The Weight of Silver

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days, and Keld reckoned it never would. The gods were pissing on Vareland again, same as they’d been pissing on it since the Empress decided this stretch of mud mattered enough to die for.

He sat in Commander Marrick’s tent and watched the officer drink. The ropes creaked with the wind. One stake had pulled half-free and left the canvas sagging. Nobody had bothered fixing it. When your boots were full of water and your rations were moldy hardtack, tent maintenance wasn’t a priority.

“Duty,” Marrick said, the word tasting worse than the rotgut in his bottle. “You still believe in that shit?”

“Someone has to.” Keld shifted on his stool. It sank deeper into the mud. Everything did, eventually.

“Why?”

The question sat there between them, simple and terrible. Outside, someone screamed about the latrines overflowing again. “By Tharos’s blackened bones!” a voice bellowed out. A mule brayed, shrill and panicked. Probably smelled the razorcats that had been circling the picket lines at night, waiting for something to die so they could feast. At least they weren't in ghoul country like the Fourth Legion.

Keld looked at Marrick's uniform—mud-stained, buttons missing, the Imperial blue faded to something closer to gray. Nothing like the crisp blues and silvers he remembered from the recruiting officer back in Millbrook. The same colors of the Empress’s Thirteenth he was now part of. The uniform had been pristine, boots polished to mirrors, and his promises as bright as temple gold.

Serve the Empire. Defend civilization against the Northern Reavers. Stand for something greater than yourself.

He’d mentioned mage support, too. Diviner’s wards. Proper healing tents. More lies on top of lies.

Keld’s mother had cried when he signed the papers. She’d prayed to the Seven for his safety. Guess they weren’t listening. But his father had looked proud for the first time since Keld was eight and speared his first rabbit.

That was three years ago. Felt like thirty. He now saw the grand façade—a magician’s sleight of hand.

Marrick broke the silence. “Kid. I asked you a question. Why do you believe in duty?”

Keld finally said, “Because if we don’t stand for something, what are we?”

“Meat.” Marrick took another pull. “Expendable meat the Empress bought on the cheap for three coppers a day, but meat all the same. We’re here to bleed so the nobles back in Castria don’t have to. Her Majesty claims divine mandate. The gods are laughing.” He wiped his mouth. “The sooner you figure that out, the easier it gets.”

“My grandfather said the same about the Ember Wars. Officers got the glory, soldiers got the grave.”

“Your granddaddy’s swimming through horseshit. Back in the day, the Empire had battle-mages worth a damn, before they all died at Keth's Crossing. Division couldn't spare a diviner for this shithole now. Those cost more than the men are worth. The old wars were about something. This one’s just blood and mud.”

“Maybe things have changed. Maybe nothing’s changed. But I have faith Lord Ganth doesn’t think that way.”

Marrick laughed, a wet, rattling sound. “The Battle-Lord? You really are a true believer, aren't you?”

Keld said nothing. The ropes creaked again, louder this time. One of the supports shifted slightly, pulling from the mud.

“Why did you join, kid?”

“Why do you stay?”

Marrick was patient, but drunk. “I’m too old to run. You could. But, you believe in the cause.”

Keld pondered that. “No,” he said. “But I do believe in breakfast. And they don’t give you breakfast if you run.”

Marrick snorted. “Practical bastard, aren’t you?”

Keld was assigned to Lord Ganth’s command six months ago, after the disaster at Heller’s Ridge where half the Thirteenth had been slaughtered trying to take a hill that turned out to have nothing on it worth dying for. Ganth had seemed different—older and tired, but solid. A man who’d earned his rank, not bought it.

The kind of officer you could trust. The kind worth following.

Keld needed to believe that. Because if you couldn’t trust your commander, if the chain of command was just ambitious bastards using you to climb higher, then what was the point? You might as well desert, take your chances with the razorcats and the Reavers and the long walk home.

“You going to report me for skiving off and drinking on watch?” Marrick asked.

“No.”

“Why not? Dutiful little soldier like you.”

“Because you're right about the rain.” Keld looked at the sagging canvas above them. “And the mud. And the meat. But I really do believe Lord Ganth knows exactly what he’s doing. That there’s a reason we’re holding this worthless valley.”

Marrick stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head and reached for the bottle again.

The tent flap tore open.

War-Captain Harrow stood in the gap, rain streaming off his shoulders. He was maybe thirty, with the kind of lean face that might have been handsome before the war had carved it down to angles and scars. A Southerner, from one of the coastal cities where they worshipped different gods. Not the Hungering Dark like the Reavers, but close enough to make northern folk uneasy. Not to mention they ate things that would make a Vareland farmer sick.

“The Battle-Lord's dead,” he said.

The bottle stopped halfway to Marrick’s lips. Keld felt something heavy settle in his gut, like he'd swallowed a stone.

“How?” Marrick asked.

Harrow stepped inside. His boots sucked at the mud. He pulled the tent flap closed behind him, which meant this wasn’t a conversation for other ears. He was carrying an iron-bound chest under one arm, the kind officers used for coin and important documents.

Harrow’s eyes flicked to Keld. “Get out.”

“He stays,” Marrick countered.

“Commander. This isn't— ”

“He’s with me. Stays.” Marrick’s voice was firm despite the drink.

Harrow stared at Keld for a long moment, then shrugged. “Your neck.” He turned to Marrick and continued, “Surgeon says it was dysentery.” Harrow’s voice was flat. No grief in it. No emotion at all. He set the chest on the camp table and wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. “But I say I put my fucking blade through his treasonous throat.”

The stone in Keld’s gut turned to ice. “Demon’s breath,” he whispered.

“Then I found this hidden in his tent.” Harrow pulled a brass key from his coat and shoved it into the lock. It caught at first—rust and old grit—then gave with a sharp, reluctant click. He flipped the lid open. Inside sat a leather satchel slumped like a dead thing, heavy with coin, and a folded parchment tucked beside it. No relics. No secret orders from the Empress. Just weight. Just money. He hauled the satchel out and let it drop on the table. The clink was thick and unmistakable—silver talking louder than any oath.

He pulled a single coin from the satchel and tossed it onto the table. It spun, rang out, then settled—a howling wolf's head stamped into the silver, eyes wild and teeth bared.

“Twenty thousand marks in Northern silver. Reaver mint. Fresh stamped,” Harrow said. He pulled out the parchment. Unfolded it. “And this—a letter confirming payment. Down payment, it says. Another forty thousand on completion of services rendered.” He smiled, thin and sharp. “Services being: hold this position until the Reavers flank Division command at Brensk. Let them kill our generals, break our line, end the war.”

Keld stared at the satchel. His mind was scrambling, trying to find some explanation that didn’t mean what it obviously meant. “Maybe he confiscated it from—”

“From who? We haven't taken prisoners in two months. Haven’t won a battle in three.” Harrow tossed the letter onto the table. “And I watched him three nights ago. Met a Reaver officer in the woods past the picket line. Heard them discussing the payment schedule. I’ve been waiting, trying to figure what to do about it.” He looked at the chest. “Then last night I decided. I confronted him. He went for his sword—my dagger was quicker.”

“You murdered him,” Marrick said quietly, breaking the tension. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

“I didn’t murder him. I executed a traitor,” Harrow corrected. His voice was cold. “My right under Imperial law once I had proof. Unfortunately, he started coughing blood and shitting himself just as justice was administered, so a proper trial was out of the question.” The smile never touched his eyes. “Terrible timing. But the dysentery story? That’s for the records. This—” He slammed his hand on the chest. “—is for us.”

Keld’s hands had gone numb. “The surgeon knows it wasn’t dysentery.”

“The surgeon knows what I tell him to know.” Harrow pulled out a map and spread it across the table. “I caught that drunk bastard selling our morphine six weeks ago. Trading Imperial medical supplies to feed his thirst for cheap whiskey. He writes ‘dysentery’ on the death certificate, or I write ‘thief’ on his execution order.”

Marrick spat into the mud. “May the Rot take him. A healer selling death for his habit.”

“This is insane,” Keld said. His voice sounded strange. “You can't just—we have to report this. To Division. To—"

“To who?” Harrow looked up from the map. “Division command? So they can investigate how our Battle-Lord was secretly working for the enemy and nobody noticed? So they can ask who knew what and when? So they can hang everyone in this tent just to be thorough?” He tapped the map. “Or we can win the battle they're expecting us to lose.”

Marrick set his bottle down carefully. “Explain.”

“Ganth was paid to keep us pinned in this valley. Sitting ducks. The Reavers planned to plow right through us on their way to Brensk.” Harrow traced a line on the map. “But if we abandon this fucking death-trap tonight, pull back to the ridge and take the high ground, we’ll be where we can actually do something. We’ll be silently positioned, not pinned in. Leave the tents and fires burning below. They’ll think we’re still here. When they advance on our camp tomorrow, we hit them from above. Brensk sends troops to pin them from the south. The Reavers get caught between us. Turn their own tactic against them. Hammer and anvil. Crushed.”

Keld stared at the map. The plan was sound. Probably brilliant. But…

“And the silver?” he asked. “Northern marks are recognizable. How do we spend enemy silver without getting caught?”

Harrow smiled. “After our win, it’s battlefield salvage. Looted from enemy dead. This twenty thousand, and if we’re lucky, another forty in their camp waiting to be taken. Who’s going to question heroes?” He let that settle. “Gets divided among the survivors. Bonus pay for the men who just won an impossible victory. Your ticket home after turning the tide of the war.” He began rolling up the map. “The official dispatch writes itself: Battle-Lord Ganth, struck down by sudden illness, issued one final, brilliant command to take the high ground. The Empire gets a martyr. We get a victory.” Harrow smirked, tapping the chest. “And the survivors? We get the spoils. Heroes don’t get audited, boy. They get medals.”

“But that's a lie,” Keld protested.

“It's survival.” Harrow looked between them. “Unless you’d rather hang for someone else’s treason?”

“I didn't commit treason.”

“You think they’ll care? You were here. You were his men. That’s enough.” Harrow slammed the chest shut with the letter, satchel, and map inside and placed the key back into his inner pocket. “I’m giving you a choice most soldiers never get. Help me win this battle and walk away rich, or die on principle alongside a traitor who sold you out for silver.”

The rain and wind intensified, battering the canvas in gusts like it wanted in. “Last chance. What’s it going to be?” he asked. “In or out? Unless either of you wants to report me? You do know, you’ll both be tried as accomplices. ‘The more the fucking merrier,’ they always say. If there’s one dung beetle in a pile of shit, there’s probably a few more. We’re all compromised now. Very egalitarian.”

Harrow picked up the coin from the table, rolled it between his fingers.

He paused, his eyes now locked on Keld. “And if you refuse, boy? I'll hang you myself. Tell Division you were Ganth’s accomplice. Who’s going to doubt a War-Captain over a dead grunt?”

Marrick reached for his bottle, remembered it was empty. “Hells below,” he muttered, then laughed. Soft and bitter. “I’m in.”

Harrow nodded. Then he looked back at Keld. “And you?”

Keld wanted to say no. Wanted to insist they do the right thing, report what Ganth had done, let Imperial justice sort it out. That’s what a good soldier would do. A man of duty and honor.

But he thought about the Battle-Lord—good officer, respected leader, many years of service—hiding twenty thousand marks while planning to get his men killed. Enough money to buy a villa in Castria. Live like a minor noble for the rest of his life while his men ate shit in the rain.

If the system was rotten to the top, what did duty even mean?

“What about afterward?” Keld asked. “What if someone investigates later?”

“Who investigates victories?” Harrow moved to the exit. “We're heroes, remember? The soldiers who held against impossible odds. Turned a desperate situation into triumph.” He paused. “And heroes are above suspicion.”

“And if the Reavers don’t advance tomorrow?”

“We’ll have pulled back anyway and claim we repositioned due to tactical concerns after the Battle-Lord’s untimely death. Still heroes. Just no victory ballads.”

Harrow tossed the coin to Keld.

He caught it. The silver slapped into his palm—heavy, cold, and undeniably real. Worth more than his father’s farm had earned yearly.

He looked at Marrick, swaying in the mud, a man hollowed out by duty and cheap spirits. Then he looked at Harrow—dry, sharp, and breathing.

Finally, he thought about the alternative. Lord Ganth escaping this valley, counting this very silver on a breezy portico overlooking a warm, sandy beach on the coast while his men fed the worms.

The choice wasn’t between right and wrong anymore. It was between the grave and the game. Ganth had known that. The only difference was that he had played alone.

Keld’s thumb rubbed the wolf’s head stamped on the coin. It felt more solid than any prayer he’d ever whispered.

“In,” he said.

It came out flat. Dead. Like something Marrick would say.

Harrow nodded. Turned to the older man. “Because Ganth’s dead, I take Battle-Lord—acting, until Division says otherwise.” His eyes jumped from the bottle to the sagging canvas. “And you, Commander—you’re War-Captain now. Try not to die stupid.

“Get the men packing. Keep the fires burning. We move after nightfall. Send a runner to Brensk—tell Division we are repositioning to high ground. Coordinate to hit the Reavers from the south while we engage from the ridge…War-Captain Marrick.” Harrow looked at both of them. “And if anyone asks questions, remember: Battle-Lord Ganth was a hero. Died serving the Empire. We’re just following his final orders.”

He stepped out into the rain, the chest tucked under his arm.

The ropes creaked again, one of them snapping with a sound like a bowstring breaking. The canvas sagged further. Marrick stood up, swaying slightly.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Marrick shuffled toward the flap. “Means you’re not completely dead inside yet. Give it time.”

“Lord Ganth was at Vrell’s Gate. Fought demons there, they said. Guess silver corrupts worse than hellfire,” offered Keld.

Marrick looked back at him. “They talk about honor and serving the greater good. Don’t mention the officers selling you to the enemy, or the ones murdering them to save you.” He steadied himself against a pole. “The Reavers are honest. Their blood-priests promise death. Our officers promise glory but deliver the same damn thing. All we've got is mud and prayers to dead gods.” He smiled at Keld. “You still believe in breakfast?”

“More than ever.”

“Then I guess we’d better go earn it.”

“You already earned yours, War-Captain.”

“Thanks to a dead fool and his silver.” Marrick staggered through the flap and disappeared into the rain.

Keld sat and stared at the empty space where the chest had been. Refined ore. Blood money. Traitor’s silver.

His silver now.

He stood up. The stool tilted sideways and slowly flipped into the mud. He slipped through the exit, and the wet hit him in the face.

Behind him, Marrick’s tent finally gave up. The remaining ropes snapped, the poles collapsed, and the whole structure folded into the mud with a wet, defeated sound. A few soldiers laughed at it. Most didn’t bother looking.

The camp was chaos—men scrambling to pack gear for the night march. Keld moved through it like a ghost, following orders.

Except it wasn’t duty anymore. It was survival.

He stopped at the edge of camp, rain streaming down his face.

He thought about the recruiting officer one last time. The bright promises. The shining ideals. The man he’d thought he’d become.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” he muttered under his breath.

He touched the coin in his pocket. Heavy. Cold. Real.

He looked at the men in his squad. Good soldiers following orders. Meat doing what meat was bought for.

In war, you don’t look back, but forward to the next meal or the next lie that keeps you breathing. You’ll learn to tell the difference between the lies that kill and the ones that save.

Keld was still learning. But he was alive to learn. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered.

The rain kept falling.

It always did.