Ray's Squad

The column moved north for three days after Maha and Chandrakala accepted the offer. The remaining merchants peeled away at the first proper town, leaving only the Iron Hounds and the two new additions. Raymond kept them close — not under constant watch, but near enough that the rest of the company understood they rode under his charge.

Maha adapted faster than most expected. She took the company purse on the second morning, checked every tally against the written contracts, and quietly corrected two errors that would have shorted the Hounds a week’s pay. Chandrakala took her place in the watch rotation without complaint, her blade work clean and her silence denser than most of the men’s. The Hounds, pragmatic by nature, accepted them with the reserved curiosity given to anyone who proved useful and did not slow the march.

On the fourth day they reached Greyford, a rough frontier town that served as a regional hub for free companies. The mercenary guild hall stood near the north gate — a squat stone building with iron-bound doors and a permanent smell of ink, oil, and old blood. Every company that wanted legal standing for contracts in the marches registered its fighters there. Unregistered blades could still work, but registered ones drew better pay and clearer protections under the marcher laws.

Raymond led Maha and Chandrakala inside while the rest of the detachment secured lodging.

The guild clerk was a thin, sharp-eyed man who had seen every type of sellsword the frontier produced. He looked up from his ledger as Raymond approached the counter.

“Iron Hounds,” Raymond said, placing the company’s iron dog-head token on the wood. “Two new blades under my charge. Full registration.”

The clerk pulled a fresh page. “Names and specialties.”

Raymond glanced at the two women. Maha stepped forward first, posture straight despite the dust of the road.

“Maha. Accounts, contract review, and support. I can also ride and shoot if needed.”

The clerk’s pen scratched. He did not comment on her size or sex; the guild had long since stopped being surprised by who survived on the roads.

Chandrakala followed. “Chandrakala. Blade and close protection. Independent contracts previously.”

The clerk noted both, then looked at Raymond. “Sponsoring member?”

“Raymond of the Iron Hounds. I’ll stand for their conduct and their shares.”

A few additional questions followed — previous affiliations, any outstanding blood debts, willingness to be bound by company discipline. Both women answered cleanly. Maha’s voice remained steady; Chandrakala’s answers were short and precise. When the clerk asked whether they understood that registration placed them under the Hounds’ internal rules as well as guild law, they both nodded.

Ink dried. The clerk pressed the guild seal beside their names and handed each a small iron token stamped with the Hound’s head on one side and the guild mark on the other.

“Registered,” he said. “Shares and protections start with the next sealed contract. Try not to die before the ink is useful.”

Outside the hall the afternoon light was hard and clear. Raymond watched Maha turn the token over in her fingers, the same careful way she once handled numbers. Chandrakala slipped hers into a pouch without ceremony.

“You’re both on the books now,” Raymond said. “That means the company answers for you, and you answer to the company. No side work without word. No disappearing when the road turns ugly. Clear?”

Maha met his eyes. “Clear.”

Chandrakala gave a single nod. “We already decided. We don’t un-decide easily.”

Raymond almost smiled. “Good. There’s a contract waiting in the hall — a merchant convoy heading into the high passes next week. Bandit trouble expected. You’ll both be on it.”

He turned toward the inn where the Hounds had taken rooms. Maha and Chandrakala fell in beside him, tokens secured, the road ahead no longer something they traveled on the edges of other people’s protection.

For the first time since Oakhaven, they were moving under the same banner.