Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  They grabbed the cavalry general’s arms and wrenched them behind his back, forcing the saber from the man’s paralyzed fingers. Iscabos ignored Jaimesh’s enraged shouts as he stalked forward again, iron sword-tip snaking this way and that through the air.

  Pelekarr bellowed like an ox and strove to rise, but a mass of charioteers still held him down. His sergeant was off to the left battling for his life, and his two banner-men could only watch in helpless rage out of the corner of their eyes as they desperately parried blows meant to put them out of the fight forever.

  Iscabos didn’t hesitate. Keltos saw the chariot general drive his iron point deep into Jaimesh’s side, between the ribs where the bronze breastplate and backplate were strapped together. Jaimesh gasped and sank to his knees.

  “The general!” Pelekarr cried, his agonized voice soaring above the melee. “To the general!”

  A surge of hacking, screaming bodies pushed Iscabos away into the chaos, and Keltos and Makos finally grabbed their general by either arm, dragging him back and out toward their waiting captain. They each took minor cuts on the back and legs, but they were not stopped this time.

  Pelekarr joined them, speechless with fury now, and together they carried the stricken commander clear. Fellow lancers Somber and Arco joined them, guarding their flanks, as the small group won free and hurried down to the oceans’ edge.

  Pelekarr took one look at the general’s wound and his jaw muscles clenched tight—Jaimesh had only moments left in the world. He snapped instructions, and the rest of the troop converged around their stricken commander, sabers out. Foemen swung wide around that grim hedge, seeking easier prey.

  Within the circle, Pelekarr knelt at his general’s side.

  “Water!” Jaimesh’s voice was hoarse. “For pity’s sake!” Keltos met Makos’ gaze over the general’s head. They still held him between them on the sand. Makos was pale, and Keltos knew he looked the same. It was hard to think of a troop without Lord Jaimesh. They all relied on him to be there at the head of the column, an unwavering star that had guided them and formed them into a true brotherhood of war.

  Keltos muttered a prayer to Mishtan, but he already knew the god’s will. It was written on the crimsoned sand beneath Jaimesh’s body.

  A water skin was pressed to the general’s mouth and he struggled to drink, slopping liquid down the front of his breastplate. His head sank back. Captain Pelekarr gestured, and Keltos and Makos laid Jaimesh down on his back, head cushioned by a hastily folded cloak. The general raised a trembling hand, and the captain bent close. Keltos was the only other close enough to hear his gasped words.

  “This new world… make of it what you can. Make it better than the old. Defend Ostora!” Jaimesh struggled to breathe, forcing speech through a red froth at his lips. The iron gray head sagged, lolling to the side, and there was a final wet wheeze as the general’s soul passed.

  For a moment, they all stared. Lord Jaimesh had taken the long journey, but it was a hard thing to fit the mind around. All about them the fight continued, and men died within arm’s reach, but the cavalry troop stood silent and bowed. It would have been death for any who disturbed their grief for several long moments.

  Then the captain spoke. “Bear his body away from this havoc. We have no more place in this fight, and we have work to do elsewhere.”

  They buried Lord Jaimesh at sunset, in a grave deep and sure, on a rise overlooking the sea. The surf boomed and the gulls called, but now their voices seemed to mourn with the horse troopers of the Cold Spears. The wind sighed among the salt grass where the general lay at rest. Two long columns of troopers faced each other, holding torches, forming a path down which their commander was borne.

  Jaimesh wore his full armor and helmet, and he held his great bronze sword on his chest. Two shortened cavalry lances where crossed underneath him, and his shield covered his knees. Slowly they laid him down into the sand.

  Captain Pelekarr spoke the words, a dirge in High Kerathi, and then each man scooped his shield full of sand and one by one they passed by, burying their lord. No one spoke.

  Last of all they wrestled a tall standing stone into place, taken from the sea-strewn jumble at the headland’s edge. Words were chiseled into the stone, words that faced the darkling sea.

  All men fade

  All men pass

  Ulcades Jaimesh, Lord of Tekelin

  Died in battle at this place

  Fourth day

  Month of the Oak

  Year of the Serpent

  CHAPTER 2: DANGEROUS CROSSROADS

  The sails were small white dots on the eastern horizon, growing steadily smaller. As they dwindled, so did recently-appointed High Lord Governor Vilcos Spatha’s optimism. A frown had been on his face so long now it appeared engraved there, and his eyes were brooding.

  He tossed off the last of his goblet and slammed it down on the table with a curse.

  “What does his Highness expect of me, Lofeg? I would give a chest of gold for one clear message from Anmar’s court.”

  The slim man sprawled in a cushioned chair stroked one long mustachio, sipped his wine conservatively. “Patience, milord.”

  Spatha grunted and poured himself more wine, slopping a little on the table, uncaring. “Patience, you say. I’ve been governor but three days, yet I face crises on every hand!” The balding, goateed noble smoothed his crimson robe. “No time for patience.”

  Lofeg studied his goblet and chose his words with care, as he always did. It was what he was paid for, and he was good at it. “Soon or late, messages will come. The generals were reactionary fools. At least we can be thankful that war, if indeed it has broken out across the sea, has not spread to these shores.”

  Spatha dashed to the tower window, pointed. “What’s that then, Lofeg? A harvest festival?” His finger jabbed toward the beach just outside the city walls, where a few forlorn corpses still sprawled on the reddened sand.

  The governor had kept the city gates closed during the skirmish to avoid entangling himself with the fracturing army, but as soon as the fighting ceased he had opened the gates once more. Denying the surviving soldiers medical attention and shelter would have made him the enemy, and perhaps soured the king against him. If the king still held life and throne. Who knew?

  “A battle right outside my own city walls! A broken army, most of which is presently scurrying back across the sea as fast as the wind will take it. And the rest remain here, in my colony, to cause trouble like only masterless men at arms can. All this could have been avoided with a piece of accurate information to dispel these accursed rumors!”

  The governor leaned against the wall by the window, letting the sea breeze stir his thinning hair. It was fresh and cool, but Spatha cared little for that at the moment. He watched the gulls swoop in, landing near the battlefield, hopping gingerly towards the motionless forms of dead men already looted of anything worth taking.

  “Perhaps the absence of a message speaks for itself,” he murmured. “If the king were still capable of sending orders, surely he’d have done so by now. Perhaps those aboard the ships had the right of it.”

  “Dangerous assumptions, milord. If one messenger’s ship is lost to a gale, still we must hold our posts for months in anticipation of the arrival of the next.” Lofeg joined the governor at the window. “Who are those unburied?” he asked, looking down at the beach.

  “Slaves, mostly. Porters. Poor wretches who got in the way. The surviving soldiers already carted off their comrades in arms for burial elsewhere; no one cares about these ones. And I must have them buried or risk a plague. Mishtan’s bones, another expense I must cover! I tell you, Lofeg, I feel my fate creeping upon me and I cannot escape it. If one ship yet remained in yon harbor, I would board it and be done with this place.”

  “No, lord. That’s what your predecessor did, to his shame. No one expected the taking up of this post to be easy.”

  “I expected it would at least be possible!” Spatha snarled.
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  “Have faith, milord, and the gods will present a solution.”

  “The gods are the ones who’ve done this! It pleases them to vex me.”

  “They are inscrutable at times,” Lofeg ventured. “Perhaps if we consulted the priests.”

  “If it was up the priests,” Spatha said with a snort, “we’d be on our knees every hour of the day and beggar ourselves with endless sacrifices.”

  He raised his goblet to his lips, thought better of it, and set it down with a frown.

  “You know me to be a man of action, Lofeg. I know my duty: until some royal envoy arrives, I must do whatever it takes to keep the ore and lumber shipments flowing, fuel the high king’s engines of war no matter what else. And keep the peace here. To do either, though, requires manpower, and that’s precisely what we lost today.

  “We hang on a thread. Everything we’ve built here, all our achievements, can disappear if the raff grow bloody-minded again. The only deterrent we had against the barbarian hordes were the legions, but his Royal Highness will blame me if the colonies burn, you can be sure of it. Despite the fact that I have no means left to defend them.”

  “The barbarians don’t yet know the legions are gone. We have some time,” Lofeg mused.

  “It won’t take them long,” replied Spatha. “It never does. When have they ever been slow to exploit our weaknesses? They lurk in their forests, waiting. Even the peaceful ones aren’t averse to picking off a homestead here and there, if they think they can get away with it. Who will stop them now?”

  “What of the barons?” Lofeg asked in reply. “They know where their best interests lie. Should you conscript a portion of their garrisons, they cannot refuse.”

  Spatha barked a short, bitter laugh. “The barons serve themselves first and always will. With the legions, I had a cudgel to hold over their heads. Now?” He shrugged. “They make pretty excuses for why they cannot spare troops, and in truth if any of the larger raff clans unite for a big raid this summer, every baron will be besieged in his own hold. I cannot rely on them for fighting men, and their hired guards and conscripts couldn’t match the legions anyway.”

  Lofeg held out a hand. “But if we encourage them to see this threat and join in common cause…”

  “No, Lofeg. You underestimate their rivalries. Had you been a few years longer in these lands as I have, you’d know as well as I that certain strong barons have weathered the barbarian raids and survived when lesser rivals have perished. How do you think that Lord Garmezi grew so powerful? It wasn’t just that he married the king’s cousin.

  “In the Year of the Horse and again in the Year of the Leopard, a few barons held out and fought the raff to a draw. When the dust settled, they absorbed the lands of their fallen fellows. Also, I suspect—though I cannot prove it—that some of them have made secret treaties with the raff clans. In my years here serving under the previous governor, I’ve seen enough to know we must pick our battles. Getting involved in the barons’ squabbles only invites headache and ruin. Let them feud, so long as this port remains busy.”

  “Well then. This is a twisty problem indeed, Lord Governor.” Lofeg stared thoughtfully down at the beach, where now the gulls, caution satisfied, flocked the corpses. After a moment he narrowed his eyes and turned to face the governor.

  “Is the colonial charter kept here in these offices, milord?”

  “What?”

  “The charter with the royal seals. It details your rights and duties as colonial governor. Is it here?”

  “What do you want it for?” Stirred from his reverie by Lofeg’s sudden request, Spatha walked across the room and threw open a stocky chest. “You have an idea, eh, Lofeg? Where in the name of all the… ah, here it is!” Spatha held up a thick scroll, bound with ribbon of white silk. “What do you think this will tell you?”

  Lofeg took the scroll without answering and unrolled it across the governor’s desk. He bent over it, searching in silence and ignoring Spatha’s irritation and curiosity.

  Then he straightened, a faint smile on his narrow face. He stroked his sleek mustachios in satisfaction. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, that might do.”

  “What is it?” the governor growled.

  “As royal governor you have the right to grant sub-charters within Ostora, yes?” Lofeg pointed to a section of the document, and Spatha scanned it. “Not only for baronies, but also to allow the formation of free companies at your discretion, both for commerce and…”

  “And for war,” Spatha read. He smiled.

  Then he read on. “In times of duress, but which may never exceed two hundred souls to a company, and which must re-charter yearly with a betokened pledge of loyalty to the crown.”

  He stood and stroked at his chin. His eyes glittered as he thought through the opportunity. “Mercenaries are dangerous and difficult to wield,” he pointed out, “and we already have a surfeit of danger and difficulty in these lands, within and without.”

  “What we have, milord, is a surfeit of unemployed, masterless men flooding across the colonies. Those soldiers are already a crisis in the making. Put them to work in the business they know best, however, and we turn these dangers one against the other.”

  Lofeg put both hands on the table.

  “Right now they’re still licking their wounds, taking stock of where they stand,” he said, speaking quickly and confidently now. “Their world just came crashing down around their ears. But in a few days, when their drinking money is gone, they’ll begin to look around. The barons will hire the more reliable ones, the rest will become desperate and hungry. And you haven’t the coin to hire them all, milord. Soldiers will only go so far on promises when no man knows when the next pay ship will come from Kerath.

  “Give them leave to form their own companies of mercenaries, however, free to hire out to the highest bidder among the barons or the townsfolk along the frontier, and you turn a liability into an asset.”

  “Set them against the raff,” Spatha mused, his eyebrows raising in anticipation. “It could work.”

  “Certainly it will, milord. These men have no master now, but you turn them over to the greatest master of all. Self-interest. I’ll wager they’ll fight harder for that than they ever did for the king.”

  “Not all will wish to join such companies,” Spatha pointed out. “The lazy, the shiftless.”

  “True. A few are worthless without the discipline of the legions. Little can be done about them in any event. But the most dedicated, the ones who care most about maintaining purpose and discipline… those are the ones we want defending Ostora. Why wait for hunger to drive those men to outlawry along with the rabble? Let them answer to you for legitimacy, permission to operate in these lands, but to themselves for their upkeep and internal organization.”

  Spatha nodded. His eyes gleamed. “This is good counsel, Lofeg. The barons won’t like it—they’ll see it as an attempt to seed my own private army. At the very least they’ll resent bands of armed men roaming the countryside. But by the gods! We can rid ourselves of one problem while addressing another. Free companies can’t replace the legions’ numbers, but they’re still trained troops, used to accepting orders and taking on difficult jobs.”

  “And limited by the king’s own decree to small enough numbers that there’ll be little danger of them turning on us.” Spatha rubbed his hands excitedly. “Lofeg, this is the answer I have sought. This will be the foundation of a new era in Ostora, one of relative order and prosperity where we might have seen all fall to ruin and decay.”

  Lofeg quietly poured himself a goblet of wine and raised it to the other man. “Lord Governor, I congratulate you on your political skill. I predict a long and prosperous tenure for you here.”

  Spatha laughed. “You smirking buzzard. How does another hundred silver a year sound?”

  “Like the tinkling laughter of the gods, milord.”

  “You’ve earned it. Most of the troops are still here, in the city, and I’ll have criers out by n
ightfall. Have your marshals ready to ride within the hour; they’ll take the news to the larger towns and settlements. Mishtan’s golden beard! There’s hope for this colony after all.”

  And with that Spatha swept from the room, bellowing for his clerks.

  CHAPTER 3: BLOOD DEBT

  It took Pelekarr the better part of a day to discover the names of those who’d slain Lord Jaimesh.

  Lord Iscabos, he knew. But Iscabos had sailed from Ostora and was beyond the reach of any vengeance a captain of the cavalry could mete out.

  There were others, though. Two in particular, those who had held Jaimesh helpless while Iscabos ran him through. The chariot general’s close henchmen, dogs that could not be allowed to live if either of them remained in the coastal colony. And rumor had it that Iscabos had selected a handful of his men to stay behind to send and receive messages against the eventual return of Kerathi forces.

  That would likely take a year, though, and Pelekarr knew as well as anyone how things could change in a year on the shores of Ostora. A man could disappear and be utterly forgotten in that time. Ostora had fangs, it was said, and Pelekarr meant to see it come true for the backstabbing charioteers—without the help of the barbarians or the monsters that lurked in the vast forests beyond the settled lands. These two he wanted to kill himself.

  One of Jaimesh’s murderers had hair dyed gold at the tips of his curls, Pelekarr remembered. That man had also slain a young recruit of the Cold Spears who made a desperate effort to save the general.

  The other, Pelekarr’s men told him, was unknown to them but had an ugly face with a scar on his chin. If he could be located, they would verify him on sight.

  No charioteer was familiar with cavalry, and less so with the infantry. The city was on edge following the divisive battle, and already there had been brawls and a few killings in the streets between soldiers wild with hatred and loss. It wouldn’t be easy to learn the names and whereabouts of the two chariot drivers, but Pelekarr didn’t require a way to be easy in order to take it all the way to its end.