him.
I watched him go without interference from my newfound companions, who seemed to be still in a state of shock. I couldn't help but admire his posture, the simple elegance of his dress, and the way his free hand rested on the pommel of his scimitar.
What most impressed me, though, was the size of the coin-bag just visible at his waist.
• • • •
'Back there… you were about to say something about my mother.'
'I was?'
'You were.'
'I'm surprised by that. I'm not generally the sort to comment on someone's parentage. It would take unusual provocation to make me to sink that low.'
Costas — the self-appointed leader — snorted and turned away. He had been trying to pick a fight for the last five minutes, and while I wasn't averse in theory, I was hardly in a suitable state. I'd been exhausted and half starved when they caught me. They wouldn't have done so otherwise, and for that matter, I wouldn't have lowered myself to pilfering from a baggage train. The subsequent beating and hanging hadn't done much to improve my condition.
Costas was certainly tall, but he was lanky, and under normal circumstances, I reckoned I could have handled him. The short one, Armando, was more of a danger, and the middle one, who'd hardly spoken, remained an unknown quantity. In any case, it was three against one, so I'd thought it wise to try to play nice. Costas hadn't been making it easy, and I was glad he'd finally lost interest.
I was sat with Costas and the quiet one in the back of the cart, perched on crates that reeked of cabbage and dried fish past its prime. The road was poor and the cart's suspension was long gone, if it had ever had any, but it was marginally better than walking.
'So what's this volunteer brigade then?' It seemed a more neutral topic of conversation. All three ignored me at first, so I added, 'Better work than being a sword for hire, I imagine?'
Armando sniggered from the driver's board.
'You'll see.'
'It can't be that bad.'
'Can't it?'
This was getting me nowhere, and I thought I knew the answer anyway. It was likely one of the reasons Moaradrid was down here in the Castoval, rather than up in the far north where he belonged. The plains beyond Pasaeda were a miserable place, neglected by the king because there was nothing there worth having. They were home to countless tribes, most nomadic, and traditionally they spent their time fighting between each other over women and horses, not necessarily in that order.
Moaradrid had changed all that. In so doing, he had united a third of the tribes together within the space of a year. His initiative was simple: where others had been content to take a new wife and a good stallion from a defeated enemy, Moaradrid took their warlord's head and all of their fighting men.
Making one last bid for a safe subject, I began, 'I imagine there are plenty of opportunities here for a resourceful and hard-working sort like myself.'
'Maybe, if you survive the night.' That was Costas.
'Of course,' I agreed cheerfully.
'Which you won't. You don't get it, do you? You'll be lucky if they give you a weapon. The volunteers' job is to line up and throw themselves at the enemy until they're all dead or you are. If you're still useful after that then maybe they'll let you into the regulars. But odds are you'll be dead or worse.'
Though I was intrigued by the question of what might be worse than being dead, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of asking. There was one question, however, that was burning in my mind. Until a couple of weeks ago, Moaradrid's campaign had been amusing tavern gossip. Then he'd changed direction. It made a certain sense; eventually he was going to come into contention with the king, however oblivious the old fool was, and it would take more than a horde of unruly plainsmen to profit from that encounter. What had me curious was what had happened next. Most of Moaradrid's force had camped here on the plain near Aspira Nero, while the warlord himself and a small retinue had journeyed on. They had avoided the hastily gathered southern defenders, and hardly a drop of blood had been shed on either side. Now here he was again. I'd watched them passing for a while before I'd decided to chance my hand with the baggage cart. Amongst the fighting men had been a succession of large covered wagons, their contents invisible.
What was Moaradrid up to?
Even if these three knew, which I doubted, I'd missed my chance to ask. We'd been trundling steadily toward the main camp for about an hour. The last daylight was gone, and the bulbous moon hung low in an overcast sky. I'd identified the camp by a few angular silhouettes near the river that must be tents, some widely spaced fires burning higher up the slope on our right, and by the stink, which had been building for the last few minutes. I couldn't make out any details, but that rank conference of scents gave me a fair idea of how many bodies were waiting for us ahead.
I knew this region. It was at a point where the Casto Mara swung close to the eastern foothills, near the mouth of the valley. The only nearby town was Aspira Nero, which marked the boundary of the Castoval and the court-controlled Midlands, and was generally considered neutral territory. Here there were only small farms, with olive plantations higher up the slopes and rice grown on the riverbank. It would have been good land except for reliable yearly floods that turned it into a swamp. I wondered where all the locals had gone. Perhaps they were dead. Perhaps I'd been meeting them soon as fellow volunteers.
At the edge of the camp — an arbitrary distinction given how unruly it was — we were stopped by a guard, a plainsman with his hair slung in a single braid over one shoulder.
'Where are you headed?' he asked without interest.
'These men,' I said quickly, 'are mercenaries of the cheaper sort. I am a volunteer, come to serve Moaradrid with my youthful vigour and courage.'
'But not with your sword?' he asked, looking at my empty belt.
'It was stolen by bandits,' I told him sadly. 'I killed nearly a dozen, then thought it prudent to leave unarmed but intact. I'm sure someone will be good enough to loan me a new one.'
'I don't doubt it.'
He waved over a colleague, who was lounging nearby against a post.
'Take him to the disposables,' he ordered, pointing at me.
The soldier grunted, and motioned for me to climb down. The officer said something to Armando as I did so, and the moment my heels struck the ground the cart lurched forward.
'Good luck, volunteer,' called Costas. He spat after me, missing by an arm's length.
'May your aim be as precise when your life depends on it,' I shouted back.
My escort glared at me, and fingered the handle of his sword where it hung from his cloth belt. The sash was a reddish-purple, like a fresh bruise: the colour of Moaradrid. That meant he was a regular. I decided it might be better not to annoy him further.
'Shall we go?' I suggested.
He grunted again, and set off into the camp. I fell in behind.
Moaradrid's campsite was, frankly, a shambles. I got the impression that the vast majority of his troops had spent the last few nights in the open, with only the officers and veterans housed in the tents and commandeered farm buildings down by the water's edge. The fact that they hadn't bothered to make more permanent arrangements suggested they didn't intend to stay much longer. That in turn meant a battle was probably imminent. I knew our army was located nearby to the north. Now that Moaradrid was back from his mysterious journey, it seemed inevitable that the long-brewing conflict would come to a head.
Of course, it wasn't really 'our' army — or at least, not mine. I was now the enemy, strictly speaking. It was a depressing thought, on many levels.
To cheer myself, I drew from the folds of my cloak the stash of food I'd taken from the cart: a hunk of bread, a quarter of wilted cabbage, and some foulsmelling fish. The bread seemed least unappetising, so I tore a lump and chewed ruminatively. I broke it in half when my escort stopped to glare at me and offered him the remainder.
'Stolen?' he asked.
