Paragon of Destruction

As Arran followed the woman through the camp, he could not help but be impressed by the vast number of people he saw.

Earlier, he’d thought there had been tens of thousands, but now, he thought that estimate was off. There had to be at least a hundred thousand people here, and probably even more than that.

But despite the large number of people, there was little sign of filth or disorder. While it might lack actual buildings, it was a far more pleasant place than Esran had been.

"Awful lot of people you’ve got here," he said to the woman.

"It gets crowded," she replied in a casual tone. "Especially near the end of the month. But we do our best to keep the conditions acceptable."

"What happens near the end of the month?" Arran asked. Although he already suspected what the answer would be, it couldn’t hurt to ask. He’d been wary of giving voice to his curiosity earlier, but here, he suspected that it would be more suspicious not to ask questions.

"This is merely a temporary gathering place," the woman said. "At the end of each month, those gathered here will move on to their next destination."

"And where’s that?"

The pious soldier had already given Arran the answer several days earlier, but he was curious to hear what this woman would say — and whether she would tell the truth or not.

"You will be given a choice," she said. "But that is a matter of later concern. Right now, I’m taking you to the other Body Refiners."

Arran frowned. "You’re keeping us Body Refiners apart from the others? Why?"

The woman gave him a flat look. "Because wolves and sheep make for poor companions. But that’s enough questions from you. Now come along, but please, do so quietly."

Arran reluctantly held his tongue, instead turning his attention to their surroundings.

The camp was alive with people, most of whom looked clean and well-fed. And although they kept a respectful distance between themselves and the guards who patrolled the areas between the tents, there was little sign of fear in their eyes.

Instead, all Arran saw as he looked at the borderlanders was comfortable boredom. Perhaps the camp wasn’t where they wanted to be, but it was obvious that they were well-treated.

He could not escape the thought that to these people, the Imperium would seem far friendlier than the Ninth Valley. While the former had taken them in and fed them, the latter dismissed them as commoners, unworthy of even the slightest bit of attention.

After some minutes, Arran and his escort neared the far edge of the camp. And although the woman was silent, he could tell that there was a hint of hesitation in her step when they approached their destination.

Finally, she came to a halt.

"The Body Refiners’ grounds are just up ahead," she said.

Arran gave her a curious look. "You’re not taking me there?"

"There’s no need for me to waste my time," she replied. "From here, you can find your own way. There should be plenty of empty tents available."

As Arran looked at her, he saw that there was a hint of unease in her eyes as she looked at the area ahead. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Rather, it resembled the look of a shopkeeper who had just seen a difficult customer enter his store.

It was clear that the woman had no intention of going forward even another inch. Arran shrugged, and with a friendly nod, he started toward the camp’s far corner, curious to see what could stop the guards from moving freely in their own camp.

After only a few dozen paces, he began to see a change in the people around him.

Because where the rest of the camp was filled with farmers, craftsmen, merchants, and other commoners, the people here were clearly Body Refiners.

Yet with just a few glances, Arran saw that although they all shared the same source of strength, that was where the similarities ended.

Some of the people around him looked like bandits or mercenaries, while others wore the robes of scholars or monks. And there were others still who were dressed like common farmers and villagers, with only their movements betraying their powers.

Arran looked around with great interest, and in return, he received many curious glances as he passed.

Toward the edge of the camp, however, he noticed another change in the people around him. The diversity faded, and instead, all but a few of the Body Refiners in the area had the rough look of mercenaries.

"Newcomer!" a voice suddenly sounded.

Arran turned toward the sound, and found that it had come from a tall, dark-skinned man with a powerful build. Yet while he had the physique of a warrior, his clothes gave Arran some pause.

The man before him wore an elegant outfit of red and black, dressed more like a courtier or wealthy merchant than a mercenary. And on his head, he wore a large, wide-brimmed hat, topped with what looked to be a peacock feather.

Arran gave the man a mystified look, to which the man responded with a wide grin and an elegant bow.

"Captain Kalesh, at your service," the man said. "And who might you be?"

"Name’s Arran," Arran said. Then, eyebrow raised in puzzlement, he asked, "You’re a captain? Of what?"

"I am, indeed, a captain," the man replied. "The captain and commander of the Wolfsblood Company, in fact."

"The Wolfsblood Company?" Arran’s puzzled grown grew deeper as he stared at the man before him, uncertain whether he was the victim of some bizarre joke.

"Indeed," the man replied. "Finest mercenary company in the borderlands — or it was, before we traveled here. The brave men and women you see around you are my loyal underlings."

"We’re not your bloody underlings!"

The man glanced at the source of the shout — a young but hard-faced woman who sat in front of one of the tents, a mug of ale in her hand as she gave him an exasperated look.

The man sighed, then said himself, "My esteemed colleagues, as they prefer to be called." From the look in his eyes, he thought his own description the better one.

"What brings a mercenary company to the Imperium?" Arran asked. "I’d think the war to come would be good for a business like yours."

"Not all wars are created alike," the man replied. "And in the particular one, I deemed it prudent to ally myself with the winning side."

Arran nodded. While the rest of what the man said made little sense, this, at least, he could understand. "So do you know why they’re keeping us apart from the others?"

The man gave him an uneasy look. "I’m afraid you may have us to blame for that. There was a small scuffle, nothing serious, but—"

"Our idiot leader beat up one of the guard captains," the woman interrupted him. "Broke his jaw, and a bunch of his ribs besides."

The man gave her an annoyed look. "Now, Lasha, you know full well the fiend deserved it. I cannot let some uniformed buffoon besmirch our honor."

The woman rolled her eyes, but then turned her attention back to her mug of ale, clearly uninterested in arguing the matter any further.

The man returned his gaze to Arran. "As I was saying, there was a small scuffle. Nothing too serious, really. And as a result, we’ve been given our own quarters in this camp."

He gave Arran an appraising glance, then continued, "But enough about that. You look interesting — stronger than most here, I’d say."

"I have a bit of strength," Arran replied cautiously.

"Then perhaps you’d be interested in a small wager?" A small smile formed on the man’s face as he looked at Arran. "A little sparring match between the two of us, for a gold coin or two?"

Arran hesitated, but after a moment, he nodded in acceptance. A bit of sparring would do him good after months of travel, and he was curious to see the level of strength these mercenaries possessed.

"Excellent!" the mercenary captain said, his small smile turning into a broad grin in an instant. "Let’s see what you can do! But no blades, mind you — the guards don’t like us using weapons."

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