Pelekarr had two sergeants who had stayed with him, competent, experienced career soldiers worth their weight in gold. Nicos Bivar was a stocky, weathered cavalryman from Pomaca, the fourth son of a minor landowner. A wizard with horses, he drilled his troopers until they were veritable centaurs.
Hoc Deltan was a little taller, almost as good with horses, and even better with a lance. Between the two of them they had turned hundreds of green boys into hard-riding precision pig-stickers.
Damicos, for his part, had but the one sergeant who had remained faithful. The grizzled hoplite Leon, body seamed and fissured with scar tissue and knotted with muscle, was a deadly man with a spear. One of the few veterans among the troops, though the bulk of his experience had occurred in the old country.
Of the original Cold Spears, Pelekarr had now but a remnant that mustered at his first call. A total of eleven men: Bivar’s troop included Keltos Kuron and Makos Vipirion, little Arco, Somber Dom, and Velzar. Kobal Chustes had died trying to save Lord Jaimesh on the beach, so First Troop was shy one trooper. Sergeant Deltan’s Second Troop consisted of Boros, Tolano, the brothers Tall Wikios and Short Wikios, Mellibax, and a raw recruit nicknamed Beetleboy. Mostly nobility, according to Kerathi custom, some of them from powerful families. They were all young, hotheaded, and inexperienced, but there was nothing wrong with their training—or their courage.
Damicos had but seven hoplites who could be found on the first day. The Storm Furies had fractured quickly, having only trained together for eight months and lacking the aristocratic ties that kept more of the Cold Spears together. But Damicos’ men that remained were solid, every one, though the names were a bit on the colorful side: Snapjack, Myros, Omu, Sandshark, Driccit, Machaon, and Leorda. Seven hoplites of varying degrees of experience, with full armor and spears. One sergeant, Leon Stonehand.
Eighteen men to start a free company. Not much, but enough.
The captains split, each returning to where his few men were gathered. For Pelekarr, this was a small cluster of tents outside Belsoria’s west gate, where his two sergeants had decided to bivouac to save coin on inn fees. Pelekarr rejoined his men, who were overjoyed to see him, and brought them all into the city again, leaving Tall Wikios and Beetleboy to watch the horses. They met Damicos and his hoplites at the Smoking Goat late in the afternoon, one hour before the market closed.
The men gathered in a spacious corner and the captains ordered a round of ale. The cavalrymen and the hoplites eyed each other dubiously, but the example of the captains helped them tolerate each other’s presence for the moment. The ale helped even more.
“We need men,” Pelekarr said. “The very best we can gather. Men we can trust, men we’d be proud to call comrades. The more we sign on now, the more likely we’ll get a job that pays well.”
“No more than two hundred total, though,” Damicos added. “We’ve got until night after next. Use your best judgement, and if necessary, draw on this.” He jingled the leather purse that hung at Pelekarr’s side. “That’s a little bonus from Governor Spatha, to get us going. It won’t go far, but you might stand a round of drinks or help someone get the gear back they’ve gambled away.”
“We’ll gather what supplies and equipment we can, plus horses for the cavalry,” Pelekarr said. “We’re not on the king’s coin anymore, though, so go sparingly and keep your ears cocked for news of work, any work. The bloodier the better.”
The men went their separate ways, and for a full night and a day they crawled the city’s belly looking for comrades they wished to fight alongside. Belsoria was the largest city in Ostora, although any number of the great Kerathi cities across the sea would have dwarfed it, and it was teeming with soldiery for hire.
The cobbled streets hummed with activity. Despite the rumors of war overseas, commerce continued, and the port was filled with ships. Sailors and dockworkers swarmed the wharfs, loading and unloading. The markets were stuffed with raw goods, waiting transport. And added to this routine chaos were the soldiers, singly and in small groups, who sat idly by and watched the city bustle around them.
The seekers wandered a bit at first. They saw much and learned much. Here and there they would stop, briefly, and talk with the townsfolk or loitering ex-legionaries. Here and there, a handclasp and a nod, directions given. Soldiers, hopeful once more and moving with purpose, converged through the crowded streets toward the Smoking Goat. Sometimes, the men they spoke with shook their heads with regret, having sold their armor for eating money. If they were worth it, money would change hands and armor would be re-purchased.
The sergeants took advantage of their new authority to avoid the sluggards and troublemakers who’d given them trouble in the past. In the legion they could throw a man into the stockade for a week to sober him up or teach him respect. Now, where every man counted, the sergeants selected their units with care and pride.
The two captains added name after name to the roll as men filtered back through the streets toward the tavern they had set up in. They got one good veteran early on, previously of the Copper Men, who refused to be considered for a sergeant’s post despite his years of experience and the pressing need for good leaders in the company.
“That bloodbath on the beach was my limit,” he explained. “I’ve seen one too many comrades cut down next to me in this place, and I want no direct responsibility for their lives. But I’ll fight alongside any man and do my part. I know some good soldiers I may be able to bring along as well.”
His name was Cormoran, and the captains signed him and then sent him out to bring in more of his experienced fellows from among the Copper Men, one of the Kerathi companies that had been in Ostora longer than the rest.
Another of the early recruits was Sergeant Trevaz, the Storm Furies’ quartermaster. Trevaz threw himself into his work with zeal, and in short order the tents, food, harness and tack, armor, and weapons were accumulated and tallied. Every man that signed on was sent outside the city to the western camp, where the senior sergeants were busy drilling the men and forming them into six-man troops.
That presented a problem. Infantry and cavalry didn’t mix well. In the legions, they kept to their own sides of camp, and rivalry was often fierce. Now, in a much smaller and more intimate context, there was no avoiding the tension, and it fell to the sergeants to resolve it.
Leon, Bivar, and Deltan approached the captains during one of their visits to the growing camp, and both Pelekarr and Damicos noted the reluctance even among the sergeants themselves.
“The men are like cats and dogs, sir,” Bivar told Pelekarr, subtly ignoring Damicos. He still considered himself a Cold Spear, and captain though Damicos might be, he rated below the rawest cavalry recruit in Bivar’s eyes. “Separate camps would be better.”
Deltan nodded, and Leon tried to agree with the horse-boys without seeming to agree.
Pelekarr laughed. “Out of the question, Sergeant. Listen, all of you. This isn’t the legion, and the old ways will have to be modified. In the first place, we’re too small to avoid it, and in the second, it’ll make a tighter and more capable company in the long run.”
“Begging the captain’s pardon, but the general didn’t have any problem with it,” Bivar said.
“The general,” Pelekarr softly said, “is dead. I’m in command now, and Captain Damicos with me. We’ll honor Lord Jaimesh’s memory, but make no mistake: things will be different from now on. Any man who has a problem with that is free to leave before we embark on campaign.”
Bivar nodded slowly. “Understood, sir.”
Damicos chuckled. “Captain Pelekarr and I have full confidence in your sergeants’ ability to make gold out of mud. Any fights, punish with flogging same as before.”
The sergeants didn’t look happy, but then they rarely did. They were sergeants.
“That gives me another idea,” Pelekarr said. “Sergeants, arrange the tents with cavalry and infantry sharing a cook-fire. Make ‘em mingle. Keep a tight rein on things until they get used to it,
but I think that will speed the thawing of the ice.”
“Aye, sir. Expect some floggings tonight, sir.”
“Well, break them up before they start, if you can. We’re still low on numbers, I’m sure you can maintain influence in a camp this small.”
The sergeants saluted and walked away, grumbling to each other. Damicos turned to Pelekarr. “How long until the first brawl, do you think?”
“Not long. Let’s get back to town before it starts.”
Damicos grinned and followed Pelekarr back to the horses they’d ridden to the camp.
“It’ll sort itself out within a few days,” the cavalryman said. “Until then, it will force our sergeants to rely on each other more.”
As they swung into the saddle, Damicos cleared his throat.
“You know, we need a name,” he said. “To instill some camaraderie and form the basis of company morale.”
“So we do.” Pelekarr looked up at the lowering sky. “What think you of Pelekarr’s Professionals?”
“I don’t like it.”
“That’s regrettable.”
They trotted along the road. Finally Damicos said, “How about Damicos’ Devils?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Unfortunate. The Storm Spears?”
“No, nor the Cold Furies,” Pelekarr replied. “Something new.”
“The Beggar Brigade, then. Or The Ragged Regiment.”
“No! What’s the matter with you? Morale, sir! We’re not ragged, and won’t be if I can help it.”
Damicos eyed his fellow captain. “Damicos’ Dancing Dragons.”
“Shut up. Ride in silence.”
CHAPTER 8: BANSHEECAT
Fieron had reached the point of inebriation when vomit was inevitable—it was just a matter of when, where, and how much. Some fuzzy recess in his brain urged him outside, into the cool darkness, rather than disgorge his stomach within the confines of Kenro’s Stoop. The patrons of the establishment were tolerant of many things, but clean boots were hard to come by in this town.
What was its name? He couldn’t remember. A couple of miles outside of Belsoria, anyway. Some hamlet with more livestock than people. Fieron stood, swaying, and shambled toward the door.
He lurched out into the night, stumbled across the muddy road, and collided with a fence—whereupon his stomach finally rebelled. The muscular young infantryman leaned heavily on the lateral fencepost and disgorged into the darkened grass.
His writhing insides settled and Fieron straightened up, only to groan once more as fresh dizziness hit him. He hung there a moment longer, trying to muster the equilibrium to get back inside the tavern. This Ostoran dogbrew was potent stuff. Raw, and savage as the frontier.
Meru’s embers! He missed Kerath.
Fieron ran a hand through his shaggy black mane to make sure he didn’t have vomit clinging to his loose hair, and tugged at the shoulders of his sleeveless tunic—once black, it was now a faded and mottled gray. Pausing to collect himself, he mustered a last valiant effort and lurched back through the tavern door, where a rising cheer of raucous mirth met him.
The effort saved his life.
Behind him in the darkness, the sleek thing that had been stalking him slid silently from the cover of a tree and approached the fence. Lowering a shadowy head on a long, sinewy neck, the creature sniffed at the puddle of vomit. Its nostrils flared at the sour stench, and cold eyes gleamed. For a long moment the thing was utterly still save for the tip of its long tail, which twitched like a separate creature.
The tavern door, mere paces away across the muddy street, had been left ajar by the human. Warm light and a riot of scents spilled out into the night air, and the quivering nostrils sampled each one, cataloguing and assessing on an instinctual level. Sounds, as well: laughter, singing, the clink and clatter of cutlery. Above them all came the clear, plucked notes of a lyre.
The creature knew nothing of music as such, but it possessed a wild intelligence sufficient to draw it to this sound. Its hyper-sensitive ears found the repeated notes both repellant and attractive, uncontrollably so. It used piercing vibrations in a similar key when it hunted to stun its prey, and when it searched for a mate in the high mountains leagues from the town. Now, hearing these sounds out of season, it was confused and angered.
Saliva dripped from its lower jaw as the burning eyes fixed themselves on the tavern door. Blind instinct impelled the lithe creature forward.
Inside the tavern, a cluster of round oaken tables took up the drafty space near the door. The men that sat here were farmers, shepherds, trappers; hardy men with simple natures. They didn’t mind a hard bench or a cold wind at the door as long as there was fiery drink in their bellies.
But a keen eye—which Fieron had possessed when first he set foot inside Kenro’s stoop, though now all was hazy—revealed more about them. A scar here, a leg stump there gave testament to the dangers these men faced in their work. Ostora had fangs, so the saying went, and the working class was where it often bit first.
Deeper inside the rough-timbered common room, longer tables faced a raised platform where a winsome local girl was plucking at a beechwood lyre. Those with a bit more coin had a seat by the fire and finer clothing. Nothing like the Kerathi pantaloons and robes Fieron had grown up with in the old country, but good jerkins and sturdy leather boots that would keep one warmer than the Kerathi-issue sandals. Here and there a woman sat among them, with firm jaw and braided hair. Laughter and an occasional belch echoed around the song and clank of tableware.
The lanky, balding barkeep turned away from a table he was serving and fixed Fieron with a scowl as the young soldier found his recently vacated table. “Thought you’d had enough, grunt.”
Fieron waved a hand. “Didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You need a bed. Sleep it off. I’ve got cheap beds upstairs.”
“I need ale, is what I need. So keep it coming.”
“Coin first.”
“Spent enough coin here tonight. I say you owe me one on the house! Been a good customer.”
“I don’t serve free ale,” the innkeeper snarled. “Pay up first. If you’ve no coin, then ask your quartermaster for an advance on your pay. That, or get out.” He shook his head in disgust. “Soldiers. Always the same. Who needs ‘em?”
Fieron began to laugh. “Quartermaster’s deserted. Generals left, and some died.” He shook his head energetically from side to side, then stopped when it made the dizziness worse. “My general is gone, and I’m still here!”
He slurred a few of the words, but thought he’d stated his case fairly eloquently overall. The innkeeper didn’t seem to agree, however, and was already walking away. Fieron reached after him, missed by a country league, and slumped in his chair.
“Did you hear me?” he muttered. “I’m stuck here in this gods-forsaken strip of wilderness. No coin, no luck.” He ruminated, running a fingernail down a grime-filled crack in the table planks. “I drink to the end of the Storm Furies,” he barked aloud. “And we were just getting started!”
A few men, including the innkeeper, looked up at Fieron with a glimmer of interest at the news. Fieron took it as a go-ahead. “That’s right. There’s a tragedy for you. Disowned by a father, claimed by a king. Yes, your majesty, I’d be proud to serve. Where? Across the sea? Ostora? Of course, sire! Why not? It’s the back end of the world, but disowned sons can’t be choosy, can we?”
The innkeeper shook his head, moved away. Fieron gritted his teeth in anger, thought about standing up and thrashing the man, but the room swayed and rolled before his eyes, and he kept his seat, breathing heavily.
Boots approached, and a chair scraped nearby. Fieron squinted. Soldier’s boots. He was assailed by a sudden fear that it was the duty sergeant… no, couldn’t be. Duty sergeant deserted too.
Fieron looked up. The stranger was older, with creases around his eyes and more than a couple of gray hairs in his black curls, but powerfully built. Tall, and with no s
oftness around his middle.
“You’re a Storm Fury?” the man asked.
“Was.” Fieron nodded gingerly, riding out the waves of dizziness. “Don’t know what I am, now.”
The man held out his hand, and it only took Fieron two attempts to grip it.
“Name’s Cormoran, son. Been having a final round with some old comrades, yonder.” He jerked a thumb at a cluster of weather-beaten men at a corner table, clearly soldiers by their harness and general appearance.
Fieron squinted again. “What unit? Are you a lost sheep like me?”
“I was until today.”
“Let’s drink to all the lost sheep.”
“You’ve had enough, looks like. But maybe this is where your luck changes. What would you say to soldiering on a bit longer, this time for good pay?”
“The Furies are done, friend. Nothing’s left. Buy me some ale, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Cormoran ignored the plea. “Listen. I’m out here recruiting for the unit that picked me up yesterday. Thought to bring a few of my old mates into the fold with me, but it seems they’ve signed on as private caravan guards already, for one of the barons. But you, if you were with the Storm Furies…”
“It was a beautiful thing, when we marched. The ground shook like thunder under our feet, I tell you.”
“Sure it did. The Storm Furies is the very unit I’m recruiting for. We’re forming up into a free company, and we need hoplites.” He watched the young soldier. “If you can sober up, I’m sure your former captain would sign you back on without another thought.”
Fieron squinted. “Who are you?”
“Cormoran. Twelve-year veteran hoplite. What do you say? You look strong enough, when you get your legs under you.”
“I’m strong enough for anything you’ve got, old-timer. But now, let’s drink. If you pay, I’ll teach you a bawdy marching song I heard just before that debacle on the beach.”
“You were at the beach? What’s your name?”
“Fieron Tarmull, and still proud of it.” Fieron paused to gulp air. “Yeah, I was there, but I didn’t see much. They had us standing in formation for three bloody hours! Didn’t even know they’d drawn swords until somebody passed the word along that the generals were fighting. I said ‘they’re always fighting!’ But they said no, really fighting. Blood on the sand.”
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