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.
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