The agent in question turned out to be a short, squat fellow who looked like he came from one of the burrowing races, except for his dark tan and narrow eyes.
There were a few pleasantries exchanged as the parties were introduced to one another, but once that was over the conversation quickly turned to business.
“So how many other companies have you been able to hire?”
The agent slumped. “Most of the companies I spoke to weren’t interested, once they heard of the opposition. Except at exorbitant rates. The only one that would agree to rates I could afford was Hanse’s Roughriders.”
“That isn’t exactly thrilling. The Roughriders have numbers, but tactics tend to be beyond them.”
Hanse’s Roughriders were a large mercenary company from the fringe regions, mostly full of barbarians from a single giant clan. They were headstrong, ill-trained, but fearless and fairly cheap. Not whom Nietan would have chosen as allies either.
“No one else would take the prince’s coin?” The Priest’s eyes bored into the agent. The man cowered back.
“Well, there was a band of the Corpsewalkers that expressed interest. But I didn’t think they’d mesh well with you.”
The Priest let loose a feral chuckle. “Mesh well? Our gods have been at war since they were first born. They steal the souls of those who have died in honourable battle and turn them into slaves, rather than letting them celebrate eternity in Heremæcg’s feasting hall.” He paused and stared at the wall of the tent for a moment before turning back to the agent. “How many do the Roughriders have?”
“Eight thousand, but those barbarians can’t count.”
“So anywhere between six and ten, depending on Hanse’s mood and that of his followers. Either way, not enough to combat the Traitor Legion and the Heretics.” A sigh escaped. “Where are the Corpsewalkers?”
“They’re coming to Ceaster, or at least said they were. They’d told me I’d reconsider.”
“Pushy bastards. How many?”
“Probably about a thousand. Most of those are… servants though.”
“As always. Hire them and send them after us. The Nameless and the Wolven Kindred will be on the march, so tell them to hurry. We move fast, and by the pass of Nirewett.”
Ær grumbled inside Nietan’s mind, prompting him to speak up. “The northern pass? Isn’t it going to be dangerous to go through there at this time of year?”
“If you’re afraid of danger, why are you a mercenary? Anyway, we need to get to the Coastal Kingdoms quickly. We’ve dallied here enough waiting for this pitiful creature to find us allies.” He glared down at the agent. “And where are the Roughriders?”
“They’ve… already marched. They’ll be a week ahead of you.”
“A week in which they’ll try and win the war themselves. And get killed in the process. Bloody idiot barbarians. That confirms it. We take Nirewett, and at double time. Nietan, I expect you ready to lead us out before dawn tomorrow. We’ll send over the supplies for your men to pack tonight.”
The Packmaster nodded. “We’ll manage.”
***
As the two companions left the tent of the Slaughter Priest, they fell into conversation, speculating about what might lie ahead.
We’re probably going to lose, even with our new-found allies. Late to the field and outnumbered is a bad way to start a war.
“And we starve if we don’t go. And if we win, we patch our reputation. And hopefully incur some gratitude that earns us further contracts.”
I know. But you’re asking us to choose between rotted carcasses.
“You’ve scavenged before.”
The wolven aren’t going to like being allied with the Corpsewalkers. Neither are the humans, for that matter.
“You think I want to be allied with the death god’s warrior priests? I’d rather they were at the other end of the continent. But if their servants are all that stand between us winning a war and us losing it, I’ll have one as my right side partner.”
Ær growled at that, and trotted away, tail in the air. Nietan sighed and followed after. His companion would have to accept the situation they were in. Probably did, actually, and didn’t want to own up to it. Riding to war with the Corpsewalkers felt far too much like compromised morals.
***
The combined forces left Ceaster the next morning, as the bright light of the sun was just beginning to spill down the valley ahead of them. As befitting their agreement, the wolven and their companions were out roaming as scouts, while the unbonded Kindred formed the vanguard for the Nameless. Some of the war god’s own had grumbled at that, saying they should have pride of place in the order of march, but the Slaughter Priest had overridden them. Harshly.
Both Nietan and Ær had blanched at the punishment inflicted for the minor, but persistent disagreement. Each of the men in question had been lashed ten times, and then had vinegar poured into the wounds. It might have cleaned them, as the medic claimed, but the screams spoke of another purpose.
After that, the Kindred made sure to spend their time well forward. Both the Packmaster and Beastmaster found excuses to take scouting positions, and trotted off over the horizon. Once there, Nietan let Ær run free, the wolven’s sense of smell and hearing strong enough he would notice any threat long before Nietan would. To be honest, the only reason human companions scouted with their wolven allies was to ensure whatever was found was reported. Not that there was likely to be much trouble today, or indeed for most of the march. No bandit had ever been stupid enough to attack a mercenary company, and no lord ever was so foolish as to try to impede their passage.
Thus there was no hardships aside from the regular ones of military life for the Kindred as they passed onwards towards the Coastal Kingdoms. Indeed, compared to their prior existence it was one of some relaxation. There was food and drink, enough shelter to stay dry, and where once their discipline had been shoddy, it was now much better. Although given their small numbers, Nietan spent most of their training time on the art of skirmishing, of engaging from the flanks and retreating. They were too small for all but the most necessary of line warfare.
Especially after losing some men while stationed in Ceaster. Nietan had been forced to eject the worst troublemakers, including a bonded pair that would not stop arguing about the Kindred being allied with another mercenary company. The unbonded men could be replaced easily enough, most likely, but replacing a pair-bond was going to take time. And had upset both the wolven and the humans, but there had been little choice, so great was the level of disruption.
He refused to recognize what was good for Kindred.
“True, but to eject someone from his home and family hurt. He’d been a brother for thirty years.”
And in all that time, never learned wisdom or the ways of the pack. Whatever bitch whelped his wolven needs lessons in motherhood.
“Whoever it was is dead, Ær.”
Ær turned his muzzle to stare at the horizon for a moment. Why do you pair bond with us? Barring you dying in battle, you’re going to outlive me. And the next wolven as well. Why do you bind yourself to us knowing you will bury our corpses?
“Because what we get in return makes the payment seem a paltry thing.”
Is it really though? Some never bond again.
Nietan sighed. He wasn’t qualified to speak on this matter. Ær was his first companion.
“You’ll have to ask the Beastmaster. He has to know., as much as any one person can.”
The man who can bond us all, but never himself. I wonder how much regret he feels over that.
“A great deal, I should think. But in some ways, he is bonded to every wolven in the Kindred.”
And watches them all die. Burying the unbonded with his own hands. You humans pay too great a price for our support.
“We made our choice Ær. You’re going to have to live with that.”
Irrational to the end.
“It’s the only way to get through life.”
***
The days passed in something that, for soldiers on the march, by and large resembled ease. Their camps were undisturbed, and the scenery was pleasant and lush, full of fresh water and game to hunt. Indeed, compared to the rigorous training with the Iron Brotherhood, this was a pleasant change.
Of course, there were always exceptions, and Nietan was dealing with one of them now. Two of the Nameless had gotten into a fight with a brother and his wolven companion. And while the humans had only used their fists, the wolven hadn’t. The fight had only come to an end when the wolven had pinned one of the Nameless by the throat and started squeezing.
Knowing the Slaughter Priest would arrive shortly, Nietan set about trying to gather as much information as possible, while Ær communed with the wolven. Unfortunately, both sides told garbled tales that had the other at fault. And despite her more honest nature, the wolven couldn’t help. She’d been playing with some of the cubs when she noticed her companion’s emotions and run to assist. By then the fight had started.
The Slaughter Priest heard the same garbled stories when he arrived, and Nietan relayed what the wolven had told him. The Priest glared, and with a curt gesture pulled Nietan to the side, well out of earshot of any of the guilty parties. Except, probably, the wolven. Most humans never understood just how much better their hearing was.
“And what do you suggest we do, my dear Packmaster? One of those parties is lying to us, and unfortunately I cannot tell which one it is. Perhaps you’re better suited?”
“I wish. Not even Ær can smell which one is lying. They both tell the truth as they see it.”
“There are not usually two truths about why a fight starts. However, as we cannot determine who is at fault, we must punish them equally. I shall send for the Truthseeker. He will adjudicate appropriately.”
‘Truthseeker’ was the slightly disingenuous title for the Nameless’s master torturer and disciplinarian. And as befitted the company with which he travelled, he was exceedingly harsh.
“You would punish my men as your own?”
“They committed the same crime, or at least the human did. And yes, discipline shall be equal. Your Kindred are now nothing more than a small part of the Nameless, after all. You can hardly claim to have rights on your own.”
Nietan glared at the Slaughter Priest, but said nothing. There was, truthfully, nothing he could say. And he knew he’d be roasted around the camp-fires tonight for that.
“As for the wolven, she seems to have acted defensively. Her partner’s pain will be reminder enough to keep her out of trouble. I believe that closes the matter, unless you have something to add?” The Priest looked at Nietan expectantly, but nothing was forthcoming. “Good. I shall inform the Truthseeker. Do keep a watch on the guilty until he arrives.”
That said, the Priest swept away from the meeting, leaving Nietan grumbling at his retreating back.
One never realizes the value of what one has lost until after it is gone.
“I can only hope this gambit of mine works. And I think we need an all company meeting tonight. There’s a few things I have to speak about. Before rumours run wild.”
A wise choice. Also, we should double the training. We’re getting close to Nirewett, and we’ll see forces there or soon after. Unless the Roughriders are far more successful than they have any right to be.
“I’m surprised we’ve not seen any sign of Hanse and his men. They don’t usually pass through without a trace.”
It has been a week. But a group of men so large as that should leave at least some sign. Perhaps they took another route.
“I hope not. The last thing I’d want is for our forces to be defeated in detail. I may not like most of our allies all that much, but they’re what keeps the Kindred alive.”
***
The approach to Nirewett was fraught and nervous, with half of the Kindred out scouting at any one point. The narrow mountain pass that was the only route to the coast in these northern climes was inhospitable for any number of reasons, chief amongst which was the narrow confines and easy ability to be ambushed. Any opponent with sufficient time could turn the pass into a deathtrap. Many, in previous times, had.
And so as the Nameless approached the ascent to the narrow saddle, they sent the entirety of the Kindred upwards and through the gap, following at a steady distance. At least the Nameless demonstrated trust in their allies, for had the Kindred wished to assist an ambush, they would have been caught entirely unawares.
But unlike their recent, sordid, past, the Wolven Kindred had no such intentions. Thus when Nietan emerged from the pass to see a sizeable force encamped on the plain below, he immediately sent word via the wolven of its presence. Only then did he organize his unit into patrols and send several of them off in the direction of this new force.
As with most things the Kindred did, these patrols were comprised primarily of pair-bonded. Indeed, the purpose of the unbonded remained what it always had been – to die before the pair-bonds did. No matter how skilled they were in combat, there was nothing they could do that would match the speed and reactions of the linked companions. Those who had been pair-bonded and no longer were accepted their role in this scheme. Some even used it as an excuse to seek death, at least occasionally. Those who had never been bonded often resented their lower class citizenship within the group, but they were always offered the chance to bond, and for whatever reason had not found a wolven who suited them. Or perhaps they did not suit the wolven. Either way, they were the ones most likely to drift away whenever the Kindred arrived in a town. Indeed, they had been amongst the loudest of the troublemakers when Nietan’s plan had been proposed.
Those of the Kindred not on patrol set about digging slit trenches and low barricades about the mouth of Nirewett. They would be paltry defences, manned by thousands fewer than any attackers, but they could hold long enough to let the Nameless retreat in good order. Better the whole force was not destroyed.
Only when the second trench was being dug were the first reports transmitted via Ær. And as usual with wolven, it spoke of scents.
They stink. Of blood, filth, sweat, and all those other smells that encompass unwashed warriors. The mental pattern is quite revolting. You humans are lucky your senses are so dull.
“Did they convey anything beyond the stench?”
Guttural sounds. Rough, harsh language. And the sounds of fighting, although not with metal.
“I think I know who those men are then.”
Hanse’s?
“You’re beginning to paint a picture that sounds a lot more like them than any of the other mercenaries. Unless of course it’s the rabble that we’re fighting. They’d probably smell about the same as the Roughriders.”
More reports came in, from another patrol. They confirmed what the first had said, and added that the camp seemed particularly shoddy in terms of its layout and cleanliness. And that the guards on the wall he could see were carrying oversized swords and axes.
Ær’s head swung about and his ears twitched.
A wolven let his scent drift over the horses. This is not good.
There was a massive uproar visible in the camp below, as men ran hither and yon, most to the walls, but many to the massive pens that contained their horses, held on the far side of the camp. There they were free to issue out into the plain to either side, capable of encircling any enemy attacking the makeshift fort.
Nietan sighed as Ær relayed details to him, of the patrols fleeing back to the relative safety of the pass, and of the horses being readied for a punitive strike against whomever thought to raid the camp. A quick gesture brought the standard bearer forward, and another set him to waving the flag over the basic defences. Hopefully the Roughriders, if that was what they were, would at least take the time to examine the banner and see the wolven rampant, holding a shield between its claws.
Of course, hoping the banner stopped them also required hoping illiterate barbarians even knew who their allies were.
To help ensure they weren’t overrun by allied cavalry, Nietan had another soldier run a white cloth up a spear and wave that in the air as well. The two should keep the horsemen away.
A glance back showed the Nameless beginning to issue from the mouth of the pass. A call to Ær passed along the polite but firm request to speak to the Slaughter Priest, and to have him bring his standards to the fore as soon as possible.
By now the patrols had returned, but following closely on their heels were a number of heavy cavalry units. Heavy not so much for their armour, which was mostly leather with metal riveted to it here and there, along with the occasional suit of chain, but more because of the great weight of the men riding and the horses being ridden.
Each horse must have massed as much as ten men in armour, so great was their size. Nietan was fairly sure his height, average for the Kindred, would come to no more than the shoulders of any. Thus it was with some trepidation he told the men to ready their first volley.
Thankfully, the riders in question pulled up some distance from the breastworks, waiting in close order while one of their number dismounted and strode towards the lines. She was a hefty lady, very well muscled and short, but in one hand she carried a sword that most men would need to use two for, and in the other was a heavy shield, lengthened so the tail would cover her legs while riding. She paused at the lines while the Kindred defenders and their Nameless reinforcements stared.
“Well, where is your champion to fight me? Or do you not raid with honour?”
Nietan glanced over at the Slaughter Priest, who by this time had managed to join him. The war god’s chosen spoke for them both. “I do not believe we need to fight. You are Hanse, are you not?”
She chuckled, the heaving motion of which drew all eyes to a certain part of her anatomy. “So, you are the allies I was told to expect then.” Hanse looked at the motley force arrayed before her. “Dog-lovers and berserkers. I had hoped for better.”
Wolven Kindred Page 3
