Seeking the Veil, Part 2

Golden Truth

It was half a day before Hestea found out where they were going. Rufus trudged through the snow at his side, breath frosting, mace on his shoulder, as relaxed as if on a summer stroll. "Job's done, Hestea, time for the kopf to collect his dues."

Hestea struggled through a drift of snow, white covering the landscape, the line of wagons and carts now sliding through the snow on runners. The fact that all those men had died for a payday, a pile of gold had Hestea's stomach twisted in a knot, but as his feet slid and his teeth chattered, all he could think of was how much he wished he could ride in the back of one of those wagons. "So, what next?" he asked, watching the treacherous snow with each step.

"More fighting, me friend," replied Smallhands his great arms dangling loose at his sides. "There is always more fighting." Smallhands smiled, but he didn't sound happy.

Rufus grunted. "Different then it used to be."

"This is true."

Hestea wondered how. They were mercenaries. Fighting for coin, choosing their battles. What could they have to disparage, when villages were being attacked and soldiers were being mobilized? But I have a reason. I have a cause.

But when Hestea looked to Smallhands, face dour, hands tight, he had to wonder if he wasn't the only one.

Rufus rubbed his nose. "We'll drive 'em out. Like the blasted black rats they are."

Smallhands did not seem reassured. "I hope so, me friend. I hope so."

"How long..." Hestea trailed off, considering his words and wondering how well he knew these two men that had sparred with him and laughed with him. "How long have you served with Orangebeard?"

Smallhands spread the fingers of one hand wide, and closed it into a fist. "Since the beginning and since the end."

Hestea squinted.

"Got a little poetic verse dancin' round?" Rufus asked swirling his finger around. But when the big man didn't respond he turned to Hestea. "What the big lyricist here is trying to say is Orangebeard weren't always a merc and neither was we."

"This is true," admitted Smallhands slowly. "He was a ritter—"

"One of the best!"

A ritter? Hestea glanced to the kopf, short and wide, with his belly and bald head. But the man had a figher's grace. It could have been that he was a knight of Becken, one of their ritters. But...? Back in the village of Triebur someone had said... Yes, someone had called him a ritter. It was only a week ago. But it seemed like another life time. Amott had been alive still. I had yet to see the enemy. And Gunter... Hestea grimaced.

"Yes, without peer, the kopf was. As loyal to his lord graf as any. And a menace like no other to his foes," Smallhands said with a gentle rumble.

"Graf van Sworten was a lucky bastard. Many a markgraf, even a herzog, all as jealous as village boys watching the one blonde beauty bouncing around the fields, knowing she could not be theirs."

"Hmm," Smallhands nodded. "I like it. Guess I'm not the only poet."

Rufus snickered. "Don't know about that, but I'm a regular artist with my mace." The mercenary ran a finger along the metal length.

"I'm sure few Sordin would disagree—"

"'Cause of being dead and all."

"Certainly," agreed Smallhands. "Didn't Orangebeard win four contests, right there before the konig himself?"

Rufus snorted. "Was five after the graf and his keep were put to the torch! And I've never seen the edel, in all their finery, so offended as when he turned away each and every offer to take him into service." The dark eyed mercenary smiled and shifted his flanged mace. "Was about as funny as watching Hestea and Grimback."

Hestea frowned. "I wasn't—"

Rufus smacked him on the shoulder. "I don't know who trained you, but it's a good thing you came to Orangebeard."

Hestea felt his face flush, wanting to say something for Ulyn, but what could he say? Ulyn was a blacksmith. He was no fighter. "So, the kopf went his own way? But why?" Without a lord, Orangebeard would have no resources, no gold, no... Hestea looked around. It didn't seem to have proven a problem.

Rufus glowered. "He did not go his own way."

"Easy friend," said Smallhands, one large palm held up. "Our friend must not know."

"How could he not," asked Rufus with a tone that made Hestea stumble.

"And yet, clearly he does not." Smallhands scratched his small chin as he thought. "Graf van Sworten, his keep and near all those inside — but for a few on patrol — were slain, near two years before. Orangebeard survived and swore vengeance, but he swore it on his terms. And only way he knew how: was to go his own way."

"And the konig was none too happy 'bout that."

"True, near had Orangbeard hung as traitor to the crown."

"If he weren't as well liked..." Rufus held up a finger. "Or, if the kopf's conversation with the konig had been heard by other ears, his head would be flying his orange beard as a banner from the konig's walls."

Hestea narrowed his eyes. "But why? If the Saeordin killed his graf, why wouldn't the konig—"

Rufus shook his head. "Where ya been boy? Milking goats? See, 'bout that time, Saeordin were about as worrisome as a patch of ice. The Five and the Konig all wondered who were these green men with their hooked noses and blithering accents, but they didn't give a rat turd to find out." Rufus raised his mace. "And Orangebeard wasn't about to wait for opinion to shift. Fact is, I hear he got a writ from the konig to run this band as he sees fit, to hunt the Saeordin wherever they run and to answer to none but the konig. Also heard he took the parchment, first chance he got, wiped his arse and tossed it in the brush." Hestea swallowed. "The edel did not see the Saeordin as a threat, not even the konig, but Orangebeard did. And once ya looked past the men 'o lace and velvet, he wasn't the only one."

It was probably the most Hestea had every heard Rufus say at one time.

"Aye, there were plenty of the displaced," Smallhands added with a grimace. "Enough of us to make a Band."

Hestea nodded. "I see." He half-opened his mouth to ask them for their own stories — to find out what had brought them here — but the pain that creased giant Smallhand's soft eyes made Hestea choke on the words. And though Rufus glanced at Hestea, as if inviting the question, his eyes had turned darker, his jaw clenched and Hestea thought better of opening his mouth.

Hestea turned his eyes to find the gleaming pate of Orangebeard. Once a famous ritter, now the leader of a band of mercenaries. With only one mission.

And it wasn't gold he fought for. No, not gold at all.