Tooth and Blade

by Shad Callister

  Damicos had seen all he wished to of the real thing, the fabled purple towers of Ysanthes and the marbled minarets of Chikka. The capitol itself, mighty Kera of the thrice-encircling walls, ancient seat of the high kings and full to bursting with luscious gardens, incense-laden temples, palaces, markets of wonder and wealth where all the world’s races and goods mingled as one in a heady stew.

  He’d turned from that and landed here in the colonies, where the energy of the frontier satisfied a hunger in him he barely knew he possessed. He would not be returning to Kerath, he promised himself. His life there hadn’t been bad, but the farm holdings had all gone to his elder brother, leaving naught for him but an officer’s commission in the legions.

  Dura, though. There was an openness, an air of welcome and opportunity here, and yet it also felt permanent.

  It was the townsfolk themselves as much as the construction, Damicos thought as he watched a few of the people bustling about below. A woodcutter trundled a small, mule-driven cart past, heaped with fresh-cut logs. The smells of baking bread wafted through the air. A small child chased a hoop down an alley, his friends chasing behind in glee.

  The people here were respectful, but none of them would bow and scrape like the servant class in the baron-ruled towns. There was boldness in their eyes and in the way they carried themselves.

  Whatever it was, the Durans had a stake in their town’s future, and they seemed to enjoy the individuality and freedom it brought. Beyond that, there was a hard edge to the place that he found familiar and even comforting. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could see the faint traces of an old battle in the rough granite blocks forming the inn’s foundation. Ancient scars on the stone. The place was hard-won, and its populace hadn’t yet grown soft from their successes—Black Tur had learned that much.

  A door opened behind him, and Pelekarr sauntered out.

  “There you are.”

  The cavalry captain took a chair and they watched the town in silence.

  “A good place,” Pelekarr finally said.

  “Very good.”

  “What do you think about their offer?”

  “The ruins? They’ll do. And I don’t mind admitting I’m beginning to really like this town. Can’t think of a reason to turn the Durans down.”

  On the return journey from the outlaws’ camp, the Durans had led the captains and their sergeants to the proposed site for the troops’ home. It was a silent place snug up against a couple of steep hills, with narrow hollows running up into the ridges. The place was within walking distance of Dura, but just far enough that the soldiers’ activities wouldn’t disrupt or annoy the town citizens.

  A sprawling tangle of overgrown stone walls, crumbled towers, and sunken depressions in the earth hinted of collapsed subterranean chambers. Everything was covered with wild rose vines, briars, and wild apple trees. The only sign of life, other than a nearby herd of sheep, were rabbits, larks, and swirling clouds of small blue butterflies.

  Pelekarr nodded. “A pretty enough place. But this hill country is a bit off the beaten path. That means travel time to get to where the jobs are.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve noted a fair traffic of merchants and trappers passing through. I don’t think we’d lack for news or supplies. And once we’ve established a bit of fame, the jobs would seek us out here. Then there’s the added security that comes with isolation. I believe that’s half the secret to Dura’s success.”

  More important than the forlorn charm of the ruins, in Damicos’ mind, was their tactical and logistical value. The company needed a base of operations, a permanent garrison camp, and the ruins filled that need well. They commanded high ground with limited avenues of approach, and they enclosed a fresh spring with open fields on one side for drilling, woods on the other for firewood and game.

  On surveying it, the captains had conjectured that the place might have been an important fort in the long-forgotten past, before Kerathi sailors even plotted Ostora on their maps. The stones were weathered but solid, and roofs could be built upon them eventually. Plenty of pasture land was close enough for the horses and mules.

  “We could look for a year and never find a better spot,” Damicos said.

  Pelekarr looked out at the hills for moment. “Very well. Clearing the place and setting up camp there will be a job in itself, and no one will pay us for it. But we’d best get the men on it today, without time to grow bored and restless.”

  He stood, but something on the road in the distance caught his attention, and he stilled.

  “What is it?” Damicos asked, rising to his feet.

  “A rider. Coming from the east. And by the way he sits his horse I’ll swear it’s one of mine.”

  “Stavo? We didn’t expect him back for a few more days.”

  “Yes. If he turned right around and hurried back here, it may mean trouble.”

  They waited. The rider crossed the first bridge, entering Dura, and was lost to sight for a minute. When he emerged into view again, the captains saw that it was their own messenger, Stavo Turmides. He trotted briskly through the streets and into the plaza, where he drew rein at the pool to let his horse drink.

  Damicos hailed the man, and he saluted up at the two captains.

  “What news?” Pelekarr called down.

  Stavo swung down out of the saddle and shaded his eyes as he stared upwards at his captains. “Work, sir. Jobs!”

  Pelekarr and Damicos exchanged glances. “Come on up!” Damicos called, and Stavo disappeared into the inn’s lower floors. In a few minutes he had joined them on the balcony.

  Pelekarr sat him down in a chair and Damicos handed him the remains of the breakfast platter, but the man was as eager to speak as they were to listen.

  “I came right away,” the horseman began. “There’s work in the wind, and lots of it. The gods are favoring us, if we’re bold enough to reach out and seize it.”

  “What sort of work?” Damicos queried.

  “There’s war in the wind. With the legions gone, the barons are restless, two in particular. Lord Governor Spatha won’t take a side, so it’s up to the competing factions to fight it out. Both sides have been hiring every man they can find.”

  “Which barons?” Damicos asked.

  “Vocke and Telros, Captain. Seems they’re feuding over control of some port.”

  “New Lantos,” Pelekarr said. He remembered well the place they’d lost to the traitor, Chiss Felca.

  “Aye, that’s the one. The old baron, Sindas, died of a fever and before his body was in the ground Vocke and Telros were at each other’s throats. They’re both hiring ahead of the battle that’s expected to take place near the port in the coming week, so we can pick our side, whoever bids highest.”

  “No. There is only one side we’ll fight on,” Pelekarr replied. “Vocke hired our enemy, Felca, and the Black Manes as well. We will take Baron Telros’ side in this, if we are to fight for a baron.”

  Stavo nodded. “Well enough. But he already has the Red Lancers in his service and won’t likely take more cavalry. Wants as many hoplites as will go, they said.” Damicos started to speak, but the man held up a hand. “There’s more, Captain, and it may be just as well. North of here there’s a barony called Painlock Fold. They’re up against the hinterlands, and the apes have given them hell over the past month.”

  “Apes?”

  “The Pale Apes, Captain. Encroaching on the baron’s settlement, and they’re looking for aid to drive the beasts back before they overrun the richest farmlands. What I heard, it’s been three years since the apes have ventured this far. And what with the war brewing, promising good wages, no one’s taken the offer. All the free companies march north, not south.”

  “The gods will have their little joke,” Pelekarr murmured. “And we worried we might not find work at all. What say you, Damicos?”

  “I say it’s perfect!” the infantry captain exclaimed, grinning. “Your sacrifices have paid off, my friend.
You can take your horse down to this barony to spear you some apes, while I march to the coast and help to pound Vocke’s army to a rubble. We get twice as rich in the same span of time!”

  Pelekarr thought it over. “The baron will likely pay less, but it’s a sure thing if we can run these apes to ground. You’ll only bring back gold if Telros wins the battle.”

  “Then we’ll make sure he wins it,” Damicos chuckled.

  But Pelekarr was troubled. “He’s probably expecting the pay to come from spoils when he sacks Vocke’s port town. That might not please the governor, and neither will we if we split the company.”

  Damicos considered the other captain’s words. “I don’t think Spatha will know or care if you take the horsemen down south for a side job. We’re still part of the same company, and the gold will go into the common coffers.”

  “As will your battle spoils.”

  “Yes. Of course. Share and share alike. And remember what the governor told us in person: take the barons’ money, but be wary of them.”

  “Yes. He’s no friend of theirs.”

  “It’s not us that’ll be spoiling a city, I swear you that much,” Damicos went on. “It’s not our concern where Telros gets the gold, as long as he pays up in the end.”

  Pelekarr sighed. “You want to take the port battle, then?”

  “I do. It sounds custom-made for my troops. A chance to really bite into a full-scale battle and make a name for our company.”

  “Not to mention lucrative. Don’t think I shirk from the smell of coin; if you come away with riches and I return with some of this baron’s pay, we’ll have enough to winter in peace if we wish, with no need to take another job until spring. But we must be prudent and not overextend ourselves.”

  As Pelekarr stared across the morning fields, watching the farmers at work, Damicos’ mind was running over the possibilities.

  The Ostoran coast boasted three good harbors, spaced evenly along the north-south coastline. Belsoria was the central and largest, with a deep bay sheltered by a hooked peninsula, perfect for shipping. As the seat of the royal governor, it was the focal point for all official traffic coming or going across the sea and therefore immune to the barons’ squabbling.

  But as a result, rivalry for control of the other two ports was fierce. Any who wished to ship Ostora’s three main exports of grain, lumber, and ore, had to pay the port’s owner a percentage, or take their goods overland to Belsoria and still end up paying the royal rates. The southern-most port, Ceru Drop, was firmly controlled by Baron Massy, who had wrested it from Baron Ulith two years previous. Now the northern-most port, New Lantos, was up for grabs, and the winner would have the key to a lucrative long-term source of revenue.

  This fight would determine the new order of power along Ostora’s northern coast, Damicos realized, and all of the troops remaining in Ostora would be forced to line up on one side or the other. To sit the battle out would be to proclaim oneself irrelevant.

  Pelekarr began nodding, speaking as he made up his mind. “Spatha keeps his peace for now because anything short of open, prolonged warfare will serve to consolidate his power. Let the barons and the troops beat each other into submission, and then he steps in as the final authority without doing all the hard work of beating them into line himself.

  “So what is our place, but to profit from the situation as we may? And who has the better cause? Telros, for it’s Vocke who illegally denies him access to the port.”

  “Besides, with no Kerathi ships coming in, Vocke’s coffers are likely as empty as the rest of his promises. Telros can still profit from his mines with caravans moving overland to Belsoria, as slow and risky as they are.”

  “I would need the cook, Tibion, with us,” Pelekarr declared, watching to see if Damicos would argue the point.

  “I suppose so. We’ll have access to the baron’s supply train.”

  Pelekarr nodded once more. “Then our choice is made.”

  Damicos shook a fist in triumph. “Yes! We’ll be richer than kings by month-end. Stavo, who else has pledged for Vocke?”

  “The Copper Men and the Black Manes. The Deep Shields are for Telros, and the chariots.”

  Pelekarr looked at the other captain. “Where the Black Manes go, the Sun Swords follow. Treliam will do whatever Menier Oltan tells him to. This won’t be a sap run, Damicos. You’ll have to slay good men of the legions.”

  Damicos waved a hand. “They are no longer in the legion, and horses die on hoplite spears easily enough. With the Deep Shields on our side, we can handle the Copper Men.”

  “I hope you’re right. Are your men ready?”

  Damicos nodded. “More than.”

  “Then we’ll take both jobs. Although, I must confess, hunting vermin is hardly to my taste.” Pelekarr paused. The impulsiveness that had gotten the two of them into governor’s prison a week earlier was strangely absent. Damicos noted apprehension in his eyes.

  Then it was gone.

  “Find Chiss on the battlefield,” he told Damicos with stern force. “And give him a swift end!”

  CHAPTER 20: ONWARD TO RICHES

  Morale swelled as news spread of the new jobs that had fallen into the company’s lap. The pain of losing so many comrades was fading, and these prospects combined with the victory already under their belts to produce an intoxicating sense of adventuresome bravado. It was tempered with the steady feeling that they had a path forward, a way to make good on all they had set out to do. Only the sergeants remained unmoved, viewing the world with unshakably cynical professionalism.

  It was just past midday when Keltos dropped by the quartermaster’s tent to draw a new saddle blanket. His old one was wearing a bit thin and Keltos wanted to stay ahead of any saddle sores with Hetta.

  He knew he babied the mare more than he needed to. All cavalrymen thought of their horses before themselves, but Hetta had been a gift from Keltos’ father, the last gift Varkuros Kuron had ever given his son, and caring for the beautiful young horse was a way to keep his father’s memory alive and close.

  Cormoran, the big infantry veteran, was walking out just as Keltos entered the tent and they almost collided. The gnarled veteran had his hands full of spare sandal leathers and soles, along with a bronze spearhead and some other odds and ends.

  “Ox-head!” Keltos snarled in mock indignation. “Mishtan’s bones! There ought to be a law.”

  Cormoran grinned. The two had spent less than an hour together during the raid on the outlaw camp, but a brotherly bond had been formed nonetheless. “The problem is that all you horse-boys are so short. I couldn’t hardly see you! Sit up tall in the saddle and you can almost look me in the eye.”

  Keltos smirked. “Maybe you like eating road dust. I don’t.”

  Cormoran shrugged. “They don’t make horses big enough for me. What time are you lot leaving?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good luck with the apes.” A sober look came across the older man’s face, and he half reached out a hand to grab Keltos’ shoulder. Instead he added, “Watch yourselves out there. Stick together, don’t get lost among the trees.”

  Cormoran was the only man who’d fought in Ostora long enough to share any useful wisdom about such things. He’d seen seven fighting seasons in Ostora, which gave him something of a celebrity status among the younger and less-experienced troopers.

  There was strength and energy in youth, but the average age of the company’s fighters was troublingly low. Kerathi legions had been stationed in Ostora for over forty years, but most men elected to return to Kerath after their twenty years of service, and those that stayed usually entered the service of the frontier barons for steady pay and predictable tasks. On the beach, those who were near retirement had greater incentive to ship for Kerath, and those that stayed commanded higher wages than Pelekarr and Damicos could promise.

  “The captain will lead us aright,” Keltos replied.

  Cormoran rolled his head on his wide shoul
ders, popping the bones in his sinewy neck. “He’s a good tactician, I’ve heard, but he’s never gone into the wilds to fight apes before. Just watch yourselves. There’s things out there far worse than bandits.”

  “Like what? I think you’re just jealous, spearman. You’re upset about being set against your former unit in the barons’ battle, is that it?”

  Cormoran frowned. “It doesn’t thrill me. But we’re all mercenaries now, and I know I can win glory and gold in a good open fight with cavalry on the left, chariots on the right, and a solid phalanx down the middle.” He shook his head and grinned. “Have fun hunting smelly apes in the forest while I bring home all the spoils.”

  Keltos winced at the reminder. Both men knew that the infantry under Captain Damicos were going to fight the greater battle—the one more important both to Ostora’s future and the company’s coffers.

  Cormoran sighed and moved past the cavalryman. “May Telion protect us both, youngblood. But if he can only pick one, let it be me.”

  “Unlikely,” Keltos whipped back. “I just sought his favor on my own behalf minutes ago, and received a sign of acceptance in the form of a cloud in the sky, shaped like a rearing horse. You’re out of luck, spear-pusher.”

  Cormoran turned and walked backward as he carried his things away from the quartermaster’s. “Luck? If you’re lucky enough, perhaps I’ll have a few coins to spare for you and your mates when I return.”

  “See that you do! Don’t drink it all away the first night, Cormoran!”

  They parted with a laugh. The equal pay provision the captains fought for during the meeting at the inn stipulated that all earnings would be added to the common company fund and paid out in fair shares, so the spearman’s words were mostly empty bluster.

  And the governor forbade wholesale looting and plunder by the free companies. It remained to be seen if the other companies would keep to this point, but Pelekarr and Damicos insisted on it for their own men. They reasoned, and Keltos agreed, that the rapine and spoil the free companies of Kerath had become known for would quickly sour the Ostorans on the whole arrangement. As the ex-legionaries had to rely on the goodwill of the locals for bread, board, and pay in the foreseeable future, a good reputation was important.