I should be taking notes, she thought, watching the sergeant get his men turned back in the right direction.
The horses were definitely calming down, now that the pikes were going the other way. You never hear anything like that around our camp.
But that was at least in part because horseback skirmishers didn’t drill the way pike and line swordsmen did. No sergeants, for one thing.
Kero went back to Hellsbane’s hooves, glad to have thought of something to do. “There’s a lot of waiting involved in warfare,” Tarma had said many times over. Kero had never quite believed her at the time.
She did now.
Well, it could be worse, she consoled herself. We could have Rethwellan regulars with us. Then every merc in the Companies would be getting the long-nosed look when he dared poke his head out of camp. What in hell is it that makes every conscript farmboy who can’t tell his brain from his backside and wouldn’t know what three quarters of the Code meant think he’s morally superior to a merc?
She sighed; the question wasn’t worth losing sleep over. Every merc ever born was a misfit; that’s why most of them wound up as mercs in the first place. Lady knows I’m no exception, she thought glumly. Last time I went home, Dierna acted like I was going to eat the baby, and Lordan carried on as if he thought I was planning on stealing the boys, the horses, the sheep, or all three. Each time she visited, she was more of a stranger, and after the last time, she’d just about made up her mind never to go back again.
My only real friends are here, anyway, she reflected, picking at a bit of gravel lodged in Hellsbane’s left hind hoof. The warsteed switched her bound-up tail restlessly, but didn’t object. Kero had remarked once that Hellsbane’s behavior was a lot more like a dog’s than a horse’s, and Tarma had only smiled and replied cryptically, “Why do you think we won’t let them breed to anything but their own kind?” After that, Kero had taken extra care when spring came around and Hellsbane went into season.
Then she discovered that such care was entirely un-needed. The warsteed was perfectly capable of fending off unwanted advances, and she evidently hadn’t yet found the stallion that measured up to her own high standards.
Hooves clean, Kero loitered on the lines, replaiting the gray’s tail, and watching the Wolflings drill. Those long pikes were a lot harder to manage than anyone but a fighter could imagine. All in all, it made her grateful to be with the Skybolts.
Twoblades’ Company actually began as what Idra’s Sunhawks came to be; an entirely mounted force of specialists. In every one of the campaigns Kero had served in up until now they’d been constantly busy; their greatest asset was that they were versatile as well as highly mobile. Every one of the Skybolts could double as a scout, and when they weren’t on the battlefield, they could ride messenger detail. Not this time, or at least, not now.
There were constant scouting forays, of course, just to make sure that the enemy hadn’t found a way out of the trap, but that was the only thing like work going on for the Skybolts. That unwonted leisure was beginning to have an effect on the Company. Which is why I’m out here, and not in camp. In general, there were only three pursuits available to a merc when forced into idleness: gambling, drinking, and sex. Kero was too shrewd to be lured into the first, too cautious for the second, and as for the third—
I’m an odd fish in a pond full of odd fish, she thought, a little sadly. Between the sword and this so-called Gift of mine....
The Gift was the main reason she didn’t drink; when she did, her carefully-wrought shields came down, and the guard came off her tongue. Only once had she let that happen; she’d frightened a tavern full of hard-bitten soldiers into sobriety with the things she’d said about them. Only some fancy verbal footwork the next day enabled her to convince them that they’d misheard most of it, and luck had given her the rest. So she didn’t drink at all now; at least, not to get drunk and not in company, which set her apart from most of the rest of the Company.
She was terrified of what would happen if they ever did find out the truth. Mercs have too many secrets to appreciate anyone, even someone they trust, to be rummaging around in their minds. Every one of us was driven into this life by something, and most of us don’t want anyone else to know what that is. Even me. If anyone ever found out about this “Gift” of mine, I don’t know what I’d do.
The sword now—that set her apart in another way. She was Kethry’s granddaughter—that was no secret— and by now everyone seemed to have heard the song of “Kerowyn’s Ride.” It would have been impossible to hide the fact that she still had the blade; she wore it all the time, and wouldn’t take it off (so common gossip had it) if she went to bed with someone. Well, that wasn’t quite true—but she’d learned that being too far away from it could be torture.
There’d been a really bad rainy season a couple of years ago; they’d had to cross a flood-swollen river, and Kero’s packhorse had gone under. That was before she’d taken to wearing the blade all the time; she’d thought for the crossing that it was safer strapped to the packs. She’d just barely made it onto the riverbank when the pain of the overstrained soul-bond started. The Company Healer had thought it some sort of curse, until she’d gasped out an explanation of just what it was she’d lost—between spasms of blinding agony that left her helpless even to speak. The entire Company had gone out into the storm to look for the damned thing and bring it back.
