Farmers & Mercenaries by Maxwell Alexander Drake

Grand Elder.” He pivoted to exit through the door he had entered by.
    “Mir’am Rillion, we have not yet agreed to a price.”
    His heart sank and his mind reeled.
    What is the price going to be that I cannot agree to?
    Turning back, he faced the Council. “My apologies, I am anxious to set upon my task.”
    “Your son has Dispaxion, with less than one season to live, I understand.” Clytus forced his jaw to relax—it tensed at the mention of his son. “To cure the boy we need a very rare component, the blood of a Drakon, which is Essence infused.” The Grand Elder recited this as if reading it from a script.
    Again with the formalities! You say this every time we meet old man. As if I need the reminder that my son has little life left to live!
    “You are to provide this blood, as we have no means to retrieve it ourselves. Even with this ingredient, the risk to those who will heal your son is great. A Shaper himself may die from the feedback the Essence could unleash during the Melding that is required to cure this illness. Not to mention, it will take over a tenday to Meld the Essence in the boy and rid him of the sickness. This risk will be shared by the eight Shapers it will require to accomplish the Meld.” Arthimius leaned forward in his chair. “For this we require an equally valuable payment.”
    He is like a wolf standing over a cornered hare.
    “I have already told you, Grand Elder, however much narian it takes, I will pay.” Clytus knew by the feeling inside him, he was not going to like the next few moments of his life. It was a feeling that he had had many times before. A feeling that usually ended with something sharp piercing a part of his body that he would rather not have pierced.
    “Gold? You think the Shaper’s Order has need of more gold?” Arthimius shook his head. “No, Mir’am Rillion. This council has a different sort of payment in mind.” He sat back. “Your reputation as a swordsman is well known. Some even drop the name of Tat’Sujen when speaking of you. Common folk have always loved their mythical tales.” The old Sier hacked into a white linen cloth. “However, you are good to your word, and the merc troop you command seems well trained and disciplined. Fanciful tales aside, sir, the Shapers can use a man like you from time to time. We shall save your son, provided you bring us the blood we need. As payment, we require five turns of the seasons worth of service from you and your mercenary band. You shall be paid your normal wages during this time, of course, yet you will do as this council bids.” He waved his arm around the room to indicate the other six men. “Without question, without hesitation.”
    A stabbing agony shot through Clytus’ heart. Head spinning, his knees weakened.
    I need to sit down. Nix! I need to get drunk!
    Clytus stared at the old man behind the desk as if he had never seen him before. “You know…” He bore his gaze into Arthimius’. “You are taking a grave risk, Grand Elder.”
    “And how is this so?” A bit of uncertainty laced the old man’s words.
    “You say you do not believe in the tales of the Tat’Sujen, yet like all men, you have heard them. If the Order truly exists, and if I were one—for as you say, it has been dropped from time to time—you know that I would be forced to decline your offer. The tales say the vows of that Order would never let one of them agree to such terms.”
    “Why would that be, sir?”
    “Well, in the stories, a Tat’Sujen can never go against their core principles. To agree to serve someone unconditionally, someone who is not bound by those principles, could make things… complicated.” Sweat started to bead on Clytus’ brow.
    “So? If you were one of these farcical Tat’Sujen, what grave risk have I taken, then? You would simply decline our offer.” Arthimius waved a negating hand. “Your son would die for some stupid principles of some preposterous Order that does not even