Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (17 page)

It would have been better, Arden realized, to have killed the poor bastards quickly. He’d done them no favors as it was.

The grumbling around him rose to a barely audible level as Shakis rode out. Arden’s troops were no happier than he.

For a week the Toughs were kept in camp as other units fought. It was an insult, and a further waste of resources. Arden concealed his contempt, but his troops were not so reticent. They’d fought for harsh men before, and torture and agony were not unfamiliar sights to any of them, but any professional soldier had his limits. The Toughs were barely tolerating Miklamar’s strategy and the toady who relayed his wishes.

Something had to be done.

After nine days, Arden was called to a strategy meeting. He’d been shunned from the planning sessions even though he was merely an observer. That banishment couldn’t help his survival or plans, and his inclusion now, being “ordered to present” himself was yet another slap. He had expected it, of course. He’d hoped his disgusted protest in the last battle would have led to the contract being let, but either Miklamar or Shakis was too stupid or petty for that. They wasted pay to keep the Toughs doing nothing.

Arden arrived and was ignored. Movements were planned, orders given, messengers and commanders sent. Silence reigned around Arden, with no word or acknowledgment given him by anyone. Commanders of units he’d fought alongside, and who mutually respected him, gave him only a glance then studiously avoided further interaction. For two hours, Arden sat in cold drafts at the wall of the tent, watching the flickering lamp flames in meditation. He refused to get angry, for that was what Shakis wanted.

When orders came at last, while Shakis loudly chewed a pork shank at his table, spitting and getting grease on his maps, they were insultingly direct.

“Arden, you have a chance before you to redeem yourself. This afternoon, we destroy the last vestiges of the old Kingdom in this district. You will strike in the van, and attack the village. That means, with your weapons in hand, with the sharp ends, fight as hard as you can. I will countenance no clever ploys this time, or I will have your men and yourself used for target practice by my archer regiment. You will fight any who oppose you, you will lay waste as your reputation demands, and once we are done you will be sent on your way, since you are reluctant to help the rise of a strong empire. But I hold you to your contract yet.”

“Yes, Shakis. I will do as you command.”

There being no point in further discussion, Arden dismissed himself. Shakis was aware of his departure, but made no sign of noticing.

The orders created a conflict of moral outrage in Arden. He couldn’t obey an order to slaughter innocents. It was unprofessional, cowardly and unmilitary. Nor could he break his sworn oath and contract.

As he always did when troubled, he rode patrol. His thoughts drifted, and distance from Shakis made him feel cleaner. He’d had disputes with employers before, even if this scraped the hoof for lowness. He rode ahead of the three troops with him, just so he could feel more alone.

It was a cool night, slightly misty, and fires could be seen behind the town, of a small force preparing to support the town once attacked. Miklamar’s only good strategy was to use his larger army to spread the threat of his neighbors. Though that might be accidental rather than strategic planning.

Count Namhar showed far better sense, with his army high in the defense, prepared to rush in on a force bogged down even briefly in the town below. He knew he couldn’t save the village, so he’d use it as an anvil to hammer Shakis’s force against. He’d do far more damage that way, including to the Toughs.

Arden wondered if he could arrange to be where the counterattack would happen, so as to have an honorable fight against a decent enemy.

Something crept up through his mind and coalesced into a thought.

Yes. He just might be able to do that. It would take courage, risk his life and save his oath. That made it worth doing.

He wheeled Fury about and galloped back to camp, leaving the other three soldiers to catch up while they wondered what their commander was doing.

Count Namhar watched the unfolding battle from a hilltop. Part of him craved to be down below with his brave men, doing what could be done to restrain a horror. A horror that not only outnumbered them, but had hired crack mercenaries.

He was thankful that the leadership used both mercenaries and indigenous forces poorly.

His presence on the hill was for tactical advantage. He had a small device from the mages that could potentially change the course of a battle, if used well.

The tube was a magic Eye. Its rippling patterns, almost oily, resolved to crystal clarity when stared through. He could see events far across the field and send swift messengers to maneuver his forces.

The Eye only let him see things larger. It couldn’t see things beyond obstacles, but did enhance anything within line of sight. And the mercenaries were just within that line.

It took only a moment’s glance to cause him to grin. A surge ran through him, of respect for a mercenary who embodied every virtue a soldier should have. There was loyalty, and then there was honor. Above those was courage, and it took tremendous courage to do what Arden’s troop was doing now.

Somewhere, they must have been ordered to attack the village. And that’s what they were doing. Arden was a genius, and brave beyond words to offer such a tactic. Exploiting it would cost lives. But the tactic was suicidally foolish, and Namhar could exploit that at once. He could wipe out the Toughs to the last troop. Though to do so would be a shame.

Then the true nature of it hit him.

“Send Rorsy’s force down to take them,” he ordered the nearest of his aides.

“At once. At the charge, or dismounted?”

“No, take them alive,” Namhar said. This had to be done just right. A man with a sword was still dangerous, and if he knew Arden as he felt he did, the man wouldn’t simply surrender.

“My lord? I am confused,” his aide said.

“I will explain, but quickly. We have little time.”

And indeed, there was a risk. If Arden was what he seemed, it could be handled rather quietly. But the flash of steel could turn it into the bloodbath it had looked to be from the beginning.

“Attack the town,” Shakis had ordered. “Town” had two meanings; either the population and resources of the small settlement, or the physical structure of it. It was that way Arden had chosen to obey the order, and his troops had agreed, with hesitation and fear, but in support of their commander and in rebellion against the detestable creature who’d hired them and debased them. Their honor was their coin in trade. They would fight as hard to protect it as to earn it.

Arden kept his face impassive and hacked again, the daubed withes of the wall powdering under his onslaught. Yards away, Balyat crushed small beams with swings of his axe. The Toughs were arrayed along a front perhaps two hundred yards wide, surrounding the rude buildings and smashing them. To the south, Shakis’s other forces were slaughtering the helpless. Arden had killed one dweller who’d faced him with a staff. The others had run. Some had seen the mercenaries senselessly beating buildings and taken the opportunity to run away, or to the battle farther south. One didn’t question an enemy’s error.

Behind Arden there were men approaching, in colors that made them allies of Lord Namhar. Each swing of his head let him see their approach. They were moving to flank him and were unarmed.

So they were civilians, not a threat, he told himself, clarifying the strategy in his mind. He was playing games with his orders, and the risk was great. He probably wouldn’t die at this point, though both revenge and charges of atrocity could lead that way. He might destroy a company that had a decades-long reputation for honest fighting. If this worked, he would indeed have employ, and stories told for generations. But the chance for death or disgrace as an oathbreaker hung on the other side of the balance.

But some lords were beneath any contempt. Duty bound him to a contract. Only honor could make him respect a man.

The two burly “civilians” closed on him, and he pointedly ignored them. They were dressed in battle leather and well-scarred. Professionals themselves. They had orders, and perhaps they understood those orders. If they didn’t raise weapons, he was under no compunction to fight them under any oath he or the Toughs had ever sworn. “We fight only armed men.” But if they did, he would perforce respond in kind. All his troops had their orders, all would obey . . . but a panicky moment could lead to a close quarters bloodbath with horrific results for all.

All three of them knew how it must play out, and the scene would replay across the front. Arden could not decline to engage, could not offer to surrender to unarmed men. If asked, he’d have to refuse.

As he drew back for another blow, one of the two lunged at him. He spun, shifted, and made to take a swing. His trained reflexes prepared to strike a blow that would cleave a man.

Then the ground shifted and he tumbled, cracking his head against his helmet as he crashed. His sword arm flew above his head, and bashing fists broke his grip. He kicked, snapping his right foot in a blow that elicited a pained grunt. The fists rained down on his chest, driving the breath from him.

“Mercenary, you are disarmed! Will you now surrender to Lord Namhar’s courtesy?”

“I will,” he said.

There was no dishonor in surrender once unable to fight, and he’d followed his orders exactly. His employer—former employer—had been the lowest filth imaginable. To be captured thusly should make him feel proud. It didn’t.

Surrender. The Toughs didn’t surrender. A wrenching pain that wasn’t physical tore at him. Certainly, the fight had been honorable, but it was a defeat in the employ of a weakling. That cost dearly in reputation, in pride, in self-respect. Not to mention the hundreds of townsfolk who had been killed.

“I am to offer you employ with Lord Namhar, at Guild scale and with a bonus of one fifth. Or else you may have free passage to our northern border.”

He heard the words, but there was no pleasure in him. He’d won this battle for his honor by losing the battle in the field. Even though he’d planned it that way, it was dizzying, shocking.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. One of the two had rushed to join a group of fellows beating Balyat to the ground. The bulky warrior needed six of them to restrain him before he finally acceded. Arden couldn’t help but grin. It restored some small breath of life to the unit that even disarmed they fought so hard.

His remaining escort was panting for breath and bleeding from nose and lip. Arden had acquitted himself well enough, though he would have a hard time convincing himself.

“I am Captain Onri,” his captor said. “If you will give your word of honor to be peaceable, I will escort you to Count Namhar.”

“My word you have, Captain,” Arden said, feeling a slight rise from the depths his soul had sunk to. He walked away from the village, smiling. He had lived through his oath to a coward. He had lost by his oath to a good man.

The Sword Dancer

The Valdemar stories have become an annual tradition. I continued with the same geographic area, and brought in some Vikings, though not quite Vikings, to be merchants, traders and warriors. This one was too long of a short—I was still fighting the urge to write short novels instead of short stories. It took a lot of editing, and this is the mostly original version that had to be cut to fit word count for the book. I prefer this version.

Riga Gundesdati,
called Sworddancer, swigged from her bottle and pushed her helmet back on. Tendrils of flaxen hair floated near her eyes until she pushed them under the sweat-soaked leather padding.

Her new opponent, Ruti, was wide-eyed under his own iron. She’d put two of four previous competitors down with healthy, well-placed cracks of her wooden practice sword.

She was glad to make a good showing. Swordmistress Morle was watching, and some visitor from far Valdemar stood at the Yorl’s spot, studying them.

“Fight!” called the judge. Seeing Ruti’s trepidation, she charged.

“YaaaaaaH!” she shouted at his upraised sword, and he hesitated. She swung her own stick and dropped her wrist, aiming for his thigh. He blocked and leapt, but he was on the defensive, cautious and timid. This fight was already over, even if he didn’t know it.

A twist of her hips and shoulder brought her shield up against his swing. His blow was firm enough, but without heart. She swung again to press him. His next strike was surer and a bit better placed, but he hadn’t yet figured out that her presented stance—sword foot forward instead of shield foot—gave her several additional inches of reach beyond what her height did.

There was his third swing, and she had the rhythm and the dance of her name. She shot her arm forward, pivoted at the hip, swung, snapped her wrist and laid timber right above his shoulder, just at the lip of the helmet. A loud
crack
indicated a scoring hit, what would be a killing strike in battle, and she had her arm cocked for a followup before he registered the blow and acknowledged it. He fell under his shield and waited for the judge to tap him out.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she bowed to him and stepped out of the rope-edged
vollar
.

Her father was waiting, and she smiled. He took her in a huge hug. She remembered how she’d complain about him squashing her, and he’d bellow, “I like squashing you!” He was getting on in years, but still tough and muscular. Running the hus and managing their business saw to that.

He stepped back and kept hold of her shoulders.

“I already saw Erki. I’m called for a scout ride. I should be back in a week. Meanwhile, take care of Erki and ask the Swordmistress if you need help.”

She didn’t like that latter caution, with the unspoken idea that he might not be back. Whatever was happening was huge. She kept the sob she felt to a sigh and hugged him close, hampered by leather and iron.

“Yes, Father,” she said.

“Good luck, girl. I’m going to watch one bout. Show me your form.”

She nodded and hugged him again, then redonned her helmet and got in line.

Ten youths in her age bracket were here today, having finished their letters and numbers. All the children were expected to learn to fight, even if they might go from here to pursuits like counting, textiles or motherhood. The Kossaki were sea and riverborne tradespeople, and might always have to fight attackers.

She wrapped up her musing because she was next. At a wave, she entered the
vollar
and awaited her opponent. It was Snorru, two years her elder, just now a man, big and proud, but he sometimes hesitated to avoid looking less than perfect.

“Sworddancer and Strongarm. Honor having been given,
fight
!”

“Go, Riga!” her father shouted, then was silent. Coaching from the rope was not allowed, and he never had. He gave her her own mind and she loved him for it.

This time Riga strode straight across the
vollar
, shield up and sword ready. Snorru swung, and it was accurate and strong. She deflected it with her shield but staggered and dropped. His followup blow cracked on her shield and skinned her helmet.

Then she was up, using her shield for concealment as she brought her sword up in front. She snapped her arm, and the tip slapped the pommel of Snorru’s stick and his wrist. His hand bounced open and his weapon fell, as she swung up and around, cracked him in the back of the helmet, over and into front quarter of it, over and into his kidneys, over and into his chest, over and into the back of his thigh. The sword moved
fast
in her strong wrist and joints trained to impart all their energy in a moment. He staggered down under the rain of blows.

“You could hit harder,” he said as he rose, breathing hard, “but I grant you style.”

“Harder is better only so it breaks armor,” she replied. “Undirected force is a waste.” She offered a hand to him and he took it.

She turned to find her father’s smile . . . but he was gone. He’d known she’d be occupied with the bout, and left before she could tell him how much she worried. She sighed. He was an honest but shrewd merchant, and that was so like him.

“He saw you,” her friend Karlinu said from the rope.

“Kari?”

“He left just moments ago. He saw your bout, and grinned to split his face. That was great, girl! But you need to keep your tip higher when in guard.”

She knew that was a problem with her form, but pushed Kari aside, hoping for a glimpse of Father.

“He’s gone. I’m sorry. And the Swordmistress wants to see you at once.”

She glanced at the youth
vollar
to see Erki working on his form. He was too eager, brave but incautious at times. Good with a sword, but his shield tended to drop.

She doffed her helmet, shimmied from her mail and left it in a neat pile near her cloak. Her real sword came with her, slung and ready. It wasn’t something she thought about. No warrior was without a weapon. She held the bronze-tipped scabbard as she jogged. It was chased, had a falcon-eye jewel and a silver appliqué of a cat with tiny ruby eyes, its tail knotted about it. The sword within was steel fitted with unadorned bronze around a chatoyant wood grip. A fighting sword, not a showpiece. She and Erki had two of the finest blades among the youth. She tried to be worthy of hers.

Riga entered the Swordmistress’s tent at the field edge. She always felt nervous facing her teacher, as if there was something she would be chastised for. Nothing came to mind as an infraction, so she put it aside. The other idea . . . that wasn’t pleasant, either. Her sweaty gambeson didn’t help her feelings.

Not only Swordmistress Morle, but the visiting “Herald” was within. She bowed first to her Mistress, then to the guest. She faced Lady Morle but turned so she could study the Herald. He was tall, handsome and very well dressed. His outfit was plain with just a touch of piping, but well-fitted and spotless. He looked like something from a royal court.

Heralds were highly regarded despite their scarcity, or so she gathered, having only heard mentions of them. This one had arrived a few days before, escorting a High Priest of some temple. It wasn’t one for any of the Kossaki gods, so he’d been made welcome as a guest.

Riga had no idea what had come about. The elders, and her father, seemed aware of these Heralds and the priest and unbothered. Now, though, her father had ridden off, as had most of the men and some of the women, all those trained for war not needed to run hus
or business.

“Sworddancer, you must lead a ride,” the Swordmistress said.

“I am honored,” she replied at once. Honored, and scared. At sixteen years, she was a capable fighter and skilled, but lacked the wiles and polish of her elders. She grew hotter than she already was from training, then chill.

“You hide your nerves well,” Morle said with a grin. She continued more seriously. “I don’t ask this lightly. A great many people need us.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she agreed. This would be a test worthy of adulthood, she thought.

“Then look at this map.”

Morle unrolled the scraped vellum across her table and pointed.

“We’re here,” Riga indicated. “Little Town is there.”

“Yes. And there are refugees down here.” Morle indicated the south. “The villages south of Paust Lake are being sacked and destroyed by Miklamar and his thugs.”

Riga understood. “They’re fleeing. We can’t support them in our lands, and we must hurry them through in case we need to defend our own borders. We also don’t want the attention of having them move through, nor to encourage them.”

“Very perceptive,” the Herald spoke at last. “I am impressed.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, meeting his eyes and trying not to be shy, “but I have studied since I was four years. A map and a supply count tell me all I need to know about that aspect.

“I will lead youths, I presume?” she asked of Morle. “I can’t imagine I’m to lead senior warriors.”

“A youth,” Morle replied, and Riga gulped. “This is scouting, not fighting. There are so many refugees, and we are not a large outpost.”

They weren’t even truly an outpost, Riga groused to herself. Gangibrog was a glorified camp, as its name implied. “Walking town.” Little to it besides docks. Nor would the local resources permit it to become much larger. They were a trading waystop of the simplest kind. River freighters came from the coast, cargo went from there to lake and river barges inland. Her father had retired here to raise a family after fighting and trading in the far south. They were a coast people originally, from the Fury Sea.

“May I take my brother?” she asked. “He is strong and sharp, when he listens.”

“And you are loud and bossy when he doesn’t,” Morle chuckled. “Why else him?”

“Because if he has to go with someone, he’ll feel safer with me, and he’ll make me feel better if not safer.”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t allow it. But you are right. I’ve allowed each party five coins in supplies. You’ll have to take any others from your own hus. I wish I had good news. There are thousands of refugees, though.”

“As long as my father didn’t strip it, I’ll manage. Who will watch our hus?”

“Someone will, be sure of it. I know you have no mother or sister, Riga. Hurry to Arwen and leave as soon as you can. She has your directions. They speak Accabar. I know you know it well enough.”

“Yes, mistress.” She bowed her way out.

It was thrilling, exciting and scary. Leading an escort wasn’t as great as far trading or fighting in war, but it was safer. However, two youths in hostile territory was enough to make her guts twist. She might be trained as a warrior, but everyone understood that women guarded the hus and raised the family. They were defenders, not campaigners, except in emergencies.

Erki was waiting, his gear a jumbled heap as usual.

“Erki, neaten that up and get your helm up before someone steps in it!” she commanded. Not only that, but the metal would rust if left on the damp ground.

“I forgot!” he said. “Did you see me beat Sammi?” He grabbed at his stuff quickly.

“No, but good. He’s a stone larger than you. Did Father see you?”

“Yes, he’s off on a ride.”

“We’re going, too, by ourselves. You have to do as I say.”

“I’ll try! Where are we going?” He almost jumped in glee. The boy could never hold still.

“We’re guiding refugees and I’m not sure yet. You’ll do more than try, too. This is real.”

“I’ll pack Trausti, then,” he said.

“Excellent idea. Keep a list.”

“Yes, Riga.” He took off at a solid sprint. She headed for the river.

He’d do that well, she knew. He was bright if impetuous, very much “boy.”

The floating dock swayed under her feet as she trudged down it. Most of the laborers were officially day hires, though regulars. She greeted Kopang.

“Hello, Lady Riga,” he said between heaves of cargo. Dried fish in tubs was coming north, from a packetboat to a lake barge a yard shallower.

“Hello. Has my father been by?”

“He has. We also will be riding as soon as we’re done here.” Another tub slammed over the gunwale onto the thwarts of the lower boat.

“I wanted to make sure everything was covered.”