by Damien Lake
“The larger the group of men, the slower they go, especially when most are on foot. Having to deal with these rover blighters doesn’t help the situation any either.”
A shout from below told them to hurry the hells up and finish so they could leave.
“Was that Sloan? Why is he in such a rush?”
“I take it he’s the type who enjoys the rush of battle. He’s the only one who was disappointed about having to stay behind last night.”
“I didn’t know that. So long as he doesn’t do anything stupid to get the rest of us killed,” Marik allowed.
They reached ground when the archers returned from collecting the arrows littering the ambush sight. Never one to waste time, Fraser ordered the men to move out. The unit traveled along the stone rise and around the north end heading northeast. Bindrift’s men still milled around their campsite, apparently unprepared to depart yet. No greetings or waves were exchanged as the Fourth resumed their trek along the dry streambed.
* * * * *
Two days later they neared the rendezvous point. No other major skirmishes had taken place between the Fourth Unit and the rover bands, though exchanges had occurred.
Twice they had seen rovers. Both times Fielo’s men fled into nearby woods to escape. Once in the night rovers had launched three arrow volleys into the camp followed by a swift retreat.
Four men had received minor wounds. One other had taken an arrow deep in his shoulder that reduced the function in his left arm. Floroes, a large man favoring a battle axe and war hammer combination, acted as the unit’s amateur field chirurgeon in the absence of qualified ones. Though his skills palled beside the chirurgeons deployed by the Kings on larger contracts, his talents could serve well enough for such non-life threatening wounds. After thoroughly cleaning and dressing the injury, he judged the loss of function to be temporary.
When the Fourth crested a rise they saw Dornory’s encampment sitting in a shallow valley near a brook that must have run fuller in a normal season. Tents were arranged in rows, yet far enough from each other to keep a flung torch or fire arrow from sending them all up at once. The horses used by Dornory’s troops were picketed near the camp, guarded by no less than fifty men. Just as many others ringed the camp edges on guard duty. Several men rode in their direction. Apparently scouts and lookouts were posted farther away from the camp.
Fraser stepped forward to talk with Dornory’s captain. Soon the captain led them into the temporary town where they were directed to a corner that had been left clear. It seemed they were the first unit to arrive.
When the captain left, Fraser confirmed, “We’re the first, but Captain Garvin says his scouts report a unit not far off. Don’t make trouble or draw attention while we wait.”
Marik wondered at the admonishment, until he saw Captain Garvin intercept a finely dressed young man headed their way, angry and obviously spoiling for a fight. Garvin’s directing him away from their unit told them whom he’d had it in mind to spar with.
Hayden also witnessed the exchange in the distance. “Ah, that would be Baron Dornory’s eldest get. I wonder what’s stuck in his craw?”
“I have the feeling we’ll be finding out soon,” Marik responded.
“True enough. I’ve rarely seen any noble act satisfied with the services they purchase from us. Well, just remember that. The sooner you get used to it, the happier you’ll be. Fortunately for us, they’ll take up their issues with Lieutenant Earnell and the sergeants.”
“I guess.” Marik looked around the camp. “We’re supposed to get re-supplied. That means the food wagon too, I hope?”
Hayden grinned. “Now you’re thinking like a mercenary! Let’s go grab something fresh. They might have a spot of ale lying around if we’re lucky.”
“In a supply line?”
“It happens. Let’s go and see while we’re waiting, shall we?”
* * * * *
Later in the day, the First Unit arrived with Lieutenant Earnell at the head. They did not seem exhausted but they definitely had an air about them of a group kept busy. Most simply heaped their packs near the Fourth before leaving in search of food.
Sergeant Dove was spared reporting to Garvin when the higher ranking Earnell left to search out the man. Not far from the Ninth Squad’s corner, he was intercepted simultaneously by Garvin and the still angry son of Baron Dornory, Balfourth.
Before Balfourth could get three words out on whatever subject had his hair ruffled, Garvin steered their little group into a nearby supply tent. It removed them from view, if not from earshot. Everyone nearby heard the angry shouts that composed half the conversation, including Marik and Dietrik who had nothing else to keep them busy.
“We’re paying good coin for you to follow orders! We told you to keep those blasted leeches of Fielo’s off our soldiers! They were practically sharing our cloaks! You tell me what in the hells you were doing out there!”
“If you have a problem with our service, we shall depart this minute.” Earnell’s response held calm in the face of Balfourth’s apoplectic shouting.
“You damn well won’t! I’ll have every guard in the kingdom after you!”
“For what charge?”
“Breach of contract for starters!” he shrieked. Marik imagined spit flying from the man’s mouth.
“What part of the contract states I have to listen to you?”
“I’ve already paid you thugs a sizable advance! You have to do what I tell you to!”
“Our contract is with the baron, not you, and it states we will work in cooperation with your forces. Ask your father what that word means, or I can tell you right now it means two or more peers working together to achieve a common goal. A further definition for you; peer means equal. As the peer commanding officer, I don’t have to put up with your misconceptions of authority if I don’t chose to.”
“I hired you! If I have to, I’ll walk out there and take firm command of you vagabonds myself!”
“Try to give my men orders and I will consider the contract void here and now. Besides sprat, you’re not in charge of this campaign, whatever your daddy told you.”
Outraged splutters and shouts emitted from Balfourth. Soothing words from Garvin managed to keep him from blowing apart. Other words followed too low to hear, followed by Earnell’s terse reply that no one strolls into enemy territory unchallenged, which set Balfourth off again.
Baron Dornory came into view, walking down the dusty aisle between tents, turning his head from side to side. He heard the row when he came closer and angled for the tent without changing speed. After he entered, the argument began over from the start.
Apparently the pampered son felt incensed that rovers had attacked his procession, which his father had been leading in the first place, not once but twice during their ride up the Vineyard. His complaints about the Kings’ apathetic, as he named it, approach to their responsibilities were long and loud. Marik wanted to smash him over the head with a cook pot. Perhaps one of the heavier cauldrons carried by the supply wagons.
“What an idiot,” he observed to Dietrik in sheer awe. “He talks like he’s in charge of the entire campaign!”
“Delusions of grandeur are not an uncommon trait among the nobles, or so I’ve seen to date.”
“Dornory was heading that march! At least he knows enough about fighting to know what kind of crap his brat’s spouting.”
“Does he? I don’t seem to be hearing Dornory contradicting his son any.”
Surprised, Marik stopped to listen for a few moments before he realized Dietrik was correct. Despite the flood of nonsense this spoiled, overgrown child spewed, Dornory never interrupted him to explain the facts of fighting in the real word, or to apologize to Lieutenant Earnell, or to say anything at all in fact. The silence from the older man seemed, from outside the tent, akin to an experienced father listening to his youngest child recite the oldest nursery rhymes, nodding in absent thought so the youngster will feel he has achieved a great
feat.
In the end, Dornory’s voice softly emerged from the canvas, saying, “Yes, it seems I need to discuss many things with their commanding officer,” as though Earnell were somewhere other than right next to them. “Why don’t you and Garvin finish the inspections you were performing?”
Soft mutterings from the son, then he and Garvin emerged from the supply tent and returned in the direction they had come from. Quiet words passed between the baron and the lieutenant. Shortly, they too emerged, departing for other regions. Earnell looked more irritated than Marik had ever seen him.
“Well, it seems to have sorted itself out in the end,” Dietrik chirped happily.
“Do you really think so? I wonder.”
“The baron seems to have rescued the lieutenant without making a scene with his son, so I don’t think we’ll have any worries.”
“Unless he’s as stupid as his son and actually intends to ‘discuss’ things with Earnell in quiet. He knew everyone could hear them from inside that tent.”
“If he does, Earnell will likely haul out of here with us in tow. It sounds like the Kings leave themselves plenty of wiggle room in the wording on their contracts.”
Marik frowned. “I don’t agree.”
“How so?”
“Earnell could say that to Balfourth because he’s stupid enough to believe it, but the Kings have the reputation as the best. If the Kings’ men ran away every time their contractor annoyed them, the rep wouldn’t last long.”
Dietrik paused a moment before responding. “I had not thought of it in quite that light. You could have a point.”
“Look! The last unit is coming in.” The Third, led by Sergeant Giles, came into view looking the worse for wear, having suffered the loss of three men during multiple encounters.
“Seems they’ve had a bit of a tumble with someone.”
“Or several someones,” Marik replied. “Anyway, let’s go rest. We might be walking out tomorrow.”
* * * * *
When the combined forces of Dornory’s soldiers and the Ninth Squad came within sight of the low canyon mouth opening on the mostly dry riverbed, it became apparent Fielo would no longer tolerate the trespassers marching through his lands.
This area was mostly flat, with rises that could have been hills had they not taken a mile to rise or drop fifty feet. In the northern third of Fielo’s barony, the terrain underwent an abrupt change from grassy, tillable soil to rock that rose dozens of feet in far less than a stone’s throw. While the new land did not form a vertical cliff, the stone rises were a distinct change from the flatter lands around them.
Gray rock stretched across the barony in a nearly horizontal east-west line, curving slightly south near Fielo’s eastern borders. Through the rocky hills ran a canyon network fifty feet deep in places. The canyons housed the river whose waters had nourished the arid fields in both baronies.
They followed the dry river banks. In places the bed stretched fifty or sixty yards wide, the shallow depths covered with the worn gravel and river stones that usually made wonderful fording places. Other areas, particularly where the bed narrowed, were solid stone with rises and plateaus forming waterfalls several feet in height. At least, when the water’s running through it at normal levels, they would be falls and rushes of water, Marik thought. The ten foot wide stream currently running sluggishly down the bed’s center looked as if it would evaporate before it reached any fields in Dornory’s lands. It might be enough to fulfill Fielo’s needs during the formation of a reservoir, but the northern baron obviously cared little for how his southern neighbor’s fields would fare.
Several scouts rode back fast to consult with the baron. Marik’s guard rose instinctively. They were riding much faster than they did when making their normal half-candlemark reports on the enemy’s activities.
Dornory’s forces had come within view of the stone hills housing the canyons a short while before, and had yet to encounter opposition. Marik saw the scouts point back the way they had ridden. Dornory gestured toward the hills.
“Probably they’re waiting for us over there,” he said to Dietrik beside him.
“I imagine so. Those chaps wouldn’t want a fight right at the dam, so they picked the most defensible spot between us and it. He must have been husbanding his strength, planning to crush us in one major blow here after whittling our numbers using his rovers.”
“You think it’ll be the rovers banded together or is Fielo going to go full out?”
Dietrik considered a moment. “I would think he should put everything into this one. This seems to be the best spot for a fight from his standpoint.”
“Not to mention,” Kerwin suddenly jumped in from behind them, “Fielo can’t let us reach the dam. If we shred half his men here, he’s only got half left to defend his skin against however many of us survived.”
“That’s what I was wondering about,” Marik said. “If he was going to split his men.”
“If he’s planning a get-together with us over on those rises, then he’ll be there with all his buddies.”
“And all of their mates as well,” Dietrik responded. “It looks like things will get lively soon.”
“With us at the front taking point, if Dornory’s spoiled brat has anything to say about it.”
“It’s our lot as mercenaries,” Dietrik pointed out for Marik’s benefit. “It’s best to get used to it.”
The company traveled for a further candlemark until it arrived near the base of the first stone rise. Hills crowded forward to each side of the river, forming a valley rising abruptly from the flats. It looked more like a giant arroyo than a canyon. Beneath their feet the ground had turned to a peculiar mix of soft dirt sprouting wild grass and hard rock patches.
Above them, spread across the top of the rise, were several hundred men.
Dornory ordered a halt and called Lieutenant Earnell, Captain Garvin and his son Balfourth over to discuss the situation. He also issued quick orders for the men to form ranks into four equal sized squadrons under the command of the senior officer in each group. This left the Ninth alone under Fraser, the most senior sergeant. The Kings took the western position with a hundred feet separating each squadron.
The four senior men sat atop horses, Earnell having requisitioned one from Dornory’s forces, between the two middle squadrons, talking too softly for the men to overhear. A quarter-mark later a man descended from the clifftop bearing a long pole from which fluttered a scrap of blue cloth. He paused at the base to await a response.
Garvin shouted to the nearest soldier, who ran back to the supply carts which had stayed well back. Dornory’s quartermaster knew what the captain wanted and had already dug through one wagon. He handed over a matching pole. The soldier presented this to his liege and received instructions.
Once the baron felt satisfied the soldier had memorized his message, he sent him off to meet Fielo’s emissary.
“Is it all right to send an ordinary soldier as a diplomat?” asked Marik quietly to Hayden.
“This isn’t the court, you know. On a battlefield, everything is done by the fighters.”
Marik pondered that while the two men met. Following tradition, each unbuckled his sword belt to lay them across each other on the ground between them. Thus symbolically disarmed and reminded of the consequences for a negotiations breakdown, the two exchanged their messages though the outcome was already a forgone conclusion.
Still, thought Marik, the customs need to be observed. As expected, the exchange took only a short while. The two sides already knew what the other had to say. They retrieved their belts, strapped them on and returned to report to their respective leaders.
“I suppose that’s a good reason to use a soldier,” Marik commented. “They cut through all the posturing and get to the point.”
“Yeah,” replied Hayden. “And imagine if Balfourth had gone out to talk himself.”
Marik winced. “I hadn’t thought of that. His pride’s so inflated he’d
probably cut the other’s head off in a fit of self-importance.”
“Killing the other side’s mediator is an excellent way to get the king involved. It ruins your good name, too.”
The four seniors received their acting mediator’s report then, after only a brief discussion, ordered the entire force to fall back two miles.
“Then why did we walk all the way here in the first place?” Marik mumbled, but Fraser was not in the mood to hear it.
“You don’t need to flap your lips to move your feet. Shut up and march!”
* * * * *
The Fourth sat around its cook fire, very involved in the meal they ate, when Fraser returned from another meeting. He addressed them.
“It’s another night hunt,” he started. Groans and complaints met this announcement. “Don’t even start, I don’t want to hear it! Get to sleep as soon as you’re done. We all get up in a few candlemarks with the rest of the Ninth to march out.”
“Just us? What about his royalness over there?” asked one man. The question found support with everyone who had overheard Balfourth’s exchange with Earnell.
Fraser, for his part, looked irritated as well. “Everyone’s going to attack together. We get to run out first, that’s all.”
“I like that,” Dietrik whispered to Marik. “The mighty line of Dornory won’t embarrass itself by showing up without its beauty rest!”
Marik had been swallowing a mouthful of stew when an image of Balfourth came to him. The baron’s son rode resplendent in heavy makeup and the elaborate hair accessories he had seen on many women throughout Spirratta, charging sidesaddle astride a snowy white mare, gesturing heroically not with a sword but an oversized folding fan.
He choked, spewing the mess across Sloan’s legs. Sloan gave Marik a look that would have encouraged an archbishop to change his religion. Hasty apologies from Marik kept the man from killing him then and there. Marik scorched Dietrik with a glare of his own, which the other man shrugged away with a grin.
