"Be the man the self-righteous hates and every captive envies. This is how you've lived, right? Fighting and pleasure as if the next dawn will never come. Laughing at death like a mocker retaining his pride till his final breath. Farewell, Aeravor dies Steelborn. Farewell to the man I love. Farewell to the world we cherish and curse."
-Kagetsu no Ji'Yeon
"The world has never accepted you because you're too kindhearted. That's why you died. I will be your sword. I will become an enemy of this world in your place. But I won't destroy it because that's not what you want."
-Aeravor
Soldiers of fortune:
Every person has a price, every price its pride. Such is the story of every sellsword's life. Male or female, each will gladly do another man's work so long the fee is right. Rape, murder, or arson, every foul deed is fair so long the payer is generous enough to be wise. Granted morals do not dictate scoundrels, but it takes a fool to believe there is no honour among them. Play even a single card wrong and you may just get a sword stuck at the throat.
The world beyond fortifications and walls is never a haven. In fact, it is debatable whether gods exist in a world where monsters and demons seem more commonplace than actual saints. Mercenaries don't just do the dirty work for others but also more gladly for themselves. Ignore the seemingly intelligent telling only how much they charge per blade in hand. It is either that or one is better off conned by an honest whoreson. They raid villages. They attack caravans travelling unprotected because there are those too miserly to save their own lives. Woe to every man, woman, and child in different ways depending on which.
How many of them are out there? Scholars estimate their numbers to be no less than a few scores of thousand within the borders of Hallenia alone. Sceptics scoff and claim no great number of knaves could ever survive in a vicious realm. Regardless of opposing views, it takes an insane sage to try counting them all.
Code of the Sword:
Knights swear by their status and ladies fair while the clergy swear by their gods and buildings. As for intellectuals, they swear by their merit and sellswords do the same. What is meritocracy to every mercenary? There are three codes of merit, none of them related to how many heads claimed or how many maidens deflowered.
Merit of Loyalty refers to the belief that once someone entered a life of the purse and sword, there is no retreat. Cowards are not merely unwelcomed, they will be killed on sight. Many are those retired only to expire somewhere down the road. Loyalty is not about profession alone, but also family. Blood ties mean nothing unless one's parents happened to be sellswords. In this case, that makes their children sellswords. Mercenaries band together for life, every organisation big or small thriving and perishing under the yoke of lifelong allegiance. Hence, betraying one's brethren for another group shall not be given mercy. The sentence is the same as how Teutonians deal with treason: Hanged, drawn, and quartered with the sole difference being the verdict applying to both men and women.
Merit of Respect does not mean acknowledgement like how others do. Warriors of the coin may spit on a fellow scoundrel's beliefs or character, but they consider every alliance sacred, every such foe respected. Any woman can be ravished, but not one from the same trade. Any life can be slaughtered, but torture reserved for a fellow mercenary is a taboo unless a need for information arises. Every child of sellsword birth below fourteen must be given the choice between life or death. Anyone intentionally killing an infant or even an unborn life belonging to one of the same must be executed after a trial involving at least two or three witnesses, the one wielding the sword being the first who saw the act. Anyone guilty of false testimony shall be put to death upon convicted, the punishment nothing less than being riddled alive with arrows while tied to a stake. If there is no way to reach a conclusion, then trial by combat will be the final resort.
Merit of Feats is one which every such fighter takes most seriously. Loyalty cannot be revoked. Respect is a right given to any and all. But it is the number of battles and duels won defining greatness, victories earned proof of glory. Alas, fame is a double-edged sword. Not only does it inspire awe and recognition, but it also conceives hunger akin to the want in bringing a pantheon down.
Conflicts, booty, and bounty:
There are two ways to obtain land and resources: Either raiding hamlets and villages or attacking each other. The former is both the easier option and more dangerous one. After all, there can only be this much minor losses incurred before the authorities start to act. Moments like this do exist with smaller bands trampled by organised military better armed and armoured. Thus, battles fought between sellswords and sellswords happen more commonly than one may imagine. At the same time, it is possible for two or more mercenary factions to reach an alliance for greater gains. In this case, the Merit of Feats would be invoked where the loot must be split accordingly.
Another way of earning wealth is bounty hunting. In this case, evidence has to be given if the target has joined a mercenary group. Once displayed, a duel to the death between the hunter and hunted will commence. Due to this involving the least hassle so long the information provided is correct, bounty hunting becomes a common way of earning gold and even Merit of Feats for smaller bands.
The Confederation:
Out of all mercenary companies, three of them stand out as the most exceptional ones: Knightroses, Men of Redmarch, and Swordcloaks. Instead of engaging in outright competition, the three decided to enter a peculiar alliance dictating no conflict between them in terms of lands and resources under each faction's control. However, it allows military engagement between each other so long the hirers belong to opposing ends. Due to this, the trio is also collectively known as the Confederation of Swords or the Confederation for short.
Knightroses:
What makes this faction stands out from the rest is not its strength and influence but rather this is an organisation entirely made up of women. When and how the Knightroses was founded remains a mystery not even its current members know. One thing could be sure, however: The founder went by the name Brynheildr and this would become both name and title of every leader taking charge. Upon entry, the new members must undergo perhaps the cruellest rite of passage. That is the gouging of every left eye. And this is not including the need to drink a chalice of childsbane juice unless the novice already drank it against her will.
Those of the Knightroses do not believe in a rigid hierarchy of roles but every individual's worth defined by how well she performs in every aspect of mercenary life. Those proving themselves capable in certain tasks can be trusted with more of the same. Because nobody can be an expert in all trades, its senior members are known throughout the mercenary world as some of the most capable taskmasters.
Their manner of recruitment is seen as daring to some and utterly brazen to others. Not only are recruiters common in small settlements, but the frequent sight of them in places like slave markets and bordellos have become every gossiper's favourite pastime. Money, threats, and even more than a few bloodied noses if necessary. Such is the daily life of lightly armoured women armed with short blades visibly belted.
The closest thing to a ranking system would be a four-tiered one with the leader at the very top. As Brynheildr, she is entitled the total freedom to involve herself in any task from menial chores and smithing to recruitment and training. However, she must be at the forefront in any battle directing the troops, for leadership and bravery remains her creed and deed, life and death.
The second tier belongs to the Valkyrs. Well-armed and heavily armoured, they are the elite of martial capability said to rival the Homm'Nua and Homm'Eot. Serving as Brynheildr's personal bodyguards and brigade at her disposal, they are the ones protecting their mistress, many an exploit involving rearguard action and cavalry charge credited to them. Often there is a saying "A well-equipped woman walking around in plate armour is likely a bloody spinster Valk". In fact, rumour has it that either an unlucky or foolhardy Relentless One fell beneath their blades and spears during a verbal exchange gone awry. While the denizens of Gastony dismiss such talk as trivial lies, elven informants leak word that one of their kind is known to laugh with the current Brynheildr over "some kind of retarded idiot".
The third tier would be the stalwarts. They are the senior members of the faction. Not only do they perform the same roles as the rest, but they also oversee the delegation of tasks.
The last one goes to the ones called soldiers. Covering every manner of work possible, they form the faction's backbone.
Tactically, Knightroses favour the phalanx approach comprising of medium infantry in ranks of four. The first rank would be armed with swords and round shields while those in the second carry spears and bucklers. The third rank belongs to the ones circling around to execute flanking manoeuvres armed with axes while the final row comprises of crossbow users riding steeds and raining down mayhem of steel. Skirmishers are in charge of reconnaissance and taking out the ranged units through any means available, be it bombing, sniping, or sabotage. Cavalry wise, riders of mail have earned the nickname Death's Maids for their daring charge and fearless approach. Granted they would only attack if there is a weak link to exploit, but that does not prevent bards from telling tales of blaring horns, bloodied spears, and the trampled dead.
Men of Redmarch:
Founded during the year CA 230 in the aftermath of a failed rebellion in what would be called The Bloody March, an event named after the manner which those convicted were executed while their women, children, and elderly folk looked on as naked corpses impaled on spikes. The Men of Redmarch originally intended themselves to be freedom fighters, those who thought better to run and fight the next day than die. Sadly, liberty was nothing to gold and precious gems. From their beginning as slaves to their status as freedmen, this has always been a faction where every member is a male. The rationale behind this was that wives and children are a fatal burden, a lesson painfully learnt in the past. Never trusting in chivalry with constant mockery directed at the honourable hypocrites, they have gathered for themselves notoriety as opportunistic whoresons. Indeed there is a saying that goes "Better to be killed by a Knightrose bitch than to be conned by a Redmarch whoreson". The methods they employ to recruit new members are also anything but above reproach. Bully a respectable merchant family into giving up their sons? Permissible. Taking in a beggar boy from the streets only to make him just as bad as his oppressors, if not worse? It always happens. Violate a woman, forcing her to conceive, and leave her be all alone unless the baby is a girl? This is why they are regarded as whoresons. A knife across a member's throat once he is of no use, be it old age, an accident, or plainly not good enough? That's called mercy.
Needless to say, other mercenaries are leery of them at best and displaying outright contempt if one is talking about the Knightroses. Yet, their ability with daggers wielded or thrown is feared throughout the industry. This also results in hearsay of assassinations carried out in the most professional fashion, a claim these scoundrels of scoundrels mysteriously brush off as "make-believe fairy tales lying to those poor little children" despite a penchant for boasting from how much gold swindled to how many whores bedded in a single night.
Unlike every other sellsword company, the Men of Redmarch do not engage in what they call above-ground activities. While they respect the need to shed blood, these conniving knaves understand the value of information. To quote the famed Yaguryeo military strategist Heihou no Tae'Guk, "Battles can be won by might, but wars are lost because of not enough known". In fact, the Men of Redmarch would commemorate every fifteenth day of every month to him. This is despite no self-respecting Yaguryeo not calling this the highest blasphemy. No one knows exactly how they exact information. Some say through bribery, others speculate the usage of threats. Then there are whispers pointing at dealings with Histalonia, a plausible theory considering the Island of Dreams being either a deceptive nickname or sarcasm gone unintentionally wrong. No matter where the truth lies, one thing is sure: None would ever divulge the secret to their success.
The manner of their wealth and influence is nothing short of unorthodox. Instead of smithies, barracks, and stables, they focus on establishments within the safety of walls and guards. From banks and guilds to inns and brothels, no place is free from their grasp so long money can be earned and recruits obtained. As a result, it is difficult, if not totally impossible, to fathom a guess on their actual numbers.
Perhaps the most infamous practice they indulged in is charging an informant's fee three-tenths of every bounty's price. Considering a different head would command a different price, this is a difficult pill to swallow. But swallow it a bounty hunter must. Compounding to the exasperation is that their findings would be worded in such a way that reward and difficulty become mutual synonyms. Their argument of justification? If mercy is worth one-tenth of a fee, then justice should be worth more than twice.
Swordcloaks:
Masters of guerilla strategy and tactical movements fooling even the most experienced commanders, the Swordcloaks have a rightful claim to be called the Scourge of Men. Eschewing the tried and proven way of attrition warfare, lack of knowledge merely contributes further to awe and fear, the latter more apparent. Some say they know magic with arrows of blue fire loosed from finely-crafted bows, others claim their skill in steel able to fell three men in a stroke. If true, one can be forgiven in shuddering to think whether the Homm'Nua has sent their finest for a reason.
Nothing is known about their agenda or even if they are here on a certain mission spanning untold years. Elves do have a long lifespan and one can be sure those who were among them are still alive and ever skilful. Yet, the Swordcloaks do not just take in full-blooded members. Half-elves are also part of them although a curious soul would wonder whether it's possible for a lucky bastard to bed an elven maid or an equally fortunate human lass enjoying a night of tryst with her elven prince.
One thing is common knowledge, though. And that is their leader's identity: Ioin dies Bladefort. The reason behind this is twofold. The first is that he is the second and current Armslord, a title reserved solely for whoever leading them, after Esca vron Findersbriar was recalled back to the elven royal court. The second? His reputation as a master duelist terrifying even the most hard-hearted fighters. From slaying demons to killing fully armoured knights with nonchalant ease, there is only this much perceived myth can be scoffed before it turns into something else altogether. Eye-witnesses testify to someone who can only be best described as a living dead, his eyes of emerald green betraying nary an emotion, let alone fear and wrath.
In a song now regaled by travelling minstrels of elven blood, there was this meeting between the Confederation. Attended by leaders and a selected few, the reason remains a mystery. However, one part of it never fails to snare the audience like a sorcerer playing his pipe.
A single stride and silent step, a graceful son of Homm'Nua became a wall. His back faced an enraged Brynheildr, for she did nothing unworthy. His visage faced Deigas Wagens, for his lewdness threatened to mock a meeting between the gods. Hand never departed from the pommel of a sabre forged from best elven steel, this was the only way. Ioin dies Bladefort, Armslord of Swordcloaks, his dead eyes of emerald piercing the soul of a shameless leader from Redmarch. A moment passed, an eternal pause. Then the Ghost of D'Aubens spoke, his voice smooth and lyrical, tremors coursing down every listener's mortal spine.
"End your jape, Deigas. Brynheildr, cease your rage. If it is a fish you want, a dead one will be what you get."
His shoulders slightly tensed, this was Ioin's threat. The one facing his back had no reason to test her luck, the one facing his visage laughing off the words. Alas for the prideful fool, all could hear a coward if he was to make a sound five leagues off.
How true is such a tale? This, no one knows. But one may be able to glean something from the reactions. For it is said that the Knightroses are now known to give a toast to "that elven dead fish who taught a living fish a lesson" while the Men of Redmarch would never ever bring the moment up again.
