“There ought to be a law against it,” Pelekarr said, his aristocratic sensibilities obviously offended.
“Indeed there ought. Then there’s the fact that most outlaws prey on caravans, travelers, and fur trappers—small groups they can surprise and overwhelm. When their activity grows too bold, or too bloody, the settlements unite and hunt them down. Many an outlaw band has met its end in this way, and the marshals never heard of it. We on the frontier are used to solving our own problems.
“But now we face Black Tur. He’s already powerful enough to set the marshals at defiance. And it is my belief that he wishes to make of us an example, to cow the other regional towns and allow him to make the jump to a robber-baron capable of holding entire areas under his threat.”
Damicos nodded. “If he can break you, the other villages will be less likely to defy him.”
“And the local barons are willing to turn a blind eye to such a bold act?” Pelekarr asked.
“Dura is a free town, Captain. The hill country owes allegiance to no lord or baron. If we lost our land and our homes, it would please Baron Silka to no end. It would prove that others in the region need him, need his protection and his permissions to exist.”
They were at the tavern, finally. Passing underneath the gently swaying board with a carved image of a prancing goat on its weathered surface, the soldiers went inside and staked out a table in the corner. Meldus pulled up a chair, and after cloaks and bits of armor had been deposited nearby, they asked for a round of ale.
“Long, long day,” Damicos told the others, rubbing his face. “When the drink comes, I’ll pledge to a better tomorrow.” He turned to their Ostoran tagalong. “So. You wish to hire our company to run this Black Tur to ground and get your women back?”
But Meldus shook his head. “That much, we can do ourselves, Captain. Like I said, we hill-men fix our own problems. Alive or dead, those six women will be retrieved before the week is out.”
The captains were taken aback. From a chair leaning back against the wall, Keltos watched the faces of the conversing men. It was a twisted, strange way of asking for help indeed.
The Ostoran smiled grimly. “Blood will be spilt, my friends. That much is certain. But it’s a question of how much, and whether Dura can endure it. We’d like Black Tur and his men to lose the greater part of that blood, and to shift the balance we need an assault force. Enough men, strong fighting men in armor, to pin the fox in his hold and crush him when he tries to run.” He eyed each of the captains in turn. “We don’t mean to let him escape to try this sort of thing another time, you see.”
Damicos’ eyebrows went up. “You intend a full assault on these bandits, upwards of fifty of them, in their hideaway, with the goal of annihilating them?”
“Correct. It’s our fight, and we’ll make it happen one way or the other. But if we can win entirely, it will reverse the whole thing. We’ll be sending a message to all in the region that we, not an upstart bandit, are in control of our lives and our lands. And that no one had better attack us again, or they’ll be destroyed.”
Pelekarr whistled long and low. “You’ve the mind and heart of a soldier, that much I give you.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“But it’s foolhardy. You’re biting off more than you’ll ever be able to chew.”
Meldus leaned back. “Well, now, that’s to be seen. Once you come to Dura, I think you may reconsider that. We’re a harder lot than you give us credit for.”
A girl brought the ale they’d ordered up, and there was a silence as the men each took their cups and drank to each other’s fortunes. Cormoran belched.
“Anyway, these are cutthroats hiding in the forest,” Meldus continued. “Not a backbone among the lot. They’ll split and run if we get in and start killing them, and we don’t want to have to do this a second time. We aim to kill all the rats at once, leaving none to roam the countryside looking for further opportunities.”
“You know the location of their lair?” Damicos asked.
“Of course. Scouted it out the same day.” Now it was Meldus’ turn to be annoyed. “I’m not here to beg aid for a helpless village; I’ve got thirty men standing ready with bows and spears. They’re hunters that can hit a squirrel out of a tree at forty paces. All we need is a core of armored soldiery to really put the devils to rout. The other half of the trap we mean to spring.”
Pelekarr looked at his fellow captain. Damicos smiled.
“You’ve done your preparatory work, sir,” the infantry captain told Meldus. “I congratulate you. Now, if we were to march with you… we have hungry men whose purses are empty.”
Meldus took a breath. “Yes. But as we’ve established, farmers don’t have a lot to spare, not for bandits and not for hired swords either.”
“So…” Damicos prompted, a firm stare making it clear that there had to be a serious offer.
Meldus rapped his knuckles on the table top. “So, we can scratch together twenty or thirty silvers, enough to get your company moving. But the main reward for your part in this endeavor—aside from the fame and good will you’d generate in the eyes of the settlers, the governor, and all…”
“Yes, aside from those?” Pelekarr pressed. Neither of the captains were holding their breath for an offer to which they couldn’t say no. Meldus seemed a decent sort, but he had to know he was dealing with mercenaries, not a charity troupe.
“A company such as yours needs a place to winter, does it not? A friendly port to anchor in, where you can repair and re-arm, rest the wounded and the weary?”
“It does,” Pelekarr admitted with a nod. “Especially given that we’ve just received notice of the governor’s aversion to hosting troops anywhere near this city.”
“There you are, then,” Meldus replied. “Dura will afford you bed, board, and headquarters for the duration of this little campaign. And then, assuming we’ve got on well and established rapport between citizens and soldiery, we’ll see about making a permanent arrangement. There’s a spot just outside our town, three or four mile up the road, that would make an excellent troop camp year-round. Some old stone walls still standing, and a spring or well as I recall.”
Pelekarr eyed his fellow captain. The situation they were in did make the offer seem better than it might have at other times. If they were to be thrust out of Belsoria with no guarantee of another place to sleep up the road, a welcoming hamlet could get them a few weeks farther along in their quest to establish the company for good.
“It’s something,” Damicos said. “What accommodations have you, in Dura, for a growing company of fighting men?”
“We have The Tooth and Blade, sirs,” Meldus answered, a grin coming to his bearded mouth. “The heart of Dura, some would say. Biggest inn you’ll find in the area, with easily the best food and drink within a week’s journey. Good rooms for those worthy of them—officers of a useful military outfit, for example. And an owner friendly to the men of the legions. In truth, lords, had I not my own place, I would happily live out my days under the roof of the Tooth and Blade.”
“You make this inn sound like a soldier’s paradise,” Damicos observed.
“It was to me, when I was getting out of the legion,” Meldus agreed. “You’d be expected to keep your men orderly in town, and be circumspect about the laws we hold to. But we can be very reasonable for gentlemen of fortune. As I said, half our people are retired soldiers themselves. So long as your men keep their revelries acceptable to the tavern-keepers, and go elsewhere for their wenching, we could get on very well together.”
“A happy little picture you paint, my friend,” Pelekarr interjected, “but I’ve yet to find a town that isn’t glad to see the army march away again after a week or two.”
Meldus shrugged. “We’ve talked it over, we know the downsides. But we recognize the benefit as well: on the frontier, outlaws aren’t the only thing we worry of. The forest holds terrible creatures, and they don’t always confine themselves to the tre
es. Then there are the bloody barbarians. It’s been a few years since the raff came raiding in our neck of the woods, but the gods know it will come sooner or later. A company bivouacked next to Dura could make all the difference. We’re willing to take you in for the season, if you’ll come and fight with us.”
Pelekarr gazed at the man from Dura for a while, judging his words. Damicos studied the table, hunched slightly in thought. Meldus kept quiet, giving them time to think it over.
There came a sudden commotion at the door of the tavern. All heads, including those of the five mercenaries and their prospective client, swiveled to the entryway as a knot of men entered. They were ugly, lean bodies oozing aggression as they spread out and searched the room with roving eyes.
The Smoking Goat’s proprietor, a short man with a rag thrown over one shoulder and an empty tray still in hand, stepped around the bar to confront them. He could see as easily as any of the patrons nearby that these men hadn’t come to relax. “What seek ye? Any trouble, you’d better keep out in the street.”
A villainous rogue with a poxy face snarled back, apparently the leader. “We seek one who waylaid us on the road here, and planted an arrow in the back of our friend who now lies dead in the field. We’ve searched every other establishment between here and the north gate; if the man hides within these walls, we want him now.”
The barkeep spread his hands as the men prowled between the tables, eyeing each of the patrons in turn. “I’ll summon the marshals, then,” the short man said. “They’ll sort it out for you.”
Pox-face gave the proprietor a mighty shove that sent him reeling backwards. “Rukhal’s guts! We don’t need marshals here! We’ll have our justice before morning, thank ye kindly. Spread out, lads, and find me a throat to cut.”
Most customers in the room sat unmoving as the five men sauntered by, glad to be left out of it. One portly fellow was roughly hauled to his feet for closer inspection, but the angry leader of the group dismissed the possibility.
“No. Had a beard, didn’t he? And a hooded cloak, dark blue if the moonlight didn’t trick my eyes. Very picture of a highwayman. Keep searching.”
Damicos eyed Pelekarr hard until the other returned his gaze, then jerked his head in the direction of their visitor. Meldus was hunched away from the five hunters, tense and holding his drink up to obscure his mouth and chin. His blue cloak lay folded over the back of his chair, next to his propped bow.
Damicos leaned in and kept his voice low. “Anything you want to tell us, Meldus?”
“I’m not a highwayman, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but if they think you are, I’m not so sure our little venture together is going to…”
“These are Black Tur’s men,” Meldus quietly interrupted. “Don’t you see? They were watching the roads around Dura and followed me as I left for Belsoria,” Meldus muttered. “Seems they object to being stung by the bee they meant to catch.”
Pelekarr slowly moved his legs out from under the table, hand easing toward the bronze sword that lay on a chair next to him. “You didn’t see fit to mention that part of your day to us.”
“I hoped to have a lot of armed men with me for the return journey,” Meldus whispered back. “I didn’t think they’d follow me all the way into the city and go door to door. Their chief must have given them very strict orders not to let anyone slip away.”
The poxy leader picked up on the whispered conversation in the corner. “You there! Turn and show your cob!” He was pointing at Meldus.
“Dearth and damnation,” the man from Dura cursed aloud. Rising from his chair, he took up the longbow he’d been carrying. The five newcomers converged on him, one drawing a dagger.
The proprietor struggled to his feet. “No blades!” he screamed. “No killing, or I swear by all the gods I’ll have the marshals here and you’ll hang!”
Pox-face hesitated, sneering. “You heard me, this man killed our partner. He deserves to die.”
“Killed one of my attackers in the defense of my life, as I traveled to Belsoria this afternoon. To that I’ll own.” Meldus spoke loudly so that all could hear. “These curs came after me for blood, and I got the better of them by the grace of the gods. Now I’m the villain to their telling of it. If any disbelieve me, I say let the marshals come and sort the truth for us. I’ve a goodly town full of honorable acquaintances who know me well; who thinks these cutthroats can provide the same?”
Pox-face smirked. “He wants an open trial, does he? So’s he can slip away in the night and avoid justice. Not likely.”
“Your quarrel is your own,” the proprietor answered, voice rising shakily. “But no blades in here.”
The leader of the gang slowly nodded. “Take him outside, then, lads.”
The five ruffians came toward Meldus, flexing their arms and circling for an opening to get past any blows the man might land with his un-strung bow. The serving girl who’d brought the captains their drinks was too slow to move out of one bandit’s way, and he grabbed a fistful of her dress at the shoulder to yank her aside. It tore, and she tumbled at the man’s feet with a cry, spilling a cluster of ale-mugs all over the customers sitting nearby.
Meldus struck like lightning, taking advantage of the momentary distraction. His bow whipped out and caught the nearest attacker on the chin, snapping his head back. The man who’d thrown the girl to the ground, a rawboned brute with a stained beard, stepped over her and cocked a fist back to lunge at his standing target.
But the girl cursed and angrily threw an elbow upwards as the fellow moved past her, hitting his groin. The man grunted heavily and pitched forward, now off balance and within easy reach of Meldus, who twirled his bow and clubbed downward with its other tip, catching the stricken fool on the back of his head and dropping him like a felled ox. The scrawny maid scrambled away and took refuge under a table.
“Slut!” Pox-face contorted with rage. “You’ll pay for that when we’re through!”
He heaved a table over, sending plates flying, and drew his own dagger to come at Meldus from the side. The man from Dura pivoted, desperately trying to bring his bow up for protection, as flimsy a stave as it was.
Captain Damicos was still sitting, and the bandit leader hadn’t considered him part of the threat he was facing. A mistake the infantry captain used to excellent effect, breaking the man’s nose with a single punch as he lurched past.
Pox-face slithered to the floor, hands to face, screeching. Meldus, meanwhile, was beset by three other men all rushing him at once. They strove to bear him down to the floor, while he attempted to use each one against the others, spinning and dodging to keep them tripping over themselves. Pelekarr grabbed one by the shoulders and hauled him backward into a chair; the attacker fell and split the wooden seat into pieces with a loud crash.
Keltos and Makos, assisted by Cormoran, got around the other chairs that were in the way and boxed in the final two cutthroats. They were kept from fully engaging in the melee, however, by the wildly waving blades confronting them.
The first man to go down, the one who’d tangled with the serving girl, got his own worn knife out and lunged toward Pelekarr’s back with murder in his eyes. His arm came up, blade arcing toward the captain’s exposed neck…
…and was caught in a huge fist. The man who’d taken the brunt of the ale that splattered across the room when the girl fell, had risen to his feet, and he was massive. Completely bald, with long braided mustaches drooping around his mouth and a gold ring in each ear, he stood taller than any other man in the room and was almost as wide as two. He spoke in a low voice.
“The man said no blades. And you wetted my boots.”
The backstabber writhed in the giant’s grip, cursing. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers after a second, and the large man stepped on it, preventing recovery.
“I don’t like you,” the large man said, still rumbling in a slow tone that might have been used for a misbehaving pet.
“Rukhal rot you!” his prey gasped. “I’ll kill you, I swear it—”
The large man’s forearm muscles bulged and there was a crunching sound. The backstabber screamed, his face turning white. Then the giant released his captive to collapsed next to his leader, who still rolled on the floor pawing at his ruined nose.
Both Keltos and Makos had their bronze swords in their hands now, and though Cormoran had no weapon he was imposing enough alongside the other soldiers that the remaining attackers backed slowly away. They nervously eyed the door, their injured companions, and the huge man with the mustaches that stood waiting for anyone else to come near.
Pox-face got to his feet, wiping his gushing nose with one hand. He still held his own dagger in the other. “Keep them back,” he told the others, his voice hoarse and desperate. “I’ll find Hykios and get the horses!” He pointed at Meldus as he backed toward the exit. “You! You’ll get what’s coming, later in the dark when your friends—”
Pelekarr stepped forward, previously restrained but now suddenly intense. “Hykios? Are you villains now in partnership with Nolus Hykios?”
The bandit leader didn’t reply, but his face revealed surprise at hearing one of the combatants in the room voice recognition at the name. And that was enough.
The cavalry captain lifted a chair into the air and hurled it at the man with the broken nose, then followed it with a deep roar. Keltos and Makos chased after him with drawn swords.
Pox-face fled in terror, and each of his companions tore away after him. Pelekarr was close on their heels out the door, and Cormoran went with the three cavalrymen. Damicos went to the door, then turned back. He and Meldus laughed aloud to each other as the adrenaline ebbed.
With the fighting finally at an end, the barkeep sent his serving girl and a bystander out the back door to summon the marshals, and went around checking on his patrons to see that no one else had been hurt. He eyed Meldus and Damicos sullenly, but said nothing to them. They quietly gathered up the things by their table, and Damicos deposited all the coins he had in their place.
Tooth and Blade Page 11
