Once again, the rape, pillage, arson, and looting began, the cowardly local troops reflecting the manner of their leader, as was always the case.
Arden wheeled his mount away from the spectacle, assured his own wounded and dead was being cared for by their sergeants, rode through the healthy ranks, and nodded in salute. He always recognized his troops for doing well.
Shakis was waiting at the rear, as always. “Arden, you have done well again, for mercenaries,” he said as Arden entered his tent.
Such a greeting. “Well for mercenaries.” As if sword wounds felt different to the vanquished, depending on the colors worn by the soldier thrusting it home.
“I thank you,” he said.
“The campaign proceeds. We will keep your men another month, as we asked.”
“As long as they are paid, they will remain loyal to the contract,” he hinted.
Shakis barely scowled and with a nod one of his lackeys dropped a sack of coin in front of Arden. Arden took the time to count it. Those two acts summed up the relationship perfectly. Arden didn’t trust his employer, and the man was fervent enough in his religion to imagine that people should want to risk their lives for it.
Not for the first time, Arden pitied the towns falling to this excuse for a man.
Then it was out to ride patrol. Everyone took turns at the duties of camp and skirmish, even the squadron leaders and Arden himself. No good commander could understand the working soldiers without sharing in the menial tasks. Occasionally, he exercised his privilege not to, but it was good practice and good inspiration, so he dealt with the muck and tedium and did it most of the time.
He met up with Balyat and two newer riders. Balyat and he were the scouts for the ride, the others backup and messengers if needed, and would gain experience in the skill.
Patrol gave him the chance to explore the area consciously, and to get a feel for it inside. It allowed part of his mind to relax and tour the terrain—rolling hills and copses of trees with small, growing streams. It let him ponder the job they had contracted.
The work was “good” in a sense. It was honest fighting at their end, the pay decent, and they had the benefits of a real army nearby. All the mercenaries were in the pay of one lord, meaning they weren’t killing other professionals. Of course, they were killing innocent people and leaving the survivors to suffer at the hands of that lord.
Fausan, Mirdu, Askauk, Shelin . . . tiny hamlets, nothing but farmers and hunters with a few basic crafters. Why it was necessary to fight them was beyond Arden. He would have simply bypassed them, taken control of a large city, say, Maujujir, and let the traders spread the word that there was a new ruler. The peasants never cared, as long as the taxes weren’t extreme and they were left to their lives.
Of course, that required a leader with self-confidence and who was secure in his power. Miklamar was not, and therefore wasteful. He’d been pacifying a very small province for years, proving to be a petty lord in every meaning of the word.
Riders ahead! The message came from a small part of Arden’s brain that never slept. He didn’t react at once, but let his mind go over what he’d seen.
Caravan, small. Not uncommon around an engagement area. It was foolish and inadvisable to fight, though both groups would report the presence of the other. To clash four on two wagons and a carriage would mean certain death for at least one rider, possibly all. Nor was Arden, as a hired sword, expected to fight outside of his contract. The train was not a massive provisioning effort, so it was not a threat to the war.
Still, a challenge and meeting were necessary, to determine the intent of the others, and their origin. Arden reined back and slowed slightly, watching to see that the others did. They were ahead to the left, crossing obliquely. One of their numbers took the lead, presumably the troop commander.
Shortly, the groups were drawn up facing each other, a safe twenty feet apart; too far for an immediate strike, too close for a charge.
“Arden, High Rider of the Toughs,” he introduced himself. “Patrolling my unit’s line.”
“Count Namhar, of the Anasauk Confederacy, escorting a Lord,” the other leader agreed. He wore striking blue-and-black colors, and had a slim lance with a small pennant. His horse was armored with light hardened leather and a few small plates that were more a status symbol than protection. Of the four others with him, two shared his colors and two were in a similar blue, black, and gray, marking them as belonging to some side branch of the family.
“You are mercenaries. For whom do you ride?” Namhar asked.
“We are on contract to Miklamar, through his deputy Shakis.” Arden wouldn’t lie anyway, and the truth was best. Dissemblance could be seen as a sign of espionage.
One of the others, quite young, snapped, “You are the butchers of Kiri!” He reined his horse and clutched reactively at his sword. His partner extended a hand and caught him.
“Steady,” the youth was told.
“Chal had friends in Kiri. He is still in mourning,” Namhar said.
“I understand,” Arden replied. “No threat offered, I take no offense.”
“You’re still a butchering scum!” the young man yelled.
“In Kiri,” Arden said. “All we did was crack the defenses.”
“You lie! I saw the desecrated corpses! The torn . . .” For a moment Chal was incoherent with rage.
“Shakis’ men,” Arden said. “We broke the line, as we were paid to, and he took what he calls ‘retribution’ on peasants too poor and weak to resist.” Thereby showing the sum of his courage.
For a moment, there was silence. Emotion swirled in the air, all of them negative.
At once, Namhar dismounted. Arden nodded and did likewise. His two junior troops stepped down, leaving Balyat mounted, tall, bearlike, and imposing, but wise enough to be a good lookout. One of Namhar’s men stayed astride his beast, too.
The soldiers faced each other on the ground, the tension lessened. A mounted man was much taller and more imposing, a greater threat. With the horses held and the men afoot, it would be harder to start trouble.
The shouts had brought the other travelers out. The teamsters dropped from their wagons and the passengers in the carriage hurried over. The young man’s outrage was contagious, and in moments the shouts of, “Butcher!” and “Violator!” were ringing.
Arden and his troops stood calmly and firmly, though the younger of the two trembled. Balyat sat solidly on his horse and refused to move. Namhar waved his arms and got control. The others acquiesced to his voice and presence, and the trouble downgraded to hard breaths and angry looks.
“I had a cousin in Kiri,” Chal said.
Balyat spoke, his voice deep and sonorous. “My thoughts are with you,” he said. “We fight only armed men. Shakis slaughtered the peasants. He left none if he could help it. He thought to show the kind of man he was.”
“And you let him?” Chal said, glancing between the two mercenaries.
Arden said, “The Toughs are hired to bear the brunt against the peasants. Against larger forces, we are skirmishers and outriders. If you know of our name, we fight as we are ordered, but the pillage and rapine are not the work of my soldiers. I would not hire on to such, nor is it worthy of my troops.”
Namhar nodded, recognizing the words as being the strongest condemnation the mercenary would utter.
“How can you fight for such animals? Is money so precious?” The man asking was a well-dressed merchant turned statesman. An honorable man, but not one to grasp the mercenary viewpoint.
Arden said nothing. He looked around evenly, finding only one pair of eyes showing understanding. Namhar nodded imperceptibly, but in empathy. He alone knew the conflict Arden faced, and why he could not unbind his contract. He wondered now, though, if Miklamar or Shakis were trying to ruin the Toughs’ reputation, to tie them here for lesser wages. Probably not. That would be subtle, and subtlety wasn’t something he’d seen much evidence of.
“It is the empl
oyment we have, until released, perhaps at month’s end.”
“Release now! There are worthier employers around.” The merchant tugged at a purse to emphasize the point.
“That is not possible,” Arden replied with a shake of his head. “We have troubled you enough. Good travel to you. I must resume my patrol. I will report this encounter with my other notes, after I return and care for my horse.”
“Bastard!” Chal growled.
“Quiet, Chal,” Namhar snapped. “High Rider, we thank you for the courtesy.”
Arden nodded as he swung up into the saddle. It would be as easy to report the incident at once, but there was no threat here, and he had no orders to do so. He wasn’t about to offer a grace before eating without pay or orders.
“If you do find your contract at an end soon, I can offer the pay of my lord for good skirmishers.”
“I will remember that, Namhar,” Arden replied. “Offers of support are always welcome.”
Shakis appeared outraged when the message was relayed hours later.
“You spoke to what amounts to an enemy patrol, and not only didn’t stop them; you report it to me after a leisurely dinner!”
“They were merely a lord’s retinue. Surely you wouldn’t wish me to attack possible allies?”
“Allies? There are no allies! Lord Miklamar will be the undisputed ruler, as is his right!”
“Then you need to deal with such things, not have me be your envoy, yes?” Arden asked with a cruel smile.
It took a moment for the petty underling to grasp the verbal spar. “Watch your tongue, mercenary,” Shakis rasped.
Shaking his head, he continued, “There has been more rebellion along the border. Lessons must be taught. I expect this entire village put to sword.” He pointed at a map, and to the south. “Manjeuk. Only another day’s march.”
A lesson of slaughtered peasants. Yes, Arden thought. That would surely teach other peasants not to try to live their lives. If he were planning, he would kill the village militia, then wait with baleful eye for the rest to flee. It was harsh, but it was war. It wasn’t as dangerous, tactically foolish or obscenely cruel as wanton butchery.
He reflected that Shakis was acting professionally by his own vulgar standards. He wasn’t sparing the town for looting, burning, and rapine.
Though not every occupant would be dead after the attack. Those left would be subject to the most vile humiliations this twisted troll could devise, he was sure.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to simply kill the armed men and drive off the rest? Why waste good steel on starving, rag-clothed peasants?”
It was a reasonable question. So he thought.
“Rider Arden,” Shakis said, caressing a jeweled dagger before him, with a blade that would turn on canvas, never mind leather or iron, “the plans are made here. You and your mercenaries,” that with a sniff, “are merely one small part of many in an engagement planned many hundreds of leauges away. All we ask, all we are paying for, is your men to swing their swords where we tell them to, and to not think too much.”
That decided Arden. He knew what course to take.
“As you command,” he said with a nod, and turned to his own camp. That order he would give. That exact order.
Before dusk, his troops were ready, aligned, and poised for inspection. The ranks were dead straight, the product of proud, expert riders. He felt a ripple of excitement. His troops, those of the unassailable repute. There was Ty’kara, the Shin’a’in woman, tall and quick and almost as strong as some men. Bukli, skilled at sending signals with flags, hands, or fires, and almost as handy with a sword. Balyat, tall and broad and powerful as an ox, with a cool, mature head. His troops, the best one could pay for.
His troops, under pay of a cretin.
Duty.
He turned through each rank, examining each raised arm, sword, or spear, to see that they fit his orders. All were clean, well cared for, and ready. All his troops quivered in eagerness and a little fear. The brave could admit fear. Fear was part of being human. Only the coward and the fool denied fear.
Every soldier, every weapon, fit and ready as he had demanded. And now to follow the orders of the cretin.
He passed behind the last rank, then turned between two troops. They flinched not a bit, nor did their horses shy, as he urged his mount, Fury, to a fair gallop.
Then he was through the front rank, and behind him came the snorts of horses and the “Yaaah!” of riders. Thunder rose from the ground, thunder that he commanded, thunder that shattered armies.
Far ahead, brave and fearful peasants in sorry, untrained formation prepared to die for their homes. They trembled in fear, armed with hooks and forks and an occasional spear. A handful with bows was arrayed in the rear. He respected them far more than the scum he worked for this night. But he did work for them.
Duty.
And he would see that duty done.
Perhaps five hundred yards, and the flickering lights of torches melded with a blood red sunset to set the mood for the work ahead. Manjeuk was the name of a quiet town in a forest meadow. Tonight, however, it was a dark-tinged collection of rude huts with little prettiness.
A hundred yards, and he could see faces, grubby and fearful and shifting in grimaces. That was just enough time to brace shield and lower sword.. . . .
He hit the defensive line and burst through the front rank. These poor peasants were no match in any fashion for professional soldiers. He chopped down and connected with a skull, feeling the crack through his arm. He let the impact swing his arm back, then brought it into a thrust that knocked another man from his feet. He brought the tip up as he swung his shield out on the other side. Two men sprawled, one of them nudged by Fury’s left forehoof.
Then he was through. That dismal line of men with inadequate stakes and pits had been the defense. They’d lasted not five seconds.
Urging Fury to a charge, he cleared the deadly, empty space ahead. Four good gallops did it, and no arrow came close. Few arrows came anywhere.
Then he was inside the town. A crone with a pitchfork thrust at him, and he dodged, slashing at her chest. She went down. Behind her was a cowering girl of perhaps twelve, who had dropped her stick and was whimpering. A slight poke was sufficient for her. A boy of fifteen or so wouldn’t succumb to a single blow, and had to be hit three times. Stupid of him not to stay down once hit, but that wasn’t Arden’s concern. He reined back, turned, and galloped on.
An old man in a doorway didn’t have time to raise his ancient, rust-caked sword. Two younger men drew out a rope. Arden cursed and ducked, snatching at it and twisting. The shock pulled them to the ground. Behind him, Ty’kara whacked one, dogged over and twisted, jabbed the other and recovered.
Then they were through the town and done. Few casualties, but no loot or anything positive to show for it. He sniffed in disgust as he waved his arm for the Toughs to form up.
Duty done.
Now to encamp again. They circled wide around the now flaming town. What was left was Shakis’ concern. And Arden found that most amusing.
The camp was as it had been, patrols far out, pickets at the outskirts, the wounded and support armed and still a threat to intruders, even if not the heavy combatants the “regulars” were. Only half the Toughs were involved in any given battle. The rest, including recruits and their sergeants, supported them.
The regimental fire was huge, the heat palpable many feet away. Farther out, squadrons and smaller elements had their own blazes, then there were those for the watch. Toughs’ Camp was a ring of fire, ever brighter toward the center, where Arden sat with his troop leaders.
Arden took a healthy slug of his ale. It was a good, rich brew that quenched and refreshed him. The bread had been baked that morning, with a chewy crust and nutty flavor. The cheese was dry, crumbly, and sharp. He dug in with gusto. Once Mirke had finished roasting that yearling stag, he would enjoy the flavor of it, the flavor that was already wafting through his nose an
d taking form.
Regardless of their orders, it had been a good night’s work, and he was proud of it. Pride and prowess in duty. It was the only really valuable thing he had. He cherished it. A faint warmth and tingle from the ale made it sweet.
Then Shakis, that damned foppish envoy, arrived, his horse clattering with ridiculous flashy accouterments. Arden wasn’t surprised, and knew exactly what his complaint was to be before the worm opened his mouth.
“High Rider Arden! Lord Miklamar is most displeased with your performance, if it can be called that, in Manjeuk!”
“We did as we were ordered,” he replied, stonefaced. “As we swore to.”
“You were ordered to put the village to the sword and spear!”
“And so we did,” he replied. He refused to get upset with the likes of this. It would not be honorable. Emotion he reserved for those worthy, who might be allied or enemy, but whom he would count as men. This was not a man.
“I expected you would take your swords out of your scabbards before striking with them! And use the sharp ends of your spears!”
“Then perhaps you should have so specified in your orders,” Arden said, smiling faintly. Behind him were snickers. No doubt everyone in Manjeuk had been confused to have the fiercest riders of the south gallop through, swatting and poking them with scabbarded swords. No doubt they were all bruised and broken from it. But none had been stabbed or cut. The orders had not specified that. And had specified the mercenaries were not to think too hard.
“Because of your cowardice,” Shakis said, and Balyat and Ty’kara growled with flinty gazes. Arden laid out a palm to hold them. It was all he needed to command them, despite the mortal insult. “Because of your cowardice, our men took near twenty deaths.”
Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 35
