Two to Conquer (8 page)

“The caravan lies about two days’ ride yonder,” Master Gareth said, pointing, “as the bird flies. There are four wagons; I counted two dozen men beside the wagon drovers, and I saw from their gear and horses, and the fashion of their swords, that they are Dry-town mercenaries.”

Bard pursed his lips, for the Dry-town mercenaries were the fiercest fighters known, and he wondered how many of his men had ever fought against their curious curved swords and the daggers they used in lieu of shields to their other side.

“I will warn my men,” he said. Among the picked men were several veterans of the wars against

Ardcarran. It had been, he thought, a good instinct prompting him to choose men who had fought

against the Dry towns. Perhaps they could give the others some advice on how to cope with that style of attack and defense.

And another thing. He glanced at Master Gareth and said with a faint frown, “You are an old

campaigner, sir. I do not expect the women to know this, but I was taught it was unsoldierly to eat in the saddle except in the gravest emergencies.”

He sensed the smile behind the old man’s copper-colored moustaches. “It is clear you know little of
laran
, my lord; how it drains the body of strength. Ask your quartermasters; they will tell you they have been issued triple rations for us, and with good reason. I eat in my saddle so that I will have the strength not to fall out of it, sir, which would be far more disruptive than eating as I ride.”

Much as Bard hated to be reproved, he tucked the lesson away, as he did all military matters, for when he would have need of it. But he scowled at Master Gareth and rode away with the briefest of

courtesies.

Riding among the men, he dropped the word to each of them that they would be fighting, when it came time to capture the caravan, against Dry-town mercenaries; and he listened for some time to the

reminiscences of an elderly campaign veteran who had ridden to war with his own father, Dom Rafael, years before Bard was born.

“There’s a trick to fighting Dry-towners; you have to watch both hands, because they’re as good with those damned little daggers they wear as any of us is with an honest sword, and when you have your sword engaged, theyll come at you with the other hand, and bury the dagger in your ribs; they’re trained to fight with both hands.”

“Be sure to warn the men against that, Larion,” he said, and rode on, deep in thought. What an honor it would be to him, if he could capture the clingfire intact and take it back to King Ardrin! Like most soldiers, he hated clingfire, thinking it a coward’s weapon, although he knew the strategic importance it could have in burning an enemy’s objective. At least he could make sure it would not be hurled against the towers of Asturias! Or used to burn their woodlands!

They made camp that night over the borders of Asturias, in a small village which lay on the outskirts of the Plains of Valeron, a no-man’s-land which owed allegiance to no king, and the villagers gathered sullenly around Bard’s men as if they would have denied them leave to camp there. Then, looking at the three
leroni
in their gray robes, they scowled and withdrew.

“These lands,” Bard said to Beltran, as they dismounted, “should be under allegiance to some lord; it is dangerous having them here, ready to shelter outlaws and bandits and perhaps open to some malcontent who could set himself up as king or baron here.”

Beltran looked scornfully around, at the lean fields of scanty grain, the orchards of sparse trees of poor-quality nuts, some so scanty of leaves that the farmers had been reduced to growing mushrooms on them. “Who would bother? They can pay no tribute. It would be a poor lord indeed who would stoop to conquer such folk! What honor could an eagle have in battling an army of rabbithorns?”

“That’s not the point,” Bard said. “The point is, that some enemy to Asturias could come here and put them against us, so that we would have enemies on our very borders. I shall speak to my lord the king about it, and perhaps next spring he will send me here, to make certain that if they pay no tribute to Asturias, at least they will pay none to Ridenow or Serrais! Will you speak with the men and make sure all is in good order, or shall I?”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” Beltran said with a yawn. “I suppose they must know that their prince cares for their welfare. I don’t know much of soldiering, but there are enough veterans here who can tell me if there is anything amiss.”

Bard smiled wryly as Beltran went off. Beltran knew little of military tactics, perhaps; but he knew enough of statecraft so that he wanted to win the men’s liking and allegiance. A king ruled by the loyalty of his soldiers. Beltran was intelligent enough to know that Bard had the military command of this compaign; it could hardly be otherwise. But he was taking no chances that the men would think their prince indifferent to their personal welfare! Bard watched Prince Beltran go from man to man, making inquiries about their horses, their blankets and gear, their rations. The mess cooks were building fires and something was stewing in a cookpot. It smelled extremely good, after a long day of riding, with no more noon meal than a hunk of hard journey-bread and a handful of nuts!

Left for a moment without occupation, he found himself drifting in the direction of the place, somewhat apart, where the
leroni
had their camp. The memory of the eyes of the pretty Mirella was like a magnet; she could not have been much more than fifteen.

He found her making a fire. A tent had been pitched, and through the fabric he could see the hefty form of the
leronis
Melora moving around inside. He knelt beside her and said, “May I offer you fire,
damisela
? He held out the oil-fed flint-striker which was simpler to use than an ordinary tinder-box.

She did not turn her eyes toward him. He could see the blush he found so adorable, flooding over her pale neck.

She said, “I thank you, my lord. But I do not need it.” And indeed, as she gazed at the piled tinder, her hand laid on the silken bag at her throat where, he guessed, she kept the starstone, the tinder burst suddenly into flame.

He laid a light hand on her wrist and whispered, “If you would only look into my eyes,
damisela
, I too would burst into flame.”

She turned a little toward him, and although she did not raise her eyes, he saw the curve of a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.

Suddenly a shadow fell across them.

“Mirella,” said Master Gareth sternly, “get inside the tent and help Melora with your bedding.”

Coloring, she rose quickly and hurried inside the tent. Bard rose too, angrily, facing the elderly sorcerer.

“With all respect, I warn you,
vai dom
,” Master Gareth said, “do your wenching elsewhere. That one is not for you.”

“What is it to you, old man? Is she your daughter? Or perhaps your light-o-love, or handfasted bride?”

Bard demanded in a rage. “Or have you won her loyalty with your spells?”

Master Gareth shook his head, smiling. “None of those,” he said, “but on campaign I am responsible for the women who ride with me, and they are not to be touched.”

“Except, perhaps, by you?”

Again the silent headshake and the smile. “You know nothing of the world in which the
leroni
live, sir.

Melora is my daughter; I will not have her touched by casual amours except at her own wish. As for Mirella, she is to be kept virgin for the Sight, and there is a curse on any who should take her, unless she resigns it of her free will. I warn you, avoid her.”

Stung, red-faced, feeling like a scolded schoolboy before the level eyes of the old sorcerer, Bard bent his head and muttered, “I did not know.”

“No, and that is why I am telling you,” said the old man genially. “For Mirella was too shy to do so herself. She is not accustomed to men who cannot read her thoughts.”

Bard cast a resentful look toward the tent. He thought it should have been the fat and ugly Melora, the old man’s daughter, kept virgin for the Sight, for what man would want her unless he could first hide her face with a horse bag? Why the pretty Mirella? Master Gareth was still smiling amiably, but Bard had the uncanny sudden sense that the old man was actually reading his mind.

“Come, come, sir,” said Master Gareth with a good-natured grin, “you are handfasted to the princess Carlina. It’s not worthy of you to look to a simple
leronis
. Lie alone tonight, and perhaps you will dream of the high-born woman who waits at home for you. After all, you can’t have
every
woman on whom you cast your roving eyes. Don’t show such ugly temper!”

Bard ripped out a curse and turned away. He knew enough not to anger a
laranzu
, on whom the fate of the campaign might rest, but the old man’s voice, as if he spoke to the greenest of boys, infuriated him.

What business was it of Master Gareth’s?

The servant who rode to attend on the officers had made a small third camp for them, apart from the others. Bard went to taste the food cooked for the men—he had learned never to eat his own meal until horses and men were safely settled for the night—and to inspect the picket lines of the horses, then came back to find Beltran awaiting him. “You look ill-tempered, Bard. What ails you?”

“Damned old bird of prey,” Bard growled. “Afraid I should touch his precious maiden
leroni
, when I did no more than offer the young one a bit of tinderl”

Beltran chuckled. “Well, it’s a compliment, Bard. He knows you have a way with the womenl Your

reputation, after all, has simply preceded you, that is all, and he is afraid no maiden could resist you, nor retain her maidenhood in your presence!”

Put like that, Bard began to recover a little of his self-esteem, to feel less like a reprimanded schoolboy.

“As for me,” Beltran said, “I feel it’s wrong to bring women on campaign—good women, that is. I

suppose any army should have camp followers, though I’ve no taste for them myself. If I must have women about, I prefer the kind who look as if they washed more often than when they got caught out of doors during the fall rains! But good women with a campaign are a temptation to the unchaste, and an annoyance to the chaste whose mind is on their business of fighting!”

Bard nodded, admitting the justice of what Beltran said.

“And what’s more, if they’re available, the men will fight over ’em; and if they’re not, they’ll moon about over them,” he said.

Beltran said, “Should the day come when I command my father’s armies, I will forbid any
leronis
to ride with the army; there are
laranzu’in
enough, and myself I think men better at that kind of skill; women are too squeamish and have no place with an army, no more than Carlina or one of our baby

brothers! How old is your little brother now?”

“He must be eight now,” Bard said. “Nine at midwinter. I wonder if he has forgotten me? I have not been home since my father sent me here for fostering.”

Beltran patted his shoulder in sympathy. He said, “Well, well, no doubt you can have leave to go home before midwinter.”

“If the fighting in Hammerfell is over before the snow closes the roads,” Bard said, “I will do so. My foster mother does not love me, but she cannot keep me from home. It would be good to see if Alaric still holds me in affection.” To himself he thought that perhaps he would ask his father to come to his wedding. It was not every one of the king’s fosterlings who would be joined in
catenas
marriage by King Ardrin himself!

They sat late talking, and when at last they slept, Bard was well content. He thought briefly and with regret of the pretty Mirella, but after all, what Master Gareth had said was true: he had Carlina, and soon enough they would be married. Beltran was right, after all. Virtuous women had no place with the king’s armies.

The next morning, after a brief conference with Master Gareth and Beltran, they turned their steps toward the ford of Moray’s Mills. No one now alive knew who Moray might have been, though stories in the countryside made him everything from a giant to a dragon keeper: but there was still a ruined mill near the ford, and a little upstream from it another mill still in operation. A toll gate closed the road, and as Bard’s men came toward it, the toll-keeper, a fat and graying man, came out to say, “By order of the Lord of Dalereuth, this road is closed, my lords. I have sworn not to open for anyone who does not pay him tribute, or have his safe-conduct within his borders.”

“Now, by all of Zandru’s hells—” Bard began, but Prince Beltran rode forward, looming over the little man in his miller’s apron.

“I am very willing to pay a head tax to the Lord of Dalereuth.” he said. “I am sure he would appreciate the head of an insolent fellow like you. Rannvil—” he gestured, and one of the horsemen drew his sword. “Open the gates, man; don’t be a fool.”

The toll-keeper, his teeth chattering, went to the mechanism that trundled the great toll gate aside.

Beltran contemptuously flung the man a few coins. “Here’s your tribute. But if this gate is barred against us when we come back, take my word for it, I’ll have my men tear it out of the ground and set your head on top of it to scare away crows!”

As they passed through, Bard heard the man grumbling and leaned down from his horse to grab him by the shoulder. “Whatever you said, say it aloud to our faces, you!” The man looked up, his jaw set and wrathful. He said, “I have no part in the quarrels of my betters,
vai dom
. Why should I suffer because you noblemen can’t keep your borders? All I care about is running my mill. But you won’t come back this way, or at all. I have nothing to do with what waits for you at the ford yonder. Now, if you wish, win honor by killing an unarmed man!”

Bard let him go and straightened up. He said, “Kill you? Why? Thanks for your warning; you’ve been well paid.” He watched the man go off toward his mill, and although he had been a soldier since his fourteenth year, he frowned and suddenly wondered why it should be this way. Why should every

nobleman who chose demand that he be sovereign over his own land? That only made more work for