by RW Krpoun
“I’m not going to formally swear them in until they’re trained, and that could take months, doing it part-time as they are. Still, they’re cheap and helpful, so even if two or three move on we’ll get a couple Badgers out of the group.”
“I imagine so. Remember when a single new Badger was something rare? Now we hire five new bodies without a second thought, drag them along until they’re trained and then swear them in. We’re getting to be a pretty big Company, Durek.”
“Oramere can hold one hundred twenty plus those we house in the central tower and others, like Starr, who make their own quarters, say one hundred thirty-five, that would seem our upper limit, but mark my words, we’ll go back with fewer than we left with, Axel; of that I’m certain.”
As the Company set off down the Road Axel urged his mule up along the column until he saw his wife striding alongside the formation. Reining in beside her, he winked. “How is your morning faring?”
“Well enough, I suppose, except for everyone I speak to cowering and yelling ‘don’t hit me’; Starr started laughing so hard after she did it she fell down.” The advocate shook her head ruefully. “I suppose I’ve got it coming, but I wish they would get past it quicker.”
“You know how it is, a joke gets started and then it fades away just as fast once it’s made the rounds. By tomorrow they’ll be harassing someone else. Have you and Elonia mended fences?”
“Yes, we spoke right after breakfast, no harm done. I suppose these things happen, but I must say, I’ve never been so embarrassed.” She patted his leg. “I’ll be glad when the real campaigning starts and all the tension is directed outwards.”
“Speaking of directing tensions, Durek has purchased a tent for the use of the Company’s couples, to be discretely placed with an eye to privacy,” the Wizard grinned.
Bridget shook her head. “At least I won’t have to hear ‘oh, we’ll both be quiet and no one will know’, line again.”
“You ought to be grateful for that ‘line’: it saved us both two weeks’ pay.”
The eastern half of the Road was safer than the western half, mainly because logging operations kept the trees and brush cleared back at least half a mile from the Road making daylight ambushes nearly impossible and night attacks vastly more difficult. In any case, none of the bandits or raiders along that section of the Road would consider attacking a mercenary Company when there were easier targets available; the Badgers traversed the remainder of the Road without problem, although they passed two pillaged caravans and the sites of three less conclusive ambushes. By the thirteenth of Kammteil they left the hills and reached the Dwarven-built fort that marked the eastern terminus of the Imperial Highway.
Swinging south, they followed the Coast Road, which was of markedly poorer construction than the Dwarven-built (and maintained) Imperial Highway, and which was already beginning to show the effects of the unseasonably heavy traffic streaming in both directions along its length.
Once on the Coast Road they travelled through farmlands as populated as any in the Empire or Arturia, fertile lands well-tended by loving hands. The eastern coast of the Ascendi Sea was the oldest settled lands of the Border Realms, the long slice of Light-following nations sheltered behind the escarpment known as Malker’s Wall over four hundred miles to the east. They emerged into the Kingdom of Lashar, travelling for nearly three full days before entering the Duchy of Sagenhoft, the transition being marked by nothing more than a pair of carved stone pillars, as war between the Human states in the Realms was rare and the violence short; every state in the Realms knew that beyond the Wall lay the Blasted Plains, home to the wild Eyade nomads, savage Orcs, and cunning Goblins, all three of whom received bounties and rewards from either the Hand of Chaos or the Direthrell nation of Arbmante for their raids into the Realms.
Sagenhoft the city, often called the Star of the East, was the largest and best port on the eastern coast of the land-locked Ascendi Sea, and capitol of the Duchy of the same name, a sizeable walled city built on both banks and a mid-channel island of the Bercer River. As there are only two decent ports along the Ascendi’s rocky east coast (Nethy being the other, one hundred eighty miles further south), the city and its Duchy existed on the flow of trade and the products of the sea, a prosperous enough harvest even on the leanest of times.
These were hardly lean times, however: beginning a few weeks after the internal workings of Arbmante were hurled into chaos by the rebellion of Alantarn the previous year, and continuing unabated to the present, ships from every port in the Ascendi and beyond were hauling cargo into Sagenhoft as fast as they could make the trip, unload, and return to the west for another load. The port master reported that more ships had been built in the last nine months than had been launched in the preceding five years, and that more docking fees had been collected in the same time period than had been received in the decade before.
The vast tide of goods, equipment, and people had not stayed in Sagenhoft, of course; they merely flowed through to depots and camps further east, but the traffic was still staggering, noisy, and constant. When the Badgers arrived late in the afternoon they saw the products of lessons learned by the Sagenhoftian authorities: signs were posted on the side of the Coast Road in numerous languages warning that all who approached the city must report to the road-masters before attempting to enter, and that none might enter without showing proof of enough wealth to sustain them during their stay, the current rate being no less than one Imperial Mark, ten Arturian francs, or coinage of similar value for every week the visitor planned to stay. Riding animals were banned from the city, as were any dray animals that lacked a City-issued permit. No crossbows, throwing arms, shields, polearms, or bows were permitted within the city; the wearing of armor of any sort was prohibited, as was the practice of any enchantment, although permits were available for the Healing Arts. To emphasize the city father’s serious intent, each of the signs was flanked by one or more poles supporting the decaying heads of violators of the new measures.
Just as impressive to those who had ideas of breaking the law were the long lines of men and women wearing leg irons who trudged along the road filling pot-holes and repairing ruts caused by the ever-increasing traffic.
Durek elbowed his way back out of the ramshackle hut that served the road-master as an office and rejoined Arian, who was leaning against a hitching post smoking a cheroot. “Took forever, but we’re set: camp site, cart permit so we can go into town to pick up supplies, a permit for a mule so Axel can ride into town if he needs to, and lots more; they’ve got this business down to a science by now, with lots of rules to keep disease and trouble down.”
“And let me guess: every permit costs,” the monk grinned.
“It does add up,” Durek shrugged. “Keep in mind that every farm boy who can dream and walk is heading east and calling himself a mercenary; they’ve got to have some way to cull out the undesirables.”
“Not everyone are farm boys,” Arian flicked ashes into the mud. “I saw a cart belonging to the Ghost Wolves pass by a half hour ago, and a couple Mist Eagles rode by not long after; those’re two of the best mercenary companies around.”
“Every company worth its name will be either in the Realms or heading here. For the next few years you’re going to have to have service in this coming war to be taken seriously, either as a Company or as an individual mercenary.”
“The Dark Tide,” the monk nodded.
“What?”
“That’s what they’re calling the coming war, the Dark Tide; apparently the Duke here in Sagenhoft used it in a speech a couple months ago and its spreading like wildfire. They say the Hand’s coming like a dark tide, but like the tide it’ll go just so far and then recede.”
“Ah.” Durek, being a Dwarf, was a little unclear on how the tides worked, or what their purpose was; he had always figured the water splashed at the shore because of all the fish thrashing around and the wind blowing, that sort of thing. “Catchy name. Anyway, more good new
s: there was a message from the Marshall of the Duchy’s forces addressed to me waiting at the road-master’s office; basically it asked for a force report and our camp site. I’ve already sent a reply.”
“Good news, indeed: we may have a better than average paymaster this go-round.”
“We can but hope. Now, let’s get the Company shifted over to our site and camp made; spring is nearly here, and with it the campaigning season.”
Chapter Five
The ruins were ancient vestiges of another world, another life; they had been a city, once, back before the War of the Gods when the Dark One had challenged the Light and the Eight had driven him into the Void. Nearly three thousand years had passed since those days, and all that remained of a city that had once housed tens of thousands was a few dozen acres of fading ruins. All that remained were tumbled piles of time-worn bricks and building stones, the lines of raised foundations peeking through the tall grass, and the faintly discernable trails of gravel and crumbling paving stones that had once been hard-surfaced boulevards.
Arthol Mane reined in his horse next to a jumbled pile of stone and surveyed the ruins ahead, occasionally sweeping the vast expanse of the Blasted Plains that rolled away on every side with a piercing, narrow-eyed glance. Just past forty, Arthol sat as straight-backed as a lance in his saddle, a blue-eyed man of autocratic visage whose eastern linage showed in his fine-boned features and slightly olive complexion; although of only average height, his lean build, erect bearing, and bone-deep confidence gave an impression of height above his actual span.
“So it is thus: we ride forward, hail the camp using the words ‘good travelers’ in some fashion, and they will allow us to approach so long as we number less than six,” Arthol kept his eyes moving as he spoke, his voice dry and expressionless. “Once inside we barter what we have for their powder.”
“Yes.” The battered man whose wrists were tied to his saddle horn had learned to keep his responses quick and short.
“And they keep all their guards in their camp to avoid detection.”
“Yes.”
“Amazing.” A gust of cold winter wind stirred the long green cloak that covered Arthol from his chin to the uppers of his boots; similar cloaks were worn by his four unfettered companions, while the bound man, whose immobile hands had long since gone blue and lifeless in the cold, was dressed in dirty, torn breeches and tunic. “One guard remains with this fool; report back if we fail.”
It might be the fourth month of the year as the Imperial Calendar reckoned things, but out on the Blasted Plains winter had yet to relinquish its grip. Snow still danced and drifted on the breeze, and the ground was frozen hard beneath their horses’ hooves as the four riders approached the low tent which had been set up in the lee of a sagging wall. The weak sun was near to setting, and both men and horses’ breath puffed out in great clouds of steam in the frigid air.
As the riders drew near the camp Arthol raised his arm and called in an even but carrying voice, “Hail good travelers, we would warm ourselves by your fire.”
The lone sentry, huddled next to the wall, waved them on and went over to the tent’s flap to warn the occupants inside. Careful to dismount with his horse’s body between himself and the tent, Arthol dropped the reins on the ground and approached the tent flap, mindful of the importance of keeping the sneer off his face: if he had wished, he could have sent his men in by stealth and dealt with this band of bungling amateurs in their beds, but in matters of this sensitivity one should be careful not to let over-confidence ruin a simple situation.
Inside the tent was easily seven feet high, split into two sections by a chest-high canvas divider strung between the supporting posts. The first section served as quarters for the traders’ guards, one of whom were on guard outside. There were six all told, three male half-Orcs, two male Humans (one on sentry), and one female Human, all well-armed. Arthol had known that there were six, but he had not known that one was a woman; the discovery meant an unexpected bonus for his men.
“I am here for trade,” he announced somewhat unnecessarily, pulling the hood of his cloak back and brushing a long-fingered hand across his white-blond hair which was drawn back from his face in a simple horse-tail plume. The guards, who were gathered around a chest playing cards, waved to the rear section of the tents and resumed their game. Motioning for his guards to wait, Arthol strode around the divider and found himself in a comfortable sleeping area, complete with a thick carpet on the ground, a cheery field stove full of coals, and a sturdy folding camp bed laid out with clean sheets and a down pillow; the walls of the tent were lined with four large travel chests, while a fifth sat in the center of the area, its lid being used as a desk. A well-fed man of Arthol’s age sat on a folding camp chair in his shirt sleeves at the central chest with a ledger open before him; a pretty young girl still in her teens with ivory skin and long flaming red hair was curled on the camp bed wearing a dun-colored wool night dress. And Hand slave-brands on her ankles and wrists, Arthol noted as he executed a short bow.
“Ah, a late-comer, you arrived just in time,” the man bounced to his feet and returned the bow. “You cut it close, we are leaving in the morning, but I’ve still some stock left to barter. What have you to trade?” the trader motioned Arthol to a stool on the opposite side of the chest and dragged a small leather case from beneath the camp bed.
“Gem stones,” Arthol pulled a velvet pouch from his right sleeve and spilled a dozen cut rubies onto the ledger’s page. “Of the first water.”
“Good stones, I agree,” the trader balanced the case on his knees while he examined the gems. “Very nice, and I always appreciate portable items. I’ll have to abandon some of my creature comforts in order to haul off some of the heavier goods I’ve taken in trade.”
“You’ve received a variety of goods, then?”
“Anything and everything, from gold to gems to this lovely young lady, on up from art work to armor, weapons, even a case of navigation instruments which ought to fetch a good price if I can find the right buyer. But that is hardly what you’re interested in, I’m sure.” The trader laid the case on the chest and opened it. Inside were rows of stoppered glass tubes, each four inches long and held in velvet-lined groves cut into the blocks of wood that made up the case, thin leather straps holding each row of tubes in place. The glass was cheap and milky, but inside each tube Arthol could see a gritty gray-blue powder: the dream-dust made by the Akur, the strange lizard-men of Sufland, the southern continent.
“Amazing; I’ve never seen so much in one place before.”
“Yes, I’ve the best supplier available. Now, for your stones I’ll go twenty vials, and a better deal you’ll never find.”
“Reasonable,” Arthol nodded, plucking a two-inched fired-clay tube from inside his right sleeve; flicking the stopper out with his thumb, he dashed the thin fluid across the trader’s face with a practiced snap of his wrist. The man flinched as the droplets struck, then froze as the liquid evaporated. Catching a fistful of the man’s shirt as he tottered on the chair, Arthol steadied him in place, the trader’s limbs frozen as rigidly as a statue’s.
Carefully recorking the tube and replacing it in his sleeve, Arthol held one finger to his lips as he fixed the wide-eyed girl with his chilly eyes. Rising soundlessly, he drew a small duck’s egg from a protective box he carried in his belt pouch as he stepped around the canvas barrier, closing his eyes as he did so.
Whistling sharply to seize the trader’s guards’ attention, he crushed the egg shell between his clapped hands; the resulting flash of light from the device turned his eyelids into pink tapestries of blue and red blood vessels for a brief instant, and seared away the vision of the five warriors. His own men, of course, had closed and adverted their eyes when they heard the expected whistle, and were unaffected.
Blinking, Arthol returned to the sleeping quarters as his men made short work of the dazed, blinded guards and a scream outside signaled that the man he had left with the hors
es had picked off the sentry with the siege crossbow they had brought along for that purpose. Resuming his seat, he reached forward and opened the trader’s eyes in the manner of adjusting a corpse’s before removing his cloak.
The man’s eye’s bulged although his frozen face never changed. Beneath his cloak Arthol was wearing fighting leathers colored in the rust red and dull gray of an officer in the Hand of Chaos which displayed a black triangle worn point downward enclosing a seven-pointed star on the left breast, marking the wearer as a Markan-Hern, a leader-priest of the Hand assigned to the highest levels of administration of the nation. The gold lines that flanked the triangle on either side indicated he was of the Second Degree, not high ranking, but a Markan of any rank or order was the trader’s worst fear, much less one of the Hern.
“So, we can dispense with the formalities and get back down to business once again,” Arthol said as he closed and fastened the case containing the drugs. “Lovely stones,” he murmured as he gathered up the rubies.
The senior of his men stepped around the divider sand saluted, his cloak likewise removed, revealing him to be a Section Leader in the Colo Rubor. “All six guards are accounted for, sir.”
“Fine. We’ll spend the night here, so see to the horses and kill the man we brought with us, something painful and slow, use your imagination. I take it you killed all but the female guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, you may amuse yourselves tonight, but kill her when you’re done. We’ll take their mounts and carts, the army can use every beast we can come by, along with any useful weapons and equipment; we’ll burn the rest along with the tent.”
“Yes sir. Shall I restrain this man for you?”
“If you would, Section Leader, and then the rest of the night will be yours.”
