Hast thou given the horse strength?
Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper?
The glory of his nostrils is terrible.
He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength:
he goeth on to meet the armed men.
He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted;
neither turneth he back from the sword.
The quiver rattleth against him,
the glittering spear and the shield.
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage:
neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.
He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha;
and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.
- Job 39:19 - 25, KJV
Stormclouds gather. A ragged column winds its way through the pass, descending into the valley south of New Jelbegi Castle. The brothers of the Black Company ride with grim determination, for though they have only just buried their fallen at Ismirala, they know that where they are headed another war awaits them.
Pausing then, a single, mustachioed rider dismounts and drinks deeply from his canteen; it does not contain water. He feeds on plunder, pillage, and what passes for trade in his profession--exotic ale from the casks at New Sargoth, horse steaks and exotic eels hellioned from the surrounding peasantry. He has fed on war, and he has grown fat.
From this vantage his gaze sweeps across the plains below. To the east lie verdant prairie lands, stretching all the way to the sea, and to the south and west he discerns the squat, derelict buildings of the settlement at Nova Tahlberl. Skinny farmers drag skinnier unwilling livestock to morning market, brass bells clinking, and yet for a moment Vengt envies them their peaceful trade.
And then he looks to the south. He cannot see it but he can smell it, faintly, mixed in with the morning dew, the wet grass, and the electric taste of thunder, wafts the smell of treachery, and behind it, some greater threat more sinister still. They have fought two wars now in one month, and this will be their third.
A great hand claps him on the shoulder. "Why so glum lad? They can only kill you once." And with that sage advice Unholy passes him by. One by one they straggle past, some on horseback, some on foot, some wounded, being carried in wagons. Veterans of a thousand campaigns, clad in the detritus of slain enemies, they are no strangers to war. Some nod or salute him. Vengt looks into their hardened faces as they pass, and he does not see fear.
"Hail Vengt," Tears, a grizzled warrior, greets him and continues on. A heavy falchion swings from his belt, and a complex killing machine he calls an "arbalest" rests on his back. Vengt had once seen him shoot a man in the back with it. The knight had been "dueling" some other great noble bastard, swords clanging off one another, when suddenly the point of the bolt erupted from the center of his breastplate. The poor sod was dead before he even hit the ground. That's how Tears came by that falchion come to think of it.
Now the old man makes his way past, leading a donkey laden with provisions. As always he is smiling. And now Vengt is smiling too. He is silent now, but Vengt recalls his standing orders--"always take the easy kill."
A chill wind blows up from the valley, blowing the hair from his face, and then it catches the banner he holds at his side. Looking to his left and to his right he see dozens of others just like, and even more from other clans, allies forged in battle. For a second time they have been caught unawares, and yet with every fight it seems that their numbers grow even greater.
Looking upon the tired host he realizes, these men have been taking the easy kill their whole lives, and in so doing, killing has become easy. Vengt will never remember this, but he has forgotten all about the farmers at Nova Tahlberl. He takes another sip of the sweet exotic ale. The first drops of rain begin to fall.
