Too Many Bad Days (Raxillene's Rogues Book 3)

by Max Keith

  Around him hundreds of soldiers slept, and not a one of them knew what was in store. Soon, in days or even hours, they’d be in battle; dawn would see them surrounded, and other than the few grizzled veteran sergeants, none of them knew it yet. Or they wouldn’t be able to sleep now.

  Death in battle waited for some of them, the braver ones who would stand their ground; maybe, just possibly, a few score of those would win through the Imperial ring and escape, back around the mountains to Lammorel; just possibly a few dozen would be hardy enough and lucky enough to make it back to the Realm and tell the Regent’s advisors just how stupid it had been to think of sending an army around the Tangle. And for what? A Royal army encamped on the River Traxel would do nothing to threaten the Empire, when all was said and done.

  As for the rest, the less brave, the grooms and cooks and healers, all the wounded? Surrender. The Imperials did not believe in slavery; they gave no quarter, and under their laws all surrendered soldiers forfeited their lives. But the Royals did not believe in summary execution, either. So the Duke would negotiate before he surrendered: say, 15% given for execution, another 35% branded and enslaved (for offshore sale, of course; slavery was illegal in the Empire), and the other half stripped naked and turned into the wilderness to shift for themselves. It would be a brutal fate, no matter what.

  The way it typically worked, in Drinn’s experience, was that many of the 15% would be the wounded and the sick, or those whose own officers judged them hopeless or worthless. The naked half would be the weakest soldiers; it would be understood that they were expected to starve or freeze, and soon. The braver and stronger soldiers would be the ones put into slavery.

  Like Drinn.

  And the richer or more important prisoners would be among the enslaved too, though it would be understood by the Emperor’s officers that their friends in the Realm would buy them. So they’d be left unbranded, as a courtesy; the rich and special always took care of each other, even if they were enemies. It would all be included in the Duke’s negotiations.

  Drinn could see at once why Much Ormold lay well short of the sea; beyond stretched a rich-smelling salt marsh, threaded with little streams and ponds. It was obvious this entire part of the coast was flood-prone. Torchlight flickered in the windows of the town as he approached; the Duke had banned his soldiery from entering, but the locals had long since either started packing, started fleeing, or started selling to the invading Royals. Up the coast, perhaps five miles, Drinn could still see the glow of the embers of Lesser Ormold, put to the sword by the Duke the week before; the Imperials, he reflected, would not be joyful when they saw what the Duke had ordered done to the inhabitants there, for they had “resisted.”

  Yes. The Shadowmage was right. Better not to be here tomorrow.

  A pub remained open at the center of the little town, and fresh cart tracks through the muddy streets told of the massive load of ale that had been hauled to the Duke’s camp for sale. The better ale was no doubt still inside, though, being swilled by the inhabitants, either too foolhardy or too poor to leave. And that, Drinn figured, was where he just might find a guide. He hitched his swordbelt higher over his leather tunic, sighed, and plunged inside.

  The atmosphere in there was stifling, hot and muggy with the crusty breath and body odor of the peasants. There were perhaps a dozen customers, plus the barkeep and a hard-bitten wench for serving; she was old and prunelike, though pink with the pox, but Drinn felt his balls tighten anyway. It had been far, far too long for him. In a normal tavern, at a normal time, the low rustle of conversation would have stopped at once, every eye looking at the stranger with various shades of mistrust; now, everyone was just too tired. Besides, though Drinn had three blades showing and, no doubt, more hidden, the locals had him outnumbered.

  So he did catch sullen glances and arched eyebrows, but nobody really molested him as he strode to the bar. The keeper eyed him.

  “Your duke,” he called loudly, “told us we’d be left alone. You soldiers aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “I’m no soldier.” Drinn stood still, aware that if they hadn’t been watching him before, they were now. “I’ve got no livery and I follow no banner. I’m in the army’s company, but not in its service. I and my colleague require a guide.”

  “Do you!” There came a low, general buzz of laughter. “To do what? Find your enemy?” The barkeep did not look kind. “You haven’t heard, then. You’re surrounded, soldier. Choose a direction and walk. You’ll find your foe.”

  “And leave us free of you,” came a venomous sneer from a corner table. Drinn sighed.

  “We have no need to find the enemy.” He made sure to keep both his hands low and loose, nowhere near his weapons. He began to wonder why he’d not been clever enough to leave all his iron outside. “We need to avoid him.”

  “Of course.” The barkeep spat. “So you’re a coward, then. Why not build a boat? Sea’s that way.” He jerked his chin north, then shook his head in disgust and wiped at a mug. “You’ll get no help here. Brelle! Chiara! Get your poxy cunts back here and take care of the crockery!”

  The hard-bitten prune sighed heavily from the corner table and shuffled back to the bar. As she passed the scullery hatch, the little door there opened to admit a smaller and far less pasty woman, though still bright pink with fever. As Drinn watched, fascinated, the two appeared before the barkeep and glared at him. “Let me see your hands!” he snapped, and he studied the women's filthy fingers intently before giving the younger wench a disgusted smack. “Clean yourself, you silly whore,” he hissed. “And stop scratching at your pussy. You’ve got your infected nastiness all underneath your nails.”

  “But I’m so itchy!” she whined. Drinn looked away, but he heard another smack.

  “Ignore it, bitch. And think about that, next time you run off to rent your hole to some thieving Royalist dick. Now wash!” She slunk back into the scullery, weeping, while the barkeep loaded the older woman up with a tray of mugs. “Take them to the sideboard, Brelle,” he said a bit less gruffly, and the woman took a few fevered seconds to juggle the weight of her load before she sighed away, the barkeep nodding at her back. “See?” he told his customers, jerking a thumb at her retreating, bony body. “You won’t find my Brelle complaining about her itchy crack. She’s a good wife, my Brelle. Takes her cocks and makes her money and never complains.” The dried-out woman flushed scarlet through the fever.

  “Not like my worthless little slut daughter,” he spat. His customers chuckled again. “Get back out here, you worthless little slut!”

  “I’ll pay well,” Drinn announced casually, and not to the barkeep. He knew nobody would get up and take his coin, but he thought maybe somebody would come find him later. “Three silver imperials.”

  “Mergansers, you mean.” The barkeep was mocking him again. “Don’t you pretend.” He was busy examining his daughter’s hands again after she’d crept back out. She sent a furtive, dark-eyed glance toward the warrior.

  Drinn shrugged, still keeping his hands visible. “Same weight, though. I’ll be in the town a few more hours, if any wish to find me.” He waited until a few of the drinkers blearily made eye contact. “Three. Per day. In pure silver.” Well, in a promissory note after about the third day, which was as much silver as he and Franx could easily spare. If they made it that far. But he figured mentioning a note wouldn’t help him now. He nodded at them all. “A pleasant evening, gentlemen.”

  The door creaked as he opened it, but he still heard the bitter taunts that followed. Outside, the street was all cold mud and the ever-present smell of the horse farts; it appeared not to matter, after all, whether he was upwind or down. He sighed, looking around at the dim torches flickering behind a few shutters, the rest of the town dark and silent. Another tavern nearby stood quiet, its windows black and empty.

  Aimlessly, he turned to peer down an alley alongside the tavern. He encountered nothing but rubbish and the stink of shit, animal and human. This appear
ed to be the tavern’s latrine. He wrinkled his nose and ducked back out to the street when, suddenly, he heard a sharp hiss coming from the alley.

  “Hey!” It was a whisper, raspy and secret, from down the alley. Drinn’s ears pricked up.

  “Yes?” If a drinker had come out to piss, maybe he was hoping to take the warrior up on his three a day. He was careful to try to sound pleasant as he peered back around. “May I help you?”

  “Were you serious about the three silvers a day?”

  The whisper was quick, not at all drunken. Drinn hoped he didn't sound too excited. “Three per day,” he confirmed. “Pure silver.”

  There was a pause; the nail-paring moon showed a very small shadow back there by the side door. “Add an eightkloster per day,” the rasp came back, “and I’ll agree to guide you.”

  Drinn paused. He had no fucking idea what he’d just heard. An eightkloster could be the price of a horseshoe or the price of a house. But it wasn’t as though he or Franx could afford to be choosy, and the whisper sounded sober. He frowned, then nodded in the moonlight. “Deal.”

  “Landward end of the street,” the whisper came back. “Fifteen minutes. But we’ll need to leave right away.”

  “Uh…”

  “Right away. Or you can go fuck yourself in your Royalist ass.”

  That did not sound promising. Franx disliked impertinent servants. But, again, it wasn’t as though he was besieged with offers here. “How well do you know the mountains?” he temporized.

  “Better than you. Fifteen minutes, dickhead. We leave now. Three and an eight per day. Deal? Or shall I go back and have all the customers come out and beat you with sticks?”

  “Deal!” Drinn breathed back, desperately, and then he was away as the front door cracked open, skulking down the street toward the sea, glancing up at the moon to try to guess where it would be in fifteen minutes.

  He hadn’t been in Lesser Ormold during the massacre; he and Franx had advised against despoiling the town, had been ignored, and had gone to the mage’s tent to drink some of his brandy during the butchery. But if Much Ormold was the larger town, Lesser Ormold couldn’t have had more than twenty houses. The entire main street here took just three minutes before he was at the northern edge of town, staring across the wild stinking marsh toward the sea.

  For a moment, just a moment, the starlight on the pools and streams, the murmur of the frogs and the wind in the long grasses, was a balm to his mind, a reminder that a lot of this fucked-up world was peaceful, even beautiful. And then he sighed, turned to skirt the edge of town, and moved off to await his guide. He was not even slightly surprised when the ruffled flutter of wings above his head announced the quiet arrival of a sleek grey owl, who alighted on the edge of a fence beside him.

  “Hello, you little shit.” The bird’s head cocked almost completely around; this was Franx’ familiar, his errand-runner, a sort of storage device for magical power. In return for providing these services, the owl seemed to require a vegetarian diet. The arrangement suited both the bird and the mage perfectly. “Ready to take my message?”

  He crouched down and looked straight into the owl’s massive, inverted golden eyes. “I’ve got a guide, at three silvers and something called one ‘eightkloster’ each day. It was the best I could do. Oh, and we need to leave before dawn. Let him know that he should pack up and be ready to move soon.” He straightened and then glanced again at the moon. “I’ll be back within the hour. Go let him know.” The bird clacked its beak, then sprang away into the night. It had an uncanny way of finding people in the dark, even for an owl. Something to do with the magic, no doubt.

  Drinn adjusted the swordbelt, feeling tired and lonely, and then sighed and finished his circuit of Much Ormold, arriving back at the head of the main street to the sight of a shadow in the night by the corner of a house. “You’re late,” came that laconic whisper. “Let’s go.”

  Drinn halted. There was something very wrong here. “What’s your name?”

  “Not the time for conversation,” and then the shadow, small and heavily cloaked, flitted off toward the distant horse-lines with a small bag swinging over his shoulder. Drinn had no choice, but he made sure he caught up to the shape before they reached the loose, inattentive line of sentries he knew would be waiting ahead. He knew how to evade them, but just in case he knew the passwords.

  “When we get past the horses,” he said evenly, no longer whispering, “I’ll want a word with you. Angle left here,” he urged, knowing where the sentry post was. He was starting to have misgivings of a very specific nature here; the shadow beside him was moving in a way that suggested very definite things about gender and anatomy, and he was beginning to suspect he might have done better to wait a bit longer for a response to his job offer. But, after all, they were inside the Royal lines now, and if he’d made his mistake it was probably not reversible now, not without attracting attention.

  They sped through the night, past the braziers and high torches the grooms used to keep themselves warm, attracting no attention at all from the listless men who squatted beside them. And when they at last broke through the line of horses, drifting through a cloud of sulphur-scented fog that nearly made Drinn vomit, he reached out his sword-callused hand and clamped it firmly to the shoulder of the cloak alongside him; as he’d half-expected, he felt not the brawn of a grown man but the skinny shoulder of a poxed wench.

  Shit.

  “You!” For of course it was the scullery-girl from the tavern, her fevered face even ruddier in the torchlight, looking with defiant brown eyes up into Drinn’s angry face. “Why?”

  “You heard the way he spoke to me?”

  Drinn blinked, breathing heavily. She was beautiful beneath the fever-flush, though her nose was a bit small in her long face. Her wide lips did not smile. “The barkeep?”

  “My father.” She tossed back her hood, showing wavy black hair and a bruise next to her ear. She let him look, then her voice softened. “Need you still ask why?”

  Drinn sighed and looked away. “I’m not sure we can take you with us,” he said shortly.

  She laughed grimly. “Fuck you. I can’t go back now; he’ll have noticed by now that I’m gone. And I’ve agreed to be your guide, too, so unless you’ve got a better option…”

  He cursed, then his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure how to ask this. “Are you… are you well enough to travel?” He swallowed. “We’ll be on foot, probably for weeks, and you’re…”

  “It’s the pox,” she explained with a dismissive gesture. “It’s not fatal. The fever will break tomorrow or the next day,” she went on vaguely. “Just you keep your cock away from me, and you’ll be fine too.” She glanced around, curious. “So these are my enemies?” She looked down at one of the grooms, lying passed out beneath a blanket. “He’s sick.”

  “They’re all sick,” Drinn said bleakly, and then he sighed heavily and resumed his walk into the camp. “All of them, one way or another.” She followed, settling the bag higher on her back. “You’ll want a proper pack,” he warned her.

  “I’ll steal one,” she explained. “Wait here.” She stole back into the torchlight, then nudged the shivering groom aside with her foot and swept up his pack. As Drinn watched, she fumbled with the straps and emptied everything onto the ground, throwing her own things inside; it looked like mostly clothing. She pawed swiftly through the man’s belongings, selected a few pieces, and then threw the pack onto her back and loped back over. It had all taken perhaps three minutes. As she pulled level with Drinn, she glanced back curiously. “I don’t suppose,” she asked carefully, “that it occurred to you to steal a horse?”

  “No. We’ll be spotted.” He looked down at her bruise and shook his head. “Your 12th Legion is a bad unit, but not that bad. They’d hear us on horses, especially by night.” He was already dreading their escape, wanting nothing but to cast himself down underneath his tent and sleep. He angled right to head for his campsite. “Your name?” he asked ag
ain.

  “I’m Chiara,” she shrugged.

  “And you know the mountains ahead?”

  She tossed her heavy hair. “I did not lie,” she snapped. “I know them better than you. Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere but here,” he sighed, and so they passed on into the tents where the Duke’s counselors slept. “Silence, now,” he whispered. “These are not mere grooms around here. These men will ask questions.”

  She nodded in the dark, and as they neared the spot where Drinn knew he’d find Franx, he was pleased to see the mage had already taken down their tents. Not entirely useless in the field, that mage. He was stooping over, cinching up his pack. “Poildrin,” the warrior greeted in a low voice. “We’re here.”

  The mage whirled, his grey hood up and shadowing his gaunt face. “There’ll be a mist on the ground, shortly after midnight,” he replied. “We’ll sneak out then. Meanwhile, we’ll wait in the streambed.”

  “Next to the latrine?” Drinn was not amused at that.

  “Upstream, but yes.” The mage finished with his rucksack. “Nobody will expect anyone there.”

  “With good reason,” Drinn muttered.

  Franx ignored him. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked, not unkindly.

  “She’s Chiara.” Drinn was busy with his own pack; the mage hadn’t rolled the tent properly.

  “She can speak for herself,” Franx said at once. There was a pause. “Three silvers and one eightkloster,” he said quietly, rummaging in a gently clinking sack, but the girl put her hand quickly up. Her face was not visible in the night, but her entire manner screamed contempt.

  “You’re both morons.” She sighed. “Having your country’s money here is a capital offense. You know how the Emperor kills people? He breaks them with hammers, or on a wheel, or if he’s feeling merciful he throws them into a viper pit.”