They were people, too.
Which made those best the equal of any state or nation’s army in quality and outlook. Which offended said “official” armies and earned sneers. Sneers the Toughs and the few outfits like them knew were part jealousy and part ignorance. And once you knew you were morally above the people you worked for . . .
It was rough work, and a conscience was both necessary and a hindrance. The Toughs owed allegiance to each other only. They protected each other at work, and in the taverns and camps afterward. They thought not too hard about their opponents of the moment, who would shortly be defeated or dead as part of a cold deal and a week’s pay and food.
So Arden, as Kenchen before him, Ryala before Kenchen, and Thoral who’d founded the Toughs tried for only the best contracts. Supporting a proud state at its border or chasing bandits were the choicest tasks. Caravan escort was boring but honorable, as was guard duty at a border town or trading center. But there were few such jobs, and between starvation and ethics was a gray line.
Once again the Toughs cracked the defenses of the town that stood in the way of Miklamar’s plan for expansion or peace or world conquest or whatever his motivation was. Were Arden a strategic planner for a nation, he’d find that information and use it. As a mercenary commander, he stuck to the closer, more local concerns of food, support, and pay. Thinking too much made working for such people harder.
Once again, the rape, pillage, arson, and looting began, the cowardly local troops reflecting the manner of their leader, as was always the case.
Arden wheeled his mount away from the spectacle, assured his own wounded and dead was being cared for by their sergeants, rode through the healthy ranks, and nodded in salute. He always recognized his troops for doing well.
Shakis was waiting at the rear, as always. “Arden, you have done well again, for mercenaries,” he said as Arden entered his tent.
Such a greeting. “Well for mercenaries.” As if sword wounds felt different to the vanquished, depending on the colors worn by the soldier thrusting it home.
“I thank you,” he said.
“The campaign proceeds. We will keep your men another month, as we asked.”
“As long as they are paid, they will remain loyal to the contract,” he hinted.
Shakis barely scowled and with a nod one of his lackeys dropped a sack of coin in front of Arden. Arden took the time to count it. Those two acts summed up the relationship perfectly. Arden didn’t trust his employer, and the man was fervent enough in his religion to imagine that people should
Not for the first time, Arden pitied the towns falling to this excuse for a man.
Then it was out to ride patrol. Everyone took turns at the duties of camp and skirmish, even the squadron leaders and Arden himself. No good commander could understand the working soldiers without sharing in the menial tasks. Occasionally, he exercised his privilege not to, but it was good practice and good inspiration, so he dealt with the muck and tedium and did it most of the time.
He met up with Balyat and two newer riders. Balyat and he were the scouts for the ride, the others backup and messengers if needed, and would gain experience in the skill.
Patrol gave him the chance to explore the area consciously, and to get a feel for it inside. It allowed part of his mind to relax and tour the terrain—rolling hills and copses of trees with small, growing streams. It let him ponder the job they had contracted.
The work was “good” in a sense. It was honest fighting at their end, the pay decent, and they had the benefits of a real army nearby. All the mercenaries were in the pay of one lord, meaning they weren’t killing other professionals. Of course, they were killing innocent people and leaving the survivors to suffer at the hands of that lord.
Fausan, Mirdu, Askauk, Shelin . . . tiny hamlets, nothing but farmers and hunters with a few basic crafters. Why it was necessary to fight them was beyond Arden. He would have simply bypassed them, taken control of a large city, say, Maujujir, and let the traders spread the word that there was a new ruler. The peasants never cared, as long as the taxes weren’t extreme and they were left to their lives.
Of course, that required a leader with self-confidence and who was secure in his power. Miklamar was not, and therefore wasteful. He’d been pacifying a very small province for years, proving to be a petty lord in every meaning of the word.
Caravan, small. Not uncommon around an engagement area. It was foolish and inadvisable to fight, though both groups would report the presence of the other. To clash four on two wagons and a carriage would mean certain death for at least one rider, possibly all. Nor was Arden, as a hired sword, expected to fight outside of his contract. The train was not a massive provisioning effort, so it was not a threat to the war.
Still, a challenge and meeting were necessary, to determine the intent of the others, and their origin. Arden reined back and slowed slightly, watching to see that the others did. They were ahead to the left, crossing obliquely. One of their numbers took the lead, presumably the troop commander.
Shortly, the groups were drawn up facing each other, a safe twenty feet apart; too far for an immediate strike, too close for a charge.
“Arden, High Rider of the Toughs,” he introduced himself. “Patrolling my unit’s line.”
“Count Namhar, of the Anasauk Confederacy, escorting a Lord,” the other leader agreed. He wore striking blue-and-black colors, and had a slim lance with a small pennant. His horse was armored with light hardened leather and a few small plates that were more a status symbol than protection. Of the four others with him, two shared his colors and two were in a similar blue, black, and gray, marking them as belonging to some side branch of the family.
“You are mercenaries. For whom do you ride?” Namhar asked.
“We are on contract to Miklamar, through his deputy Shakis.” Arden wouldn’t lie anyway, and the truth was best. Dissemblance could be seen as a sign of espionage.
One of the others, quite young, snapped, “You are the butchers of Kiri!” He reined his horse and clutched reactively at his sword. His partner extended a hand and caught him.
“Steady,” the youth was told.
“Chal had friends in Kiri. He is still in mourning,” Namhar said.
“I understand,” Arden replied. “No threat offered, I take no offense.”
“You’re still a butchering scum!” the young man yelled.
“In Kiri,” Arden said. “All we did was crack the defenses.”
“You lie! I saw the desecrated corpses! The torn . . .” For a moment Chal was incoherent with rage.
“Shakis’ men,” Arden said. “We broke the line, as we were paid to, and he took what he calls ‘retribution’ on peasants too poor and weak to resist.” Thereby showing the sum of his courage.
For a moment, there was silence. Emotion swirled in the air, all of them negative.
At once, Namhar dismounted. Arden nodded and did likewise. His two junior troops stepped down, leaving Balyat mounted, tall, bearlike, and imposing, but wise enough to be a good lookout. One of Namhar’s men stayed astride his beast, too.
The soldiers faced each other on the ground, the tension lessened. A mounted man was much taller and more imposing, a greater threat. With the horses held and the men afoot, it would be harder to start trouble.
The shouts had brought the other travelers out. The teamsters dropped from their wagons and the passengers in the carriage hurried over. The young man’s outrage was contagious, and in moments the shouts of, “Butcher!” and “Violator!” were ringing.
Arden and his troops stood calmly and firmly, though the younger of the two trembled. Balyat sat solidly on his horse and refused to move. Namhar waved his arms and got control. The others acquiesced to his voice and presence, and the trouble downgraded to hard breaths and angry looks.
“I had a cousin in Kiri,” Chal said.
