War in Tethyr n-2

by Victor Milán

  His followers subsided into watchful silence. "Thank you," Zaranda told him.

  "So what happens now?"

  "We each go our separate ways," she said. "However-"

  His narrow features closed. "I reckoned there was a however."

  "There usually is. We find ourselves in possession of your goods train. We are happy to be able to restore it to you-but we did save you, at risk to ourselves, and we must eat like any others. So I think a recovery fee of ten percent would not be unreasonable."

  "That's naught but highway robbery!" protested the young forester who'd objected loudest to Shield.

  "No," Wyancott said. "Highway robbery was a moment ago when you had a dirk prodding you in the ribs, sister-son. Like as not it would be well and truly stuck between them now, were it not for these folk."

  He looked at Zaranda. "You have the right of it. It's a small enough price to pay, seeing as we thought to be left with nothing at all."

  "What ho, Zaranda!" cried Farlorn, who was likewise guarding the captive bandits. "Are we to carry off stacks of dried animal skins and sheaves of bark on our backs? Not to mention that the hides stink worse than your young apprentice did when first you brought her home."

  Chen gave off sniffling to glare at him. Zaranda found herself half hoping the girl would set his hair on fire. The bard was far too skillful with words to wound with them accidentally.

  "I think," Zaranda said, "we can come to far more satisfactory terms."

  Thereupon she declared the bandits' possessions forfeit, by way of compensating the Tethir foresters for their pains. The outlaws proved to have a few coins among them. Their weapons were of generally poor quality, though several swords showed promise that a good cleaning and whetting would render them more than serviceable, and the leader had been armed with a fine spike-headed mace and poniard. Their horses, while not exactly prize destriers and coursers, were valuable enough.

  Wyancott, however, was more than happy to trade the spoils from the bandit band for the share of his goods Zaranda had claimed as recovery fee, even though everyone agreed that they were worth more than ten percent of his cargo.

  As the weapons and oddments of armor were bundled together and loaded onto the confiscated horses, Zaranda approached her captives, who were all awake and mobile now, standing in a resentful clump in their loincloths and ratty, foul chemises. Farlorn was playing a little game with them, tapping a bandit first on one shoulder with his drawn rapier, then on the other, making him pivot his head frantically from side to side to see what was touching him. Finally he let his blade lie firmly against the bandit's panting neck. The foresters laughed hugely at his expression when he saw what lay against his jugular.

  Zaranda glared at the half-elf. Farlorn shrugged, laughed, and put away his sword. "I just thought to lighten the spirits of our newfound friends," he said. "That is, after all, my stock in trade."

  "What will you do to us?" the bearded bandit leader demanded.

  "You didn't kill anybody," Zaranda said. "So we'll not kill more of you."

  Some of the foresters grumbled at this. Wyancott shouted them down.

  "What I'm going to do," Zaranda said, "is let you go, with a warning: Do not molest this caravan again, and do not seek to follow us. If you do, I'll burst your lungs inside your chests."

  "You're going to just leave us like this?" the bandit leader cried. "Unarmed, naked, and with our hands tied behind us?"

  "That's about the shape of it, yes."

  "What about poor Fleebo, lying there dead?" another bandit asked.

  "Would you care to join him?"

  Balmeric sidled up to her and put his head against hers. "Scum like this run in bigger packs," he muttered from the corner of his mouth. "We could maybe get their pals to go ransom on 'em."

  "Perhaps," Zaranda answered quietly. "But with some of your men double-mounted on mules, we're not much faster than this wagon train. I don't want to look back to see a troop of kettle-head heavy cavalry riding up our tails."

  The mercenary officer pulled a thoughtful face and nodded.

  The bandit chief was looking thoughtful too. In his case it was a pained expression. He was a man who didn't readily harbor more than one thought at a time. A new idea had clearly forced its way into his head and was grinding around in there.

  "Why are you really letting us go?" he asked.

  "So you can do what our friends in the caravan will likewise be doing," Zaranda said. "Spreading the word that the Star Company, Protective Services Extraordinaire, is open for business."

  17

  The village consisted of a sparse collection of blocky houses. Though it overlooked the not altogether mighty Sulduskoon River, where it bowed away from the eastern tag end of the Starspire Mountains and the forest of Tethir toward Ithmong, it lay far enough inland that little rain fell, so that instead of the stone and brick walls and pitched tiled roofs of the coastal zone, the buildings had adobe walls and flat roofs.

  When Zaranda led her little mounted band into the midst of it on a sun-drenched morning a few days after her escape from Zazesspur, it showed no more sign of life than if it had been abandoned at the time of the fall of Castle Tethyr. The houses were closed up tight with stout wooden shutters. The doors were shut. No pigs, dogs, or even chickens were to be seen on or among the buildings.

  "All of this is clear evidence that they need us," Zaranda commented aloud as they reined up in the village common, which was bare, packed earth but for a great spreading oak tree planted many generations before at one edge of the common. "No village is that poor."

  "What are we doing here, anyway?" demanded Chen, riding behind her.

  "Patience, and you'll see." She raised her voice. "Knock, knock!"

  For a moment nothing but the wind slapping the mud-brick walls answered her. Then: "Go away," a querulous voice emanated from the nearest house, muffled by the shutters. "We've nothing left worth stealing."

  "If I were a determined thief, I wouldn't believe that for a minute," Zaranda said. "But we aren't thieves. We are here to discuss trading with you."

  "And what have you to trade?"

  "Protection."

  Another moment, and then there was the scrape of a bar being withdrawn from a door. A squeal of ill-lubricated hinges, and a weathered gray man stepped out, blinking, into the sunlight.

  "We could never afford to pay a band as large as yours to guard us," he said in tones of real regret.

  "That's understood," Zaranda said. "That's not what I've come to offer."

  A brown-skinned, solemn little girl clad in a ragged smock appeared in the doorway to clutch at the elder's burlap chemise and stare bug-eyed at the intruders. He waved her back inside.

  "What then? Will you sell us arms? We have no skill at using them."

  "Indeed we have arms to sell you, but that's not all," Zaranda said. "We would teach you how to use them as well."

  "Leave off, Osbard!" a female voice cried from the house behind him. "She speaks madness! The bandits will kill us if we try to resist."

  "Not," Zaranda said, "if you kill them first."

  Despite the dearth of trade in the interior of Tethyr, the village was just managing to straggle along the raw edge of subsistence. Which meant that they were still able to leave some of their acreage fallow, rather than being forced to plant it all, trading off the chance of starving in the future when the land was exhausted against the certainty of starving now. Zaranda stood facing her troops across a field being rested, with the stunted, sunburned remnants of last year's bean crop still underfoot.

  "You know, Randi," said Goldie, who stood behind her mistress and watched the proceedings with interest, "it's not too late for us to turn bandit ourselves."

  The village volunteers, nineteen of them, of both sexes and various ages, stared with mingled fascination and horror at the spectacle of a talking horse. They seemed to find it as hard to get over Goldie as they did to get over Shield of Innocence.

  "Why don'
t you go graze down by the river?" Zaranda asked out of the corner of her mouth. "You're unsettling the recruits."

  "I wouldn't miss this for the world," Goldie declared. "But go ahead; don't mind me. I won't say another word. You people there, with your pots on your heads and your kitchen cutlery clutched in your fists-pretend I'm just another horse."

  Zaranda covered her eyes momentarily with her hand. Not for the first time she wondered why she hadn't taken Baron Hardisty up on his offer. It probably had to do with the fact that it helped to be able to look into a mirror when she wanted to brush out her hair.

  The mercenaries Zaranda had brought out of Zazesspur stood or lounged about some straw bales that had been dragged up to serve as target practice. Farlorn stood by them, arms crossed and yarting slung over his back, amusing them with a constant low-voiced commentary, probably biting. Shield of Innocence and Stillhawk stood behind her, winged out left and right, with the ranger back a bit farther so that he could keep an eye on the great orc as well as the village volunteers. Chen hovered behind Zaranda, as close as she could and still have reasonable claim of being out of the way.

  Collecting herself, Zaranda strode forward to place herself in front of her troops, doing a deft sidestep en route to avoid tripping over an inquisitive yellow hen. The livestock had miraculously appeared on the village streets. The children were still being kept inside at Zaranda's request. She didn't need them hooting and laughing at the efforts of their elder siblings.

  "People of Tweyar," she declared. "My name is Zaranda Star. I and my people are here to show you all, men and women alike, how to fight to defend your-selves, your loved ones, and your village. We know we cannot keep you away from your fields more than an hour or two a day, so we'll get started-"

  "Women can't fight."

  Zaranda craned her head. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said, women can't fight. It's a waste trying to teach them to. Like teaching a dog to talk."

  "Well, so long as you specify dogs," Goldie murmured.

  The voice had come from the second rank. "Please step forward so that I can have a look at you."

  The speaker didn't seem eager to leap forward, but the pair standing directly in front of him stepped with alacrity to either side, leaving him little choice. He was a young man of middle height in brown chemise and holed tan hose, whose width of chest and shoulders would have been considered huge on a tall man; likewise his belly. His legs by contrast seemed almost comically short and thin. His hair was brown and lank, and a beard fringed his jaw, as broad as Shield's.

  "I am Bord, the miller's son," he said sullenly. "And I still say women can't fight. It takes strength to be a warrior. I'm strong."

  "No doubt you are, Bord Millerson. But I don't agree that strength is the only thing in combat, or even the most important thing. Many other things matter as well: skill, speed, wind, heart. And most of all, intelligence."

  Stubbornly he shook his head. "None of that matters if I hit you with this." He held up a fist the size and apparent consistency of an oak burl.

  "Ah, but first you have to hit me. Listen well: it, strong was better than smart, horses would ride us."

  "I find that remark in poor taste, Randi," Goldie said.

  "Pipe down."

  "Words," the burly youth said, shaking his head like a bull troubled by a blowfly. "Just words."

  Zaranda unfastened Crackletongue's scabbard from her belt, took the sheathed weapon by the hilt and held it up. "Let's test it, shall we, you and I? Somebody get him a quarterstaff."

  This was done, and in a moment the two stood facing each other before the uneven ranks of villagers. Bord scowled. "You have a sword," he said. "That isn't fair."

  "My sword shall remain sheathed," Zaranda said. "That makes it no more than a club-one with shorter reach than that stick of yours."

  "How do I know you won't use magic on me?"

  Zaranda sighed and resisted the urge to look around at her own party. She had said nothing of magic to the villagers.

  "I swear that I will not."

  "Cross your heart and hope to die?"

  Zaranda did so. Reluctantly Bord braced his legs wide apart, and took up stance holding his staff two-handed before his belly.

  Zaranda tapped his left cheek with her scabbarded sword.

  Bord frowned and whipped the staff up and around in a belated counter. Zaranda tapped his right cheek.

  "I'm quicker and more skillful," she said matter-of-factly, "and that's twice over that you're dead. Had enough?"

  The young man's vast face turned red. He slid both hands to one end of the staff and aimed a whistling blow at Zaranda, who ducked back easily out of harm's way. Bellowing anger, he aimed a fearsome overhand stroke at her; she effortlessly deflected it into the dirt with the flat of her blade. He cocked the staff back over ins shoulder for another blow. She poked him in the belly. He sat down in the dust with a vast thump.

  Zaranda placed the tip of her scabbard on the ground and rested both hands on Crackletongue's pommel. Several of Bord's comrades helped him to his feet. The last that was seen of the miller's son that day was him tottering off for his hut with a supporter beneath each arm.

  "It's not just a life," Zaranda said to her friends out of the corner of her mouth, "it's an adventure."

  Puffing and scowling with effort, the strapping village lad managed to draw the short bow halfway to his ear. With a yell of triumph, he gave the string a final tug and released. Then he stared dumbly at the arrow, which was still in place, clasped against the bow-staff with one finger.

  "You pulled the string out of the nock that time, Ernico," Zaranda said gently. "Now, try it again, and take your time."

  Stillhawk, his darkly handsome face inscrutable- Zaranda envied him his long practice at showing no emotion-helped the boy nock another arrow and tried to steady his arm as he pulled on the string. Straining and trembling, Ernico got the bow half-drawn again and loosed at the hay bale twenty paces away. The arrow arced high and fell to earth two-thirds of the way to the target.

  The mercenaries, now sitting on spare hay bales off to the side, set up a great hooting and sardonic applause at the effort: "Ho there, lad! Is your arm made of whey? That bow's a toy; my five-year-old niece could draw it full!"

  The boy blushed until his prominent ears looked ready to burst into flame. He snatched away a fresh arrow proffered by Stillhawk from the quiver on his back, nocked it, heaved with all his might to draw. Puffing, blowing, straining until his whole upper body shook and his face turned purple, Ernico succeeded in drawing it almost to his ear.

  "That's it!" yelled one of Balmeric's men, but another jeered and said, "A silver piece he can't get it to his ear."

  Ernico grimaced horribly, yanked the string the rest of the way back and, uttering a terrible yell, released.

  His final effort had shut his eyes and pivoted him halfway round, however, so that he had come to bear squarely upon the onlooking crossbowmen. They scattered like quail an eyeblink before the arrow buried itself in the bale where one of them had been sitting a moment before.

  "Crossbows," Zaranda said to no one in particular, as the mercenaries picked themselves up off the ground and Ernico danced around with the bow held victoriously above his head. "We need to get them crossbows. Anyone can shoot a crossbow."

  "Platoon, forward!" roared Shield of Innocence.

  Like a vast, untidy, many-legged beast, the group of recruits lurched to its feet and into a stumbling run across the furrows of a dormant barley field. Shield scrutinized them with a critical eye, his shadow long, his lumpy form looking somehow majestic against the eye of the setting sun.

  Zaranda watched from the side. The troops dashed forward for all they were worth, clutching sharpened sticks to their breasts in lieu of spears. A particularly gawky girl put a foot wrong and went sprawling. The others rushed over her like an avalanche.

  Zaranda didn't even wince. Despite the fact that unidentified riders had been glimpsed in the di
stance, apparently surveying the unprecedented goings-on in Tweyar, she had been sleeping soundly. She no longer heard those horrid insinuating whispers whenever she shut her eyes. Life was good. At least in comparison to what it had been in Zazesspur.

  "Platoon-down!" Shield bellowed, voice great as a thunderclap. The recruits all went face first in the plowed earth as if they'd been snagged by trip spells.

  He has a talent for this sort of thing, doesn't he? Still-hawk signed-reluctantly, Zaranda thought.

  "Indeed he does," Zaranda said. Which was fortunate. For all his fighting talent and knowledge of warcraft, Stillhawk was hampered as an instructor by the fact he couldn't speak. Besides, the type of fighting he was most accustomed to was a stealthy, solitary art, demanding the utmost skill and concentration, and not really suitable for the village recruits to study at this stage of their training. Farlorn was a master swordsman, and no mean hand with a bow himself. With his bard's tongue, he could impart his knowledge more readily than any of them, but he tended to grow bored and wander off along the riverbank, picking wildflowers and composing new songs, or inveighing the village girls with the songs and bouquets those walks produced. Zaranda, with extensive military experience, could plan a campaign or a battle, inspire troops, extemporize and lead an action in the heat of combat. But she had little enough grasp of how to train untried, peaceful folk.

  Shield, it seemed, knew just how to go about it. Demanding but not demeaning, stern but evenhanded, he was adept at getting the volunteers to give their best without driving them too hard. And once they got over their instinctive fear of a gigantic orc warrior, the recruits had taken to Shield as if he had been born among them.

  Shield ran them back and forth across the field, jerking them up and down like marionettes. The exercise was meant to toughen them, to get them used to operating as a unit, and to accustom them to handling weapons. At length the orog ordered them to stand and looked to Zaranda. She clapped her hands and called out, "Well done, everybody! Let's head for home."

  They trooped back toward the village. An ancient man in a kettle helmet-Zaranda would have sworn it was an actual kettle-cleared his throat for attention. He was by far the oldest of the volunteers, and hadn't a tooth in his head.