At Last, Suzail

Ferrara's group had a terrible lineup.

Sixteen fighters, one barbarian, and one rogue.

Most of them were what adventurers called "fighter meatheads."

What was a fighter?

Someone who wore heavy armor and used a shield to fend off an enemy's spear was a fighter.

Someone who wore light leather armor and shot arrows from the rear with a longbow, with a short blade at their side, was a fighter.

A dwarf who wielded two axes, charged back and forth through a horde of Orks, and shouted the name of his ancestors was a fighter.

An Elf who danced through enemy ranks with sword and dagger, moving as though he were swimming through the tide, was a fighter.

Someone skilled with darts and grappling hooks in the arena was a fighter. Someone who caught prey in the wild with javelins and nets was a fighter.

It was the most common and least esteemed profession in the Realms.

According to authoritative figures from Candlekeep, perhaps two-thirds of adventurers in the northern Realms were fighters.

There were simply too many fighters, and the quality varied wildly. To put it unkindly, these adventurers were beasts of burden that happened to be alive.

Of course, some fighters did stand above the rest.

One of the most outstanding in recent times was Azoun IV, the former king of Cormyr, a legendary fighter who had died alongside a Great Wyrm Red Dragon in the Goblin War.

The elite knights who defended their homeland, noble lords who fought campaigns far and wide, royal guards, and city defenders were fighters too. But they made up only a tiny fraction.

Most fighters were village guards, poor ordinary adventurers, bandits, mercenaries, travelers, peddlers, hunters, landowning farmers or tenant farmers, craftspeople, and artisans.

It was a lowly profession.

Spellcasters like Aaron and Eleanor could walk into an adventurers' guild and pick up a job with ridiculous ease. Unless a party truly had no need for more people, it would welcome them with open arms.

But a fighter? Get in line. There were another 810 people ahead of him.

Why were fighters valued so little?

Because what they could do was so limited.

"Apprentice Mage: disguise, defend, deal damage, clear a path, solve mysteries.

Apprentice fighter: hit people with a sword.

Elite Mage: learn more spells to handle all manner of problems on an adventure, gain reliable ways to lock enemies down and powerful area-of-effect magic. Fireball is simple, brutal, and practically foolproof.

Elite fighter: hit people harder with a sword.

Master Mage: use magic to meet nearly every need on an adventure, including raising the dead, summoning higher beings to fight, providing support from afar, and creating a space out of thin air for rest and shelter.

Master fighter: hit people even more viciously with a sword.

Legendary Mage: move mountains and fill seas, found an Imperium, create a plane of their own, and rule over all within it.

Legendary fighter: hit people with a sword with absolutely, overwhelmingly, invincibly magnificent force."

—A joke from the Realms

The joke was an exaggeration, of course. Fighters were limited, but not that limited. It merely illustrated how few things they could do on an adventure.

Fighters were also among the few professions whose abilities offered no way to extend their lives.

Legendary Mages, Sorcerers, and Druids could live for a very, very long time.

Legendary Paladins, monks, Clerics, warlocks, and Bards also had plenty of ways to prolong their lives.

Legendary barbarians and Rangers could extend theirs by walking the primal path and merging with the power of the wilds.

Only legendary fighters and Rogues had it rough. Without outside help, they generally could not live past the human limit of 120 years. Most legendary fighters reached the end of their lives by a hundred.

It truly was a profession for the young.

That was precisely why Aaron intended to ask for some pointers.

Ferrara was an elite fighter who had survived this long as a mercenary. He was bound to have insights of his own.

Learning more could never hurt.

At noon, after three hours on the road, the party found a place to rest by the roadside. Montero gathered the mercenaries, who took out the still-warm food they had bought from the Kalan Inn and watched Ferrara instruct Aaron.

Each man held a sword. The difference was that Aaron's other hand was empty, while Ferrara held a shield in his.

"In a fight, my lord Viscount, you must always watch your weak side—the side without a shield."

Ferrara took his stance and demonstrated. "We generally call the side holding the weapon the strong side, and the side holding the shield the weak side. The strong side usually leads the attack and holds most of your attention, so the weak side is often easier to breach."

"Mm." Aaron recalled the instruction he had received from his father and the Purple Dragons and followed Ferrara's movements. "Mr. Ferrara, I can't carry a shield in this hand. I need it to cast spells."

"Then you can use your weak side as a trap and lure your opponent into attacking it." Ferrara moved his sword and advanced with a fighter's measured footwork. "You look like a Purple Dragon Knight, my lord, so most enemies will instinctively take you for a melee combatant. That gives you a chance to catch them off guard."

"To an adventurer, a noble's son carrying a one-handed sword without a shield looks like easy pickings."

"In a fight, blocking isn't the best choice. Dodging is. When you have no choice but to block, leave your arm and wrist enough room to move, and hold some strength in reserve."

"Use a shield with care."

"Unless you're certain the blow will land, never put all your strength into a sword stroke. If your opponent dodges, you'll leave yourself wide open. And at the apprentice or second tier, a few full-force attacks will tire you out quickly."

A seasoned fighter, Ferrara taught Aaron the techniques he had learned on his adventures.

"Don't fixate on your weapon in a fight. Your shoulders, legs, fists, even your forehead and teeth can be powerful weapons. You fight to win and stay alive, not to look impressive. At least, that's how it is for mercenaries like us."

Ferrara demonstrated a shoulder charge and an upward kick.

Aaron nodded. Like a sponge, he soaked up every scrap of knowledge.

Every part of the body could be a weapon.

"Watch your opponent's movements. Whether they mean to thrust, slash, or strike hard, their body will give them away first. Pay attention to what they're about to do—and judge how badly they want to fight." Seeing how quickly Aaron learned, Ferrara smiled.

I'm actually giving a viscount pointers! I'll have a story to tell at the tavern now.

"How badly they want to fight?" Aaron frowned, a little puzzled. "You mean how determined they are?"

"I once spent over three hours brawling with a fellow about as strong as me in a fight at a manor. Afterward, some noble lord paid me a handsome sum. I didn't even need to take my sword or shield to the smith for repairs." Ferrara sounded rather pleased with himself. "Shame jobs like that don't come along often."

"I see," Aaron said.

"If the other fellow's out for blood, you need to give it everything you've got. If he's only going through the motions, you don't necessarily have to fight at full strength. Often, you're both mercenaries living by the blade, paid to do a job. There's no need for either of you to die over what might just be a misunderstanding." Ferrara continued, "It depends on your task, my lord, and what you're trying to gain."

So he means knowing when to hold back? Aaron felt he was beginning to understand. "I see. Please go on."

"Sometimes you'll face an attack you simply can't dodge. When that happens, protect your torso as best you can," Ferrara said. "With armor like yours, my lord, a weapon that isn't supernatural will leave a cut in it at worst. You might bleed a little, that's all."

"And if the weapon is supernatural?" Aaron asked with interest.

"That's beyond what I know. You'd have to ask someone else, my lord." Ferrara shook his head.

After practicing together for a while, they sat down. Ferrara accepted the buttered bread Aaron handed him and went on to share his experience as an adventurer.

"Fighting is only a small part of adventuring, my lord. What do mercenaries like us adventure for? To put food on the table. To make money. Only then do we think about getting stronger."

"That's why, much of the time, we don't want a fight at all. We'll do everything we can to avoid one."

"And if we do fight, we do everything we can to make it unfair. Poke their eyes, kick their groin, curse at them, spit on them. If it gives them trouble and makes them less able to fight, it works."

"Throw dust, set traps, use poison, drop rocks. If it solves the problem, nothing's off the table. If you won't do it, someone else will, and then you've put your life in their hands."

Ferrara pointed at himself with a mocking smile. "This is a trade where you put your life up for sale. More than once, I've tricked someone into looking behind him and killed him with a sword stroke. And more than once, I've given my word and gone back on it afterward."

"Mercenaries are bound for hell."

"Things have been better these last few years, now that I have a few connections. Before that, I sometimes went a long while without income. When that happened, it was hard not to consider other ways of earning it. We'd sort potential targets into a few types and go after the easier ones." Ferrara grew awkward and scratched his untidy hair. "Staying alive mattered most."

"Loyalty just means the price of betrayal hasn't been met." Aaron seemed to understand. He added pointedly, "As for Miss Eleanor and me, you couldn't be certain you'd succeed, and dealing with the aftermath would be a particular headache. Right?"

"Uh... people like you are always the most troublesome kind." Ferrara nodded awkwardly.

A local noble on a royal mission, a bloodline Sorcerer who could cast spells, and a temple Cleric who was no weakling and could wield divine magic.

Even if Ferrara managed to deal with them, he had no idea how he would cover it up.

Nor did he know why, but whenever he looked into Aaron's sky-blue eyes, as boundless as the distant heavens, he could not stop himself from saying everything on his mind.

"Self-deprecation, manners, rules, elegance—my lord Viscount, those are privileges of the strong. We're mercenaries. Our job is to finish the task, deliver the goods, and get the damned money. That's all. Mercy and kindness on an adventure are things we don't need. They're luxuries so far beyond us that we've never dreamed of having them."

"Most of the time, we follow the rules because it benefits us. But in certain circumstances, we'll tear up every contract, break every taboo, and commit any crime—because that might benefit us when we're in trouble. It's that simple."

"I understand. That's how ordinary mercenaries think."

Aaron drained a cup of ale and stood. At the edge of the group, he looked out at the bright spring day and the nearby village, then sighed.

The complexity of human nature was on full display among adventurers.

"You shouldn't spend too long with them." Seeing that Aaron was troubled, Eleanor came to his side and spoke softly. "We're servants of the Lady of Silver. We should learn to be kind."

"Staying alive is hard." Aaron smiled and said no more.

"We have to live, however hard it is," the young Cleric said firmly. "Have you forgotten what our Lady expects of you?"

"You're right. Even if it's only for the Lady of Silver, I have to live—and live well!" Aaron nodded.

Mercenaries were a source of instability and potential criminals, yet nobles always needed them.

In the Realms, ownership of land was often settled only after decades or even centuries of war. When a noble set out to claim new territory, clearing out monsters, founding settlements, exploring the surrounding area, fending off counterattacks, building walls and a town, opening farmland, and putting up houses could take decades or centuries of intermittent warfare. Only then might the ill-intentioned "neighbors" finally acknowledge his claim.

The Kingdom of Cormyr was one example. Even after the Elf Imperium withdrew and explicitly ceded the land to humans, Cormyr, founded in the Year of Opening in 26 DR, was forced into a long history of war against Goblins, Lizardfolk, werecreatures, dragons, and pirates.

The fighting continued until the Year of the Sea Princes, 432 DR. That year, Cormyr's king led the nobles who supported him back into battle and defeated Maglas, the pirate king who had occupied the capital, Suzail. After four hundred years of war, the surrounding powers had finally, for the most part, acknowledged human sovereignty over the land.

Four hundred years of war.

Maintaining an army of one's own was simply too expensive. That was a major reason adventurers and mercenaries remained active throughout the Realms.

As Aaron pondered this, they reached Suzail at around three in the afternoon.

Cormyr's capital rose high beside the Dragonmere. It was a jewel of the central Realms and a testament to a thousand years of Obarskyr rule over the land. A tall, imposing wall encircled it, with buildings rising just as high beyond.

Two enormous statues stood at the city gate.

The first depicted Saghro, the famous purple dragon. This ancient dragon had once ruled the Cormyr region. The Elf Imperium had joined forces with human tribes to wage a long war against him and had eventually driven him away.

From that day on, the purple dragon had been Cormyr's symbol.

Not because its people worshipped dragons, but because they took pride in defeating one.

The second enormous statue depicted Duar Obarskyr, the famous king of Cormyr.

He was the king from the Year of the Sea Princes, 432 DR. King Duar had spent half his life fighting countless enemies within his kingdom, only for a traitor to hand his capital, Suzail, to Maglas, the "minotaur" pirate king. Forced to hide with a handful of loyal followers in a secluded estate in the King's Forest, Duar secured the support of some nobles and a mercenary company. That same year, he killed Maglas, reclaimed his capital, and formally established human sovereignty over the land.

Four hundred years of war had finally borne fruit.

Suzail, it was worth noting, was named for Sussara, wife of Cormyr's first king, Ondeth Obarskyr. But the queen could no longer endure the seemingly endless war and struggle to settle the land, and eventually chose to leave.

The party approached the north gate. Carriages and travelers waiting to enter crowded its entrance, their queue stretching far back. The guards were busy inspecting bags and vehicles—and, of course, the indispensable permits.

With so many people to process, the guards were hardly pleasant. But Aaron's surcoat and armor, together with the document he showed them, were enough to earn an immediate wave through.

Beyond the gate, the light dimmed and an overwhelming stench struck them. Crowds, noise, beggars, and peddlers pressed in. Small children in ragged clothes stared wide-eyed at Aaron and Eleanor, stretching out little hands, their eyes full of longing.

"Why are there so many people?" Ferrara had already led the mercenaries forward to frighten back the crowd before Aaron could even signal him. Under the young Cleric's sad, helpless gaze, he asked the question in bewilderment.

"Many refugees from Arabel have come here. They've all crowded into Suzail," Aaron said calmly, while trying to comfort Eleanor. "Their homes have fallen, and the city is more crowded than ever."

"Are you going home?" The mercenary leader knew it was time to part ways.

"No. The cemetery first." Aaron shook his head and took a small square box from his luggage.

"That bastard... his soul deserves to rest."