Just then, an officer in fine mail, with a stern, rigid face, nudged his horse through the crowd.
He was Bloodbeard's right-hand man, Lucas.
He frowned, worry in his voice. "Commander, something is wrong over at the watchtower. Normally, they should have sent scouts or a messenger to contact us and confirm the situation, but so far, there hasn't been any movement over there."
Bloodbeard waved impatiently. "Contact us? Contact us, my ass! Those Lyseni are as arrogant as peacocks. Let them cower and tremble in their tower. Our contract with the Lyseni states it clearly: defend the mining area! It says nothing about watching that damned watchtower for them! If the Tyroshi want to attack the tower, let them. What the fuck does that have to do with us?"
Lucas swallowed. He had wanted to mention the rumor that had recently been spreading like wildfire through the Disputed Lands.
Tyrosh had been seized by a mysterious Warlock from the east, who commanded god-defiling necromancy, had resurrected an undying army, and even rode a terrifying Great Dragon...
But as he looked at Bloodbeard's unconcerned expression, interested only in pay and pleasure, he ultimately swallowed his words.
Mercenaries lived by the sword. They preferred to trust the blades in their hands and the Golden Dragons they could see. Those supernatural tales were merely excuses losers made for themselves.
Still, that Easterner had taken Tyrosh. His strength certainly could not be underestimated.
Though Commander Bloodbeard was coarse, he had always been shrewd when it came to preserving his strength.
The Cat Company's soldiers continued waving their banner bearing a languid black cat as they swaggered along the river valley toward the gates of the Gray Hills mining area.
Most of the soldiers looked fierce, trading crude jokes and discussing the pay they