tentmate had turned to shieldmate and lover.
The Scouts altogether approved, as Pawell had been standoffish and his replacement was anything but. The romance had amused and touched them. Kyra had begun to bloom under the approval, to think for herself, to make judgment calls. The Kyra that had joined them would never have come to Tarma with an old tale and a rumor; Kyra of 'now' had experience enough to know how important that rumor could be, and enough guts to present the information herself. She was Tarma's personal pick to become a subcommander herself in a few years.
It was false dawn; one hour to real dawn, and there was a hint that the sky was getting lighter. No words were needed; they all knew what they had to do. When Tarma rode gray Ironheart into the waiting knot of Scouts and horses, those dismounted swung back up into their saddles. Tarma didn't even slacken her pace; all five of them left the camp in proper diamond formation, as if they'd rehearsed the whole maneuver. Tarma had point (since as commander she was the only one of the five with all the current passwords). Garth tail, Jodi right and Kyra left -- Beaker and his precious birds rode protected in the middle.
They rode along the back of the string of encampments; dark tents against slowly graying sky to their right, scrub forest and hills stark black against the sky to their left. The camps were totally dark, since just about everyone had encountered the same troubles as the Hawks had with lights and fires in the pouring rain.
They were challenged almost as soon as they left their own camp; a foot-sentry, sodden, but alert. He belonged to Staferd's Colddrakes; this was the edge of their camp. Tarma nodded to herself with satisfaction at his readiness, and gave him the countersign.
Then came a heavy encampment of regular infantry, whose sentry hailed Warrl, who was trotting at Ironheart's flank, by name, and called out;
'You're recognized, Sunhawks. Pass on.' Tarma felt a little twitchy about that one, but couldn't fault him. You challenged those whom you didn't recognize; you could let known quantities by. And there were no kyree in Kelcrag's forces.
At the next encampment -- Duke Greyhame's levy -- they were physically challenged; a fully-armed youth with an arrogant sneer on his lips, mounted on a heavy, wild-eyed warhorse. He blocked their path until Tarma gave an elaborate countersign.
Even then, he wouldn't clear the path entirely. He left only enough room for them to ride past in single file, unless they wanted to desert the firm ground and ride on the mushy banks. And he backed off with some show of reluctance, and much induced rearing and prancing of his gelding.
'Scoutmaster -- ' Garth eased his horse alongside Tarma's and whispered angrily to her: 'I'd like to feed that little son of a bitch his own damned gauntlet!'
'Peace,' Tarma said, 'Let me handle this. Give me rear for long enough to teach him a lesson.'
Garth passed the word; wry grins appeared and vanished in an instant, and the scout ranks opened and closed so that Beaker had point and Tarma had dropped back to tail. The scouts squeezed past the arrogant sentry, one by one, Tarma the last. She didn't move, only stared at him for a long moment, letting Ironheart feel her ground and set her feet.
Then she dropped her hands, and signaled the battlemare with her knees.
Black as a nightmare in the rain, the battlesteed reared up to her full height -- and stayed there, as perfectly balanced as only a Shin'a'in trained warsteed could be. Another invisible command from Tarma, and she hopped forward on her hind hooves, forefeet lashing out at the stranger -- gelding, who, not being the fool his rider was, cleared off the path and up onto the mucky shoulder. Then Ironheart settled to all four hooves again, but only for as long as it took to get past the arrogant sentry. As Tarma had figured he would, he spurred his beast down onto the path again as soon as they got by. Whatever he'd thought to do then didn't much matter. As soon as he was right behind them and just out of range of what was normally an attack move, Tarma gave her mare a final signal that sent her leaping into the air, lashing out with her rear hooves in a wicked kick as she reached the top of her arc. Had the boy been within range of those hooves, his face would have been smashed in. As it was (as Tarma had carefully calculated), the load of mud Ironheart had picked up flicked oft her heels to splatter all over him, his fancy panoply, and his considerably cowed beast.
'Next time, boy,' she called back over her shoulder, as her scouts snickered, 'best know whose tail it is you plan to twist, and be prepared for consequences.'
The edge of the camps was held by the free-fighters -- little clots of scum no good company would take into itself. They were one of the reasons each levy and company had its own set of sentries; politics was the other. Tarma didn't much understand politics -- scum, she knew. It had been a band of this sort of flotsam that had wiped out her Clan -- But a sword was a sword, and Leamount was not above paying them so long as someone he trusted could keep an eye on them. That, thank the Warrior, is not Idra's job! Tarma thought to herself, wrinkling her nose at the stench of their huddle of makeshift shelters. Unwashed bodies, rotting canvas, garbage, privy pits right in the camp -- the mix was hardly savory. Even the rain couldn't wash it out of the air. They rode past this lot (too sodden with drink or drug, or just too damn lazy to set one of their own to sentry duty) without a challenge, but with one hand on their knives and shortswords at all times. There'd been trouble with this lot before -- and five were not too many for them to consider mobbing if they thought it worth their while.
Once out of the camps, they rearranged their order. Now it was Kyra who had point, and Tarma who took tail. This side of the mountains, danger would be coming at them from the rear -- Kelcrag's scouts, sniffing around the edges of the Royalist army. All of them had taken care long ago to replace metal harness pieces with leather where they could, or even carved wood -- anything that wouldn't shine and wouldn't clink. The metal they had to have was not brightwork; it was dulled and tarnished and left that way. Shin'a'in horses were trained to neck and knee, so all they needed was a soft halter with no bit. As for their own armor, or lack of it, their best protection would be speed on a mission like this -- stay out of the way if you can, and never close for a fight unless you have
