Iibala froze and raised her hands. “I made too much noise approaching you, didn’t I?”
“What are you doing?” Nisa asked again.
“I could ask you the very same question, couldn’t I?” Iibala asked, frowning. “You’re the one who is always watching Basha, you and—”
“Be still and keep silent,” Nisa said, glancing around. She wondered if Iibala had told anybody else, namely Basha, about what she knew.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” Iibala asked.
“I could ask you the very same question,” Nisa remarked.
“We’re at an impasse, aren’t we?” Iibala said, lowering her hands.
“Keep your hands up!”
“You can let me go,” Iibala said. “I won’t talk.”
“How do I know that?” Nisa said.
“I’ve known ever since my father told me a few months ago.”
“Your father? He told you?” Nisa asked, starting to panic even though she tried to remain calm on the outside. “What does he know?” she asked, trying to brush over her slip. If she acknowledged the veracity of Iibala’s statements, they truly couldn’t get rid of her.
“He knows a lot, or at least he’s guessed a lot. He’s been through something like this before,” Iibala said. “He doesn’t tell me much about his past, but he’s clear on some parts of it, at least.”
Nisa frowned. “I knew we should have…n-never mind.” She lowered her sword slightly. “That still doesn’t explain to me why you’re here, or how you knew I’d be.”
“It’s pretty obvious you’d be here,” Iibala said, looking around. “Best vantage point of the road toward the militia tryouts, where Basha would be bound to go today, and the most vulnerable part of the road, exposed as it is.” Iibala turned to Nisa. “As to why I’m here…I wish you two would leave him alone.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nisa asked, staring at her.
“You’re never far away from him whenever he’s not at home.” Iibala said, looking down. “I always thought something strange was going on, but I never suspected; I didn’t have a clue for certain until my father told me, and then I noticed. I noticed a lot.” She looked up. “It’s always been like that, has it not? And Basha doesn’t know a thing!”
“Calm down, Iibala. It’s not like we’re the ones after him,” Nisa said.
“Then what do you do, huh? What do you do? You don’t do a thing!” Iibala exclaimed. “You just sit up there and watch, waiting until the right moment when he’s in danger, and then you swoop in! You don’t save him; you just keep him alive until…what happens then?” Iibala asked.
“I don’t know,” Nisa said, looking down.
“That’s right, you don’t think about him,” Iibala said, storming away. “You just think about what he can do for you!” she threw back over her shoulder. Nisa lowered her sword and wiped her forehead before she glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby before she considered…no, Iibala was too important to dispose of. Her father Sir Nickleby would know who was responsible. What she needed to do now was to inform her father that Iibala knew Basha was special.
* * **
“I embrace the darkness, for the darkness is power in the night,” a stranger sang softly to himself as he strode into town. “And I must follow the darkness for the triumph of the night. In the shadows, in the shadows…” He stopped and looked around. “Where is everybody?”
“Militia tryouts are today,” a man said from beneath the shadows of a shop awning.
The stranger shielded his eyes against the sun. He still couldn’t see the man’s face, but he knew him nonetheless.
“You just missed them,” the man said. “Go back east, toward the standing stones.” The man pointed. “There is a clearing in that direction, just past the communal plots, a horse field. You can’t miss them; a whole crowd of townspeople is gathered out there to witness the event. It’s quite stirring,” he said to the stranger.
The stranger bowed. “I look forward to viewing the competition.”
“Just do your deed and get out of here,” the man muttered.
“No need to worry. I know what to do,” the stranger said, walking away from Coe Baba…for now.
Chapter 4
Duty and Feudalism
“It’s often the case in matters of duty
And feudalism that one party commands
The other parties without question.”—
A report from Urso
Basha was panting heavily by the time he reached a small clearing amid the trees, where all the young men were lined up in four rows of five for the militia tryouts. Basha stopped and leaned forward to catch his breath, inhaling the horrible stench of horse balnor as he took his place at the end of the last line. He’d been able to shake off Sir Nickleby’s daughter with some difficulty, and the birds as well, before anything bad had happened, but now he was trying hard not to gag as his throat tightened. The birds and the stench…he couldn’t think about what Iibala had just done.
“Basha! You’re late!” Sir Nickleby shouted. The knight glared at him with hard black eyes, Iibala’s eyes.
Basha straightened, managing a salute as he wheezed. “Yes, Sir Nickleby, sir! I was fetching my sword, sir!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t let it happen again! Get to the front!” The knight pointed.
Basha sighed and moved forward, lowering his head to avoid Sir Nickleby’s gaze as he went to stand in front of Oaka.
“You should learn how to tell better time,” Oaka whispered. “So, how did it go?”
“It went bad,” Basha said under his breath, still breathing hard. “I got to talk with her, but then we were arguing, and her father sort of chased me off before I could say too much.” He paused. “At least she stopped teasing me when I got serious with her about why I was there.”
“You’re too patient, you stubborn old mule,” Oaka told him.
“Stubborn old mule? Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“A stubborn old mule struggling to get up a hill,” Oaka said, liking the analogy too much.
“At least I’m not a wise fool, who plays with other’s lives, just for the sake of fun,” Basha said. “You should be more caring.”
“I’m caring,” Oaka said. “Sisila cares for me, and I care for her.”
“Oaka! Basha!” The boys stiffened as Sir Nickleby shouted, “Quiet, you chatter birds!”
“Yes, Sir Nickleby, sir!” Oaka and Basha both yelled.
A large group of townspeople had gathered, either leaning against the corral fence or standing next to the side of the paddock to watch the demonstration. The spectators knew as much about the boys’ skills as about anything else, or so they thought. They were interested in seeing who would be selected to join the town militia, and like any other small town whose residents all knew one another, they thought they knew who would be chosen in the end.
* * * *
Coe Baba was predominantly an agricultural community, surrounded by forest near the north westernmost point of Arria, an isolated place. Probably the town had been built here specifically to avoid the conflicts and difficulties that might plague other places. Coe Baba had been built to last through the ages of upset and centuries of distress; for Coe Baba might have been around for well over a thousand years, perhaps as long as the country of Arria had existed. Yet Coe Baba remained the same as always, in spirit and in heart, even though the people and buildings changed over time. For the most part, people around town were plain and simple, never getting bored or flustered with the same old routine. Yet sometimes they had to be tough and hardy to deal with everything that life threw their way: storms, droughts, weather of any kind, disasters and setbacks like death, starvation, illness, or failure. Failure was probably the worst thing any person in Coe Baba could imagine. For the most part, whenever any kind of problem came their way, they were ready to help each other out or ignore the problem entirely. They thought there was no mess too big for them to handle.
> A small town on the edge of civilization. Sir Nickleby thought the way of life in Coe Baba had its advantages despite the larger communities overlooking their importance to their security. They were the buffer between the developed cities and the wilderness. Therefore, their militia and border guard forces were important not just to Coe Baba but to the larger communities as well. By rights, the people of Coe Baba should be incensed by this disregard, yet they were fairly content with their small town status. They didn’t have to bother with anybody else’s business but theirs.
Yet Sir Nickleby could also see the disadvantages of isolation. The people didn’t know what was going on in the populated world. Hardly any of the royal messenger birds even flew out this far to deliver news. The townspeople relied more upon rumors from travelers like merchants and bards. They also got some information from big city newspapers, but they couldn’t provide much of anything the townspeople needed to know.
Sir Nickleby wanted to be a source of knowledge to the townspeople, by giving them guidance and providing them with his services. Years ago, he’d discovered—in his attempt to mount a horse patrol with the town’s militia—that the town didn’t have a decent horse breeder. Horses were absolutely crucial to maintaining militia mobility.
He felt he’d always tried his best to improve the lives and situations of the people around him, no matter the cost to himself. And nearly everyone was afraid of him because of it, something he often regretted. Yet he knew it was the price he’d paid for military readiness. He had to be so formidable the people had no choice but to fear and respect him, sometimes even more so than they did the baron.
Sir Nickleby had never imagined a stout old warrior like himself would end up training a bunch of twelve to sixteen-year-olds, but here he was inspecting his troops. They stood in front of him, all in neat military rows, never minding the horse balnor at their feet, with swords and bows sheathed or displayed at their sides. A few of them also had knives, axes, and the occasional spear, javelin, and pitchfork in hand as well.
Truth be told, Sir Nickleby was tired of training boys when he wanted to fight alongside real men. It took more guts, brains, and skills than most people had to be a soldier. Unfortunately, he could never see the boys he trained from one year to the next as getting any older, braver or smarter. He was especially tired of the dreamers and boasters among them anymore than he liked sloppy behavior, poor excuses, or whining—and these boys did plenty of all three.
Before he became a major, his friend Lupo once told him, “Boys need to learn the ropes in any business, especially that of fighting a battle. They need to learn how to deal with tough situations and follow orders at the same time, so they can do what they’re trained to do without getting too overwhelmed by what’s going on around them.”
“Well, congratulations, boys!” With his gray hair brushed back and dressed in the red and blue uniform of Baron Augwys’s household guard, Sir Nickleby was the spitting image of a knight as Basha imagined them to be. Despite his old age and his transformation into a gentleman farmer tied down to the land and his horses, Sir Nickleby was a knight born out of nobility, who had earned his title as well by serving in the military for so many years.
For a moment, the young men actually held their heads up high, believing themselves to be praised, but then Sir Nickleby dashed their hopes by saying, “You’re the sorriest-looking bunch of lads I ever did see! Your swords would be better put to use as kitchen knives!”
The young men drooped in disappointment while the crowd surrounding them laughed.
The test changed each year for every class that passed through. These troops thought they were ready for whatever he threw their way, but none of them were ever ready for what real battle would bring. All of them were waiting for his instruction, waiting for the chance to prove themselves worthy, so that they might be dismissed from here as proud members of the town’s militia.
Proud members, Sir Nickleby scoffed to himself. The town militia of Coe Baba was little more than rabble. What little they were paid was hardly enough to cover the cost of the pain, humiliation, and even potential death they might face when they belonged at home asleep in their beds, dreaming of nothing more than the comforts and joy in their lives. After all, they were young shopkeepers, farmers, woodsmen, craftsmen, and grunts from the mill armed with rusting swords, hunting bows, and wood-chopping axes. Each night, eight of them would circle the vicinity of the town and nearby farmland for several miles through the woods, making the circuit as many times as they needed to before they’d return home as dawn approached.
Though they rarely found anything worse than wild animals, a couple of thieves, and an occasional fire during these patrols, it was risky to ignore the necessity of protection, as Sir Nickleby was the first to affirm.
For a moment, Sir Nickleby let his thoughts slip back to that dark, ill-omened night he lost so many of his men…
“Raise not unto meee the sword and sickle, raise not unto meee the sword and scythe,” one man sang at the left rear flank of the company, carrying his torch in the semidarkness while the other men listened. “Raise not unto meee, raise not unto meee…”
“Erroco, shut up,” another man, striding alongside Erroco, hissed. “Or else I’ll put this sword blade into you.”
“Quiet, you two,” their commander, Sir Nickleby, ordered from the middle of the group. “We are all going to do this right. Erroco, stop singing. Berevus, get over here and switch places with Smidge.”
The switch was made. Berevus now stood in front of Sir Nickleby while Smidge accompanied Erroco, and they continued on, eight men in total treading through the brush and into the woods surrounding Coe Baba, their voices low or silent now as they walked along.
Hardly anything stirred about them, but they listened intently nevertheless for anything that might be danger in the making. Three of the eight carried torches, and the rest kept both hands free in case they had to use their weapons.
“You boys need to take a good look around these parts during the day,” Sir Nickleby said. “Helps to keep track of where everything is at night.” He didn’t intend to speak condescendingly to anyone; everyone here was younger than his fifty-nine years. He was the oldest man in the patrol. Although he didn’t have as much experience as some of them in matters concerning Coe Baba, he did have expertise in other areas, including leading men into battle.
Sir Nickleby had devised the troop formation he was using for this militia patrol, a formation he called the triple-point. One torchbearer was stationed at the front, while the other two torchbearers, including Erroco, were at opposite sides of the rear, left and right. The line was spread in between the torchbearers, with each bearer accompanied by an armed guard. The two remaining men in the group, which now included Berevus as well as Sir Nickleby, stayed in between the torches.
Berevus grumbled to himself, and Sir Nickleby glanced at him. Berevus wasn’t the most stable of persons to begin with, but lately he seemed even more unsettled. Sir Nickleby wondered if the man resented him. Berevus would’ve been commander of the town’s militia by now if not for Sir Nickleby. He first arrived in Coe Baba barely more than twelve years ago and still he was counted a stranger among those whose ancestors had been here in the forest for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Sir Nickleby had caught up in his knowledge of the area as he learned more about the forest and its challenges through these patrols. Just tonight, he’d volunteered to take the place of a man who had needed rest.
“Nighttime contains our most desperate, vulnerable hours,” Sir Nickleby said, lowering his voice. “During the day, we’ve our senses of sight, smell, touch, and hearing, maybe even taste,” he said, licking his lips, “rightfully balanced with the ways of the world. We know where everything is; we know what we hear, smell, touch, and taste. But at night, we’ve got to guess more often than not, and that’s when things get really tricky.”
Nearby, a bird chirped, and an owl hooted, quieting the bird. Sir Nickleby frowned and B
erevus’ humming ceased.
The knight lifted a hand, quietly halting his patrol. He listened to the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. Trees surrounded them in the night, trees so thick they blocked out the stars. Sir Nickleby sensed trouble.
Centuries ago the wilds of the Mila Forest were understood by the ancestors of his men when they settled here, but their descendants don’t understand the full nature of the forest as their ancestors did. His men avoided the forest as much as possible, for fear of what they might find there. The Mila Forest was rumored to contain not just wild animals but also dangerous men, spirits of the dead, and shades of things never born. They cut only the trees they needed, sending the wood to the mills to be processed. Sir Nickleby was of the mind that the forest could be tamed, but he didn’t know everything about the forest; even he was the first to admit that. What he did know was that birds didn’t chirp at night.
“Keep your torch a short distance away from you!” Sir Nickleby called to the torchbearer at the head of the company, one of his former students. He then hustled forward, past Berevus, and halted the rest of the group for a moment so that he could talk with the young man. “Not by your face, or else you’ll burn and blind yourself with that light,” Sir Nickleby lectured the young man, trying to adjust the fellow’s reach, “but far enough along arm’s length so that you can see what’s ahead of you without igniting something just beyond your view.”
Sir Nickleby ignored the young man’s embarrassment and muttered, “be quiet,” to the rest of the group in general, as he heard some sniggering from the back. Sir Nickleby himself was embarrassed by the situation, but mostly because it seemed like he’d failed to teach this young man the proper way to hold a torch. “Remember the story of Menthar the fire god and Mila the forest goddess?” he asked the young man.
The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 5
