An exhausted and beaten group returned to Fort Thragg. All of them were wounded, their numbers pruned by over half.
Twenty-two had set out four days ago, and only nine returned. Osmal was drained, his body and mind wrung dry. His poor horse trembled under him as he dismounted.
He gave the lathered animal a pat on the neck. Must have a bit of workhorse in its genes to hang on so stubbornly.
Osmal turned as a motley group as aids emerged to help tend the wounded and the horses. The stench of death was already in the air, several bodies stiffer than a board.
Unfortunately, many of those slung onto pack horses like firewood hadn't survived the jarring trip back.
Captain Tommy, missing an arm below the elbow, met his gaze and nodded. Osmal nodded back.
The man had grit—without his leadership, more, if not all, would have died. His eyes roved over the soldiers, settling on Vana, the other noble accompanying them.
Given she had stuck at the back, her survival was expected, though still urkesome. He pushed the trollop from his mind. Osmal grabbed his saddlebags as the bandits, masquerading as inspectors, approached.
Over half the herbs he had painstakingly harvested were confiscated.
"Arms up, I gotta check you," The inspector said.
Osmal scowled.
"What? I am a member of the Blue Spring sect. I'm not a common soldier," Osmal asked.
The inspector with gave him a helpless smile.
"It's not up to me. It's on orders of Duke Wastrolls youngest son," The man replied.
Osmal could only sigh internally. "Fine, get it over with. If you try to line your pockets with my personal items, there will be problems," Osmal said.
Osmal stood there as the man searched him. He was a bit nervous, but didn't show it. A lifetime of hiding ill-gotten gains had prepared him for this kind of occasion.
The man's fingers moved with practiced ease, checking for hidden contraband. They found his purse and the crowns with it, but little else.
Life in the sect had taught him to hide things well. Don't take anything you can't hide from prying eyes. It's not illegal to steal unless you get caught.
Thankfully, the mans fingers passed right over the hidden panes at the low of his back, where two particularly valuable herbs were hidden.
"Perhaps your friend can search me next time. She is a lot easier on the eyes," Osmal said.
"You're free to go," the man snorted.
Osmal didn't look back, eyes locked on the quarter master. Now that the search was over, it was time for payment. The mission had been a disaster, but it was double pay.
He took the proffered pouch from the surly man. It was much lighter than expected. Anger bloomed in his chest as his sect token flashed, a meagre amount of merit being added.
Captain Tommy, next to him, seemed just as miffed.
"What's this, only fifteen merit? We were promised double for going to the ruins," Tommy growled.
The quarter master gave him a sour look. "Double merit? Since when is there such a good thing?" the man replied.
"Tell him, Vana. Duke Wastrol's son promised double merit for this mission," Tommy said, gesturing to the woman with a raised voice.
Vana gave a dismissive huff. "No such promises were made."
The captain's gaze sharpened. "We lost over half our strike force, and now you're going back on your word?" Tommy said, his long stride eating the distance between them.
He seemed to loom over the smaller woman, though she was undaunted.
"Mind your tongue, captain. If you're unhappy, take it up with Lord Junta," Vana replied, more confident now that they were back inside the fort.
Tommy gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring. Osmal could see the gears turning as the man went over his options. After a few seconds, Tommy seemed to decide it wasn't worth it. "Very well, Vana," he muttered, storming off.
Osmal clenched his jaw, equally pissed, but well aware of the world's rules. Like him, others sought advantage, bending the rules. Skirting regulations and lining their pockets wasn't just survival—it was the only way to rise through the ranks.
From top to bottom, the cultivation world ran on pragmatism. Why would Lord Junta reward a failed expedition? The feelings of a few lowly soldiers didn't matter.
After this fiasco, Osmal needed a drink. He headed to the Adro-controlled central fort to drown his aches in liquor. It had been some time since he'd gotten properly blacked out. Tonight was that night.
He awoke the next day, head throbbing, the scent of perfume lingering in the air. His bed was empty, but the night's events were slowly coming back.
With a groan, he sat up, massaging his temples. Even a practitioner could get a hangover if they drank enough. And boy had he drunk. A little company had helped.
Ash had shown up sometime after he had arrived, and they had gotten thoroughly inebriated. The rest of the night was a hazy blur. He didn't even remember them heading back to his room.
She must have slipped out sometime after he fell asleep, probably for the best—no awkward morning wakeup.
The scattered robes on the floor reminded him of his first priority: Was everything still there? With a groan, he climbed from the bed and began methodically checking his pockets.
His coin purse felt lighter—expected after a night of excess—but thirty-five crowns remained, enough to avoid panic. His fingers darted along the stitching hiding his techniques. Relieved, he confirmed all were intact.
He then checked the interior pockets holding his spoils. Cores were still there, as were most of the herbs from the ruins. Only one was missing.
A win, all things considered. His prized techniques were safe behind the back panels of his robes. He remembered his last tryst with a sect member, who had robbed him blind. He was still salty about that.
As he dressed, something brushed his bare foot. His eyes flicked down—a small object half-tucked under the bed. Curiosity piqued, he picked it up.
It was a small, leather-bound book. A flick of his finger lit the lantern on the nightstand. Osmal sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages. Chicken scratch filled the pages—at first glance, a code, but really just terrible handwriting.
Lists of people, coming and going, nobles, disciples, and even supply shipments. Skimming through, he noticed pages seemingly dedicated to specific individuals. He recognized one page—a list of things he had purchased from Ash, and the prices.
Further along, he found a hodgepodge of notes and a sketch: a raven, talons dripping blood. Decent detail. She could be an artist.
The book was valuable, even if he lacked context. Ash really was scatterbrained, or perhaps it was intentional, in case someone stole it. Probably a bit of both.
A mischievous smile crept across Osmal's face. This was a good trade. He could definitely leverage it for a few resources when she returned.