So prizes and equipment could be claimed from the pavilions and supply wagons of the Baron Vocke’s war camp, but the tenants of his port city were off limits to the mercenaries. And whatever the cavalry encountered in the south, they were unlikely to come away with anything more than a few silvers each.
It was unfortunate. Mishtan above knew that Keltos could well use any extra spoils he could claim. Across the sea, two women waited in quiet disgrace, supported by and living with Makos’ family.
As soon as Keltos could afford it, he swore to himself, he would send for his mother and his sister, bring them to Ostora. It would be hard for them here, living in humble exile, but they’d be away from the constant degradation of their inescapable status as social pariahs.
Makos didn’t like that idea, but he’d generously offered to have his family pay for the transit anyway. But Keltos was waiting. He wanted to offer them a secure home once they arrived, not a hovel on the beach and a soldier-son who was always gone on campaign. There was pride, too; his father would have wanted him to pay the way himself. It was already painful that Mother and Nealtha lived on the generosity of Makos’ family, given that they had once been equals in wealth and title.
But those days were over now. And so Keltos saved his pay carefully.
Plunder would have been a welcome addition to his fund, but that time-honored staple of victorious mercenaries was denied him and he knew it wouldn’t have been right anyway. His mother would never eat bread that was taken by force from a defeated civilian. Still, the thought of coin passing him by made him restless.
It was but a short distance south to Painlock Fold, perhaps three or four hours’ steady pace. The countryside they travelled through was safe—four generations settled and over seven years since the last barbarian raid—but Captain Pelekarr insisted on full battle deployment during the journey. So the men formerly of the Cold Spears rode in armor with lances out, four abreast on the road with banner flying and polished bronze gleaming in the sun. The discipline served to inspire the men, and Keltos knew they looked good to anyone who might think about hiring them in days to come.
After the first half a league, they slowed from canter to trot, then walked their mounts a while before returning to a trot. With no infantry tailing along behind, the troop made excellent time, and the captain kept varying the pace to exercise the horses and keep the men focused. Every trooper was a superb rider, trained from boyhood, most of them from noble families who had grown up with horses.
Keltos had to admit, as Hetta sauntered along underneath him, that there was something good about this new country. It rolled on before, behind, and on either side, lush and unending. They were crossing through a long meadow, following a rutted cart track, and the warm wind rippled and sighed through the long grass on either side. For a moment, the sound of it took Keltos back, back across the sea to home, and the great plains of Tekelin, the scent of the fylla in bloom and the short golden grass stirring.
But this land had its own scents and its own feel. And it was good. There was something open about it, and free. It made a man want to stretch his arms wide.
Small blue flowers winked here and there in the grass, giving off a pleasing, spicy-sweet scent. From far overhead came the screeee of a hawk. The sun was warm on his face, and it was good to be alive, riding a good horse, surrounded by friends. Optimism came easier on days like this.
“It’s good country, Mak,” Keltos said.
Makos rode at his side, on the inner half of the column. He surveyed the lush meadow. “That I’ll grant you. A little wet for my taste, though. I’ll wager it rains too much in the winter.”
“And Kerath’s too dry in the summer. You’ve got to pick something.”
“I’d pick Kerath over this overgrown bramble. Stuffed with monsters, unwashed peasants, and the barbarian raff. You can keep the whole continent.”
I have to, Keltos thought. You don’t.
“And,” Makos continued, “don’t forget we’re about to ride into the forest to hunt down a gaggle of stinking apes. That’s no work for a cavalryman. We should be up north with Captain Damicos. If the Red Lancers hadn’t gotten there first—”
“You ride noisily,” Sergeant Bivar’s voice growled across at them. “Shut up so I can hear myself think.”
By midday they had reached their destination. The baron’s fortress was a fairly sophisticated structure for Ostora; although small, it had been one of the first in the colony and the succeeding generations had each augmented their bastion.
The first phase had been an enlarging of the original stockade, turning it into a motte-and-bailey stronghold surrounded by a dry but deep moat ditch. The motte-and-bailey had in turn been expanded, and now the current baron was beginning to raise walls of stone. So far only the keep had received this treatment, but as they approached Keltos could see scaffolding erected around portions of the outer wall, and men were at work under the direction of masons. The wind brought the faint sound of tapping chisels.
The outer stockade wall enclosed a village which itself surrounded the keep. As they approached, Keltos counted over a hundred thatched roofs inside the perimeter wall. The gates were opened wide, and traffic moved busily in and out.
“Looks prosperous enough,” Makos said. “Perhaps it’s market day.”
Arco, from his place on Makos’ left, nodded. “Safe, too. Lots of guards on the walls. I wonder what this baron needs us for.”
Sergeant Bivar was riding alongside them now. “The show’s for us, lads. Inside the keep courtyard there’ll be more. No lord likes to invite a gob of armed men to his gates without some security. They’ll watch us like hawks until we’re well on our way.”
Keltos and Makos shared a glance. They both respected the short sergeant, a man who had been with the captains since the formation of the Cold Spears back in Kerath. Bivar had seen far more than either of the younger horsemen, and knew of what he spoke.
As they drew close to the gates, the captain gave the order to slow to a hard, measured trot that shook the ground. Keltos was himself impressed by the spectacle they made. Villagers and farmers on the approaching road made way for them, openly gawking. The Cold Spears’ white and blue livery contrasted well with the dusty road behind them and every spearpoint gleamed in the sun.
A few horse-lengths from the gate, the captain called a halt. The combined column stepped off the road as one and stood in the grass by the wayside. Keltos heard the captain speaking with Sergeants Bivar, Keresh, and Deltan. “I will enter the town with an escort of eight troopers,” he announced. “Keresh and Deltan, keep the men in order. This shouldn’t take long. Sergeant Bivar, bring seven of your best and follow me.”
Bivar saluted and turned in the saddle. “Tolanos, Kobal, Arco, and Kandan. Velzar, Keltos, and Makos. With me. The rest of you hold here.”
Keresh and Deltan spurred down the line, passing on the word, and the column relaxed. Keltos and Makos followed the others chosen, riding behind the captain in a slow trot to the gate.
A sentry on the wall, wearing a green-lacquered leathern cap, hailed them. “Halt there! What is your business in Painlock?”
“Hail, and peace!” called Captain Pelekarr. “We answer a summons—a request for fighting men. The free company of the Tooth and Blade seeks service with Baron Craya and asks an escort to your lord.”
The gatekeeper stepped back and conferred with someone out of sight. Then he came forward again and called down.
“We’ve never heard of you. Where do you hail from, and by whose charter do you ride?”
Pelekarr rolled his eyes. “We are newly formed, men previously of the king’s legion. The governor himself signed our charter. And though you haven’t heard of us yet,” he added, looking around at his men, “we are confident that soon our fame will run like fire all around the colonies.”
The gatekeeper and his men chewed on that for a moment, and then nodded. “Very well, then. The Baroness Craya will see you,” the man call
ed, pausing to make sure Pelekarr caught the error he had made earlier. “An escort awaits below to show you to her keep.”
Pelekarr slowly saluted, clearly bemused. Baroness?
In Kerath the high king granted no noble charters to women, and if a lord died his station passed to a brother or son.
New country, new ways. Keltos reached forward and patted Hetta’s neck. Perhaps milady’s husband died with no male heir.
Here on the frontier the hallowed laws and customs of home might be quietly dispensed with, from necessity. It wasn’t as if women were incapable of running things when needed. Keltos remembered his own mother with a rueful smile. Tessenia Kuron had ruled her household the way the high king ruled his court. He imagined her as a baroness in Ostora, and had to stifle a chuckle.
The gates opened with a groan, greenish bronze hinges popping in protest. The column moved forward again, passing under a great wooden arch. The gatehouse itself had already been fronted with stonework, probably the first of the new construction. Keltos was impressed, though he knew little of siege-craft. He shot a glance at Sergeant Bivar, but the troop leader was looking straight ahead, almost bored, as if he owned the town. Keltos tried to emulate him.
Once inside, a soldier mounted on a swaybacked sorrel mare nodded at them and trotted wordlessly ahead toward the keep.
Keltos found himself gazing with renewed interest at the surroundings. The houses were freshly whitewashed, the thatch looked thick. The streets were the usual noisy, chaotic cobbled maze, closer and less planned than Dura. But compared with Tekelin and some of the other great cities across the sea, Keltos liked what he saw: little refuse on the ground, and no beggars. The townspeople moved out of their way, but they didn’t hurry as they would in Kerathi cities, fearing the lash of a whip.
The keep loomed ahead. Their escort led the way through an inner gate which they passed without challenge, and found themselves in a large courtyard. The keep itself stood apart, not joined to its inner perimeter wall, a great square block of stone, practical and ugly. From one of its towers flew the standard Keltos had seen at the gate, a maned scarlet lion on a field of bright green.
The courtyard was a hive of activity, which slowed somewhat as they entered. Keltos saw stables against the wall, kennels, and a smithy. There were plenty of guards: soldiers in livery manned the walls of both inner curtain wall and keep, and a large group of men drilled bare-chested at the pells.
Against the far wall a scaffold had been erected, and a stained chopping block dominated its surface. The sight would have been unremarkable in Kerath, but Keltos couldn’t recall seeing such a thing in Ostora so far. Perhaps here, he thought, few lived long enough to see the executioner’s blade. And from what he’d heard of the dangers lurking beyond the coastal towns, a simple exile into the wilderness would be just as effective a sentence.
As they reined to a halt in the central square a small retinue emerged from the keep and approached them. The baroness was instantly distinguishable from the men around her, dressed in a scarlet robe that matched the lion on her flags.
She was a hollow-cheeked, dark-haired woman of regal enough bearing, but Keltos instantly disliked her. Why, he could not have said, but there was something repellent about her, a look in her eyes that held no room for pity or human kindness. She looked capable and in command, and the men around her stood stiffly with faces set in stone. Guards with poleaxes discreetly spread out to either side of the gathering, and without turning his head Keltos heard men passing behind them to block the gate.
“Dismount,” the baroness commanded. “All of you.” Her voice was raw and surprisingly low, as if she had suffered a recent throat injury. A black collar hid her neck from view, but her dress opened again below it to expose a lacy white bodice. She might have been beautiful when she was younger, but now obviously relied on the intimidation her position allowed her to wield.
The troopers shared glances with each other. The command to dismount would have been questionable from anyone but their own officer or the king. From a woman to whom none of them had sworn fealty it was an open insult.
Pelekarr stared back at the lady, surrounded by men-at-arms casually bearing polearms. “Surely you are aware, Baroness, that protocol dictates—”
“You’re in Ostora now,” interrupted the baroness, “not in Kerath. Royal protocol counts for little with me. As you can see, I claim my station without the king’s grace.” Her frog-croak voice was off-putting. “Are you a free company? If not, I will have little use for your services.”
Pelekarr opened his mouth halfway, but thought better of whatever he was going to say and began to dismount without a word. Keltos and Makos followed suit, along with the others. They stood, ill at ease, holding their reins.
The baroness eyed them fiercely, enlivened by her little victory. “Very good, now we will talk,” she said. “You dazzled my townsfolk with your banners and arms, I’m sure. But it will take more than that to defeat the apes. What action have you seen?”
“We come from a recent victory against a band of outlaws north of here,” Pelekarr said. “Slaughtered them to a man, and brought away their hostages safely. Prior to that, most of our number marched with General Lord Jaimesh.”
Craya threw back her head and laughed, a high-pitched dry sound. She stopped quickly, leaving no sign of amusement. “Jaimesh, eh? I met him once. A traitor, some say.”
Kel’s face flushed, and beside him Makos shifted his feet and gripped his lance-haft. Pelekarr spoke after a short silence, and his voice was soft and cold. “The general was no traitor, lady. For this I can vouch personally. It was his desire to remain here in Ostora, protecting the colony instead of fleeing across the sea, that led to his murder.”
Craya stared back at him for a moment, gauging the effect of her jab. Finally she tossed her head, dark hair flying back over her scarlet shoulder. “Well. We shall speak no more of it. You are here for some work, eh? Hungry for coin? Most soldiers are. How many do you command?”
“Nearly a hundred horse troopers, baroness. We left our foot soldiers behind.”
“You may regret that,” the Baroness shot back. “You may have need of them against these apes.”
“We are up to any task, milady, I assure you.”
The baroness turned to an older man mounted next to her. He was apparently a valued retainer, for although his hair and beard were graying, the man wore a rich robe collared with white fur. The two conversed in whispers for a moment, then the baroness turned back to Pelekarr. “It may be sufficient. Certainly you may try. But it will not be at my expense if you fail.”
Makos ground his teeth so loudly that Keltos heard them, and Bivar frowned. Pelekarr’s reply was quick. “We will not fail, baroness, I promise you. The only expense incurred will be the pay we deserve for having accomplished the deed you set before us.”
“Your task,” croaked the woman, “is simple enough. Some of my western-most farms, including the hamlet of Greenfield, have been troubled by the apes. You’ve no doubt heard of them, but if you’ve never fought with them then you have much to learn. Cunning animals, they are, covered in a pale blonde fur. We of Ostora call them Tuskers, but the bloody barbarians have their own name. I disremember it.
“Their recent raids have cost me much, and they ruin the crops wherever they go. A full score of my tenants have lost their lives to the depredations of the apes. I desire you to track and kill me these creatures.”
“Very well. How large is the force arrayed against us?” Pelekarr asked.
The woman shrugged. “The bands that attacked my land number perhaps fifty, including the females and whelps. A small task for such a large body of horsemen. But if you can destroy more of them and beat them away from Greenfield for good, you’ll have earned all the pay you seek.”
Pelekarr nodded. “Consider it done, lady. Where are we to find these apes?”
The white-haired retainer spoke up. “Southwest of here. Inquire in Greenfield hamlet, fiv
e leagues out along the main road. The farmers there can better tell you where the beasts were last sighted than we here can.”
Pelekarr bowed stiffly from the waist. “We shall be on the road within the hour, milady. There only remains the small matter of our terms of employ.”
The baroness laughed again. Her voice reminded Keltos of the hyenas that wandered outside the city walls of Tekelin. Her eyes glittered. “Five hundred silver pieces, to be paid in full on your successful return.”
Pelekarr nodded. “Accepted.” Bivar looked outraged, but Pelekarr was as tranquil as a lamb. “With the gods’ help, by this time tomorrow you will see just how effective this company can be. May Quel the Swift go with us in our errand.”
He waited for a moment, expectantly, and the baroness stared back. Then she sputtered, “Yes! Oh, yes, quite. Quel, and Mishtan, and all the others. Perhaps a few of the barbarians’ gods as well.” She half-concealed a cruel smile behind one hand.
Pelekarr mounted, wheeled his horse and led the way out of the courtyard with a clatter, hooves sparking on the cobblestones. The others circled and followed after him, and they did not slow to give the men who had moved into position behind them time to get away. The men-at-arms fairly dived for cover, dropping their weapons with startled cries.
As Keltos passed through the gate he heard loud cursing echoing after them.
CHAPTER 21: TO GREENFIELD CAMP
Once outside the town of Painlock Fold, Keltos breathed a sigh of relief. He was not at all impressed with their new patron, and judging by the mood among the others that had been inside Craya’s gates, he wasn’t alone. Makos was still fuming at his side.
Tooth and Blade Page 22
