Two-Edged Blade

faces could only be described as “bloodthirsty.”

Or maybe it was just greed. It wasn’t too often that a bonded Company had free rein to loot, but that’s exactly what the Menmellith Council—their putative employers—had given them. Not that Kero blamed them. Probably half of what was in the possession of the “bandits” had belonged to folk hereabouts first. If anybody got it, the locals would rather it was friends than enemies.

Rethwellan had granted Menmellith client-state status and semi-autonomy shortly after Daren had been born. Supposedly this was a kind of thanks-offering for the birth of a third son; in actuality, now that she’d seen the state with her own eyes, Kero suspected that the King had seized on the first available excuse to liberate his land from a considerable drain on the royal coffers. Menmellith was mostly mountain, hellishly hard to travel in, constantly raided by Karsite “bandits,” and probably impossible to govern or tax effectively. Now it was governed by its own fractious, taciturn folk, served as a buffer between Karse and the lusher lands of Rethwellan, and the King need only hire the occasional merc Company to clean things out now and again, instead of being forced to keep a detachment of the army there on permanent duty.

“We’re fairly useless at the moment, you know,” Shallan said, as her horse picked its way daintily across a dry streambed that formed part of the trail. “They’re just sending the scouting parties out to make sure everything’s still where it’s supposed to be.”

“I know,” Kero sighed. If there was one thing she’d learned with the Skybolts, it was that warfare consisted mostly of waiting. “I’m not even supposed to report to anyone unless we do see something odd. I suppose it wouldn’t be so damned bad if we could see something going on, but the bastards are not coming out of that canyon.”

“Can’t say as I blame them,” Gies said laconically. “If I’d got m’self trapped in a blind canyon, wouldn’t be comin’ out either. They c’n hold us off long as the food’n’water last, an’ we just might get bored an’ go away.”

Shallan laughed; not a sound of amusement, it was a particularly ugly laugh. “Between them, the Wolflings and the Bastards are likely to make things real uncomfortable for them in there. Then when they pop out, we’ll be waiting. And so will the Earthshakers.”

Kero preferred not to think too much about that. It was going to cost the two Companies of foot quite a bit in blood to shake the “bandits” out of their lair. By contrast, the Company of heavy cavalry and the Skybolts’ skirmishers had it easy, if dull.

But when the “bandits” did emerge, they’d be like any desperate and cornered creatures, and Shallan was likely to get a bellyful of fighting.

But it wouldn’t profit anyone to say that out loud, so Kero held her peace, and kept her eyes on the uncertain trail. The last thing she needed to do would be to lame Hellsbane.

“Stand,” Kero told Hellsbane. The gray stamped restlessly once more, but then obeyed with no other sign of rebellion. Kero tapped her right foreleg, and the war-steed lifted the massive hoof and set it in Kero’s waiting hands.

She pulled the hoofpick out of her belt, and began cleaning the packed muck out of it with studious care. There was a lot of gravel around here, and Kero did not intend to find herself with a lamed horse because of a moment’s carelessness. Shallan had already lost the use of her remount that way.

“I could really get to hate Menmellith,” she told Hellsbane conversationally. The gray flicked her ears back with every evidence of intelligent interest. “I can see why Jad let them hare off and become a client-state. There’s nothing here but sheep, rocks, and bone-headed shepherds. Certainly nothing worth keeping. Why Karse keeps trying to invade them, I’ll never know.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Unless it’s just one more example of how crazy the Karsites are.”

She finished with the right forehoof, and moved back to the hind. “Stand,” she repeated, with a little more force this time, as some noise from the next camp over made Hellsbane roll her eyes and fidget. She straightened long enough to see what all the fuss was.

A small forest of poles was marching straight for the picket lines, and horses up and down the line were starting to stamp and look nervous.

Blessed Agnira—pikemen again? That’s Jeffrey’s Wolflings! What fool sent pikemen to drill next to picketed horses? Don’t they know how much battle-trained horses hate pikes? They’re going to have the whole line spooked in a minute! She was just about to head them off, by intercepting them and launching into a powerful flood of abuse, when someone beat her to it.

“’Alt, damn yer ‘ides! I said right march, not bleedin’ left!”

The line came to an abrupt and picture-perfect halt. The Wolfling’s pike-sergeant strode around the back of the (now stationary) formation, face red as a sunset, veins bulging out on his forehead. “Jecrena’s bleedin’ arse,” he bellowed, “ye’d think ye was a lot o’ plowboys, not perfeshnal sojers!” From there his tirade went into extreme sexual and scatological detail as to the habits and probable ancestry of his charges. Kero leaned against Hellsbane’s rump, listening in astonished admiration. His language was colorful, original, and quite entertaining. She’d been with the Skybolts for quite a few years now, and had never quite heard anything like it.