The Worth of a Soul

A Normal Day

The dirt crunched underneath the mercenary's boots. Spirit damned heat, he thought while wiping away the sweat on his brow. Even under the canopy of this small forest in the Untamed Lands, the heat was starting to annoy him.
Any man who saw the mercenary would've suggested he remove his black leather armor to gain relief from the heat. The mercenary would promptly ignore the idiot wagging his tongue; not wearing armor when available was idiotic at best, naïve at worst. Too many times had the custom-built armor saved his life: either from an arrow bouncing off the separated plates on the left of his chest, a sword clanging off the pauldrons, or the mercenary using his metal vambrace to knock a slash away.
The Untamed Lands was, as the name implied, untamed by any of the three great kingdoms in the Graylands. The Territories of Elune tended to keep to themselves on most matters, they valued peace more than the others. Yet, it was remarkable how neither the Doverni Empire or the States of Illuvia could maintain more than a fleeting fingerhold on the Untamed Lands. The freedom this provided the region with was miraculous: cities and people could grow unhindered by political fetters, old hatreds seemed to die within years, rather than generations, and...there was always work for mercenaries.
Which is what brought the mercenary this far out into the Untamed Lands: A contract on finding a gold ring. Supposedly, it had been taken by a highwayman who worked out of this forest, preying on those traveling the roads nearby.
The contract paid a full 200 crowns. Enough that the mercenary could afford a night with a Doverni courtesan, or be well on his way to a pure-bred Illuvian war horse. Either would be well worth the month-long trek out here to this Spirit-forsaken place.
The forest greenery shifted. The roots became thicker, the trees bigger, the bush was less oppressive. All the while, the dirt crunched beneath his boots, begging for a drink. He'd finally reached the heart of the forest. Now, he'd have to figure out a way to find the idiot who took the ring.
He spied the tallest tree, and climbed it. Hands gripping age-old bark, he climbed. I hate it when the bandits don't do me a favor and rob me out on the road, makes it so much easier to finish the job. He grasped the largest branch within reach and lifted himself up, breaking free of the canopy.
The sun was at its zenith, pummeling the land. And there was the sign he was looking for. A small stream of smoke was rising to the east of him. Still in the forest, the mercenary noted. He grunted, climbing back down.
The familiar crunch of the dirt returned as his boots touched the ground again. Now to find him. The mercenary trudged off in the direction of the smoke, hoping for a quick and easy end to his trip out to the middle of nowhere.

***

Nilmdale had always been a quiet place, never changing more than a miniscule amount. This was, in no small part, due to its location. Nilmdale was situated in the middle of the Untamed Lands. The second largest factor in Nilmdale's propensity for keeping quiet and static, was probably the fact that in its thousand-year history, nothing had ever happened. No wars, no cataclysms, no vicious murders, nothing to disturb the quiet.
This was exactly the problem Belia faced. There was no excitement, nothing to do. No adventures to partake in, no monsters to slay, not even any treasure to win from a giant! It was enough to stunt any girl's growth into the hero she longed to be.
She sat at the table, her head in her hands, lamenting her poor fate. The cups and plates were clean, the blankets and clothes had been washed, meaning no chores were left for the day. Belia sighed, drawing the attention of her mother. "If you keep sighing like that a were-cat will steal your teeth," she joked.
"But mother, there's nothing to do! All my chores for the day are finished and father hasn't returned home with any ink," Belia replied, a childish whining in her voice.
"Your father is busy patching up those boys who went to chase off the wolves. Too much to worry about without bringing ink home for...whatever it is you use it for."
Belia sighed even heavier this time, hoping for fate to give her an adventure today. Likely not. The only time anything remotely interesting happened in Nilmdale was when a mercenary or trader showed up and spread the news of what was happening in the rest of the wide world. Out there anything could happen. Here in Nilmdale, nothing could happen.
"If you're going to make such a big fuss about it, I'm going to have to indulge you for my own sake," her mother quipped. "Come, we'll go see Jordis for your ink. We need fresh linens as well."
Belia's face brightened, " Really Mama? Really? Let's go!" She hopped off her chair and ran to the front door and into the sunlight, her mother's shouts for her to slow down trailing behind her.

***

This is a surprise, the mercenary grumbled. Before him stood a small, military camp, with all the bustle indicating that a battle was iminent. Bowmen lined the perimeter of the camp, each with an arrow nocked and aimed at him. Spearmen formed a wall outside the main entrance, with a small gap for whom the mercenary assumed were the leaders of this group to move forward and lead. Two men walked through the gap, stopping a few feet from the mercenary.
One of the men was large, even burly. He was bald, with a web of scars covering his face. It was almost as if a hot metal net had been thrown over his face. The way he walked indicated he was a former soldier. The bearing and the way he tensed as he reached for his sword showed that he was a professional.
The second was much smaller, with hands more suited to a scribe than a bandit. He walked with bravado, thinking that this was going to be easy money. Soon to be false bravado, the mercenary thought.
"You know the drill. Empty your purse, boots, and-"the larger one said, cutting off his monotone instruction as soon as he noticed the hilt of the mercenary's sword jutting past his right shoulder. The scarred one continued, "Sword first though."
The mercenary unstrapped the sword from his back, holding it by the sheath to the bandits. The thin, bookish man stepped forward, an eager look in his eye, as if he wanted to prove himself to the larger.
A stray beam of sunlight that made it through the thick canopy caught the smaller man's hand as he reached for the sheath. A distinctive gold glint, with a small engraving of a lion visible, was on his hand. The mercenary smiled, as he knew the job was over now.
The sheath dropped to the ground and the ground crunched, pleading for a drink. The blade was buried in the smaller man's throat, a gurgle escaping before his life was ended. The body fell to the ground, and the mercenary took a step forward, a small smile on his face.

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A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for checking out my story. This is my first story, so I hope you all keep coming back for more! Feel free to comment and ask questions! I'll answer them when they don't mess with my plans for this story.