before him.
“Where did you lose it?” she asked. She briefly touched his wooden leg with a bare foot.
“Zenance.”
Cerce nodded. He was apparently old as dirt.
“The first night? Heard it was rough.”
He nodded gravely, taking another bite and hungrily swallowing without much chewing.
“Was. Third night I lost this though,” he gave a knock on the wood.
Cerce raised a white eyebrow.
“Stuck out till the third day? Good work. Heroes, they said. 78 hours. Zenance never fell.”
“You a hero too then, girl?” He asked. Cerce thought, and after a moment, pulled aside the collar of her black shirt. From just below her ear, to well down her shoulder, crossing her collarbone, was a thin and pale scar. It was jagged, cruel looking. The old man looked, and nodded.
"Yep. That's what being a hero will get you," he pointed at her with the dwindling food.
“Eyes aren’t what they were. Thought you were an Orcress at first. Sorry.”
Cerce smiled. He reminded her of more than a few old men she once knew.
“Thanks,” he said. Cerce gave a toss of her head.
“Come over by the fire. Get warm. Tell some stories. The young ones will love it.”
Eyes were watching Cerce from across the camp. Suspicious, curious, and aggressive, by turn. Cerce took a few more coins from her pouch; then, after a moment, a few more.
“Anyone else hungry?” she said, loud enough for it to be heard across the camp. A few faces turned up hopefully. Cerce put a handful of coins into the cook’s hand.
“Cook it all up. Make a night of it eh?” she said, “and whatever wines you got left. I’ll take them.”
He shrugged.
“Got some ales. Out of wine.”
“Ales it is then. Hear that? Come get it. On me,” Cerce said to the camp. She gave a smirk at the drunk who standing, trying to steady himself against a tree supporting some meagre belongings.
“A big bottle for my friend over there with the big cock!” she laughed. He gave a knowing wink and a thumbs up.
The old man settled in by the mercs. They were greeting him.
“Zenance? The Orc siege? My dad was a kid during that, he remembers hearing about Zenance,” it started.
Cerce had strode over to the bard, who played his little fiddle. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and gave Cerce a look up and down like she was the goddess of beauty walking the Earth. She put a few coins in his waistcoat pocket, and gave him a wink.
“Got anything more lively in the repertoire eh?”
“If you’ll sing along miss? Stormbringer’s got a great voice, I hear,” the boy said. His accent branded him from the Mouth, clear as day.
“Ah, my reputation precedes me!” Cerce said, slipping into a little of the accent that Adam spoke with, “I got one I think you’ll know.”
She gestured with a hand raised above her hair, and the freshly handed out bottles were raised in turn to her.
“A ballad from my youth!” she declared, her face flush and her heart fluttering with excitement.
Cerce began. A few words in there was a resounding cheer, and the boy was able to accompany, with gusto.
Weigh hey and up she rises
Weigh hey and up she rises
Weigh hey and up she rises
Early in the mornin’
In Cerce’s experience you could count on it to get a bunch of old sailors or pirates going, seemed it works for soldiers too.
Turns out she did have a pretty great voice.
Cerce spent the rest of the money in the camp.
In the morning, after the long walk back to the Mouth, she’d wash in the rainwater that perpetually doused the port town. She’d wash her clothes in Jiera’s storehouse. She’d eat cheap greasy pasties bought for copper pieces. She wouldn't think back to todays battle.
For a moment she had forgotten the bloodstains, and was thinking of a place she knew.
Long time ago. Long way away. Back in a place for old soldiers. With a lake nearby she could leap into. Where her fathers forge was still hot.
