Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (5 page)

“This Company is my home—”

“Forever? I doubt that. But read your letter and see what he says.”

Selfer went into his office. He liked Burek—his good sense, his steady personality, his courage—and hated the thought of losing him. This close to the new campaign season, he would wait until Arcolin arrived and let him hire a new captain if Burek left.

The list of soldiers due punishment for various misdeeds lay precisely in the middle of his desk. One of his least favorite duties and one that grew more common as winter waned. No matter how they trained, in this season troops grew bored and stale, tired of winter quarters, bored by Valdaire. The list lengthened every tenday until the recruit cohort arrived, and this year was made worse by unseasonably warm, sunny weather and the increasingly bad stench near the bridges in the city.

He sighed, looking at today’s list: two repeat offenders, both for drunkenness. One for brawling with a Golden Company soldier; as a first-time offender, still a worse offense than simple drunkenness. A first-term had wandered away from a work detail and come back late … a girl, of course, was his excuse. Another had been found asleep in the storeroom he’d been assigned to clean. Then there were the problems found at inspection: uniforms and weapons not cared for, missing items, and so on. He jotted down the punishment by each name, then called in the senior sergeant for each cohort and had them assemble their troops in the main courtyard, with the miscreants to one side, in a separate formation.

After the regular daily inspection of the rest, Selfer called each of those on the list forward with the sergeant for that cohort. One by one he assigned punishments, and when it was done, he went back to his office to file the list. Burek was waiting.

“He does want me to come back,” Burek said, his expression sober. “I am his oldest son by several years, and I have more experience, he says.”

“Does that mean he’s naming you his heir?”

“He offers that. I wish you’d met him. He’s a good man, I think.”

“Who let you grow up without his name,” Selfer said, and then disliked the edge in his own tone. “I’m sorry,” he said then. “It’s not fair when I haven’t met him. And I suppose he was young.”

“Yes. And he makes no excuses for how it happened. What he says is that since his father died, he must stay in Cortes Andres most of the time, as the Count. He has three brothers to help, but in the present threat he thinks it is not enough.”

“He’s hiring Golden Company again this year, isn’t he?” Selfer noticed he was tapping his fingers and quit.

“Yes. But he still wants me … When we rode together, when he escorted me back to the border, we found we liked each other. More than blood relation; Filis did not like me, or I him, for that matter.”

“So … you want to go?” Selfer forced back what he wanted to say about Andressat’s family, about how hard it would be for Burek, how resentful the new count’s other sons would be.

“I said I would stay here. Yet—he is my father by blood. Yet again—the man who raised me, the only father I knew—is also a good man. If I went back—he would be someone I gave orders to. It could not be the same.” Burek met Selfer’s gaze. “And I am needed here, as well. I know that. I owe Lord Arcolin a lot, and you and I are friends. I feel a responsibility for the troops. I know them, and they know me—”

“You said you would stay here until you were needed there … maybe you will know when you feel the need there more than the need here. But you must tell Lord Arcolin when he comes.”

“Of course.”

“And for my part, Burek, I hope you stay. We do not want another Harnik.”

“Gods, no!”

“And you may have noticed we’re getting more misbehavior now. We need to get them out of the city and then back in time for Lord Arcolin and the recruits. A five-day march will do no harm and show up anything we need to work on.”

“Agreed. And if it rains or we get a late snow, all the better to cool the hotheads among them.”

By the third day of the march, Selfer had a long list of what must be done when they got back to Valdaire. They were more than a day from the city, in the rough outbounds that belonged to Foss Council, working their way along the foothills of the Dwarfmounts,
where rotten snow lay in shaded hollows. No rain had come; the sky was summer-blue, and the wind from the south blew warm.

They had seen few people the day before, and Selfer did not expect to see many until they were nearer the cities again. Besides keeping the Company busy, he had wanted to look for the old north track Arcolin had mentioned. So far he’d seen nothing but narrow trails. He rode with a wax tablet on his thigh, sketching the route they were taking and trusting his horse to pick its way on the trail.

“Captain!”

That cry brought his head up. He shut the cover on his tablet and shoved it and the stylus into the bag hanging from the front of his saddle as he looked around.

And there, off to his left, was the evidence that someone intended to use a northern route. Below the hilltop route he’d chosen, on the north side of the hill, trees covered the slope … but a line divided them, running back to the east. It was clearly a new-cut track, straight and wide enough for a cohort in marching order and for the largest wagons. Selfer was sure it connected with the north road that ran from Pler Vonja to Sorellin and then on to the Copper Hills.

The line stopped almost below their present position. He could not see the road itself … but with the company halted, he could hear the chunk and ring of axes biting into wood. Whoever was down there had not heard them … yet.

Quick hand signals for silence, for change of direction. No movement of so many could be truly silent, but they came down from the ridgeline and into the upper trees, scouts deployed ahead of them, with as little noise as possible. Selfer had sent ten hands back, to descend well behind the sound of axes, and four hands ahead. The officers’ horses had been sent, with the pack animals, down the south side of the ridge, where they would not be seen or heard. When they were in position, he signaled all to descend, still as quietly as possible.

He estimated they were halfway to the line itself when the sound of axes stopped. He halted the advance. Voices … he could not tell how many. It was nearing midday; were they stopping for a meal, or had they realized they were being stalked? Moments passed like
days. Then he heard someone walking in the woods, grunting a little as he moved uphill. They had sent their own scout; some noise had alerted them.

The enemy scout looked like a brigand, very like the brigands who infested Vonja outbounds. He passed the first line of troops without noticing them—and two, rising behind him, threw him down and gagged him before he could yell, trussing him thoroughly. It had taken no time; it had caused no noise. But, Selfer thought, it was time to move quickly. He still had no idea exactly what they faced below.

As they neared the clear-cut trace, Selfer could see that those actually doing the work were gaunt, dressed in little more than rags, shackled together in pairs and trios. Twenty … thirty … as many as forty of them, some harnessed to a stoneboat, struggling to move rocks others loaded on. Some struggled to hack branches off newly felled trees and drag logs to the side of the track. Perhaps a dozen or so well-fed men in rough clothes with whips and clubs yelled orders.

Selfer did not wait to find out who the workers were; he signaled for the attack. As his men charged from the trees, the guards turned on the workers, clearly intent on killing them. Only a few faced the soldiers to hold them back. These were overrun almost at once, and the rest of the fight was short and bloody as the troops tried to kill the guards while protecting the men in chains.

When it was over, all the brigand-looking men were dead but for the scout they’d captured and left trussed up the slope. So were fourteen of those they had supervised, for some of the prisoners, unarmed as they were, had fought back rather than wait for Fox Company to finish the job.

“Who are you?” Selfer asked. Those who were left looked as if they could scarcely stand, but they had lined up in rows.

“Corporal Nannsir, sir. We’re what’s left of Sobanai Company, sir, and we surrender to the Duke’s Company under the Mercenary Code.” Blood ran down his arm and dripped off his hand, but he stood stiffly upright. “They thought it was a patrol from Foss—never come this far before, he said, but it couldn’t be let go back, and they must not know about us.”

“Sobanai! We heard in Valdaire that the entire company perished of disease. Yes—of course you are under our protection, under the Mercenary Code.” He turned to his nearest sergeant. “Feed these people, patch them up. We’ll camp here—bring the supplies down—and start back tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nannsir said. “I—I don’t know your right name, but—but you carry the Fox’s mark. I thought then we might be saved.”

The rest of that day, Fox Company set up camp, and took care of the former prisoners.

“Most died,” the corporal told Selfer after his arm was bandaged and while he was eating, he said, the first hot meal in two tendays. “There was fever, right enough, all through the city, but Commander Sobanai, he didn’t let us drink the well water wi’out boilin’ it, didn’t trust it. But then assassins killed him and his son and his captains—all in one night, that was, and before we knew what was what, cohorts of the Duke of Immer was all over us. We fought hard, but—there was too many.”

“Are there any of you besides these?” Selfer asked.

“Was some still in Rotengre when we marched out. Doubt they’re still alive. I’m surprised I am.” He took a swallow of sib, then grimaced. “We got nobody to ransom us, Captain Selfer. But I beg you, sir, don’t turn the lads over to the Debtor’s Court. I know we owe you for rescue and our keep, but—”

“You owe
nothing
,” Selfer said. “You were in Siniava’s War, just like me—I’m not going to mistreat a comrade, and that includes you. All of you.”

The man’s eyes glittered; he sniffed back tears. “Thank you, sir. But you can’t—”

“Duke Arcolin left me in charge. I can. Come now—I see the washpots are steaming. Let’s get you lot cleaned up and some clothes on and then some rest. We’ve a long march back to the city, though we’ll take it as slow as we can.”

Early the next morning, Selfer sent a mounted courier to Foss to request assistance and supplies for the Sobanai survivors. Fox Company had not brought more provisions than they needed for their
own march. Despite their best efforts, it was a day and a half before they met the Foss Council militia, who had brought wagons as far as they could and then come on with loaded pack animals. Everyone was hungry, and the Sobanai men were exhausted despite everything the others could do to help them.

“They skirted Sorellin and Pler Vonja,” Selfer told the militia captain. “There’s an old drover’s track along the foothills out of Pler Vonja … that’s where they started cutting the new road, but they were headed straight west, not so far north as that track. There are—or were—more Sobanai prisoners in Rotengre, and if they send another group to work on the road, be ready for a dozen or more well-armed nasty characters with them.”

“What about your prisoner?”

Selfer glanced at the man, now wearing the same shackles the Sobanai men had worn and burdened with a pack from one of the mules so that an injured man could ride.

“He’s in your jurisdiction,” Selfer said. “I doubt he can tell you more than the Sobanai had told me, but he’s yours.”

“I doubt they’ll waste time on him,” the militia captain said. “But he can carry that load a ways.”

Once they reached the wagon the Foss militia had left—another day and a half—Selfer put the Sobanai survivors in the wagon, loaded pack animals with the supplies, and headed back to Foss and then Valdaire. He had been gone days longer than planned; he knew those left behind would be worried.

They were. Fox Company’s courier had ridden out to see where the company was and met them between Foss and Valdaire.

“The pass wasn’t open, after all. Clear enough on this side, but the gnomes say it’s closed on their side and will be at least another three hands of days. They’ll send a messenger down to Valdaire, they say, to prevent what they call too much traffic on mud.”

Selfer nodded. On the north side of the pass, the road ran across gnome territory; humans could use it only with gnomish permission. “We ran into—not exactly trouble—but what could be. Clandestine road from Pler Vonja west, up in the foothills … and the survivors of Sobanai Company, who were prisoner labor on it. Foss Council is not happy.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Go back to Valdaire, set up a separate area for the Sobanai—”

“You didn’t take them prisoner—”

“No, they’re under our protection. Mercenary Code, remember? Immer’s agents in Valdaire will want them dead. Send out one of our wagons; tell any who ask we have some injured soldiers.”