"You went in search of riches and adventure, old one, even I can tell that." The leader looked at Brorzjav from head to toe and back again. "Well, I can see you had adventures. You seem to have missed the riches."
"Drank the riches, boss. Drank, whored and gambled it all away." It was an old story. One he'd told several times and, not once did he embellish it. "Never seemed to be able to keep hold of it for long."
"Ah. I send half my wages back to the bank in Jngyar, every month. When I retire, if I live that long, I'll have enough money to do as I please." Again the leader looked at Brorzjav, eyeing his grey hair and beard. "Though you give me hope that living through all this is possible, old one."
"Aye. I'm an age to envy and no mistake. Still got most of my teeth, too. So far." He laughed. It felt good to talk with another career warrior. Tiera was fine, but she didn't have the years of fighting behind her. Older warriors held an unspoken bond, even between enemies. A bond of war weariness.
"And your companions? What's their story?" Ahh, thought Brorzjav, now it was his turn to get interrogated. "You seem a misfit troupe, I must say."
Brorzjav looked behind towards Viriili and Tiera and had to admit, it must seem strange to an outside observer. An old man, a girl, little more than a child, and a young warrior bare out of her skirts. What could he say about such a group of disparate individuals but the truth.
"It's a job, boss. I take the child to become a priestess and the woman is, well, you know. Woman stuff and the like. Stuff an old man like me has no business knowing." He scratched his beard, shaking his head. "I, kind of, dropped into it on my way back home. One last job afore I settle down to some nice peace and quiet."
"A job for a child? Can't pay much." The leader grimaced as he glanced at Viriili and Tiera. "I tell you what, everything turns out fine in the interrogation (don't worry, it's just a few questions) and I'll find you work. We could always use a tough old boot like you to train up the recruits."
"Aye. I reckon I'd appreciate that, boss. Right appreciate it." He nodded, using his shoulders to emphasise the nod.
"Anyway, best step back into line, old one. Don't want the lads thinking I'm going soft, eh?" The leader hooked his head back towards Viriili and Tiera. "And when you take up my offer, remember it's 'Sir', or 'Captain Utrnir'. None of this 'boss' thing, understand? Good man."
Brorzjav gave an attempted salute, dropping back towards Viriili and Tiera. He felt both pairs of eyes upon him and he slid his finger up to his lips, urging silence. He hadn't learned much, but enough to know that the Captain had not worked out that Tiera hailed from the Graatfeld. By Tiera's words earlier, Brorzjav assumed the war was between the Steppes, or, rather, the 'Kingdom of Turszdava' and the Pony Riders of the Graatfeld.
He couldn't understand much of the changes within his old home country. Not the roads, the towns, or, especially, a king instead of chieftains. But, war with the Pony Riders? It seemed impossible. Of course, the Pony Riders once carved a swathe of destruction all along the Strass Mountains, from the Graatfeld even past the Hraalfeld, once coming within a league of Adrasusk, itself. But that was before the Feld Wars, over two centuries ago, and the Great Plague that devastated many communities.
Since then, the Pony Riders had stayed within the Graatfeld, even going so far as retreat further back from the border, leaving a kind of neutral zone between them and the Steppes. To think they would instigate a war didn't match with Brorzjav's knowledge of the hardy horse-folk.
With his mind almost in a swirl, trying to reconcile what he remembered with the reality of the times, he almost missed the appearance of the town of Urdza coming into sight. Brorzjav stopped in his tracks. Lying next to the River Irdjav, Urdza appeared to sprawl over several acres of the land. A true town, with stone and wood houses, topped with slate roofs and cobbled streets between them. Some buildings reached three stories tall and the people walking around the town looked nothing like his people. The clothing all wrong, the hairstyles like he had seen far to the east, never here in the Steppes.
YOU ARE READING
These Old Bones
Fantasy[Book Three of the "Patrons' World" series.] What was he without war? No longer a husband. Never a father. No family or friends to speak of. For decades, war had carried him from one side of the world to the other and back again, but never home. Now...
