Balyat spoke, his voice deep and sonorous. “My thoughts are with you,” he said. “We fight only armed men. Shakis slaughtered the peasants. He left none if he could help it. He thought to show the kind of man he was.”
“And you let him?” Chal said, glancing between the two mercenaries.
Arden said, “The Toughs are hired to bear the brunt against the peasants. Against larger forces, we are skirmishers and outriders. If you know of our name, we fight as we are ordered, but the pillage and rapine are not the work of my soldiers. I would not hire on to such, nor is it worthy of my troops.”
Namhar nodded, recognizing the words as being the strongest condemnation the mercenary would utter.
“How can you fight for such animals? Is money so precious?” The man asking was a well-dressed merchant turned statesman. An honorable man, but not one to grasp the mercenary viewpoint.
Arden said nothing. He looked around evenly, finding only one pair of eyes showing understanding. Namhar nodded imperceptibly, but in empathy. He alone knew the conflict Arden faced, and why he could not unbind his contract. He wondered now, though, if Miklamar or Shakis were trying to ruin the Toughs’ reputation, to tie them here for lesser wages. Probably not. That would be subtle, and subtlety wasn’t something he’d seen much evidence of.
“It is the employment we have, until released, perhaps at month’s end.”
“Release now! There are worthier employers around.” The merchant tugged at a purse to emphasize the point.
“That is not possible,” Arden replied with a shake of his head. “We have troubled you enough. Good travel to you. I must resume my patrol. I will report this encounter with my other notes, after I return and care for my horse.”
“Bastard!” Chal growled.
“Quiet, Chal,” Namhar snapped. “High Rider, we thank you for the courtesy.”
Arden nodded as he swung up into the saddle. It would be as easy to report the incident at once, but there was no threat here, and he had no orders to do so. He wasn’t about to offer a grace before eating without pay or orders.
“If you do find your contract at an end soon, I can offer the pay of my lord for good skirmishers.”
“I will remember that, Namhar,” Arden replied. “Offers of support are always welcome.”
Shakis appeared outraged when the message was relayed hours later.
“You spoke to what amounts to an enemy patrol, and not only didn’t stop them; you report it to me after a leisurely dinner!”
“They were merely a lord’s retinue. Surely you wouldn’t wish me to attack possible allies?”
“Allies? There are no allies! Lord Miklamar will be the undisputed ruler, as is his right!”
“Then you need to deal with such things, not have me be your envoy, yes?” Arden asked with a cruel smile.
It took a moment for the petty underling to grasp the verbal spar. “Watch your tongue, mercenary,” Shakis rasped.
Shaking his head, he continued, “There has been more rebellion along the border. Lessons must be taught. I expect this entire village put to sword.” He pointed at a map, and to the south. “Manjeuk. Only another day’s march.”
A lesson of slaughtered peasants. Yes, Arden thought. That would surely teach other peasants not to try to live their lives. If he were planning, he would kill the village militia, then wait with baleful eye for the rest to flee. It was harsh, but it was war. It wasn’t as dangerous, tactically foolish or obscenely cruel as wanton butchery.
He reflected that Shakis was acting professionally by his own vulgar standards. He wasn’t sparing the town for looting, burning, and rapine.
Though not every occupant would be dead after the attack. Those left would be subject to the most vile humiliations this twisted troll could devise, he was sure.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to simply kill the armed men and drive off the rest? Why waste good steel on starving, rag-clothed peasants?”
It was a reasonable question. So he thought.
“Rider Arden,” Shakis said, caressing a jeweled dagger before him, with a blade that would turn on canvas, never mind leather or iron, “the plans are made here. You and your mercenaries,” that with a sniff, “are merely one small part of many in an engagement planned many hundreds of leauges away. All we ask, all we are paying for, is your men to swing their swords where we tell them to, and to not think too much.”
That decided Arden. He knew what course to take.
“As you command,” he said with a nod, and turned to his own camp. That order he would give. That exact order.
Before dusk, his troops were ready, aligned, and poised for inspection. The ranks were dead straight, the product of proud, expert riders. He felt a ripple of excitement. His troops, those of the unassailable repute. There was Ty’kara, the Shin’a’in woman, tall and quick and almost as strong as some men. Bukli, skilled at sending signals with flags, hands, or fires, and almost as handy with a sword. Balyat, tall and broad and powerful as an ox, with a cool, mature head. His troops, the best one could pay for.
His troops, under pay of a cretin.
He turned through each rank, examining each raised arm, sword, or spear, to see that they fit his orders. All were clean, well cared for, and ready. All his troops quivered in eagerness and a little fear. The brave could admit fear. Fear was part of being human. Only the coward and the fool denied fear.
Every soldier, every weapon, fit and ready as he had demanded. And now to follow the orders of the cretin.
He passed behind the last rank, then turned between two troops. They flinched not a bit, nor did their horses shy, as he urged his mount, Fury, to a fair gallop.
Then he was through the front rank, and behind him came the snorts of horses and the “Yaaah!” of riders. Thunder rose from the ground, thunder that he commanded, thunder that shattered armies.
Far ahead, brave and fearful peasants in sorry, untrained formation prepared to die for their homes. They trembled in fear, armed with hooks and forks and an occasional spear. A handful with bows was arrayed in the rear. He respected them far more than the scum he worked for this night. But he did work for them.
And he would see that duty done.
Perhaps five hundred yards, and the flickering lights of torches melded with a blood red sunset to set the mood for the work ahead. Manjeuk was the name of a quiet town in a forest meadow. Tonight, however, it was a dark-tinged collection of rude huts with little prettiness.
A hundred yards, and he could see faces, grubby and fearful and shifting in grimaces. That was just enough time to brace shield and lower sword.. . . .
He hit the defensive line and burst through the front rank. These poor peasants were no match in any fashion for professional soldiers. He chopped down and connected with a skull, feeling the crack through his arm. He let the impact swing his arm back, then brought it into a thrust that knocked another man from his feet. He brought the tip up as he swung his shield out on the other side. Two men sprawled, one of them nudged by Fury’s left forehoof.
Then he was through. That dismal line of men with inadequate stakes and pits had been the defense. They’d lasted not five seconds.
Urging Fury to a charge, he cleared the deadly, empty space ahead. Four good gallops did it, and no arrow came close. Few arrows came anywhere.
Then he was inside the town. A crone with a pitchfork thrust at him, and he dodged, slashing at her chest. She went down. Behind her was a cowering girl of perhaps twelve, who had dropped her stick and was whimpering. A slight poke was sufficient for her. A boy of fifteen or so wouldn’t succumb to a single blow, and had to be hit three times. Stupid of him not to stay down once hit, but that wasn’t Arden’s concern. He reined back, turned, and galloped on.
An old man in a doorway didn’t have time to raise his ancient, rust-caked sword. Two younger men drew out a rope. Arden cursed and ducked, snatching at it and twisting. The shock pulled them to the ground. Behind him, Ty’kara whacked one, dogged over and twisted, jabbed the other and recovered.
