It would have been better, Arden realized, to have killed the poor bastards quickly. He’d done them no favors as it was.
The grumbling around him rose to a barely audible level as Shakis rode out. Arden’s troops were no happier than he.
For a week the Toughs were kept in camp as other units fought. It was an insult, and a further waste of resources. Arden concealed his contempt, but his troops were not so reticent. They’d fought for harsh men before, and torture and agony were not unfamiliar sights to any of them, but any professional soldier had his limits. The Toughs were barely tolerating Miklamar’s strategy and the toady who relayed his wishes.
Something had to be done.
After nine days, Arden was called to a strategy meeting. He’d been shunned from the planning sessions even though he was merely an observer. That banishment couldn’t help his survival or plans, and his inclusion now, being “ordered to present” himself was yet another slap. He had expected it, of course. He’d hoped his disgusted protest in the last battle would have led to the contract being let, but either Miklamar or Shakis was too stupid or petty for that. They wasted pay to keep the Toughs doing nothing.
Arden arrived and was ignored. Movements were planned, orders given, messengers and commanders sent. Silence reigned around Arden, with no word or acknowledgment given him by anyone. Commanders of units he’d fought alongside, and who mutually respected him, gave him only a glance and then studiously avoided further interaction. For two hours, Arden sat in cold drafts at the wall of the tent, watching the flickering lamp flames in meditation. He refused to get angry, for that was what Shakis wanted.
When orders came at last, while Shakis loudly chewed a pork shank at his table, spitting and getting grease on his maps, they were insultingly direct.
“Arden, you have a chance before you to redeem yourself. This afternoon, we destroy the last vestiges of the old Kingdom in this district. You will strike in the van, and attack the village. That means, with your weapons in hand, with the sharp ends, fight as hard as you can. I will countenance no clever ploys this time, or I will have your men and yourself used for target practice by my archer regiment. You will fight any who oppose you, you will lay waste as your reputation demands, and once we are done, you will be sent on your way, since you are reluctant to help the rise of a strong empire. But I hold you to your contract yet.”
“Yes, Shakis. I will do as you command.”
There being no point in further discussion, Arden dismissed himself. Shakis was aware of his departure, but made no sign of noticing.
The orders created a conflict of moral outrage in Arden. He couldn’t obey an order to slaughter innocents. It was unprofessional, cowardly, and unmilitary. Nor could he break his sworn oath and contract.
As he always did when troubled, he rode patrol. His thoughts drifted, and distance from Shakis made him feel cleaner. He’d had disputes with employers before, even if this scraped the hoof for lowness. He rode ahead of the three troops with him, just so he could feel more alone.
It was a cool night, slightly misty, and fires could be seen behind the town, of a small force preparing to support the town once attacked. Miklamar’s only good strategy was to use his larger army to spread the threat of his neighbors. Though that might be accidental rather than strategic planning.
Count Namhar showed far better sense, with his force high in the defense, prepared to rush in on a force bogged down even briefly in the town below. He knew he couldn’t save the village, so he’d use it as an anvil to hammer Shakis’ force against. He’d do far more damage that way, including to the Toughs.
Arden wondered if he could arrange to be where the counterattack would happen, so as to have an honorable fight against a decent enemy.
Something crept up through his mind and coalesced into a thought.
Yes. He just might be able to do that. It would take courage, risk his life, and save his oath. That made it worth doing.
He wheeled Fury about and galloped back to camp, leaving the other three soldiers to catch up while they wondered what their commander was doing.
Count Namhar watched the unfolding battle from a hilltop. Part of him craved to be down below with his brave men, doing what could be done to restrain a horror. A horror that not only outnumbered them, but had hired crack mercenaries.
He was thankful that the leadership used both mercenaries and indigenous forces poorly.
His presence on the hill was for tactical advantage. He had a small device from the mages that could potentially change the course of a battle, if used well.
The tube was a magic Eye. Its rippling patterns, almost oily, resolved to crystal clarity when stared through. He could see events far across the field and send swift messengers to maneuver his forces.
The Eye only let him see things larger. It couldn’t see things beyond obstacles, but did enhance anything within line of sight. And the mercenaries were just within that line.
It took only a moment’s glance to cause him to grin. A surge ran through him, of respect for a mercenary who embodied every virtue a soldier should have. There was loyalty, and then there was honor. Above those was courage, and it took tremendous courage to do what Arden’s troop was doing now.
Somewhere, they must have been ordered to attack the village. And that’s what they were doing. Arden was a genius, and brave beyond words to offer such a tactic. Exploiting it would cost lives. But the tactic was suicidally foolish, and Namhar could exploit that at once. He could wipe out the Toughs to the last troop. Though to do so would be a shame.
Then the true nature of it hit him.
“Send Rorsy’s force down to take them,” he ordered the nearest of his aides.
“At once. At the charge, or dismounted?”
“No, take them alive,” Namhar said. This had to be done just right. A man with a sword was still dangerous, and if he knew Arden as he felt he did, the man wouldn’t simply surrender.
“My Lord? I am confused,” his aide said.
“I will explain, but quickly. We have little time.”
And indeed, there was a risk. If Arden was what he seemed, it could be handled rather quietly. But the flash of steel could turn it into the bloodbath it had looked to be from the beginning.
“Attack the town,” Shakis had ordered. “Town” had two meanings; either the population and resources of the small settlement, or the physical structure of it. It was that way Arden had chosen to obey the order, and his troops had agreed, with hesitation and fear, but in support of their commander and in rebellion against the detestable creature who’d hired them and debased them. Their honor was their coin in trade. They would fight as hard to protect it as to earn it.
Arden kept his face impassive and hacked again, the daubed withes of the wall powdering under his onslaught. Yards away, Balyat crushed small beams with swings of his ax. The Toughs were arrayed along a front perhaps two hundred yards wide, surrounding the rude buildings and smashing them. To the south, Shakis’ other forces were slaughtering the helpless. Arden had killed one dweller who’d faced him with a staff. The others had run. Some had seen the mercenaries senselessly beating buildings and taken the opportunity to run away, or to the battle farther south. One didn’t question an enemy’s error.
Behind Arden, there were men approaching, in colors that made them allies of Lord Namhar. Each swing of his head let him see their approach. They were moving to flank him and were unarmed.
So they were civilians, not a threat, he told himself, clarifying the strategy in his mind. He was playing games with his orders, and the risk was great. He probably wouldn’t die at this point, though both revenge and charges of atrocity could lead that way. He might destroy a company that had a decades-long reputation for honest fighting. If this worked, he would indeed have employ, and stories told for generations. But the chance for death or disgrace as an oathbreaker hung on the other side of the balance.
But some lords were beneath any contempt. Duty bound him to a co
ntract. Only honor could make him respect a man.
The two burly “civilians” closed on him, and he pointedly ignored them. They were dressed in battle leather and well scarred. Professionals themselves. They had orders, and perhaps they understood those orders. If they didn’t raise weapons, he was under no compunction to fight them under any oath he or the Toughs had ever sworn. “We fight only armed men.” But if they did, he would perforce respond in kind. All his troops had their orders, all would obey . . . but a panicky moment could lead to a close-quarters bloodbath with horrific results for all.
All three of them knew how it must play out, and the scene would replay across the front. Arden could not decline to engage, could not offer to surrender to unarmed men. If asked, he’d have to refuse.
As he drew back for another blow, one of the two lunged at him. He spun, shifted, and made to take a swing. His trained reflexes prepared to strike a blow that would cleave a man.
Then the ground shifted and he tumbled, cracking his head against his helmet as he crashed. His sword arms flew above his head, and bashing fists broke his grip. He kicked, snapping his right foot in a blow that elicited a pained grunt. The fists rained down on his chest, driving the breath from him.
“Mercenary, you are disarmed! Will you now surrender to Lord Namhar’s courtesy?”
“I will,” he said.
There was no dishonor in surrender once unable to fight, and he’d followed his orders exactly. His employer—former employer—had been the lowest filth imaginable. To be captured thusly should make him feel proud. It didn’t.
Surrender. The Toughs didn’t surrender. A wrenching pain that wasn’t physical tore at him. Certainly, the fight had been honorable, but it was a defeat in the employ of a weakling. That cost dearly in reputation, in pride, in selfrespect. Not to mention the hundreds of townsfolk who had been killed.
“I am to offer you employ with Lord Namhar, at Guild scale and with a bonus of one fifth. Or else you may have free passage to our northern border.”
He heard the words, but there was no pleasure in him. He’d won this battle for his honor by losing the battle in the field. Even though he’d planned it that way, it was dizzying, shocking.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. One of the two had rushed to join a group of fellows beating Balyat to the ground. The bulky warrior needed six of them to restrain him before he finally acceded. Arden couldn’t help but grin. It restored some small breath of life to the unit that even disarmed they fought so hard.
His remaining escort was panting for breath and bleeding from nose and lip. Arden had acquitted himself well enough, though he would have a hard time convincing himself.
“I am Captain Onri,” his captor said. “If you will give your word of honor to be peaceable, I will escort you to Count Namhar.”
“My word you have, Captain,” Arden said, feeling a slight rise from the depths his soul had sunk to. He walked away from the village, smiling. He had lived through his oath to a coward. He had lost by his oath to a good man.
LANDSCAPE OF THE IMAGINATION
by Mercedes Lackey
Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels, including the best-selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator.
TARMA’S stomach growled, and she tried to appease it with a long drink of water.
It wasn’t fooled, and growled again.
The problem with being a low-level mercenary pair without an impressive reputation was that sometimes you wound up at the end of a job in a place where your talents weren’t needed. And when that place was as law-plagued as this one . . .
They’d escorted a very nice old lady to the timid niece who was going to take care of her in her old age. An exceptionally low-paying job, but one that Kethry’s sword Need had insisted that they take. Appropriately, as it had turned out, since the poor old woman evidently bore a striking resemblance to a very wealthy old woman in the same town, and kidnappers had decided erroneously that they were one and the same.
Still, it hadn’t done much to fatten their purses; it had led them here, the Duchy of Silverthorn, possibly the most law-abiding part of the world that Tarma had ever seen, and no one wanted them. Worse, everything was horribly expensive because of the taxes on everything that paid the salaries of the lawkeepers and constables. Worse still, there were more than enough lawkeepers and constables keeping a jaundiced eye on strangers that when their money ran out and they had to leave their inn, it was obvious that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to acquire food for themselves by underhanded means without getting caught.
So the only way to handle the situation was to saddle up and move out, ignoring hunger pangs for the two or three days it was going to take them to get out of the Duchy. Normally it would only take a day at most, but—
But traffic was held by law to a snail’s pace here. And constables enforced that as well.
The only members of the party that were happy were the warsteeds and Warrl. The ’steeds, because not only was grazing the road-verge permitted, it was encouraged. So they were getting enough to content them. And Warrl, because he was resorting to the usual food-source of wolves and things that looked like wolves in the summer.
Mice and rats.
And that, too, was encouraged. Once constables saw him pouncing and gulping in the ditches, they were perfectly happy to leave him alone.
:You really ought to try these,: Warrl said happily in Tarma’s head. :They’re quite delicious. Fat, tender. I don’t know why they have a rodent problem here, but I am certainly pleased that they do.:
Tarma’s stomach growled again, suggesting that at this point, fricassee of rat was sounding good.
But Tarma’s brain went into revolt. No matter that she had eaten worse things. This was not something her mind wanted to contemplate, surrounded as they were by civilization. There should be meat pies, stew, bread and cheese, her mind insisted. Pease porridge, bread, and onions at least. It was not going to put up with the idea of eating mice.
You’ve eaten voles, she reminded it.
Those were clean wilderness creatures, her mind said primly. Mice are not. You don’t know where they’ve been.
Well, her mind had a point. And if they couldn’t afford to eat, they most certainly could not afford to get sick.
:They taste just fine to me,: Warrl said gleefully, as he pounced, tossed, and gulped. Their current pace—stalled, actually, while they waited for a big hay-laden cart to negotiate a difficult turn—was so slow that Warrl was having no trouble in hunting for such small prey.
Urg, said her mind, and she resolutely turned her thoughts away from the idea. Properly speaking, Warrl should have been Kethry’s familiar, not hers. Kethry was the sorceress. Kethry was the one who had cast the spell to summon a familiar. But Warrl was his own kyree and he had decided that Kethry, who already was bound to the spell-sword Need that gave her fighting powers equal to just about any swordswoman Tarma had ever seen, did not need a familiar. But Tarma evidently did.
So the two of them were bound to exceedingly useful but occasionally vexing partners. Kethry to a sword that forced her to come to the aid of any female in jeopardy, and Tarma to a calf-sized wolfish-looking beast with a penchant for sarcasm, a weakness for Bards, and a distinct and unique sense of humor.
Usually at his mind-mate’s expense.
The hay-wain was still stalled in front of them. Now the driver was arguing with a constable. Her stomach growled. She resisted the urge to ride along the verge; the last time she’d done that, the constable had threatened to fine them. The only reason he hadn’t was because Kethry turned out their purses, proving they had nothing, and pointed out that if they were jailed, they would be housed and fed at the expense of the Duchy.
Mind, that was beginning to look attractive—
Except that the warsteeds and everything they owned would be confiscated and sold.
No.
Not a good option.
Tarma was all in favor of laws, but this place was ridiculous.
Kethry couldn’t even earn some money by performing minor sorceries, because she wasn’t licensed as a magician in this Duchy. Which license, of course, cost money.
Kethry was looking around with impatience. The other side of the road—reserved for traffic going the other direction—was absolutely clear.
Well, of course it was. The hay wagon was blocking it. “Is there any reason why we have to go in this direction?” she asked Tarma.
“Well, no, but—” Tarma didn’t get to finish that statement. Kethry nudged Hellsbane with her heels, turned the warsteed’s head, and set off down the clear and open side of the road.
:It’s all the same to me,: Warrl said philosophically. :There are just as many mice in that ditch.:
Tarma had no idea where they were, and she didn’t much want to stop long enough to find out. As long as they got out of the Duchy, that was all she cared about.
:We’re heading for the Pelagirs,: Warrl remarked philosophically.
Oh, bloody hell— “Keth. Warrl says we’re—”
“Headed for the Pelagirs, yes I know.” The Pelagir Hills were as chaotic and magic-infested as the Duchy of Silverthorn was law-abiding. “That’s probably the reason why these people are so law-obsessed. It’s their way of dealing with the insanity on their doorstep.” Kethry, who was usually far more cautious about venturing into the Pelagirs than Tarma was, seemed entirely cavalier about this idea.
“But why—”
Kethry turned in her saddle and looked back at her partner. “Because if I’d had to look for another candlemark at the back of that hay-wagon I was going to kill someone. Because they longer we stay in this place, the more likely we are to do something that gets us thrown in jail. Because my stomach is growling. And because I’m getting a faint twinge from Need that is sending my head in this direction.”
Oh, bloody hell— “Oh, no. Oh, hell, no. Not this time,” Tarma protested. “The last time is what got us stuck out here in the first place!”
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