The rumor, started by Haim, that the two of them were escaped convicts from Orr’s dungeon in the Blackhill had been too good and too interesting to die down. Word passed quickly among the Red Tigers, and although neither of them mentioned it again, the rumor, combined with his eagerness to draw blade at the tavern, marked him for a dangerous man. He’d been assigned to a tent with a squad of swordsmen, called a fyrde, on the day after he’d given his oath, using the name Aelfric O’Brownton.
Brownton was a remote forest town in Zoric Duchy, a known haven for smugglers and criminals, so it seemed a logical place from which one might matriculate into the Blackhill. The name, combined with the rumor and his unkempt appearance, was about as far as he could remove himself from the identity of Aelfric D’root. The Red Tigers numbered several graduates of Orrville’s prison, so his background went largely unremarked.
The first morning after his recruitment, his and Haim’s horses had been taken into the Red Tiger’s cavvy, and he was given a slip of parchment receipt, to be redeemed at war’s end. His commitment was for nine months, but could be extended for the duration of hostilities. The Red Tigers were classed as “penny a day” soldiers, for their pay was six silver pennies a week and found, meaning they were expected to supplement their pay through looting the enemy dead. The majority of this pay found its way to Silver Run’s whorehouses and gaming halls, although Aelfric held onto his. It was a pittance compared to what he carried, although he didn’t let anyone see the gold in his purse.
After the disposing of his horse came the practice yard, where Aelfric easily bested every swordsman in the troop, earning himself a billet among one of the four Red Tiger sword fyrdes. The Red Tigers had four fyrdes of swordsmen, twenty fyrdes of spearmen, five fyrdes of archers and a single fyrde of scouts. Each fyrde was ten men, so that their fyrdmen could be assured of not having to count higher than their fingers would allow. Of course, the eleventh man was the fyrdman, and the running joke was that the fyrdmen could be counted on yet another bodily member because they were all pricks.
The fyrdmen soon discovered that although Haim was one of the strongest men in the company, he did not know one end of a sword from the other, and he wound up with a spearman’s billet.
The penny a day soldiers were the least prestigious of the bands to muster in Silver Run. These troops were intended to be grist for the mill in battle, soldiers of dubious reliability who could be put in the way of an enemy attack to blunt it or slow it. Most of the three hundred Red Tigers fell into a few distinct classes.
The majority were disaffected farmer’s sons, tired of the backbreaking labor and miniscule reward that was the lot of most Mortentian farmers, come to seek their fortune in war; then followed the extra sons of tradesmen for whom there was insufficient custom for their trade to maintain, and the balance were a motley collection of brawlers, criminals and runaway apprentices for whom the Red Tigers offered anonymity and escape from the king’s justice.
They had classed Aelfric among the last group.
For armor they were issued rusty chainmail hauberks, cut to the knee, although the archers and scouts had to be content with leather, and round iron helmets over a padded leather skullcap. Some of the Red Tigers, including most of the swordsmen, also had gorgets, iron collars to protect the neck and upper chest. Over all went a rust red hauberk, banded in blue and black diagonal stripes, meant to be reminiscent of the stripes supposed to adorn the mythical tigers after which Tessil Barith had named them. Aelfric’s shield was round, made of planks of oak banded in iron.
The swords carried varied by user. Aelfric’s longsword was by far the best of the lot, cast of Arker steel and with a steel crosshilt filigreed in gold. Most of the swords were iron, heavy and poorly balanced. Nevertheless, Aelfric found himself teaching his fyrdmates as much as he could how to use them.
Warin Bibiker, the fyrdman for the third sword fyrde, did not care for Aelfric much, he could tell, but he kept his distance. A natural bully, used to relying on his size to intimidate those under him, Warin was unhappy to have Aelfric, so obviously his superior in swordsmanship as well as most military matters, in his fyrde. He was helpless to do anything about it. It was either endure the younger man’s presence or step down, and Warin was not about to give up the extra five pennies a week he earned as fyrdman. The fact that Aelfric seemed contemptuous about the pay only made him dislike the youth more strongly.
They tolerated each other publicly, however, and Aelfric was careful to say nothing to suggest he should take the fyrdman’s place. After three days of drill, it became obvious that Aelfric knew more about soldiering than did fyrdman Bibiker. From how to make a shield wall, how to form a hedgehog box and how to retreat in an orderly manner to simple things like how to sharpen a sword or oil and clean armor, Aelfric seemed to know it all. He became the third fyrde’s instructor and drillmaster, and it was not long before the swordsmen of other fyrdes joined in their drilling.
At Aelfric’s insistence, his fyrde drilled at least an hour a day, which to his mind wasn’t nearly enough, but it was about all he could drag them into doing. Tessil Barith, the leader of the Red Tiger Band, spent most of his time in Silver Run, dicing and whoring with the other mercenary captains. On any given day, most of the Red Tigers could be found with him or near him, in the brothels, bars and taverns that made up Silver Run’s principle industry.
And so the muster continued. For a week, Silver Run was a magnet for men seeking to go to war in Northcraven, even though the war was nearly a hundred leagues north of them. During that time rumor reached the soldiers. The duke had closed the Redwater River to shipping, it was said, and Auligs had crossed it and were burning towns and villages throughout western Northcraven Duchy. Cavalry from the fortified towns of New Brinnvolle, Redwater and Maslit were giving them chase, but it was said that the Auligs would strike anywhere, and then vanish in the night, leaving the cavalry to succor the frightened villagers and help the Order of the Spade bury the dead.
Kandos O’Bolter, that same Kandos who started the trouble with Aelfric and Haim on their first night in Silver Run, complained often that they were not already fighting the “brown devils” as he called the Auligs
. He was a mediocre swordsman, like most of the men of the third swords, as well as a mediocre brawler. That did not keep him from starting fights nearly every night they lingered in Silver Run, until finally the Red Tigers were expelled “forever” from the Silver Penny and two other taverns. This did not matter much, as there were still plenty of taverns to choose from.
One noontime, about five days after his arrival in Silver Run, Kandos was ineffectually trying to pass Aelfric’s guard with a wooden practice sword, while Aelfric was systematically bruising him on thigh, waist and wrist. “By Damn, Aelfric,” the blond, bluff-faced man complained. “That stings! I wish I had a real weapon in my hand to defend myself. All this practice is wearing me out.”
“If you had a real weapon you’d be dead, Kandos.” Aelfric replied. “You drop your guard every time you open your mouth, and you talk all the time.”
“Maybe.” Kandos answered. “But aren’t you tired of waiting? I want to get up where the real action is.”
Ahtain Nailwright, a bulky youth of about eighteen, chimed in. “I’m fine waiting. I make more money a week here than I would in a month back home, even if I had a shop to work in, and I’m not in a hurry to go fight. I’d rather learn a bit more sword work first.” Ahtain was the fifth son of a blacksmith in a town near Halanvolle, a town with more smiths than iron to hammer on. He had the heavily muscled arms of a smith, along with curly black hair and bad skin. He was always smiling, and they called him Smiley Ahtain.
“Better if we don’t have to fight at all.” Aelfric replied. “But if we do, all this practice will save your life. Mine, too, which is a lot more important to me. I don’t want to be standing next to some untrained idiot trying to hold a shield wall. Each squad is only as strong as its weakest man.”
; He spoke not from experience, but from memory, for from an early age Hambar D’root had taught Aelfric how to be a soldier. His father had risen from the ranks of men such as these, and probably had risen too far, truth be told. He nodded toward Smiley.
“Smiley has the right of it. Much better for all of us if we go to the war trained. We may be just penny-a-day soldiers, but every squad is going to count if we get into a real battle.”
“Well, I hear them Auligs don’t stand in real battles anyways.” Said Blacwin Woodwright, the tall carpenter from Galt. “Most likely we’ll just be watching the cavalry chase ‘em.”
“Most likely.” Aelfric replied diplomatically. “But maybe not. And the Auligs have some swordsmen, too. It won’t be just arrows and spears, no matter what you hear.” He was referring to the general opinion in camp that the Auligs were all ill-equipped savages armed with stone-tipped weapons. Aelfric had heard enough stories from his father’s time in the last Aulig war to respect the tribes’ fighting prowess.
The drill continued, and bit by tiny bit Aelfric tried to instill a modicum of survivability into his fyrde.
A week after the muster began it was finished, and the Red Tigers began the journey to Northcraven Duchy. The leaders decided that the army assembled in Diminios would march along the river road to Brenwater Commons, some seventy leagues north, a journey that would take at least two weeks. Each day the entire army had to cover some five leagues, which meant six or eight hours of marching. There was little time for drill.
Aelfric saw Haim each night when they broke for camp, and the big halfbreed seemed to have fit in well with his fyrde of spearmen. The Fifth Spear Fyrde, as it was called, had taken for themselves the nickname ‘the Hedgehogs’ for they were probably the best squad at that particular formation, which was a box shield wall bristling with spear points in every direction. When it became known that Odo D’Arker and Terrick Kalliner as well as –according to rumor- Aelfric himself had all been in the Blackhill dungeon at Orr, Aelfric’s fyrde adopted the unfortunate name of ‘the Blackhill Gang.’
At evening, when the rest of the Red Tigers lazed about campfires or lay in bed, only the Blackhill Gang continued with an hour of drill, at Aelfric’s insistence. In this respect, he mimicked the godsknights and the Mortentian Regulars.
The army leaving Silver Run numbered nearly thirty-five hundred fighting men, the majority of these penny-a-day mercenary companies. Occasionally Aelfric would see Tuchek, who had taken a position as a man-at-arms with the godsknights, but they exchanged few pleasantries. Often seen with Tuchek was a strange godsknight with a waspy look and hair like a woman’s, carrying a gigantic sword. There were at most one hundred and fifty mounted godsknights in this army, with shining steel platemail and cornflower blue cloaks; then about five hundred Mortentian Regulars in plate and chain armor under the red and yellow eagle faced tabards of the king; a few hundred less well-accoutered soldiers wearing the house colors of Diminios and finally the mercenary companies.
Each of the mercenary companies wore garish tabards over a mixture of low quality and castoff armor, with a mixed bag of weapons of which the spear was the most ubiquitous. Apart from the Red Tigers, there were four other large bands, the Fire Eaters, the Hammers of Arker, Ajin’s Band and the Blackboots. At under three hundred and fifty men, the Red Tigers were the least numerous, and from all appearances, the least well-equipped. They marched at the rear of the army accordingly, and behind all came the baggage train and camp followers in a long line of carts and wagons.
When it was on the march, the army stretched out nearly half a league on the hard and dusty Dunwater River Road, and it was a loud and vaguely garish procession.
On a bright morning seven days into their march, they came within sight of the walled city of Dunwater, but it lay across the river and they did not stop for longer than it took to gawk at the walls and towers. The city had one of the largest gibbets Aelfric had ever seen right next to the front gate, with eight bodies dangling. The Duke of Dunwater was known to favor frequent capital punishment.
Here the river took a slight westward turning, and the road followed along the western bank. The baggage train halted behind them and made use of the Dunwater Ferry to lay in additional supplies, but the army itself marched through the day, leaving the city and its outlying townships behind. There had been a muster in Dunwater, they learned, but the soldiers there had marched eastward over two weeks earlier, intending to take ship from Nevermind and so come to Northcraven by sea.
Not so the Red Tigers. The army of the Silver Run Muster received a visit from a king’s eye on the last day of their muster, and received orders to continue north to Brenwater Commons, cross the river by ferry, and enter Brenwater Duchy. For another week they marched, passing a few scattered hamlets on the western bank of the river and a seemingly endless procession of cattle herds, all headed to the markets in Dunwater or Silver Run. The Diminios drovers, by and large a cheerful lot, waved, whistled or popped their whips when they came within sight of the army, but did not stop to visit. The soldiers ate a lot of beef, but not a lot of bread that week.
It was not a hard march, for the roads were good and level, but it was long and tedious, and the flat and boring scenery changed little, league after league under the perpetually cheerful sun of Diminios. To the west lay the seemingly endless cattle pastures of Diminios and to the right was half a mile of open space, then the tree-lined banks of the Dunwater.
The army halted for two days south of Brenwater Commons to allow the ferrymen to do their work. Two ferryboats worked the river, and each ferry could take no more than twenty men or half a dozen horses across the river at a time, so even with men manning the ropes during all the hours of daylight, it took three days for the entire army to cross the river. The Red Tigers were the last of the soldiers to cross, so they spent three days in camp waiting.
Kandin O’Northcraven was furious. “’Ere my family’s prolly getting murdered by stinking Olligs, and I’m stuck waiting for my turn to cross the river. Half the river’s full of little boats we could be crossing on, and we could damn near wade across in most spots. I tell you it don’t make no damn sense, this army.” Kandin was whip-thin, perpetually dirty and sporting a sand-colored straggling beard that barely covered his blotchy cheeks. He was the only member of Aelfric’s fyrde with family in Northcraven, and he had been itching to get back to his home. He was a better than average swordsman, and had been muscle in a tavern in Blackwall before news of the war drew him to the muster.
Aelfric did not bother to explain to the man that the ferries were the property of the Duke of Brenwater, and therefore the army could use them free of charge; whilst the owners of private boats would have to be compensated. “We’ve still got a long journey ahead after we cross the river, Kandin.” He said. “Your family is most likely sitting in a keep in Northcraven City by now. They’ll have called them all in if the raiding is as bad as we’ve been hearing.”
Throughout the northward march, they had been hearing rumors about the war in Northcraven. Tales came to them of kidnapped children and towns burned in raids all along the Redwater River. One impossible rumor had Northcraven itself under siege, and the town of Maslit on fire. These stories were hard to credit, however, for the Swan Duke of Northcraven had command of a very strong army, and several stout keeps.
The rumors had one salutary effect, however. As the rumors of war and heavy fighting grew more prevalent, so did the drilling and training of troops. The Red Tigers drilled or practiced weapons at least an hour each day, whether they marched or not, and in their camp south of Brenwater Common they spent most of the day in training. As a result, Aelfric and Fyrdman Warin were becoming, if not friends, then something like partners. Warin recognized Aelfric’s skill with the sword, as well as his knowledge of tactics, and without formally appointing him so, treated Aelfric as his second in command. The other sword fyrdes joined them now in practice, and Aelfric taught them as much of the sword as they could l
earn.
To be perfectly honest, it was not nearly enough. His father had said that you did not truly learn how to fight until you were actually in battle; and with this group, such lessons might come too late to do any good.
There was an attractive simplicity in this life, though, despite the hardships. Aelfric’s job was simple, the life was simple, and there were orders and procedures to handle almost anything that came up in a day. He taught his fyrde to wax and polish their boots, and the long marches taught them why it was necessary. They sharpened their swords and daggers, and they spent a lot of time haggling with the merchants in the baggage train for better weapons and gear. Each day saw a number of small improvements among the Blackhill Gang, but Aelfric was thankful that at least three weeks of marching lay ahead of them before they would be tested in battle. He was turning his squad from a disorganized rabble into a fighting unit, but it was slow, slow going.
After three days in camp, it was finally time for the Red Tigers to board the ferries across the Dunwater and into Brenwater Common. They received strict instructions that once they were across and in the town, they were to wait for the entire band to assemble before going anywhere. It took the ferrymen three hours to get the entire band across, and to their fury, Tessil Barth then ordered them to march through the town and out the north gate without stopping.
“Bleeding mother’s milk!” Odo D’Arker exclaimed. “All that time waiting for our chance to get into town, and we ain’t stopping? By the king that’s not hardly fair!”
“Did you think the good people of Brenwater was going to let you stink up their nice little town, Odo?” Blacwin Woodwright replied, laughing bitterly. “A bunch of mercenaries like us? Not blasted likely, I deem.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 30
