His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (12 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Verio.

He got up and went to his horse, walking very stiffly. He mounted and
rode away down the hill. Aino had ridden up now and dismounted,
saluted briefly, started giving orders to the men who’d
accompanied him. They’d brought a spare horse for the body,
more torches for the search. Tyren took Risun’s reins and
walked a short distance away while they did their work, letting the
anger go out of him, breathing the night air deeply. He leaned
against the gray horse’s neck and looked up to the mountains.
He’d be up there tomorrow. He wondered briefly what would
happen if he didn’t return, how long it would take for the word
to reach Vessy. Wondered what his father’s reaction would be.
Hard on his mother were he to die up there, but most likely Torien
would say it was the result of his own foolishness, that it was
inevitable. Maybe it was foolishness. In Choiro they talked about
dying for the glory of the Empire, and that was always how you
imagined dying, when you thought about it—always a good death,
a meaningful death. But the cold truth of it was that if he died up
there tomorrow, in the Outland, in battle against a ragged band of
Cesino farmers, there’d be no glory in it. In all likelihood
they wouldn’t even hear of it in Choiro.

* * *

There were fourteen horses saddled in the yard by the time the first
pink light of dawn came over the pine trees to the east. He stood on
the headquarters steps, Verio standing stiffly a little way behind
him, and he watched the men make their preparations, saying nothing,
his thoughts preoccupied. He’d never led an offensive movement
before—had never even seen a battle before. He’d seen the
wounded brought upriver by ship to the soldiers’ hospitals at
Vione sometimes, from places like Tasso and Volenta, the far-flung
edges of the Empire. Mureno had labored to ensure he was familiar
with the sight of blood, with the treating of wounds. Invaluable
knowledge. And he knew the theories of warfare, the old writings.
He’d studied all of that in Choiro, studied under some of the
Empire’s best tactical minds. Mureno was no laggard himself in
that respect. But when it came down to it he’d never been in
battle before, had never killed a man, and now, suddenly, he was
leading a troop, and some of these men had been soldiering since
before he was even born.

Aino approached him from somewhere. He saluted and said, “Sir,
you’ll want to see this.”

“What is it?”

“Out on the common, sir. One of the gate guards reported it.”

“Bring my horse,” Tyren said.

He rode with Aino and Verio out of the yard and down the fort road to
the common. There were some village folk gathered in a loose circle
round the white-marble column at the center of the common, watching
with dumbly blank faces while Tyren and Aino and Verio came closer.
The column was a Vareno thing, commemorating the Empire’s
long-ago victory here, some forgotten general’s name etched
carefully across the face of the stone. There were columns like this
one all over the Empire. When he’d gotten close Tyren could see
there was a kind of bundle hanging limply from the top of the column,
swaying a little in the wind. He was confused a moment and then he
saw it was a body, hung by the arms. There was blood running down the
side of the column in dark streaks. There were letters written in the
blood, Cesino letters, and the same symbol he’d seen last
night: two crossed lines within two circles, the mark of the
rebellion. It took him a while to puzzle out the letters. He could
speak Cesino more readily than he could read it.

“It says this is the penalty for blood traitors, sir,”
Aino said from behind him, quietly.

He recognized the body, then—the Cesino lord, Magryn. He’d
been dead before he was hung up, throat cut as Sælo’s had
been. The blood streaked on the column was dry, rust-colored.

“How long has he been dead?” Tyren said.

“Last night, sir,” Aino said. “The same time as the
other.”

He took that in, arranged it slowly and carefully in his mind. So the
rebels had come down to the hall last night, had done their work and
then run for the mountains, had killed Sælo as they fled.

He said, “Cut him down. Then take a troop down to the hall,
Corporal, and see what there is to be done. I’ll expect your
report in my office when I return.”

“Yes, sir,” Aino said.

They rode back to the fort. Verio was tight-mouthed and said nothing
while they watched the troop mount up in the yard. The men were
uneasy. They hadn’t lost a man in a long time in this place.
Now they’d lost two at once—they hadn’t found
Rian’s body, but Tyren wasn’t harboring much hope he was
alive—and Magryn was dead, and they’d been powerless to
stop it. Tyren was uneasy too, his stomach clenched tight, but he
tried not to show it, speaking coldly when he gave orders, trying to
mask the unsteadiness in his voice. He had to show them he could
bring this all back in hand.

They rode out from the gate in six columns of two, he and Verio
riding ahead, and they turned west to go up into the hills, leaving
the village behind them.

It was a longer and colder ride than he remembered, up to the rim
where the patrols usually turned north to make the circle back round
to the village. The going was slow. He was looking for signs men
might have passed this way, left a trail in their haste, some little
indication of the way they’d come and gone. But the dew-laden
forest floor told him nothing. The rebels had hidden their tracks
well.

He halted the troop briefly on the patrol path so they could rest the
horses before going on into the Outland. They’d be going in
blindly and he hadn’t wanted to do that. Doubt was gnawing away
at him now. Verio had spoken the truth, most likely; he was just
throwing lives away, trying to meet the rebels out here. This was
their ground. But he’d no choice. He couldn’t turn back
now, couldn’t let himself be content just to sit idly and
comfortably in the village, the way Verio wanted, waiting for the
rebels to make another move, punishing the farm folk for it. No, this
was the only way. Verio wasn’t in command here any more.

When they’d rested a while he gave the order to mount up and
they rode in file up the hill, leaving the patrol path behind them.

From the crest of the hill, looking westward, they could see the
heart of the Outland opened up before them: blue mountains to the
north and south, far as the eye could see, a long spine dividing
Cesin from Varen, the highest peaks eternally snow-clad, the valleys
hidden in deep shadow even though the sun was shining brightly at
their backs. Beautiful country, the Outland, the ancient homeland of
the Cesini: they’d been a hardy mountain people long before
they’d come down to the lowlands and built cities of stone
along the seacoast. Beautiful and dangerous at once, this country. He
took it in, sitting there in Risun’s saddle and letting his
eyes travel along from north to south, back again, looking for any
kind of sign—dust kicked up by horses, sunlight glinting on
metal. But he could see nothing. He pressed his heels to Risun’s
belly and started taking the horse carefully down the hill at a walk.

Verio, speaking for the first time that morning, said, “Sir,
there’s no sign any living thing has come this way.”

“Maybe we can draw them to us,” Tyren said, over his
shoulder.

“That’s your plan, sir?”

“You wish to suggest a better, Lieutenant?”

Verio said, tightly, “No, sir.”

They rode down the hill and came out onto the belt of sand and broken
shale at its base—most likely a shallow stream when the rain
fell. A good place for an ambush, Tyren thought. He led them across
the dry stream bed and up onto the shoulder of the next hill and they
rode along the hill with the stream bed below them on their left-hand
side. There was the sound of wind in the trees, and of birds singing,
the soft thrashing of wings somewhere, but other than that it was
still, and the stillness made them all uneasy.

But it seemed, as they went on, they were alone. They kept on a
course straight west, or straight as could be managed over that
ground, and by mid-day there was still no sign the rebels had passed
that way. The men’s uneasiness was turning into surly
impatience and he knew they wouldn’t be willing to go much
further. He called them to a halt on the western slope of a tree-clad
hill, above a broad, shallow, pebbly stream, and they rested a while
and refilled their water-skins and let the horses drink. He squatted
on his heels a little way up the hillside, his helmet couched on the
ground beside him, and he let Risun crop some grass while he drank
from his water-skin and looked out over the rough terrain before
them, across the stream, weighing the options in his mind. He didn’t
want to be in here after dark. He didn’t, on the other hand,
have much desire to return to the fort having accomplished nothing.
That was all he’d accomplished since taking this command.

Verio came up to him from the water and said, keeping his face turned
away, “Sir, I wouldn’t advise going much further.”

He swallowed the water in his mouth. He spoke without turning his own
head. “It’s your opinion we should abandon Rian?”

Verio was silent a moment. Then he said, “You don’t know
he’s still alive, sir. You don’t know for sure he was
taken at all. I don’t see throwing more lives away on the
off-chance that—”

Risun picked up his head from the grass suddenly, black-tipped ears
pricked forward. A horse whinnied off in the distance.

“Keep the horses quiet,” Tyren said, sharply. He got up
quickly to his feet to put a hand over Risun’s muzzle.

He listened, carefully, but the sound wasn’t repeated. It had
come from further west, a little south, beyond the next low ridge. He
tied up his water-skin and took Risun’s reins in his right hand
and went over to put his helmet back on. Then he pulled himself up
into Risun’s saddle and took the horse down towards the stream.
Verio hesitated. After a moment he let out a heavy breath and went to
mount his own horse. The troop fell in quickly behind them. They
crossed the stream and went up the hill. When they’d crested
the ridge Tyren signaled for another halt so he could look over the
long, wooded valley before them. He couldn’t see anything right
away but Risun’s ears were pricked forward again. The ridge
curved away westward, going round the valley like an embracing arm.
He urged Risun forward along the crest, still watching the valley
below, his heart tightening a little with anticipation.

At the end of the long valley there was an open place among the
trees, a bald patch of white gravel and puddled water run off from
the hills round it. A horse was tethered down there in the open
place. Tyren recognized the trappings, the military-issue saddle:
Rian’s horse. Rian was in the saddle, slumped forward across
the horse’s withers. Hard to tell, from this distance, whether
he were alive; he was tied to the saddle, not moving. Tyren brought
Risun up and just sat there and looked down at the horse and the body
a while, putting his thoughts together.

Verio said, through shut teeth, “A trap.”

“Maybe.”

“They’ll move against us soon as we go down to him, sir.”

Tyren didn’t immediately reply. He was searching carefully with
his eyes through the trees round the open place. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It’s a diversion, more
likely. Think about it, Lieutenant. They’re running from us.
They can’t be more than five men, to be able to cover their
tracks as well as they have. They’re running from us and
they’ve left us a diversion while they make their escape.
Look.”

He shook out Risun’s reins and took him forward along the
crest. Verio came behind him, reluctantly. The land fell away again
at the end of the ridge, into a broader valley beneath a tall,
sheer-sided cliff. A narrow gap cut east-and-west through the cliff;
that was the only outlet from the valley’s far end. Tyren
reined Risun up again and searched through the thick black pine and
pointed.

“There,” he said.

There were three, four horsemen in the trees below, riding hard
towards the gap.

Verio saw them. He shifted in his saddle. Then he nodded, shortly.
“What’s your plan, then, sir?”

“I want you to take half the troop and go in pursuit. I’ll
see about Rian and observe from here. Do you understand?”

Verio looked over to him in silence a moment, scowling, his mouth
tight. But he said “Yes, sir,” without question and
turned his horse away.

They split the troop, six men between them, and Verio led his six
down the ridge and into the broad valley, towards the cliff, at a
hard run. Tyren sent two of his own men down to the open place. He
himself sat on Risun on the ridge while they cut Rian down from the
horse and laid him out on the gravel. He watched Verio’s troop
through the trees. Too simple, he thought, much too simple. No, most
likely the rebels had managed to get word ahead by now. They’d
spring their trap after Verio had gotten himself pinned against the
cliff. Better to wait back here and spring his own trap.

One of the men he’d sent down to Rian came back up to him.
“He’s still alive, sir,” he said.

Tyren said, without taking his eyes away from Verio’s troop,
“Wounded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How badly?”

“Not too badly, sir. The wound is fresh; he hasn’t bled
much yet. But he won’t be able to ride, sir.”

“See if we can make up a litter.”

“Yes, sir.”

By now Verio had nearly overtaken the four rebels before the cliff.
One of them was falling behind, was perhaps riding with a wound—it
would explain why they’d only gotten this far in better than
half a day’s time. Another dropped back to stay alongside him.
The other two came to the cliff face and dismounted and stood to face
the troop with bows drawn back in their hands. Tyren lost sight of
the two stragglers in the trees. He saw Verio go riding for the
bowmen, sword in hand—too close for arrows to do much good.
Verio cut one of them down before he’d the chance to loose. The
other let fly a wild shot and turned to run with one of Verio’s
men close at his heels. He fell before he’d taken five
stumbling steps.