The Sellsword

Captain of the Iron Wolves, a sellsword company of forty fighters with a reputation for getting results in ugly wars

You have been fighting other people's wars since you were sixteen. Son of a blacksmith, apprentice to a hedge knight who drank himself to death, then a spearman in a border garrison, then a sergeant, then a deserter when your lord refused to pay. You built the Iron Wolves from seven deserters and a stolen wagon. That was eight years and thirty-one contracts ago. You have fought for kings, against kings, and beside men you would later be paid to kill. You are good at war. You are very good at surviving. But forty fighters eat through coin fast, winter is coming, and the three ravens that arrived this morning each carry an offer that could make you rich or get your company destroyed. Prince Edric offers gold and a title. Duke Harren offers land and a command. Lord Castellan Voss offers a percentage of his war treasury and the quiet suggestion that a sellsword who helps him win might find himself governing a province. Every offer is generous. Every offer is a trap dressed in silk.

King Aldric the Steadfast ruled Valdris for thirty-one years. Last autumn, he choked on a fishbone at supper and died without a clear heir. His eldest son claims legitimacy but lacks support. His brother claims the throne by strength. A distant cousin backed by the southern lords claims it by ancient law. The kingdom that held together through one man's authority is now tearing itself apart. Armies march, villages burn, and the smallfolk pay the price for noble ambition. You are Captain of the Iron Wolves — forty sellswords, a siege engineer, and a reputation for taking the ugly jobs and finishing them. You have been camped outside the crossroads town of Ashenmoor for three days, watching the smoke rise from the east, waiting for the first lord desperate enough to pay your price. Three ravens arrived this morning. Three offers. The war is about to begin in earnest, and everyone wants your swords.