The Books of the South: Tales of the Black Company (Chronicles of the Black Company)

by Glen Cook

  He headed for the camp the grays had set up on the razed ground.

  It went about as he expected. They let him in after a little argument and a quick check for signs he was carrying cholera. He gave his name as Forto Reibas, which was a joke on himself and the grays alike. It was the name he had been given at birth but no one had used it for two generations.

  57

  For all the black riders had harassed the Limper into a frothing rage repeatedly with their tricks and traps and stalls, they had used sorcery very little. He did not understand their game. It troubled him, though he did not admit that even to himself. He was confident his own brute strength would carry him, was confident there was no one else in this world any longer who could match him strength for strength.

  They knew that. That was what troubled him. They stood no chance against him, yet they harassed and guided him in a way that suggested they had every confidence in the efficacy of what they were doing. Which meant a big and terrible pitfall somewhere ahead.

  They had used so little sorcery that he had stopped watching for it. His own style was smashing hammer blows. Subtlety was the last thing he expected from anyone else.

  It was not till he came upon the same disfigured tree for the fourth time that he woke to the realization that he had seen it before, that, in fact, his tireless run had been guided into a circle about fifty miles around and he had been chasing himself for hundreds of miles.

  Another damned stall!

  He controlled his rage and found his way off the endless track. Then he paused to take stock of himself and his surroundings.

  He was a little north of the Tower. He felt it down there, somehow mocking, daring, almost calling him to come try its defenses again. An affront, it was.

  It seemed likely there was nothing his enemies would like more than to have him waste time beating his head against that adamantine fortress. So he put temptation aside. He would deal with the Tower after he had taken possession of the silver spike and had shaped it into the talisman that would give him mastery of the world.

  He headed north, toward Oar.

  His step was sprightly. He chuckled as he ran. Soon, now. Soon. The world would pay its debts.

  58

  Toadkiller Dog loped nearer the Tower, uncertain why he tempted fate so. He sensed the Limper running in circles north of him and was amused. These new lords of the empire were not as terrible as the old, but they were smart. Maybe smarter than any of the old ones except the Lady herself and her sister. He was satisfied that the power had passed into competent hands.

  Something he had heard some wise man say. About the three stages of empire, the three generations. First came the conquerers, unstoppable in war. Then came the administrators, who bound it all together into one apparently unshakable, immortal edifice. Then came the wasters, who knew no responsibility and squandered the capital of their inheritance upon whims and vices. And fell to other conquerers.

  This empire was making the transition from the age of the conquerer to that of the administrator. Only one of the old ones was left, the Limper. The heirs of empire were out to crowd him off history’s stage. Conquerers were too rowdy and unpredictable to keep around if you wanted a well-ordered empire.

  He would do well to consider his own place in this nonchaotic future.

  He trotted to what he considered a safe distance from the Tower gate, sat, waited.

  Someone came out almost immediately. A someone whose vision of the future had room for a timeless old terror like Toadkiller Dog.

  They formed an alliance.

  59

  Smeds groaned as he pushed his blanket aside and rolled over. He had bruises on his bruises and aches in every muscle and joint. Sleeping on the ground did not help.

  This was the third time he had wakened in this tent he shared with forty men. He was not looking forward to another day in the militia.

  “You all right, Ken?” a tentmate asked. He was using the name Kenton Anitya.

  “Stiff and sore. Guess I’ll get a chance to work out the kinks before the day is over.”

  “Why keep fighting them? You can’t win.”

  Someone looked outside. “Hey! It snowed. Got about an inch out there.”

  Jeers and sarcastic remarks about their good fortune.

  Smeds said, “Since I was a kid people been kicking me around. I ain’t gonna take it no more. I’m gonna kick back and keep on kicking till they decide it’s easier to leave me alone.” He’d had four fights with the grays running their training platoon already.

  Another neighbor said, “You’re getting to them. But your tactics aren’t so great. Got to use your head a little, too.”

  That was Cy Green. Already he was pretty much the leader inside the tent. Everybody figured Green wasn’t his real name. He didn’t wear it very good. Everybody figured he’d been in the army before. He handled the military crap like he was born to it and he always let you know how you could make it easier on yourself—if you wanted to know. The guys liked him and mostly took his advice.

  Smeds was reserving judgment. The guy was too much at home for him. He might be a spy. Or maybe a deserter who got swept up by the gray recruiters. Smeds had a notion that at least here in Oar, a deserter with a long military background probably had served with the Guards at the Barrowland.

  “I’m open to suggestions, Cy. But I ain’t going to back down.”

  “Look at what’s going on, Ken. Originally they worked on you because they wanted to show us what could happen if we weren’t good boys. You provoked so easy they kept coming back.”

  “Over and over. And probably again today. And I won’t back down then, either.”

  “Calm down. You’re right. It’s gone past what’s reasonable. But every time you see red you go for Corporal Royal.”

  “Only because I can’t get to the sergeant.”

  “But the sergeant and corporal are halfway decent guys just trying to do a job that they don’t think there’s any point or hope to. Your real problem is Caddy. Caddy waits till they’re a hair short of having you under control, then he jumps in and kicks the shit out of you.”

  Several of the men agreed. One said, “Caddy’s got his bluff in on the rest of them.”

  Green said, “And he’s covered as long as he don’t kill you.”

  Smeds didn’t really want to talk about it. But they were probably right about Caddy. “So?”

  “Go after Caddy if you have to go for somebody. He’s the root of the meanness. He’s the one going to hurt you. Make him pay. And try to put a leash on that temper. You got to blow up, do it when you’re right, not just ’cause you don’t like how things are going. Don’t none of us want to be here. We keep our heads, maybe we’ll all get out of this.”

  Smeds wanted to throw a fit right then but he held back, mainly because he’d be doing it in the face of common sense, which would cost him the respect he had won.

  He was real worried about Smeds Stahl. Smeds Stahl was getting inclined to let himself get carried away. He did need to keep a better grip. Or he’d end up doing himself in the way Tully did.

  He wondered if it was the influence of the spike.

  His determination to do right got a big boost at morning roll.

  Fortune was all smiles. The tent next on the left started earlier and he overheard the corporal over there bellow, “Locan, Timmy,” so he was ready for the trick when Corporal Royal tried it. He just kind of glanced around dumbly like everybody else, and did not respond at all when Royal tried, “Stahl, Smeds.”

  They were getting closer. They knew the names now.

  He got another shock an hour later. They were stomping around in the mud, doing close order drill. His platoon passed another headed the other way and there in the outside file was Old Man Fish.

  Fish winked and skipped to get in step.

  60

  Exile watching had become a permanent assignment for Silent. And now it looked like it was paying off. He was excited when he
slipped in.

  He signed, “They have come up with the names of three men who were regular companions of the murdered man. Timmy Locan. Smeds Stahl. Old Man Fish.”

  “Fish?” Raven asked aloud.

  Silent signed, “Yes. The description was vague but he could be the man who whipped you three.”

  “Old Man Fish?”

  Silent smiled wickedly, but signed, “They have been traced to a place known as the Skull and Crossbones, which is abandoned now, except for squatters. But the Nightstalkers had a corporal billeted there till the night the riots started. They are looking for him. They think he can identify the men. Exile feels very close. He is mobilizing all his resources. Also, the Limper is expected tomorrow.”

  Darling was excited. She looked like she had stumbled onto an unexpected answer. She clapped her hands, demanding attention. “You will prevent them from bringing that soldier to Exile. I want him. Deliver him to Lamber Gartsen’s stable.”

  She had worked hard, using her Plain allies, to take stock of what little remained of the Rebel cause. Gartsen was it.

  “Likewise, identify and collect the owner of the Skull and Crossbones. And anyone else who made an extended stay during the appropriate period. Be careful. They have made no great effort to catch us but they know we are here. They will be alert for their opportunities. Outfit yourselves as Exile’s guards. Let us go.”

  They tried to argue. Arguing with Darling was like arguing with the wind. Faced with no other choice, they went with her, to guard her.

  They departed the temple one by one, unnoticed in the press. Darling gathered them two blocks away, took reports from Plain creatures she had sent ahead, signed, “Exile’s guards are billeted in the Treasury Annex. There are twelve there now, off duty. Silent, you and Bomanz will neutralize them.”

  No if you can or give it a try. Just do it.

  The men were rattled. They were not prepared for a head-to-head with a city very much in imperial hands.

  They did not argue this time, though.

  Silent knew a spell for putting people to sleep but it was verbally based. Pruned up in disgust, he gave it to Bomanz. The wizards went away. Darling gave them a five-minute start.

  Silent awaited them at the annex door. He signed, “They are asleep.”

  Darling countered, “I want them under so deep they will not awaken for days. Then hidden where they are not likely to be found.”

  Silent scowled but nodded.

  Shortly afterward, as they donned a guise acceptable on the streets of Oar, Bomanz said, “Let’s keep it neat here. The longer it takes them to figure it out, the longer we’ve got to take advantage of their costumes.”

  Raven grunted. Silent nodded. One of the Torques asked, “What are these brooch things with the garnet faces? Allegiance badges?”

  Silent examined one, set it down quickly, made signs at Bomanz. The old wizard looked at the brooch. “Allegiance badges, yes, but also a way for Exile to track his people. We’d better do something with them. Like have that idiot buzzard fly them out into the country.”

  Darling signed impatiently.

  “All right, all right,” Bomanz grumbled. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can.”

  Another half hour passed before they left the Annex. Darling, Raven, and Bomanz rode, guised as black riders. The rest went as foot soldiers. Wherever they went people got out of their way.

  Once they cleared the city’s center Darling and the injured Torque split off for the Gartsen stable. There was a talking stone there. Darling wanted to get in touch with Old Father Tree. The rest went off to see what they could do about keeping the imperials from getting their hands on anyone who could identify the men who had stolen the silver spike.

  61

  After I figured out I was probably safer in the militia than hanging around Darling I settled down and made myself to home. It was kind of comfortable back in the old rut. Didn’t have to do no thinking or worrying.

  But I guess I spent too much time running loose. It got old fast. First time I felt like going out for a beer and couldn’t I knew I was getting out and staying there.

  That idea got a boost when the sergeant had us our first weapons practice. We stood around in the mud while the breeze gnawed on us. Half the guys weren’t dressed for it. But that wasn’t what got me. That was what the sergeant told us.

  “Listen up, you men. We just got word trouble gets here tomorrow. All the learning you’re going to get you’re going to get today. You want a half-ass chance of getting through alive, pay attention. The only weapon we got to give you is the spear. So that’s all we’re going to work with.” He indicated soldiers who had their arms wrapped around bundles of spears. The spearheads were inside wooden covers so nobody would get stabbed or cut. “These two new guys are experts. They was loaned to us by the Nightstalkers. They’re going to run us through the drills. You don’t do what they tell you, you get your butt kicked same as if you don’t do what I tell you.” He gestured at one of the Nightstalkers.

  They all learn their piece at the same place, I think.

  The Nightstalker stripped the cover off the head of a spear. “This is a spear.” He was going to blind us with illuminating information. But I’d played with these toys lots. Those others guys hadn’t. Maybe some of them needed to be told. You got to crawl before you walk and walk before you run. Except my littlest brother Radish. The way I remember, he hit the ground running.

  “This edge is sharp enough to shave with. This point will go through armor if you put some muscle behind it. The spear is a very versatile weapon. You can stab with it, jab with it, cut with it, slash with it. You can use it to hold your tent up or use it for a fishing pole. But one thing you can’t never do with it is throw it. It ain’t a javelin. You throw it and you don’t have shit anymore. You’re meat for the first guy that wants you.”

  So. Rule One.

  And so forth. While we froze our butts off.

  Came to the part where they start sparring, going through the basic moves. The Nightstalkers called for seven guys to pair off with our regular instructors. I was proud. The recruits had listened to me. Nobody volunteered.

  The Nightstalkers grabbed seven guys and started them through the moves. The sergeant took four pairs and his buddy took three.

  Just like I figured, when they got moving faster the soldier named Caddy made him a chance to “accidentally” hurt the guy he was sparring with.

  The Nightstalker broke it up. “Seven more. Come on.”

  This one hothead named Ken something was all set to go after Caddy and get his head busted good. I told a couple guys, “Hang on to him. Cool him down. And don’t let him pair off with Caddy.”

  I went up and took the spear from the guy Caddy had decked. His nose was bloody.

  Clumsy as Caddy had looked, I figured I could stumble around and get in a “lucky” whack that would slow him down for the rest of the guys that would have to face him. I was rusty but I used to be pretty good with the standard infantry spear. Always was about my best weapon.

  The body will betray. I went into a stance without thinking. Caddy looked puzzled. I figured he was mean because everything puzzled him.

  The Nightstalker came and moved my hands and feet and butt around into what he considered a more acceptable stance. When he had everybody set he started us through the moves. It got hard to stay looking inept as they came faster. The muscles and bones remembered and wanted to do things right.

  Caddy decided to break my nose. When he went for it I stumbled out of the way and accidentally whacked him in the shin. He barked. Somebody in ranks said, “Yeah!” Somebody else laughed.

  That did it for Caddy. He came after me.

  I stumbled around and tried to make like a scared kid trying to defend himself. Had we been playing for keeps I could have killed him over and over.

  Then he gave me an opening a blind man couldn’t miss. I tore up his left ear, tripped him, sent him sliding through the mud. I backed off
, trying to look scared and unable to believe what I’d done.

  “That’s enough!” our sergeant snapped. “Give me the spear and get back in ranks, Green. Caddy! Go get cleaned up. Get that ear fixed.”

  I surrendered the spear and moved. The guys were all working hard not to grin.

  “Green!” It was the Nightstalker sergeant. “Come here.”

  I went back. I stood at attention. He looked me in the eye, hard. Then he touched the cut on my cheek. He backed off, took a spear from one of the grays, removed the headguard, threw it aside. “Give him a spear.”

  It got real quiet. Everybody wondered what the hell, except my sergeant. I thought I knew. Queen’s Bridge. But it didn’t make no sense. It was over a long time ago. My sergeant tried to argue. The Nightstalker just growled, “Give him a spear.”

  I gave him my best imitation Raven look and tried not to shake too much as I took the guard off the spear somebody handed me. I didn’t throw the guard away. That bastard was serious. I wasn’t going to play around and I wasn’t going to give up a trick.

  He did some fancy moves to loosen up.

  My mouth felt awfully dry.

  When he turned on me I shifted to a left-handed stance, which guys always have trouble with for a couple of minutes. I kept the guard in my right hand.

  He tested me with a thrust toward my eyes. I brushed it away, gently, just manipulating the spear with my left hand. I shot my right forward, cracked his knuckles with the guard. Cold as it was, that had to hurt like hell. In the second the pain distracted him I brought my spear around, still one-handed, in a wild roundhouse edge cut at his throat. He threw himself backward to avoid it. I grabbed my spear with my right hand and went into a clumsily balanced right-handed stance, the butt of my spear forward. I flung myself and the butt of the spear straight ahead and got him under the ribs, taking the wind out of him.