Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  “We could be,” Pelekarr replied, and left it at that.

  “I’ll wager anything you like, in years to come, His Majesty will be grateful to any who stayed.” Spatha lowered his voice. “If the worst happens, and our beloved monarch is dethroned, his usurper needs Ostora just as much. No matter who holds the throne, raw materials from Ostora are the key, the lifeblood of the kingdom. So you see, we are in a better strategic position than it seems, if only we can keep hold of things for the next year.”

  “You are, sir, with all respect,” Damicos worried. “For soldiers, there could be a noose awaiting us at some point. It’s hanging over all our heads.”

  A smile hovered about Spatha’s lips. “It isn’t official yet, of course. But obviously I cannot invoke the mercenary clause in my charter without some assurances for those who take up the sword in free companies. So, on certain conditions, I feel confident that those companies who prove themselves—what’s the phrase, Lofeg?—‘essential to the continued freedom and prosperity of the realm’ will receive full protection from any repercussions.”

  Pelekarr leaned forward. “Clemency, your lordship?”

  “Yes. Exoneration by the Lord Governor of any accusation of forsaken oaths. It’s all quite legal, Lofeg assures me.”

  Damicos sat back and stared at the governor, emotions swirling: most of all relief and savage joy at evading the fates that had been constricting him of late. There was opportunity here—danger, yes, but also a chance to rise much faster than the Kerathi military structure would ever have allowed.

  A burgeoning sense of freedom and possibility surged in him, despite knowing that he wasn’t out of the governor’s custody yet, and that powerful enemies could reverse all of this at any time. He was a slave to fortune like every other man. Kyrasha, Tova, and Dalica, the three Fates, wove a tangled skein in which there was no sure proof against fortune’s twists. Only death ended things, and maybe not even then, depending on which priest or philosopher you believed.

  But it was the only way open to him, and already his mind was wrapping itself to fit the new future he envisioned. Would Pelekarr see it too, or was he too enshrouded in the restrictions of the past, the nobility and the military that had borne him thus far?

  “Before he died,” Pelekarr mused, “Lord Jaimesh told me that Ostora must be defended at all costs. I did not understand his partiality to this land, even in his last moments.” He shook his head. “But something stirs in me that pushes for the fulfillment of those words. As if the three Fates are guiding us all along.”

  Spatha pushed a wide scroll of parchment across the desk. “Fates or no, gentlemen, I put this now before you. Sign the charter as you see here, and go free. Or return to your place of holding to think it over further.”

  The captains studied it with care, not at all ignorant of the cutting threat behind the governor’s words.

  It seemed straightforward enough to Damicos. The undersigned hereby established a free company subject to the regulations of the king and the king’s agent, to be organized and employed at the discretion of their commanders but wholly subject to the limitations delineated under the governor’s will and pleasure, etcetera etcetera. Monies raised to be disbursed among the company’s members minus a yearly tax to the governor, and both spoils and roster to be subject to a yearly audit to comply with the charter cap of two hundred.

  “Will you sign, Captains?”

  “Just the one document?” Pelekarr asked.

  Spatha nodded. “I am not well acquainted with Captain Damicos yet, and can only be confident in extending him a charter in partnership with my old friend Pelekarr. And for your part, Ios, I foresee a need for a cautious and restraining hand to keep your command in check. Captain Damicos will fill that need nicely, given what I have seen here today. The offer as it stands is for joint command of a single company.”

  Damicos looked at Pelekarr, Pelekarr looked at Damicos.

  Pelekarr sighed. “I got us both into this. I’ll sign if you will, Damicos.”

  Damicos took the quill and quickly dipped it, inking the document before another word could be said.

  Pelekarr followed suit more slowly, with a flourish at the end of his signature.

  Spatha took the document, blew on the ink, and handed it off to his deputy. “Serve me, serve Ostora, and serve yourselves. This is the beginning of a great thing, captains.”

  “How many others have come to you for charters, milord?” Pelekarr asked.

  “You two represent the third such application, and I anticipate a few others before the day is over. More to come as word spreads.”

  The mustachioed deputy witnessed with his own signature, then heated a wax wafer over a candle and dribbled a small puddle onto the parchment. Spatha slammed his great governor’s ring into the hot wax with a chuckle of relish, sealing it.

  Pelekarr leaned back in his chair, resigned. “Any words of advice, Lord Governor, now that we’re striking off on our own for gold and glory?”

  Spatha grew serious again. “Don’t trust the barons. It will take them some time to come around to the idea, and until then they’ll view you as a threat. Take their money, but be wary.”

  “Free to go now, sir?” Damicos asked, rising to his feet.

  “As little birds. I’ll keep the official signed copy here, you take this standard copy detailing the terms. Oh, and this may help you two along somewhat.” Spatha rummaged in a bound chest at his feet, tossing a small leather sack onto the table. It clinked loudly.

  Damicos picked it up, whistled. “We thank you, Lord Governor, we thank you indeed.”

  Spatha shrugged, eyeing Pelekarr. “What I can do for the son of an old friend, I do.”

  Pelekarr cleared his throat. “I won’t forget the kindness, Vilcos.”

  “It’s nothing. Use it wisely. There’s to be a meeting, two nights from now, in the merchant’s quarter. Be there. Lofeg here will address all those with charters, and we hope to have paying jobs lined up for you. The merchants’ guild is most supportive, what with their constant need for caravan guards. A good way for you to hit the ground running.”

  “And to get a thousand idle soldiers out of your city before any of them cause trouble,” Pelekarr said.

  “Too late for that, my friend,” Spatha replied with a grin, rising and shaking Pelekarr’s hand. “Next time you get in a fight, though, you can settle it yourself out on the field of battle. Fare you well.”

  “And you, Lord Governor.”

  “Oh, and Pelekarr—do keep your sword sheathed at the meeting two nights from now.”

  “Nothing could induce me to disturb the peace of a gathering under your authority, sir.”

  Spatha smiled widely. “Good. Because Chiss Felca will be there too. He was in this office not two hours ago, you see, signing his own charter.”

  CHAPTER 7: THE MAKING OF A COMPANY

  Sergeant Leon shoved his empty plate away with a slight grimace. The wooden dish was awash with congealing grease and cracked bones; hunger had supplied the enthusiasm necessary to ingest the tavern’s supper special, but already he regretted it. The meal did match his mood, however: too much of too little.

  The common room was packed with boisterous humanity, but so far none had approached his table despite the crowd—Leon’s glowering face and sturdy build warned others away.

  The infantry sergeant folded his arms across his chest, stretched his feet out under the table, and prepared himself for an unpleasant evening. His eyes roved the room like hot coals looking for something to light afire.

  But there was little to interest him. Smoke-blackened rafters, the usual assortment of humanity with the attending smells of sweat and unwashed clothing, hard-used furniture, serving wenches moving fast and sidestepping grasping hands. Ale suds dampened the sawdust-covered floor. Every chair in the place was taken. Half were locals drinking away the day’s frustrations, the other half were soldiers with even more frustrations and even less money.

  Leo
n heaved a sigh, thought about belching, then decided against it—might come out with more than air, after a meal like that. Already the thick stew and hard bread churned in his gut like a thing alive. He closed his eyes, trying to think of a way out of his predicament.

  Or predicaments. He faced more than just an upset stomach. Where in the name of Mishtan was the captain?

  Leon had briefly separated from Damicos to find lodgings for both of them for the night, a task nearly impossible in a city already filled to bursting with unemployed soldiers. They had arranged to meet again at a tavern later. When he’d arrived, however, it had been to find the aftermath of a bloody brawl and the suggestion from bystanders that one of those involved had been a young infantry captain. Hell’s onions! Officers were like small children. They needed minding every minute.

  Leon cursed himself thoroughly. He never should’ve left a sprout like Damicos alone. That there was barely five years difference in their ages was irrelevant; it was a sergeant’s duty to tend to green officers and make sure they survived long enough to become seasoned.

  And he’d failed.

  The Belsoria garrison soldiers had been less than helpful, confirming only that two prisoners had been admitted to the dungeons before warning Leon off, and the sergeant knew they meant business. Every garrison-man in Belsoria was on edge. They knew the city was a brewing cauldron that could erupt into violence at any moment. And there weren’t nearly enough of them to evict all of the ex-legionaries, so they patrolled the streets twice every hour, jumpy and in foul temper.

  Leon was still sitting with his eyes closed when a shadow came between him and the lamp burning overhead. He opened his eyes to see a man standing at his table. The lamp light limned the man’s face, and Leon had to squint upwards, still unable to make him out.

  He blinked. “Hell d’you want?”

  “Sorry I’m late, Sergeant.”

  “Captain!” Leon lurched to his feet, relief and joy almost instantly merging into a scowl. “Where in Mishtan’s name have you been? Sorry, sir. It’s good to see you, sir. But what happened?”

  “Long story. Sergeant, meet Captain Pelekarr. Formerly of the Cold Spears.” Damicos sank into a chair. “We’re comrades in arms now, so to speak.”

  Leon eyed the tall cavalryman who stepped up next to the table. “Comrades in arms with the horse-boys, Captain?”

  “Manners, Sergeant. Is there anything to eat?” Damicos eyed Leon’s greasy plate with interest.

  Leon nodded grudgingly at Pelekarr before resuming his seat, followed by the cavalryman. “No. The stew’s inedible. Avoid it.”

  “Well, we’ve got to have something.”

  He hailed a passing girl, harried and sweaty-haired, all of twelve years old. “Aye, milord?”

  “What vittles do you serve that aren’t,” he pointed, “that stew?”

  “Rack of hog, milord, but it’s double the price of the stew.”

  “Two servings of hog and plenty of ale, then!”

  Pelekarr raised a hand. “No ale for me, lass, I’ll have wine.”

  “All we’ve got is a sour red, milord.”

  “That’ll do. Off you go.”

  The girl darted away, and Pelekarr turned to meet the gaze of the two infantrymen.

  “Wine for the nobleman,” Damicos said in a high falsetto. “In a silver goblet. If you please.”

  Leon brayed his appreciation at the jest, but Pelekarr only smiled lazily. “One must keep up appearances, mustn’t one? And I do tire of the yeasty stench of cheap ale. So common.”

  “Son of a goat and a swine,” Damicos said cheerfully. “This is going to be a wonderful partnership.”

  “Begging your pardon, Captain, but what partnership?” Leon asked, and while they waited for their food the captain told him everything. Leon was skeptical.

  “Sounds too good to be true, Captain, if you ask me. There’s a catch somewhere. Besides, what do we want with horse-boys?”

  “That was the offer. And the catch is, we’re going to have to scramble for any job we can take, Sergeant,” Damicos said. “Anyway, with horse-boys around, the earning power of we poor, honest hoplites goes up significantly. The prance factor, you know.”

  “Mebbe.” Leon was reluctant. “I still say we hire on with some garrison. Here in Belsoria, or with one of the barons. Just until we get our bearings, get some coin.”

  “What,” Pelekarr asked, “is the prance factor?”

  “You know,” Damicos answered. He pantomimed a prancing horse, with exaggerated flourishes of mane and tail, flared nostrils, and tightly pursed lips. He neighed loudly. “What you all look like when you ride past. For some reason it sells, and even the noble ladies flush and have to fan themselves. Only the gods know why.”

  “Ah, yes.” Pelekarr nodded. “I didn’t know your stiff, mud-encrusted little infantry necks were capable of bending back far enough to see us when we ride past. So that’s what we look like from down there.”

  Leon glowered, but Damicos laughed. “See, Sergeant? This nobleman’s son can hold his vinegar.”

  “The boys won’t like it, Captain. We’ll have a time convincing them.”

  “I think you’ll find, Sergeant,” Pelekarr cut in, “that hunger and empty purses will do most of our recruiting for us.”

  At this point the food arrived, and the two captains fell to, ravenous. Over the meal, they continued their discussion, interspersed with smacking of lips and gulping of drinks, and gradually Leon became more and more interested.

  “Look at those three,” Damicos began, chewing at a strip of smoking hog. He pointed. Over at the bar stood, or rather sagged, three hoplites in Kerathi uniform tunics, from an unfamiliar unit. They were downing cheap ale as fast as humanly possible, paying from a shared pile of coins on the bar in front of them. They had the desperate look of men trying to have a good time before the world caved in, and they were largely succeeding.

  Pelekarr’s eyes creased in a smile that never reached his mouth. “The king’s finest.”

  “What they’re spending now is all the paymaster had left,” Damicos muttered to Pelekarr, shaking his head, “and now he’s carousing somewhere with the rest of them. They’ll sell their armor soon, those that haven’t already; that will keep them in ale for another week. Behold the twilight of the Kerathi legion.”

  “And most of us have barely been here long enough to call ourselves soldiers,” Pelekarr nodded. “Only a handful of units have veterans with substantial experience in Ostora.”

  “The survival rate in the early cohorts was brutal,” Damicos agreed. “But we do have a major opportunity here, the way things are working out.”

  “Yes, we do. We’ve got little money, and no friends outside of our own units, what’s left of them. But we owe no man anything now, except Spatha perhaps. We can go where we will, take what jobs we like.”

  Damicos elbowed him jovially. “You see? You get the spirit of the thing now. It’ll turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to some of us, I think. Maybe not you, noble-son. You could take the next ship for Kerath and not even have to pay up front for the passage. But the rest of us, we can stake a claim here and really make something of it.”

  “I tell you, Damicos, I have no desire to return across the sea as I am now, no better than when I came,” Pelekarr declared. “And I’ll wager most of my men won’t either. Besides,” he continued in a more somber murmur, “my general commanded me to defend Ostora. I can’t lightly let that fall.”

  He smiled, then spoke louder. “And I see no reason why I cannot fulfill that command, pay my men, and enrich myself all at the same time.”

  “But there’s thousands of men in Belsoria,” Leon objected. “If they all take up Spatha’s offer, the market will be glutted. Too many mercenaries is worse than too few!”

  “Yes, Sergeant. That’s correct. And the answer is to distinguish ourselves. Make a name.”

  “Make ourselves the most visible, the most highly sought-after,” D
amicos replied. “And I’ve a few ideas how we can do that. One being the formation of a more even-footed company, where a man of the line can expect the same pay and respect as anyone he fights alongside.

  “And another being the chance to feel out this new era of free service the looser Ostoran way, without the hidebound strictures of Kerathi tradition dictating every rule and rank. We’ve already got one edge in that vein: a combined force of foot and horse. Most other companies will likely keep to themselves, teaming up only on occasion.”

  “And unless I miss my guess,” Pelekarr sawed industriously at a stubborn joint of the hog, “the Fates threw me into business with one man among all in Ostora who I can trust. Most other companies will be rife with infighting, backstabbing, and vying for leadership of the group.”

  “We have each other’s backs,” Damicos agreed. “We’ve proven that much already. And we’re both young and vain enough to be ambitious, hungrier than the layabouts that fill out the ranks of many companies.”

  “Yes. We want to make our mark in this place, and it’s about more than the pay and the ale and the women.” Pelekarr finished tearing the meat off his last hog bone, let it drop, and studied it. “We have the will to prevail, to carve something deep and have it last.”

  Damicos cleared his throat. “Mishtan’s bones, but the man has a way with words,” he said. “A poet and a warrior.”

  “One of my many talents,” Pelekarr answered. “Now let’s go find some men.”

  Two captains, three sergeants, and eighteen men.

  A small start, in the spring of the year of the Serpent. Nothing that indicated a legend in the making or showed that the gods favored the venture. But if Damicos had to pick men capable of holding the line when everything around them was crumbling, and not only hold it, but crush some enemy skulls while they were at it, these were the men he’d have chosen.