by Mark Barber
Lined up behind the men-at-arms were thirty paladins, also in three ranks, waiting atop their armored warhorses. Orion sat in the lead rank, watching the freshly promoted Lord Paladin with interest as the younger knight glared at the legion infantrymen, shaking his head in disapproval every few minutes. Tancred sat atop a magnificent gray warhorse, speckled with white. Orion knew nothing about horses beyond what was necessary to control them in battle, but he could recognize a thoroughbred warhorse worth more than most paladins could afford when he saw one. The paladins wore their full battle armor and rode atop their warhorses, but it was purely for show whist exiting the city. For the long trek north, only minimal armor would be worn while the spare horses would be ridden, leaving the best warhorses fresh and ready for battle.
For those who did not know better, the fighting men and women in blue and white all appeared to be of one force. In actual fact, it was two allied forces under one national banner; the legion took its commands from the democratically elected Duma, while the paladin orders were under the direct control of the Hegemon himself. The paladin orders were often thought of merely as the legion’s mounted contingent. Indeed many orders were attached to specific legions for years on end to form an unbreakable bond. Technically, however, the authority that the Dictator-Prefect would exercise over the paladins was a courtesy, and one that Lord Paladin Tancred had the right to revoke if called for.
Behind the eighty fighting men and women were forty mounted squires, some too young to even be considered auxiliary soldiers, and behind them the baggage train made up of a dozen horse drawn carts with food, tents, money, and other vital equipment. Somewhere toward the rear of the procession was Kell, Orion’s own squire. He sincerely hoped the boy had properly prepared his equipment for the march, for his own sake. Kell had served Orion for nearly two years now, firmly establishing himself as bumbling if at least relentless in his pursuit of his master’s approval.
Finally Orion saw Georgis gesture to the two drummers at the front of the procession. The heavy, familiar boom of the bass drum echoed across the courtyard; three steady beats followed by a silence, then a repeat of the three bangs and a pause. On the next bar, the snare from the second drummer rattled into life at the precise moment that every soldier and warhorse marched forward, left foot first for all the infantrymen. The column of men-at-arms and mounted paladins followed the banging of drums out through the gatehouse and into the streets of the City of the Golden Horn, the crunch of feet and hooves on the cobblestones thudded almost into submission by the drum beats that echoed through the narrow streets and tall buildings.
The pavements to either side of the narrow road were lined with citizens, merchantmen, and other visitors to the sprawling city; a curious concoction of those well used to paying their respects to a military force marching to war and those who watched with gleeful excitement at what was, to them, a complete novelty. The houses to either side of the road were typically angular three story buildings that lined many streets in the city, their wooden walls painted an off white and leaning in to lurch over the road.
Captain Georgis marched smartly out at the front of the parade, his footwork in perfect time with the two drummers behind him. The men-at-arms were an impressive sight, their moves executed with well-drilled precision and their spears held perfectly stationary across their right shoulders.
Dwarfs, elves, ogres, and even salamanders and naiads mixed in with the crowd of humans that flanked both sides of the street, evidence of the impressively cosmopolitan nature of the city, the bastion of justice in the world of Mantica. A few isolated but enthusiastic cheers were issued from the crowds – mainly from children – as the soldiers marched toward the city gates. The youthful exuberance seemed to rally the assembled hundreds, who began a crescendo of cheers and encouraging shouts. The drumbeats echoed and reverberated off the walls of the surrounding buildings, confusing the regular sounds into a wall of noise. Orion saw one of the men-at-arms up ahead – a freshly trained replacement soldier, most likely – lose his timing and frantically stumble and hop in a desperate attempt to realign his limbs to the same timings as the men-at-arms around him. His struggles in turn caused a second soldier to lose his timings and begin the same, almost comedic hop and arm swing. Their failings caused much merriment in the crowds of citizens who guffawed at their misfortune. To Orion, it was an indicator of a deeper problem, a warning of the lack of training and experience accumulated by these men and women.
Orion narrowed his eyes as he detected a commotion up ahead. Two children, a boy and a girl of perhaps five and eight years old respectively, forced their way through the crowd and latched onto one of the men-at-arms, running alongside him and sobbing as they tugged at his arm. A woman in her thirties ran after the children, desperately trying to pry them off the soldier.
“Captain Georgis!” Tancred bellowed above the din of the drums and the crowds. “Take charge of that man!”
Before Georgis could respond, Orion nudged his warhorse into a canter and left his place in the parade, riding up to the children who had pulled the soldier out of his rank. The sobbing children looked up at Orion as he approached, their expressions of sorrow and despair instantly transforming to fear as the bearded, armored rider towered above them and cast them into shadow.
“I’m so sorry, my lord!” the red headed woman sobbed. “Please don’t be angry at them! Please!”
“Back in line,” Orion nodded to the soldier, a man of perhaps thirty years with a neatly trimmed beard.
Orion leaned over in his saddle and looked down at the terrified children as the soldier hurried back into line.
“Your father will be fine,” he forced a slight smile and nodded curtly to the children’s mother.
“Thank you, my lord,” the pale woman smiled uncomfortably, her words only just audible over the crowd and the drums.
Orion returned to his own place in the line of mounted paladins; he saw Tancred swivel in his saddle and fix him with a disapproving glare. Orion pointedly ignored the glower until the younger paladin turned away. The city gates were visible a few hundred yards ahead, at the foot of a steep hill; and beyond them, the green countryside and the road north to the mountains. Orion let out a long breath. He had grown accustomed, even complacent, to a life on the road and campaigning. But this was different. He had never forgotten his uncle Jahus. And he had no intention of bringing Dionne back alive.
Chapter Three
The chirping of birds in the trees by the edge of the shallow pond accompanied the gentle babbling of the trickling waterfall that led from the hills. The flow of water was so gentle that there was not even so much as a ripple by the edge of the pond. The long journey the water took over the rocks of the high ground above did at least mean that it was clean enough to drink by the time it reached the scenic pool, half hidden by the colorful trees which formed a loose ring around it.
Constance leaned over and held her stitched leather waterskin down to the pond to refill it, catching her reflection on the surface of the pool as she did. She saw mediocrity in so many ways. At twenty-eight years of age, Constance was of average height and build, and was neither beautiful nor ugly. She had been raised in a family of moderate affluence, possessed mediocre intelligence; even her brown hair seemed to sit exactly halfway between blonde and black. There was only one thing she truly excelled at, but that one thing was enough to earn her a living.
She dipped the brown pouch into the cool water, nodding to herself and letting out a breath as the drums she had been expecting to hear all morning finally drifted through the trees from the main trade road to the south. Tying her hair back in a rough ponytail, Constance attached her waterskin to her belt and stood, her mail armor chinking. She heard heavy footsteps pounding from the direction of the farmhouse to the east, so she took a moment to close her eyes and inhale the sweet scents of the yellow flowers which surrounded the pond, taking full advantage of her last few moments of solitude.
Jaque, one of her l
ongest serving and most trusted soldiers, appeared at the start of the little dirt path that meandered through the trees, his lanky frame covered in a jacket of brown, quilted armor.
“Constance!” he called across. “They’re here!”
Constance nodded and jogged over to catch up with Jaque. The two walked back toward the farmhouse where the rest of her soldiers waited. Blossoms twirled down from the trees, seeming almost to shine as they drifted down to the lush blanket of green grass below in the pillars of bright sunlight that permeated the leafy canopy above.
“You ever been to the Tarkis mountains before?” Jaque asked as they walked briskly along the path.
“No,” Constance admitted, “but it’s only the southernmost extent of the ranges, and its summer; so I’m not worried. From what I hear, we might see the odd sprinkling of snow, but nothing too bad. I’d imagine it’ll be tough going on the legs, though. Still, the contract is more than worth the tired legs.”
“And we’re back in Basilea,” Jaque flashed a gap-toothed grin, his gray eyes sparkling enthusiastically. “It’s good to be home after so long away.”
Constance emitted a noise that indicated her contrary opinion. She certainly appreciated the warm weather in Basilea, but while it was the country she was born in and grew up in, her deep resentment at much of the social and political construct left her unable to consider it her ‘home’.
The drums from the main road grew louder and more distinct as they two reached the farmhouse. Thirty mercenaries, Constance’s entire band, lazed in the morning sun on a patch of flat grass between the farmhouse and the roadway. Some used their packs as pillows, others sat atop them while gambling, but all had their weapons close to hand. Each mercenary carried an arbalest; a heavy crossbow with an even heavier punch, able to propel an iron tipped bolt through the thickest armor. However, the huge force required to draw back the string for each shot necessitated the use of a windlass to wind the weapon, which greatly slowed down a unit’s rate of shooting.
Hayden, Constance’s musician and the oldest man present, breathlessly joined her as the first ranks of Basilean men-at-arms appeared over the horizon on the road. Hayden was as tall as a bear and with a belly built on decades of ale consumption to match, his few strands of gray hair and his thick iron mustache framed a face made up of an oversized nose, lips, and jawline which gave him a comedic, friendly demeanor.
“Shall I get them up and on the road?” Hayden asked as he approached.
“No,” Constance replied, “these men and women aren’t in the legion anymore. We don’t have anything to prove with pointless displays of pomp and ceremony. Let them relax.”
The trio of mercenaries watched the procession of soldiers as it approached. Three ranks of fifty spearmen led the way; behind them was the ever-impressive sight of mounted paladins, their gold and silver armor twinkling in the sunlight. After them rode their squires on the spare warhorses, with the tail end of the force being made up of the supply train of wagons. With a bellowed command, the drums stopped and the small army came to an instant halt on the road by the farm. A portly man in mail armor with a highly polished breastplate and pauldrons, perhaps a few years Constance’s junior, with a clean-shaven but sweat soaked face, walked out in front of the ranks of soldiers.
“Detachment! Fall out! Ten minutes, get some water!”
The well-drilled precision of the marching soldiers was instantly replaced with men ambling off in small groups, striking up conversation as they took waterskins from their packs. Their leader walked down from road and, after asking a question to the first mercenary he reached, was directed over to Constance. He paced over and stood formally in front of Hayden.
“I am Captain Georgis of the 32nd Legion,” he said crisply. “We are…”
“She’s in charge, not me,” Hayden nodded at Constance.
“You’re in command here?” Georgis asked incredulously after a brief pause.
“Women have been allowed to fight in the Basilean legion for over a decade now, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you,” Constance folded her arms. “So yes, I’m in charge, Georgis.”
“One doesn’t see many women in the mercenary trade,” the captain responded coolly.
“Perhaps it is because so few women leave the legion on account of how well they are treated,” Constance countered with a sarcastic smile.
Hayden and Jaque failed to suppress laughs. The legion captain looked around at where Constance’s mercenaries lay idly in the farmer’s field before flashing an exasperated glare back at her.
“Some semblance of military order would be appreciated here,” he snapped, “and I was promised forty men.”
“Yet you shall have thirty as that is the size of this unit,” Constance planted her fists on her hips. “And if anybody has reason to complain here, it’s us, not you. While we arrived at the meeting point on time, you failed to do so. You’re late.”
“I’d prefer you to refer to me as ‘Captain’,” Georgis leaned in aggressively, “and while we have been unavoidably detained, the fact of the matter still remains that this is not the unit size we were promised, and therefore your pay will be cut accordingly. In addition, the Dictator-Prefect insists that you wear the white and blue of the Basilean Legion, seeing as you are seconded to it.”
“If we are being formal, then you may also refer to me by my rank of Captain, Captain,” Constance snapped, “but you’ll be the only one bothering to do so! My soldiers respect me just as I respect them, so I have no need to hide behind formalized titles. But in your case, I’ll make an exception. And as for the blue and white…”
“Dictator-Prefect Hugh insists upon it,” Georgis folded his arms.
Constance froze, as if an icy claw had clamped itself around her throat. Her heart pounding in her chest, she let out a labored breath.
“Who is the Dictator-Prefect in command of this task?” Constance managed.
“Dictator-Prefect Hugh of Athelle.”
“The deal is off,” Constance spat. “Hayden, get the men and women together! We’re leaving! Now!”
Constance turned on her heel and took three or four unsteady paces. The world seemed to swim, the sky above and the grass below seemed to close in on her as painful memories forced their way into her mind. A strong hand rested on her shoulder to steady her, but it did little.
“What?” Georgis scoffed. “What difference does that make? You are contracted for a job and you’ll damn well carry it out!”
“You heard her,” Jaque said, “the deal’s off.”
Emitting a string of profanities, Georgis turned and stormed back to the road. Hayden walked around to look down at Constance, clamping both hands on her shoulders.
“You alright?” He forced an uneasy smile.
“Yes… yes, I’m good,” she managed as her breathing slowly returned to normal.
“I’m with you,” Jaque said seriously, “I’m not fighting for that bastard, especially if they’re cutting our pay as well.”
Constance turned and watched as one of the paladins dismounted from his horse and commenced a heated discussion with Georgis. The legion captain flung his arms to either side in desperation periodically throughout their conversation before finally pointing in Constance’s direction and striding off to the other side of the road. The knight – a Lord Paladin judging by his unique attire - sauntered over toward them, his blue cloak fluttering in the light wind.
As he drew nearer, Constance could see he was in his mid-twenties - young for a Lord Paladin - with an unruly mass of red curls falling to either side of an unpleasant face made even worse by a nose that had been broken several times. The paladin was far from the childhood stories of dashing, handsome heroes, as were indeed the vast majority in Constance’s experience. The red headed man looked more like a mischievous adolescent who had been packed into his father’s armor. He stopped in front of the trio of mercenaries.
“I’m Lord Paladin Tancred of Effisus,” the paladin said
in a tone that Constance figured the young lord felt commanded respect. “I have heard things have gotten off to a bad start. We really need you with us. Tell me what I can do to make this situation work for you, and I’ll do all I can. Please.”
Constance looked to either side at her old friends. Dealing with a petulant junior captain of the legion was one thing, but a Lord Paladin was something entirely different.
“My lord,” she began with a respectful nod of her head, “I have brought my soldiers here at the agreed time and place. Captain Georgis has informed us that we are to have a significant portion of our pay docked due to an incorrect assumption of our unit size on his part. In addition, he now expects us to wear the colors of the Basilean army, a demand that many of my men and women will be uncomfortable with.”
The red headed paladin nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.
“You’ll get the pay you were promised, irrespective of the number of soldiers you have with you. I’ll personally pay the difference. I believe you were already being paid very well, so given that, you will now receive payment for forty soldiers to be divided among thirty.”
Tancred paused, his brow furrowed thoughtfully before he continued.
“I’d never dare of accusing mercenaries of being driven solely by profit, I’m well aware that there are a great many other factors involved here, but this is a significant wage we are discussing. I hope that does at least demonstrate the value with which you and your company are held.”
Constance looked up at Hayden. The big man raised his brows and nodded slowly. She looked across at Jaque but deduced that the wiry mercenary was far more undecided. The money was more than she had ever been paid for a single job, but her principles meant far more to her than the payment.
“Twenty-four of my soldiers are ex-legion,” Constance continued, “the rest are former soldiers from their own home nations. However, many of us – myself included – have run afoul of Basilean justice once or twice. We are not on good terms with the Hegemony, and we will not wear its colors.”
