The young man paused again, choosing his words very carefully now. “It would be more than my life and the lives of my family were worth. And I did not want them to.”
“What is your name?”
“Humexes.”
“Where did you get this ore, Humexes?”
“Here and there.”
Pelekarr shook his head. “This will not do. I want specifics. Ashon, tell this young man that unless he divulges complete answers to all my questions, you’re all leaving here in the morning under heavy guard.”
The old chief didn’t need to turn an exasperated glare upon the young man. “By the river,” Humexes quickly replied. “Back yonder. It’s no great secret.”
Pelekarr’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Iron is extremely rare.”
“Not here.” The young smith’s voice had quieted, and he spoke with a barely perceptible tremble in his voice. It was not anger, nor fear—something else. As if he was caught between two fates that stretched him tight as a harpstring and threatened to end him body and soul. “Not out here.”
“Then why do the barons dig only for tin and copper?” Pelekarr asked, relentless in his interrogation. “Why do they fill mines with slaves to produce a bit more bronze if iron such as this is available?”
“They dig for what they know,” Humexes said. “Kerath is built on bronze. That’s what they care about, the Kerathi nobles. But if they bothered to come west, they’d find iron aplenty. Hills are full of it. The mountains in the interior are built on it.”
“Are they indeed?” Pelekarr murmured to himself, staring at the slag he held in his hand. “What were you making with this?”
“It was… naught. Tryin’ for something. Didn’t work.”
“An ordinary failure wouldn’t have been buried. You concealed the evidence of your labor by burying it in the sand. Why take such trouble?”
Humexes glowered in fury again, and it took another remonstrance from Ashon for him to grudgingly answer. “I buried it to hide it from the likes of you. Should have dumped it in the river, like the rest. I don’t see fit to show my secrets to a Kerathi mercenary, captain though you be.”
“I think you’ve discovered something important,” Pelekarr said, ignoring the man’s defiance for the moment. He was looking into the fire, not at Humexes, but Keltos saw the smith flinch and look up at the quiet force of certainty in the captain’s voice. It was the first chink in his sullen composure, and although the captain appeared unaware of the effect his words were having on the youth, he began to widen the breach. “You’ve found some new method. The signs I uncovered in your smithy point to skilled ironwork, but something more.
“I found the marks in the sand of many, heavy-laden baskets, and a lump of charcoal nearby. Obviously you had neither the time nor the wagon space to bring them with you. I found a little oven-forge. A bloomery, I believe it’s called. You’ve been working bronze, true, but bronze isn’t where your genius truly lies, is it?”
He gazed at the young smith, who stared back.
“Anyone could have worked a bit of bronze to repair tools, but you made something from iron.” Pelekarr held up the slag chunk. “This project of yours, it’s supported by your people, even hidden by them. They encourage you to work in iron and create… whatever it is that you’re creating.”
The young man stood still as stone. The fire crackled and popped. The elders stared at the interplay between captain and smith. Humexes loomed tall and dark against the night, the fire playing across his face, shadow on light on more shadow, a rippling mask. Yet for all his physical stature, it was the seated captain who dominated the scene. His will was the stronger, and his words caught and pinned the younger man.
The smith seemed bewildered; he knew not how to respond. Keltos, watching, realized that whether from certainty or not, the captain had accurately described the situation. Every word he had said was true. All that remained was to see how the other man would respond.
The great shoulders slumped slightly. The scowl shifted into a wary form of relief, even pride.
“You’d have found a lot more than that lump of slag if you’d kept digging up my smithy,” Humexes declared. “And even more if you’d dredged the river.” He tilted his chin up and fixed the captain with an impetuous glare. “They have no idea what I can make. The barons, the smith-guilders, the king himself. They never suspected even for a moment, the fools.”
Ashon caught his breath, and the other elders stared, helpless to intervene but sensing that they were about to lose something carefully guarded.
Pelekarr nodded. Then he stood and turned to face the entire group of elders and the rest of the gathered feasting Ostorans.
“Hearken, all of you! My proposal is simple. My men and I have been paid to find you and bring you back. Just your cause may be, but I care little for that when I need gold to pay my men.” He looked around, jaw square and feet planted firmly several inches apart.
“Ordinarily we would take you, willing or not. If you resisted you would be broken and herded like sheep. But!” The captain’s eyes turned to the smith, still standing nearby. “You have something I want. I believe this lad’s secret knowledge is key to the future of my company, possibly to all of Ostora. My terms are these: turn him over to me, and I will go back and tell the baron that you’ve all been slaughtered by the barbarians. You may then live your lives as free men in this place.”
Everyone stirred in surprise, the mercenaries included. Keltos felt his mouth drop open.
He had not expected anything so generous, as pitiful as the Ostoran workers’ plight was. The captain was openly offering to lie, to betray trust with their employer. In return for another tag-along to the company!
Keltos was shaken by both the breaking of the mercenary code and the knowledge that Captain Pelekarr’s honor had limits. Gazing across the fire at Makos, he could see that his friend was even more disturbed than he at this turn of events.
“I require an answer this very night. Take counsel if you wish, but not too long. My men and I ride out in the morning, with or without you all.”
The elders clustered around Ashon, muttering, and the debate grew heated. The smith, however, remained silent. His gaze rested on those debating his fate with a strange mix of resentment and forlorn ego. It was not often that the future of an entire village rested on the shoulders of one youth, yet here it had happened. In this hour he was vitally important, and he obviously both enjoyed it and hated it.
Keltos felt a sudden kinship with him. Their stories were not so different.
And as he thought over the agreement the men were considering, he saw that Pelekarr wasn’t giving up much after all. By allowing the Ostoran workers to remain where they were, he would hold the knowledge of where to find them again if need be. Then there was the matter of pay from Baron Bax and his brother Dectros; between the dire threats of the centipede and the apes, it was unlikely that the lumber operation would ever return to full productivity. Would the baron really pay up after learning of all these complications? Perhaps the captain was right in working to gain back an advantage in the affair. Certainly he seemed to believe the real prize here was the smith himself.
The elders by the fire had evidently reached some agreement, for the muttering ceased and they all turned to Pelekarr. Ashon spoke for them. “What assurance do you offer us that your word will be kept?”
“I offer none.”
“Why then should we trust you?”
The captain eyed them coldly. “You stand as traitors and renegades to your lawful lord. I could hang you all from the timbers of this fort and I would be within my contract. My word is honored both here and across the sea. That is the assurance you will receive from me.”
Ashon glared back. “You prate of the value of your word, yet you tell us you will break that word when you lie to the baron about our deaths.”
“With the deaths of the entire fort garrison, it is a half-truth already,” Pelekarr said. “I fully e
xpect the barbarians will overrun you and massacre every soul within a fortnight, them or the other dangers that lurk out here, and I cannot be here to stop it if you will insist on remaining. By the time I make my report to the baron, you will be feeding the kites, every one of you.”
That didn’t go over well. Keltos heard some of the women moan in fear and more than one Ostoran cursed savagely.
“That’s ill speech,” Ashon growled.
“Aye, and unlucky,” Dymos added. “Rukhal’s bowels, I think you wish us as much harm as Dectros does!”
“You are isolated and none know you exist,” Pelekarr said, holding out his hands. “No one will come to your aid when the barbarians find you. The day will likely come soon when you long for the protection of Bax’s men.”
“We might do better than you think, captain,” Ashon said, making sure all his fellow Ostorans could hear. “Once the walls are up, we can trade for what we need with the nearest tribes.”
At those words Perian gave a short, bitter laugh, but said nothing. Ashon scowled at her.
“What you do is no concern of mine once I leave this place,” Pelekarr said. “I merely wish to spare the smith. He could be a great help to my company and I have no wish to see him lost with the rest of you.”
“Take him, then!” Ashon roared, all pretense of nicety gone. “Take him and be damned! Rukhal’s guts! I rue the need to trust you. Like as not you’ll betray us, but we have no choice. Take him and begone!”
Pelekarr shook his head. “You forget one thing, my bearded friend.”
“What’s that?”
“You have not asked the lad if he will go. Should he refuse to accompany me, our deal is unmade.”
Ashon turned to the tall figure who still stood across the fire, arms defiantly folded. “You’ll go, lad? Of course you will. To save your people?”
For a long moment the young smith was silent. Keltos thought he saw the gleam of unshed tears in the sullen eyes, but the fire was smoky, and it could have been that.
Humexes opened his mouth, but it was a moment before words came out. “I had made up my mind that I would die out here.”
“No, lad! All our lives depend on it! You must go back.”
“Am I a sheep? Am I a horse?” The smith flexed his arms, fists going down to his sides, and he roared, face livid. “I work harder than any of you! Always have, haven’t I? When I’m done in the forge I join you in the forests! I do my part and then more, and then still more! Yet now when it comes to it, I am bartered away like any chattel!”
“To save your people, lad. There’s no greater honor—”
“You are not my people! My people would have fought to keep me, would have defied these soldiers!” Humexes was almost weeping with anger and hurt, and shamed for the weeping, face turning red. He hid his embarrassment with another roar. “You were never my people! My people are back in Kerath, whose lives I purchased by running away when the king’s men came to murder my father and hunt me like a dog!”
The elders shrank from his rage, and Keltos saw the guilt and anger on their own faces. Yet they dared not censure him. Their lives depended on the young man’s cooperation, and so they must eat their shame. They hated him for it.
Humexes stood, chest heaving, and then gave a great, shuddering sigh.
“I’ll go with you,” he told Pelekarr. “To hell with these settlers. They understood me little better than the kings’ men, or you. Everyone wants my labor, my secrets. That is my value. At least you with you I might draw a fair wage.” In that moment the young smith looked like a lost child turning this way and that to find his mother.
Pelekarr stood. His distaste for the entire thing was now plainly written on his face. “Settled, then,” he said. “Ashon, you’ll never see my troops again, and if anyone comes from the coast after this, it won’t be from my words.”
He turned to the smith. “Lad, bring what you can pack on a mule and camp with us tonight. We ride at first light.”
Humexes nodded wordlessly. The elders gave a collective sigh of relief and began to call for more ale to steady their nerves and bolster their wounded pride. Gradually the settlers began to celebrate their narrow escape, though they still behaved guardedly around the warriors in their midst.
While the smith was still gathering his tools, approaching hooves were heard. They all looked up as a rider came through the open gateway. It was Sergeant Bivar, and he looked grim. Approaching the captain, he slid off the back of his mare.
“Report, Sergeant.” Pelekarr also looked grave, and Keltos moved closer to hear. The sergeant wouldn’t have interrupted without great cause.
Sergeant Bivar drew a deep breath. “The barbarian prisoner has escaped, sir.”
Pelekarr looked down at the ground. “That… complicates things,” he said after a moment.
“What prisoner?” Ashon shouldered his way forward, followed by the elders, still clutching drinking jacks and horns slopping over with ale.
“A barbarian we took in battle a week back, of the Silverpath clan. It doesn’t concern you.”
“An escaped barbarian concerns us mightily!” Ashon cried. “Mishtan’s mercy! He’ll rouse his tribe and lead them straight here, before our walls are up! You spoke of the slaughter of our settlement, and here your prediction will be fulfilled by your own carelessness!”
“This will be dealt with,” Pelekarr growled. “Have I not a company of horsemen standing ready, and infantry besides? See to your village, and I’ll see to my fugitive. And now if you’ll excuse me, I must learn more of this matter.”
He strode off without another word, beckoning to the troopers. Keltos and the others followed quickly, leaving the fort and marching toward the cluster of torches and campfires visible in the trees ahead. Pelekarr and Perian listened intently to Sergeant Bivar’s full report as they walked, and Keltos and Makos caught snatches of the conversation as they followed close behind.
“When did this happen, sergeant?”
“Perhaps an hour ago. A sentry made the rounds, missed the responding call from the man guarding the prisoner. He investigated, found the guard dead, and called me.”
“Two guards were posted!”
“Yes, sir. The first guard was in the trees relieving himself. He heard nothing.”
“Who did we lose, and how did he die?”
“Trooper Kelion, sir. Infantry, second troop. He’d been strangled. The prisoner’s bonds were cut through.”
“Rukhal’s beard! Cut with what?”
“I found this in the grass.” Bivar held up a sharp piece of broken chert, polished and shaped like the point of a knife or spear.
Perian stamped her foot and swore angrily in her own dialect. Pelekarr glanced at her. One of her hands crept slowly to her belt where a small horn-handled knife rested in a leather sheath. The captain nodded once, insisting that she show him, and the woman slowly drew the knife out. The tip was broken off.
The captain eyed her balefully. “It seems you got too close to the prisoner, despite my orders,” he said in even tones.
“He drew me out,” Perian replied. “I lost my temper. Your guards pulled me away, but… not soon enough, it appears.” Her face flushed red and she turned away to scowl at the night sky.
“When did this happen?”
“At the lumber camp, just before the apes attacked.”
“In the future we will have three guards, and search our prisoners twice a day,” Pelekarr ordered the sergeant. He sighed. “Were you able to follow his trail?”
“No, sir.”
“Perian? Can you track him?”
“Not by torchlight. Wait for dawn.”
“He’ll be leagues away by then.”
“Yes! And the way you’ve been feeding him he’ll run all night without faltering.”
Pelekarr reached out and turned the woman around to face him again. “Let the blame rest where it may, one of my men is dead because of this. Now we must act to forestall more ill fortune. Wha
t are our chances of overtaking him before he reaches his people?”
She met his gaze sullenly. “In truth? Remote. How far can your warhorses gallop before tiring?”
“Not far enough,” the captain replied. “Not in this trackless woodland, while trying to follow the faint trail of a single man.”
“Then it would be better for us to simply make our way back toward the coast, and hope we get there before the Silverpath find us.”
The captain stared at her. “And what of these settlers?”
Perian met his stare evenly. “They are doomed. We need not be.”
“We cannot run,” the captain murmured. “Not now. These people will be butchered. Even were they to flee after us, they would be too slow.”
“A fact you’ve already warned them of. They know the risks.”
“We can’t walk away from this, Perian. This is our fault! Yours and mine.”
“I feel the shame of it as you do. But our deaths, if we stay, change nothing. The settlers will die either way. If we run, we may survive, live to avenge them. Wash away the shame of our mistakes in Silverpath blood.”
“Does starting a new blood feud come so easily to you?” Pelekarr snarled.
“I wasn’t the one who spared him!” she shot back. “My feud with the Silverpath began before I was born. This is the price of survival here—welcome to Ostora, Captain!”
The troopers had stopped and waited in silence during this exchange, the blacksmith in the rear. Not a man of them but agreed with Perian, though perhaps only a few would have admitted it aloud. Honor was good; life itself was better. And the deal made with Ashon left little claim for honor to the mercenaries, already on the darker side of glory when they left the generals of Kerath on the beach.
But Keltos felt the protests ring hollow, even weighted with the desire to survive. It was one thing to deceive a cruel and avaricious employer in order to spare innocent people. It was another to abandon those innocent people to certain death aided by the mercenaries’ own coming. The choice became clear in his mind, and he silently hoped the captain would hold his honor fast in this, at least.
He needn’t have worried. Pelekarr gazed off into the night, as if seeing the dark and desperate shape of a running prisoner in his mind. After a long moment, he spoke.
Red Valor Page 20
