Oath of Fealty (39 page)

Arcolin sat back, hauling his mount down; the two chasing him yelled in triumph. He swung his mount to the right, jumped the ditch between the footpath and the road, and reversed back down the road, passing the brigands before they could change direction. He heard his pursuers’ horses grunt as they too jumped and the clatter of their hooves behind him.

The odds weren’t good, Arcolin saw, as he neared the altercation on the footpath. One of the women was on the ground—dead or injured, he couldn’t tell. The men, trying to fend off armed horsemen with walking staves, showed some training, but the four brigands were ahorse and armed with swords. He reined in as he passed the
fight and jumped back across the ditch on the Valdaire side. Two of the brigands had noticed and turned to meet him. One of his pursuers tried to jump the ditch, but his horse refused, and plunged uselessly in the muddy bottom.

Arcolin charged straight at the fight. The two facing him spread apart; Arcolin reined for the one nearer the trees, then, with a shift of his weight, sent his horse at the other, who had committed too early to attack his flank. One stroke of his sword took the man’s arm. His own horse squealed and bucked, as a clang reminded Arcolin where his helmet was—on the saddle instead of his head. He heard the solid THWACK as his horse’s hind hoofs connected with the brigand’s horse.

Now he was in the thick of it, hoping the foot travelers would realize he was on their side, but with no time to explain. No time to retrieve his helmet, either. He felt like a fool, but the helmet had saved his horse an injury. He parried a sword stroke meant for one of the travelers. One of the men, using his staff expertly, managed to unhorse a brigand; the other woman smacked the downed man on the head. If he could only get them in order, they were now four to four, but—he parried a stroke aimed at him, and on the backstroke came so near the brigand’s face the man flinched back and accidentally reined his horse away. Arcolin shifted his weight and signaled his mount. His horse reared, hopped forward, and struck the rider with front hooves, knocking him out of the saddle. The man’s sword flew from his hand, and his horse bolted away.

He couldn’t reach the man on the ground with his sword, but one of the foot travelers could. Four to three now. One of the men knocked the brigand trying to climb out of the ditch back into it.

The remaining two brigands reined their horses around and, kicking vigorously, rode at speed into the woods. Arcolin listened to their receding hoofbeats. His own mount was breathing hard, finally, sweat showing on its neck. He looked around. The man whose arm he’d severed sprawled on the ground, unconscious or dead—his horse had slowed to a stop some distance away and was now snatching nervously at grass on the verge of the path.

Arcolin rode over to the ditch, where the last brigand was trying to catch his horse. The horse moved faster in the muddy ditch bottom than the man, and finally scrambled out on the near side; the man
managed to grab its tail for help up the slope, then pulled himself into the saddle from the off side, as Arcolin rode toward him. The man smacked his horse with the flat of his sword, and kicked; the horse threw a tremendous buck, then another and another, and the man flew off, landing with a loud thump. Arcolin was off his horse and had run him through before the man caught his breath. Then he saw the leg bent at the wrong angle and realized the man would have been no danger.

“We owe you thanks, sir.” One of the travelers came toward him, staff still in a defensive position. “It would have gone hard with us—”

“You use your staves well,” Arcolin said. “Are you Girdish?”

The man beamed. “Yes, sir. All of us, and the children, too. And Tamis there—” He nodded at one of the others. “He was in the Foss militia two more years than I was.” He paused. “You’re one of Phelan’s captains, aren’t you? I saw a Phelani cohort pass by a while ago. Haven’t see one for the past few years; wondered if they were ever coming back.”

“Yes, I’m Captain Arcolin,” Arcolin said.

“So the Red Fox is back, is he?”

“No, not Phelan himself,” Arcolin said. “When you get to Valdaire, some of the rumors are true—he’s king of Lyonya now. I’m leading the Company.”

“Liss is hurt bad,” one of the other men said, coming up. “She won’t be able to walk.”

Arcolin led his horse closer. The woman on the ground had a lump on her head, but the worse injury was to her leg, trampled during the fight. The younger woman knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders to give her a sip of water.

“There’s a caravan headed east a ways behind me,” Arcolin said. “If we get you over onto the road, they may be able to help.”

His horse jerked up its head and looked back eastward. Arcolin looked along the road and saw a horseman approaching at speed, carrying a maroon and white pennant. Closer yet, he saw it was Sergeant Devlin, on one of the spare horses.

“Captain, what’s happened?” Devlin asked.

“Brigands,” Arcolin said, waving at the bodies on the ground. “Six of them attacked these travelers and me.”

“He came back to help us,” one of the men said. “Without him—”

Devlin looked at Arcolin, then pointedly at Arcolin’s mount with the helmet still hooked to the saddle. Arcolin grinned and shook his head. “No time,” he said. “This woman’s got a broken leg; she needs a physician. We’re a glass or less from Valdaire: ride in, tell the city guard what happened, and ask for a cart for them—”

“We don’t have money for a cart,” the man said.

“You’re still in Valdaire’s domain,” Arcolin said. “You can call on them for aid, since they haven’t cleared out those brigands.” To Devlin he said, “I’ll stay here until you return, then have you stay while I ride on to the cohort. I know they’ll be worried, but we can’t leave this party unprotected. If the caravan will lend me a few guards when they get this far, I’ll go ahead then.”

“At once, Captain,” Devlin said. He rode off at a canter. Arcolin unhooked his helmet, felt the slight dent where the sword had struck, felt inside—no change in the liner—and put it on. He checked the man who’d lost an arm—dead already from blood loss—and the two the travelers had downed. One still lived, unconscious; Arcolin finished him. Technically, he was due a bounty for proven brigands killed within the city’s outbounds, but he had no need for it, and these travelers did. He explained it to them.

“I don’t know what the current rate is, but I know the bounty’s still in effect.”

“But you killed some of them—”

“I have pay,” Arcolin said.

Before Devlin returned, the caravan appeared, trundling slowly along the road. Arcolin jumped the ditch with his mount again, and waited for them. They did not slow at first, but the caravan master climbed off the first wagon to speak to Arcolin.

“What is it? Someone in your colors rode by telling us there was danger ahead.”

“Brigands here—that party there has an injured woman, and we killed four of them—two got away into the woods.”

“So we keep moving and warn others, eh?”

“Yes, but I want to hire a couple of your guards to ward those travelers until the city sends a cart out for her. I need to go ahead and tell the cohort why I was delayed.”

The caravan master chewed his lips a moment. “Well. You are Phelan’s captain and you did give us warning. I can let you have two, but
they must follow as soon as others come to help. And it will cost you a nata each.”

“Here.” Arcolin dug into his saddlebags and handed the man two natas.

“Jori! Baltis! Come down here.” Two guards slithered down from the loads atop their wagons. “These are good men,” the caravan master said, as they approached. “Four years with me on the road, and Jori knows wound care, as well.” He turned to them. “Stay and guard those people until help comes,” the caravan master said. “They fought off a brigand attack; there might be more.”

“The bounty for the four brigands killed so far goes to the travelers,” Arcolin said.

“Understood,” the caravan master said. He turned and jogged toward the front of the caravan, now three wagons ahead.

With the guards, Arcolin crossed the ditch again, this time on foot; his horse made no difficulty, hopping the deepest muck at the bottom and scrambling up the bank in two heaves of its hindquarters. It was dry again, breathing normally.

“These men will stand guard with you until a cart comes for her,” he said, nodding to the woman. “I must go now.”

“Gird’s grace go with you,” they all said in a ragged chorus. Arcolin mounted and turned his horse eastward again, letting the horse roll into a strong canter.

He caught up with the cohort at last, to the obvious relief of his new young captain; by then his mount was willing to walk quietly along as he explained what had happened. He did not mention leaving his helmet off; that story would be all over the cohort as soon as Devlin returned, he was sure.

T
he rest of the march to Cortes Vonja was uneventful as they followed the familiar trade road to Fossnir and Foss, then the river branch that led down the Immerest to Vonja and Silwan. The eve of the Spring Evener found them near enough Fossnir to see the bonfires on the city towers; Arcolin wondered where his old companions were. He imagined Kieri presiding over a formal celebration—blooding a ploughshare, perhaps, or a spade—and then lighting the ceremonial
fire. If elves did that sort of thing. Dorrin, he was sure, would have a bonfire. As captain of the cohort, he cut his hand and blooded his own blade, then touched it to the others’. The next morning, the sun rose indecently early—with the others he had stayed up singing most of the night—and they went on.

Burek, though much younger, had all the qualities Aesil M’dierra had claimed, and Arcolin saw nothing in his manner that should have set off even the prickly Count of Andressat. Burek’s speech and behavior were both mannerly, respectful of all, without indicating any weakness. His sergeants liked him; Stammel, usually noncommittal about new officers, sought Arcolin out to commend the choice.

When they reached Cortes Vonja, the city militia commander, a man Arcolin remembered vaguely from the last year of the war against Siniava, explained why the militia needed help.

“It’s not like it was before,” he said. “No more campaigns of city against city, each one knowing why and when. Now it’s wandering troops, no allegiance but to themselves, some with a grudge against a city, and some without, but all hungry. Trade’s down—I’m sure you know that from over the mountains—and caravaners expect cities to patrol the trade roads and keep the brigands off ’em. There’ve even been attacks between here and Valdaire, if you can believe it.”

“I can,” Arcolin said. “I was in one. Brigands attacked a party of foot travelers in broad daylight, right beside the trade road, still in Valdaire’s outbounds.”

“With your cohort there?”

“No. I was riding alone, having been delayed leaving the city.”

“But you got away safely, I see,” the man said.

Arcolin felt a prickle of irritation. “We killed four of them,” he said. “The foot travelers were good with their staves.”

“You—pardon me, Captain, for my assumptions. I had forgotten the reputation of the Duke’s Company. You stopped to aid. That is exactly the attitude we need from the troops we hire, and so few have it—”

Arcolin, who remembered the Cortes Vonja militia scattering in disarray, said nothing, but their commander flushed a little.

“Well,” he said, and made a face. “Here we are, again. We have the trade road to patrol, and fewer men to do it with than back in your day. Our farms and outlying towns are being attacked—mostly those to the south and east. Cortes Cilwan says the same, and Sorellin.”

“What about Andressat?” Arcolin said.

“The Count has accused us of letting brigands get away to harry his borders. He hasn’t told us of any other problems.”

“Is there concern that any of these brigands are part of an organization?”

“Well … the Duke of Immer, he that was Alured the Black, does say he should by rights take toll of the roads, even these up here. But Immerdzan’s a long way away.”

Arcolin looked at the map the commander had laid out. “One cohort can’t patrol that much territory—better to seek out your brigands and try to break them up.”

“Exactly. But our people have no idea where they’re hiding. From Andressat’s complaints, possibly in the rough country below the downs.”

Arcolin visited Kieri’s banker before returning to the cohort, to ensure that he could transfer funds to Valdaire as they had before, and then spent the rest of the day with Burek going over the maps the militia commander had given him.

“Someone here must know who the brigands really are,” Burek said. “More than two years—they’re getting support from somewhere or they’d be dying out; the problem would be smaller.”

“My guess would be Alured the Black,” Arcolin said. “Did you ever meet him?”

“No,” Burek said.

“He’s ambitious and cruel,” Arcolin said. “Easy to offend, but also a natural leader and a reasonably good field commander. My guess is that he wants it all—all Aarenis.”

“Not that different from Siniava,” Burek said.