Chapter 14: Black Star Mercenaries.
The weary, amber sun clung stubbornly to Iceberry’s rooftops and dirt paths.
By standard time, it was night. But in the Month of Endless Day, the sun hovered at the horizon, painting half the sky gold-red.
Lord Gerhard, noble official, took the late Chief Mocus’s sparse home. Recovering Maren moved to Renat’s.
In the outer camp, nearly a hundred out-of-town teens silently gnawed Iceberry’s coarse rye bread, clutching bowls of turnip-chunk vegetable soup.
Chewing and slurping aside, silence reigned—nerves for the looming Lantern trial.
Contrast: the village square roared.
Degbrun garrison soldiers ringed campfires, tearing the same bread but washing it with ale. Skewers sizzled with fatty roast meat and smoked sausage.
Crude laughs and curses flew. When village women brought food or ale, greasy palms slapped skirt-clad hips, sparking louder hoots and whistles.
A weathered yet comely woman tossed a coy glance, swayed to the woods. A flushed, staggering soldier followed grinning—ten crowns for bliss.
Perhaps her husband hunched under home lamplight, mending tools, oblivious or numb to her side work.
A wide-eyed child, under mother’s anxious gaze, sucked fingers, edged firelight. Lucky: a cheerful soldier tossed a crisp meat scrap.
Iceberry, remote, knew brief caravan bustle yearly. A century quiet—never this alive.
Renat’s home: different air. Long table, clean linen, richer spread—for Gerhard and guests, gleaning rare news.
Pale Maren, with sister Nora, shuttled kitchen to hall with steaming dishes.
Table: Renat, Cary; four guests. Head: Gerhard. Opposite Renat: three strangers.
Two men, one woman—dark hunting garb, antique spherical bronze lamps at hips: Black Domain lanterns.
Left: burly youth, deep scar slashing hard face. He attacked roast grouse, fingers ripping crisp skin and tender meat, chewing, eyes sharp.
Center: stunning woman, curvaceous, wavy chestnut hair cascading. Elegant, she sipped creamy mushroom soup.
Right: medium, gaunt youth. Black hair like Cary’s, but eyes fogged, dour. He poked food listlessly.
Five Lantern Bearers—active or retired—in one small hall, plus Cary as future. Common in cities, rare here.
Most dinner: Gerhard’s voice echoed. He regaled wild youth, near-death Black Domain escapes.
Half-noble old knight dropped guard, spittle and sausage bits flecking linen.
Cary’s bread half-eaten; he hung on every word, eyes fixed.
“Lord Gerhard, skip the bedroom tales.” On high stool, Renat frowned delicately, voice cutting. “You’re a proper lord now—unseemly for youth.”
Her dangling legs kicked; short arms stretched for distant nuts, always shy.
Wavy-haired beauty smiled kindly, passed the dish.
“Thank you, Miss Linnea.”
Renat settled, beamed. “Guessed right—natural-lineage Lantern? Makes Sura’s favor theories ring true; perhaps nature roles prefer women.”
“Yes, Joy Gardener, third-tier.”
Linnea admitted openly—rare for Lanterns with strangers. Eyes crinkled. “But I envy your Linwhisperer. Rare profession.”
“Nothing beats health—you’re luckier.” Renat winked playfully, lips mysterious. “Your voice must be sweet too.”
“Heh, Sura’s grace… I love singing.”
Linnea smiled. Beside her, scarface paused mid-bite, lips twitching, cracking his stoic mask.
Once, as Linwhisperer, Renat ate fresh moss and soil to quell Black Domain surge; Joy Gardener Linnea sang to vent power, avoid corruption.
Lantern gifts: Sura’s blessing, cursed by stolen Black mysteries. Some needed unique anti-corruption rites.
“Oh, ladies, perfect interruption.”
Gerhard swallowed meat, cleared throat, raised red fruit-wine cup, scanned, reining lewdness. “Blackstar Mercenary’s true task: hunt escaped subwomen—Eternal Night sinners. Renat, local—you know terrain. Help us.”
Atmosphere froze. Cutlery paused, chewing slowed.
Gerhard: past twenty years, church and Lantern guild noted disturbing trend: active Lanterns vanishing, mostly dead.
Black Domain dangerous—casualties normal. But twenty years: over six hundred missing, thirty yearly—far above norm.
Plus early retirees, accidents, age: new Lanterns barely filled gaps. Bad omen for seventh Tide.
“Lord Gerhard, Black Domain shifts yearly—her help limited.”
Scarface spoke at last, voice ice like face. He mopped plate gravy with bread crust, ate every bit.
Then three silver coins on table. “Thanks. Fine meal.”
Under Gerhard and Renat’s eyes, he left.
Linnea set spoon, bowed apologetic, hurried after.
Last: gaunt black-haired youth. Husky sneer, no farewell. To Cary:
Callused, scarred palm clapped boy’s shoulder hard. Voice grim: “Kid, don’t think black hair’s luck.”
Mockery plain, lips curled. “Might be your nightmare…”
Ominous words, creepy low laughs—he vanished.
Blackstar’s three Lanterns gone. Room: Gerhard, Renat, Cary; fireplace crackles.
“Gerhard, where’d you find these free Lanterns…” Renat sighed after long pause, breaking awkwardness.
Free Lanterns: outside church, lords, guild. Untamed.
No perks, but unbound life. Flexible—nobles and guild loved hiring.
Enough coin: they’d take dirty jobs.