The sun rose in the morning as the dust filled wind howled within the desert canyon. A falcon screeched as it soared beneath the great sun. The bird turned and flew south east toward a nearby camp of numerous tents near the base of a jagged cliff. This camp was all arrayed in a double square formation with a palisade around it forming the third square with the red banner of the golden lion in the center. Screeching again the black and white feathered falcon began its descent toward the camp’s center.

Awaiting him was a man clothed in a crimson robe and turban combined with chain mail armor. He stood at five feet and eleven inches with a strong build craved by a lifetime of training and a few years of warfare. His eyes were brown and piercing with a faded scar on his left cheek wrought by an assassin’s dagger. As for his skin it was olive and already drenched in sweat but nonetheless the man’s expression was gladdened. At the approach of the falcon he raised the right arm gauntlet and with a final cry the avian clutch to it in a fierce hold.

Laughing Lord Suren nodded, exclaiming.

“I see you had fun this morning Cyrus. Wonder if you snagged a rodent or slew another scorpion.”

Cyrus the Falcon chirped back and Suren laughed once more. Subsequently he gently petted the great bird with his left hand. Chirping some more Cyrus titled his head back as if asking something. Suren shook his head.

“Patience old friend. You’ll eat later but for now we must prepare.”

All around him most of his warriors and the servants were occupied. Either they were on various duties such as standing watch, drilling or taking care of the horses or preparing for the next leg of their journey. The rest were finishing breakfast. He heard the clanging of the blacksmiths while an officer was issuing orders to a squad near him.

His observation was interrupted when someone behind him cleared his throat. Turning it was an elderly man of large wiry stature with grayish short hair and a long beard. His eyes too were gray and truly seen much. His attire was entirely a dark blueish hooded cloak that marked him a scribe.

Giving a respectful bow of his head Suren then asked. “Good morning Tabriz. What news do you bring me and Cyrus?”

Returning the bow with his right hand over his heart Tabriz replied.

“The mercenary band will soon be here, Lord Suren. Our sentries see them off coming west from us.”

“Good. They will be in time for a morning meal. Is it ready by the way?”

Tabriz nodded.

“Yes, all of it has been prepared.”

With Cyrus chirping for further affection, Suren petted him some more while maintaining his focus on his chief servant. The elder was quick to comment.

“You are excited.”

Suren snorted in response.

“Of course I am. The sons and daughters of Casimir are said to be among the best warriors in the world. Their kingdom fought ours almost a century ago when we invaded with a great army. Yet despite the odds they drove back our ancestors from the Carpathian Mountains.”

“Now Casimir is a valued trade partner to Shir. But remember Suren these are hired swords not their king’s guard.”

Waving off the comment as he headed for his tent with Tabriz in tow before saying.

“I don’t care if they’re noble born or not. We need every good hand that can wield a blade with us. That includes Bartek and his company. It is my duty as Marzban to use all means to protect this province.”

Just as he was about to enter the tent he paused before adding.

“Once they approached, they opened the gates for them. See to their mounts and have them brought to me as soon as possible.”

“I will inform Captain Medes at once.” The scribe answered with another bow. Cyrus screeched while staying with his master who vanished into the tent.

The heat had Bartek and his band of unruly fighters grumble loudly at first, but eventually, they realized that this made it worse, and so, they went on in silence, tending to their horses in orderly intervals of rest, but not shirking the urgent pace. A new contract was on the line, and this time, it was no mere merchant or impoverished earls looking for hired hands to till their lands and tend to their livestock. This was the Marzban, a new one, if the information was to be believed, though Bartek had to wonder why such a decision was made. Either the post was dangerous and always in need of filling, or the man was one who could be counted upon.

Whatever the case, he could already hear the coins jingle into all their pouches. He wondered how much drink he could buy with it, and if the spirits there were any good. He patted his horse's neck as he rooted around the saddle for a well-worn flask. Unfortunately, Bartek would discover that it was already empty, and had been emptied, he realized, several miles back. All the sand and the relentless heat of the sun beating down on them had made him forget.

A laugh made him turn his head, and he grunted in reply.

"Zosia," he called out, his gaze meeting hers. "What do you know of this one? They spoke to you, did they not?"

She pulled down the cloth covering her face, revealing a scarred countenance. The remnants of a fearsome wound cut through her left cheek, twisting her mouth into a perpetual smirk.

"From what I understood, Captain... they say that the new Warden is a young man, forged by battle, sent to keep the peace," said the archer. "Effective in putting down rebellions. Good with the bow and horse, too. If he is an easy-going fellow, I shall like to challenge him once."

"In that case, I shall bet my winnings on you," he replied, with a laugh, not caring to keep his voice lowered, even as they neared the camp. "But why do they need outside help?" As they ambled through the field, Bartek's dark eyes studied the formations of the tents, as well as the activities of the Shirian warriors and personnel that hurried about. It gave him a strange yearning, a familiar feeling, even as the fabrics and the uniforms were all in colors and forms he had never seen. "It appears to me that they do not need such a thing."

"Are you going to persuade him to cancel the contract, Captain, because he does not need it?" A hoarse voice piped up from the rear, coming from a tall, dark-skinned warrior, his face contorted in a perpetual frown. "We cannot eat grass like our horses do. And even grass does not grow, here."

Bartek smiled at the man, unfazed by his apparent frustration.

"Oh, you can eat grass, Tytus," he said. "You can eat almost anything, if you are hungry enough."

Before long, they arrived at the gates and relinquished their mounts. While there were twenty horses and mercenaries all in all, only Bartek, Zosia and Tytus followed the uniformed personnel to present themselves to the Marzban. The trip was clearly a show of the company's capacity and capabilities, as well as a gesture of respect for the Warden's authority. Bartek did not want the man to think he was dealing with backwater horse thieves.

As he waited, he stood in a proud, stiff manner, betraying the training he had once received. However, in contrast to this, his apparel was drab and even in some measure of disarray, given that he and his companions were not used to the heat. Upon his chest was a worn leather chest plate, and upon his shoulders were old pauldrons - a mismatched collection of armor chosen more for effectiveness than appearance. All this fit comfortably upon the Captain's wiry frame. Beside the heft of Tytus, and the litheness of Zosia, Bartek looked quite unremarkable at first glance, though something about his stance suggested that he was ready to act at a moment's notice, always ready to fight, and never dropping his guard.

The mercenary trio were being escorted by the fierce and stoic Captain Medes. A towering man in his mid thirties wearing a black eyepatch over the right eye. He wore the crimson turban and uniform common of the army. Held by his belt was a flanged mace that saw much use over the years. Medes spared a momentary glance at his charges, especially Bartek.

His examination was like that of a wolf trying to seize up the newcomers before him. Grunting, he turned away with the moment. During the walk toward the command tent a number of the Shirians paused in their duties to observe the foreigners. There was a curiosity in many eyes but others were unimpressed and shook their shoulders. A few displayed more resentment.

Clearly the contract between this company of outsiders and their Marzban wasn’t universally accepted by some.

Soon they reached the latter’s tent and awaiting them was the scribe Tabriz. He bowed his head in polite greeting to the new arrivals. Subsequently he opened the tent door and silently gestured for them to go inside.

Once they did, the trio were greeted by the sight of their new contractor sitting cross legged on a green carpet with yellow stripes at the head of a low table that held their breakfast. Surrounding it were blue cushions for sitting. Then Cyrus perched on his master’s left shoulder screeched at the strangers, ready to defend the one he belonged to. As for Suren he smiled and said in Casimirian with an accent, hoping to surprise them.

“Welcome warriors to Shir. Please take your seats, breakseat is ready.”

In the table’s center was a blue plate filled with chicken eggs, another for a batch of tomatoes and cucumbers together. Additionally a jar of honey for the multiple toasts. Of course there was also lavash bread as well in the next plate if they didn’t want toast. For dessert were bowls of fresh yogurt.

In terms of refreshment there were sandstone cups of water prepared for them with a wineskin for them all to share.

As the one-eyed soldier gave them a fierce appraisal, Bartek flashed him an easy-going grin. Zosia's expression was hidden behind the cloth that covered her face, while Tytus's lips and eyes were like unmoving stone. Together, they followed the fierce Shirian deeper into the camp, and with each step, like the grains of sand seeping into their boots, they could feel the irritation of some of those there. The Casimirians were not at all surprised; hiring outside help meant that they weren't satisfactory, and what capable being liked being told they weren't enough for the job?

Eventually, they entered the grand tent, where a show of hospitality was prepared for them to partake in. Bartek and his companions smiled at the familiar -though accented words- and at the sight of such a sumptuous meal, not at all shy about expressing their enthusiasm. All three of them barked out their thanks in quick succession, before finding their seats in quick order. However, they did not eat, nor did they drink.

"Hm. Right," began Bartek, his eyes of roving hungrily over the honeyed toast and the cool cups of water. Zosia had been quick to make sure the wineskin was far, far away from the mercenary captain. "Now, Marzban... how may we provide our assistance?" He licked his lips as he spoke, the skin of it dry and chapped. "As you already know, I am Bartek. All my life, I have been fighting, and it is all I know to do." Then, he gestured to his companions, placing a hand on each one's shoulder in turn. "This is Zosia, my best archer, and Tytus, the strongest man in my employ. There are many others outside, all with their own skills..."

Then, he stood, bowing to the Marzban, then to the scribe, and finally, at the one-eyed captain.

"But together, we all ride... and eat, as one. Until those outside are also fed and watered the same luxuries, I'm afraid we cannot partake in this feast. We may continue to discuss the matter of your proposal, however." Finally, he sat back down and turned his body towards the Marzban. "I have heard talk of rebels, but I did not imagine it was this serious. Or perhaps, you are being proactive?"

While clearly craving for the foods before them, neither Zosia nor Tytus raised complaint about the man's words. Instead, they, too, focused on the Marzban, curious to hear what he had to say. There was an admiring glance towards the bird, particularly by the archer, while Tytus seemed to view it as an oddity.