by Glen Cook
12. Firaldia, Ormienden, and the End of
Connec at Antieux
B
y the second afternoon, after Else fell in with the youngsters, they were deferring to his leadership. He did not want that. But it fell out that way.
That evening the band reached Ralli, where the main industry was wresting white marble from the flank of a nearby mountain. Ralli marble was renown for its lack of flaws and its almost translucent quality. Quarrying had gone on there for two thousand years. Ralli marble could be found in palaces and memorials all around the Mother Sea.
The townspeople eyed the travelers warily, which was understandable. They might be brigands or criminal fugitives. Soldiers commonly were.
A fellow who might have been a constable came and told them, “If you’re looking for quarry work you need to go up to the quarry head in the morning. If you’re looking for the man hiring soldiers, he’s set up on the barren south of town.”
The constable wanted them to keep on moving.
Else grunted. His ragged bunch would generate confidence in no one.
“The recruiters are offering a hot meal to everybody who’ll listen to their pitch.”
Else asked, “Any of you boys interested in the quarrying trade? I recommend that over taking up the profession of arms.”
Nobody volunteered. The youngsters were all sad and homesick and going on mainly because they did not want to reveal their humanity to their companions.
Two dozen tents stood in the waste ground mentioned by the constable. Else did not like the camp’s look. It was too orderly. Too professional. He observed, “It looks like we’re in time for supper.” In the twilight a line of men received food from a pair of squat, wide cooks who might be brothers. “Anybody see any banners or shields?” It would be nice to know who was hiring.
A voice asked, “Does that matter?” An armed sentry materialized from brush beside the road. Else was startled. Professional indeed.
“Of course it does.” Else assessed the man as best he could in the failing light. The sentry did the same with him. Each saw a professional soldier. Else said, “Some people I won’t follow. Maybe because of who they are. But, mostly, because they have reputations for failing to pay their men.”
The light was not so weak that Else failed to catch the sentry’s contempt. He was not a mercenary himself so did not think well of mercenaries.
Else did not think well of them himself but he had to play that part.
The sentry shouted, “Post number three! I have thirteen and a mule, coming in.”
Else asked, “Are you expecting an attack, or something? Here?”
“You let your guard down because you think you should be safe, you’ll end up prematurely cold.”
Else grunted. That confirmed his suspicion. Professionals, indeed. He had fallen in with the Brotherhood of War again. Not so good.
On the other hand, maybe not so bad, supposing they were putting together a gang to assist the Patriarch in some of his mischief.
But knowing who these men were made Else uneasy. He was marching a little too close to the Brotherhood lately.
Someone jogged up. He was not one of the fighting brothers. He was too small and too young but, obviously, had been around them long enough to have picked up a military patina. “Come with me, please.”
Bo Biogna grumbled, “I got a feeling they’s gonna be way to much spit an’ polish horseshit aroun’ here for me, Pipe.”
Else was using the name Piper Hecht.
“There’s honest work in the quarries, Bo.”
“Then why not trot your ass back up there and sign on?”
“Not my kind of thing. I’m not made to stay in one place.”
“So how’s it different for me?”
It was different. Bo Biogna was not good at what he wanted to do. Else suspected Biogna never was much good at anything, but he was mostly honest and he tried as long as somebody was watching. “It’s your life, Bo. I’m just reminding you that you have options.”
Their guide took them directly to the tail of the chow line, where he said of Just Plain Joe’s mule, “Hey, you can’t take this critter with you.”
“How come?” Just Plain Joe’s friends wanted to know. Pig Iron was the most popular member of the company. He was like no other mule that ever lived. He was friendly and mostly cooperative. And Just Plain Joe insisted that Pig Iron wanted to join the cavalry. “This here horse is a born destrier.”
The guide had no sense of humor. Which might have been why he had been assigned his particular job. He led the future cavalry steed away.
Else was impressed. This was a well-organized camp. And some thought had been invested in this recruiting scheme. Hot food, and plenty of it, was guaranteed to get potential recruits thinking kindly of you. Severe hunger was commonplace for the poor.
Else asked the nearest unfamiliar face, “Whose camp is this? What kind of campaign are they getting ready for?”
The guide showed up in time to hear the question, without Pig Iron. “This camp is commanded by Captain Veld Arnvolker. He hasn’t told us what we’re going to do, only that we’ll have the Patriarch’s blessing and there’ll be plenty of booty. Talk is, it might have something to do with what’s been going on in Sonsa.”
“Where’s Pig Iron? He doesn’t usually like to be away from Joe.”
“He’s hobbled beside the tent you’ll be sharing. He has hay and a ration of oats.”
“He’s turned traitor that cheap?” Joe grumbled.
“Plenty of booty?” Else queried. “I’ll tell you, that doesn’t sound promising. Not in Firaldia.” Unless this was the Brotherhood preparing to punish Sonsa for having run it out by engineering the sacking of Sonsa and the Three Families. He found the possibility that he might go back to Sonsa in Brotherhood employ ironic.
“Then you’re in for something new and marvelous, aren’t you?”
Else had to restrain powerful urges springing from a lifetime of Sha-lug training. He understood the western approach to warfare philosophically but could not make a connection in his heart.
When westerners decided to make war they swept up the dregs and leavings of their societies, handed out old and poor quality weapons, added a few hereditary warriors as leaders, then turned the mob loose. Such armies were as dangerous to friend as foe. Either they would indulge in outrageous slaughter or they would break at the first threat of combat. But they were cheap during peacetime. It was not necessary to feed, house, clothe, or train them. And they were never the threat always presented by a standing army.
The evanescent loyalties of its frontier armies had been one cause of the breakdown of the Old Brothen Empire.
Else would have been willing to bet gold. And he would have won. The meat being served so generously, to the members of the company and prospective recruits, was pork. Else was beginning to develop a taste for the unclean flesh.
“You guys sure picked your time,” the one-armed cook in charge told Else. The other, who, up close, looked enough like him to be a twin, still had both of his arms.
“Eh?”
“Pranced in here just late enough so you’ll get you a free breakfast, too, didn’t you?” He did not seem to mind, though.
All of Else’s band were baffled.
The one-armed cook said, “The wizard does him a whole show on why you should praise God and sign up to the serve the Brotherhood. It’s mostly a crock a shit but you get yourself a meal for sitting through it. Two meals, if you’re just clever enough to wander in here too late for him to do his buck and wing tonight. For a wizard he sure likes to hit the sack early.” The implication being that any wizard would be on intimate and extended terms with the Instrumentalities of the Night.
“Wizard?” Else had another bad feeling.
“I didn’t stutter. Move along. It’s time for the changing of the guard. And those assholes don’t like to be kept waiting at chow time.”
“And who could blame them?”
The youngster assigned as guide showed them where they were supposed to eat, then where they were supposed to clean up the wooden plates and cups and utensils they had been issued at the head of the line. That much order could not last, Else was confident.
They were shown to a large tent where they were supposed to bed down with another half-dozen potential recruits. Pig Iron was hobbled alongside, outside. The mule seemed to think that he had elevated to mule heaven. Else had spent much of his life in worse quarters than that tent. He told Bo Biogna, “They’re sure trying to seduce us here.”
Biogna grunted. “You seen, they got an actual, real shithouse?”
Else had not overlooked that fact. It was an improvement on the traditional Praman field latrine. Which, Else felt, proved that the Brotherhood of War was in charge here. And it proved that the warrior monks were not so narrow of vision as to remain incapable of learning from their enemies.
Traditionally, more crusaders perished of dysentery, cholera, and typhoid than they did of the most violent efforts of Indala al-Sul al-Halaladin and other defenders of the Holy Lands. And the main reason that diseases got them was because they failed to recognize any possibility of a connection between illness and the presence of their own ordure.
Even here, though, there was a problem with the by-product of the animal population, especially horses and dogs.
“THIS ALL SEEMS NICE SO FAR,” GOFIT ASPEL OBSERVED AS THE BAND ATE breakfast.
Else agreed. “They’re doing everything they can to make us want to sign on. Things won’t be nearly as nice once we take an oath.”
Bo Biogna grumbled, “Let’s hope that don’t mean they figure it all to go to shit whenever they get to wherever they’re going.”
“You fibbed. You’ve done this before.”
“No. Only stands to reason that it might.”
“So just keep expecting the worst. Then you’ll be ready for it.”
Their guide materialized. “You need to hurry. They want to get started early. Something important happened somewhere.”
That something was all over camp in fifteen minutes, a secret out strutting its stuff in a dozen different dresses, none of them more than one quarter accurate.
“Somebody tried to kill the anti-Patriarch!”
“The killers were all wiped out by his guards!”
“I heard the assassins were ambushed!”
Before it was over Else could have put together a version where God himself had sent down an archangel with a warning while, in Viscesment, an army of elite Patriarchal troops was destroyed to the last man by invulnerable shadow knights magically whisked in from Hansel’s capital in the New Brothen Empire. Which was a sufficiently delicious rumor that everyone played it up despite it being common knowledge that Johannes Blackboots and his daughters had taken up permanent residence at the Dimmel Palace in Plemenza, declaring an end to any interest in Firaldia, with the Emperor saying he was taking a vacation from politics.
Rumor and speculation simmered all morning. Else found the camp command’s reaction to the news interesting. He told his group, “I think the Brotherhood is recruiting for a foray into the Connec, not Sonsa.”
“They’re starting to pack up,” Just Plain Joe observed.
He was right. Men were striking tents, breaking down the kitchen facility, loading all that into wagons. Horses were being gotten into harness. Dogs were running around, being confused. The only thing missing was a train of women and children.
A grizzled old Brother named Redfearn arrived to take the potential recruits in hand. In addition to Else’s group, four more would-be soldiers had come in since the last recruiting speech. Redfearn did not have much to say. “We’re moving out.” He had a strong accent that suggested an origin somewhere deep inside the New Brothen Empire. “You have until we begin movement to decide if you’re with us. Pay will be regular. It will be on time. Food will be provided. It will be the best our quartermasters can obtain. Your enlistment will be for a period not to exceed one year. Weapons will be provided. You’ll have to pay for any weapons or equipment you lose or throw away. If we have the opportunity to acquire it, uniform clothing will be provided. In return for all this generosity you’ll be expected to train hard, behave well at all times, observe all religious obligations, and submit to Brotherhood discipline. Punishments will be harsh. But fair. Oh. You’ll be expected to fight like hell in the name of heaven if we do get involved in a battle.”
Else studied the veteran closely. The man had characteristics that were almost Sha-lug. He would be the Brotherhood’s equivalent of Bone.
“What’re you gonna do, Pipe?” Just Plain Joe asked. Bo and Gofit and the others all looked at him, too.
“Hey, you all thought you were grown-up enough to leave home.” He softened his pushing away by asking the old soldier, “Who are we signing on with? We’ve heard talk about a sorcerer.”
The Brother frowned, having trouble grasping the fact that mercenaries might have intellectual difficulties with their services. The man came closer, where he could whisper, all talk lost in the increasing bang and clatter of an armed camp preparing to move. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. I assume you’re a religious man. Which would mean there are things you won’t do because they’re just not right.”
“This is the Brotherhood of War! The Sword of Heaven!” The old soldier could not imagine the rectitude of the Brotherhood being questioned.
“But there was talk about a sorcerer.”
“You’re not one of those fundamentalists who believes that any sorcerer, by definition, has to be an agent of evil, are you?”
“No. But I don’t like getting close to anybody with ties to the Instrumentalities of the Night.”
“Oh. I don’t think you’ll find a straighter arrow than Grade Drocker. He came all the way from the Special Office headquarters at Runch.”
“A witchfinder!” one of the boys blurted, suddenly frightened.
Bo Biogna asked aloud what Else had wondered in private. “How come, if they want to fight sorcery an’ all that shit, an’ get rid of the invisible people, an’ all that shit, too, how come they’re all big-time sorcerers an’ necromancers, an’ all that shit?”
The question did not bother the old man a bit. “You don’t send a pacifist priest to duel an enemy champion. Not if you want to come out on top.”
For just an instant Else caught a glimpse of a man leaving the one tent still standing. He was dressed in worn Brotherhood field apparel but Else was sure he was the sorcerer from Sonsa.
“The witchfinder’s name is Grade Drocker?”
“That’s not his real name. Look, we need to move out. You have to make a decision.”
“Rate of pay?” Else asked.
“Raw recruits, three and a half silver scutti monthly, with a boost to five when training is complete. That’s the good Sonsan scutti, too. Food, weapons, and clothing provided. We don’t have mail or protective clothing available. Experienced soldiers will start at five scutti, be expected to lead and teach the greenhorns, and will get a kick up to six scutti when the training period is complete.”
“What about guys what’s been officers an’ shit?” Just Plain Joe asked. Just Plain Joe seemed to get smarter when he was in touching distance of Pig Iron.
“You mean you?”
“Shit. No. Piper. Lookit. Pipe don’ say shit ‘bout what he done ‘fore he hooked up wit’ us, but even a dummy like me can see that he musta been some kin’ a officer or a sergeant at least, once upon a time. He always knows what ta do an’ the best way ta do it.”
The old soldier turned to Else. “What do you have to say?”
“Joe is letting his imagination get away from him.”
The Brother started to question Else more closely. Else was evasive, offering vague remarks about, “the fighting east of the Shurstula,” “pagan savages,” “the Grand Marshes,” and whatnot. The more specific his story became the more likely it woul
d be that someone would trip him up on a detail.
He was saved a harsher grilling by the fact that the real Brotherhood soldiers started moving out. Their recruits followed.
Pico Mussi said, “Nuts. I’m going. We won’t get a better deal anywhere else.” He and his brother and their friend Gofit started getting ready to travel. Bo Biogna joined them. Then a few more did the same.
Else was unsure why he joined the others. Did he feel responsible for the kids? Was it because the man now calling himself Grade Drocker had done so much evil during his brief sojourn in Sonsa? He was sure Drocker and that monster were one and the same.
“All right. I had my heart set on finding something cushy in Brothe. But there’s nothing all that nasty going on around here.”
The old soldier said, “Right, then. If you’re coming, get moving.”
Else tried not to notice that his companions seemed relieved because he was joining them. He did not want to become responsible for them.
THE STORY WAS, SUBLIME HAD SENT A MEMBER OF HIS OWN FAMILY INTO the Connec to see to the details of ensuring that the True Church did not suffer any more outrages at the hands of the heretics so common in that province. The heretics had responded by slaughtering the legate’s bodyguards and leaving the legate himself sprawled upon death’s stoop.
Soon afterward a team of assassins invaded the Palace at Viscesment with the intention of murdering the anti-Patriarch, Immaculate II. By the grace of God and the competence of Immaculate’s company of Braunsknecht lifeguards the assassins all died before Immaculate knew that he was in danger.
Sublime was, naturally, suspect. And was, naturally, expected to denounce such behavior as soon as news of the failure got back to Brothe. Sublime was as blatantly hypocritical in serving his God as his deadliest enemies could imagine.
ELSE DEVELOPED MORE RESPECT FOR THE ANCIENT ENEMY. THE WARRIORS he had faced in the Holy Lands were created from men like these youngsters, never short on courage and hardiness.
