Though mercenaries may find work in any kingdom, for war is a constant among rulers and kings, four nations in the center of the West are particularly notable for fielding mercenary armies. In Ophir, diamonds are plucked from the ground like daises, so say those jealous of that kingdom’s immense wealth. Koth, while not a Hyborian kingdom, rivals the powers of those sons of Bori north of her. Kothic people are a mix of that Hyborian stock and the southern Shemites who command the vast meadowlands and deserts of that ancient land. Finally, there is Khoraja, a kingdom itself founded by mercenary adventures who long ago sliced a nation from Koth as a butcher flenses a piece of meat from a great flank.
Ophir’s scheming Hyborian king and queen will, in their time, conspire with Koth and the dread wizard Tsotha-lanti to capture King Conan of Aquilonia. But that is another tale, and one which the young Cimmerian mercenary can scarcely dream of. We see these kingdoms as they were in his days, with the dog-brothers and sword-sisters of these lands — fighting for coin, bloodlust, and glory.
Appearance[]
- Khorajans are essentially Kothian in descent, their country having been part of Koth until relatively recently. However in recent decades, their stock has become infused with more Hyborian blood and thus they are lighter-skinned. Some few have blonde hair and blue eyes.
- Kothians are tan folk of some height. Men often wear ringleted beards, and women braid their hair. Kothic people are known for their sharp, hawkish noses.
- Ophireans are slightly darker skinned than their Hyborian cousins, often with dark hair and brown eyes. Of medium height, they bear some similarity to Argosseans, though the former often dress with more flesh.
- Shemites are of dark complexion from the suns of their lands and almost always dark-haired. Men wear blue-black beards, while women often braid their hair or interlace it with beads. Shorter than the average Hyborian, Shemites tend to be compactly built, though this is not always the case. In the meadow lands, Shemite complexion turns fair, even pale, and frames are lither and less generally powerful.
Amalric Speaks of The Central Desert Kingdoms[]
The Life of a Sell-Sword[]
Between the clangor of steel in Corinthia and the biting cuts that turn new-fallen snow red when the Vanir hire mercenaries, sell-swords fight and slay across the known world. There is no nation that does not use them. War is constant, and so jobs are always available. When work has dried up in one place due to the illusion of peace, a sellsword readily finds employ in another kingdom, nation, or satrapy. Sometimes attacking the now peaceful land. The nature of this profession takes mercenaries across the land, fighting for pay in the civilized lands as well as in tribal conflicts amongst the foreboding kingdoms to the south.
Even though work is readily available, sell-swords themselves are rarely penurious or careful with their coin. Carousing fills the periods between fighting for most mercenaries. Their fortunes rise and fall like the hewing stroke of an axe. When they have money, they stay in nice inns, drink rivers of alcohol, feast like kings, and sleep with beautiful prostitutes. When they lack funds, they sleep under awnings in cold alleys and bed with the worst of whores, or go alone.
In short, the life of a sell-sword is like a war — violent and chaotic. These aren’t the types who plan for their future. They rarely save — preparing for the retired life of a quiet innkeeper — as each new dawn may be their last. There is a pervading fatalism among their kind. After many campaigns, the lines between life and death seem more and more arbitrary. Mercenaries trust steel and good horses over warm beds and families. Wanderers all, the mercenary comes from no place and every place at once. Learning new languages is common for sell-swords, and they often know the customs of a half-dozen nations.
Mercenaries fight alongside the armored knights of the Hyborian countries as readily as they do the peasants and tribesfolk pressed into service by foreign kings. Roots are not something a mercenary puts down. They drift with the winds of war, blown along like leaves in the ever-raging tempest of conflict. This life both informs and reflects their philosophy. Life is likely short, and one must seize from it what they can before it ends.
A typical mercenary has only weapons and armor, a horse (if that), and a small pack. The coins carried are all the mercenary has, if any at all. Seen as expendable by their employers, a mercenary who has lasted a few bloody seasons has likely been one of the few survivors of a massacre. Equally as likely, they have stood proudly over massacred foes. Death is bound up in their worldview. Their very business is killing, something most sheltered peasants and city folk abhor. Soldiers look down upon the sell-swords fighting alongside them, while rural villages fear that these free companies may turn to pillaging if their war runs out its last grain in the hourglass. This fear isn’t unfounded. A mercenary without a war is like an unsheathed blade, a dangerous thing. Some of the largest companies make money merely by extorting local authorities, sometimes even their former employers.
Still, for all that, any company worth its name stays bought. They have a professional pride in their word. When a king’s coins find their way into a sell-sword’s purse, that mercenary owes fealty to said king... until the coins cease to flow.
Dog-brothers and Sword-sisters[]
Those who spill their blood together are brothers. Whilst a king or petty baron may dismiss a mercenary as expendable, those who fight together have each other’s backs. Sometimes, of course, this is literal. Many have fallen back-to-back as the pressing horde of their foes closed in. That is the way of this life. Mercenaries fight, sleep, and eat, live and die by one another’s side. There is nothing more noble to them than that purpose — for when the coin has lost its sheen, or been slipped into a whore’s purse, and they wake in the gloom of morning, their heads aching from drink the night before, it is to this strange family they return.
Though the way of the sword is not one traveled often by women, there are no small number of female mercenaries — sword-sisters, they are called — riding, marching, and carousing alongside their fellow dog-brothers. Some of them don the garments and guises of men, perhaps seeking to avoid unwanted attention, while others declaim their gender proudly and make challenge to any who treat them disrespectfully. A mercenary’s resourcefulness and fighting-skill are the only things worth considering... anything beyond that is their own business.
Mercenary companies have cleaved the skulls of Ophireans and Turanians alike. They have marched along the Road of Kings and into the campaigns of Corinthia and Koth. These men have watched the sun sink its bloody eye into the Vilayet as vultures whirl above to claim what the victors leave behind. They have seen the moon from a Messantian palace, and slept also in the blood and mud while rain fell miserably upon them.
In the same life, one can scramble for coin in the gutters of Accursed Arenjun and turn bandit during lean times in the Turanian desert. Satraps there may refuse to pay, whereupon mercenaries venture to take what is owed by raiding caravans. The Free Companions spent one winter in Brythunia hiding from the new king who demanded the heads of all mercenaries who had fought against him. A mercenary’s career is one of extremes; dire poverty may be suddenly alleviated with enormous wealth. A company may be exiled from a nation after a usurpation only to later be welcomed by its new rulers when they have need of sell-swords again.
Some kings, though, have longer memories than others. The Free Companions still have bounties on their heads from King Yezdigerd, some five years after they fought for the independence of one of his city-states. Still, most are willing to forget on whose side a company last served so long as their reputation is solid and their sword-arms strong. Each dog brother or sword-sister daily trusts each of their fellow mercenaries with their life. This is their bond. Above coin, they are loyal to each other.
The Profession of Arms[]
Sell-swords, dog-brothers, sword-sisters, free-lances... mercenaries go by many names. In lands such as Koth, they make up the greater host of armies fielded by barons, lords and other petty tyrants. One may don many mantles in the course of a life — from dewy-eyed youth to stripling thief. Those who take adventure as their path wear many guises. But in the pitch of combat, where a foe’s eyes go wide as a blade drinks deep, that is where a life is lived truest.
Mercenaries receive little credit for the battles they win and the greater share of blame for those lost. It is not their role to be glorified in the eyes of scheming tyrants, but they find their admiration amongst themselves when they speak of the campaigns they have survived, and show the scars they have earned. Thus do mercenaries survive. The warriors of the great Free Companies, famed across the West, march under banners and give fealty in exchange for coin. The only borders they pay heed to are the sides of the road, their only homeland is their camp, and their only king is their captain.