A very hungover Granwyn awoke to find his barrack empty. <i>No matter, perhaps they had simply exited for target practice.</i>


    Granwyn wasn’t just any young man. He was a soldier, or more accurately, a <i>mercenary</i>. He and his company followed the money, though truthfully, Granwyn enjoyed the thrill of combat far more than any financial incentive he could think of. A man like him simply couldn’t be held back from the glory that he so earnestly craved. This, combined with his utter obedience when times were to be serious, earned him the right to march the path of fortune, even if he took detours through the paths of glory.


    After stumbling out of bed, he grabbed his axe and threw it against the target he had mounted on the wall. His aim sounded true and the axe cleaved the target in half and embedded itself in the thick hardened fabric that made up the walls. Even in his intoxicated state, his aim was still impeccable.


    <i>Time for breakfast. </i>Granwyn checked the food stores in the corner flap chest. <i>Huh, that''s weird. </i>Granwyn noticed that the chest was nearly empty, with a mushy salmon carcass half buried in ice. His stomach grumbled. <i>“Damn! Must be the soldiers of the east! Does their glutton see no end? </i>Granwyn’s company had been forced to house soldiers of the army of the lord per his request. They had been a nuisance at best, and a bitter reminder that cowardice was a trait that every man possessed, and one that Granwyn wished to purge from his heart and head. The soldiers had been quite out of shape as well, feeding on nothing but luscious honey skyr. Most were of noble heritage, of <i>course</i>, and had tasted the blood of only the finest regal cattle.


    That was until Wrenhard had returned to find they had overstayed their welcome. Needless to say, he gave their leader a kick of his steel-toe boot and off they went. Now Granwyn wondered if they had returned in the dead of night to steal all the food.


    <i>No matter now! </i>He slammed the trunk down. Perhaps his bunkmates were just infuriated. <i>So I guess they’re out hunting, I suppose. Might as well wait…</i>


    Granwyn sat back down in his bed, and stared at the ceiling for a while, or maybe a short while. He got bored and retrieved his axe, which he threw at the other targets as well. When he eventually got bored of that as well, he decided that he was going to go out and find his comrades. And with that, he threw on his coat and left his tent.


    Outside, the bitter cold dried his face, but his frustration melted the cold away. His bitter temper was certainly noted by others. He marched through the snow to the armory, where he was shocked to find only two bows left. <i>So they did go out hunting! Bastards are probably half ways down the river by now.</i>


    He snatched a bow– Really any bow, he was avid with all, and retrieved hunting arrows, very few of which he found. Then, he ran back outside. After some walking, he heard someone shout his name.


    <b><i>“By the gods! Granwyn!?”</i></b>


    Granwyn whirled around in disbelief, trying to zero in on the voice. He set his gaze on a figure he recognized immediately.


    “Yorhelim?” Granwyn said, shielding his eyes from the bitter blizzard, “What do you should madly for?


    The elderly man approached in a rather feeble fashion, <i>“Granwyn,</i> how are you still here? Unless–”


    “Yorhelim, my squad went out hunting, did you see where they went off to?”


    Yorhelim swallowed with a grim look. “I’m afraid they didn’t go hunting lad, they went off to battle.” Granwyn froze, something the furious blizzard had been trying to do to him forever, but by his own volition. He was unable to process the string of words spoken to him. “They went off to <i>fight? </i>Why the bloody hell didn’t anyone wake me?”


    “Are you kidding? They ran out like a flock of bats out of <i>hell!</i> I thought you might’ve been in the mix somewhere, I would have counted heads, but they were certainly off in a hurry. I didn’t care to, as a matter of fact, I didn’t think this to be the battle you’d miss, even if you were blind lame and deaf out of bed! But alas, I stand corrected.”


    Granwyn stood frozen, not from snow, but from what he just heard. His company had been deployed.


    “I’m very sorry.” Yorhelim insisted. They left a few hours ago. Took all the ships.”


    Granwyn gritted his teeth. “Where’d they go off to?”


    “Lareco Citadel, the Dead Crescent area. There was a power vacuum. Generals vs the royal family, you know how it is.”


    “Who are we fighting for?”


    “They didn’t say. Couldn''t get a word out of them. Happiest I’ve seen in days.”


    But Granwyn wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was hyper focused, almost obsessed, with the fact that they had gone ahead without him. Granwyn was one of the strongest members of the <i>Dawn Harmony. </i>Always seeming to be only a few strokes of his blade away from reaching the same glory are Wrenhard. But whenever he got close to him, Wrenhard would put his blade to work and push himself ahead of Granwyn yet again. Granwyn had pushed himself to his physical limits. He took the time to learn the combat culture of the territory he occupied. Martial arts. Lancing. Axe throwing. He could beat any soldier. He was incredibly fast as well. Just a year ago, he had figured out how to dodge arrows like Wrenhard had done many times.


    This ruthless rivalry only led to Granwyn’s success. Mercenaries could be hired individually for their accomplishments. The more accomplishments, the more you were worth. Most would retire to a simple life of small army defense, or bodyguard work, Granwyn has slain so many in his youth, that he could have retired years ago. But he enjoyed the battle too much.


    Yet they left him behind in the snow.


    Granwyn was tolerant of extremely low temperatures. But he knew it would be the death of him regardless whether he died without even knowing it or not. He tied on his boots, threw on a thick coat, and armed himself to the teeth.


    “The blizzard is the devil!” Shouted Yorhelim through the wind. “Take this map, I ought to help you. No need getting lost out there!”


    “Where the hell to!?” Granwyn shouted back.


    Yorhelim threw up his hands. “There’s a town just a few miles thataway! You’re sure to stumble across a sailor who’ll take you there!” He approached Granwyn in the snow, shooting his long, feeble arms forth, pressing a bag into Granwyns chest. “You have this on you! Merchants are especially greedy during these times of war.”


    “Thanks.” Yorhelim retreated into the snow and out of sight. Granwyn tucked his chin downward and breathed into the coat to warm himself.


    After a bit of walking, he began to see houses and other structures. Before he knew it he had arrived.


    Many people gathered nearby, perhaps at a church event. Granwyn stayed away from the church for many reasons. One of those reasons was that patrons didn’t take too kindly to soldiers who fought for wealth. Granwyn felt that it wouldn’t help his case if he told them how much he enjoyed battle.


    But churches were conservative during times of war. If they had not the resources, they would hunker down like a turtle in perilous times. Sure enough, there was a knight standing outside of the church with a sword planted firmly into the snow. Granywn saw him completely motionless. Had he trapped himself inside?


    A few children ran by, one of whom planted a piece of plant into one of the chinks. The child turned, then looked at Granwyn in the eyes. Then he quickly ran off.


    The center of the town was surprisingly bustling in the most hellish of storms. Horses trotted about and people called for customers. Granwyn browsed very briefly, picking up an apple.


    He was hungry as sin, admiring the apple. He had the money to afford it, certainly but he needed every last pound to make it as far as possible.


    “Oi! Buy it or put it down, sellsword!” Shouted the shop owner.


    Two soldiers, or maybe guards (Granwyn couldn’t tell), gave him looks of accusation. Granwyn set the apple down immediately and continued his search for the harbor.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    <i>Every damn block looks the same in this frost! </i>


    Eventually, he found a building that he was sure was a rest for sailors. It turned out to be much more than that. Upon entering, he discovered a bar, and even an inn integrated into the building.


    As soon as he walked into the building, the chatting inside went silent. Like a songbird that had been successfully slain mid-tweet. He stood incredibly still for a few moments until people turned their heads back to whatever they were doing, besides a few nosy children and elders.


    He made his way to one of the tables and sat down. The chair was weirdly comfortable, almost like it was made of soft wool or cotton of sorts.


    A woman approached him slowly, “May I help you sir?”


    Granwyn waved her away. She obliged with haste, crossing the entire room to return to the safety of the bar. People’s heads bobbled when she moved. He ignored this and tried to take in his surroundings. Unsurprisingly, the first thing he took away was that the bar was filled with mostly men. There were women, but they were part of the backdrop for the most part. A man washing bottles. They locked eyes by accident, then the man turned away from the tub while still scrubbing, dripping soapy water in the process. Granwyn swiveled his head further, causing people to turn away and suddenly be absorbed in various activities, such as staring at their meal or getting up to use the outhouse.


    “You looking for something?” A man’s voice asked from behind him. Granwyn remained fixated on the map laid out before him, creasing its edges in mild boredom.


    The man cleared his throat. “Are you looking for something?” he said louder.


    Granwyn turned around. A man was staring in his direction - no, <i>glaring.</i> His beard shook with his speech, “You a soldier yah?”


    Granwyn gritted his teeth, looking around. Some people were now staring, expecting him to do something. Grawyn turned to take one last look at the man, before disregarding him entirely.


    He was trying to get him to fight, <i>obviously.</i> And most would take him up on that offer, but Granwyn knew it would bring him no joy to cut down an unarmed man, and an elderly, unfit one at that. Another bartender walked past him. Granwyn called out to him and he winced, turning around. “Yes?”


    “This seems to be the popular harbor hangout. Do you know any sailors headed east?”


    “Er…” The man trailed off, “Sorry, the harbors froze over, I’m afraid’.”


    Granwyn curled his fists, under his coat sleeves of course. Had it been seen by anyone, he would have been chased out for sure.


    “Are you sure?” Granwyn asked.


    “I don’t know,” the man replied quickly, “That’s just what I heard.”


    The bartender retreated like the woman had. Granwyn grunted a response but slumped back into his chair.


    “Do you need a boat?” A young sailor asked, approaching Granwyn, “I have one around with thin ice I’ve been planning to break. It’ll be twenty-five copper… Where to?” Granwyn was already excitedly fishing out his pouch, “Uhmm… to the east…”


    “Yeah, where to?”


    “Lareco Citadel,” Granwyn said, offering a handful of copper and silver, he looked up from his pocket to find the man stumbling back, as if the money was a snake rearing back to strike. Granwyn closed his fist again, this time with an excuse to do so. And he imagined squeezing the coins into an ingot.


    “You want to go to a <i>warzone</i>?” The sailor exclaimed. “Are you mad?”


    “He is no mad man, he is a soldier. But not a soldier who fights for honor.” The sailor stepped aside to give Granwyn a view of the man who spoke: A man perhaps in his forties or fifties, he stumbled over to just a few feet shy of the table.


    “He follows war like crows follow death. He has no meaningful accomplishment. He has no honor. We live under the king’s rule, but this man does not serve his king, he serves himself.”


    “Shut your mouth before I cram a sword into it.” Sneered Granwyn. “As if you know what my accomplishments are. You are as much of a migrant as I am. At least I do something useful with my life. I’ve served many kings.”


    A few people murmured, then a few more men rose from their tables, all able-bodied and in their prime. One even held a bottle menacingly, as if he expected to use it in vain.<i> “Get out.”</i> One of them said, “You shan’t come in here with all of your warhawk nature and make yourself comfortable with your tongue as a knife! If you want a fight. Go to the back ally with us and we’ll give you a good beating.”


    The bartender finally left his area and walked up to the table angrily. “Boy, you’ve come here and ordered <i>nothing</i>. Leave if you have no thirst to quench.” He turned to the other men, “As for you, I shall not have blood spilled on my waxed floors.” He leaned back to Granwyn, <i>“Get out before they carry you out in a casket.”</i>


    Granwyn grumbled and rose from his chair as slowly as humanly possible, while maintaining eye contact with every man at the bar, as if they might pop up and attack him outright. After the door shut behind him, he angrily stomped around the harbor. The server was right. Sheets of ice covered the waters. He watched from a distance as an angry merchant jabbed a pick into the side of his ship, desperately trying to free it from the frost. He had no luck; not a dent had been made in the ice.


    Granwyn felt bitter resentment towards his comrades. How could they leave him behind? Was he not essential to battle? Was he not competent? <i>No. </i>He thought.<i> Wrenhard fears my talent. And rightfully so. Last skirmish, I doubled his kills. This was his doing for sure!</i>


    Wrenhard was many things. Fair wasn’t one of them. When he saw an advantage, he took it. Granwyn envied this of Wrenhard, and perhaps it was even his desire to feel as if he was deserving of a victory that got in the way of his success.


    “Ahoy.”


    Granwyn backflipped while twisting his body to reach for his blades. A non-armored person; it would be best to use a sword. Besides having no defense of any kind, the man was stocky and fit, a few scars here and there…<i> A soldier?</i>


    He pulled his short sword out, aiming to take off the man’s head. But he stopped shy of the attack. The man didn’t flinch, he simply swore and stepped out of the way. “Fucking hell. Do I look like a mugger to you?”


    Granwyn put his sword away completely baffled. How had this man gotten the jump on him so easily? Granwyn had many encounters with stealth geniuses. None had bested his ears or his eyes. Yet this drunkard had…


    It would have been rather far fetched to assume the man to be a drunkard, for the church’s tight hold on this province antagonized any activities involving alcohol, but his appearance certainly suggested so. His unkempt hair, combined with his old clothing, gave the appearance of such, but Granwyn found himself giving the benefit of the doubt. For all he knew, this man was a wealthy noble who had simply downed too many at once.


    The man straightened his back. “That''s some amazing stuff. I can tell right away you’re a soldier for sure! Though soldiers here can’t do anything more than hold a sword menacingly. Ho! Have you seen them in combat? My, when I was around your age, my hometown was pillaged left and right by gangs! I saw maidens more ferocious in battle.” He grinned, “That being said, I don’t see you fighting in the king’s name.”


    “You’re right about that,” Granwyn responded, sheathing his blade.


    “I’ll say, they don’t take too kindly to people like you out here.”


    Granwyn took a glance at the bar. He could have sworn he saw a few people lined up at the glass to watch him leave. He grunted, “I suppose.”


    “Good meeting a fellow merc with a backbone.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. Granwyn raised his non-dominant hand, keeping the other one on his knife-belt. He plastered on a smile that would drive a maiden away faster than a stallion.


    “What brings you to Heleiem?”


    “Heleiem?” Granwyn asked stupidly, <i>“Money?” </i>


    The man coughed. “Well you won’t find any here. Every last coin was taken for the war effort. Nothing left to circulate.”


    “They’re just primitives, still playing with sticks and stones. One company could make quick work of them.” Granwyn suggested, as if he was suddenly equipped to be a royal advisor.


    “Not really a war, is it then?”


    “I suppose not.”


    “Wouldn’t look good in print though…” The man swallowed, then got a little bit more serious: “You wouldn’t happen to be part of<i> Dawn Harmony</i>, would you?”


    Granwyn adjusted his grip on the handle of the knife for a more combat-comfortable position. It was such a direct question that he could not evade. “Yes, I am. Who’s asking?”


    “Ahh.” The man’s eyes bulged and he took in a breath of air, “That would explain the… Attitude these people have.”


    “And what? The decision wasn’t mine to make, and besides, if a prince can’t handle a few barbarians, why should we answer his beck and call? Even his own soldiers piss at the thought of fighting a man who wears a loincloth to battle!”


    “His parents are dead. I don’t blame him for being who he is.”


    Granwyn laughed. “I had no silver spoon to feed me. I am years younger than him! No parents to raise me. My first toy was a knife, and the first blood I shed was my own; If he can’t handle a simple war, It’s no wonder these people are angry, it’s just misplaced, that''s all.”


    “I suppose you’re right.” The man responded.


    Granwyn allowed himself a mischievous smile. “You’re a soldier from this army?”


    “Haha, no. What an embarrassment that would be, but my fighting days are over anyways.”


    Granwyn’s smile faded. <i>Mine might be soon as well.</i>


    “Something wrong?”


    “Nothing. My company departed without me.”


    “Oh. In this weather?”


    “This is the worst it’ll be, from what I’ve heard.”


    “The soldier grinned. I can take you there.”


    “You’re kidding. You’re a sailor?”


    “Yup. And I’ll do it for free too.”


    “Granwyn paused. “Free? Why?”


    “Because I want something else. I want to tell you some stories. Some of my past that you could learn a thing or two from.”


    “You only talk because you still have your head on!” Granwyn laughed.


    <i>Ssssssssshhhhhhk…</i>


    In a split-second, Granwyn snapped his dominant hand up, knife and all. And parried a machete. The man wielding it, who Granwyn immediately recognized from the bar, looked quite surprised. Granwyn quickly dispatched the man by punching him square in the face. He dropped like a stone. The two other men that Granwyn spotted just behind him stopped in shock, but were not deterred; snapping out of their disbelief to take either side of Granwyn.


    Granwyn kept his blood-covered fist away from his clothes, so as to not stain them, then reached for his sword. But a hand pushed him down.


    The stranger he had just talked to approached the scoundrels, he picked up the machete the first rapscallion had dropped.


    “Let me handle this.”


    Granwyn watched the stranger engage in combat, keeping his sword in hand just in case he would need to save this man from certain danger, but there was no need. The man moved with the grace of a bird, almost flying. Despite his size and his apparent age, his maneuverability was astounding.


    Granwyn remembered that Wrenhard had the same fighting style, with the major difference being that this man was much faster and more accurate than Wrenhard. The stranger did not kill or maim either buffoon, he made use of nonviolent methods, mostly those that had been used by the monks. This brought back a certain memory for Granwyn: Back when he had gone south, he had visited the temple warriors, who attempted to teach him the art of non-lethal combat. Granwyn tried his best, yet to this day it remains one of the few arts he could never master.


    When the stranger was finished, he planted the machete in the snow between the two men. “I’ll leave at that.” He said, with a tinge of humor in his voice.


    “How did you learn that style?” Granwyn asked.


    The man grinned broadly, It''s one of many stories, lad.